The Silver Rose by Jane Feather

Prologue

London, 1689

The winter night was dark; snow fell softly, covering the slimy cobbles in the narrow lanes, overlaying the filth in the kennels, creating a delicate white world that would last until the first footfall of dawn.

The small room under the eaves of Sam Begg's bakery on Distaff Lane was warmed by a brazier, lit by a dozen wax candles, the air fragrant with the smell of yeast and baking bread from the oven in the shop below. Sam's first customers would appear with the dawn, and the hot bread must be waiting for them.

"It wants but ten minutes before five." The man in a fur-lined chamber robe turned from the small diamond-paned window where he'd been watching the snow.

"When will I see you again?" The woman was dressing before the brazier, her fingertips clumsy with the cold despite the charcoal's heat. The question was simple enough but the voice was filled with a deep yearning akin to despair.

"When do you return to Ely?" He came over to her, taking her hands in his, chafing them. His hands were large, fitting his physique, and the woman's slender fingers disappeared in their grasp.

"My husband talks of tomorrow." Her eyes were gray, clear, almond-shaped, the sable eyelashes long and curling. She moved her hands from his to put up the tumbling mass of hair, the color of liquid honey. "And you?"

"I still petition the king for the return of my land," he said, gently tracing the curve of her cheek. "Some days I think he will grant me the favor, others…" He shrugged massive shoulders beneath the robe. "But I cannot as yet leave Whitehall. Not until I have an answer."

"And if the answer is in your favor, then Ravenspeare will bear you even greater hatred."

Again he shrugged. "That's nothing to me, Margaret. So long as I have the undying love of his wife." Smiling now, he caressed her face before kissing her, a long, lingering joining of their mouths that spoke of the night they had just passed and contained the promise of future nights.

"I fear for you," she said, taking up her hooded riding cloak. "My husband bears the Hawkesmoors such ill will." She shivered as she drew the garment tightly around her. "It runs deep in Ravenspeare blood."

"The rivalry and hatred between our families has run deep in blood for nigh on two hundred years," Geoffrey Hawkesmoor said somberly.

"And yet there has been love too," Margaret murmured, almost to herself. "Love between the two families as powerful as the hatred."

Geoffrey did not speak his thought that on the occasions when love and passion had fired the two neighboring dynasties, the results had been as violent and tragic as anything produced by the vein of hatred. Such reflections were too chillingly close to their own situation.

But they would be safe. They were careful. They didn't ask for too much. They accepted the limits of their passion.

Thrusting the cold moment from him, he drew something out of his pocket. "There is something I would give you, my love. But you must keep it well hidden from your husband." He extended his hand so that she could see what he held.

A strangely shaped bracelet lay on his huge palm. It was gold, pearl encrusted, shaped like a serpent. In the serpent's mouth was a large perfect pearl.

"How beautiful." Margaret lifted it from his hand, holding it to the candle flame, turning it to catch the light. "It's very strange, though."

"It reminded me of you." He took it from her, running his finger over its shape. "All the beauty, the power, and the terror of Eve."

Margaret shivered suddenly. "Don't say that. I am no temptress, Geoffrey."

"No." He smiled. "It's not your fault that I am tempted to madness by you." He held up the bracelet again. "Do you see the charm it already carries?" He touched a delicate, glowing emerald cut into the perfect shape of a swan. "This one was already attached, but I have the notion to mark each of our meetings with another charm. So there will always be an enduring record of our love. And you will keep it as secret, as deeply hidden from the eyes of the world, as we must keep that love."

Margaret was always surprised by the romantic, poetic side of her lover-a man more at home with the sword than the pen. But it was an essential part of the vibrant and varied personality that was dearer to her than life itself.

"Come," he said with sudden urgency. "You must leave. Brian will be waiting with the sedan chair at the corner. You must be back in your own bed before dawn."

She clung to him with the desperation of a hopeless love, then tore herself away without looking back, running down the stairs, past the bakery where the red glow of the great fireplace threw the black shadow of Sam Begg, huge, against the whitewashed walls. He didn't acknowledge her. He never acknowledged her. He was paid well and silently by the man, who always arrived first and left last, and the baker maintained his own silence.

The door to the street was unbarred, and she threw back the oiled bolts with ease. Swiftly she slipped into the silent lane, drawing the door closed at her back.

They came toward her, moving out of the doorways opposite. Three men, cloaked and hooded. They held daggers glittering in the snowlight, but only one man struck the silent woman, whose eyes, wide with horrified knowledge, glowed in the dim white light.

The earl of Ravenspeare killed his wife as she stood immobile against the doorway. She made no attempt to evade the dagger, made no sound, until, as she crumpled to the ground, she cried out, a sound terrible enough to waken the dead, and loud enough to warn Geoffrey Hawkesmoor in the chamber above the street.

Margaret's blood clotted the snow beneath her. Her fingers loosened, and the glitter of gold, the glow of emerald, the translucence of pearl fell stark onto the ground beside her.

Her husband bent to pick up the lover's bracelet. He dropped it into his pocket, pushed the body away from the door with the toe of his boot, and unsheathed his sword.

Geoffrey would have had time to fling open the back window of the small chamber. Time to escape over the rooftops. But instead he came down the stairs, out into the street. He knew what he would find. Margaret would not have had a chance. His sword was in his hand as he faced Ravenspeare.

Only their eyes spoke the hatred each bore the other. Geoffrey's sword passed in salute through the air, but before he could issue the challenge, an assassin's dagger slipped into his back, between his ribs, piercing his heart.

His opponent lowered his unused sword. He stood over his dying enemy. "You dishonor the house of Ravenspeare, cur. And you die without honor. The knife in the back is all the honor due you."

"You speak of honor, Ravenspeare." The dying man spoke slowly, haltingly, blood bubbling from his mouth. And yet he managed to sound ironic. "Remember Esther and remember dishonor." A scathing laugh crackled in blood between his lips. His blue eyes were for a moment sharp with contempt, then the film crept over them, extinguishing the light, and Geoffrey Hawkesmoor died beside his mistress, their blood mingling in the snow.

Chapter One

London, 1709

Queen Anne lowered her corpulent body into the great chair, decorated with gold lace and crimson velvet, at the head of the long table in the council chamber at the Palace of Westminster. Her ladies on either side of her arranged the crimson train of her gown in graceful folds, discretely covering the swollen, poulticed, bandaged foot that they carefully lifted onto a velvet footstool. Despite their care the queen grimaced with pain. Her gout was at its worst today.

The men in the chamber saw the wince as they took their own seats, and knew that their sovereign would be irritable, intransigent, and most likely capricious in the day's council.

"That'll do. You may leave me." The queen waved her closed fan at her ladies, who curtsied and stepped away from the canopied chair, back behind the tapestry hanging that separated the council chamber from its antechamber.

The queen took a greedy sip from the goblet of fortified wine at her elbow. Her color was high, her bloodshot eyes almost buried in folds of mottled flesh. Her hair was untidily dressed, her gown loose over her uncorseted body, her eyes filled with pain. She looked along the table, frowning as she examined each of the gentlemen in turn.

Her gaze finally fell upon a man at the far end. A man in his mid-thirties, with dark hair cropped close to his head, his powerful frame clad in a somber coat and britches of gray velvet. His large ringless hands rested on the table, the knuckles prominent, the nails filed short. They were a swordsman's hands and bore the calluses of many a battle on the fields of Europe.

"Lord Hawkesmoor, we bid you welcome. You have a report for us from the duke of Marlborough."

Simon Hawkesmoor bowed as he remained in his chair. "And it please Your Majesty. His Grace has entrusted me with a full report of the battle of Malplaquet." His voice was low and deep, strangely melodious issuing from a rugged countenance marred by a livid scar down one cheek.

"I trust your wounds have healed, sir."

Lord Hawkesmoor bowed again. "Tolerably well, ma'am." He handed a sealed paper to a footman, who took it to the queen.

She broke the seal and read in silence for a few minutes, then she put it to one side. "Our general talks most highly of your exploits in the field, Lord Hawkesmoor. He deeply regrets that your wounds will prevent your return to his side." The duke of Marlborough had also begged his sovereign to reward the earl's skill and devotion, but Queen Anne was not known for her generosity.

She took another sip from her goblet. Fresh pain creased her brow. Her gloomy gaze wandered again along the two sides of the table and came to rest upon a dark-visaged man with angular features and charcoal gray eyes. He wore a full-bottomed wig and a suit of emerald brocade, in startling contrast to Lord Hawkesmoor, sitting opposite. But then the Ravenspeares, unlike the Hawkesmoors, had never been tainted by the cold sobriety of the Puritan.

In 1649, Simon Hawkesmoor's grandfather had sentenced the king to death. His family had been prominent in Oliver Cromwell's protectorate, and, with the Restoration, their punishment had been as severe as that which the Cromwellians had previously inflicted on the royalists. But now such times of conflict were over. In public. In private the queen knew they persisted. And among no two families did they run more deeply than between the Hawkesmoors and the Ravenspeares,

She smiled, although it was more a grimace than an expression of pleasure. Her Lady of the Bedchamber, Sarah, duchess of Marlborough, had had a most happy notion. It was a sovereign's task to promote peace and happiness among her subjects, and not least among those who held high place at her court. It was also a sovereign's task to reward those who had served her well, without depleting the privy purse. The duchess had hit upon a neat plan to gratify the duke of Marlborough by rewarding the earl of Hawkesmoor without it costing the queen more than an elegant gown, and perhaps a trinket, for a bride. And, by the same stroke, creating an alliance between two warring families.

"Lord Ravenspeare, you have a young sister, I believe."

Ranulf, earl of Ravenspeare, looked startled. "Aye, Your Majesty. Lady Ariel."

"How old is she?"

"Approaching twenty, ma'am." Ranulf's dark eyes narrowed.

"And she is not wed… nor betrothed as yet?"

"Not as yet," he agreed carefully. He and his brothers had yet to find the perfect husband for Ariel. The husband who would bring the greatest benefit to the house of Ravenspeare.

"She has no stated preference?"

"No, Your Majesty." She might well have, but Ranulf didn't add that whether she did or no, Ariel's wishes would be of little account in such a vital family matter.

"How very fortunate." Queen Anne smiled again. "I have it in mind to bestow the hand of your sister, the Lady Ariel, upon the earl of Hawkesmoor."

The silence in the council chamber was profound. The two men concerned didn't move, but their eyes met across the massive mahogany table. Met and held. And spoke of the deep and deadly enmity that each, as the head of their respective families, carried for the other.

"There is some land that is in dispute between your families, I believe," the queen continued. She was known as much for her phenomenal memory as for its selective quality. Matters of vital importance would disappear, never to be acknowledged by her, whereas strange trifles heard long ago would be dredged up and treated as enormously significant, frequently to the great inconvenience of others.

She looked inquiringly between the two men. Ravenspeares and Hawkesmoors were the great lords of the Fens and had held sway over that damp, flat, foggy land since William the Conqueror. Cromwell had given a large proportion of Ravenspeare land to the Hawkesmoors as a reward for their loyalty, but on Charles II's return as king, the land had been confiscated from the regicide's family and given, together with a large chunk of Hawkesmoor territory, in perpetuity to the royalist Ravenspeares. The Hawkesmoors had spent enormous sums on draining the fenland, reclaiming it for agricultural use, and with one stroke of the king's pen had seen their efforts and its rich rewards handed over to the rival dynasty.

Since the death of Charles II in 1685, the Hawkesmoors had been petitioning for the return of their land, a petition violently disputed by its present owners.

"If the land forms part of Lady Ariel Ravenspeare's dowry, then it will be jointly owned by both families," the queen continued into the silence. "Should she die before her husband, the dowry reverts to her birth family. Should she die in the fullness of time, it will be inherited by her children, who will carry the blood of both families. A happy solution, I believe. And one that will bring to an end a feud that has gone on for too many generations. We cannot have around us men whose service and advice we rely upon divided by such personal conflicts."

She seemed serenely unaware of the lack of reaction to her proposal and was completely ignorant of the surging speculation in the minds of the two men. She had set her heart upon her little scheme, convinced now that it had come from her own fertile brain, and would not be persuaded out of it.

Simon Hawkesmoor's half smile was ironic as he read Ravenspeare's mind. Either one of them could reject the queen's proposal, but to do so would mean immediate loss of favor and exile from the court. The queen never forgot a slight, and however irrational her dislikes, they were irreversible. The earl of Ravenspeare lived for his power at court. He had a hand in every intrigue and was as blatantly corrupt as any man serving the queen. He feathered his nest with bribery and extortion, influenced every court appointment, and could bring a man down as easily as he could raise him up. He thrived on the fear he induced in all who came into his orbit, and he would not willingly give up such power.

But could he tolerate such a price? To join his family with their blood enemies. The land quarrel was public knowledge, a common enough bone of contention between the country's great families in the wake of revolution, but the dark river of spilled blood that flowed between Ravenspeare and Hawkesmoor was known only to the chosen few-and to no one who was not born to either name.

"So, my lords, how do you answer my scheme to bring harmony to your families and to my council chamber?" The queen's voice was suddenly petulant. She was tired of the silence.

"I do not believe, madam, that either Lord Hawkesmoor or myself would presume to bring our private quarrels into Your Majesty's presence," Ranulf said with a stiff bow.

"So, my lords, how do you answer my scheme to bring harmony to your families and to my council chamber?" Her Majesty repeated. It was a trick she had perfected. She would resolutely ignore any response that didn't suit her, merely repeating herself until she heard what she wanted to hear.

"For my part, Your Majesty, I would be honored to agree to your proposal." Simon spoke in his melodious voice, a ripple of amusement running beneath the smooth words. "Since I am compelled to retire from the battlefield, I could do much worse than take a wife and tend to my lands." He nodded across the table at Ranulf, the ironical smile still in his eyes. "And I am more than prepared to resolve an old quarrel so evenhandedly."

Ranulf's dark eyes were unreadable. He was convinced that only death would end Simon Hawkesmoor's hatred and need for vengeance, as it would end his own. The land was nothing. The blood and dishonor were everything. So what lay behind this cool acquiescence to the impossible?

"I would discuss this in greater detail with Lord Hawkesmoor, madam," he said neutrally.

"Very well." Her Majesty sounded displeased. "I trust you will soon put matters in hand for the wedding. I would gift the bride with some trifle." She drank again. "And now to other matters. Lord Godolphin…?" She gestured to her chief minister.

Half an hour later the men rose, bowing low as the queen tottered painfully from the chamber. The minute she was gone, Ranulf's chair scraped angrily on the oak boards as he thrust it aside and stalked from the room without so much as a glance in the direction of Simon Hawkesmoor, who calmly sat down again, remaining in his chair until the council chamber was empty.

"I trust our enterprise went well, my lord." The tapestry curtain behind the throne chair was pushed aside to admit a tall red-haired woman in a gown of scarlet silk.

"So far so good, Sarah." Simon reached for the ivory-topped cane beside his chair and with its help rose to his feet again, offering the duchess of Marlborough a courteous bow. "But I think a little more pressure on the queen may be necessary. Ravenspeare may need a hint of coercion."

The duchess came over to him. "My husband was most insistent that I do everything to help you, Simon." She leaned against the edge of the table, her green eyes curious. "Do you play some deep game?"

The earl of Hawkesmoor laughed softly. "Deep enough, my dear ma'am."

"John says he stands much in your debt."

The earl shrugged. "No more than one man on a battlefield stands in the debt of his neighbor."

"You saved his life, then?"

Another shrug. "As he saved mine on many an occasion."

"You are modest, sir. But I know when my husband feels an extraordinary debt." She stood upright. "My influence over the queen remains firm, despite…" Her lips tightened. "Despite Mrs. Masham's attempts to supplant me. Have no fear. The queen will offer such inducements… or threats… that will persuade the earl of Ravenspeare to agree to the marriage."

"I don't doubt your influence, Sarah." Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips. "And don't you ever doubt your husband's love." He smiled. "A message I was charged to deliver personally."

The duchess's responding smile lit up her pale face. "I could wish you were returning to his side to deliver my answer personally. For I own I miss him most dreadfully." She added with a deep sigh, "It's hard for a woman in her prime to be without the… the pleasures and satisfactions of marriage."

Most women, when deprived of their husband's attentions, sought satisfaction in other arms. Not so the duchess of Marlborough. She sublimated physical passion in wielding control over her sovereign, whom she had dominated since she was maid of honor to Princess Anne at the court of Charles II.

Simon kissed her hand again, a graceful gesture that should have sat oddly with the overwhelming physicality of his presence, accentuated by the plain, uncompromising dress and the lines of an old suffering etched into his face. And yet it didn't. His eyes, blue and deep as the ocean, were filled with both understanding and humor.

"Your husband will be home before Christmas, Sarah. And homecomings are all the sweeter for long anticipation."

She laughed with him, a flare of passion in her eyes. "If I were inclined to spread my favors, my lord, I swear you would be the first recipient." She curtsied with another laugh and glided from the room.

The humor left his eyes the minute he was alone. Leaning heavily on his cane, he limped to the door. Would Ranulf take the bait?

"Can we turn this to good use, Ranulf?" Lord Roland Ravenspeare held up a hand to halt his elder brother's explosive description of the events in the council chamber.

"You can be certain Hawkesmoor is playing his own game." Ranulf poured wine into two crystal goblets. "If we knew what it was, we could play to his serve."

Roland took the glass handed him with a nod of thanks. He had the cooler head of the two brothers, although he was castigated as a dull plodder in a family of lightning-tempered, impulsive, quick thinkers. "If you wish to keep your power and influence at court, we have little choice but to agree to the queen's proposal," he said slowly. "As long as Ariel can be induced-"

"Ariel will do as she's told."

Roland held up a placating hand at this interruption. He had less confidence than his brother in the compliance of their little sister, but nothing would be gained by mentioning that now.

"Ariel married to Simon Hawkesmoor could be turned to our advantage," he continued reflectively. "It could be arranged that the Hawkesmoor predeceases his wife, and the land will return to Ravenspeare hands beyond all possible dispute. In addition," he added with a little smile, "a little amusement could be arranged at the Hawkesmoor's expense… before, of course, he so unfortunately meets his untimely end."

He had his brother's full attention. "Explain."

The Lady Ariel Ravenspeare galloped her horse across the flat, marshy fenland, the massive octagonal tower of Ely Cathedral-known throughout the land as the Ship of the Fens-stark against the gray autumn sky behind her, the spires of Cambridge fingering the sky in front of her. The wolf-hounds streaked ahead of the horse, enjoying the exercise as much as the work of the hunt. Ariel had brought down a snipe with her pistol, and the two hounds raced each other and the horse to reach the bird first.

Ariel let her horse have its head. Bird hunting was tame sport for wolfhounds, but Romulus and Remus needed a daily full-out sprint with some purpose to it, even if it was only racing against a young stallion in order to mark a fallen snipe. Not that this was any ordinary stallion. Mustapha was bred from the line of a great racehorse, the Darley Arabian, and was the pride of Ariel's stud.

She saw the troop of horsemen against the lowering skyline as she reined in her horse. Her brothers were immediately recognizable on the causeway leading across the fens to Ravenspeare Castle. Ariel muttered under her breath. She turned in the saddle to look over her shoulder, then put her fingers to her mouth and blew a piercing whistle. Her groom was a distant figure on his sturdy mount, but at least he was visible, and in response to the urgent whistle he put his horse to a canter.

Ariel snapped her fingers, bringing the dogs to the flanks of her horse, then she nudged her mount toward the party on the causeway.

They had drawn rein and were waiting for her, hunched in their caped riding cloaks against the biting wind blowing from the River Ouse across the flat fens.

"I give you good day, my brothers." Ariel drew rein on the far side of a dike that ran beside the causeway. "You're returning early from London. I didn't expect you before Christmas."

"We have business that concerns you." Ranulf scrutinized his sister, who smiled serenely from beneath her tricorn hat. "Where's your groom, Ariel?"

"Within sight," she responded. "Always within sight, sir."

"He's just coming." Roland gestured with his whip to where the elderly groom approached.

Ranulf grunted. He didn't believe that Edgar had kept his mistress within sight all afternoon. The stallion and the wolfhounds, given their head, would have outstripped the groom's cob within minutes. And it was inconceivable to imagine that Ariel had not given the beasts free rein. But the groom was here and Ariel was still smiling, a picture of innocence, her gray, almond-shaped eyes as clear and cloudless as a fresh-washed dawn sky.

"Come." He nudged his horse forward. Ariel jumped Mustapha over the dike and fell in beside him, the dogs trotting placidly on the stallion's flanks, tongues lolling.

"Ralph will be pleased to see you," Ariel remarked. "He's been spending a deal of time in Harwich. Difficulties with the shipyards."

"What kind of difficulties?"

"He wouldn't confide in me, brother. Ralph doesn't believe that women could or should have opinions on business matters," she said sweetly.

Ranulf made no comment. Privately he considered his youngest brother a fool. Ariel was as quick and knowledgeable as any of them when it came to estate matters or the family shipyards. But fraternal solidarity wouldn't permit him to criticize a brother in front of their younger sister.

The gray mass of Ravenspeare Castle rose from the flat-lands, towers and buttresses blending with the low clouds, its parapets hanging over the broad river that wound its way through the fens to the Atlantic Ocean.

The party of riders clattered over a drawbridge, now more ornamental than defensive, and into the inner court. Once it had been a gloomy spot with high, moss-covered walls and ground perpetually damp from the oozing wetlands, and even now, with a lush green lawn surrounded by a gravel path to provide a garden atmosphere, and the castle windows glassed and sparkling, it retained some of its past menace. The creepers that covered the forbidding walls did little to soften the effect of the numerous arrow slits.

They dismounted and Ranulf said brusquely to his sister, "I would discuss this business that concerns you immediately."

Ariel felt the first flicker of apprehension. Only something of far-reaching importance would have brought her brother back from court before his appointed time. She didn't trust any of her brothers, Ranulf least of all. He was utterly ruthless when his own interests were at stake, and if she was somehow bound up in those interests, then she could be facing trouble.

None of this showed in her face, however, as she handed her horse to Edgar and followed her brothers into the castle, the wolfhounds at her heels. They were like small ponies, their heads on a level with her waist, and they went nowhere without her, as their mistress went nowhere without them.

Two fires burned in massive fireplaces at either end of the Great Hall, but it did little to take the damp chill off the air in the cavernous vaulted space. Ranulf, pulling off his gloves, led the way into a smaller room, where the stone walls were covered with wood paneling, tapestries atop that, and the roaring fire had a chance against the raw damp of the fens.

"Bring mulled wine," Ranulf threw at the footman who had followed them into the room and now stood bowing in the doorway. The earl tossed his gloves and whip on a chair and bent to warm his hands at the fire. Roland joined him and they stood side by side in silence.

Ariel kept her gloves on, since it seemed she was to be excluded from the fire. But she was accustomed to her brothers' lack of chivalry. "What is this business, Ranulf?"

"Why, you are to have a bridegroom, my dear little sister."

Ranulf spoke without turning from the fire. Ariel felt a cold shudder along her spine. "Oliver, you mean?"

A sharp crack of scornful laughter greeted this. "Oliver is very well as a lover, my dear, but he'll not make you a husband."

The dogs, who'd been sitting quietly at their mistress's feet, rose with lifted hackles as they sensed her bewildered apprehension.

She quietened them with a hand on their heads. "And who is this husband to be?" Her voice was perfectly steady, she had long ago learned to show neither weakness nor dismay with her brothers.

"Why, our neighbor, the earl of Hawkesmoor, of course." Both brothers began to laugh, and the harsh, unmirthful sound was as raw as an open sore.

"You would ally me with a Hawkesmoor?" Ariel said in disbelief. "Our blood enemy?"

"At the queen's behest, my dear." Ranulf turned then and she saw the malicious glitter in his eyes, the sardonic quirk of his mouth. "Her Majesty has hit upon a solution to this little land dispute we have. The land will form part of your dowry."

"And all will be sweetness and light between the warring factions and in the queen's council chamber," Roland put in with his brother's sardonic grin.

Ariel shook her head. "No," she said. "I will not wed an accursed Hawkesmoor, even at the queen's behest. You cannot ask it of me."

"Oh, I do not ask," Ranulf said, taking a tankard of mulled wine from the tray that the returning footman presented. "And you will wed an accursed Hawkesmoor, my dear Ariel. For you will be the instrument of Ravenspeare vengeance."

He drank deeply and laughed again.

Chapter Two

"I don't understand." Ariel's hands shook slightly as she drew off her gloves before taking a tankard of the hot spiced wine. She warmed her hands around the tankard, inhaled the scent of cloves, cinnamon, and nutmeg curling in steam from its contents. She knew she must appear untroubled, no more than mildly curious. Her brothers all shared a streak of cruelty that fed on the fear and vulnerability of those in their power. And Lady Ariel Ravenspeare had never been in any doubt that Ravenspeare men controlled her existence. After her father's death, control had passed to Ranulf, ably abetted by his two younger brothers.

"It's simple enough, my dear girl. You will wed Simon Hawkesmoor. But have no fear, you will be wife only in name."

Ariel sipped her wine, hoping that it would still the tremors deep in her belly that were making her feel weak and shaky. "How could that be? I still don't understand."

"What don't you understand, bud?" The voice was heavy with cynicism. She whirled toward the door that had opened so silently. Oliver Becket, Ranulf's oldest and closest friend, lounged against the door frame, his eyes hooded, his thin, sensual lips curved in a smile that was strangely unsettling.

"I thought you were in Cambridge," Ariel said, unable to help her own responding smile despite her dismay.

"I heard that the Ravenspeare brothers were returned betimes from London, so came posthaste to hear the news." Oliver chuckled lazily and pushed himself away from the door. He crossed to Ariel, caught her chin on a cupped palm, and kissed her mouth. "Not to mention my need to see you, my bud. I find two days to be an insufferably long time without sight of you."

Ariel knew that the words meant nothing. She had no illusions about her lover's sincerity-he was cut from the same cloth as her brothers-but it made no difference to the way her body responded to his presence. Oliver was a rake, untrustworthy and emotionally shallower than a birdbath, but his touch enflamed her, his lazy voice and sensual smile sent currents of lust jolting through her belly. He was charming and beautiful, and their liaison, so long as she didn't allow herself to wish for or to expect more than he was capable of giving, was utterly delightful. It was also a relationship that pleased Ranulf.

"Your arrival is timely, Oliver." Ranulf flung a comradely arm over his friend's shoulders. "Ariel is to be wed and we must prepare a proper reception for her bridegroom. Your inventive mind will surely come up with something suitably ingenious."

"Wed?" Oliver's thin, arched eyebrows lifted as he glanced at Ariel. "My bud is to be wed?"

"Aye," Roland declared from the fire where he was sprawling in a carved wooden armchair, his booted feet on the andirons. "She's to become the countess of Hawkesmoor, my dear Oliver."

Oliver whistled through his teeth. "Ariel, bring me a glass of that excellent cognac while I absorb this."

Ariel set down her tankard and went to the sideboard, where glasses and decanters were arrayed. Without saying anything, she filled a glass and brought it over to him. He took it with a nod, sipped, then said, "So, explain how it should be that you would give a Ravenspeare woman to a Hawkesmoor."

"What's that you say?" A slurred voice accompanied the entrance of the youngest Ravenspeare brother, Lord Ralph. His wig was slightly askew, his eyes unfocused, his linen spotted, his cuffs grimy.

Ranulf wrinkled his nose fastidiously. "You reek of the barn, Ralph."

Ralph's chuckle was lascivious. "Found a doxy in the dell," he said. "Had quite a tumble in the hay." He crossed to the sideboard and, with unsteady hand, filled a glass, catching the edge of the decanter against the crystal, setting it chiming. "So, what's that you say about Hawkesmoor?"

"Ariel is to wed Simon Hawkesmoor," Roland informed him succinctly.

Ralph dropped his glass and it rolled sideways on the sideboard. Amber liquid dripped to the Elizabethan tapestry carpet. "Good God! Just because I'm a trifle foxed… no reason to make mock of a man."

"Oh, we don't," Ranulf said. "It's true. Queen Anne has commanded it."

Ralph was not exactly needle witted even when sober, and this piece of information puzzled him mightily. He pushed up his wig and scratched his shaven scalp, frowning fiercely. "The queen, you say?"

His brothers didn't bother to reply, and after a minute he swung his bemused, besotted gaze toward his sister, who was standing silent and motionless beside the table. "What's Ariel got to say to this?"

"Nothing of import," Ranulf said brusquely. "She'll do as she's told."

Ralph nodded wisely at this, but he still peered at his little sister through narrowed eyes, as if he might find some answer in the still figure.

"What did you mean about being a wife only in name?" Ariel finally spoke and her voice was flat, giving no indication of her inner turmoil.

"Now, that's an interesting twist," declared Oliver, his gaze suddenly sharp. "How d'you expect to convince a Hawkesmoor to leave his bride's bed inviolate?"

"Simple enough. His lady wife will explain that she suffers from some… some female malady." Ranulf shrugged. "She can bar her door if she wishes. So long as she remains in this house, she'll be safe from any unwanted attention. And by the time she could reasonably expect to have recovered from this inconvenience, Lord Hawkesmoor will no longer be capable of consummating his marriage."

Ariel felt a familiar graveyard shiver. "What are you planning, brother?"

It was Roland who answered her. "A mishap, Ariel. An accident. Easy enough to happen."

"You talk of murder?" she demanded directly.

"Hush, hush!" remonstrated Ranulf. "A mishap, that's all. And when you're widowed, then your dowry returns to the Ravenspeare family, without any possibility of dispute. Together with the settlements made upon you by your husband. Most generous settlements, I believe you'll find." He chuckled and exchanged a wink with Roland. His brother, ever the family financier, had drawn up the marriage contract with consummate skill, and the Hawkesmoor had had little choice in the face of the queen's outspoken approval but to accept the conditions. The earl of Hawkesmoor, however, had not given any indication that he was in the least reluctant to accede to the Ravenspeare stipulations. Something that still nagged at Ranulf. The Hawkesmoor was behaving throughout with what could only be called a degree of enthusiasm for an alliance that must be as poisonous to him as it was to the Ravenspeare brothers.

"What's this about a dowry?" Ralph gulped at his refilled glass.

His eldest brother sighed and explained, although well aware that in his befuddled state Ralph would take in very little.

"How d'you intend keeping him here after the wedding? Surely he'll want to take his bride back to his own house?" Oliver pointed out. "It's not as if it's a week's ride away. A mere forty miles across the fen."

He flung himself onto a sofa, seized Ariel's hand, and pulled her down beside him. "Come warm me, bud." He circled her waist with his arm and drew her against him, one hand cupping her breast. No one took any notice of this intimacy, except Ariel, who was always embarrassed by Oliver's public caresses but knew that to move away would merely bring ridicule from her brothers.

Romulus and Remus lay down at her feet, their heavy heads resting on her boots. Their great yellow eyes were fixed upon Oliver Becket.

"A wedding party, dear fellow." Ranulf sounded positively jocular. "Invitations have already gone out for a month of sport and feasting to celebrate the wedding of Lady Ariel Ravenspeare with the earl of Hawkesmoor. Two hundred guests should convince Her Majesty that the Ravenspeare family knows how to honor her commands. Hawkesmoor will bring his own wedding party, of course, and will be suitably gracious. It will appear to all the world that our two families have finally buried their enmity, as symbolized by the lavish celebrations… no expense spared, of course." He smiled sardonically. "The small matter of an unbedded bride might cause a little amusement, I daresay. But it will all add to the revels."

"The bride, incidentally, will be enjoying the favors of another, under her husband's eye," Roland put in, and all except Ariel laughed.

