Trapped at the Altar (19 page)

She loved Gabriel. Her first love, her only love, filled with sunshine and birdsong. What she felt for Ivor was something darker than love; it didn't need sunshine and birdsong, it responded to gale-force winds that bent the trees and whipped up the surface of the river in full flood.

And she was becoming ridiculously fanciful, Ariadne decided, getting up from the trunk. Perhaps it was just her mind's way of reconciling her to the inevitable. Gabriel was lost to her, and she had to accept what had been allotted her. She lay in Ivor Chalfont's bed now, and somehow she had to make the best of it.

The door opened, and three burly lads came in. “Beggin' your pardon, Miss Ari, but Tilly said as how the luggage was ready to go,” the leader said.

“Yes, that's right, Terry. I was just checking to make sure it's all here.” She gestured vaguely at the trunks. “Everything's here.”

“Right y'are. Come on, lads, let's shift this lot.”

Ari went outside and walked towards the bridge, a gentle stroll, as she was careful since Rolf's castigation to moderate her usual madcap pace around the village. She walked to the middle of the bridge and leaned on the single railing, looking up the river to the main pass
out of the valley. At dawn tomorrow, their entire procession of coach, horses, and armed outriders would pass through the narrow, rocky defile and out into the wide world. The road, such as it was, would take them across the sparsely populated Somerset Levels and through the Polden Hills. Only after there would the way become less rough in parts.

She turned to look down the river to the cliff that rose at the end of the gorge. The river shrank to a thin stream, flowing beneath the cliff to widen once it emerged into the countryside beyond. There were caves beneath the cliff, and some years ago, she and Ivor had tried to explore them, an adventure that had not gone down well with the Daunt elders, she remembered with a grimace.

She was saying goodbye, Ari realized as she turned back to the village. Once she had left the valley, she would never return to it, and yet it seemed to be a part of her, to flow in her veins with her blood. She returned to Ivor's cottage, wondering whether he would have returned home yet. He'd been in conference with the Council most of the day.

Ivor was not in the cottage, but Tilly was doing something in the scullery when Ari came in. The girl emerged with a small green glass vial in her hand. “Here you are, Miss Ari. You take a spoon of this each night.”

Ari took the vial and held it up to the light. She took out the oiled stopper and sniffed the contents. “It doesn't smell very nice.”

“Don't taste nice, neither, I reckon,” Tilly commented. “Ma only gave it to women who'd had too many babies
already or if they were sick and couldn't carry safely and their menfolk wouldn't leave them alone. I never heard tell of using it just because . . .” She shook her head in patent disapproval and went back to the scullery.

Ari decided it was simpler not to discuss the morality of the precaution. “How does it work?”

“I don't know, don't think Ma knew, neither, but if you take it regular, you'll not fall for a baby.” Tilly reappeared holding a plucked chicken. She threw it on the table and took up a heavy knife, beginning to eviscerate and joint the bird with deft efficiency. “I'll cook this for supper, and what's over will make a good pasty for the journey tomorrow,” she declared. “There's already meat pies an' a flitch of bacon to go with us. Enough provisions for a couple of days, at least.” She wiped her brow with the back of her hand. “What we'll do after, the Lord only knows.”

“No need to sound so gloomy, Tilly.” Ivor stamped his feet in the doorway to get rid of the dried mud on his boots. “There'll be food aplenty, don't you worry. We've enough money to buy the royal storehouse.”

“Really?” Surreptitiously, Ari slipped the vial into her apron pocket as she turned to the door with a ready smile. “Has Rolf disgorged some of the Daunt wealth?”

“Yes, and a chest full of jewelry. Most of it belonging to the family, but I suspect we don't want to inquire too closely into the provenance of some of the other pieces.” He filled a tankard from the ale flagon. “The coach is almost loaded. The roof is so packed it'll be a miracle if we can get through the pass.”

He went through to the scullery, and Ari heard him
pouring water from the bucket into a bowl. She hurried up to the bedchamber and buried the green vial under her shifts in the dresser. She would take the spoonful when Ivor went to the privy before bed.

