The Silver Rose (15 page)

“Just where the hell have you been?” Ranulf demanded in a low voice, grabbing her arm above the elbow. The dogs growled but for once he ignored them. “How dare you vanish without a word to anyone! Where have you been? Answer me!” He shook her arm. The dogs growled again, a deep-throated warning. Ranulf turned on them with a foul oath, but he released his hold.

“Why should it matter where I’ve been?” Ariel answered. “I’m back now.”

“Dressed like some homespun peasant’s wife,” her brother gritted through compressed lips. “Look at you. You had money to clothe yourself properly for your bridal celebrations, and you go around in an old riding habit that looks as if it’s been dragged through a haystack. And your boots are worn through.”

Ariel glanced down at her broadcloth skirts. Straw and mud clung to them, and her boots, while not exactly worn through, were certainly shabby and unpolished. She had been so uncomfortable dressing under the amused eye of her bridegroom that morning that she had grabbed what came to hand and given no thought to the occasion.

“I trust you have passed a pleasant morning, my wife.” Simon’s easy tones broke into Ranulf’s renewed diatribe. The earl of Hawkesmoor had approached through the
crowd so quietly that neither Ranulf nor his sister had noticed him. Ariel looked up with a flashing smile that betrayed her relief at this interruption.

“I went for a drive in the gig. Forgive me for staying out overlong, but I drove farther than I’d thought to without noticing the time.”

“Aye, it’s a fine way to do honor to your husband,” Ranulf snapped. “To appear clad like a serving wench who’s been rolling in the hay. I’ll not have it said that the earl of Ravenspeare’s sister goes about like a tavern doxy—”

“Oh, come now, Ravenspeare!” Simon again interrupted Ranulf’s rising tirade. “You do even less honor to your name by reviling your sister so publicly.” Ariel flushed to the roots of her hair, more embarrassed by her husband’s defense than by her brother’s castigation.

“Your wife’s appearance does not reflect upon the Hawkesmoor name, then?” Ranulf’s tone was full of sardonic mockery. “But perhaps Hawkesmoors are less nice in their standards.”

“From what I’ve seen of your hospitality so far, Ravenspeare, I take leave to doubt that,” Simon responded smoothly, not a flicker of emotion in his eyes. He turned to Ariel, who was still standing beside him, wrestling with anger and chagrin. “However, I take your point, Ravenspeare. It is for a husband to correct his wife, not her brother.

“You are perhaps a little untidy, my dear. Maybe you should settle this matter by changing into a habit that will reflect well upon both our houses. I am certain the shooting party can wait a few minutes.”

Ariel turned and left without a word. She kept her head lowered, her hood drawn up to hide her scarlet cheeks. It was one of her most tormenting weaknesses. Her skin was so fair and all her life she had blushed at the slightest provocation, sometimes even without good reason. She was always embarrassed at her obvious embarrassment, and the situation would be impossibly magnified.

Why had Simon interfered? Ranulf’s insulting rebukes ran off her like water on oiled leather. By seeming to take her part, the Hawkesmoor had made a mountain out of a molehill. But then, he hadn’t really taken her part. He had sent her away to change as if she were a grubby child appearing unwashed at the dinner table.

However, when she took a look at herself in the glass in her chamber, she was forced to admit that both men had had a point. Her hair was a wind-whipped tangle, her face was smudged with dust from her drive through the Fen blow, and her old broadcloth riding habit was thick with dust, the skirts caked with mud. But she’d had more important matters to attend to than her appearance, she muttered crossly, tugging at buttons and hooks.

Clad in just her shift, she washed her face and sponged her arms and neck, before letting down her hair. Throwing it forward over her face, she bent her head low and began to brush out the tangles. She was still muttering to herself behind the honeyed curtain when her husband spoke from the door.

“Your brothers’ guests grow restless. I don’t have much skill as a ladies’ maid but perhaps I can help you.”

Ariel raised her head abruptly, tossing back the glowing mane of hair. Her cheeks were pink from her efforts with the hairbrush and a renewed surge of annoyance.

The hounds greeted the new arrival with thumping tails. Their mistress, however, regarded the earl with a fulminating glare. “I have no need of assistance, my lord. And it’s very discourteous to barge into my chamber without so much as a knock.”