"Cuckolded on his wedding night." Ranulf's mouth was vicious. "An appropriate vengeance. His father dishonored our mother and the house of Ravenspeare. So the house of Ravenspeare will visit dishonor in its turn."

Ariel felt sick. She pushed away Oliver's arm and stood up abruptly. "I have to go to the stables. There's a brood mare in foal." She left the room, the full skirts of her dark green broadcloth riding habit sweeping the ground, the dogs trotting at her heels.

She heard their laughter, malicious, cruel even, behind her, but she didn't think they were laughing at her, only at the humiliation and downfall of an old enemy. She had been brought up to revile the Hawkesmoors. She knew the old stories of blood and vengeance that tied the families. Of how her father, the earl of Ravenspeare, had killed her own mother when he'd found her in the arms of her lover, the earl of Hawkesmoor. She knew of the land disputes, the political differences: that Hawkesmoors were Puritans, regicides, had been at Oliver Cromwell's right hand throughout the Protectorate, enjoying the spoils of power and the land and possessions of the dispossessed royalists. But with the restoration of Charles II, the Ravenspeares had come into their own, their loyalty to the exiled king throughout the lean dark years of Puritanism finally rewarded as the Puritans in their turn became the dispossessed.

She knew all these things, but her brothers were contemplating murder. And she was to be the bait. She was to be the instrument of the Hawkesmoor's humiliation, and the bait for the trap that would kill him.

Outside in the courtyard in the lowering dusk, she looked up at the castle that had been her home since birth. In the failing light it was an ominous, forbidding structure with its battlements and parapets; the arrow slits were narrow black eyes amid the dark ivy.

For nearly twenty years she had watched her brothers at their amusements, amusements that took no account of those whom they used to provide their entertainment. Many nights she had lain abed, trying to close her ears to the sounds from the Great Hall, the screams of the village girls they'd bought for their drunken orgies. She had watched them follow the hunt across fields bearing tender new wheat, crashing through carefully erected fences, trampling the produce of the small cottage gardens that kept impoverished tenants from starvation. She had watched Ranulf, and their father before him, sentence poachers to death for a single rabbit, vagrants to the whipping posts and the stocks. Justice was swift and merciless when it emanated from the lords of Ravenspeare Castle. It had once encompassed murder, so why should she be surprised that they were planning a single killing? A killing amid the bridal feasting, with their sister as the staked goat.

Nausea rose in her throat and she turned and hurried, almost running, through the gate at the side of the courtyard that led into the orderly world of the stables. This was Ariel's home. This was where she was at peace, where she could put the brooding darkness of the castle behind her-here and in the villages and hamlets of the fens where she was always greeted with warmth and the relief and gratitude owed a healer. The only Ravenspeare in a generation to be trusted and welcomed among the tenant farmers and the working poor whose lives were ruled by the house of Ravenspeare.

Her Arabians were stabled in a long low building to the left of the yard. The door was closed to keep the night chill from the delicate, highly bred beasts. She let herself into the warm, dimly lit interior, heavy with the smell of horse flesh, manure, and leather.

"That you, m'lady?" Edgar, with his face of wrinkled mahogany leather, appeared from a stall at the far end.

"Yes, how's she doing?" Ariel hurried up the aisle. The wolfhounds, well trained around the sensitive beasts, remained seated at the stable door.

"Beautifully." He stood aside so that she could enter the stall where the mare labored. "Won't be long now."

Ariel stroked the animal's nose, ran her hand over the distended belly. Then she took off her coat, casting it to the straw at her feet, pushed up the ruffled sleeve of her shirt, lifted the mare's tail, and drove her arm deep inside. "I can feel him, Edgar."

"Aye. Another ten minutes."

Ariel withdrew her arm, matter-of-factly washed it clean with water from a bucket, and rolled down her sleeve. "We could do with another stallion."

"Aye, but we'll take what God gives us," Edgar said.

"It's rumored that the queen is going to establish a royal racecourse at Ascot," Ariel mused. "If that happens, we'll be one of the few stables breeding racehorses."

"Aye," Edgar agreed stolidly. "Set your own price, I reckon."

Ariel nodded. If she could make money out of her racehorses, she could be independent of Ranulf's rule. She could leave Ravenspeare, set up her own stud, be a person in her own right. She knew it was an extraordinary idea-that a woman should support herself with her own efforts and skill-an idea so far-fetched as to be almost unbelievable. But she believed she could do it. However, she had to keep her breeding program a secret until she had sufficient funds to make her move. If her brothers once suspected there was money to be made from what they merely considered to be a harmless if time-wasting amusement of their sister's, then not only would she never be free of Ravenspeare Castle, but she'd find herself working to fund her brothers' expensive lifestyles.

And marriage? No, that was not a possibility and never would be. Men were all the same when it came to their women. She would be as firmly dominated by a husband as she was by her brothers. This prospective marriage to a Hawkesmoor was a joke, an evil joke of Ranulf's. She would just close her eyes, play her part, and wait until their lethal game was played out. What did she care about a Hawkesmoor? One fewer in the world could only be a good thing.

She settled down on the straw to wait for the mare to deliver the foal. Leaning back against the wooden partition, she listened to the snorting and whiffling behind it of the stallion who had sired the foal about to be born. Edgar didn't disturb her, merely leaned against the stable door, sucking on a straw. He was almost as fiercely devoted to the Arabians as he was to the Lady Ariel, and he could tell that something was troubling her.

What kind of man was this soon-to-be-dead Hawkesmoor? Ariel gave up trying to pretend that if she ignored the whole extraordinary business, it would wash over her without leaving a trace. Presumably he was a sobersided Puritan who considered laughter to be the devil's tool and enjoyment of any kind to be the embodiment of evil. A greedy man, obviously, if he was prepared to marry into the family whose very name was anathema to his own, just to acquire a disputed piece of land. But Puritans were greedy. They amassed wealth but considered spending it to be a sin. He would be a dour, ill-disposed, glowering man, who would demand absolute obedience from his wife in a somber household where they attended church twice on Sundays and listened to four-hour sermons.

Except that she would not really be his wife. She would not leave Ravenspeare Castle; therefore, she would never come under her husband's dominion. Because her husband would not survive the wedding party.

Ariel stared unseeing at a knot in the wooden partition opposite. She couldn't grasp it properly. It was outlandish. It was impossible. And yet it was neither of those things for those who knew the Ravenspeare brothers.

The mare suddenly whinnied and snorted, and a gush of water poured from her, followed almost immediately by the transparent caul-covered body of a foal. It slipped out easily and fell to the floor. The mare bent and licked it clean.

Ariel and Edgar watched in breathless wonder. It was always miraculous, however many births they witnessed. The foal staggered to its feet, its incredibly thin long legs shaking as they took its weight.

"Looks like you got your wish, m'lady," Edgar observed, as the colt found his mother's teat.

"Yes. Another stallion." Ariel stroked the mare, who was gazing with her head down at her suckling foal. "And Serenissima didn't need any help." Easy births were unusual, but horses generally needed less help than humans. There were few birthings that took place in the hamlets around Ravenspeare Castle at which she was not present with her bag of shiny instruments and her pouches of herbs.

"I had better get back." She picked up her coat from the straw, slung it around her shoulders, and went out with the dogs into the now full dark of the October evening.

When was this deadly charade to begin? She could see no way to avoid playing her part, not as long as she remained under Ranulf's roof. And where else was she to go? She had no money of her own as yet. Oliver wouldn't help her; he was in her brother's camp. He was her lover with Ranulf's approval and encouragement; in fact she sometimes suspected that what she had originally thought had been an overwhelming mutual attraction had actually been engineered by her eldest brother. For what reason, she couldn't guess. Maybe it was a reward for friendship, she thought now, as she reentered the castle. If Ranulf could use his sister as bait for vengeance, he could certainly use her as a gift for his friend.

She felt despoiled for the first time in her relationship with Oliver. What had been fun, exciting, and wonderfully sensual now became tawdry and sordid. She had known Oliver did not really care for her, and she had never let on that sometimes she thought she loved him. Such an admission could only hurt her. Women who loved rakes were destined for heartbreak. But her warm feelings for him had provided a luster, a purity almost, to their joyous nights. Now she could see only a squalid manipulation.

"Ariel, a word with you." Ranulf was coming down the great stone staircase as she closed the front door behind her, shutting out the night. He had several packages in his arms.

"I've been in the stables; I'd like to wash before supper," she demurred.

"You can do that later. I need to talk to you."

She shrugged and followed him back into the small paneled parlor where Ralph, Roland, and Oliver were still comfortably drinking before the fire.

"The queen, my dear, has honored you with a wedding gift." Ranulf set the parcels down on the table. "You must be sure to write and thank her." Sarcasm laced his words as he untied the string of the largest package and lifted out a mass of rippling silver cloth. "A wedding gown, I believe." He shook it out, holding it up against himself with a comical grin. "Impeccable taste, Her Majesty has."

The gown was certainly rich, but as Ariel looked closely she saw a stain on the sleeve ruffles as if they had been dragged through a plate of gravy. "I wonder who was married in it first," she observed, pointing out the stain. "I trust you will furnish me with bride clothes that haven't come out of someone else's wardrobe, brother." She turned in disgust from the stained gown.

Ranulf tossed it onto a chair, remarking carelessly, "Her Majesty is renowned for her frugality, but your maid may be able to do something with it."

"I'll not stand at the altar in someone else's castoffs," Ariel declared, unconsciously squaring her shoulders. "I may have to go through with this travesty, but I'll not be insulted further."

To her annoyance, her voice shook, but Ranulf was in great good humor and merely laughed, saying, "No… no, of course you shan't. No Ravenspeare ever went to the altar in borrowed plumage." He drew a leather purse from his pocket and tossed it onto the table, where it fell with a heavy chink. "There's gold, little sister. You may trick yourself out as you please." He picked up a second package. "This, too, is Her Majesty's gift. Is it worth opening, d'you think?"

"I doubt it," Roland said, holding out his hand. "But let's see anyway." Ranulf tossed the flat parcel to him.

Ariel wondered if she would ever be permitted to open her own gifts. Not that it mattered particularly. She looked at the string of topaz that her brother now held up. "Pretty enough bauble."

"Aye, but they're not the best stones," Oliver said, taking the necklace and examining it in the candlelight. "Badly flawed, some of 'em."

"I trust not an omen for your marriage, my dear." Ranulf laughed at his own sally. He took up the third, much smaller package. "But you'll find no fault with this. A gift from me because you're such a good and obedient sister." He pinched her cheek carelessly and dropped the package into her upturned hand.

Ariel unwrapped the tissue. Her eyes widened. She lifted out a gold, pearl-encrusted charm bracelet shaped like a serpent, with a pearl apple in its mouth. The gold was most intricately worked, the design unlike anything she had seen before. She fingered the only charm it carried, a perfectly carved emerald swan. She opened her mouth to exclaim at its loveliness, but the words remained unspoken. Because it wasn't lovely. It was beautiful, certainly. Intriguing, certainly. But she felt there was something amiss with it, and she couldn't for the life of her see where, what, or why. "Where did it come from, Ranulf?"

His eyes shifted and caught Roland's gaze, then he said, "Call it a family heirloom. If you open the little box, you will find something else."

She opened a small box. "Oh, it's another charm." She lifted out an exquisite silver rosebud; deep in its center glowed a ruby, the rich red reflected in the furled silver petals. This time her response was without reservation.

"How beautiful. It's perfect." She looked up at her brother, puzzled. Ranulf had never given her a present before, except the usual birthday and Christmas trinkets. It occurred to her that he was buying her cooperation, but why would he need to? He had only to command it and he knew that while she remained under his roof she would have no choice.

But perhaps he was afraid she might make things difficult for him. She might be forced to obey his commands, but there were covert ways in which she could sabotage his designs, or at least create difficulties.

"My wedding gift, little sister." He pinched her cheek again in a clumsy gesture intended to denote affection. But Ariel wasn't fooled. "You will play your part in Ravenspeare vengeance, and when the work is done, then you shall have another charm for the bracelet."

Dear God, he was bribing her! Was he afraid that she might slip from his control? That marriage to the earl of Hawkesmoor, even a mock marriage, might somehow affect the balance of power and control? It was a fascinating idea.

"I shall endeavor to earn it, brother," she said demurely and saw his eyes flash with anger at her clear insolence. The dogs shifted against her skirts and Remus growled low in his throat.

"Take those beasts out of here," Ranulf ordered. "And you'd best keep them away from me, little sister, if you expect them to live a long and happy life." He took up his goblet and drained its contents, his gray eyes hard as granite yet filled with malevolence as he stared at her fixedly.

Ariel was not about to push her luck further. She curtsied with every appearance of humility and left the room, the dogs pressed to her skirts.

The men wouldn't give her a second thought if they didn't see her again this evening. Ranulf had had his fun for the time being, and they would settle into their usual companionable stupors after another bottle or two.

But there was no way Ariel could keep this disastrous turn of events to herself. She hastened back to the stable-yard, the dogs still trotting beside her. She hailed a groom crossing the yard. "Josh, saddle the roan. I'm going to visit Mistress Sarah and Miss Jenny."

The man touched his forelock. "You need me to come wi' you, m'lady?"

Ariel considered. In daylight she wouldn't risk incurring Ranulf's wrath by going out unaccompanied, but he'd not want her again tonight, and once the drink took hold it would be out of sight, out of mind. And the last thing she needed was a groom kicking his heels in Sarah and Jenny's small cottage while she was spilling her news. And she could hardly expect him to sit outside for however long the visit lasted.

"No," she said. "I'll go alone."

It was a relatively bright night; scudding clouds dimmed the moon now and again, but the stars shone clear over the North Sea across the flat fens to the east. Just before she reached the village that skirted the grounds of Ravenspeare Castle, she turned the roan down a marshy track that led to a narrow drainage cut taking surplus water from the Great Ouse back to the Wash and out to the North Sea.

Her destination, a small reed-thatched cottage, stood on a hillock above the dike. It was a lonely spot. But a lantern glowed in the window, and as Ariel dismounted and unlatched the garden gate, the cottage door opened.

"Is it you, Ariel?" Blind Jenny rarely failed to identify visitors before they announced themselves.

"Yes. I'm in need of cheer and advice," Ariel responded. On reaching the woman, she kissed her cheek. "I'll put Diana in the lean-to and then I'll be in. Don't stand out here in the cold."

Jenny smiled, returned the kiss, and went back into the cottage's one room. "Ariel's here, Mother. Something's worrying her."

The woman bending over a cauldron on the range straightened. Her eyes were sharply assessing but her tongue had been locked for close on thirty years, so her thoughts remained unspoken. The door opened again and Ariel came in, the hounds still at her heels. They went immediately to a corner on the far side of the fireplace and lay down, resting their heads on their forepaws.

"Good evening, Sarah." Ariel bent to kiss the woman's faded cheek. One could see that Sarah had once been a very beautiful woman. Her features were regular, her face a perfect oval, her body tall and slender. But the eyes were haunted, the face deeply etched with the lines of endurance, the long hands chapped and rough, the once glossy black hair snow white, the supple slimness of youth reduced to gaunt thinness. But a gentleness radiated from her, and a certain strength belied by her air of frailty.

Sarah reached up and stroked Ariel's cheek, then she gestured to the chair by the fire and returned to the cauldron.

"You'll have supper with us, Ariel?" Jenny took three bowls from a shelf above the range.

"It smells like rabbit stew." Ariel sniffed appreciatively.

"The rabbit was payment for one of Mother's wart cures," Jenny replied, cutting bread, the knife slicing as rapidly and neatly as if it were wielded by a sighted person. "Ginty Greene didn't want to go to her bridal bed with warts all over her hands. Mother got rid of them for her."

"Ah. Bridal…" Ariel stood up and then sat down again. Sarah lifted the cauldron of stew from the hook over the fire and carried it to the table. She cast a glance at the girl by the fire and began to ladle stew into the three bowls.

"Would you care for elder-flower wine, Ariel?" Jenny asked.

"Thank you." Ariel came to the table and took her usual place between mother and daughter. She was aware of Sarah's eyes on her. They spoke as eloquently as any tongue. "Ranulf has decided to marry me off," she said bluntly, dipping her spoon into the fragrant contents of her bowl.

"Who to?" Jenny stared sightlessly across the table. Sarah paused, her own spoon in her hand.

"The earl of Hawkesmoor."

Sarah's hand shook and her spoon rattled against the edge of the wooden bowl, but the two younger women didn't appear to notice. Jenny's jaw had dropped and for a moment she was speechless.

Ariel, through her own shock, well understood the stunned effect of her news. She carried her spoon to her mouth and chewed reflectively on a succulent piece of meat while she waited for the implications to sink in for her audience. Then she said, "It's all to do with dowry and land and the queen."

She explained as much as she herself knew in the attentive silence. Sarah was now eating with a steady hand, sipping her wine periodically, but her eyes rarely left Ariel's face. Jenny punctuated Ariel's narrative with rapid-fire questions on both her own and her mother's behalf.

"When is it to be?"

"I don't know, but it can't happen before Christmas- not with two hundred guests to prepare for." Ariel put down her spoon and leaned forward on her stool, her elbows resting on the table. She didn't think she could tell these women-her closest friends-what Ranulf was plotting for the Hawkesmoor. She couldn't even make sense of it herself.

Sarah listened to Ariel. Her face was expressionless and the violent tremors were contained inside her now. They were in her belly, in her heart, in her head. Her hands were perfectly steady, her movements controlled. But the questions screamed in her head, fought to find utterance, and died on her locked tongue. They were not questions Jenny could divine with her customary insight, because they related to matters of which Jenny was in total ignorance… and must remain so.

This earl of Hawkesmoor was Geoffrey's heir. Was he Geoffrey's son? Had Clara finally conceived? Would Geoffrey's son know anything of that other child?

She had never expected to learn anything of the child. She had given him up to a man who would care for him, would guarantee his future. A man who would ensure that he was never touched by the horror that had befallen his mother. And until this moment, when the name of Hawkesmoor was spoken under her roof, Sarah had buried all thought and all speculation so deep in her soul it had seemed impossible it would ever see the light of day.

And now a Hawkesmoor was coming here. Now, once again, there would be Hawkesmoors and Ravenspeares together a stone's throw from her door. Her hands trembled again and she clasped them both in her lap.

"What about your horses?" Jenny hung the kettle over the fire and pulled down a sheaf of dried chamomile. She didn't know much of the science of Ariel's breeding program, but she did know her friend's goal.

Ariel's lips set in a determined line. "Nothing's going to stop me, Jenny. If I can't set up my stud here, then I'll take it away. As soon as I can make a few sales and make enough money to set myself up, then I'll go somewhere, as far away as possible, from Ravenspeares and Hawkesmoors. And I'll be myself. Responsible to and for myself. They won't stop me."

Jenny was silent. Sarah looked at Ariel with her white set face and her fierce charcoal eyes, and pity washed over her. How could the poor child even begin to know what she was taking on? Hawkesmoors and Ravenspeares never let anything stand in their way.

Ariel's eyes met Sarah's steady gaze. She seemed to read the woman's mind. "Don't forget that I also am a Ravenspeare," she said softly.

Chapter Three

"I shall miss having you to myself, Simon." Helene moved lazily, stretching her naked body along the length of her lover's. The soles of her feet arched as she dug her toes into his calves, and her hands palmed his, pulling them above his head. She smiled down into his languid countenance. "You spend months at war, then you come back only to get married." She pouted in mock complaint, then nuzzled his cheek. "Why must you get married?"

He ran his hands down her back. It had been many months since he'd made love with Helene, but his fingers always held the memory of her body, so that even after prolonged absence it was as if it had been no more than a night. "A man of four and thirty, my love, has need of a wife." He spoke lightly. "And since the love of my life refuses to marry me, then I must look elsewhere."

Helene drew her tongue along the sharp lines of his cheekbones. "You know I cannot remarry, Simon. I would lose the children. Harold's will is as tightly sealed as his coffin. Not even for you will I give up my children." He said nothing, but his hands continued their reflective caresses.

"Once you could have married me, Simon. Ten years ago you could have married me," Helene continued.

"Soldiers make poor husbands," he responded, stroking over her buttocks. "John Marlborough loves his wife, but he leaves poor Sarah to pine for months, even years, at a time. I would not condemn a wife of my heart to months of lonely frustration."

"Because she would seek solace elsewhere?"

There was a short silence and she felt the sudden tension in his body. "Let us say that I would not put temptation in her way. No wife of mine will be unfaithful."

There was a chill to the flat statement with which Helene was familiar. She knew the dark side of Simon Hawkesmoor as she knew his laughter and his loving. From childhood, they had shared dreams. As eager, reckless youngsters, they had initiated each other into the mysteries of lovemaking. And then Simon had gone to be a soldier on the battlefields of Europe and Helene had married the elderly Viscount Kelburn. He had left her a widow with three children, and a will that stated all control of her children would pass into the hands of her husband's brother if she remarried.

"You would visit the sins of your own father onto some innocent woman," she said.

Gently he put her from him and sat up. His face was dark, his eyes now cool and distant. "No, that is not what I would do, Helene. I simply will not tolerate unfaithfulness in my marriage."

Helene drew the sheet over her. She stared up at the canopy overhead. "You will apply that to your own conduct?" "Aye," he said quietly.

"And when do you marry?" Her voice was flat.

"I go to my bride's house on the morrow." He swung his legs over the side of the bed. A raw, red scar twisted up his leg from ankle to groin, like a thin snake of fire.

"So soon!" She turned her head on the pillow, and her eyes were filled with anger. "We make love for the first time in a year, and now you're going!" She closed her eyes tightly, saying almost to herself, "So this is farewell… forever."

"Aye," he said as quietly as before. "To our loving, but I hope not to our friendship."

"Damn you, Simon Hawkesmoor." She opened her eyes and he saw the glitter of tears before she dashed them aside with the back of her hand. "Damn you! Why didn't you say so before?"

"I thought you understood." He grabbed the bedpost and hauled himself to his feet. "I thought you would know how it must be, Helene."

"You're no Puritan, Simon. You never have been for all four sober suits and your family's allegiances," she declared, miffing angrily.

"But you know the history of my family. You know I would not repeat it." He looked down at her with a mixture of regret and irritation. "Why else do you think I have arranged this marriage?"

Helene sat up, holding the sheet to her breast, an arrested expression in her eyes. "Whom do you marry, Simon?"

"You don't know?" He stared, incredulous.

"How could I know? I spend no time at court. I have no visitors but you," she exclaimed. "You said only that you were marrying. Nothing about how it would mean the end of us. Nothing about when or who."

He sighed. "I am marrying the Lady Ariel Ravenspeare, Helene."

"A Ravenspeare!" she breathed. "Dear God in heaven. They killed your father."

"I've seen enough blood spilled in the last years, Helene. I am awearied of blood and anger and war. My family has been locked in enmity with the Ravenspeares for so long, and each generation deepens the wound, whether with an illicit passion or an act of violence." He leaned over her, his eyes intense, his voice low. "A marriage made in good faith can only heal."

"But they killed your father."

"And I will meet them now in peace."

Helene turned from him. She knew that look, the sudden clenching of his jaw, the hardness of purpose in his eyes, the power of will behind the quiet words. When Simon Hawkesmoor was in this mood, he was unmovable. He was a man of such paradoxes. A man of war who loathed conflict in his private life. A man of massive strength whose loving touch was so tender and gentle it would not crush the petals of a rose. But above all, he was a man of powerful convictions and principles. He stood way above the petty disputes, the spite, the opportunistic betrayals of the political court. No party claimed his allegiance, and he lived in no one's pocket. For this he was both respected and feared. A man who could not be bought.

She lay silent, listening to him as he moved awkwardly around the chamber, dressing himself. She heard the clunk of his belt buckle as he put on his swordbelt, and knew that he was ready to leave her.

"What if the Ravenspeares will not meet you in peace?" She rolled onto her side so that she could see him. Her eyes were dark against the white pillow.

"Ranulf has agreed to the marriage… admittedly with a degree of- persuasion from the queen," he added. "Judging from the number of invitations that have gone out, he is preparing to marry off his sister in a lavish style."

He sat down on the bed beside her, taking her hand. "Helene, if anyone can understand what I'm doing, it must be you."

"For a man of war, you have a strange fondness for peace," she said, curling her fingers in his large palm. "But the Ravenspeares are known for their treachery. What makes you think you can trust them?"

"There can be no treachery if Ranulf wishes to keep his place at court. I told you, love, that the queen herself wants this marriage."

"Maybe so." Helene hitched herself onto one elbow. Her anger and bitterness were gone. They would do no good and she was too wise a woman to bid farewell to her friend and lover in resentment. "But Ranulf Ravenspeare would betray his dearest friend if it suited his purpose. And he's not known to be a forgiving man. It's said he'll carry a grudge to his grave… or to the grave of his enemy."

Simon smiled. "For one who never goes to court, you're remarkably informed of gossip, my love."

"Deny it."

He shook his head. "I cannot. But it's not as if we plan to embrace each other as beloved family. After the wedding, after this month of celebration, I will take Lady Ariel to

Hawkesmoor, and Ranulf and his brothers will never have to lay eyes upon me again. But the marriage will have put an end to the old enmity, once and for all."

"You are an extraordinary man, Simon Hawkesmoor." Helene touched his cheek with her free hand, tracing the path of the livid cicatrix.

He put up his hand to clasp her wrist. There was a look of uncertainty in his eye, a strange and unusual diffidence about him. "Do you think a young girl will find me repulsive, Helene?"

"How could you think such a thing?" she gasped, sitting up, clasping his face between both hands.

"I have a body and a countenance covered in scars," he said with a hesitant little laugh. "I must walk with a stick. I have thirty-four years to her twenty."

"You are beautiful," she said.

"And beauty, as we know, is in the eye of the beholder." He laughed again, taking her hands, turning them palm up and kissing each one. "But I am grateful for your confidence, my dear."

"If the Lady Ariel Ravenspeare cannot see you as you really are, then I'll open her eyes for her," Helene stated.

"Such a champion!" He took her face and kissed her mouth hard. "We must say farewell, my love. But you will always be my dearest friend."

She slid off the bed, accompanying him to the door. "Have a care, Simon. Do not trust too easily."

He laughed, and this time his laugh was harsh, an abrupt change from the diffidence and tender humor of a minute earlier. "I do not go alone under Ranulf Ravenspeare's roof, Helene. I shall be well attended, and well on my guard."

"Ah." She gave a little sigh of relief. "For a moment I was afraid you were so intent on your mission that you had lost caution." She stood on tiptoe to kiss him. "You will visit me in friendship, even after your marriage?"

"Of course," he replied simply. "You will always have a place in my heart, Helene."

"And it's not as if you're marrying for love," she murmured, standing back as he opened the door.

He turned to look over his shoulder at her, and his eyes darkened. "There can never be a place in my heart for a Ravenspeare, Helene. But I will do my duty by the girl, and if she does her duty by me, she will receive all the kindness and consideration of which I'm capable."

The door closed behind him. Helene went to the window, to watch him emerge into the street below, expecting him to turn and look up at the window as he always did. But this time he didn't. He left the inn that had always been their rendezvous, and walked down the lane, leaning more heavily than usual on his stick, his cloak billowing around him in the brisk winter wind that whistled around the street corner.

Helene turned back to the room, filled with a strange apprehension. She told herself it was not apprehension for Simon but anticipation of the loneliness that lay ahead for her. She was still in her prime, too young to be condemned to a life of chastity… to exchange the turbulence of love and passion for the blandness of friendship.

"No," Ariel stated. "I will not dress up in a wedding gown when the groom is nowhere in sight."

Ranulf's face darkened. "You will do as you're bid, sister. Your wedding is set for noon and you will be ready for it." He gestured to the bed where lay a froth of pale lace. "You will dress and show yourself belowstairs. It will not be said that the Ravenspeares reneged on their contract."

Ariel shook her head, standing her ground. "When the earl of Hawkesmoor comes to claim his bride, Ranulf, then and only then will she dress herself for sacrifice."

"Why, you obstinate, disobedient-" The angry words died and he fell back, his hand still upraised, as the wolfhounds ranged in front of Ariel, facing him, teeth bared, hackles raised. "Call them off," he demanded tightly.

"Not until you lower your hand, brother."

His threatening hand dropped to his side. Ariel said, "Down," in a soft voice, and the dogs sat, but they remained in front of her, staring fixedly at the earl.

"I command that you dress immediately for your wedding." Ranulf spoke through compressed lips. "Hawkesmoor may well be intending to arrive at the chapel at the very stroke of noon. I will not have him find us unprepared. This family will give no sign of hesitation, of reluctance, for this wedding. The queen will receive reports that the Ravenspeares conducted themselves impeccably, and if there is to be any criticism, it will be directed at the Hawkesmoor."

"Why do you think he hasn't come yet?" Obliquely, Ariel deflected the subject. She stepped backward and hitched herself onto the broad windowsill of her chamber overlooking the inner courtyard. "He should have been here for the prenuptial feast last evening."

"I don't know," Ranulf said as tightly as before. "He's playing his own game. But he'll not outplay us, Ariel. If he thinks to embarrass us, I'll not have him thinking he succeeded. We will give him no indication that his late arrival has caused the least anxiety."

"So you do expect him to come?" She flicked at a straw on her skirt, a remnant of her recent visit to the stable.

"Of course he'll come!" Ranulf spat out the words, his charcoal gray eyes blazing, in his angular face. "He'll come because he started this. He arranged the queen's command."

"Why?"

"I don't know, goddamn it! But whatever his plan, it won't succeed. And he will not ever feel that he has humiliated us. You will be ready and waiting at the altar with a smile of welcome and the promise of obedience whatever time he comes." His riding whip slashed across the surface of an inlaid table, and the dogs rose with a growl.

Ariel had rarely seen her brother at a disadvantage, but it was clear that Simon Hawkesmoor's tardy arrival for his wedding was causing Ranulf a fair degree of consternation. She turned to look over her shoulder down into the court. It was deserted, the February day too cold and sharp for the wedding guests to venture outside. "Is there a watchman in the tower?"

"Aye." Ranulf seemed for once uncertain. He didn't know how to compel his sister's obedience when the damn dogs prevented his getting close to her. Ariel had acquired them as puppies two years earlier. At first they had been little threat to his usual manner of exercising control, but in the last twelve months they had grown into these gigantic creatures who stood menacingly in his path whenever his temper rose against his sister. Something would have to be done about them, he thought grimly.

"When the watchman sees them coming-and he'll see them from a good five miles away in this fight across the fens-then I'll dress." Ariel turned back to her brother. "You cannot find fault with that, Ranulf."

He glared angrily at the dogs, who fixed him with their great yellow eyes and didn't move. He swung on his heel and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Ariel chuckled slightly, stroking the dogs' heads. "I wonder if you know how useful you are, boys." She slipped off the window seat and went to the bed. She had spent Ranulf s money with abandon. Travesty of a marriage or no, she had reasoned she might as well get as much out of it as she could. The wedding gown of cream silk edged with vanilla lace was only one of the garments she had acquired. She had bought enough materials to bring a fatuous smile to the faces of the Cambridge milliners and enough work to keep an army of seamstresses busy for a week.

But her most prized new garment was her riding habit. She went to the armoire and drew out the coat, waistcoat, and skirt of matching crimson velvet, thickly decorated in silver braid. She fingered the deep cuffs, the richly braided pockets.

On impulse, Ariel threw off the old riding habit she wore, tossing the green broadcloth garments to the floor. She dressed rapidly in the new costume, fumbling in her haste with the looped, braided buttons. She tied the stock of crisp white muslin at her neck, put on the new tricorn hat edged with silver lace, and examined herself in the cheval glass.

