Trapped at the Altar (38 page)

He laughed. “It would be a pity to drop goose grease on them, I agree.” He moved her hands aside and unlaced her bodice. She shrugged her shoulders, shaking her arms, and the overgown fell to the floor, the rich emerald damask puddling at her feet. She stepped away from it, kicking off her heeled sandals as she turned to give him her back so that he could unlace the underdress.

Ivor took his time, unthreading the laces one by one, enjoying the way her body seemed to slip from its casing, her pale skin with its faint pink tone glowing beneath the fine muslin of her chemise as he eased the apple-green silk underdress away from her. He placed his hands on the rounded tips of her shoulders, feeling the warmth of the flesh beneath, then moved his hands down, molding the fine material to her shape so that her body was clearly outlined.

“We don't have time for this, Ivor,” she murmured in faint and unconvincing protest as his flattened palms pushed up beneath the chemise to caress the smooth, silky roundness of her bottom.

For answer, he propelled her two steps forwards to the bed, bending her at the waist so that her hands were flat upon the coverlet. Ari felt cool air laving her heated skin as he pushed the chemise up beyond her waist, moving a knowing hand around to caress her sex, a finger slipping into the warm and moistening cleft. His free hand released his penis from the laces of his britches, and his loins pressed hard against her as she thrust her hips back, her thighs parted to receive his length.

He drove deep and fast, and her hips moved with him, her breath coming in gasps, her head thrown back as the speed and power of his thrusts brought them to an orgasmic peak that made her cry out as her head fell forward. She felt his teeth graze her bared nape in a little nibbling kiss of possession that brought a soft moan of pleasure to her lips, and she slid forward until she was lying half on and half off the bed, her chemise rucked
up around her waist, her bare legs dangling in an abandoned sprawl.

Ivor looked down at her, his eyes filled with a deep masculine satisfaction, born from his own fulfillment and the knowledge of hers. “What a glorious wanton I have taken to wife,” he declared, bending over her to turn her onto her back, taking her hands and hoisting her to her feet. He kissed her mouth, hard and then gently, his lips lightly brushing hers, his tongue dipping into the corners in a warm, moist caress.

“Come, now, that little exercise has left me sharp-set, and I can smell roast goose from here.”

Ari laughed, an exultant laugh redolent of the heated excitement of the last minutes. She shook down her chemise and went to the armoire for a lavender velvet morning gown edged with Brussels lace. It was a comfortable garment for wearing in private, fastened down the front with pearl buttons in black velvet loops, but it was certainly elegant enough for receiving visitors, not that they were expecting any this Christmas Day. She sat at the dresser to tidy her hair.

Ivor refastened his britches and glanced at his image in the mirror, standing behind his wife. His hands rested for a moment on her shoulders. “Happy?”

She nodded, covering his hands with her own before rising from the stool. “Very, but also very hungry.”

Smiling, he followed her out of the bedchamber. Tilly was in the salon when they entered, setting out a decanter of Canary wine with some savory tarts. “Thought you'd like a little something while we get dinner on the table.”

“A good thought, Tilly. We're famished.” Ivor reached for the decanter. “Praying makes a man hungry.” He poured wine into two goblets and passed one to Ari. She took it with a smile of thanks, inhaled the sweet aroma, and promptly sneezed . . . and sneezed . . . and sneezed. Her eyes were streaming as she reached blindly for the side table to get rid of her full glass before it spilled everywhere.

Ivor was quite accustomed to Ari's sneezing fits. Anything could bring them on, inside or outside, it didn't seem to matter, and they were unstoppable. Deftly, he rescued her glass and without a word hastened from the room to the bedchamber for a handkerchief and lavender water.

He burrowed through the drawers in the dresser for the pile of handkerchiefs, and his hand encountered a smooth vial. Curious, he took it out and held it up. It was unmarked, just a green glass vial with an oiled stopper. He twisted out the stopper and smelled the contents, his nose wrinkling. Vile, sulfurous stuff. He'd never seen Ari take any of it and wondered why she kept it buried deep under her undergarments. Probably some female potion, he decided with a shrug, picking up the lavender water and a couple of handkerchiefs and hurrying back to the salon, where Ari, nose and eyes streaming, was poised for another sneeze.

“Here.” He handed her the handkerchiefs, and she buried her face in them, pressing the bridge of her nose tightly, which sometimes worked. The lavender water under her nose finally did the trick and Ari leaned back against her chair, dabbing at her eyes and nose.

“Let me try the wine again, Ivor.” Her hand reached out for her glass.

“I hope that's wise.” He passed her the glass somewhat warily.

“It's all right, it's over.” She took a relieved sip of her wine, and her bright color died down. “Forgive me, I don't know why it happens.”

He shrugged. “At least I'm no longer afraid you're having an apoplexy. The first time I saw that happen, I was convinced you'd been possessed by a fiend.” He laughed and picked up the decanter again. “I must have been about ten.”

“Dinner is served, sir, my lady,” Tilly announced formally from the door. “I thought you wouldn't mind if we didn't serve the boar's head, seein' as 'tis only the two of you.”

“Of course not, Tilly. We'd hardly expect it,” Ari reassured her. The full ritual of the boar's head and its accompanying carol was all very well for the royal feast in the Banqueting Hall but somewhat out of place in the more modest accommodations of Dacre Street.

“No, time enough for that when we have a quiverful of children to grace the festivities,” Ivor said with seeming casualness as he led the way to the dining salon.

Tilly glanced back at Ari, who pretended she hadn't caught the glance and took her seat at the long table. “I wish you and the men would join us at table, Tilly, just as you would have done in the valley,” she said, diverting the subject.

