Trapped at the Altar (18 page)

“Come . . . you'll catch your death of cold.” Ivor took her hand. “
Run
, Ari.” He broke into a run himself, pulling her along with him, and she picked up her pace, racing along the bank, her wet hair streaming in the wind. They reached the cottage, and Ivor flung open the door, pushing her ahead of him into the warmth.

Tilly was rolling pastry at the table when the door flew open. “Lord love us,” she declared, her floury hands lifting in astonishment. “What've you been doin', the pair of you?”

“Swimming,” Ivor said shortly. Tilly was treating him now with the same familiarity she used with Ariadne, and sometimes he wasn't sure he cared for it. “Fetch dry clothes for Ari, and help her get dry and changed in front of the fire. I'll see to myself above.” He issued orders briskly as he propelled Ari closer to the fire. “Come on, get out of those clothes.”

Tilly heard the note of authority and responded at once. “Aye, sir. I'll just fetch Miss Ari's things from above. Should I light the fire for you up there? 'Tis all laid.”

“No, I won't need it,” he said, pushing aside Ari's hands as she tried to unlace her bodice. Her fingers were numb with cold. “Just keep still, Ariadne, and let me help you.”

She obeyed, her teeth beginning to chatter. Why was she so cold when Ivor didn't even seem to be aware of the fact that he was as wet as she was? It didn't seem fair.

Tilly came down just as Ivor was pushing the opened gown off Ari's shoulders. “I'll take over now, sir.” Tilly set down a pile of clothes and towels on a stool by the fire. “You go on up and dry yourself.”

Ivor nodded and climbed up to the bedchamber. He was feeling the chill himself now and was grateful that Tilly had set a towel out for him on the chest at the foot of the bed and he didn't have to rummage for one himself.

Ari tried to help as Tilly pulled away her wet clothes before swathing her in towels. Tilly just tutted and got on
with the business at hand with matter-of-fact efficiency that Ari finally accepted. In a very few minutes, she was dry and warmly wrapped in a thick night-robe. Tilly took away the pile of wet clothes, dumping them in the wash tub in the scullery.

“I'll wash 'em tomorrow,” she said, coming back into the room as Ivor came downstairs, dressed in dry shirt and britches. “I'll fetch down your wet things, sir, and I'll do 'em at the same time as Miss Ari's.”

“My thanks.” Ivor was accustomed to his washing, such as it was, being taken care of in the communal laundry. Once again, he reflected that there were material benefits to married life.

Ariadne watched him as he took a flagon of brandy from the dresser and filled two cups. Something had happened after that moment on the riverbank. She was noticing him in a different way from before. He raised his head from the flagon and cast a glance over her as she sat ensconced in the rocking chair, and she was startlingly aware of the depth of his eyes, the line of his mouth, the sense of his physical presence in the small chamber.

He brought a cup over to her. Her hand was still shaking a little, and he placed his over it, steadying her grip as she took the cup. The firm feel of his hand, the scent of his skin, the tang of leather and sweat, of wind and sun burned into the tanned complexion as he leaned so casually over her sent a jolt deep into her belly. She noticed how the lamplight caught the chestnut glints in his dark hair. Of course, she'd noticed all these things before but not with such clarity.

“Drink this. It'll warm you,” he said in his customary tones.

Was he oblivious to these strange new eyes of hers? Ari wondered, dazed.

She took the cup and responded in what she hoped was her own normal voice. “I'm a lot warmer already. I am so sorry about your rod and losing the pike. I don't know how I could have been so clumsy.”

“You weren't clumsy. Neither of us knew of that drop-off in the riverbed.” He stood with his back to the range and sipped his brandy. An imperative bang at the door startled them both. The door opened before the sound of the knock had truly faded, and Lord Daunt came in, his bulk seeming to diminish the room.

“My lord uncle,” Ari said in surprise, half rising from her chair. “Is something the matter?” Rolf wasn't in the habit of performing his own errands. He always summoned those he wanted to attend him in the Council house.