It was a most satisfactory image. She had never really given much thought to her appearance before. Life in the Fens was somewhat socially circumscribed, and besides, Ranulf kept a close hand on the purse strings. She didn't need elegant garments for her midwifery in the hamlets, and when she wasn't out and about on such duties, she was happiest in the stables, or riding or hawking, and her old green broadcloth habit had done perfectly well for that. But she felt a tingle of pleasure at her present elegance. During the month ahead, when the earl of Ravenspeare's guests would be entertained with every kind of sport, she would have ample opportunity to show off her finery.

Unless, of course, the wedding festivities came to a very abrupt end early in the month. Ranulf had said nothing further to her about his plans for the bridegroom, but she wasn't fool enough to think he'd thought better of them.

But there was nothing she could do for the present. She hurried to the door. Ranulf wouldn't accept defeat for long, but if she wasn't around to be bullied into obeying him, there wasn't much he could do. She whistled to the dogs and they came bounding after her.

At the head of the stone staircase, Ariel paused. The Great Hall below was crowded with guests, some eating a late breakfast at the long tables set before the fires, others already drinking deep as servants circulated with wine and ale. Ravenspeare Castle was a massive edifice and, in the past, had more than once housed a royal progression and the multitude of courtiers, servants, and hangers-on that that entailed. Two hundred wedding guests had been accommodated easily enough, since no one objected to sleeping two and three to a bed in such circumstances, and the young bachelors, much to their amusement, were accommodated in the dormitories in the old barracks.

Ariel knew very few of these people. Only those of her brothers' inner circle came in general as guests to Ravenspeare Castle. Those she knew well. Her intimacy with Oliver Becket made her presence acceptable at their gatherings, except on the nights when the men went after female prey and she was banned from the hall.

Reluctant to go down into the hall and run the gauntlet of the guests, she turned aside, the dogs at her heels, and took a narrow stair set into the massive stone walls. It was a service staircase that emerged in the kitchens, where, to the uneducated eye, chaos reigned. Scullery maids, potboys, and sweating-liveried footmen rushed through the series of connecting rooms, under the great vaulted stone ceilings blackened by the smoke from the massive ranges, where suckling pigs, whole sheep, and barons of beef roasted on spits turned at each end by red-faced potboys.

Ariel weaved her way through the throng, who were all too frantic to pay any attention to her, the cause of all the uproar, until Romulus, whose head rose above the tabletop, found a succulent cooling pork pie too much of an attraction to resist. His great jaws opened, his tongue slithered across the scrubbed pine boards, and the pie was scooped whole into his mouth.

"You bleedin' varmint!" bellowed a woman wrapped in several layers of flour-streaked apron. Romulus bolted for the door, the pie still in his mouth, the woman, flailing her rolling pin, chasing after him.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Gertrude." Ariel ran outside into the kitchen yard. The cook stood panting, her breath rising in the cold air. Romulus was nowhere to be seen, and Remus had taken off after him. "He's not really a thief."

"All dogs is thieves, m'lady," Gertrude stated. "It's in their nature, if you don't thrash it out of 'em. Their lordships knows that."

"Yes," Ariel said. Her brothers had very simple methods when it came to controlling animals-not to mention sisters. "It won't happen again, I promise."

The cook regarded her doubtfully, then her face creased into a smile. "Well, never mind. What's a pork pie now an' agin? An' 'tis a weddin' day after all." She turned and bustled back to the kitchen.

A wedding day if it had a bridegroom, Ariel reflected, going toward the stables. It was surely inconceivable that the earl of Hawkesmoor should fail to appear for his wedding. Such an insult would call for another round of bloody vengeance.

But perhaps that was his intention. He had forced his enemies to agree to a loathsome connection and now he would stand aside and laugh at their public humiliation. Curiously, she didn't feel in the least personally insulted. It was probably less mortifying to be jilted at the altar than compelled to be her brothers' bait.

Edgar was sitting on an upturned rain barrel cleaning tack as she entered the stableyard. "Saddle the roan, Edgar. I'm going to fly the merlin."

"Right y'are, m'lady." Edgar rose to his feet. "I'll be comin' along. Or you want Josh?"

"I'd best take Josh. I'd rather you stayed in the stables… keep an eye on the stud." Ariel frowned. She wouldn't risk provoking Ranulf further today by riding out alone, but it was also prudent to have a reliable watch on her Arabians while her brothers were around. If they started taking an unusual interest in the horses, she wanted to know.

She went into the mews, alongside the stable block. It was dark, and the air was heavy with the blood of small birds, the acrid smell of bird droppings. The hawks shifted on their perches, eyes bright in the darkness.

She went to the third perch and gently touched the merlin's plumage. He turned his sharp, unkind eye upon her, his cruel beak close to her finger. "You are a nasty one," she said affectionately, scratching his neck, refusing to move her finger.

"You flyin' Wizard this mornin', m'lady?" The falconer emerged from the darkness, moving as swiftly and silently as his birds. He held the hood and jesses.

"Just along the river." She picked up the thick falconer's gauntlet from a shelf along the wall and drew it over her right hand and arm as the falconer slipped hood and jesses over the hawk and released him from his perch.

Ariel took him on her gloved wrist and secured the jesses. "I'll be no more than an hour." She went out into the yard, where the groom stood beside the roan mare and his own cob. The wolfhounds, looking very pleased with themselves, sat beside the horses, tongues lolling.

"I ought to lock you in the stables for the rest of the day," she admonished them, but without much conviction. It was too late now to punish them. The groom helped her into the saddle; the hawk sat on her wrist, his hooded head to one side, his plumage slightly ruffled with the wind.

They trotted through the castle gates and over the drawbridge. The air was cold but clear, the sun bright in a cloudless sky, the road winding its way across the fens toward the distant spires of Cambridge.

Ariel shaded her eyes against the sun as she looked down the road. She could see only a trundling wagon. No sign of a belated bridegroom. She nudged her horse into a canter down to the riverbank, where she drew rein, unhooded the merlin, and held him up on her wrist to spy the land. A rook cawed from a copse a hundred yards away. A swift swooped low over the river, feeding on the wing. The hawk quivered. Ariel loosed the jesses, drew back her arm, and with an expert movement tossed the merlin into the air.

The earl of Hawkesmoor drew rein, looked up at the sun, and judged it to be close to eleven. The bulk of Ravenspeare Castle stood out against the skyline, no more than half an hour's ride. Behind it rose the great octagon of Ely Cathedral.

"You're in no hurry, Simon," observed one of his companions. Ten men formed the cadre, ranged behind the earl of Hawkesmoor.

"I intend my arrival to be timed with precision, Jack," Simon told him. "I've no desire to endure Ravenspeare hospitality a minute earlier than necessary." This was why he was arriving only just in time to stand at the altar with Ariel Ravenspeare. Afterward he would remain for the month of wedding festivities. And while he was a guest at Ravenspeare Castle, he would have a chance to pursue some personal business. Maybe even the woman he sought.

But first things first. He nudged his horse forward along the causeway ridged with frost-hard mud. He had no mental picture of the girl who would be his bride an hour from now. He had asked for no description and none had been volunteered. If she was walleyed, crookbacked, clubfooted, doltish, it didn't matter. He would marry her and he would remain faithful.

He glanced up at the pale blue sky to watch a soaring hawk. A plover rose from the reeds along the riverbank, then, as if alerted to the danger hovering above, swooped frantically, darting from side to side to avoid the killer now moving almost leisurely on its tail. Simon shaded his eyes and squinted upward.

"It's a merlin," Jack said. "No ordinary field hawk, that. Look at its flight."

It was the most beautiful killing machine. It seemed to tease the desperate plover, hovering over it with its magnificent wingspan, before dipping lazily toward the little bird. The plover flew upward in response, but couldn't maintain its height. It flew down, heading for the copse along the riverbank. The merlin plummeted with the force and accuracy of a lead bullet, its curved beak caught in a weak ray of sun. The plover was snatched from the air in the vicious curling talons, and the men on the road breathed again.

"Someone's flying it along the river." Jack pointed with his whip to where two figures sat their horses.

On impulse, Simon urged his horse into a canter, directing him off the causeway. The cadre followed him, cantering down to the riverside.

Ariel was watching Wizard. He was newly trained and had still been known to take off with his catch. So far this morning, he'd returned to her wrist, but she could sense that he was becoming impatient at handing over his well-earned prey. So intent was she on willing the merlin to come back from what had to be the morning's last flight that she became aware of the horsemen only when they were almost upon her, the soft ground muffling their horses' hooves.

Her initial reaction was one of angry frustration. Couldn't whoever they were sense that she needed all her concentration for the hawk? But it seemed that they did sense it. They drew rein atop a small knoll, far enough away not to distract the merlin.

Wizard remained in the air, wheeling and hovering with his prey. Once Ariel thought he was going to head for the copse, where he could tear the plover apart in peace. The group of horsemen were absolutely still on the knoll. Then the merlin arced and flew with leisurely flaps of his wings toward the gauntleted wrist held up to receive him.

He settled on his perch, fluffed his feathers, and docilely yielded his prey to Ariel's fingers. She dropped it into the game bag at her saddle and fastened his jesses.

"Bravo." One of the horsemen separated himself from the group and rode down to her. The hounds pricked up their ears, but the horseman gave them barely a glance. "There was a moment there when I thought he might renege."

Ariel's first thought was that she had never seen anyone as ugly as this giant of a man astride a huge piebald of ungainly lines but undeniable power. He was hatless, his dark hair cropped close to his head. None of his features seemed designed to go with any other. The nose was a jagged spur, accentuated by the livid scar slashing his cheek. His jaw was prominent, his mouth slightly skewed in a smile that revealed crooked but strong-looking teeth. Thick dark brows met above deep-set, wide-apart blue eyes.

She took in the dark riding clothes, the short hair of a Puritan. Then abruptly she turned away, gestured to the groom, snapped her fingers at the dogs, and took off at a canter along the riverbank, the hawk securely on her wrist.

Simon frowned. An unusual, not to mention ill-mannered, creature. But a striking sight in that crimson riding habit. "Come, we've dallied overlong." He gathered the reins and returned to the road, the cadre falling in behind him.

They heard the blast of a horn from the castle's watch-tower as they reached the causeway. "Someone's on the watch for us," Simon observed with an ironic smile. "Maybe they were afraid we weren't coming."

Twenty minutes later they clattered over the drawbridge and rode into Ravenspeare Castle.

The iron-studded doors to the Great Hall stood open, and as the bridegroom and his party entered the inner court, the earl of Ravenspeare, flanked by his brothers, emerged from the castle's interior. They were all three dressed in the blue and silver colors of the Ravenspeare arms, wearing lavishly curled, gray-powdered, full-bottomed wigs. The family likeness was startling in the charcoal gray eyes, the angular features, the slightly sneering lips.

Simon's attention, however, was taken by the figure standing in the middle of the court beside a roan mare. The girl from the riverbank. Judging by her mount's labored breathing, she must have ridden her hard to arrive before them. It had obviously not been difficult for her to guess his identity. At her heels stood the two massive wolfhounds, on her gauntleted wrist sat the hooded merlin. Ariel Ravenspeare. No crookbacked, walleyed, dolt, this one.

She had removed her hat and held it under her arm. Hair the color of liquid honey tumbled unrestrained to her shoulders, framing an oval face. From beneath long, curling sable lashes, clear, almond-shaped gray eyes met the earl of Hawkesmoor's startled scrutiny with an unnerving intensity. Her nose was small, her mouth full, her chin slightly pointed. She bore little physical resemblance to her brothers, and yet there was something about her that he saw now was intrinsically Ravenspeare. Something about the arrogance of her stance, the tilt of her chin.

She was beautifully formed, he noticed almost absently. From the sloping shoulders, to the nip of waist, to the curve of hip. He had a sudden reluctance to dismount, to reveal his own clumsy lameness to this girl, so perfect in her youth and freshness.

The three brothers came toward him. "We bid you welcome, Hawkesmoor." Ranulf spoke with studied formality, but he was angry, his charcoal eyes dark, a muscle twitching in his pale countenance, his mouth so compressed as to be barely visible.

Simon dismounted, extended his hand. All three brothers shook it, but with noticeable hesitation. Simon glanced to where the crimson-clad girl still stood beside her horse, with her dogs and her hawk. She hadn't moved a muscle. Simon reached up to his saddle, sliding the silver-mounted cane from the loops that held it. He wondered when Ranulf would call her forward.

"You are very welcome to Ravenspeare, my lords," Ranulf declared, his harsh voice ringing out through the quiet. He moved forward to greet the party who had dismounted with Simon. He had expected a party of lords and ladies, friends and relatives of the Hawkesmoor. Instead the man had come with a troop of fighting men. Ranulf knew them all for what they were, all lords who had fought on the battlefields of Europe beside the duke of Marlborough. They were armed only with the usual gentlemen's swords, but it was as clear as daylight to Ranulf that the earl of Hawkesmoor was accompanied by a protective cadre. Or was it an offensive cadre?

But this was only part of his anger. The main was directed at his sister, who, instead of awaiting her bridegroom in her wedding gown surrounded by her attendants, was standing

with insolent insouciance with her dogs and a damn hawk on her wrist, for all the world as if she expected to be married on horseback in the middle of a hunt.

"The lady?" Simon inquired, his eyes still on the girl.

"My sister," Ranulf said harshly. "Your bride, Hawkesmoor, although you'd not be blamed for doubting it. Come here, Ariel!" The command was issued in a tone more suited to summoning a dog.

Simon's eyes flicked contempt; then, before Ariel could respond to Ranulf's order, Simon walked toward her, trying not to lean too heavily on his cane, trying to hide the slight drag of his wounded leg. She remained where she was, watching him, her gaze unreadable.

"Madam." He bowed as he reached her. "I believe you had the advantage of me at the river."

When he smiled, he was not quite so ugly, Ariel thought. His eyes had a faraway look to them as if he'd spent many years gazing into the horizon, but they had a glint of humor too. She wondered whether his lameness was permanent or merely the result of a recent wound. The scar on his face would never leave him, though. It might fade, but he would bear it to his grave. Not that his physical appearance was relevant to anything, she reminded herself sharply. If her brothers had their way, he would never be her husband in anything but name. He was an accursed Hawkesmoor and he would not know the body of a Ravenspeare. She had no interest in him at all. He must be a cipher, a man of no more substance than a ghost who passed for a brief period through her life.

"I knew of no other Puritan likely to be on the road to Ravenspeare," she commented with a cold curtsy, continuing with distant irony, "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Hawkesmoor. If you'll excuse me, I'll prepare myself for the altar." Then she was gone, through the archway that led to the stableyard and the falconer's mews, the dogs at her heels.

Thoughtfully, Simon turned back to his hosts and his own watchful friends. "The Lady Ariel seems less than enthusiastic for this marriage."

Ranulf hissed through his teeth. Ariel was compelling him to make excuses to a damned Hawkesmoor. "My sister is headstrong, Hawkesmoor. But she is not unwilling, I assure you."

"Ariel is somewhat unconventional, Lord Hawkesmoor." It was Roland who spoke up now, his voice smoothly diplomatic, an insincere smile curving his thin mouth. "Her interests lie mostly with her horses, and, as you saw, she's a sportswoman. Her life on the fens has been somewhat isolated; she's not accustomed to society. But I assure you that you'll not find her any trouble. She'll settle onto your own estates easily enough and won't pester you for visits to court or the like."

He was talking of his sister as if she were some highly bred animal who, handled correctly, would accept a change of habitat without undue difficulty. Simon could think of no response, so he merely inclined his head and followed his hosts into the castle. From the little he'd seen of Lady Ariel, he hadn't formed the impression of a malleable personality.

"I daresay you'll wish to change your clothes." Ranulf snapped his fingers at a footman. "Show Lord Hawkesmoor and his party to their apartments." He glanced at his guest. "It wants but fifteen minutes to noon."

"Five minutes is all I'll need," Simon said with a pleasant smile, following the servant, leaving Ranulf looking astounded. He couldn't imagine how a man could ready himself with fresh linen, new garments, and formal wig, all in the space of five minutes.

The bells in the chapel began to ring as the clock struck noon. The two hundred wedding guests crossed the courtyard to the stone chapel. The strangeness of this wedding was lost on none of them. The groom had been true to his promise and in five minutes had returned to the Great Hall in a suit of dark cloth, unadorned except for the lace edging to his cravat. His appearance was in startling contrast to the lavish ceremonial finery of the Ravenspeare brothers and their guests, the men in their rich silks and velvets, the women like so many bright-plumaged exotic birds. His cropped head was almost shocking against the mass of luxuriant gray-powdered wigs as he took his place at the altar, his own friends, as soberly clad, standing in a semicircle to one side. Nothing could disguise the bearing of soldiers, and however hard they tried to keep their hands from their sword hilts, the tension of the effort was almost palpable in the dark stone chapel.

Ariel listened to the pealing bells as a flock of maids dressed her for her wedding. She had been dressing herself without assistance since she'd left the nursery, and this unusual attention added to her strange disembodied feeling. She felt empty… hollow. As if the well of emotion and feeling that normally centered her had dried up. She was going through the motions of this charade as if she were a marionette and her brothers were pulling the strings.

A Hawkesmoor had debauched her mother, caused her mother's death. Ariel had known this from early childhood, just as she had been fed the family hatred drip by drip until it ran in her veins. And in a matter of minutes she was to be wed to the son of the man who had caused her mother's death. The son of a dishonorable and dishonored family.

Wed but not wed. Wife but not wife. A woman was not a wife until she was bedded by her husband.

"Do sit still, m'lady. I can't do your hair if you wriggle so."

"I'm sorry, Mary." She sat still as the elderly woman fastened the pearl-studded velvet bands around her head. Her hair fell loose beneath them, teased into curls by hot irons in the hands of rosy-cheeked Doris, whose sucked-in lips and squinting eyes bespoke her concentration.

"The bells have stopped, m'lady."

Ariel stood up. She closed her eyes for a second, then opened them. She examined her reflection steadily in the glass and decided that she liked what she saw even if it was a total mockery.

"Come, m'lady." Mary hustled her to the door. "His lordship will be waiting for you in the hall."

Ariel grimaced. "You'd best keep the dogs in here, otherwise they'll follow me to the altar."

The hounds' indignant barking followed her down the stairs to where Ranulf stood, black browed and hard eyed, waiting for her.

"I don't know what you think you're playing at, sister. But if you think to sabotage me, then you'd better think again. You make one false step, and I swear you'll rue it to your dying day."

"I'm here, aren't I?" Ariel said. "Dressed for the sacrifice. Virginal, pure, sweetly innocent. Aren't I, Ranulf?"

"You are insolent!" he said furiously, taking her arm in an iron grip.

He marched with her across the court and into the chapel. His fingers bruised her arm, biting deep into the flesh. As the organ played and people gazed admiringly at the beautiful bride, his fingers bit deeper as if he were afraid she would suddenly pull herself free and run from him.

Simon Hawkesmoor watched the progress of his bride and her brother toward him. He noticed the position of Ranulf's hand on the girl's arm, read the strength of his grip in the almost vicious determination in his eyes. The girl herself was white faced, her lips taut. It was clear to Simon that she was not approaching the altar of her own free will. But then neither in essence was he, he reflected with a grim twist of his mouth, turning resolutely to face the altar. A greater good than personal preference was to be served by this union. The girl would come around eventually. She was young; it would be for him to use his greater maturity and experience to bring her to an acceptance of her new life.

Ranulf didn't release his sister's arm until she was kneeling at the altar rail beside Lord Hawkesmoor, and he remained standing slightly to one side of her, instead of stepping back into the body of the church.

Ariel's hands were clasped on the rail, and she stared down at the serpent bracelet on her wrist, concentrating all her thoughts on its intricate pattern, on the delicate charms. The noon sun lit up the rose window above the altar, and when she twisted her wrist slightly, the ruby in the heart of the rose sprang into blood red flame. Fascinated, she moved her wrist so that the emerald swan was caught in the swimming colored rays. It was quite beautiful.

The glint of silver, the glow of emerald, caught Simon's eye as he stared steadfastly at the intoning priest. He turned his head to the flickering jeweled light on his bride's wrist, resting on the rail beside his own hands. There was something oddly familiar about the bracelet she wore. He frowned, trying to retrieve the memory, but it remained elusive, leaving him only with a vague sense of disquiet.

Ariel was unaware that she was holding herself rigidly away from the powerful frame beside her, aware of the priest's voice reciting the service only on some distant plane that seemed to have nothing to do with her.

Lord Hawkesmoor's firm voice broke into her trance, startling her. He was making his responses with a resonant conviction. Her mouth dried. The priest asked her if she took Lord Hawkesmoor to be her lawful wedded husband.

Ariel's eyes fixed on the earl's hands resting on the altar rail. They were huge, with bony knuckles, pared nails, callused fingers. She shuddered at the thought of those hands on her body, touching her in the ways of love. The priest spoke again, nervously repeating his question. There was a rustle and shifting in the body of the chapel behind her, but Ariel didn't hear it. She was thinking that if she married this man, she was signing his death warrant.

Ranulf moved forward. He put his hand on the back of her neck. It could have been interpreted as a gesture of reassurance, but Ariel felt the pressure, forcing her to lower her head in an assumption of acquiescence. There was nothing she could do. Not at this time. She was bait in the trap. And then it occurred to her that if she wished to, if she wished to save the Hawkesmoor from her brothers' vengeance, she could work to keep the trap from springing. But why would a Ravenspeare save a Hawkesmoor? And if she did so, she was condemning herself to a loathsome marriage. Her eyes fixed again on the bracelet. Ranulf's bribe for her cooperation. To keep her eyes averted, her mouth shut.

She murmured her responses and only when it was over did Ranulf remove his hand.

Simon helped her to her feet with a hand under her elbow. Her bare skin was cold as ice, and he felt her shudder at his touch. Dear God, what had he done? She loathed him, was repulsed by him. He could see it in her eyes as she glanced up at him before swiftly averting her gaze.

Ranulf had joined his brothers in the front pew. He was smiling as he watched his sister walk back down the aisle with her husband. He could manage Ariel's rebellions. She was no fool, she knew which side her bread was buttered.

Outside in the cold sunshine, Ariel moved her hand from the Hawkesmoor's arm.

"It's customary for a groom to kiss the bride," Simon said gently, taking her small hands in his own, turning her toward him. She didn't look at him, but stood still, as if resigned to her fate, and he shrank from the image of his own self. He dropped her hands, said almost helplessly, "You have nothing to fear, Ariel."

At that, she looked up at him, her eyes as clear as a dawn sky, still filled with that piercing intensity. She said with pointed simplicity, "No. I have nothing to fear, my lord."

Chapter Four

The wedding feast in the Great Hall was an affair of unbridled merriment much in keeping with the medieval structure of the castle and the vaulted, cavernous hall where logs the size of tree trunks burned in the deep fireplaces at either end and myriad candles threw complex shadows up to the rafters.

Those guests the Ravenspeare brothers had bidden to celebrate their sister's nuptials were not known for their decorum. Both male and female, they were young and unrestrained for the most part, come to enjoy a month of feasting, sport, and revelry. Ranulf had deliberately decided to exclude from these celebrations any courtier or politically influential member of society. Deep in the Fenland wilderness, it was a private affair, one that would not be marked in the court's social calendar.

Nor had any relatives been invited. The brothers had no truck with other members of the family. After Margaret Ravenspeare's violent and apparently mysterious death, her mother had offered to take the infant Ariel, but Lord Ravenspeare had brusquely declined, and when the same offer was made in the early days after Ravenspeare's own death, Ranulf had responded as curdy. As a result, Ariel had grown up free of all influence but that of her brothers.

Bearing laden salvers of meat, baskets of bread, and platters of oysters and smoked eels, servants dipped and dodged around the long rectangle formed by the tables lined with wedding guests. In the gallery, musicians, as well plied with wine as the guests below, played country tunes with uninhibited gusto, while the silver decanters of wine, the jugs of ale, the bottles of cognac circled as if bottomless.

At the top table, Ariel sat beside her husband, acknowledging the toasts, the increasingly ribald jests, the jocular good wishes of her brothers' friends with a smile that betrayed none of her true feelings. She had been exposed to this kind of company since earliest childhood. It had never occurred to her brothers to modify their behavior in her presence or to expect their friends to do so, and she no longer even heard the off-color remarks, the tasteless jokes. She was aware only of Oliver, sitting beside Ranulf, drinking deeply, his thin lips curved in his unsettling smile, the arch of his eyebrows exaggerated as his eyes became more unfocused. His eyes were unfocused but his gaze never wavered from the bride's face, and Ariel began to feel like an insect displayed in a case before the all-knowing scrutiny of a collector.

Beside her the earl of Hawkesmoor appeared to take the drunken revelry in his stride. He drank well himself, Ariel noticed, but without apparent ill effect. His cheeks weren't flushed, the scar on his face didn't become more livid, and his sea blue eyes were as clear as ever. He spoke to her occasionally in his melodious voice, mere pleasantries whose response required no effort on her part, but in general he confined his attention to his own friends, ranged around the top table.

The Hawkesmoor and his cadre, in their dark clothes, in their air of controlled containment, stood out among the increasingly disorderly throng. Faces grew flushed, collars were loosened, erect postures yielded to slovenly slouching over the board, but Simon and his ten companions only seemed to sit more erect, to become more noticeably sober with each refilled goblet.

"Damme, Hawkesmoor, but if you aren't as much of a sobersides as Cromwell himself!" Ralph leaned forward to poke Simon's sleeve with a greasy finger, his gray eyes slitted with drink and malice and stupidity. "The devil take the king-killing bastard and all his men." He laughed heartily, flinging himself back in his chair. "A toast! I propose a toast. Death to the Puritan. Hellfire to the regicide!" He raised his goblet, his hand shaking so violently that ruby drops spilled upon the white cloth.

A silence fell over those who could hear Ralph above the noise. All eyes rested on Simon Hawkesmoor and his friends. Oliver Becket drew his goblet closer to his mouth as if ready to drink the toast. His eyes met Ariel's with a mocking glitter.

Ranulf leaned over and punched his young brother on the shoulder. It was no light blow and Ralph swayed in his chair, spilling yet more wine. "Unmannerly churl," Ranulf snarled. "This is a wedding, we want no long-past politics here."

Ralph flushed darkly, half pushed back his chair, preparing to strike out at his brother, but Ranulf's eyes held his and finally with a mutter he subsided, reaching for the decanter to refill his goblet.

The conversation, such as it was, picked up again. Oliver smiled to himself, whispered something to Ranulf, and the two laughed heartily, and it was clear to Ariel that their laughter was directed at the Hawkesmoor, who it seemed hadn't moved a muscle throughout the incident.

"Aye, it's a wedding!" Roland declared. He was the most sober of the three brothers. "And time for the groom to take his bride on the floor."

A roar of approval went up at this and the strains of Sir Roger de Coverley came from the musician's gallery in invitation. Ariel looked expectantly at her bridegroom.

Simon smiled at her, but it was a small, self-deprecating smile that took her aback. This new husband of hers, for all his ugliness, was an overwhelmingly powerful presence. Such a look of uncertainty sat uneasily on the brow of a man who seemed utterly in control of himself and his surroundings. He spoke softly.

"Forgive me, Ariel, but I make a poor dancer these days. You'll not want to hobble around the floor keeping time with a cripple."

Ariel felt the color rushing into her face. She heard the sniggers around the table, the rustle of whispers as folk asked what had been said, felt rather than heard the titters of false sympathy as they were told.

"I am not overly fond of dancing myself, sir," she said, glaring around the table. "I am as like to tread upon your toes as you are upon mine."

"That may be so," Simon responded, his smile now warm. Her swift championship surprised him. "Nevertheless, one of us must dance at our wedding. I dare swear Lord Chauncey will stand up in my stead." Laughing, he indicated one of his companions. "Jack is as nimble footed as any maid could desire, my dear, and I can safely promise there will be no missteps."

"If Lady Hawkesmoor would do me the honor." Lord Chauncey rose, bowing, extending his hand. "I shall be delighted to take the groom's place on the floor."

"And in his bed, too, I'll be bound," guffawed a young man, spraying the table with crumbs from the venison pasty in his mouth.

Oliver Becket gave a sharp crack of laughter. "Such unseemly talk, Hollingsworth! A man may be a cripple on two legs, but it doesn't have to follow that he's as doltish when horizontal."

Loud laughter bounced off the rafters. Simon smiled faintly but made no comment. Hot words bubbled to Ariel's lips, but before she could speak, Jack Chauncey had taken her hand and whisked her away from the table to the cleared area of the hall.

Other couples stepped up to join them in the line of dance. Ariel glanced at her partner as they moved up the aisle made by the couples. His face was set in grim lines.

"I would guess that you find it hard to hold your tongue when men make mock of your friend's lameness," she said quietly, turning beneath his arm as they reached the head of the line. He made no response until they were reunited again at the far end of the dance.

"Only fools make mock of Simon Hawkesmoor," he then said. "You will discover, ma'am, that your husband takes no notice of fools. Their opinions mean as little to him as a gnat bite."

"He doesn't respond to provocation, then?'' She performed the steps of the country dance automatically, her eyes resting intently on her partner's face.

Jack Chauncey laughed and the bitter anger vanished from his expression. "It depends upon the provocation, ma'am. Your husband is slow to anger, but no man who knows him well would willingly arouse that anger."

Ariel tucked this away for future reflection. She had first laid eyes upon her husband a mere half day earlier and so far was finding it hard to come to any conclusions about him, beyond his obvious physical characteristics.

How would he react when told that he was not to bed his wife on his wedding night? Would he accede without a murmur? He would be within his rights to insist. Within his rights, but it would be the act of a brute and a boor, and from the little she'd seen of the man, neither description fit him.

But how was she to know? The man was a Hawkesmoor. That simple fact told its own tale. She could no more contemplate sharing a bed with a Hawkesmoor than she would entertain sharing a sty with the pigs. And Ranulf had sworn to ensure that she didn't have to.

At the top table, Simon watched his wife dancing with his friend. His expression was placid, his eyes mild, and not even Ranulf could guess at the smoldering anger beneath the serene surface. This coarse, inebriated, unseemly festivity was an insult to both bride and groom. And Simon knew it had been so intended. And yet the bride, in her gown of cream silk and vanilla lace, seemed to float above the vulgarity, as if it didn't touch her in any way. His eyes fixed upon the swirling liquid honey of her hair, falling down her back from the pearl-encrusted bands around her forehead. It struck him as like a cloak, a maiden's cloak that somehow covered and protected her from the crude ribaldry surrounding her.

Ariel-a sprite, a spirit of the air. There was something unearthly about her. But maybe it was just the contrast between her delicacy of frame and face and the heavy, earth-bound grossness of her brothers and their friends.

"Brother-in-law?"

Simon, his reverie interrupted, turned sharply toward Ranulf. Ranulf was regarding him smilingly from over his goblet, but it was an unpleasant, knowing smile.

"There's something I must discuss with you, brother-in-law," Ranulf said, laying sardonic emphasis on the tide. "A matter of some privacy. Would you walk with me in the courtyard?" His chair scraped on the stone flags as he pushed it back.

"A breath of air would be welcome." Simon reached for his cane. "It grows overheated in here."

"In more ways than one," Ralph said with a snigger. "Blanche Carey looks ready to slip beneath the table with anyone who'll have her." He rose unsteadily to his feet. "Perhaps I'll offer m'services." He tottered around the table to where the lady in question, flushed of face and glazed of eye, was unlacing her bodice at the invitation of a cheering group of men.