“Forgive me, but the door was ajar.” His tone carelessly dismissed her objection. He closed the door on his words and surveyed her with his crooked little smile. “Besides, a wife’s bedchamber is usually not barred to her husband.”

“So you’ve already made clear, my lord,” Ariel said tightly. “And I suppose it follows that a wife has no rights to privacy.”

“Not necessarily.” He limped forward and took the brush from her hand. “Sit.” A hand on her shoulder pushed her down to the dresser stool. He began to draw the brush through the thick springy locks with strong, rhythmic strokes. “I’ve longed to do this since I saw you yesterday, waiting for me in the courtyard, with your hat under your arm. The sun was catching these light gold streaks in your hair. They’re quite delightful.” He lifted a strand that stood out much paler against the rich dark honey.

Ariel glanced at his face in the mirror. He was smiling to himself, his eyes filled with a sensual pleasure, his face, riven by the jagged scar, somehow softened as if this hair brushing were the act of a lover. She noticed how his hands, large and callused though they were, had an elegance, almost a delicacy to them. She had the urge to reach for those hands, to lay her cheek against them. A shiver ran through her.

“You’re cold,” he said immediately, laying down the brush. “The fire is dying.” He turned to the hearth and with deft efficiency poked it back to blazing life, throwing on fresh logs. “Come now, you must make haste with your dressing before you catch cold.” He limped to the armoire. “Will you wear the habit you wore yesterday? The crimson velvet suited you well.” He drew out the garment as he spoke, and looked over at the sparse contents of the armoire. “You appear to have a very limited wardrobe, Ariel.”

“I have little need of finery in the Fens,” she stated, almost snatching the habit from him. “The life I lead doesn’t lend itself to silks and velvets.”

“The life you’ve led until now,” he corrected thoughtfully, leaning against the bedpost, arms folded, as he watched her dress. “As the countess of Hawkesmoor, you will take your place at court, and in county society, I trust. The Hawkesmoors have always been active in our community of the Fens.”

Unlike the lords of Ravenspeare. The local community
was more inclined to hide from them than seek their aid. But neither of them spoke this shared thought.

Ariel fumbled with the tiny pearl buttons of her shirt. Her fingers were suddenly all thumbs. He sounded so assured, but she knew that she would never take her place at court or anywhere else as the wife of this man, whatever happened.

“Your hands must be freezing.” He moved her fumbling fingers aside and began to slip the tiny buttons into the braided loops that fastened them. His hands brushed her breasts and her breath caught. His fingers stopped their work and she felt her nipples harden against the fine linen of her shift as goose bumps lifted on her skin. Then abruptly his hands dropped from her and he stepped back, his face suddenly closed.

She turned aside to pick up her skirt, stepping into it, fastening the hooks at her waist, trying to hide the trembling of her fingers, keeping her head lowered and averted until the hot flush died down on her creamy cheeks.

If only he would go away now. But he remained leaning against the bedpost.

She felt his eyes on her, following her every move, and that lingering sensuality in his gaze made her blood race. Even the simple act of pulling on her boots was invested with a curious voluptuousness under the intentness of his sea blue eyes. The man was ugly as sin, and yet she had never felt more powerfully attracted to anyone. Not even Oliver, whose physical beauty was unmarred. Oliver, who, until last night, in her secret heart she had believed she loved.

She plaited her hair into a thick rope and crammed on her tricorn hat edged with silver lace. She picked up her gloves and whip and stalked to the door. “I’m sure we’ve been away long enough for you to have proved your point to the wedding guests, my lord.”

“What point is that?” He raised an eyebrow as he moved to follow her.

“Why, your virility, of course, sir. Why else would you have accompanied me to my chamber so publicly? I’m sure
our wedding guests are convinced you took the opportunity to bed your wife.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “That is what you would have them believe, is it not, my lord?” Her voice was taunting, masking her own tumultuous emotions. “I’m sure you’ll take a man’s satisfaction from the coarse jests that will greet our return.”

“I doubt you’ll be put to shame by them, my dear,” he returned with an ironic smile. “You went to the altar no shy virgin, and I’m sure your trysts with your erstwhile lover were no state-kept secret.”

Ariel bit her Up. She’d invited the riposte but it still stung. She walked fast down the corridor toward the stairs, leaving her husband far behind, determined to join the shooting party on her own as if she’d seen neither hide nor hair of the bridegroom in the last half hour.