She felt rather melancholy during supper, and Ivor seemed distracted. Tilly disappeared to supper with the women as soon as she'd set the chicken and a pan of potatoes and carrots on the table. “I'll be back here afore dawn, Miss Ari.”

“We'll be up and about by then, Tilly,” Ivor responded, carving the bird. He served them both, filled a wine cup for Ari, and sat down. They ate for the most part in silence, but once or twice Ari felt Ivor's eyes resting on her, a slight questioning look in his eye.

As soon as they had finished, Ari took the plates into the scullery. “I think I'll get ready for bed,” she called. “As we have to be up so early tomorrow.”

Ivor came into the scullery, carrying their empty cups. “A wise move. I think I'll go for a drink in the village . . . say my farewells. I won't be above an hour.”

She nodded, scraping the plates vigorously into the chicken scraps. “Seems a bit cannibalistic to feed them chicken bits.”

“They're scavengers; they eat anything.” He bent, and for a second she felt the brush of his lips against her neck. It was so fleeting she could almost have imagined it, except that she hadn't. “I'll be back in an hour,” he repeated, and she thought there was a touch of emphasis to the statement. The door closed behind him.

She touched her nape reflectively, almost expecting to
feel some manifestation of the warm tingle that his fleeting lips had left behind—nothing, of course. She finished cleaning the dishes and went to the outhouse before taking a spoon up to the bedchamber, where she took out the vial and carefully measured a dose, swallowing it down in one gulp. Tilly was right; it tasted foul and smelled sulfurous, like rotting grass. She pushed the stopper back in and buried the vial under her shifts again. The contents of the dresser would go in the cloak bag that would contain her personal possessions for the journey.

She rinsed her mouth with salt to freshen it and get rid of the foul taste, undressed, and shook out her night shift. She was about to drop it over her head when she stopped. If she went to bed without her shift, Ivor would know the monthly bleeding had stopped and would act accordingly.

She could keep him from knowing for a couple of days yet, but that would mean this long-awaited consummation would have to take place in some probably filthy roadside hostelry. Surely better here, where the sheets were clean, the chamber familiar, their privacy assured. Once this first time was over, it would not be so awkward and difficult the next time.

The act had assumed monumental proportions in her mind. The long wait for the inevitable had created expectations of embarrassment and discomfort. Did Ivor feel the same way? Somehow she doubted it. Very little threw Ivor off stride. He would consummate his marriage in the same calm, efficient manner in which he did everything. It was impossible to imagine him fumbling and embarrassing
them both. Which was somewhat reassuring. And at least she wasn't a complete novice herself, which, in the circumstances, was a mixed blessing, she thought without humor.

She glanced out of the window towards the refectory from where the sounds of laughter and music drifted on the cool evening air. Of course, if he was getting drunk with his friends for one last time, he wouldn't be able to manage the act anyway. But as she looked out, she saw his unmistakable figure emerge from the building. He stood for a moment on the threshold, looking around him, as if he was saying goodbye, just as she had done on the bridge that afternoon. Then he swung around and strode towards home, not a hint of instability in his step.

Ari discarded the shift, tossing it onto the end of the bed, blew out the candle, and climbed hastily into bed. She pulled the coverlet up to her chin and lay in the shadowy darkness, the flickering light from the village torches beyond the window making strange shapes on the sloping walls. She heard the door open and then close, the thud of the bar as Ivor dropped it across. She heard his footsteps recede and guessed he was going to the outhouse.

She waited.

Ivor made sure the chickens were safely shut away and returned to the scullery. He locked the back door and took off his boots and stockings so as not to wake Ari as he climbed upstairs. He entered the bedchamber, his eyes growing quickly accustomed to the dim, shadowy light.
The white garment on the end of the bed told him all he needed to know. He stepped to Ari's side of the bed and looked down at her. Her eyes were open, and she turned her head slightly on the pillow to look at him.