Ranulf glanced quickly at his companion and caught the flicker of disgust in the deep blue eyes before it was banished. He smiled sourly to himself. The Hawkesmoors were ever prudish-except when they were bedding other men's wives. "Perhaps you find our ways of making merry a little uninhibited, Hawkesmoor? To a Puritan, I'm sure our carousing must seem quite dissipated."

"I don't count myself among Puritans, Ravenspeare," Simon corrected mildly. "My family may have been parliamentarians, but we can enjoy ourselves as much as the next man. Cromwell himself was known to enjoy his wine, music, dancing, even the play."

Ranulf adapted his pace to the other man's slower step as they walked around the hall toward the outside door. "Parliamentarians, royalists-such terms mean nothing these days," he said. "The monarchy was restored over forty years ago, Hawkesmoor; it's time to bury such bones of past contention, don't you think?"

"If I didn't, I wouldn't be here now," returned Simon, and for the first time there was a tart note to his voice. He stepped out into the sharp evening air and drew several deep breaths, cleansing his lungs of the fetid, smoky atmosphere of the hall within. "Those political differences became irrelevant many years ago-"

"Not quite," Ranulf interrupted. "Or we wouldn't now be joining our families to settle our property dispute."

"True enough," Simon agreed, his tone mild once more. He limped across the grassy square in the center of the courtyard, his cane sinking into the soft, soggy soil. A fine, cold mizzle fell from the darkening sky, and he knew his leg would pain him unmercifully that night. This was a damp, inhospitable part of England, and although he had grown up in the Fens, he disliked the land heartily, and was never truly at home amid the dikes and windmills of this fog-swirled landscape.

He paused at a stone sundial set hopefully in the middle of the grass. Resting on his cane, he leaned slightly against the sundial and surveyed the earl of Ravenspeare through the gathering dusk. "There is more than property that lies between our two families, Ranulf. I would bury that too."

The other man didn't immediately reply, and then he spoke with a heartiness that Simon knew in his blood was false. "Indeed, why should the scandals of our fathers' generation haunt us, Hawkesmoor?" He extended his hand. "Will you clasp on it?"

Simon took the hand immediately. Neither men wore gloves and he felt Ranulf's palm to be soft and clammy. His own, firm and dry, was the rough and callused hand of a swordsman. Ranulf was not offering him friendship and peace, he was extending the hand of treachery, and Simon knew it. But he had come into the Ravenspeares' castle prepared for anything, and whatever slippery plans Ranulf might have, they would not succeed.

"You had something you wanted to tell me," he reminded him, casually dropping Ranulf's hand and resuming his awkward pace to the far side of the courtyard.

"Ah, yes. I trust you will not take this ill." Ranulf kept pace with him, his head bent conspiratorially toward the other's ear. "It concerns Ariel." When Simon made no response, he continued in measured accents, "She is somewhat ailing at present and begs that you will excuse her from the marriage bed until she finds herself well again."

Simon had thought himself prepared for anything, but this possibility had never entered his head. "Ailing? In what way?" He stopped abruptly.

Ranulf's little laugh was conspiratorial. "Women's way, Simon. I'm sure you understand."

"Ariel set the date for the wedding," Simon said slowly. "Why did she choose a time when she would be indisposed?"

"She is an innocent, a child, Hawkesmoor. A motherless child," Ranulf added with soft deliberation.

Simon's lips tightened but he refused to be drawn. They had just agreed that the sins of their parents should haunt them no longer. "Has she no woman to advise her? No nurse, no maid, no governess?"

"Ariel has never shown any need for female companionship," Ranulf said, shrugging. "She has cared for herself and her own needs since she left the nursery."

Simon hid his shock. In the last hours he had developed a fair impression of the careless, unseemly way matters were conducted at Ravenspeare Castle, but the idea that a gently bred young woman should grow up without female guidance, even of the most rudimentary sort, left him speechless. Presumably she had had no formal education either. That was not so shocking, many women even of the highest lineage were unlettered, but had she not been taught the arts of the stillroom, or to sew, to manage a household, to play an instrument? All the necessary skills of a country noblewoman. She could ride and she could hawk, that much he'd discovered. And it appeared that she knew the steps of country dances, but what of the galliard, and all the courtly measures that the wife of the earl of Hawkesmoor would be expected to perform?

He contented himself with a dry, "I see," and turned back toward the castle.

"I had hoped you would understand," Ranulf said, turning with him. "The situation is a little… well, unusual, don't you think?"

"An understatement," Simon replied. "Tell your sister, since she doesn't feel able to confide in me as yet, that I am a very patient man. When she's ready to consummate this marriage, she has but to indicate it."

"Ariel will be most grateful for your understanding," Ranulf said smoothly, opening the door and stepping aside so that Simon could precede him back into the riotous scene in the Great Hall.

It was even hotter now, and so noisy it was almost impossible to hear oneself speak. Men and women had fallen forward into their platters, snoring audibly; goblets lay spilled upon the tables; people lurched and swayed around the dance floor. Ariel was dancing with Oliver Becket.

Simon noticed that neither of them seemed to be following the steps of the dance, in fact none of the couples on the floor appeared to be following any coherent set of movements, and even the fiddlers in the gallery had lost track of the dance and were playing at will, regardless of the swaying couples. Oliver Becket's color was high, his eyes glittered strangely, and his hands were roaming freely over the slender figure of Ariel, countess of Hawkesmoor, as she turned and twirled to his touch.

She seemed to be enjoying herself, her husband thought acidly. She was lost in the music, and with her skirts swirling around her, her hair flying, her eyes sparkling, she reminded him of a gypsy girl dancing a wild tarantella.

He couldn't intervene without looking foolish, since he couldn't offer to dance with her himself, not even a stately measure, let alone with such gay abandon. A clapping, stamping circle began to form around the pair as other dancers dropped back, and the two became the center of attention.

Simon returned to his seat among his silent friends at the top table. He could no longer see his wife, who was blocked from view by the circle around her, but could infer from the stamping, roaring cheers that the two dancers were giving their audience their money's worth.

When the dance ended and the circle broke up, Ariel made her way back to the table, her arm tucked into Oliver's, her cheeks pink, her lips rosy, her gray eyes glowing with excitement.

"Ah, bud, but there's never been such a partner as you!" Oliver declared. He caught her chin and kissed her full on the mouth as she reached her chair beside her husband. "I pity you, Hawkesmoor, if you never know the delights of dancing with her. She's light as air-pure magic." Laughing, he kissed her again.

But this time, Ariel jerked her head away. In the exultation of the dance, she had forgotten about her husband, and now with the taste of Oliver's mouth against hers, she realized what was happening. Oliver and Ranulf had planned this-this careful humiliation of the Hawkesmoor. Her own virtue meant nothing to them, and in this wedding company it meant nothing to anyone. Simon Hawkesmoor was to be cuckolded on his wedding night.

She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth in an instinctive gesture of revulsion as she sat down again. Simon's gaze flickered toward Oliver and saw the flash of anger in the other man's eyes.

"I may be unable to dance myself, my dear, but I enjoyed watching you," Simon said coolly, reaching for the decanter to refill her goblet. "For one who's ailing, you show remarkable energy. Drink. You're overheated." He raised the goblet to her lips.

Ariel's color mounted. She clasped the goblet and drank deeply, then set it down on the table. "Will you excuse me, my lord." She rose, gathering her skirts in her hands as she turned toward the staircase at the rear of the hall.

Simon, leaning on his cane, moved with surprising rapidity after her. He reached the foot of the stairs when she was halfway up. He called softly, "Grant me a minute of your time, madam wife."

His voice was as melodious and courteous as ever, so why then did she know she'd received a command? Ariel paused, her hand on the banister. "Will you come up, sir?" Then she continued upward, waiting for him at the head.

Simon silently cursed his clumsiness as he clumped up the wide flight, aware that she was looking at him so that every awkward half jump, half dragging step seemed exaggerated in his mind's eye.

The raucous sounds reached them from below as they stood on the small square landing. Moonlight filtered through an arched mullioned window set in the stone high above them.

Simon leaned against the cold wall, examining his wife in thoughtful silence. She lifted her chin slightly beneath his scrutiny. "You wished to speak with me, sir?"

He nodded. "It's hardly unusual for a man to wish to speak privately with his wife on their wedding day." He glanced around the small space. "This, however, is hardly private. Do you have a sitting room… a boudoir?"

There was only one room in this castle that Ariel could keep for herself. Her bedchamber was not sacrosanct-it was invaded at will by her brothers and by Oliver-but only a very few servants knew of the green parlor in the turret on the floor above her bedchamber. And she was not about to share that privacy with the earl of Hawkesmoor.

Deliberately she laughed and Simon realized it was the first time he'd heard the girlish, chiming sound. Involuntarily he smiled, waiting to be told what amused her.

"Ravenspeare Castle has no such nice chambers, my lord. We live somewhat roughly here."

"So I had noticed," he agreed, no longer smiling as he detected a light mockery in her tone. "And you have my sympathies. However, do not expect me to believe that there is no chamber that you can call your own." His voice had hardened, and his sea blue eyes were searching as they rested on her face.

Ariel bit her lip. "I have a bedchamber, sir."

"Then let us go to it."

Again she heard the note of command. With a tiny shrug she moved past him along the corridor, hearing the click of his cane, the slight drag of his boot as he came behind her. She opened the door to her turret bedchamber and went in ahead of him. Immediately she was engulfed in a swirling, barking mass of gray fur as Romulus and Remus leaped upon her.

It looked as if she were under attack from the massive wolfhounds, and Simon's instinctive reaction was to reach for the knife at his belt. Then Ariel turned toward him; both dogs were on their hind legs, front paws on her shoulders, and she held them by their necks.

"My dogs have been shut up since noon," she explained. "Otherwise they would have followed me to the altar… Down now," she instructed, pushing them away from her, scolding laughingly, "Look what you've done to my gown with your great muddy feet!"

Simon's hand dropped from his belt. He remembered seeing the dogs with her by the river and again in the courtyard. Clearly, Ariel had nothing to fear from them beyond torn and muddied garments. He glanced curiously around her firelit bedchamber. The furnishings were plain; there was little evidence of girlhood to be seen. Except for a doll on the cushioned window seat. For some reason he found the wooden toy strangely moving. He closed the door behind him.

Ariel jumped at the sound, and immediately the dogs turned on him, hackles raised, great yellow eyes glaring. Simon stood motionless, quietly staring them down. Ariel watched, as still as he. The dogs slowly sat down, then together lay with heads resting on their paws, still regarding him, but without suspicion or hostility.

Ariel was impressed despite her chagrin that someone else had shown mastery over her beasts. "You have a way with dogs, sir," she commented. "Romulus and Remus have never acknowledged anyone but me before."

"All pack animals recognize a superior," he said casually. "Wolfhounds are no different from wolves in that respect. I assume that they acknowledge you as the pack leader, so I daresay I'm considered your lieutenant." He laughed and she couldn't help a responding smile. A man who could win the allegiance of her dogs clearly had hidden qualities.

It occurred to her as he stood there smiling that he wasn't nearly as ugly as she had first thought, if you took his features one by one. His deep-set eyes were startlingly attractive, the triangle of his large nose with its fine nostrils was imposing, and there was something disturbingly appealing about his crooked mouth with its strong white teeth. For a moment she forgot their situation and was aware of him only as a powerfully charismatic presence. Then reality flooded back and she remembered he was a Hawkesmoor. She stiffened her shoulders clasped her hands in the folds of her skirt. "Did… did my brother explain-"

"That you are most inconveniently indisposed? Yes, he did." Simon sat down on the end of the bed, saying with a hint of amusement, "There's no need to look alarmed, Ariel. I have no intention of claiming my marital rights until you're ready to yield them."

"I am grateful, my lord," she said stiffly.

"I understand from your brother that you have no female companion," Simon began. If this girl was ignorant and perhaps therefore frightened of the physical side of marriage, someone had to enlighten and reassure her. And it rather looked as if the task fell to his hand.

Ariel frowned, wondering where this was leading. It was not by any means the truth, but her life outside the castle was her own secret. Her brothers knew nothing of her friends or of the work she did among them. "I have never felt the lack within these walls," she said carefully.

"But, my dear, it's quite outrageous that you should have grown to womanhood without anyone to teach you-"

"Teach me what?" she interrupted vigorously.

Simon ran a hand through his close-cropped hair and grasped the nettle. "I will endeavor to answer any questions you may have," he said. "I cannot explain these matters as a mother might, but…" He stopped dead. Ariel was laughing, her eyes brimming with merriment. "In what way have I amused you?" he demanded.

She struggled for sobriety. "My lord, I do assure you there is nothing that I do not know of these matters. There is nothing you could possibly tell me that I don't understand." She thought of her stud, of her work as midwife in the villages, and was suddenly convulsed with laughter again. She couldn't tell him about these things, but it was so absurd that he should be trying to teach her the facts of life when she probably knew more than he did as they pertained to women.

Simon's face closed. Without another word he rose from the bed, took his cane, and limped from the room. He closed the door behind him. It was one thing to endure the not-so-veiled mockery of the Ravenspeare brothers, quite another to hear it from his bride. A young girl, many years his junior, one who had never left the land of her birth, who could know nothing of the world as he knew it! And she dared to laugh at his admittedly clumsy attempts to gain her confidence.

His blood seethed, but beneath his anger lurked dark uncertainty. Did she see him as a figure of fun? A repulsive scarred cripple? A man from whom the fresh bloom of youth had been long rubbed off? A man who bore the marks of long suffering on his face and body? A hideous husband for such a bright, fresh maid. A hideous husband forced upon her. He'd guessed when he'd first met her that she was not a willing participant in this scheme. But surely she couldn't have been forced to agree? This was not the Middle Ages; no woman could be legally compelled into a distasteful union.

But Ranulf Ravenspeare and his brothers were not civilized men. Had they coerced their sister in some way?

His spirit seemed to shrivel inside him as he saw himself as he must appear to the eyes of a young and beautiful girl. It was no wonder she couldn't contemplate her bride bed, he thought with a surge of self-disgust. He had been prepared to encounter her resistance to a Hawkesmoor, and he had tried not to think that she might be repulsed by him personally. But his hidden fear had been justified, and he couldn't imagine how he would nerve himself to overcome her revulsion.

He was still standing outside her chamber door, and the sounds from the Great Hall were growing increasingly incoherent. Presumably the disappearance of the bride and groom had been noted. If he returned to the festivities without his bride, he would be licensing the crudest of comments. Better to retire quietly and leave the drunken revelers to their own devices. Let them think what they wished.

He turned aside into his own chamber, opposite Ariel's turret room. A fire burned in the hearth and a lamp had been lit on the mantelpiece to provide some cheer against the night chill. He was weary and saddened and angry, and as he flung himself into a chair beside the fire, he wondered why he had embarked on such an implausible scheme. What had made him believe he could heal such deep-seated wounds? What arrogance to believe he could bring peace to two families locked in blood hatred!

But it was done and he was stuck with the consequences of his conceit. However, maybe he could still turn this ill-fated visit to Ravenspeare land to good use. The thought heartened him a little and he rose to his feet, limping across to the table beneath the window where decanters stood ready filled. He poured a liberal measure of cognac and sipped slowly.

Esther. Somewhere on Ravenspeare land there was-or had been-a woman called Esther. A woman who had born a child to a Hawkesmoor.

Chapter Five

Probably she shouldn't have laughed, but it had seemed so absurd. Ariel frowned unconsciously at her image in the cheval glass, unaware of the distorted reflection thrown back at her by the flickering candle on the dresser.

That same look of uncertainty, of self-deprecation, had crossed his irregular features, and for a moment he had looked emotionally stripped bare, his eyes suddenly vulnerable as she stood there convulsed with amusement. She hadn't been laughing at him exactly, it had been more with pleasure at her own secret life. But how could the Hawkesmoor know that?

She chewed her lip crossly. There was no reason for him to have been hurt at her laughter, surely? Annoyed, perhaps, but not wounded. And yet wounded was how he had looked. What on earth had he thought she was laughing at?

The dogs began to whine and scratch at the door, and she returned to the room with a shake of her head. The dogs had been confined since noon and needed to go out. She contemplated her image in the glass, tousled from the dance, the lace of her wedding gown torn, the silk skirt covered in muddy paw prints. There was nothing to save by changing before she ventured out into the night.

She took a heavy velvet cloak from the armoire and slung it around her shoulders, drawing the hood up over her hair and the bridal bands at her forehead. The dogs barked excitedly at this evidence of their impending release.

"All right, all right… patience." She pulled on gloves, clasped the cloak at her throat, and opened the door. The hounds bounded ahead of her toward the stairs down to the Great Hall but stopped when she called them sharply.

"We're not going that way," she told them, turning aside to take the narrow stair that led through the kitchens. They jostled her on the stairs in their eagerness to get outside, and she nearly tripped down the last three steps.

The kitchen was quiet and surprisingly orderly. Two potboys slept almost in the embers of the hearth, a footman sat nodding over a tankard of ale, and a lone scullery maid scrubbed at blackened pots in the long trough in the scullery.

"Leave that, Maisie, and get you to bed." Ariel stood under the arch that separated the massive kitchen from the scullery.

"Mistress Gertrude said as 'ow I mun' finish up tonight, m'lady," the girl said, wiping her brow with a chapped hand. "Seein' as 'ow I 'ad special leave to visit me ma yesterday when all the preparations was goin' on."

"Was your mother sick?"

"Oh, no, m'lady. She 'ad a bonny babe." The girl's tired face lit up. "Suky, they're goin' to call 'er."

"In the morning I'll send a birthday gift for your sister," Ariel told her, smiling. "But get you to bed now. I'll make matters right with Mistress Gertrude."

The girl dropped the pot she was scouring with a clatter and wiped her hands on her apron as she bobbed a curtsy. "Thank you, m'lady." She scurried away in the direction of her own narrow pallet in the attic with the other maids.

Ariel wondered if Maisie would stop to think it strange that her newly wedded mistress was roaming the house on her wedding night instead of securely abed with her bridegroom. Then she shrugged the question aside. What did it matter what the household thought? They were all accustomed to the eccentricities of their Ravenspeare masters. If it weren't for the fact that Ariel held the household reins firmly in her own hands, the lords of Ravenspeare would have a hard time finding local people to serve them.

The dogs were barking at the closed kitchen door. When she opened it, they bounded out into the night, streaking across the yard toward the stables, where Ariel's nightly habit would take them.

Edgar looked up from the charcoal brazier he was tending as his mistress entered the Arabians' stable block. "Eh, I weren't expectin' ye tonight, m'lady."

"It would take more than a wedding to keep me from my rounds," Ariel said soberly. "How's the colt?" She unfastened the half door of one of the stalls and slipped inside. "Oh, he's so beautiful. I shall miss him." She stroked the white blaze on the colt's nose. "But can you believe that someone's willing to pay a thousand guineas for him?" Her voice was awed as she gently pulled the colt's ears.

"Anyone what knows their 'osses, m'lady, would pay that an' more for such a beauty." Edgar leaned over the half door, sucking a straw, his gaze sharp yet benign.

"I still think it's amazing. If I could just sell two more, I'd be ready to set up on my own." She moved back out of the stall, Edgar stepping aside for her and pulling the half door closed behind them.

" 'Is lordship was down 'ere yesterday," Edgar observed with seeming casualness.

Ariel stopped. "Doing what?"

"Jest lookin' around, I reckon."

"Did he say anything?"

"Not so's you'd notice." Edgar bent over the brazier again, warming his gnarled hands.

Ariel frowned. "He couldn't know about the colt. The negotiations have been so secret."

"Oh, I 'spect he was jest nosy," Edgar responded.

"But Ranulf never bothers with my horses. None of them do. They're only interested in hunters."

"Per'aps 'e was lookin' to see if n ye 'ad a likely 'unter among this lot."

"Perhaps." But Ariel was uneasy. If Ranulf suspected that instead of a harmless hobby his sister had a money-making business going, he'd have his hands on the proceeds before she could blink an eye. In the morning she would casually mention his visit and see how he reacted. He might demand one of the stud, but with luck she could persuade him that none of them was up to his weight.

Her mouth tightened. The lords of Ravenspeare rode their horses viciously hard. She would shoot one of her animals rather than let any one of her brothers own it. She turned back to the yard. "Good night, Edgar. I'll leave the dogs loose tonight. There are so many strangers around, I'll sleep better if the hounds are roaming."

"Aye," the man agreed. "And I daresay I'll sleep in the tack room, jest in case any of 'em gets restless with the noise." He jerked his head speakingly toward the stableyard, where the row from the hall could be heard spilling around the castle.

"Thanks." She smiled at him in the dim light and left the stable block. There was no sign of the dogs, and if she didn't call them, they would enjoy a night's freedom after a day's confinement. Judging by the racket, the night's sottish revelries, in the absence of the bride and groom, would continue until dawn, and it wouldn't be the first time if some of her brothers' guests decided to go for a moonlit ride. She wanted no drink-sodden rider throwing his leg over one of her horses.

She went back through the kitchen, throwing the bar over the door behind her. It would keep any drunkenly wandering guest from blundering into the stableyard through the kitchen. She had eaten very little at the feast and was suddenly aware that she was hungry. In the pantry she piled chicken legs, a large slice of veal and ham pie, and a bowl of syllabub on a tray, together with a tankard of mead from the keg, and hurried up the inside stairs.

She closed the door of her own chamber and leaned back against it with a sigh of relief. The sounds from downstairs were muted and her own room seemed a haven of peace and privacy. She set her supper on the side table and tossed aside her cloak, before throwing fresh logs on the fire and trimming the lamp. Then, satisfied that all was as cozy as she could make it, she sat before the fire, kicked off her shoes, and took the tray on her knees.

She was gnawing happily on a chicken leg when the door was suddenly thrown open. Oliver Becket stood there, two goblets in his hand, a twisted grin on his face.

"Eh, bud, we must drink to your wedding night." He stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. The kick wasn't strong enough and the heavy oak merely swung against the frame.

"Go away, Oliver." Ariel kept her seat and continued to eat her chicken, hoping that a cool and sober response would penetrate her unwelcome visitor's stupefied condition.

"Don't be unfriendly, bud," he chided, placing the goblets with exaggerated care on the bedside table. "You were not wont to be unfriendly before." His skewed grin intensified as he came toward her, hands outstretched. "Come, you can't spend your wedding night alone."

"You're drunk, Oliver."

He threw back his head and roared with laughter. "Of course I am, bud. What man would stay sober on such a night? Unless, of course, it be your husband. Old sobersides!" He leered and bent over her, whisking the tray from her knees and putting it aside without so much as a fumble.

Ariel felt the first stirring of alarm. His eyes, while unfocused, were bright with malice and purpose. It had never occurred to her that she couldn't make her own wishes perfectly plain in these matters regardless of whatever scheme her brothers had concocted with Oliver.

"Come now, sweetheart." He took her upper arms and pulled her to her feet. "Still in your bride dress, I see. Waiting for the bridegroom? How sad to be neglected on such a night. We must show Lord Hawkesmoor the way to his bride's bed, I swear."

"No!" She pushed at him, struggling to turn her head as he brought his mouth to hers. "For God's sake, Oliver, leave me alone. I don't want this."

"Nonsense," he mumbled against her mouth. "When have you not wanted it, my passionate flower?" He held her now against him with one ironbound arm while his free hand pulled at the laces of her bodice.

Why, tonight of all nights, had she not kept the dogs with her? The pointless question battered against her brain as Ariel struggled in a grip that drink seemed only to have made stronger. He didn't seem to feel her pinches and scratches as she pushed at his face with her flat palm. She tried to kick at him, but he scissored her legs between his and then fell with her to the floor. She thumped her head hard on the wooden boards and saw stars. In the moment of confusion, Oliver had swung himself over her. He was laughing, but there was nothing pleasant about his expression. There was a grim predatory triumph and she knew with a sick tremor in her belly that her resistance was exciting him. He had pushed a leg between her thighs, one hand now held her wrists above her head, the other pushed and scrabbled at her skirts.

"No!" she screamed at the top of her voice, drumming her bare heels on the floorboards, fighting to twist her body free.

"Be still, bitch!" Oliver was no longer amused. His face was tight, his mouth a thin line. She could feel his flesh against her thigh as she tried to keep her legs closed, to draw her knees up.

She screamed again. And then suddenly Oliver was hauled off her. She lay looking up into the closed dark face of Simon Hawkesmoor. "Cover yourself," he said coldly.

Ariel pushed her skirts down over her exposed thighs, feeling as soiled as if she had initiated and enjoyed that horror. She pulled herself upright

Oliver stood leaning against the bedpost. He was breathing heavily. His mouth was bleeding and he held a hand against his cut lip. His eyes were black with fury and confusion, his britches unbuttoned, his shirt untucked.

"You'll find that your bride enjoys a little rough-and-tumble, Hawkesmoor," he said thickly. "I've noticed she grows more passionate with a degree of forceful persuasion. Isn't that so, my bud?"

Ariel, with an inarticulate cry of outrage, launched herself at him and was unceremoniously thrust into a chair with a flat palm against her chest. Her husband didn't so much as look at her as he pushed her out of the way and she fell back in a disorderly tangle of ivory silk and vanilla lace.

"Get out of here before I unman you," Simon said quietly to Oliver Becket. Oliver laughed, but it was an uncertain sound as his eyes fixed on the small knife that Simon held in his hand.

"You think I'm no match for a cripple?" he demanded, but he was already making his way to the door.

"Yes, I think that," Simon said evenly. "And if you wish to try the case, then I am more than willing."

Oliver laughed again with a drunken bravado and then he was gone. Simon closed the door and turned the key in the lock. He withdrew the key and stood thoughtfully, tossing it from palm to palm as he gazed at the girl still sprawled in the chair, her honeyed hair a tangled river flowing down her back, her great gray eyes haunted and anxious. There was no sign now of the girl who had so lately mocked him with her laughter.

But no wonder she had laughed. He had assumed her to be an innocent, ignorant maid. When all the time, this experienced young woman had been intending to cuckold him on his wedding night with her brother's best friend.

Fool! He dropped the key into the pocket of his chamber robe. "How long have you and Becket been lovers?"

Ariel sat up, brushing her hair away from her face. "A twelvemonth."

"And is it true that you enjoy rough play?" he inquired with a sardonic lift of his eyebrow.

Ariel flushed scarlet. "How could you think that?" she whispered.

He shrugged. "What am I supposed to think when I find you tangling on the floor, shrieking with passion?"

"No!" She sprang to her feet. "How could you think I was enjoying that? I was fighting him. I didn't want him here. Surely you must believe that." She looked at him in horror.

Simon shrugged. "It matters little whether you wanted it or not. It's clear to me what his intention was, presumably with the encouragement of your brother. My supposedly indisposed bride was to spend her wedding night with her lover under the same roof as her bridegroom."

When Ariel made no response, he shrugged again, running a hand through his close-cropped hair. "I assume you are not indisposed?"

She shook her head.

"Umm." He turned to the bed and threw back the covers. "Well, while I'll not oblige you to consummate this marriage, I don't intend to be made a laughingstock. Only you and I will know that you remain unbedded. If you cannot agree to the subterfuge, then I'm afraid I must finish what your lover began." He pushed the key beneath the bolster before turning to look steadily at her.

"I don't understand."

He gave a short, impatient crack of laughter. "It's perfectly simple, girl! You and I will spend every night under this roof in the same chamber like any normal bridal pair. It will be assumed that all is as it's supposed to be, by the guests, by your brothers, and by your erstwhile lover." His eyes held hers. "Is that now quite clear?"

"Yes." Ariel nodded.

"And do you agree to play the game?"

"Yes."

"Then I see nothing further to discuss this night." He shrugged out of his chamber robe, and before Ariel could fully absorb the sight of his nakedness, he had slipped into her bed.

"You're sleeping in my bed," she said stupidly.

"I have no objection to your sharing it," he returned. "You need not fear to be molested."

"But it's my bed," Ariel protested.

"If you prefer to cross the corridor to my chamber, then I will sleep in my own bed and you may sleep wherever you please, so long as it's in the same chamber," he replied in the same level tones.

Ariel was momentarily struck dumb. This husband of hers appeared to have swept the ground neatly from beneath her feet and those of her brothers. She knew she had nothing to fear from him, so long as she kept her side of the bargain, but it was astonishing that in a few short hours this lame man had limped into a trap designed to humiliate him beyond bearing and had turned the tables while barely moving a muscle.

She sat down by the fire again, a considering frown on her brow. Oliver Becket was a young, agile, supple man. But he had been physically mastered by an older man suffering from a disabling wound. Of course, Oliver had been caught in somewhat awkward circumstances. She looked curiously around the room and could see no sign of Simon's cane. It would seem he could walk unaided when necessary.

"I should be grateful if you would turn out the lamp," her husband remarked in his calm voice. "I find it hard to fall asleep in the light."

"I was hoping to finish my supper."

"Then do so by firelight. If you're going to share this bed, pray tell me now so that I ensure I sleep tidily."

For answer, Ariel got up and pulled the truckle bed from beneath the fourposter. "You may sleep as untidily as you please, my lord."

"Good." With a contented groan, he rolled onto his belly, flung both legs wide apart under the quilts, and settled into the feather mattress.

Ariel looked disdainfully at the narrow straw pallet on the truckle bed. There was no pillow and the only cover was a thin blanket. Hardly adequate on a damp and freezing winter night.

"Is there a hot brick in my bed?"

"How would I know?" came a pillow-muffled mumble. "But there's definitely one in mine." His toes wriggled pleasurably around the blanket-wrapped brick, and Ariel ground her teeth.

Very funny, my lord. She fetched the velvet cloak she'd been wearing earlier and tossed it on top of the blanket. It wasn't much help, but it was better than nothing.

She turned out the oil lamp and stood by the fire to warm herself before venturing into her icy little bed. Deep, rumbling, rhythmic breathing emanated from the fourposter behind her. The earl of Hawkesmoor was clearly a swift and sound sleeper. She glanced at her neglected supper tray in the firelight but found she'd lost interest in its contents. She picked up one of the fragrant goblets Oliver had brought in and sipped at the warm spiced wine. That at least had been a good thought, she reflected sourly. Mulled wine to accompany rapine adultery. Was there nothing Ranulf wouldn't stoop to?

Ariel shrugged. It was a rhetorical question. Huddling closer to the fire, she began to undress, casting aside her wedding gown with a grimace of disgust. This morning she had thought it pretty; now it seemed a tawdry garment to trick out a deceitful charade. She dragged her shut over her head, took a deep breath, and dived across the room, slithering under the covers before the cold air could chill her skin too much. But in no time her once-warmed flesh was as cold as the coarse sheet she lay upon. Her teeth began to chatter and she rolled onto her side, drawing up her knees, dragging the cloak over her head to keep the cold from her ears.

An icy blast hit her naked skin when the covers at the bottom of the bed were suddenly lifted. "You have more need of this than I." The hot brick, blessedly warm, was thrust up against her bare feet and the covers tucked tightly in again.

Ariel rolled onto her back, stretching her feet around the glorious warmth. She blinked at the shadowy figure standing at the end of the truckle bed. He had a blanket drawn around his shoulders. "My thanks, sir."

"I'm loath to part with it, but I'll get no sleep with your teeth chattering like a pair of castanets," was the amused response. Simon turned back to the fourposter, dragged off the top quilt, and tossed it over the slender frame in the truckle bed. "Now perhaps we may both get some sleep. This has been one of the most tedious days I have spent in many a long year. I'll be right glad when it's over." So saying, he dropped the blanket from his shoulders and swung himself up into his own bed, his lame leg following more slowly than the rest of him so that Ariel caught a glimpse in the shadows of an ugly red rawness snaking up his inner leg.