“Yes, Ariadne. It is time you stopped running wild around the village like a gypsy girl, and you, Chalfont, you should have a firmer hold on your wife. I won't have it.” His face was red with annoyance.

“I ask your pardon, my lord,” Ivor said smoothly. “May I offer you brandy?” He filled a cup and invited the irritable head of the Daunt family to come to the fire. “You must forgive our informality, but we had an incident at the river.”

“Incident?” Rolf took the cup, his small eyes sharpening. “Invaders from above?”

“No, uncle,” Ari said, heartened by the brandy and her spirit rising to the challenge of her irate relative. “Just a recalcitrant pike.”

“A
what
?” Rolf blinked suspiciously.

“Ivor . . . my husband,” she added with delicate emphasis. “My husband was trying to catch an old and wily pike, who has eluded every fisherman in the valley for years. He caught him this afternoon.”

Rolf's expression changed. “You caught the old emperor?” Suddenly, he was a young man himself again, ready to try his hand with the legendary pike of the Wye. “Where is he? Must be at least fifteen pounds.”

“Alas, my lord, he got away,” Ivor said with a half smile. “And he took my rod with him.”

Rolf's expression reverted to its customary disagreeable arrogance. “Indeed?” The single word implied that he didn't believe a word of it. It was just another fisherman's tall tale of the one that got away.

“Indeed, sir, it was my fault,” Ari said. “Ivor sent me to get the net. He was so close to bringing him in, and somehow I slipped into a drop-off, and my foot became caught in the weeds, and to save me, my husband was obliged to lose both the pike and his rod.”

“And that, niece, brings me back to why I'm here,” Rolf declared, dismissing fish from the conversation. “I will not tolerate your scrambling around riverbanks, let alone falling in. You are Lady Ariadne Chalfont, and you, Sir Ivor, need to take better control of your wife. You are no longer children, free to play as you please. From now on, Ariadne, until you leave for London, you will appear
in the village properly dressed, and you, Sir Ivor, will ensure that she does.” He drained his brandy, regarding his empty cup thoughtfully, then said, “Which batch did this come from? 'Tis uncommonly good.”

“I believe it was in the latest Cornish package,” Ivor answered. “Ned Jarret can usually be relied upon for the best. He's the canniest smuggler on the Cornish coast.” He took up the flagon in invitation.

Rolf seemed to hesitate, then stood up. “No, I've no time to drink brandy by your fireside, Chalfont. Just mind my words, and make sure your wife behaves herself. She'll never pass muster in London if she keeps running around like a street urchin.” With that, he strode out of the cottage, the door slamming in his wake, setting the crockery in the dresser rattling.

It was only after the crockery had settled down again that Tilly, looking rather alarmed, showed herself on the bottom stair, her arms full of Ivor's discarded garments. “Lord Daunt is not best pleased.” She scurried across the room to the scullery. “So there's no pike, then? I was expecting to cook that for your supper. You've been promising fish, sir, for the last three nights.”

Ivor raised an expressive eyebrow, and Ari stifled a rueful chuckle. “We seem to be putting everyone out at present.” She leaned back in the rocker and called to Tilly in the scullery, “Coddled eggs would be lovely, Tilly. You make them so well, and I'm sure there are a few mushrooms left from the other morning. And some bacon, perhaps.”

Tilly reappeared. “Aye, I can do that if you fancy it. And I was making an apple pie when you came in all wet. Will that suit you?”

Ivor stood up. “Tilly, you are a wonder. The most accomplished cook I've ever been lucky enough to meet. I ask your pardon for the lack of fish. Tomorrow, I promise.”

“Don't make promises you can't keep, sir,” Tilly declared. “If we're to leave soon, there'll be no time for fishin'.” She took a basket of eggs from the dresser.

“How right you are,” Ivor murmured under his breath. He glanced at Ariadne, who was rocking quietly, her eyes on the fire, her hands cradling her brandy. It was, indeed, time to put off childish things.