“Oh, no, miss, 'tis different here in town. The servants
all eat together in the kitchens, and it'll be a right jolly party, I'm sure,” Tilly returned with a complacent smile. “We're not short of good victuals and sack, thanks to Sir Ivor.” She bestowed a special smile upon him. “You just settle in to the goose and ring that bell when you need me.” She bustled away, her tawny woolen skirts swinging about her with the energy of her stride.

“It does seem rather an indulgent feast for just two people,” Ari said, regarding the laden table, the golden roasted goose surrounded by baked apples, a glistening pink ham, a raised game pie with red currant jelly, dishes of artichokes and mushrooms and buttered salsify.

“We've earned it.” Ivor carved the goose.

In the kitchen below, the levels of sack in the flagons went down steadily amid general merriment. The food was demolished, baskets of bread disappearing as fast as the little kitchen maid could replenish them from the bread oven. Gabriel sat at his ease in a place of honor at the top of the table, one hand negligently around his sack cup, feeling relaxed for the first moment since that afternoon on the cliff when he'd escaped from the Daunt men.

Although why he should feel relaxed he couldn't imagine, sitting there as he was in the heart of enemy territory, drinking his rival's wine and eating his food. But a full belly could do wonders for a man. He was perfectly at home in this company of working men. His father, for all that he bore the title of squire, did not disdain the company of his own farm workers at the farmhouse table
on high days and holidays, and Christmas was always a big family feast.

Juno was playing tug-of-war with his boot, and he indulged the puppy idly, flicking his toes against her little teeth.

“Oh, give over, you little menace,” Jeb said, pushing the puppy to one side with his foot. “Don't let her pester you, master, even if she does come from the King's own bitch. No good spoilin' 'em.”

“True enough,” Gabriel agreed, but he bent and scooped the puppy onto his knee and gave her a morsel of goose from his trencher. “She's a pretty little thing, though.”

“Indeed, she is,” a light and oh, so familiar voice chimed from the doorway. “And she shouldn't be down here pestering you. We came to wish you all a merry Christmas and to th—”

Ariadne stood in the open kitchen doorway, Ivor just behind her, smiling at the company. She had spoken as she heard the exchange between Gabriel and Jeb on the bottom step of the kitchen stairs, but the words died on her lips. She stared at the man sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by Daunt men, and her hand flew to her throat. A fleeting gesture as she wrestled for some semblance of control over her face and voice. Her gaze flicked to Tilly, who was stirring something in a pan over the range. The girl did not turn to greet the newcomers, but Ari could see by her stiff back that she was rigid with tension.

“Yes, indeed, a merry Christmas to you all,” Ivor
chimed in, giving Ari a precious moment to gather herself. “And we wanted to thank you all for your loyal service this last year. There have been some difficult times, I know.” He smiled around the group, and then his eye fell upon the newcomer. “Ah, a stranger in our midst?”

He directed a raised eyebrow at Tilly, who, still concentrating on her stirring, muttered, “I found the young man on the street, Sir Ivor, all alone on Christmas Day and new to the city. 'Tis our Christian duty to make all welcome on this day of all days.” It wasn't a lie, she told herself. It was exactly how it had happened.

There was no reason to question such a statement. Ivor inclined his head in acknowledgment. “As you say, Tilly.” He turned to Gabriel. “I bid you welcome, sir. Where are you from?”

Gabriel half pushed himself up from the table, and Juno scrambled down from his lap. “From Dorset, sir.” It was the neighboring county to Somerset, and the hint of a Somerset accent in his voice could be easily explained by that proximity. His heart was pounding as if it would burst from his ribcage, and he fought to keep his eyes away from Ariadne, who had stepped behind her husband, standing slightly in the shadow of the doorway.

“Ah.” Ivor nodded. “Of what family?”

“My name is Maitland, sir. My father has a small holding . . . nothing much but sufficient for our family's needs.”

“And what brings you to London? It's an inhospitable place for country folk.”

“I've an uncle in Cheapside who said he'd find work
for me if I made the journey, but when I got here, he'd gone, taken by the typhus.”

Ivor frowned in sympathy. “So what do you plan now?”

“I have a little money, sir, enough to keep me in simple lodgings while I look for work.” Gabriel found the lies tripping off his tongue with the ease of practice, except that he was not in the least practiced at the art of deception. Ari was so close to him that he imagined he could feel the heat of her skin, inhale her own particular fragrance, but he dared not even look in her direction. The air seemed to crackle between them, and the sensations were so intense that he couldn't believe others in the kitchen were unaware of them.

“Well, I wish you good fortune,” Ivor said with a friendly nod before turning again to Jeb. “An expression of our thanks, Jeb. Will you see it distributed?” He held out a heavy purse.

Jeb took it with an appreciative nod. He was a man of few words, and Daunt men knew what was owed them.

Ivor turned to Ariadne, surprised by her long silence. It was unlike her to be backwards in offering her own appreciation. She managed a smile, but as she took a step forward, she bent and clicked her fingers at Juno, who came bundling across to her. She picked up the puppy, cradling her against her cheek to obscure her countenance as much as possible, and murmured her own thanks before, with a reiterated “Merry Christmas,” turning and hurrying back upstairs.

Ivor followed more slowly, frowning. Something had
happened yet again to disturb his wife's equanimity. But what? She had been all smiles and merriment as they went down to greet and thank the household who had stood by them through so much danger and discomfort. In fact, it had been Ari's idea to go at that moment, but then it seemed as if she had been struck dumb by something.

Back in the dining salon, she took her seat at the table again, still holding the puppy, who seemed to be occupying all her attention. Juno licked her face with extravagant adoration, and Ari murmured nonsense to her, playing with her ears and stroking the back of her neck.

“Ari, put the dog down,” Ivor said after a moment. “The table's no place for an animal.”