Simon limped after her, leaning heavily on his cane. She had shuddered at his touch. It wasn’t surprising that such youthful beauty should find age and ugliness repulsive, and there was no way he could compete with the arrow-straight, unblemished physique of Oliver Becket. But for a moment in the charged intimacy of Ariel’s chamber, he had forgotten all but his own awareness of her appeal. That strange contrast between her apparent detachment and the living warmth of her hair and skin, the glow of her eyes, the delightful flush on her cheeks that made her seem so innocent, almost childlike.

But he was a self-deluding fool if he imagined he could ever appeal physically to his wife. Not that he had ever expected to attract her, but he had hoped that she wouldn’t be totally repulsed by him. A fond hope, he thought bitterly.

The shooting party was already mounted and moving out when he emerged into the courtyard. Ariel was riding the same roan mare he’d seen the previous day. The animal was skittish in the crowd, tossing her head, pawing the ground, sidling her rump into the horses to either side. Ariel seemed unconcerned, deep in conversation with Jack Chauncey,
who, Simon noticed with a degree of sympathy, was having difficulty keeping his hands off the dancing roan’s bridle.

He mounted his own piebald and immediately felt the relief of being once more as mobile as anyone else. On horseback his limp was unnoticeable, and his riding skill was unaffected by his wounds. He joined the group now moving out across the drawbridge, drawing up alongside Ariel and Jack.

“That roan is very fresh, Ariel.”

“I was about to say the same myself,” Jack agreed. “You don’t think she’s a little too spirited for a lady?”

Ariel went into a peal of laughter, and the mare kicked her heels back as if sharing the hilarity. “Would you have women ride only round-bellied cobs of stolid disposition, Lord Chauncey?”

Jack looked a little discomfited. “Women are not as strong as men, ma’am. I would hesitate to give any of my female relatives the charge of such a mount as that roan.”

“What think you, my lord?” Ariel glanced mischievously at her husband, her earlier annoyance forgotten. “Would you forbid your wife to ride such a mettlesome creature as my Diana?”

“I doubt it would do me much good if I did,” Simon observed mildly. “But since you seem to have the beast well in hand, the issue is clearly moot.”

Ariel was pleased with the answer. Chuckling, she nudged the mare’s flanks, and Diana took off with a whinny, the hounds streaking ahead of her. Oliver Becket with an exultant shout put spur to his horse and galloped in hot pursuit. Ariel looked over her shoulder and encouraged the roan to lengthen her stride.

Simon, without knowing quite why, set the piebald in pursuit of Oliver Becket. It was a juvenile thing to do, to engage in such a race, and yet he couldn’t help himself. It was almost as if he needed to compete with the younger man, to prove himself as strong and capable. Oliver’s face
was set, his lips gripped tight as he pushed his horse to draw ever closer to the roan.

Although Ariel didn’t once look behind her, Simon knew she could hear the pounding hooves of her pursuer. He could sense the excitement of the racers, the tension between them. It was a tension that set his teeth on edge, reminding him of the scene he’d interrupted the previous evening. They were in competition again; the air between them seethed with sexual challenge. He didn’t know whether Ariel wanted to be caught or not. But he knew that he could not endure Oliver Becket to reach her before he did.

He touched his spurs to the piebald’s flanks, and the animal, unused to such an unkind prod, threw out his great chest and surged forward. He was neck and neck with Oliver now. The other man looked over at him. His lips were drawn back from his teeth, his eyes glittered. There was loathing and a blind determination on the set face.

The piebald nudged ahead. Oliver whipped at his horse’s flanks but the animal was beginning to flag. Then Simon drew alongside the roan. Ariel shot him a startled look. She had expected to see Oliver. Simon smiled, unable to hide his own jubilation.

“Pull up now,” he instructed. “The race is run and Becket’s horse is winded.”

Ariel glanced backward and saw that Oliver was still mercilessly flogging his exhausted horse. She drew rein immediately, her eyes filled with anger, her mouth taut. “For God’s sake, Oliver, leave the poor beast alone! He can do no more.”

“The damned animal is fit for nothing but the knacker’s yard,” Oliver declared furiously, hauling on the reins. The animal’s neck was lathered with sweat, his eyes rolled frantically, foam flecked the cruel curb bit, and blood welled from whip and spur cuts on his flanks.