W
ell, that's all set, then, everything packed up an' ready.” Tilly regarded the assembly of trunks and bandboxes in Ariadne's old cottage.

“Yes,” Ari agreed almost absently. She glanced around. The cottage was deserted except for herself and Tilly. She shut the door and turned the key. “Tilly, there's something I need to talk to you about, but it must be just between ourselves.”

“Aye, Miss Ari.” Tilly looked askance. “If 'tis a secret, I can keep it as well as the next.”

“Yes, I know.” Ariadne twisted her hands against the folds of her skirt. It was a delicate subject, and she wasn't sure how Tilly would react. Then she took a breath and said firmly, “You once told me that there were things you could take to prevent conception, herbs you could make into a potion of some kind. Is it true?”

Tilly stared at her. “Well, yes, miss, 'tis true enough. My mother taught me about that and the other medicines
she showed me. But . . . but why would you be wanting such a potion, Miss Ari? You're a married woman.”

“This journey to London is so long, Tilly, and I cannot be pregnant,” she explained directly. “It will make everything so much more difficult. If there is something I could take to stop that . . .” She opened her hands in a self-explanatory gesture. “Can you make something up for me?”

“But what would Sir Ivor say?” Tilly was wide-eyed in shocked astonishment.

“He won't know,” Ari responded. “I shall not tell him, and neither will you. I know that I am not pregnant now, the bleeding has only just stopped, so if I start to take precautions at once, then there will be no danger of conceiving on this journey.”

“I suppose so.” Tilly still looked shocked. “But is it right, Miss Ari, to deceive your husband about something like that? He'll expect a son and heir. All men do. 'Tis a matter of pride.”

“Men's pride and women's inconvenience,” Ariadne said shortly. “This is just during the journey, Tilly. When we're settled in London, it will be different. I intend to ride all the way, and if I'm pregnant and vomiting every five minutes, I won't be able to ride, and I won't be able to tolerate the coach. It'll hold everybody up, and the weather will get worse and make it harder to travel, and apart from anything else, I could easily lose the child in such circumstances.” She threw out the last like a gambler throwing down his last ace.

“Well, I suppose so, Miss Ari. When you put it like
that, it'd probably be for the best,” Tilly said, still sounding doubtful. “I'll make some up for you. You have to take it every night before you go to bed.”

“Thank you.” Ari gave her a radiant smile, her relief evident. “You are a good friend, Tilly.”

Tilly blushed a little. “Well, I should hope so, miss. I'll tell the lads now that they can take this lot to the coach if we're to leave at dawn tomorrow.” She unlocked the door and hurried out of the cottage.

Ari sat down on a trunk and looked around what had been her home until her wedding night. It didn't feel like home anymore. The valley, since her grandfather's death, didn't feel like home, either, and she was ready to leave it, to start a new life. And to start her marriage to Ivor.

He would presumably guess on his own that the bleeding had stopped and they could finally consummate their union. How was he feeling about that? she wondered. Did he see it as something that had to be got through, put behind them as a necessary fact of this marriage? Or did he feel any excitement at the prospect? A sense of anticipation, perhaps? Vividly now, she remembered the kiss on the riverbank. His eyes had held much more than a simple sense of inevitability, an acceptance of a task that must be completed. He had kissed her with passion. And she had responded. Involuntarily and with desire. For that moment, the old familiar ease of friendship had become subsumed by a surge of pure lust. And then afterwards, she had had that peculiar revelation that she was seeing him with new eyes.

Gabriel's image rose in her mind's eye. He was so very
different in every way from Ivor. Slight where Ivor was powerful, fair where Ivor was dark, his voice light where Ivor's was deep and smooth. Gabriel was a pale poet flitting lightly across the surface of the earth. Ivor was a dark warrior whose feet made solid contact with the ground. How could she possibly be drawn so powerfully to both of them?