She closed her eyes tightly. "I could say the same, my lord."

"No doubt."

There was silence in the chamber now, except for the crackle of the fire, but beyond the locked door the sounds of merriment still rose faintly from the Great Hall. Ariel felt curiously secure tucked up in her little servant's bed at the foot of the fourposter, while the shouts, the rocking laughter, the bangs and crashes came from below.

She'd lain listening to such riotous celebrations many a wakeful night in her twenty years, and even behind a locked door, even with the dogs beside her, she hadn't felt truly safe from the wildness. And she had never been able to sleep until the abrupt silence that always fell at dawn. But she was very sleepy now, deliciously languid as the warmth crept through her. So why, even after Oliver's assault, did she know herself tonight to be immune from danger?

The only possible answer lay breathing sonorously above her. She snuggled further down, curling her toes over the hot brick. Her unbedded husband was ugly and lame and a

Hawkesmoor, but it seemed he possessed the most comforting qualities of strength and dependability.

It was past dawn when she awoke to short, soft barks and scratching from beyond the door. The dogs would start quietly, but if she didn't respond at Once, they'd be baying in full cry in no time. Ariel didn't trust the tempers of her brothers or indeed of any of the other heavy-headed guests, who presumably had not been long in their beds, if they were woken by such a racket. Ranulf was as likely as not to burst from his chamber with a pistol in hand to put a summary stop to the noise.

She slid out of the truckle bed, pulling the velvet cloak around her shoulders, and ran to the door. "Hush. Wait a minute," she called urgently, hearing the escalating shrillness in the renewed barking.

She turned back to the room. The Hawkesmoor was still asleep. She remembered that he'd put the key beneath the thick bolster. She flew across to the bed and tried to thrust her hand beneath the bolster on which lay his heavy sleeping head. "Oh, wake up," she muttered. "Or move over." Her fingers slithered under the starched linen.

"Goodness me, has my wife decided to join me in the marital bed after all?" Simon murmured. She hadn't felt him move, but her wrist was caught in the vise of his fingers, and she was aware of their strength as something frightening. She could almost see the fragile bones snapping beneath the pressure.

"I need the key to the door." Something told her that it would be unwise to pull at her imprisoned wrist.

"But if I'd wished you to leave the chamber without my knowledge, I wouldn't have taken the key," he pointed out in tones of sweet reason.

"I have to let the dogs in before they raise the roof," she said urgently. "Please let me have the key. Otherwise they'll wake everyone up and then God only knows what will happen."

Simon released her wrist and sat up, feeling beneath the bolster for the key. "Here." He tossed it to her. She missed the catch and the iron key fell to the floor with a clatter. "Butterfingers," he accused with a lazy grin.

Ariel glared at him, picked up the key, and dived for the door, flinging it open just as Romulus threw back his head and bayed in full throat.

The hounds leaped into the chamber and Ariel slammed the door behind them. They raced and snuffled around the room, jumped up at her with their great paws resting on her cloaked shoulders, smothering her face with sloppy kisses, before turning their attention to the stranger in the bed.

Simon was sitting up against the carved headboard. The quilts lay over his thighs, his torso was bare. "Down," he commanded in his soft voice as the dogs both jumped as one onto the bed.

Ariel waited to see what would happen. The man didn't move, merely repeated his command, and after an instant's hesitation the hounds jumped back to the floor. They sat beside the bed, their heads resting on the quilt, their eyes fixed adoringly on the man.

"Very impressive," Ariel declared, her voice a little thick. She stroked the dogs' heads for something to do with her hands, something to take her eyes off Simon Hawkesmoor's upper body-an overwhelmingly powerful triangle formed by the broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. The muscles rippled smoothly beneath the taut skin, darkly tanned, as if he had spent much time shirtless under a summer sun. His nipples were small and hard, his navel a tight whorl in the hard flatness of his abdomen. It was almost impossible to believe that this man dragged himself around on a cane.

She thought of Oliver's torso. Pale, slender, taut-skinned too, but it lacked the hardness of a man accustomed to using his muscles in heavy physical labor. She had the feeling that this man could as easily turn his hand to a plowshare as wield a massive broadsword. And he would consider neither task inappropriate.

The silence was suddenly oppressive in the dimly lit room. Simon's sea blue eyes rested quizzically on Ariel's face, and Ariel found that she was blushing. She turned away abruptly and went to the armoire.

"How convenient for Becket that the dogs were not with you last evening when he came a-calling."

There was an edge to the voice that sent a shiver down her spine. Did he still then believe that she had invited Oliver to her bed? That she had been a willing partner in the attempt to cuckold her husband?

"Convenient for Oliver, perhaps," she said stiffly, pulling out her riding habit and boots from the armoire. Her husband said nothing. Ariel found hose and a clean shift in the dresser drawer. Then she glanced toward the bed. The man still sat serenely against the bolster as if that taut exchange had not taken place. "I must get dressed and see to my horses," she said.

"Oh? What horses?" He seemed quite unaffected by the overwhelming intimacy of the atmosphere.

"I have horses," she mumbled, bending to rake the ashes and throw fresh kindling on the dying fire.

"We all have horses," he commented dryly.

"Yes, but mine are special." She stuck the poker into the embers until a spark flared.

"In what way special?" His tone was curious, but he still hadn't moved from his casual half-naked position in the bed.

What would it hurt to tell him? If Ranulf had his way, Simon Hawkesmoor had very little time left to live. She caught her breath on the thought. She could not be party to murder, even if she disliked her husband as heartily as she had expected to. Somehow she would circumvent her brothers' evil.

And where would that leave her? Securely married to the earl of Hawkesmoor, of course. She thrust the thought from her; it only made her head ache.

"Special?" he prompted.

No, she could not tell him the whole truth. Not if he was to continue as some kind of force in her life. "It's a hobby of mine. I breed them," she said carelessly. "My brothers pay little heed, and I would prefer it to stay that way. They're brutal riders and I don't want them commandeering my animals."

Simon inclined his head in interested acknowledgment. "You need have no fear I'll blab."

"No," she said, turning suddenly to look at him. "I know that."

"Well, get dressed and go about your business, then. And don't mind me."

Ariel was blushing again. "Would you leave me now?"

He shook his head. "No. I have no bloodstained sheet to wave from the window as triumphant evidence of consummation, but I do intend to broadcast to the world that I spent the night in my wife's bed."

Ariel bit her lip. "Then would you please turn your face to the wall?"

"Forgive me, but on your own admission you have little to be modest about. And I am your husband when all's said and done."

"Do you mock me?" Ariel demanded, her voice somewhat stifled.

"A little, perhaps. But then I believe in turn and turnabout. Do you not, madam wife?"

This was not a man to go into the ring with, clearly. Ariel made no answer, but turned her back to him and reached for her stockings, pulling them on beneath the cover of the cloak. It was harder to put on her shift without dropping the cloak, and she knew there was a moment when the curve of her buttocks and the backs of her thighs were revealed to the man behind her, but she gritted her teeth and refused to think about it. In shift and stockings she felt decently enough clad to abandon the cloak completely, and putting on her riding habit went all the quicker. Finally, and with heartfelt relief, she turned back to the room.

"I can't imagine why you would wish to hide your charms," Simon observed. "From the little I saw, they are well worth displaying."

"You are ungallant, sir." Angrily she began to twist her hair into a thick rope around her head.

Simon merely laughed. "I hardly think a husband's compliments could be considered ungallant, my dear."

Ariel stuck pins in her hair with vicious jabs. Simon watched her, his mouth quirked in a crooked little smile. As she stalked to the door, he said, "I trust you can see your way to performing the more mundane of your wifely duties."

Ariel stopped, her hand on the door. She frowned at him. "Like what?"

He passed a hand over his chin. "I have need of hot water to shave and wash. And I should like to break my fast with ale and meat while I ready myself for the day."

"I will tell them in the kitchen," she said.

Simon shook his head. "No, my dear, it would be most wifely for you to see to your husband's needs yourself. I don't, of course, expect you to struggle upstairs with jugs and bowls of hot water, but all should be at your ordering, and I would have you pour my ale yourself."

Maybe, Ariel thought, she would not attempt to circumvent her brothers' schemes. This husband was all too sure of himself. And he seemed to know how to play this little game he had invented to the letter.

"We have a bargain, I believe," he reminded her gently when she stood clearly wrestling with herself at the door.

Ariel turned on her heel and marched out of the room. They had a bargain and she would honor it. He had rescued her from Oliver, and he was perfectly entitled to refuse to be made a fool of. And in truth, the idea of seeming to frustrate her brothers' nasty little schemes was far from unappealing.

The kitchen was astir, Gertrude and her staff already busy with preparations for the breakfast that would appear in the Great Hall at midmorning. For any who were clearheaded and sufficiently quiet-stomached to enjoy it, Ariel reflected.

"Gertrude, will you prepare a tray for my husband? He would break his fast with ale and meat. Timson, would you take hot water to my chamber? His lordship wishes to shave." Stupidly she again felt herself blushing as she saw how these instructions were received in the kitchen. The little nods and smiles as the folk hurried to do her bidding.

She took a fresh-baked cheese tartlet from the paddle that one of the maids was withdrawing from the bread oven set into the stone wall of the range, then strolled into the pantry for a dipper of new-drawn milk from the churn. It was her usual way of starting the day, since she tended to be up and about long before the main breakfast was eaten.

Then she walked ahead of Timson and the maid who carried the earl of Hawkesmoor's breakfast tray, up the main staircase toward her own chamber. Ranulf's door opened as the little procession approached along the corridor. He stood, disheveled, red eyed, in just his shirt, his long shanks exposed to the cold air whistling along the passage.

"What's that you're doing?" he demanded irritably. "Isn't it bad enough that a man can't get a wink of sleep without those damn dogs of yours bellowing?"

"The dogs are outside now," Ariel said. "And I am taking my husband his shaving water and his breakfast. He finds himself in need of sustenance after such a long and… fruitful… night." She grinned at her brother, unable to help herself, as she saw the chagrin race across his bloodshot eyes.

Ranulf glared, seemed about to say something, then caught the eye of the manservant. With a vile oath he turned back to his own chamber, slamming the door behind him.

Ariel smiled sweetly at the slammed door and thought with pleasure of how furious her brothers were going to be at the assumption that their sister was now truly the wife of

the earl of Hawkesmoor. That satisfaction more than made up for the tedious business of having to go through the motions of performing her wifely duties, Ariel decided, dancing lightly back into her own chamber, where her husband still lay abed.

Chapter Six

Ariel directed the maid to place the tray on the side table. "Will you drink now, my lord?" She turned to the bed, her hand on the ale jug.

Simon nodded. "Thank you." Then he turned to the manservant. "In my chamber you will find my razor and strop on the washstand. Be so good as to bring them in here."

"Aye, my lord." Timson bowed and went off, returning in a minute with the required articles. He set them down beside the hot water. "Will there be anything else, my lord?"

"No, thank you." Simon drank from the tankard Ariel had placed at his hand. "You may go."

"Does that apply to me also, my lord?" Ariel inquired demurely as the door closed behind the servants. "Or is there some other way in which I can serve you?"

"Pass me my chamber robe, if you please."

Ariel handed him the robe he'd been wearing when he'd entered her chamber to tangle with Oliver. Simon shrugged into it, pulling the sides closed over his torso. Then he said with sudden and unusual sharpness, "You had business in the stables, I believe."

Ariel curtsied with more than a hint of irony and left the chamber. Simon pushed aside the covers and slowly swung his legs over the end of the bed. He had not been self-conscious about his unsightly scars in the firelit night, but in the harshness of broad daylight, he found he needed to hide them from the clear gray eyes of his bride. He was always stiff in the morning, too, and he couldn't bear that Ariel, so light and supple herself, should see his grimacing, dragging progress as he forced feeling and movement into his knotted muscles and aching joints.

He had felt no need to hide his weaknesses from Helene, he reflected, swinging his lame leg from the hip, ignoring the screaming pain of his stiffened muscles, knowing that only thus would he restore any fluidity to the limb. But then Helene loved him. She was his friend, closer to him than any battlefield companion, the most beloved of lovers.

Once he'd removed his nighttime stubble, he hobbled across the corridor to his own chamber. He had not stopped for his cane last evening, when he'd heard the sounds from Ariel's chamber. It astonished him now to remember how he'd sprung from his own bed and how rapidly he had managed to get to Ariel's chamber. He had given his body's frailty no thought as he'd snatched up his robe and the small, deadly knife he wore always at his belt, and he'd laid hands on Oliver Becket with a strength born of fury. His responses had been utterly instinctive, just as they were in batde, and not once had he questioned his body's ability to obey those instincts.

It was the first time he had moved with such mindless ease since he'd been so dreadfully wounded at Malplaquet. Even now, he could remember as vividly as if it were still happening the icy dread that had tormented him when he lay in his fever in the hospital tent, surrounded by the screams of the dying, the stench of blood and death, the agonized shrilling of those under the surgeons' knives. His dread had been that he would not die but would live the rest of his days a one-legged cripple, dependent on the charity and kindness of others.

He had refused to allow them to take off the leg, had screamed that he would prefer to die than live unwhole. And because he was the close friend and companion of the duke of Marlborough, they had not dared to gainsay him. He had lived. And he had kept his leg. It was scarred, useless, a dragging pain most of the time, but he still felt himself to be whole.

And somehow, last night, his leg had responded to urgent need and had supported him uncomplaining into the fray.

He was paying for it now, though, he reflected with a grimace, as he dressed laboriously. The limb hurt today almost as much as it had done when he lay bleeding on the battlefield.

Had he stopped a rape last night? Or merely interrupted some mutually enjoyable rough foreplay? He twisted the ends of his cravat loosely and tucked them into his shirtfront in the Steinkirk style. It was a simple fashion that he preferred to the more customary falls of ruffled lace. In essence, it didn't matter what had been going on. What mattered was that he had stopped it, taken the play into his own hands.

He drew a comb through his close-cropped hair. What else did the Ravenspeare brothers have planned for him? He had foiled one humiliation, but there might be other unpleasant surprises in store for him. A month was the devil of a long time to have to spend in the enemy's lair. Yet he could see no way to leave earlier in the face of two hundred guests without appearing a discourteous coward. To the queen it would seem a deliberate rejection of Ravenspeare's lavish gesture of friendship, and that would be handing a neat victory to the enemy.

And just what line was he to take with his bride? She was an intriguing creature. Her air of cool detachment from her surroundings made her seem older than her years, but when she'd danced that wild tarantella with Oliver Becket, she had been all fire and life, a sensual, passionate whirl of flame. An intriguing paradox, and one he had better figure out sooner rather than later.

He found his own friends in the Great Hall when he went down a few minutes later. They did not look as if they had spent a night of debauchery and drinking, which didn't surprise Simon. War had made them all past masters at taking their pleasures with a degree of control.

The well-kempt condition of the Great Hall, however, did surprise him. He'd left it looking like a battlefield, spilled food and wine thick on the floor, benches upturned, littered tables and stained cloths. The riotous assembly had continued until past dawn, so the servants had had little time to achieve the present scene of cleanliness and order. When the masters of a house were as neglectful as the lords of Ravenspeare, their servants tended to reflect their carelessness. But someone in the castle kept a tight hand on the household reins.

The floors had been swept and polished, the long tables scrubbed. The air was sweet with beeswax and lavender. Bread, meat, ale, and coffee were set out on a table before the brightly burning fire, and it was here that the cadre were gathered, breaking their fast before going for a morning ride.

"I give you good morning, Simon." Jack Chauncey greeted him with a wave of his tankard. "Will you break your fast?"

"Thanks, but I've already done so abovestairs." Simon sat on the bench, stretching his aching leg to the fire.

Jack smiled slightly. "You passed a pleasant night, I trust."

Simon merely nodded and his friends understood that he didn't wish to discuss his wedding night.

"Your bride's a beautiful girl, Simon, but I could wish you'd chosen a wife from some other family than these damnable Ravenspeares." Lord Stanton cut into the sirloin before him.

"Aye, they're a vile-mannered crowd," agreed Sir Peter Lancet.

"No more than expected," Simon pointed out, leaning forward to the fire, his hands resting on his knees. "But I suspect they've some tricks up their sleeves."

"You've had wind of treachery, Simon?" Jack looked sharply across the table.

Simon shrugged. "Some. I'd be glad if you'd watch my back."

"That's what we're here for."

There was a short ruminative silence, then the door to the hall crashed open and the two wolfhounds bounded in ahead of their mistress. "There's a real Fen blow going," Ariel declared in explanation for her tempestuous entrance.

"The wind snatched the door from my hand." Her cloak was blown away from her shoulders, her hair torn from its pins, her cheeks pink.

She came up the hall, looking around with a frown. She drew off her gloves and ran a finger over the long mahogany table that stood against the far wall, then pulled the bellrope. A servant appeared almost immediately.

"Paul, the grate is tarnished," she said. "And the andirons haven't been polished."

"I'll see to it directly, Lady Ariel." The man bowed and hurried away, returning in a few minutes to set to work with rag and scouring pad.

Ariel watched him for a second, then nodded as if satisfied, and came to the table. She cast an eye over the platters. "I trust you have everything you need, my lords. It's simple fare at this time of day, but breakfast will be at midmorning."

"You run an admirable household, Lady Hawkesmoor," Jack observed. "I'd never have expected such order so early this morning."

"The servants are accustomed to dealing with my brothers' messes, Lord Chauncey," Ariel said shortly. "If you wish to ride out before breakfast, I will instruct the stables to saddle your horses."

"There's little enough amusement to be had riding in the teeth of a Fen blow, as I recall," Simon observed. He was the only member of the group familiar with the Fenland's irascible and unpredictable weather, and he knew well the miseries of the great dust clouds as the topsoil was ripped from the land by the gale.

"No," Ariel agreed. "But if one stayed indoors whenever the wind got up, one would rarely venture forth. Particularly in winter."

"True enough." Simon bent to massage his aching leg. He had no desire to ride out himself into a wet and freezing gale, but neither did he wish to remain idly in the castle waiting for the malevolent brothers to awake from their drunken stupors.

"If archery appeals to you, my lords, there are targets set up in the far court. It's well sheltered from the wind," Ariel suggested, frowning as she watched Simon rub his leg. She had a salve in the stillroom that would ease the ache, but she would need to administer it herself and she was reluctant to perform such an intimate service.

"Excuse me," she said abruptly. "I have things to do."

Simon watched her walk briskly out of the hall through the door leading to the kitchens, the dogs trotting at her heels. Ariel may have had no female guidance, but it seemed she knew how to manage a large and difficult household. The servants treated her with genuine respect, untinged by the fearful subservience they showed toward their masters.

"Archery, Simon?"

"Aye, by all means." He got to his feet. Practice with both long- and crossbow kept his upper body fit and muscular, maintained the strength in his arms and hands. All he had to rely on these days.

Ariel stayed awhile in the kitchen, but Gertrude had everything in hand both for the breakfast and for the evening's banquet. Ranulf had planned a duck shoot for his guests after breakfast, and to ensure good sport, he had had the gamekeepers decoy flocks of birds into the nearby meres and rivers. His guests would have good sport that afternoon, and the bride and groom would, of course, take part.

Perhaps Ranulf had some nasty surprise planned for his brother-in-law among the reeds, Ariel thought. Should she warn the Hawkesmoor of her brothers' murderous intentions, or let him take his chance? He seemed well able to take a care for himself, and he had his own warrior friends at his back. But if she didn't warn him, and if he did fall into a trap, wouldn't she then be as guilty as those who had set the trap? Was a crime of omission as bad as one of commission? It was a grim dilemma.

But her Arabians would still prove the way out for herself. A thousand guineas for one colt! And she had two more that would be ready for sale in a month, and a mare in foal. If the word spread among the newly growing racing community, she would be able to achieve her independence. She could leave here, leave her husband, set up on her own. If she had financial independence, then she could achieve anything. And if she saved the Hawkesmoor's life, maybe he would even agree to give her her freedom. An unconsummated marriage could be annulled. If she saved her husband from her brothers, he would owe her something.

She became aware of a hand tugging at her skirt and snapped out of her reverie, realizing that she was standing stock-still in the kitchen door and had been for many minutes. "What is it?" She looked down at the grimy child at her knee.

"Me mam," the little girl said. "She's powerful bad. They sent me to fetch yer."

"That's Becky Riordan, m'lady." Gertrude looked up from stirring a cauldron over the fire, her face red, perspiration beading on her forehead. "Her mam's expectin' over Ramsey way."

She'd never have time to get to Ramsey, help the laboring woman, and return to Ravenspeare before the duck hunt. Let alone before breakfast. And if she wasn't here, there would be awkward questions. But Sarah and Jenny could take her place, if she could get them there.

Without further thought she fetched from the storeroom the leather bag that contained her shiny instruments. "Come, Becky." Taking the child's thin hand, she hurried with her to the stables. "Put the gray to the gig, Sam," she instructed a stable lad. She helped the child into the vehicle; the dogs leaped, barking around the wheels, and streaked off along the narrow cart track as their mistress drove hell for leather toward the village.

The cottage seemed even lonelier than ever, perched on its hillock above the dike, with the wind howling, whipping up the still waters of the river, and carrying clouds of dust across the flat lands stretching to either side.

Despite the wind, Jenny stood at the cottage gate. Her uncanny ability to sense when someone turned onto the track leading to her mother's house had obviously been keener than ever this morning.

"Is it you, Ariel?" she called, smiling, as Ariel drew rein at the gate. Without waiting for a reply, she opened the gate. The wolfhounds bounded through, pausing to rub their heads against the woman's worsted skirt in greeting.

"Good day, Jenny." Ariel sprang down from the gig.

"Who's with you?" Jenny turned her blind eyes to the gig. They were large and beautiful, light blue with deep dark pupils, and if one didn't know they were sightless, it would be impossible to tell.

"Becky Riordan." Ariel swung the child down as she explained the situation. "If you and Sarah would go to the woman, I could take you in the gig and be back at Ravenspeare in time for the shoot," she finished, walking with Jenny up the path to the cottage.

"Mother, it's Ariel," Jenny called as they crossed the threshold into the dim interior, lit in the daylight only by a rush lamp and the glow of the fire. The small windows were shuttered against the wind, and the single room was small, sparsely furnished, but the earth floor was swept clean and the air was fragrant with the racks of drying herbs set above the fireplace.

Sarah came forward quickly, holding out her hands. She took Ariel's in a firm clasp, smiling silently, but her eyes were as sharp as ever as she scrutinized the girl's face. It was the first time she'd seen her since her marriage, and she found herself looking for some sign of her new status upon the girl's fresh bloom. But she could see nothing unusual.

And then her eyes dropped to Ariel's hands still clasped within her own, and that deep shuddering began again in her belly. She stared at the serpent bracelet on Ariel's wrist. She touched it, raised her eyes inquiringly.

"Ranulf gave it to me," Ariel said, holding the bracelet up to the light. "He gave it to me as a betrothal gift, but I haven't worn it until now… or at least not until the wedding. It's strange but rather fascinating, don't you think?"

Ranulf Ravenspeare had given it to Ariel? How could it be that the bracelet had passed from the man she had given it to into the hands of the Ravenspeares?

"Ranulf said it was a family heirloom, but I'd never seen it before," Ariel continued, for a moment unaware of the older woman's silent turmoil. "He gave me my own charm, though." She touched the silver rose. "That's quite beautiful, don't you think?"

Sarah nodded but her smile was effortful.

"Are you unwell?" Ariel said swiftly, bending to kiss the faded cheek. "I am come on an errand of mercy, but if you cannot manage to go, I'll go with Jenny."

Sarah shook her head and her smile strengthened. She gestured inquiringly at the child clinging to Ariel's skirts, her eyes wide with a fearful curiosity. All the local children knew of the two women herbalists who dwelt among the reeds. The one who never spoke, the other who couldn't see. No evil was known of them-on the contrary, they were renowned for their healing skills-but they were strange folk and people called upon them with mixed emotions.

Jenny explained the situation to her mother as she moved efficiently around the interior of the cottage, filling a basket with what she deemed they might need to help the laboring woman. On her own ground, Jenny's sightlessness was no handicap. "Ariel must be at her own wedding celebrations," she said, reaching up for a bunch of dried thyme. When crushed and warmed in melted honey, the herb made a drink that could relax cramping muscles.

Sarah nodded and set about her own preparations. A few minutes later the women and child left the cottage. Sarah closed the door but made no attempt to lock it. They had little enough to steal and no enemies. They climbed into the gig and Ariel turned the patient pony in the narrow track.

She glanced up at the sky when they reached the main road, if such a narrow unpaved track could be so called. It was overcast but the wind was dying down and the faintest shadow of light was diffused behind the clouds. Ariel judged it to be close on midmorning. It would take half an hour to reach Ramsey. She must stay awhile and give her own opinion and advice on the situation. Another three quarters of an hour back to Ravenspeare. Breakfast would be well over by the time she reached the castle. The absence of the bride at the board, for the first meal after her wedding night, would draw remark, but it couldn't be helped.

In fact, she stayed much longer than she'd expected to at the side of Becky's mother. The woman lay on a mattress on the floor beside the fire. Chickens, coming in out of the cold, scratched unheeded around her. Her six other children wandered in and out of the cottage, letting in icy blasts that sent the green logs in the fireplace spluttering. The woman's husband sat in a corner, puffing on a clay pipe, drinking from an ale pot, heedless of the whimpering children or his moaning wife. When the three women came in, ducking under the low lintel, he took their arrival as his own cue to leave the scene of pain and struggle and seek out his own companions in the tavern.

With an inarticulate grunt, he slouched out, on his way clouting a child who had had the temerity to stumble into his path. The toddler set up a shriek of indignation, and little Becky scooped him up and thrust a crust of bread in his mouth.

Ariel was used to such scenes. She took off her jacket, rolled up her sleeves, and bent over the writhing woman. Sarah and Jenny unpacked their medicines. As a pair, they moved seamlessly, Sarah as her daughter's eyes, Jenny her mother's tongue.

"It's a breach," Ariel said, sitting back on her heels, a worried frown creasing her brow. Alice Riordan screamed a high, unearthly shriek. Ariel wiped her brow, the flecks of foam from her lips.

" 'Twas the same with 'er last two," a voice muttered from a dark corner. An old crone whom they hadn't noticed before pulled herself up from her rocker and tottered across to the fire. She stood looking down at the suffering woman with an expression both detached and compassionate. "Rub 'er belly with pig fat, that's what I'd do."

It was a common enough folk remedy but one that seemed singularly pointless to Ariel; however, sometimes it seemed to soothe the laboring woman. "If you think it'll help, Granny, I should do it," she said, helping Jenny lift the laboring woman so that Sarah could slip beneath her back the thick pad that would elevate her hips.

"You'd best be on your way, Ariel." Jenny stripped the leaves from a bunch of herbs, tossing them into a pot of hot water. "Mother and I can manage."

Ariel looked doubtful. "It might need the forceps." She was much more sure-handed with the birthing instruments than the other two women.

Sarah, on her knees before the laboring woman, shook her head vigorously. Her hands were on the woman's belly, shiny now with pig fat, her mouth pursed with concentration as she felt the contractions.

"Mother doesn't think so," Jenny declared. "We'll manage, Ariel."

Ariel still hesitated. She would much prefer to stay here in this fetid cottage, doing what she was good at, than return to the devious morass of murderous intrigue at Ravenspeare Castle. The situation here was straightforward. It would result in life or death, but the choices and their consequences were clear. In the world at Ravenspeare, there was no such clarity. But it had to be faced sometime. She couldn't always avoid her own grim situation by plunging herself into the problems of others.

"I'll send Sam back with the gig to take you home," she said, picking up her coat from the floor. "He'll bring calf's-foot jelly and provisions for the family."

"Aye, and if you've a lump of Old Man, it won't come amiss." Jenny stood up and accompanied her to the door, her voice now low. "She'll need to sleep if she comes through this, and that husband of hers'll be on top of her again before she's healed."

"I'll send some with Sam. Make sure her husband doesn't get hold of it." The opiate locally known as Old Man was much prized among Fen folk suffering from the agues and fevers that the marsh seemed to breed, but Ariel had noticed that people became quickly accustomed to it, and the more they used it, the more they needed to take of it to dull their pain.

She took Jenny's hand in farewell, then the other woman returned to the sickroom. One of Becky's little brothers was holding the gray's bridle, although the pony was securely tethered to a sapling. The boy looked expectantly at Ariel, stretching out a grimy claw.

"Enterprising little lad, aren't you?" Ariel observed with a slight laugh. She handed him a penny and untethered the pony. The child grinned and ran off down the street, his bare feet flying over the ice-hard mud.

Ariel shook the reins and the pony broke into a trot. As if on signal, Romulus and Remus bounded out of a narrow lane between two cottages and took up their places on either side of the gig.

It was close to noon when the gig turned into the stable-yard of Ravenspeare Castle. Lord Roland was examining the fetlock of one of his hunters. As his sister jumped down from the gig, he came over to her, his expression hard.

"Where have you been, sister? It's unseemly you should absent yourself from the celebrations that are in your honor."

"I take little honor from celebrations like last evening's," Ariel said tartly. "They were more designed to do me insult than honor. Me and my bridegroom." She raised an eyebrow at her brother. She feared Roland less than Ranulf. He was not so quick to raise his hand. Ralph she despised, but he was unpredictable when drunk and she was generally careful not to provoke him.

"You are insolent, sister." But Lord Roland didn't sound as if he cared particularly. He took snuff, examining his sister with a curious intentness in his gray eyes. "I understand you passed the night with the Hawkesmoor."

"I believe it's customary on a bridal night for the bride and groom to share a bed, brother." She handed the reins of the gig to Sam and stepped away from the gig. The wolfhounds were at her heels, watchful.

"You were to pass your wedding night with Oliver Becket." Roland never measured his words with his sister. Unlike Ranulf, he had too much respect for her intelligence to beat about the bush.

Ariel smiled. "My husband had other ideas." She turned toward the stables. "Ideas he proved perfectly capable of putting into practice." She left Roland standing in the middle of the yard and went to give Sam instructions about going to Ramsey and what he was to take with him.

Lord Roland slapped the back of one gloved hand into the palm of the other. Partly in anger, partly in reluctant amusement. Ariel would lead a man a merry dance if she was so inclined. Ranulf was furious at the upset of his little plan. Oliver was livid, but Roland guessed that mortification fueled his rage. He had been bested by the Hawkesmoor and nothing could conceal that fact. There was no getting away from it-the man had proved himself more of a problem than had been anticipated.

And Ariel? What game was she playing?

Roland strode out of the stableyard, back to the castle. In the inner courtyard, gamekeepers and dogs milled on the grassy square, while the guests joining the wild-fowling party drank mulled wine against the cold and stamped their booted feet. Servants carried their fowling pieces and game bags.

The earl of Hawkesmoor stood to one side with his own friends. Roland made his way over to them. "I'm sure you'll be glad to hear that your bride has seen fit to return, Hawkesmoor."

"It hadn't occurred to me that she might not," Simon returned easily. "She doesn't strike me as a creature of random impulse."

"But as yet you know little of your bride." Oliver spoke, sneering as he stepped up to them "I assure you, Hawkesmoor, that those of us who know Ariel well, know all the little twists and turns and vagaries of the girl's character."

"Then I have that pleasure in store," Simon replied. He smiled, but there was something in his eyes that made Oliver draw back his head as if from a rearing cobra.