He smiled a little, but his eyes were grave, deep blue pools in the flickering darkness. “Are you ready, Ariadne?”

She nodded. “If that is what you wish.”

“For God's sake, Ari,” he exclaimed softly. “Of course it is what I wish. I am not made of ice, dear girl. The last weeks have been almost unendurable.” He began to unbutton his shirt as he stood there, before saying painfully, “I realize, of course, that for you they have been a respite before something you dreaded.”

“Not exactly,” she said, hating to hear the hurt in his voice. “Not dreaded, Ivor.” She was about to say that as she and her body knew what to expect, there would be no conventional pain or discomfort, and she had no reason for dread, but she stopped herself in time.

“You cannot wish to make love to a man who is not the one you love,” he stated, unbuckling his belt. “I understand that, and I will be as considerate as I am able.”

He tossed his shirt, belt, and britches onto the chest at the foot of the bed. “I am going to light the candle. I do not care to make love in the dark. It is not something to be hidden and ashamed of.” Flint and tinder scraped, and the candle bloomed into light. He stepped closer to the bed.

Ari looked at him in his nakedness and was flooded with pure sexual desire. He was such a magnificent figure, his belly flat, his hips slim, his legs long and powerful, his
chest broad and muscular. You didn't have to love someone body and soul to desire him in this way, she thought. What she felt now, looking at this husband of hers, was quite simply an astonished wanting.

Ivor leaned over and took the edge of the coverlet from her hand, where she still held it under her chin. “Sauce for the goose,” he said with a half smile. “I have not looked upon you yet.” He drew down the coverlet, very slowly, revealing her body inch by inch. Ari lay still, her hands beside her hips, as her nakedness was revealed to his hungry gaze.

Ivor folded the covers neatly at the end of the bed and stood looking down at her. She was every bit as he'd imagined, her skin opalescent against the sheet, her breasts small and perfectly round against the narrow ribcage, her belly smooth and white, the hip bones prominent. He leaned over and put his hands on either side of her body, against her hips, feeling her slightness. Then he kissed the groove between her breasts, his tongue flicking lightly across the swell of flesh, touching the rosy nipples that lifted and hardened beneath the caress.

Ari stirred on the bed, her hips lifting a little in an involuntary movement as the cleft of her body moistened beneath the flicking tip of his tongue. Somehow she hadn't expected these slow, expert caresses, this sense that time was of no importance, the feel of the air on her naked body, the touch of his hands and tongue, a slow unfurling of desire.

She moved her hands to his body, to press into the lean muscularity of his backside as he knelt above her.
He smiled, running his own hands down her body as she lay beneath him, enclosing her ribcage between his palms for a moment before bringing his mouth to her navel, his tongue dipping into the soft indentation, then painting a slow path over her belly, pausing to flick her hip bones in turn, before gliding between her thighs. She stiffened in shocked surprise at this intimate invasion, something she'd never even imagined before, and then his tongue parting the folds of her sex in a warm liquid caress drew a soft involuntary moan of bewildered pleasure from her lips.

She ran her fingers through his hair and stroked the curve of his ears, as her hips moved beneath the moist strokes of his tongue. As the climax built, her fingers twisted in his hair, tugging at the roots, and her body leapt upwards to meet the swirling wash of delight.

As it left her, receding slowly, her body sinking back into the deep feather mattress, Ivor slipped his hands beneath her bottom and lifted her to meet his slow penetration of her warm, moist, and welcoming core. Ari took a breath, absorbing the sensation, reveling in its newness. She had never before felt this all-consuming possession, this sense of being filled to her essence, and her hands bit deep into his buttocks as he moved with ever-increasing speed above her, and her hips lifted and moved with him, matching thrust for thrust, and when it was over, when Ivor fell heavily upon her, his head on the pillow beside hers, his loins still joined with hers, his penis pulsing damply within her, she was aware of a glorious, satisfied exuberance coursing through her body as she lay spread-eagled,
one hand resting on Ivor's sweat-slick back, her other arm flung wide along the mattress. A low chuckle escaped her lips.