"A shared pleasure lacks a certain something, I always find," Oliver said. There was a rustle of indrawn breath from the circle of listeners. The earl of Hawkesmoor's smile didn't waver.

"Generosity is the gift of kings, Becket." He turned his back slowly and deliberately and walked away.

Chapter Seven

Ranulf stood at the door to the Great Hall. He stared out over the thronged courtyard, and when he saw Ariel appear from the direction of the stables, he descended the steps and moved purposefully toward her. She was weaving her way through the crowd, the dogs at her heels, a preoccupied frown on her face.

"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 lip. 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.

"You are a brute," Ariel declared with throbbing ferocity. "He's in a muck sweat."

"Well, it was your idea to race," Oliver said, sounding sulky as a schoolboy who knows he's in the wrong.

"I was not racing. I was merely letting Diana have her head. I was not issuing any invitations!"

"Since when did that stop?" Oliver demanded with a smirk. "You've always been very free with your invitations, bud." He glanced sideways at Simon, who sat his horse, unmoving beside them, then Oliver wrenched his horse's head around and rode back to the cavalcade still some distance behind them.

"Such an unpleasant, boorish individual," Simon remarked. "But perhaps there's another side to him?" He raised an eyebrow quizzically.

Ariel felt herself blushing again. "I would count it a favor, my lord, if Oliver Becket were not mentioned between us again."

"That might be a little difficult, given our present situation," Simon said. "But perhaps if you held yourself aloof from him, then it might be easier to ignore him."

"Are you suggesting that I encourage him?" she demanded, sparks of flame like shooting stars bright against the gray of her almond-shaped eyes.

"I am saying that you should be careful not to put yourself into situations that could be misinterpreted," Simon explained. "Taking off as you just did could easily be assumed as an invitation to follow."

"One I see that you took up," she responded, her lips pressed tight. "If you disapproved of my gallop, sir, I wonder why you would have joined it."

"Better your husband should race with you, dear girl, than your would-be lover." He turned his horse back toward the approaching party. "Come. Let's join the others, and let's try to look as if we're in accord."

Ariel muttered something less than polite under her breath but set the roan to trot after him. It was true that for a moment she'd forgotten all but the excitement of the race. There had always been an edge to her dealings with Oliver- a competitive, challenging edge that had only made them more exciting. And when she'd heard him pounding the turf behind her, she'd felt the same pure thrill of exhilaration that she'd experienced when dancing with him the previous evening. But it was only a flash of pleasure, and it was now inevitably followed by a sour self-distaste. She was beginning to wonder now how she could ever have yielded to Oliver. And how much had that yielding been orchestrated by her brothers? She had been led by the nose, even while she had thought she was responding simply out of her own instinctive passion.

But her brothers wouldn't do it again. The promise lifted her spirits somewhat. She would not play the pander in their games with Lord Hawkesmoor. At least, she amended, not again. She'd allowed herself to be used because she'd been so wrapped up in her own concerns that she hadn't given the situation proper attention. From now on, nothing would slip past her, and she'd plan her own escape from the morass as soon as she could put the pieces together.

"That was a mad ride, sister. Just look at the condition of Oliver's horse," Ralph called to her as she rode up. His eyes, half shut against the feeble sunlight, squinted at her. He was very drunk already, unless he hadn't sobered up after the previous night, Ariel reflected acidly.

"The condition of Oliver's horse has nothing to do with me, Ralph. I wasn't riding him." She looked in disgust at Oliver, who was still flailing at his windblown nag. "I would never have been stupid enough to imagine any horse in Oliver's stable could beat Diana."

"Then it would be only neighborly to gift me with one of your precious beasts," Oliver snarled. "Don't you think, Ravenspeare?"

Ranulf smiled. "How about it, sister? Not quite the ride he's accustomed to, but a consolation prize, perhaps?"

There was a burst of knowing laughter from the group of Ravenspeare intimates at this coarse sally. Sly looks were cast in the direction of the earl of Hawkesmoor, but he appeared to be deep in conversation with Lord Stanton, oblivious of the talk around him.

He must have heard, though. Ariel said sweetly, "I trust my horses only to the most accomplished riders. I'm afraid that Oliver has never impressed me with his skill. He lacks a certain finesse, I find." She watched the effect of this measured insult with naked satisfaction. Oliver paled, a white shade around his mouth. Ranulf looked as if he would cheerfully murder his sister, but her remark had been greeted with snorts of appreciative laughter from the audience, and neither man could react with anger without looking even more foolish.

Simon still appeared deaf, but when Ariel dropped back a little to ride at his side, he gave her a look that would have turned cream to whey. She had been smiling with pleasure at her riposte, expecting her husband to appreciate the speed and wit with which she'd crushed her opponents and defended his honor. Instead he was looking at her as if she were a particularly lowly member of the insect family. Even Lord Stanton was looking grave and didn't return her smile.

Ariel couldn't understand why she was suddenly submerged in unspoken reproof, but she set her teeth and raised her chin, studiously ignoring her companions until they reached the shore of the large mere where they were to try for the first sport of the afternoon.

"A thousand guineas for one colt!" Ranulf exclaimed incredulously.

"Aye, m'lord. Thought you might find it interestin'." The man's tone was both wheedling and sly. He stood in the stable-yard, holding the long stilts that he'd worn to stride over the treacherous marshes that separated his tumbledown peat cutter's cottage from the grandeur of Ravenspeare Castle.

Ranulf drove his hands into the deep pockets of his coat. It was evening and a chill wind gusted around the stables. Stan had been waiting for him when the duck shoot had returned at dusk, and the earl had guessed immediately from the man's shifty grin that he had information to sell.

"Mr. Carstairs is powerful anxious to set up 'is own stud," Stan continued, a touch desperate in his eagerness to convince his lordship of the value of his information. The earl was not overly generous at the best of times and had been known to refuse to pay more than a groat for some kernel of local gossip that Stan had valued considerably higher. "'E likes the lines of 'er ladyship's 'osses. For racin' an' such like." He looked anxiously at the earl, who was scowling in the flickering light of a pitch torch set beside him.

Horse racing was becoming increasingly popular among the gentry, ever since the introduction of the Darley Arabian into the English blood lines five years previously. Stan had heard tell that the queen herself was considering establishing a horse race at Ascot, near London. He waited.

Ranulf turned on his heel and strode across the yard to the block where Ariel kept her own hobby horses. Hobby! he thought with a grim smile. All along that artful child had been breeding a highly prized strain right under his eyes. And now she looked to turn a handsome profit.

He strolled down the line of stalls, aware of Edgar dogging his heels. His previous visits had always been made out of mild curiosity, but this evening he looked with different eyes. There was only one weaned colt, and even a cursory glance was sufficient to tell that he was a beautiful animal. Just when had Ariel managed to make the contacts that had brought her such a lucrative sale? Whom did she know who could facilitate such a business? John Carstairs and his young family had but recently joined the neighborhood, inheriting the estate of a distant cousin. The reclusive and suspicious Fen folk were still suspending judgment on the newcomers. But Ariel seemed to have no such reticence. His little sister's daily activities obviously would bear greater scrutiny than he'd accorded them hitherto.

He moved casually along the stalls, deciding that he would not let on to anyone-not even his brothers-that he knew about the sale of the colt, or, indeed, that he knew anything about his devious little sister's business on the side. There had to be some profit to be made for himself out of Ariel's activities.

With a careless nod at the watchful groom, he left the long, narrow building. Horse thieves abounded in the Fens. What would be more natural than that Ariel's stud should be raided on occasion? He could send the stolen animals downriver to the family shipyard at Harwich. They could be shipped to the Hook of Holland and sold profitably on the continent, and if the stolen stock didn't appear in English stables, no one, least of all Ariel, would be able to trace the thefts to the castle itself.

He was smiling as he emerged into the cold evening and Stan stepped anxiously toward him. "I trust the information's of use, m'lord."

"It might be," Ranulf said distantly, withdrawing his purse from his pocket. "But if anyone else gets to hear of it, I'll have your ears sliced for vagrancy, you understand?"

As the local magistrate, the earl of Ravenspeare could do that and more. Stan nodded his head vigorously. "Mum's the word, m'lord. You know ol' Stan. Silent as the grave." He held out his hand, his eyes glittering, for the silver coin that the earl dropped into his outstretched palm. Then he hoisted himself onto his stilts and strode off like a circus acrobat to be swallowed up in the Fen night.

Ranulf returned to the castle. The musicians were already playing for the evening's festivities, the long tables set for the banquet. Servants hurried around the Great Hall with trays of wine, mead, and brandy for the guests already gathered there. Most had changed from their outdoor garb into the rich brocades and velvets of evening. It was a wedding after all, although there was as yet no sign of the bride and groom.

Ranulf, having been delayed by Stan, was still mud bespattered. He made his way to his own chamber, his smile fading. His little sister was becoming a damnable nuisance!

Ranulf scrubbed his face dry and took the clean shirt from his attentive servant. Why, in direct defiance of her brother's instructions and family loyalties, had she succumbed to the Hawkesmoor in the bridal bed? And not only that, but her tongue was becoming cursed sharp. To make public game of Oliver in that fashion, and in front of the poxed Hawkesmoor and his cadre! It wasn't to be tolerated.

He sat down on a stool, sticking out his foot so that his servant could pull off his filthy boots. His expression was dark and the manservant cringed, expecting from long experience that the sudden storm would break over his head at the slightest provocation.

Ranulf was thinking that the sooner Ariel was widowed, the better. He had intended with the gift of the charm bracelet and the precious silver rose to buy her passive cooperation, but it seemed he had miscalculated. And now that he knew about the stud, he had even more reason to keep his sister tied to Ravenspeare. It was unthinkable that she, her loathsome husband, her dowry of the disputed land, and all the riches of an Arabian stud should decamp to Hawkesmoor, there to live in wealth and harmony…

It was unthinkable! And until this moment, the thought had indeed never entered Ranulf's head-any more than had the thought that he might not have his sister firmly under his control.

But Ariel had proved herself a devious, cunning creature. What if she had already conceived? He went cold at the thought. If Ariel carried a Hawkesmoor child, then the Ravenspeare land that made up her dowry was forfeit under the marriage settlements to her husband's family. The child of a damned Hawkesmoor would inherit land that belonged to Ravenspeare-no matter that the child bore Ravenspeare blood. It was impossible, without Ariel's cooperation, to keep her from her bridegroom's bed. Such a scandal would reach the queen's ears and all would be lost.

Simon Hawkesmoor must be removed without delay. And if Ariel carried a child, then that too must be eliminated.

It was high time to bring Ariel to heel again, but first he'd have to get rid of those damned dogs. He didn't know why he hadn't taken care of them months before. He would teach his defiant sister where her loyalties and her obedience lay.

His small mouth was a thin line, but the satisfaction of purpose gleamed in his narrow gray eyes as he adjusted his wig, arranging the ringlets to fall on his shoulders, giving a certain fullness to his sharp-featured, angular countenance.

It was with great relief that the manservant saw his master out of the chamber five minutes later without the expected explosion.

Chapter Eight

"For God's sake, man, be sensible!" Jack Chauncey allowed his exasperation free rein. "You're in agony. You can hardly move your leg. What possible good will it do you to go belowstairs for another evening of fruitless and debauched junketing?"

"It'll do me more good than cowering up here," Simon declared through clenched teeth. He was lying back on a chaise longue, trying to flex his lame leg. An afternoon in the damp miasma of a Fenland mere had played merry hell with his shattered limb. "I'll not be beaten by the Ravenspeares, Jack. I'll not have false pity and behind-the-hand laughter directed at me. 'A fine virile husband he makes, the Hawkesmoor,'" he mimicked. '"Hobbling on his stick, can't stand upright most of the time, a pathetic-'"

"Oh, hold your tongue, Simon!" Jack interrupted, giving up the attempt to make the man see reason. He seized Simon's foot, flexing it against his shoulder. "Push."

Simon gritted his teeth and pushed. The wasted calf muscles tightened agonizingly but he continued, fighting through the pain. Sometimes it was worse than others and this evening was about as bad as it had ever been. His mouth took a wry turn as it occurred to him that on top of the afternoon's damp he was probably suffering the aftereffects of his gallant dash to his bride's rescue the previous night. The muscles were clenched into a tight knot so that he could hardly bear to straighten the calf without crying out, and his knee felt as if scalding pincers were at work beneath the skin. But he knew from bitter experience that if he gave in to the pain, he would be bedridden for several days.

A knock at the door brought a snarling denial to his lips. "Leave me!"

Jack raised his eyes heavenward. "It's probably Stanton to see if you need help getting downstairs."

Simon grimaced. "Open it then, but don't let anyone else in."

Ariel stepped swiftly into the chamber as Jack opened the door, not giving him time to deny her entrance. She had a basket over her arm. "You seemed to be in pain when you dismounted, my lord. I can ease your leg, if you would have me do so."

"I have no need of anything." Simon glowered as he tried to pull a rug up over his exposed leg. "Leave me, please."

Ariel set her basket down on the floor beside the chaise. She had changed out of her riding habit and now wore a gown of pale blue silk opened over a white lace underskirt, over which she had wrapped a white holland apron. Her hair was drawn up into a knot on top of her head with a fringe of curls clustering on her brow and around her ears.

Even in his pain and irritated dismay, Simon could appreciate the daintiness and elegance of her attire. She had clearly taken to heart the morning's discussion over her scruffy riding habit.

"I have some skill in these matters," she said with a briskness designed to hide her own hesitation in offering the intimate attention necessary to give him ease.

"My needs go far beyond a housewife's stillroom skills, girl," he said with a sardonic laugh. "Your husband, my dear, is a sad cripple, not to be eased with simples."

"I understand," she replied, reaching to twitch aside the rug. "And my skills go much further than the stillroom."

He pushed her hand away roughly as she took hold of the covering. "I said, leave me be."

Ariel sucked in her lower lip, regarding him in frowning silence for a minute. She held her hands loosely clasped and Simon was momentarily distracted by the bracelet encircling one slender wrist. He'd seen it somewhere before, he'd swear to it.

"Are you embarrassed by your wound?"

His harsh laugh grated again. "How should I be? A man in his prime reduced to a helpless cripple with a wasted leg! Some kind of a bridegroom I make!" He knew his bitterness was fueled by pain, but as always, this was the one thing he couldn't control.

"I think you should leave, ma'am." Jack spoke gently, taking her arm. "Simon is a bad patient and always has been." He tried to soften the rejection with a conspiratorial chuckle. "I swear he's more ill-tempered than a wounded bear."

Ariel resisted the pressure to move her back to the door. "It's a wife's duty to tend to her husband."

"When you take up your place under my roof, madam, then shall you play a wife's part," Simon declared with another raw excuse for a laugh. "For the moment, I bid you leave me to my friends. They know well what to do for me."

Ariel silently picked up her basket again and returned to her own room. Of all the stubborn, prideful men! He was in obvious agony, she knew precisely how to soothe his hurts, and he wouldn't take her help because he was afraid she'd be disgusted by the sight of his wound.

Or was it because he couldn't bear to accept her help? She was a Ravenspeare, and she must not be a witness to his mortifying weakness.

He wouldn't give her brothers the satisfaction of seeing that their taunts needled him, and he had foiled the nastiest of their schemes so far. She knew that he wasn't sure yet what part she had played in last evening's attempt to humiliate him. It was only natural that he should keep her and her offers of help at arm's length.

"If your wife has skill with medicines, man, you could do worse than let her minister to you," Jack scolded, returning to Simon's side. "I know little of how to ease you, and I'm damn sure all this pushing and prodding you insist on doing isn't particularly helpful. It just causes you more pain, as I can see."

"Oh, cease your railing." Simon sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the chaise with a grimace of pain. "Help me get dressed. I'll not have it said that the bridegroom is too weak to attend his own wedding feasts."

"Sometimes I think you have no more sense than a child." Jack gave him his arm, supporting the man as he stood up.

Simon gritted his teeth as he put his bad leg to the floor. "Give me my cane."

Jack handed it to him and watched with long-suffering resignation as Simon tottered around the chamber, trying to avoid putting weight on his lame leg.

"All right, I think I can pull this off without looking too pathetic," Simon muttered. "Help me with my stockings and britches, if you please." He sat down on the edge of the bed. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, and his skin had a gray cast.

Jack drew the woolen stockings over Simon's legs. He was so used to the serpentine scar, a scarlet cicatrix against the pale, wasted flesh, that he barely noticed it anymore. He tried to be gentle but he knew how much pain he was causing his friend as he manipulated the stocking over the twisted knee.

"God's grace, man, but you've missed your calling as a nursemaid." Simon offered a twisted grin as Jack efficiently drew on his britches, fastening the buttons at his waist. "You'll be washing behind my ears next."

"Oh, do stop your complaining, Simon! You're damn lucky to have any friends, such a grouse you are." Jack handed him his coat, his smile doing nothing to hide his concern. "Are you sure you can manage to sit through the evening?"

"Of course." Simon clasped his friend's arm briefly. "Take no notice of my grouches, Jack."

"I don't," the other said. "If I did, you'd see neither hide nor hair of me… of any one of us." He put his shoulder beneath Simon's hand. "You can lean on me until you get to the stairs. No one will remark it."

But Ariel, the dogs sitting at her heels, was waiting outside her chamber when Simon's door opened and the two men emerged. "We should go down together, my lord," she said with a cool smile. "Since we're presenting a united front to the world." She stepped up beside him, saying to Jack, "I will give my husband my arm. No one will consider it in the least strange."

Jack looked doubtful, but Ariel pushed aside his hand and took Simon's arm beneath the elbow. "Shall we go, sir?"

Simon was immediately aware of the strength not only in her grip but in the slim frame beside him. It was more that she seemed to know how to use her strength to best purpose than a question of brute power, he thought, intrigued despite his reluctance to accept her help.

"I believe Simon is too heavy for you to support, ma'am," Jack demurred.

"It seems not," Simon said with a slight quirk of his lips. "Ariel is not the airborne sprite her appearance and her name might lead one to believe."

"I for one have never encouraged such a whimsical notion," Ariel retorted. "But then I happen to be a very down-to-earth kind of person. I don't fret about circumstances that can't be helped, and I know when it's in everyone's best interests to swallow my pride and accept what help is offered me."

"Oh, that's telling you, Simon," Jack chortled.

"Well, I've no time for false pride," Ariel declared as they reached the head of the stairs. "If you give Lord Chauncey your stick, take hold of the banister rail, and lean on me on your other side, you can descend these stairs as nimbly as a mountain goat."

"Such confidence." Simon found that he was smiling despite his pain. Such recrimination from this young thing was absurd, and yet there was something about her that inspired confidence.

He eased himself onto the bench at the top table, returning the greetings of his table companions.

Ariel sat beside him and clicked her tongue at the hounds, who immediately lay at her feet.

"I won't have those damned dogs under the table," Ranulf declared. "The dining hall is no place for them."

"Yours are not banished, brother," Ariel returned sweetly, indicating the pack of spaniels roaming among the tables.

"They are not the size of small horses," Ranulf said.

"But mine are sitting quietly. Yours are in the way of the servants, and they're begging." Her voice was now sharp. "Mine are perfectly well behaved."

"I will not have them at my table." Ranulf snapped his fingers at a servant. "Take Lady Ariel's dogs and shut them up in the stables."

Ariel pushed back her chair, her face aflame. "You will do no such thing. My dogs stay with me."

"Then perhaps, sister, you would prefer to take your meat in the stable with them." Ranulf half rose from his chair.

"This is an unseemly brawl." Simon's voice cut like acid through the seething tension.

Simon couldn't believe that this quarrel was taking place between brother and sister in the middle of a banquet with some two hundred observers. He looked around and saw that only his own friends seemed to be shocked. The other diners appeared merely curious to see who would win the argument.

"Take the hounds to your chamber," he instructed Ariel softly.

She turned on him, her eyes blazing with fury. He said in the same low voice, "You only demean yourself by responding. Why would you play your brother's game?"

Ariel remembered his cold displeasure that afternoon when she'd made mock of Oliver and answered her brother's coarseness with some of her own. She glanced at Ranulf, red faced, blear-eyed, utterly menacing at the head of the table.

She slid out from the bench, signaled the hounds to follow her, and, straight backed, head high, she left the hall.

Ranulf reached for the wine bottle and refilled his glass. He drained the contents in one gulp. "She's an insolent creature, your wife, Hawkesmoor. I wish you joy of her… always assuming you prove strong enough to ensure her exclusive devotion." His offensive laugh was echoed around the table.

Simon ignored him as he'd ignored so many other taunts, merely turned with a comment to Lord Stanton, and continued with his dinner.

Ariel returned in a few minutes, sat down again, and took up her goblet. She looked with distaste at the food on her plate. She'd been ravenous an hour ago, but now all appetite had vanished.

"You are not eating?"

"I'm not hungry." She gave her husband a quick sideways glance.

Simon reached for the wine flagon and filled her glass. He said quietly, "Sometimes it's better to let things be, my dear girl."

"Why would you let an injustice stand?" Ariel demanded, glad to get the issue into the open.

"There are some things that aren't worthy of response. By responding to them, you only demean yourself." He looked steadily at her and she felt her color mounting.

"You're saying I shouldn't have answered Ralph and Oliver this afternoon?"

"Yes, that is exactly what I'm saying."

Ariel dropped her eyes to her plate, unable to meet his steady gaze. Could he be right? She'd always prided herself on meeting her brothers on their own terms. But was she stooping to their level? It was a viewpoint that had never crossed her mind before. And she didn't like its implications one bit.

"Let me debone one of these excellent brook trout for you," he said in a completely different tone, suiting action to words. "Are they locally caught?"

Ariel didn't answer immediately. She seemed less able than he to switch moods. Her eyes fixed upon his large fingers, as deft at his task as if he were sewing a fine seam. The comparison made her smile and her tension eased a little. Such large knuckles, such plain square nails, such callused fingers juxtaposed with an embroidery needle was too absurd an image.

Oliver's hands were white, long-fingered, and soft. But they were not always either deft or gentle. Somehow, Ariel couldn't imagine Simon's swordsman's hands ever making a movement that wasn't carefully ordered. They would never be accidentally rough, and if he used them to hurt, there would always be good and sufficient reason.

Again that little shudder rippled cold across her skin. It was the shuddering thrill of mingled apprehension and excitement. Her body responding to the imagined feel of those hands moving over her.

"Are you cold?" He slid the filleted trout onto her plate.

"No." She shook her head vigorously, her cheeks now pink as if she were overheated. "The trout are caught in the Great Ouse about five miles away." She took her fork to the fish, forgetting she wasn't hungry in her anxiety to do something to cover her confusion.

"That's an intriguing bracelet you wear." Simon's fingers lightly brushed over the delicate, pearl-encrusted gold strands.

Ariel laid down her fork and held up her wrist so that the candlelight caught the gold, the translucent glow of pearl, and the silver sparkle of the rose with its blood red center. "A present from Ranulf."

"Aye, sister." Ranulf boomed down the table, his voice slightly slurred. "A present from your brother. Take heed you appreciate it."

Ariel's lips thinned. "I am ever appreciative of your gifts, Ranulf. They have a great rarity value." She felt her husband stiffen beside her, and deliberately he returned his attention to his plate. "I suppose you're going to say I shouldn't have responded," she whispered. "But you don't understand the situation."

"Don't I?" He turned toward her again, his eyes scanning her face. "If there is anything I should understand, please enlighten me."

Ariel felt the telltale color mounting yet again. "You should understand that my brothers are not contented with this match, sir."

He nodded. "Aye, that I had understood. It was somewhat forced upon Ranulf."

"By the queen, as I understand it."

"Her Majesty certainly had her say," he replied, deliberately noncommittal.

"But it was not forced also upon you?"

He shook his head, and his crooked smile enlivened his somber countenance. "No, Ariel. It was not forced upon me. In truth, it was my idea."

"But why?" Unthinking, she laid her hand on his arm. The bracelet gleamed against the dark brown velvet.

"I had a mind to make peace between our two families." He shook his head, his smile becoming sardonic. "A piece of naivete worthy of a village idiot."

Ariel's hand dropped from his sleeve. She picked up her fork again and poked at the fish on her plate. "I do not see how there can ever be peace when so much blood and treachery lies between Hawkesmoors and Ravenspeares."

Simon took up his goblet, turning it slowly between his hands, watching the swirling ruby currents against the candlelight. "And love also. Your mother and my father were lovers. They died for that love."

"It was a dishonorable love. Your father seduced-"

"Enough." He broke sharply into her fervent speech. "This doesn't lie between us, Ariel. If there was fault in either one, it went to the grave with them." He drank deeply of his wine and addressed a question to one of his friends across the table.

Ariel drank her own wine. She broke a piece of bread between her fingers and rolled the soft dough into little pellets while the conversation rose and fell around her. If she didn't believe that her mother had been a helpless woman, seduced, raped, dishonored by a scoundrel, then she must believe that her mother went with wholehearted joy into the arms of the Hawkesmoor. It was not possible for her brothers to believe that, any more than it had been possible for their father. He had killed the Hawkesmoor for dishonoring his wife, and Margaret's death had been a dreadful accident. Or so he had always said.

But was it true? Or had a man and a woman put aside the hatred between their families and surrendered to a forbidden passion?

She had never thought of it that way before. She had received the family version as if it were holy writ. Unthinking, she flicked a bread pellet between finger and thumb. It landed in the middle of her husband's platter of venison.

Startled, he looked down at this suddenly arrived foreign body before turning inquiringly to his wife.

"My apologies, sir. I can't think how it happened." He looked so astounded that a gurgle of mischievous laughter lurked in her voice. She reached over to his plate with her fork and fished out the bread pellet.

"Playing with one's food is behavior better suited to the nursery," her husband said with a severity belied by the amusement in his own eyes. There was something immensely appealing about Ariel's air of mischief. He had noticed it once or twice before, noticed how it banished the customary gravity that made her seem older than her years and softened the sharp, watchful awareness in her eyes.

"It sort of slipped from between my fingers," she explained with mock solemnity. "Rather like a stone in a catapult."

He laughed. "And are you skilled with a catapult?"

Ariel appeared to give the question some consideration. "I prefer to hunt with a hawk or a bow and arrow," she said. "And I dislike fowling pieces."

"But you seemed skilled enough this afternoon."

She shrugged. "I have a good eye, whatever weapon I use."

Simon leaned back in his chair, easing his leg slightly. This wife of his was quite out of the ordinary. "You have managed your brother's household for some time, I would imagine."

"Since I was fifteen." She laughed, but without humor. "Before my father's death, when I was eleven, his leman held the reins, but without much attention."

"I see. Your father's mistress lived here, then?"

"Oh, quite openly, for close on five years. It didn't make the name of Ravenspeare any more popular in the county." She had returned to playing with the bread pellets, her movements restless and nervous. "She and I didn't take to each other, so I kept out of the way."

She had fallen silent as if she had said all there was to say, but Simon could see the picture clear enough. A young motherless girl growing up in a depraved and unloving home. No wonder she was at times so abrupt and withdrawn in her manner.

"Did you have any learning, Ariel?"

"Oh, I can read Latin and Greek as well as English, write a fair hand in all three languages," she said with another shrug. "I am not wonderfully adept at figures, but I am learned enough to ensure there's no cheating in the household accounts."

"And where did you learn this?" He sounded as surprised as he felt. Such a degree of education was most unusual for a woman, and particularly one who had grown up in such neglect.

"Our vicar has always taken an interest in me. Ever since he caught me as a tiny child in his apple tree with some Romany children." Her laugh now was musical as if the memory pleased her. "Reverend Collins believed that an idle mind made for mischief. I think he was afraid I would disappear with the gypsies. He may have been right too," she added with another laugh. "I dearly loved the freedom of their camp. They were so dirty and ragged, but it seemed to me they were forever laughing and dancing and singing. I was too young to see the misery that lay beneath such a life, of course."

Simon stretched his ankle and pain shot up his leg, so fierce that he drew a sharp breath. His face paled, and beads of sweat broke out on his brow. His hands on the tablecloth were clenched as he waited for the wave to break and recede.

Ariel sat quietly beside him, waiting with him for when he could breathe normally again. She noticed that all his friends were aware of the spasm, that they all watched him with anxious eyes.

When it seemed he had relaxed somewhat, she pushed back her chair and rose to her feet, swaying slightly as if she'd overdrunk. "Come, husband, I would to bed." She laid her hand on his shoulder and smiled down at him, her eyes narrowed, her lips slightly parted in invitation.

"You will excuse us, my brother?" She turned to look at Ranulf, glowering at the head of the table. "The bride and groom have business abovestairs." Raising her goblet, she drained the contents as if in toast to the company, her white throat arched.

Oliver Becket stood up and reached across his neighbor. Without Ariel's being aware of it, he pulled the pins from the knot of hair as she stood tipping the wine down her throat, her head bent back. The honeyed mass tumbled loose down her back. Oliver laughed as her head jerked upright and the empty goblet fell to the table.

"How amusing," Ariel said, shaking her hair over her shoulders. "And how considerate of you to speed me on my way to bed, Oliver."

Oliver's drink-glazed eyes burned as she laughed at him. Drunken cackles greeted her sally; only Oliver and the lords of Ravenspeare remained stone-faced.

Simon rose, reaching for his stick. The inebriated merriment grated on his ears, and the naked hostility in the eyes of his hosts was as menacing as a drawn sword. He understood that Ariel, aware of his pain, had chosen this way to extricate him from the table, but he didn't care for her suggestive jests.

Close lipped, he took her arm and managed to walk with her almost unaided to the stairs. With his hand on her arm, it appeared as if he were the one ushering her from the hall, instead of the other way around.

Chapter Nine

At the head of the stairs, out of sight of the crowd in the hall below, Simon released his hold on Ariel's arm and leaned against the wall, his eyes closed, his lips clenched. "Just give me a minute."

"As long as you wish," Ariel replied. "There's no one in sight."

"Are we to spend the night in your chamber or mine?" Simon inquired after a while. He opened his eyes and straightened up, leaning on his cane again. His smile was ironic.

"I prefer my own."

"Then lead on, wife of mine… no, I have no need of your arm now."

Ariel shrugged and walked slowly ahead of him to her turret chamber at the end of the passage. When she opened the door, the hounds leaped out at her, their tails sweeping like flails in a threshing room. Simon reeled under the welcoming onslaught and grabbed hold of the lintel.

"Your brother may have a point," he muttered, pushing the dogs away as they slobbered around his feet. "They are the size of ponies. Much more suited to the stables than a domestic drawing room."

"We don't have such an elegant apartment in Ravenspeare Castle," Ariel pointed out, slinging a cloak around her shoulders before shooing the dogs into the passage. "I'll take them with me now, and give you some peace."

He put a hand on her arm. "Where are you going?"

Ariel paused, her gray eyes narrowing slightly. "Am I to be accountable to you for all my movements, my lord?"

"For as long as we remain under your brother's roof," he replied. "I would like to be assured of your loyalty."

"You doubt my loyalty?" Her voice was tight.

"Do I have reason to trust it?" he asked quietly.

"We made a bargain. You insult me by implying that my word is not good."

"Yours is a Ravenspeare word."

Ariel flushed. "When have I given you cause to doubt me since we came to this agreement? Have I not gone out of my way to demonstrate to my brothers that we have an understanding?"

At that he smiled a little grimly. "That's another thing we should discuss. When you return from the stables."

"How did you know that was where I was going?"

"Since it was the first thing you did in the morning, it wasn't hard to guess that it would be your last before retiring."

"Well, if you knew all along, why did you pick a quarrel?" she demanded.

"I wasn't so much picking a quarrel as making a point." He reached out a hand and lifted her chin on his palm. "I wished to make it clear that I have no intention of letting my guard down with you, Ariel, for as long as you keep yours up with me." He smiled and lightly pinched the pointed tip of her chin before releasing it. "You may go about your business, but make haste. If I weren't so damnably weak this evening, I'd come with you, but in the morning I hope you'll show me your stud."

Ariel turned away to hide a welter of confusion. Her chin felt warm where his hand had rested, and for some reason she wasn't annoyed, when she knew perfectly well that she should be. She called the dogs, aware that her voice was unnecessarily loud, and hurried away without a backward glance.

Simon leaned against the doorjamb as she almost raced away from him, her cloak billowing around her with the urgency of her long, swift stride. He'd noticed before that she made few concessions in her movements to the layers of petticoats and the hoop beneath her gown.

He looked down at his flattened palm, feeling the shape of her chin on his skin. Such a pointed little chin it was, with the most kissable cleft. In his mind's eye he saw her face, uptilted toward him. Her mouth, with that long, sensual upper lip. Her nose, small but well defined. And her magnificent eyes. Gray, almond shaped, wide set, beneath arched brows and a broad white forehead with a pronounced widow's peak. The Ravenspeares were gray eyed to a man, but Ariel's eyes were both softer and clearer, reminding him of a dawn sky after a rainy night. And they brimmed with the spirit that made the girl the intriguing, complex, private woman that she was.

His hand fell to his side. He limped across to his own chamber, wondering how long she thought they could conduct a marriage without consummating it. What game were they all playing?

A dark shadow flitted across his mind as he struggled out of his clothes. Surely the lords of Ravenspeare weren't planning to do away with him? It was inconceivable. Humiliate him, certainly. Make him look a fool at his own bridal party, most surely. But murder? Would even they go that far with two hundred witnesses-and the queen looking on from afar? And if that was their plan, where did Ariel fit into it?

He shrugged into a chamber robe, a grimace of distaste on his lips. He was damned if he was going to be defeated by this devil's brood.

He took up his cane again and limped back to Ariel's chamber to await her return. The pain in his leg had settled into the steady throbbing ache that he knew would keep him wakeful throughout the night.

"Lord Ravenspeare was 'ere agin, this evenin'," Edgar said, as he accompanied Ariel along the stalls. "Did he say anything?"

"No, nuthin' much. Jest took a look." Edgar spat a

chewed straw out of his mouth. "Spent a bit o' time lookin' at the colt, I noticed."

"A particularly long time?" Ariel leaned against the half door to the colt's stall, resting her folded arms on the top. The colt, recognizing her voice, came forward with a low whinny.

"Not so's you'd notice." Edgar held up the lantern so that she could see the animal clearly as she stroked his nose.

"Umm. But Ranulf wouldn't let on if he had a particular interest," Ariel said slowly. "But could he have heard about the sale, Edgar?"

Edgar shook his grizzled head. "Not unless that Mr. Carstairs 'as blabbed."

"He promised to keep it quiet." Ariel turned away from the colt, her expression troubled. "Let's move the colt tomorrow, Edgar. Ship him downriver to Derek's farm. Just until the sale goes through."

"Right y'are. I'll see to it at dawn."

Ariel nodded, bade him good night, and left the stable. Derek Blake was a farmer whose twin sons she had pulled through the smallpox. He had negotiated the sale for her with John Carstairs and had offered to help her enterprise in any way he could. He was utterly trustworthy and would conceal the colt without asking questions. And if Ranulf did know something, he would surely react in some telltale fashion to the colt's disappearance.

She whistled for the dogs, but there was no answering bark. She whistled again, shivering in the frost-tipped air. Presumably they were off about their own pursuits. They didn't go far from the stables as a general rule, and there was no harm leaving them loose overnight. They would raise the alarm if anyone tried to get too close to her horses.

Before going inside again, she used the outhouse at the rear of the kitchen garden. It was cold and dark but she was damned if she was going to resort to the chamber pot upstairs with the earl of Hawkesmoor lying abed in the same room. Then she made her way back through the kitchens.

Tonight the servants were still up and about, preparing for the following day's hunt picnic as well as tending to the continuing demands from the Great Hall, where the celebrations grew ever more out of hand. A whole month of this was going to run the household ragged, Ariel reflected acidly. They had no reason to thank their young mistress for her wedding.

"Is all ready for the hunt breakfast tomorrow, Gertrude?" She paused beside the cook, who was rolling great sheets of pastry on a floured board.

"Aye, m'lady. The men will 'ave the fires on the home field lit by dawn and the pigs a-roastin' by seven. They'll be ready for carvin' by noon."

"And the drink?"

"The kegs of ale, a butt of rhenish, and another of malmsey are loaded on the carts, m'lady. Ready to go. The breads are bakin' now, the pies are sittin' in the pantry."

"You're a wonder, Gertrude." Ariel smiled and addressed a young girl plucking a duck into a cast-iron washtub. "Doris, would you bring goblets and the makings of a rum punch up to my chamber?" The girl tossed the half-plucked bird into the tub and went hastily to do her mistress's business. Ariel thanked the kitchen at large and wished them good night.

"What's to be done 'ere when 'er ladyship goes, I dunno," a manservant muttered, blowing onto a silver salver and polishing it vigorously.

"You'll not catch me stayin' on," a middle-aged woman agreed from behind a mound of potatoes she was peeling. "I wouldn't work fer that lot of devils fer a silver fortune."

" 'Old yer tongue, Mim, an' you, Paul," Gertrude rebuked.

"Well, ye'll not be stayin', will yer, Mistress Gertrude?"

"None of your business," the cook snapped, slapping the rolling pin onto the pastry dough with a more than usually heavy hand. "Now, get up them stairs with the punch, Doris."

"Per'aps 'er ladyship'll take us with 'er when she goes to 'Awkesmoor," Mim said hopefully.

"They've enough people of their own," stated Gertrude. "Now git on wi' yer work, woman, or we'll none of us see our beds tonight."

On her way upstairs, Ariel stopped at the stillroom and took several pots and leather pouches from one of the shelves. She reached her bedchamber just behind Doris with a laden tray.

Simon was seated in his chamber robe before the fire, his foot resting on an embroidered footstool. He looked in surprise at the young maid curtsying before him. "Oh, what have we here?"

"The makings for a rum punch," Ariel replied, unclasping her cloak. "Just put it before the fire, Doris."

The girl did so, bobbed another curtsy, and disappeared. Simon rose stiffly from the chair, crossed the room, and turned the key in the lock, dropping it into the pocket of his robe.

"You really don't trust me an inch, do you?"

"Oh, it's not you I'm worried about," he returned. "It's unwelcome visitors. I have a feeling that in this household anything could happen." He regarded Ariel through narrowed eyes and thought he detected a slight shifting of her gaze before she knelt before the tray and began to mix rum and hot water in a punch bowl.

"If you won't let me put a healing salve on your leg, then you must at least allow me to prepare a soothing draught for you. I doubt you'll sleep properly eke."

"Oh-ho! So, you're about to drug me into a stupor, are you?" He sat down again, gingerly lifting his foot back to the stool.

"It will make you drowsy." Ariel squeezed lemons into the bowl. "Surely you'd like to sleep?" She pushed the curtain of loosened hair from her face and glared at him. "If I intended to render you a helpless victim, I'd hardly tell you what I was doing."

"True enough." He linked his fingers behind his head and watched her hands as they squeezed, grated, mixed, and stirred. "What's that you're putting in now?"

"Nutmeg and belladonna."

"Deadly nightshade! Dear God, girl!"

"In the right proportions it induces a healthful sleep," she stated a mite crossly. "I told you that I have some skill in these matters." She dipped the ladle into the bowl, filled a goblet, and carried it over to him.

"I own my nights are rarely restful," he said with a doubtful little smile, taking the goblet. "But I think you must drink with me, my wife."

"I sleep well enough without assistance."

"Maybe so. But you understand my concerns." His smile broadened, but Ariel knew that he meant what he said. He would drink of her medicine only if she joined him.

She filled a goblet for herself, then faced him with a mocking smile in her gray eyes. "To your health, husband." She raised the goblet and drank.

"Your health, my dear." He drank to the bottom of the goblet. "You make a fine rum punch. I could taste no additives in there."

"The sleeping herbs I use are tasteless." She took the goblet from him. "If you wish, I'll make another without the sleeping draught."

He shook his head. "No, I've need of a clear head in this place. Let's to bed." He rose and limped to the fourposter, bending stiffly to pull out the truckle bed. "When I've warmed my feet, you may have the hot brick."

"Small compensation for being driven from my own bed," Ariel said grumpily.

"Oh, but I'm not driving you from your own bed. I thought I made it clear that you were most welcome to share it"

"Only if you put a drawn sword between us," she stated.

"Have it your own way." He snuffed out the candle beside the bed, then, with his back to her, threw off the chamber robe and climbed up into the bed.

Ariel looked quickly away but not before she'd taken in the lines of his back view. His back was long and smooth, his buttocks taut, his thighs hard. As before, she caught herself thinking that one would never guess from looking at her husband's lean, strong soldier's body that he was so sorely lamed.

He settled against the pillows with a sigh, before linking his hands behind his head and regarding her shape in the dimness.

"Take the coverlet if you wish."

"My thanks," Ariel muttered with heavy irony, dragging the thick quilt from his bed, tossing it over the narrow cot. "Must you stare at me so?"

"I may not bed my wife, but I see no reason why I shouldn't look upon her… And in truth, Ariel, you are most beautiful to look upon."

Ariel blushed. "I am not used to thinking so."

"I doubt your family would notice," Simon said with a dour smile. "I daresay it's not the Ravenspeares' way to see beauty. As a clan, they seem to fix upon ugliness."

Her eyes suddenly seemed to reflect the sparking fire behind her. "If, as you believe, my mother loved your father, then presumably she saw beauty." Her voice was taut with anger.

"Your mother was not by blood and birth a Ravenspeare." "But I am. So you would say that I too cannot see beauty?"

His face was dark against the fine white pillows. "I would like to believe you're the exception that proves the rule, Ariel."

She swung away from him and extinguished the lamp so that the room was lit only by the fire. She stepped into a dark corner out of sight of the bed and undressed rapidly before diving under the covers on the truckle bed. "It's so cold in here!" The wailing protest broke from her without volition as her warm skin hit the icy sheet. "It feels damp!"

"Well, get in here. I'll put the bolster down the middle of the bed," Simon offered sleepily, relishing his own warmth and the creeping relaxation as the pain in his leg, for the first time since he had received the wound, began to fade. "I can assure you that you've nothing to fear from me. After that sleeping draught, I could no more exercise my marital rights than I could vault a haystack." A deep yawn punctuated his assurance.

Ariel shivered. The sheet did feel damp, although she knew it couldn't be. It was just that it was even colder tonight than the previous night. "Let me have the hot brick," she mumbled, drawing her knees up against her chest. There was no reply from the other bed. She listened. A soft rumbling snore came from above.

"Simon?"

Another snore.

With a muttered curse, she half sat up, pulling the quilt up to her chin, and reached up her hand to thrust it under the covers of his bed, guessing where his feet would be as she felt blindly for the brick. It was wonderfully toasty in the big bed, and when her fingers brushed his leg, his skin was enviably warm.

"You're letting the cold air in, girl!" The sound of his voice, not in the least sleepy, shocked her, and she withdrew her hand with a little gasp. "Come in here and stop being silly." There was a mountainous heave of the covers on the poster bed, and the next minute, Ariel felt hands gripping her strongly beneath the arms. She was hauled bodily out and upward, her naked shivering frame enveloped in thick, warm quilts, her toes curling around the hot brick almost before she was aware of it.

She remembered noticing how much strength he had in his upper body when she'd seen his exposed torso that morning. She lay too startled to speak. He wasn't touching her but she was overpoweringly aware of his body a mere few inches from hers.

"I don't have a drawn sword handy, so the bolster must suffice. Here…" He heaved at the thick sausage behind his head, pulling it loose, and stuffed it down beside him. "God's grace, girl, you're as prim and prissy as a convent-bred virgin. People have been bundling together without lascivious purpose for centuries."

"Only when there aren't enough beds to go around." Ariel found her voice at last. "There's no such shortage here."

"There's a shortage of warm beds, it seems to me. Now go to sleep. I can barely keep my eyes open." He rolled onto his side with another mountainous heave of the covers. Ariel grabbed onto her side to keep them over her. She lay rigid for a few minutes and then, as a wave of sleepiness swept over her, turned onto her side with the bolster at her back and fell into the deep black pool of oblivion.

When she awoke it was broad daylight. And something warm and heavy was resting on the curve of her hip. She lay still, disoriented, then slowly realized that it was the Hawkesmoor's hand under the covers. It wasn't doing anything, just sitting there, but it seemed as if it belonged there… as if it had been there for a very long time.

Her nipples hardened as a little shiver rippled over her skin, tightened her scalp. She wanted to move but couldn't. Then the hand moved across her turned hip. She held her breath, pretending to be asleep, waiting despite her brain's screaming protests to see what would happen next. The hand curled, slipped down over her bottom…

The silent vociferous protests were finally translated into action. "You promised!" she cried, pushing his hand away. "You promised!"

"Promised what?" The earl rolled onto his side. Resting on a propped elbow, he blinked drowsily at her from across the bolster. "I promised I wouldn't take advantage of you. I can't help it if my hand slipped a little in my sleep."

"You weren't asleep!" she declared furiously, flinging aside the covers before remembering that she was naked. She pulled them back again with an oath. "You are a dishonorable Hawkesmoor!"

Infuriatingly, Simon merely laughed and lay down again on his back. "A wandering hand in such circumstances is hardly dishonorable, my dear."

"You promised you wouldn't touch me. You said you could no more exercise your marital rights than-"

"Oh, I know what I said," he interrupted, still laughing. "But that was last night, when it was perfectly true. But that draught of yours has put new life in me. Wonderful stuff it was. I had a rare good night, and how wonderful to wake up with such silken curves a mere bolster away."

"Oh, you're detestable!" Ariel sat up, glaring down at him, but she felt strangely uncertain. Her own body was too alive and didn't seem to be responding in accordance with her brain's commands.

Lazily he lifted a hand and stroked down her bare back as she sat beside him, the covers held tight to her chin. She jumped at his touch. "Don't!"

"How can I resist?" he murmured, flattening his palm over the base of her spine, his fingertips edging dangerously beneath her. "I'm only flesh and blood, wife of mine."

Ariel promptly flung herself onto her back, shoving his hand out from under her? hugging the cover to her chin. "I can't believe you'd break your promise, when you had the gall to say you didn't trust my word because I'm a Ravenspeare!"

Simon merely chuckled again. "Circumstances change. And if you want to avoid further intimacies, I suggest you get up and call for my breakfast and shaving water."

Ariel inched to the edge of the bed and gingerly slid out, pulling the top quilt with her. Safely wrapped once more, she stood up. "Don't you ever dare to question my honor again, Hawkesmoor. Where's the door key?"

Simon, clearly unrepentant, merely grinned. "In the pocket of my robe, I expect."

Ariel felt for it in the robe lying over the end of the bed. She drew it out and frowned, glancing to the window where a pale sun cast chilly rays. She forgot the irritating if tantalizing exchange under a new thought. "I wonder where the dogs are? It's not like them to stay out after daybreak."

"Maybe they found a bitch in heat and are sleeping off the night's excesses," Simon suggested.

It was always possible. Ariel gathered up her riding habit and undergarments and went to the door. "I'll dress in your chamber, since you're occupying mine."

As soon as she'd left, Simon got up and stretched, noting how much easier his leg moved this morning. Most days it was as stiff as dried leather and every stretch was agony until the blood flowed again. He pulled on his chamber robe and went to the window, flinging it wide, inhaling the crisp air, enjoying the heaviness in his loins, the swift blood of arousal. She was a most winsome creature, his young bride. And indignation certainly became her. He chuckled to himself.

But then his smile faded. He might desire her, but could she ever desire him? Helene had laughed at him when he'd expressed these reservations. She'd told him he was beautiful, despite his scarred countenance and lame leg. But Helene saw him through eyes of love and friendship.

The turret room looked out beyond the moat wall to the flat countryside with its intricate pattern of intersecting rivers and canals. Windmills studded the landscape, their sails turning lazily in the light breeze. Way off toward the port of King's Lyn were his own estates. Hawkesmoor Manor was a pleasant timbered house with green lawns stretching to the river and windows that looked out over the Wash. It was a warm family house, as different from this chilly, inhospitable castle as two abodes could be.

How would Ariel find it?

He pulled the window shut again. The cold air had chilled the room, and he bent to make up the fire. This month of so-called celebration was the very devil.

As long as he was stuck here, perhaps it was time to pursue the elusive woman named Esther.

"The dogs are nowhere to be seen." Ariel spoke worriedly as she hurried into the room. "I've called and called, and whistled for them. Edgar said he hasn't seen them since I left the stable last night."

"They're lying up somewhere," Simon said, nodding his thanks to the servants who had accompanied Ariel with hot water and a breakfast tray. "When I'm dressed, I'll come down with you to the stables." He began to sharpen his razor, drawing the blade along the strop.

Ariel took a slice of ham from the tray, placed it on a chunk of wheaten bread, and chewed slowly. She filled the ale cup and drank before refilling it for Simon. "What shall I do if they don't come back before the hunt?"

Simon wiped the lather from his face before answering. She was sounding very forlorn in her uncertainty, not at all like the Ariel he was accustomed to. "My dear girl, they're a pair of great wolfhounds. What could possibly have happened to them? There's nothing to worry about. Dogs are dogs and they do annoyingly doggish things."

Ariel half smiled. "I suppose so. And there are two of them. They can't both be in trouble."

"Of course not." He took up the ale cup and drank deeply. "I'll be back directly I'm dressed." He took up his cane and limped off to his own chamber across the corridor.

Ariel wondered why he spared her the ordeal of having to watch him dress. He hadn't shown such delicacy in other of their dealings, and he'd stripped off his robe in front of her both last night and the night before. But there had been little light, she recalled. Only the flicker of the fire to combat the shadows. She'd seen nothing but his back view, and that no more than a fleeting impression. Maybe he had a natural modesty.

The thought made her laugh aloud until she remembered that he came of Puritan stock. Hawkesmoors were known for sober, grave, churchgoing prudes. They probably believed that nakedness was sinful and dangerous and even lovemaking must take place in the darkness, beneath the covers. And never for pleasure. Only for procreation.

But somehow that didn't sit right with what she knew of Simon Hawkesmoor. It didn't accord with that straying hand on her hip, the caressing fingers on her back, the teasing laughter. She didn't feel as if the earl of Hawkesmoor was an inhibited prude. There was too much amusement and knowingness in his character. And her body was most emphatically nor responding to the signals of a staid and sexless Puritan. Simon aroused her most powerfully. There was little point denying it to herself, even if she'd cut her tongue out rather than speak it.

"Very well. Let's go and see these horses of yours." His voice from the door broke her reverie, and she felt herself blushing again as she picked up her cloak.

Simon looked at her curiously. "What wicked thoughts brought the fire to your cheeks, Ariel?"

She clapped her hands to her flaming face, saying crossly, "I blush at the slightest thing. It's unchivalrous to take notice."

"It must be most inconvenient," he said with mock solicitude. "I imagine you would always be caught out in a he, for instance."

Ariel didn't dignify this truth with a reply. It was certainly the case that if she told a direct lie, the evidence blazed from her cheeks for all to see. As a result she had perfected the art of lying by omission and was remarkably skillful at avoiding direct questions that might require an inconvenient answer.

"These special horses of yours. Are they a particular strain?" Simon inquired, diplomatically changing the subject.

"They're Arabians," she replied shortly. "It's a harmless enough hobby. Gives me something to do besides sewing fine seams."

"Are you skilled with a needle?" A laugh trembled in his voice as they crossed the stableyard.

Ariel gave him a look of disgust that was answer enough.

"I didn't think so," he said, grinning. He ducked into the low building and waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the dim light. An elderly groom ambled up the aisle toward them.

"You found them dogs yet, m'lady?"

"No. I'll go into the paddock and call them in a minute." Her forehead was creased with worry. "Edgar, this is the earl of Hawkesmoor… my husband," she added after an infinitesimal pause.

Edgar pulled his forelock but his shrewd eyes examined his lordship with a pitiless clarity. "You want t' take a look, m'lord?"

"If I may." Simon walked slowly along the stalls, pausing to look in at each one.

Ariel remained with Edgar. "Did the colt get off all right?"

"Aye," he said, his eyes still observing the earl.

"My brother hasn't appeared this morning?"

Edgar shook his head. "Like as not he's enough to do wi' gettin' 'imself up and about, I'd say."

Ariel smiled sourly. "They sat late, I suppose. The start of the hunt will be delayed."

"Aye, like as not," Edgar said with the same placidity. "What does yer 'usband know about the animals?" He gestured with his head to Simon, who was now at the far end of the building.

Ariel shrugged. "The same as everyone else. They're a harmless hobby of mine."

Simon couldn't hear what the groom and Ariel were saying to each other, but he sensed a complicity between them, and a certain importance to the conversation. He paused, looking in on a pregnant mare in the farthest stall. She was a beautiful animal, as indeed they all were. Very special. Ariel hadn't been exaggerating. But what could such a young thing know about the science of horse breeding? And yet, judging by the results of her efforts, she clearly knew exactly what she was doing.

He limped back to them. "Very impressive, my dear. Are you breeding them to race?"

Ariel flushed again in the shadowy light. "Perhaps," she said.

"Ah." He nodded slowly, watching her face. "Are you finding buyers for them?"

"They're mine," Ariel said in a rush. "I have no interest in selling them. Why would I?" She walked away with swift step toward one of the stalls.

"Why indeed?" he agreed with a lift of one mobile eyebrow. "Horse trading is hardly the province of an earl's daughter, let alone an earl's wife." Ariel made no response, so he continued, raising his voice a little as she was still moving away from him, "We must make arrangements to have them transported to Hawkesmoor Manor. There's no stable as well ordered as this to accommodate them at present, but I'll give order that one be built without delay."

Ariel stared down at the straw-laden floor. Hardly the province of an earl's wife. Of course he would think that. Everyone would think that. But there was no denying the generosity of his offer. If she was truly wedded to him and they were truly to set up a life together, then his offer to accommodate her horses in style had been most open-handed. Of course, she couldn't tell him that he would be wasting his time and his money on such a project. When she left Ravenspeare Castle with her horses, they would be going somewhere quite other than Hawkesmoor Manor.

He seemed to be waiting for a reply, so she said as naturally as she could manage, "That is most considerate of you, my lord. Most generous."

"Not in the least. I am perfectly happy to accommodate my wife's hobbies," he responded with a bland smile. "Edgar, I assume you will wish to take up service in my household? Lady Hawkesmoor would be loath to do without your help. Isn't that so, my dear?"

"Indeed," Ariel said, still keeping her face averted. "I couldn't manage the stud without Edgar."

"Then we must come to an agreement satisfactory to all parties."

This easy, natural generosity was too much for Ariel. Why couldn't the man be the pompous, uncivilized, puritanical boor she had expected? Why did he have to be so… so…? Oh, it was impossible to describe! "Excuse me. I'm going to the paddock to call the dogs."

She brushed past him, her face turned away, and vanished into the bright light of the yard.

Edgar pulled his chin and began to suck on a straw. Simon after a minute followed Ariel outside. There was no sign of her, and he began to limp toward the paddock gate.

"No! No!" Ariel's anguished scream of outrage and denial shivered through the crisp morning air. Grooms dropped their brooms and buckets. Edgar raced out of the stable block toward the paddock. Simon, his heart cold, cursed his lameness as he forced himself to walk faster toward the gate.

Chapter Ten

Ariel was at the far end of the paddock, a scarlet hunched figure on the ground. From the distance, Simon could make out the gray shape of one of her hounds. He forced himself to move more quickly, although the grass was thick and wet, riddled with molehills set to snag a hesitant foot or a misplaced cane. As he drew closer he made out another long gray shape in the grass. His stomach turned to acid.

Edgar had reached Ariel minutes before Simon came up to them. He too was kneeling in the wet grass beside the gray shapes.

Ariel looked up as Simon reached her side. Her eyes were living coals in a deathly white face, her lips were blue, her nose pinched. "How could anyone do such a thing?" she cried, her voice a long, sobbing moan of distress. She was sitting in the grass, both handsome great heads resting in her lap.

Simon saw immediately that the animals were still alive, although clearly suffering. Their eyes were open but rolling with pain, and green slime oozed from their hanging mouths. "What is it?"

"Poison!" she said, and now the despair had left her voice, replaced with an icy hardness. "I won't know what kind until I find the source, but we have to get them back to the stables. I can do nothing for them here." She beckoned one of the stable lads who stood gawping helplessly to one side. "Tim, fetch a cart. Quickly, boy!" she snapped when he seemed not to hear her.

The lad took off at a run. Simon awkwardly bent over the dogs. They looked far gone to him and his instinct was to put them out of their agony with a merciful bullet. "What do you think you can do for them, Ariel? Wouldn't it be kinder-"

"No, damn you!" she cried, her eyes blazing at him. "I will not give up on them. They're big animals, with the body weight of a human being. It takes a lot to kill them. I must try to do something to save them. Don't you see that?"

He ran a hand through his hair and looked down at the pitiful sight. Such magnificent beasts brought so low. "How could it have happened?"

"Ranulf," she spat out. "And I'll get even with him for this. I swear it on my mother's grave. I know the signs," she said, her face closed and hard. "It's arsenic or nux vomica." She stroked the dogs' heads the whole time she spoke, and her voice now was low and considering, as if she were speaking her thoughts and conclusions as they came to her. "But the dose must be carefully measured to be effective. Romulus and Remus would need a dose sufficient to kill a man. Ranulf may have miscalculated. I have to try!"

"I understand," he said quietly. He walked away, poking through the grass, looking for some clue as to what the dogs could have eaten. He found it in a ditch a few paces away from where the animals had fallen. He poked at the sheep's carcass with his cane. It was not fresh and had a strange bluish tinge to it. They didn't seem to have made too much of a meal of it, however. Perhaps its rotting condition had put them off.

He called Ariel over to look at the carcass. After a moment of investigation, she straightened and said, "I think it's nux vomica. If they can void the filth, it may not be too late." Ariel turned back to the dogs, her face set.

The cart had arrived, pulled by an old dapple gray mare who had seen better days. She stood, head hanging wearily, as the dogs were lifted onto the bed of the cart. Ariel clambered up beside them, taking their heads in her lap again.

In the stableyard, Ariel directed the lads to lift the dogs down and lay them on thick beds of fresh straw in the barn.

She didn't wait to see her orders carried out but ran as if the devil were on her heels back to the house.

"Of all the filthy bastard tricks." Edgar was mumbling as he bent over the hounds, gently easing their heads into the straw. "They're bleedin' devils, those Ravenspeares. May they all burn in hellfire!"

"You're both so certain who was responsible." Simon leaned against an upturned rainwater butt, easing his bad leg. His eyes were as cold as glacier ice.

"Aye," Edgar returned flatly. "Mean and vicious to a one. The dirtier the trick, the better they like it."

"I'll need help, Edgar." Ariel arrived breathless, speaking even as she dropped to her knees beside the animals, setting down a funnel and two jugs brimming with a vile-smelling liquid.

"What can I do?" Simon eased himself to his knees with an indrawn breath of pain.

Ariel glanced quickly at him. "This is no work for you, my lord," she said dismissively. "I must purge them of the foul matter. Even if you don't mind getting your hands dirty, I doubt you'll be willing to ruin your clothes."

"I'm not the lightweight you think me," he retorted. "Edgar must lift the head while I open the jaws. You may then pour down whatever emetic you have in that jug."

"Salt, mustard, and senna," she said.

Simon grimaced, but positioned himself to hold open the jaws of the hound whose head Edgar now held in the crook of his arm.

Her lips tight in concentration, Ariel inserted the funnel and slowly poured the thick liquid into the dog's mouth. The animal struggled weakly.

Simon gentled him with a soft crooning sound, massaging his throat so that Romulus swallowed convulsively. Ariel waited patiently until Simon had coaxed the last of the mouthful down his throat. Then she refilled the funnel. The dog's eyes rolled wildly and Simon knew that if the animal weren't so sick and feeble, he would have attacked them.

Ariel could see it too, but she spoke softly as she poured with a steady hand. Simon massaged the throat, and eventually the contents of the first jug had been absorbed by the dog.

"It'll start to work in a minute," Ariel said. "But we must treat Remus now."

The process was repeated this time to the accompaniment of Romulus's violent convulsions as he voided the contents of stomach and bowel into the straw, helpless to move himself. The mess splattered everywhere, but Ariel was completely unaware, and even when the last drops had disappeared down Remus's throat, she remained sitting in the straw between the two beasts, stroking their sweat-lathered necks and flanks, whispering to them almost in a lullaby.

Finally it was over and the animals lay with closed eyes, barely breathing. Simon stood looking down at them, hoping Ariel's heroic efforts hadn't merely caused them more suffering.

Ariel remained with the dogs' heads on her lap. They were quiet now, the sweat drying on their matted fur. "They can't rest like this," she said. "We must clean them up and then move them to fresh straw."

"Ariel, my dear, they're dying." Simon couldn't bear it any longer. He bent down to rest his hands on her shoulders. "Don't you see that? Leave them in peace now."

Ariel pushed his hands from her shoulders with a rough jerk that nearly unbalanced him. "They are not dying. Do you think I don't know what I'm doing?" She glared at him through the honeyed curtain of tumbled hair. Her face was streaked with dirt, her eyes bright with the residue of tears, sweat beaded her brow. "Do you think you know better than I do?"

It was a startling question. Simon ran a hand over the back of his neck. "I have some knowledge of horses and dogs," he said. "Army life teaches one such things."

"Yes, it teaches you to shoot rather than attempt to cure, because it's easier and quicker," she said scornfully. "Edgar, bring water, will you, please? And tell Tim to prepare a bed in the tack room with fresh straw. They can he up there for the rest of the day."

She sounded so absolutely confident that the dogs would live that Simon almost began to believe it himself. It was clear to him that Edgar had no doubts. Simon watched for a minute as the groom and his mistress began to wash the dogs down with buckets of water, then, with a resigned shrug, he struggled back to the barn floor and took his part.

Ariel gave him a quick surprised look, but she said nothing. When the hounds were clean, she took thick pieces of toweling and rubbed them as dry as it was possible.

And then both pairs of great yellow eyes opened and the wildness was gone from them. Simon hid his astonishment as he watched the return of intelligence. They were still too weak to move a muscle, but there was no denying that they were definitely alive.

"Help me carry them to the tack room, Edgar." Ariel stood up, her sopping skirts hanging around her. "If you take the hindquarters, I'll manage the head and shoulders."

Simon wanted to protest that she wasn't strong enough, but more than anything, he wanted to help. Bitterly he stood aside as the elderly man and the young girl struggled to carry the deadweight of first one and then the other huge animal into the tack room at the far end of the barn.

"I'll make up some gruel with birch bark." Ariel hurried past Simon, who had followed them to the tack room. "I'll sit with them throughout the day… Fetch water, Edgar. They'll need to drink as soon as they come round a bit more."

Simon followed her, trying to keep up with her half-running stride. "It will be expected that you attend the hunting party," he said mildly. "And don't bite my head off."

Ariel paused at the kitchen door, one hand resting on the jamb. "Have I done?"

"Several times."

Ariel bit her hp. "Then I apologize. You've been very kind to help with the dogs."

"Forgive me for having such little faith." He nodded to the curious kitchen folk and rested on a high stool beside the range while Ariel attended to her gruel.

"Mercy me, Lady Ariel, you smell like a pigsticker!" Gertrude stepped away from her own pots as Ariel moved in to the fire. She surveyed the countess of Hawkesmoor with astonished dismay. " 'Ceptin' there's no blood. But looks like there's everythin' else on yer clothes. Quite ruined they are."

"It can't be helped," Ariel said with a careless shrug. "His lordship's not much better." She shot him one of her mischievous smiles that always took him by surprise. Now that her dogs were saved, she seemed to be completely carefree.

He glanced ruefully down at his own britches and coat. "I'll go and change before the hunt. I'll tell your brothers that you have been delayed and will join us within… say, half an hour?"

Ariel opened her mouth to refuse, but he forestalled her, saying quickly, "I daresay you will not wish to give certain people the satisfaction of believing you distressed."

He had a point. Ranulf would grin from ear to ear if he knew how close she'd been to despair. But he would spit fire if he thought that his nasty little trick had failed to distress her.

And if she didn't accompany Simon, she wouldn't be able to watch his back. A hunt would provide many an opportunity for accidents.

Ariel turned back to her cauldron, unsure which of the two reasons carried the most weight. "Very well. Edgar will be able to care for them as well as I."

Simon nodded and left the kitchen.

Ranulf paced the Great Hall, his eyes glittering with malice as he waited for his sister to respond to his summons. Ariel hadn't appeared at breakfast and he'd sent a servant to fetch her. Had she found the dogs as yet? Or was she even now searching for them?

"Good day to you, Ravenspeare."

Ranulf spun on his heel. An insincere smile flickered over his thin lips. "Hawkesmoor. You didn't join us for breakfast."

"No, I broke my fast abovestairs," Simon said easily. "Then Ariel and I went for a stroll. She's changing her dress at present but assures me she'll be down in a few minutes." He glanced around the crowded hall, returning greetings with a nod and a smile. "It's a beautiful morning for a hunt."

"Aye," Ranulf said shortly, hiding his puzzlement.

"A rather later start than you had intended, I believe?" Simon raised an eyebrow. "A consequence of late nights and deep drinking, I find."

Ranulf, whose head was throbbing as if Thor's hammer were pounding behind his temples, glowered and said nothing. He caught sight of the servant he'd sent in search of Ariel, making his way across the hall toward him.

"I can't find Lady Ariel… I mean, Lady Hawkesmoor… mlord. She in't in the stables." He looked anxiously at his master. Failing in an errand was not wise in Ravenspeare Castle.

"I think you'll find her in her chamber," Simon suggested. "Did you have a particular message for my wife, lad?"

The lad tugged his forelock and looked at the earl of Ravenspeare, uncertain whether he should respond or not.

"Get out of here!" Ranulf flicked at the boy with his fingers, and the lad scuttled off. "I was wondering where she was," Ranulf said. "I expect my sister to appear at mealtimes. She knows that perfectly well."

"Ah, but your sister's position in the household has changed somewhat," Simon pointed out gently. "She has other duties and obligations now." He smiled. "To her husband… I'm sure you take my meaning."

Ranulf flushed darkly and, without another word, strode away. He joined his brothers, gathered at the foot of the stairs.

Simon smiled grimly to himself. The earl of Ravenspeare was not best pleased, and he would be even less so when he encountered the wolfhounds roaming around again, as they surely soon would be.

Ranulf took a cup of ale from a passing servant and glowered into its contents before drinking. Ralph's eyes were so swollen and bloodshot they were almost invisible. Of the three brothers, only Roland looked relatively fresh, but he had a poor head for drink and the wisdom to embrace moderation.

"Perry's Copse is prepared," Roland said in an undertone. "Oliver checked it this morning. Which of us is to lead him?"

"I will," Ralph declared somewhat thickly with a sneering attempt at a smile. "I'll lead the Hawkesmoor to the pit, never you fear."

Ranulf regarded his young brother with a degree of scorn. "In your condition, man, I doubt you'd be able to see your way to Perry's Copse."

Ralph flushed angrily. "I spend more time on the estate than you do, brother. I could find my way to anywhere blindfold."

Roland laughed, not troubling to hide his contempt for this boast. "If it were Ariel, I'd agree," he said. "The only time you ever ride around the estate with your eyes open, Ralph, is when you're in search of a bitch to service you."

Ranulf laughed as coarsely as his brother. "True enough, but grant you, Roland, that the lad goes as often on such an errand as any rutting stallion in a field of mares." His laughter was abruptly cut off as his eyes went to the stairs.

Ariel came running lightly down to the hall. She was wearing her old green riding habit, but Doris had taken a flatiron to it, and her white shirt was crisply laundered, her boots polished.

"Good morning, my brothers." She curtsied, every line of her body radiating mockery, as she greeted the three lords of Ravenspeare. "You passed a restful night, I trust."

"Where are your dogs?" Ranulf demanded. "You're not usually without those damn hounds at your heels."

Ariel's eyes flashed, then she said coolly, "Oh, they're in the stables with Edgar. You gave order last night that they should be kept away from you, so I thought it best if they didn't join the hunt. You wouldn't look kindly upon them if they interfered with the deerhounds, I daresay?" She tilted her head to one side as if in question.

Ranulf himself had lured the dogs to the poisoned carcass. He had left them sniffing and drooling around the meat. It was not possible that they were healthy, shut up in the stables. What the devil had gone wrong?

Tight-lipped, he spun on his heel and stalked out of the hall into the courtyard where the hunt was waiting to set out. He comforted himself with the reflection that the hounds were an insignificant problem so long as that drunken sot Ralph had done his work properly. If he had done, the earl of Hawkesmoor would not emerge alive from Perry's Copse this day, once he was lured within its tight dark confines.

"That is most satisfactory news, Mrs. Masham." Queen Anne nodded at her new favorite. "Such a lovely wedding it must have been." She slurped greedily at a bowl of oysters stewed in ale, disdaining the spoon, her fat little fingers curled around the silver bowl as she lifted it to her mouth. Juice dripped down her chin.

Mrs. Masham folded the letter from which she'd been reading an account of the wedding of the earl of Hawkesmoor and Lady Ariel Ravenspeare. She offered the queen a linen napkin. Her Majesty ignored the offering.

"Lady Dacre is a most reliable correspondent; remind me to present her with a little trifle of my appreciation when she returns to London." Anne examined a mounded blanc-manger of capon and rice. She nibbled one of the garnishing almonds as she dug her spoon into the dish. "This seems quite flavorful." With her mouth full she drank deeply of the fortified wine in her crystal goblet and reached her fingers into a dish of peasecods. She sucked the delicate peas from the pods, beads of sweat settling into the folds of her wobbling chins.

Sarah, duchess of Marlborough, turned her head away with a grimace of distaste. Although she had been dismissed from her post as Lady of the Bedchamber in favor of Mrs. Masham, the queen had not yet dismissed her from attendance. Deprived of the power that had made that close personal attendance tolerable, Sarah found it hard to disguise her physical revulsion for her sovereign.

"What kind of reward did you have in mind, Your Majesty?" she asked. "A lace handkerchief, perhaps? A fan?" Her voice dripped malice. Queen Anne was renowned for her stinginess. But the malice was lost on the queen, who considered the suggestions as she continued to suck peas from their butter-soaked pods.

"A handkerchief is a good idea," she pronounced, turning her attention to a dish of honey and almond sweetmeats. "Select one from my armoire, Mrs. Masham. One of last year's. But make sure the lace is not torn." She crammed a sticky mouthful between her glistening lips and was for a few moments silent as her mostly toothless gums wrestled with the sweet. She took another swig from her goblet to help the process.

Sarah removed Her Majesty's dirty salver and replaced it with a clean one, handing the dirty one to a very junior lady-in-waiting. "Perhaps a wedding gift for the new countess of Hawkesmoor would be in order, madam," she suggested in sugared accents.

The queen looked up haughtily. "I was under the impression that I had already gifted the bride." Her Majesty was no longer eager to accept suggestions from the duchess of Marlborough.

"A betrothal gift, madam." Sarah's curtsy was ironic but only her victorious rival could guess how deep ran the duchess's rage at her loss of power. "A gown and a string of topaz. Very generous, of course," she added, "but something to mark the wedding itself would be so much in keeping with Your Majesty's benevolence." She curtsied again. "If such a gift were to arrive during the celebrations-there are two hundred guests, I believe-Your Majesty's kindness and consideration would be so very marked."

Sarah waited, watching closely as the queen considered this while she gestured to have her goblet refilled. It would be a small enough exercise of influence, but any return to her old sphere was a triumph over Mrs. Masham. Sarah knew precisely how the queen's mind was working. A small gesture in front of a large audience would achieve maximum effect with minimum effort.

"Well, perhaps," Anne said eventually. "We will consider it."

Sarah hid her smile.

Chapter Eleven

The morning hunt was largely without sport, and Ariel rode a little apart from the main body of riders. She was looking for any sign that her brothers had mischief afoot, but she saw only their irritation at the lack of quarry. If they did have any lethal plans for their guest, it seemed it wouldn't happen until after the midday picnic.

"Why would you ride alone, bud?" Oliver trotted across to her. He smiled and it was the smile that in the past had always turned her limbs to water. Now she saw how superficial it was, how his eyes remained somehow flat and untouched by warmth, how his smiling mouth had a calculating twist to it.

"I prefer my own company."

"You've become excessively unfriendly," Oliver grumbled, but still with that smile that he believed would always melt her.

"I'm a married woman now." Ariel was determined to keep herself in check. She would answer him as coolly and politely as the Hawkesmoor did, ignoring all his barbed and suggestive comments.

"Ah, bud, you cut me to the quick," he lamented, reaching over to lay a hand on hers. "How could you forget so soon the pleasure we have taken in each other? Those wonderful nights… I remember so vividly the time when you waited for me in the moonlight, dressed as a boy because I had said-"

"Your reminiscences don't interest me, Oliver," she interrupted, feeling her cheeks grow hot as she remembered that night all too clearly.

"Oh, but they do, bud. Do you think I can't read your face? Do you think I don't know how to read your desire?"

Ariel wrenched her horse around and cantered blindly away from the temptation to tell him just what she was really thinking. She remembered her desire for Oliver now only as an exercise in humiliation. He had been a clumsy, inconsiderate lover with a lewd tongue and a need to dominate. The knowledge of her own willingness to participate in his games now made her stomach curl in distaste. But she hadn't known any better. How could she have, seeing what she had seen under her brother's roof, hearing what she had heard every day of her life? But now Hawkesmoor had forced her to look at things differently.

Quite suddenly tears started in her eyes as she raced away from the hunting party, feeling the wind rushing against her face, making her ears ache, drying the salt tears as they ran down her cheeks. She never cried. It was a sign of weakness she never allowed herself. So what was happening to her now? Surely it couldn't be that she minded the Hawkesmoor's criticisms? Why should she care what a Hawkesmoor thought of her?

But she did. She wanted the good opinion of that man with his calm bearing, his humorous mouth, his disfigured countenance, his innate gentleness hidden beneath the powerful physicality of his large scarred frame.

And the realization made her so angry and bewildered, she had ridden out of sight of the hunting party before she was calm enough to draw breath and take stock.

Simon, watching her galloping into the distance, resisted the urge to follow her. He wondered what Oliver Becket had said to her. Judging by Becket's sullen expression as he returned to the cavalcade, the conversation hadn't gone according to plan.

When they reached the site of the picnic, Ariel was already there. She had dismounted and was checking on the preparations as calmly as if nothing had disturbed her all day. Long tables were set up beneath the trees, charcoal braziers augmented the heat thrown off by the massive fires over which suckling pigs were roasting. The aroma of roast pork and the spicy fragrance of mulled wine filled the crisp, cold air.

"That was a damned waste of a morning," Ralph declared, snatching up a tankard of mulled wine from a table.

"As I recall, brother, it was your responsibility to see that deer were plentiful," his eldest brother sniped sourly. "But I daresay you were too sodden to do so."

Ralph flushed a deep crimson. "I can't do everything myself. You and Roland disport yourselves at court and leave me to run everything-"

"Fool!" Ariel muttered under her breath. She knew, as did her elder brothers, that if it weren't for her overseeing, the estate would go to rack and ruin. Not that any of them would ever admit that. But it was another reason why they would never want her to leave Ravenspeare.

A chill ran down her spine and she took a deep draught of the warm wine. "What did you think of my horses, Ranulf?" She walked across the grass to her brothers. "Edgar said you'd paid a couple of visits to the stables."

Simon heard, if Ranulf didn't, the underlying tension in the question. He moved closer.

"Quite a neat little operation you have," Ranulf responded heartily, a little too heartily. His eyes slid sideways as he bit into a thickly buttered bannock.

"Next time you decide to visit, you should tell me," Ariel continued. "If you have questions about the strain, or the breeding program, I can probably answer them more fully than Edgar."

"I'm not interested in the finer points of your little hobby, sister." He laughed as if such an interest were inconceivable. "I just wished to be sure you weren't being too extravagant. The estate can't afford to support every fancy and whim of yours."

"I don't expect it to, sir." Ariel was not in the least put out by such an outrageously unjust comment. But neither was she fooled. Ranulf's interest in her horses was not benign. But at least the colt was well beyond his reach, and a thousand guineas would be in her pocket within the week.

The thought brought a measure of warm comfort to a day that had been, so far, as miserable as a peat cutter's cottage in a Fen blow.

Simon, remembering how Ariel had said she wanted to keep her brothers away from her Arabians, wondered if Ranulf's answer had satisfied her. She had given no sign of dismay and was now directing the cooks and servants in setting out the great platters of carved suckling pig, smoked trout and eel, the pies and pasties, baskets of bread, bowls of vegetables.

It was an Elizabethan feast under the stark winter sky. Jugs of ale, mead, malmsey, and rhenish passed down the long benches while a troupe of morris dancers entertained the company. Ariel did not take her place on the bench beside her husband but remained on her feet, overseeing the servants, seemingly far too busy looking after the wedding guests to take refreshment herself.

Simon made no attempt to persuade her to sit beside him. He talked with his own friends, ate and drank as heartily as the next man, and seemed delighted with the al fresco entertainment.

"If we're to hunt deer this afternoon, we'd best be getting on with it, Ranulf," an elderly guest called out, with a hiccup. "Sun's almost over the hill."

It was the signal for everyone to move. Men wandered away into the trees, women gathered behind the screen of bushes set aside for their convenience. Ariel looked over to where the horses, now watered and baited by the grooms, were being untethered for their riders.

Ralph was standing beside the Hawkesmoor's ungainly piebald. He had a hand on the animal's rump as if taking stock of his lines. Ariel strolled casually across. Ralph's fingers were on the girth strap. She stood a little way away, soundless, motionless, watching as her brother loosened the girth, slid his hand between the animal's belly and the strap, felt the slip of the saddle, smiled to himself, and turned and walked away, calling loudly for his own horse.

Ariel walked as casually as before over to the piebald. She began to unbuckle the girth.

"What are you doing with my horse, Ariel?"

The voice so startled her that she jumped guiltily, feeling the telltale heat invade her face. "Checking your girth strap."

Simon regarded her gravely. "I imagine my groom has already seen to it"

"He may have missed something," she said, still scarlet. "It seems a trifle loose to me, but perhaps you prefer to ride with a slipping saddle." She walked off, leaving Simon frowning in puzzlement as he slid his own fingers between the strap and the animal's belly.

The girth was indeed loose. But how had Ariel known it was? Had she loosened it herself? That guilty flush had meant something. And then she'd covered up her movements by warning him.

Simon refastened the buckle and mounted, the maneuver ungainly but efficiently accomplished. Had she decided to unhorse him? It didn't seem to sit right with what he knew of her. But she was a Ravenspeare, he reminded himself grimly. They were adept at spiteful tricks.

And yet he found it hard to believe, remembering her anguish over the dogs, remembering how she'd offered to ease his leg the previous evening, remembering that mischievous chuckle and quick smile. But he also suspected that there was much more to his bride than he had guessed already. She had some deep reserves that he hadn't begun to tap. Maybe the vengeful Ravenspeare spirit lurked in the shadowy recesses of her mind. It would hardly be surprising.

The shrill call of the hunting horn broke into this disturbing reverie. The hunt surged forward toward a stand of wind-bent trees just above the dike at the bottom of the field. A herd of deer scattered into the open as the hounds blazed through the trees.

Simon's mount soared over the dike, raced through the stream below, and up the dike on the other side. The deer were flying across an open field, the hounds streaking after them.

"Hawkesmoor! Follow me if you'd be in at the kill!" Lord Ralph Ravenspeare threw the mocking challenge at him as he drew alongside. "Or are you frightened of taking a risk, brother-in-law?" Ralph's little eyes shot darts of scorn. "Puritans are ever cautious!" He swung his horse to the right, raising his whip in a contemptuous salute, and charged across the field toward a distant copse.

Simon "hesitated for only a minute. In a cooler frame of mind, he would have dismissed the insolence of such a contemptible cub, but he'd had his fill of Ravenspeares for one day. He set the piebald in pursuit of Ralph's black. The hounds were in full cry, pursuing their quarry toward a meadow on the other side of the copse, and Simon saw that by traversing the copse, he would emerge ahead of the field. No one else, however, seemed to have seen the advantage of such a route.

As the first low-lying branches sprang out to meet him, Simon understood why this was not a preferred path. Ralph was leaning low over his horse's neck. He clearly knew the hazards of the copse, Simon thought grimly, ducking just in time to save his head from a branch across the narrow track. He didn't dare raise his head from the piebald's neck, merely hung on as the low roof of intersecting branches whipped overhead, leaves and twigs lashing the nape of his neck.

The copse couldn't be that deep, he thought. Ralph had presumably hoped the first series of branches would knock him off. Of course, if his saddle had slipped at the same time…

He raised his head an inch to look ahead and realized that there was no sign of Ralph on the path in front of him. His own mount maintained his speed along the track that was now so narrow as to be almost nonexistent. The trees crowded in overhead and the sounds of the hunt drifted faintly from beyond the copse to his right.

His horse broke suddenly into a small clearing. Simon raised his head fully with a sigh of relief but didn't check the animal. The sooner he got out of this godforsaken place the better. Then, horror-struck, he saw Ariel's roan rising up out of the ground directly ahead of him, soaring through the air toward him in a tightly bunched leap of pure muscle.

The piebald of its own accord reared up as the other animal hung for a dreadful instant in the air in front of him, then the roan landed two feet from the wild-eyed piebald. Ariel had lost her hat and her hair was escaping from its pins. Her face was deathly white-as well it might be, Simon thought furiously as he struggled to calm his horse, to turn it aside from its head-to-head confrontation with the panting roan. His own legs were like jelly in the aftermath of that split second of terror.

"What the devil kind of a stunt was that?" he demanded, when he could find his tongue. "Are you quite mad?"

Ariel was breathing heavily. She brushed a strand of hair away from her sweat-beaded brow and looked around the clearing.

"Why did you follow Ralph?"

"He offered to give me a lead. He knows the land; why wouldn't I follow him?"

"Because he's a nasty, treacherous, drunken snake," Ariel said succinctly. "As soon as I saw you heading after him I knew he had something up his sleeve. And when he reappeared from the side path without you, I was sure something had happened to you. It's almost impossible to ride through Perry's Copse, the trees are too low."

"So I'd noticed," he said dryly. "And a loose saddle wouldn't help."

"Precisely."

"I assume the loose girth was not your doing?" Simon inquired as aridly as before.

Ariel flushed and then paled. "Of course not! How could you think such a thing?"

He surveyed her thoughtfully. "I don't know whose side you're on, Ariel. What am I supposed to think?"

She turned from him without a word, swung off the roan, and walked to the middle of the clearing, where branches were heaped in a seemingly random pile as if for a bonfire. She picked up a large chunk of wood from a tree root and said over her shoulder, "Watch this." She hurled the wood into the middle of the pile of branches.

The pile collapsed in on itself, disappearing from the ground. "Neat, eh?" She came back to him. "It's an old peat bog. They're all over the place, left over after the drainage of the fens was completed. But you know that, of course, being a Fenlander yourself?" She raised an eyebrow in satiric inquiry.

Simon merely nodded. Ralph had intended to lead him into the bog. His horse would have floundered, his saddle would have slipped, and crippled as he was, in this deserted copse, escape would have taken a miracle. Ariel's mad jump across the concealed pit had saved him. And only just in time.

"Does that answer your question, my lord?" She was still regarding him with that satirical eyebrow raised.

Tight-lipped, she swung onto her horse. "If you leave the copse the way you entered it, you shouldn't find any more traps," she said coldly, set the roan to jump the bog again, and disappeared into the trees.

Oh, no you don't, Simon thought, suddenly angry. Maybe she wasn't prepared to see him die at her brothers' hands, but neither was she prepared to be a real wife to him. She would save his life in common decency, as she saved the lives of her dogs, but she would give him nothing else.

He set his own horse to jump the treacherous pit and followed the path Ariel had taken through the copse, emerging into the gray late afternoon light to see the hunt fast disappearing over the far meadow. His keen eyesight was one physical advantage that had, if anything, improved during the war years, and he stared fixedly at the retreating figures. There was no sign of Ariel among them.

He rode to the top of a small hillock and looked out across the flat landscape.

A figure, fading into the dusky shadows, was dimly visible, riding in the direction of Ravenspeare Castle, which bulked against the lowering sky. She didn't appear to be riding at great speed.

Simon set off in pursuit. As he drew nearer, his quarry glanced over her shoulder and promptly increased her speed. Simon made no attempt to follow suit. She was returning to the castle. He would find her there without difficulty.

When he rode into the stableyard, there was no sign of Ariel or her horse. Presumably she'd been back long enough to have it stabled already. He dismounted, handed his own reins to a waiting groom, and went into the barn. He could hear Ariel and Edgar talking in the tack room as he limped forward, his cane clicking on the stone floor.

Ariel looked up as he came in but gave him no greeting. She was bending over the dogs, who still lay in the straw much as they'd left them four hours earlier. Their eyes were open, however, and they seemed to be breathing more easily.

"How are they?" Simon leaned heavily on his cane as he looked down on the hounds.

It was Edgar who answered him. "They'll pull through, I believe, m'lord. Can't get 'em to take any nourishment as yet, and until they do there's nothin' certain, but I've 'opes."

Ariel stood up, brushing down her skirt. "Send word if there's any change, Edgar." She strode off, walking far too swiftly for Simon to keep up with her.

" 'Ad a little bother with Lady Ariel?" Edgar inquired, sitting back on his heels and selecting a juicy straw from the dogs' bed. He sucked on it consideringly, regarding the earl with a shrewd but friendly eye.

"Your mistress doesn't take kindly to home truths," Simon replied with a tart smile.

Edgar nodded and spat out the straw before selecting a fresh one. "It's not the Ravenspeare way. But I'll say this fer Lady Ariel, she might be a bit snappish now an' agin, but she never 'olds a grudge." He brought the water bowl to Remus's mouth as the dog lifted his heavy head.

Simon stayed for a minute or two, then, with a word of good-bye, limped back to the castle. There was a strange hush to the cavernous Great Hall. Fires were burning, tables were laid ready for the evening's banquet, servants moved around With a hurried efficiency, but despite the busyness, the place seemed to be in-waiting for something.

He crossed the hall and climbed the stairs. Outside Ariel's turret chamber he hesitated, raised his hand to knock, then decided against it. He was not come on a mission of conciliation. The handle turned beneath his hand and the door swung open.

Ariel was sitting in a rocking chair beside the fire, rocking herself with one foot against the fender, her eyes fixed upon the flames. She turned her head sharply as the door opened, and her eyes were strangely blank for a minute, before life and recognition raced back.

"I would have knocked, but I wasn't prepared to be denied," Simon said, quietly closing the door at his back and turning the key. "I prefer that we not be disturbed," he offered by way of explanation as he leaned back against the locked door.

Ariel stood up, facing him. She said nothing, but he read in her eyes the knowledge of what he had come for. She put a hand on the chair back, and he saw how tightly she gripped the smooth, well-worn curve of the wood.

"I deem it time to consummate this marriage, Ariel." He took a step into the room; still she didn't move.

"You gave your word." Her voice sounded croaky as if she hadn't used it in a while. Her eyes darkened even as the color ebbed in her cheeks.

"Then I must be forsworn," he replied gravely, coming over to her. He took her hands. They were like ice and lay still and lifeless in his. He raised them to his lips, lightly kissing the fingertips with a brushing caress. He felt her fingers quiver as his own closed warmly over her hands. "I would have a true wife, Ariel. I would bind you to me as wife is bound to husband, and so will I be bound to you."

She kept silent but she made no attempt to withdraw from him. He held her hands and asked gently, "Do you consent to this, Ariel?"

She closed her eyes, made an infinitesimal movement of her head that could have meant anything. Simon released her hands, then stroked the back of his forefinger along the line of her set jaw. He ran the pad of his thumb over her mouth, and her lips trembled at the caress. But whether with pleasure or repulsion he couldn't tell.

He loosened the stock at her neck. Loosened it and pulled it away. He unfastened the buttons of her riding coat and pushed it back off her shoulders. When she made no attempt to shrug it free, he moved behind her and drew it away from her. With his hands on her shoulders, he turned her to face him again.

"Are you not going to help me at all?" The tenderness had gone from his voice now, only the fierce determination remained.

"Why should I?"

Simon compressed his lips and his eyes hardened. The scar stood out against his pale cheek. "Very well." He began to unfasten her shirt, his fingers swift and deft.

"Why go to all this trouble?" Ariel inquired caustically. "Rape doesn't need nakedness, does it?"

Simon gritted his teeth. It was his turn to keep silent. She made no attempt to hinder him as he drew off her shirt. Her breasts were a pale swell beneath the fine lawn of her shift. Her bare arms were slender, yet softly rounded, and he longed to run his hands down them, to plant his lips in the sweet bend of her elbow. But he was not making love to his wife. His wife had no interest in his lovemaking. He was merely exercising his marital rights.

He unhooked her skirt at the waist, grimly thankful that he was familiar enough with female dress not to fumble. The skirt fell to her ankles. "Take off your boots," he instructed, gesturing curtly to the bootjack.

Ariel shrugged but obeyed, then she stood aside to allow him to do the same. Folding her arms, she watched him as he began to undress himself. Simon threw off his coat, flung aside his shirt, then his hands went to his belt buckle. He hesitated, now vividly aware of the slender body clad in the thin shift, the cool gray eyes observing him. The afternoon light was fading but it was not dark enough for candles as yet and the chamber was still unshadowed.

He set his lips and unfastened his belt, laying it over the back of the rocking chair. The knife in its sheath knocked against the wooden bars. He glanced once toward his wife and saw with a ripple of shock that her eyes were no longer blank. They were bright with curiosity and something else. But then she averted her head with a jerk and fixed her gaze on a picture of some rural landscape on the far wall.

Simon pushed off his britches but had to sit down to free them from his feet. He pulled off his stockings, then stood up again. His linen drawers still covered his scarred leg, but a man in his underbritches was a comical sight. Better she should draw back in revulsion than laugh. Resolutely he divested himself of the last garment.

Ariel turned her head toward him again. He felt her gaze running down his body, seeing everything. The dreadful twisted mess of his leg, the powerful jut of his erection. A tinge of color appeared on her high cheekbones and that same look came into her eyes-a look he couldn't identify. Or didn't believe he could.

"Come." He took the two steps necessary to bring him to her side. His voice was curt. He was angry that she was forcing this upon him, but he was also deeply aroused by her near nakedness, by the fresh bloom of her youth, by her lithe, straight body.

He placed a hand on her shoulder and with his free hand touched her breast over the shift. The warmth of her skin was as heady as the scent of her hair. Deliberately he unlaced the bodice of her shift, opening it. He cupped one breast. It fitted perfectly into his palm. His finger brushed her nipple and to his surprise it grew hard beneath the caress.

He glanced up at her. She stood stock-still, barely breathing, staring at the picture over his shoulder. But he could feel a dampness on her skin as he cupped her other breast in his other palm. The soft yet pliant curves filled him with delight. They stood out from her slender torso, bravely upstanding and yet exquisitely vulnerable, trembling slightly against his hand.

He pushed the opened shift off her shoulders and she stood naked, except for her stockings, gartered above her knees. He ran his hands down her sides, into the deep indentation of her waist, over the slight flare of her hips. Still she didn't move, but he could feel the warmth of her skin, sense the tremble of sensation deep within her. Her eyes were closed, her lips pressed tightly together, and Simon knew she was determined to deny either of them the satisfaction of her natural response.

Well, so be it. He drew her toward the bed and she fell back beneath the pressure of his hand. Anger at her obstinacy warred with desire as he looked down at her creamy, sinuous form spread upon the quilted coverlet. Still she wouldn't open her eyes.

Grim-faced now, Simon mounted the bed. He ran a hand over her body, hoping for one flicker of acknowledgment, but she gave him nothing. He moved her legs apart and knelt between them. When he touched her, gently parting her petalled center, he found her moist, swollen, eager. And his anger suddenly fell from him.

"You are the most obstinate little witch, Ariel," he declared with a quiver of amusement now in his voice. He slipped his hands beneath her buttocks, lifted her to meet his thrusting entrance, and slipped deeply into her. He felt her whole body shudder and tighten around him. He looked into her face. Her eyes were still firmly closed, her lips still pressed together.

Smiling, he wondered how long she would be able to withstand her own pleasure. He ran a hand over her taut belly and her muscles jumped. For an instant her teeth bit into her bottom lip, then she had returned to passivity. He drew back, holding himself at the very entrance to her body. He felt her tense, her inner muscles nickering, the exquisitely soft and sensitive skin of her secret places coming to life. He gripped her bottom tightly and eased inside her again. This time he heard her swift indrawn breath as she took his full length within her.

"Open your eyes, Ariel," he commanded, withdrawing again with infinite tantalizing slowness.

Stubbornly she kept her eyes shut, and her head moved in a sharp negative.

"Not giving an inch," he murmured, but as if it amused him. He withdrew completely and her eyes flashed open for an instant, and their surprised dismay was so vivid that it made him chuckle.

Reaching over her head, he pulled down the bolster, lifted her hips, and thrust it beneath her. "I need both hands," he informed her conversationally, "and I prefer to have you at a slight angle." He watched her grit her teeth and grinned. Kneeling up to ease the pressure on his leg, he slid within her again, and when his flesh was deep inside her and he could feel the little ripples of her muscles against him, he began to play with his fingertips on the erect, swollen little nub of her sex, sliding his free hand down and beneath her into the cleft of her buttocks.

She bucked against him, her hips arching, the muscles of her belly and thighs taut as drum skin. Simon felt his own climax rushing upon him. He held himself back, the tendons of his neck standing out rigid with the effort, sweat breaking out on his forehead. He drew his finger slowly upward from her bottom, lightly tapped the nerve-stretched softness that surrounded his own thrusting shaft, and then, as her body flew apart, he gave himself up to his own delight.

Ariel came to her full senses a few minutes later. She lay savoring the sweetest sensation of fulfillment. Never had she experienced anything like it. And she had fought so hard to keep from yielding, to give him nothing, not one iota of satisfaction.

She turned her head languidly on the quilt. Simon was asleep, or unconscious, beside her, lying on his belly. His short hair clustered in tousled curls at his nape and around his ears. His arms were flung above his head. She had hated him when he'd marched into her chamber and declared his intention with such cold assertion. And she had seen how he had hated what he had nerved himself to do. She'd seen it in the way the scar stood out livid against his pale, drawn cheek, in the angry distress in his eyes.

But something had changed.

"Oh, Christ!" Simon suddenly rolled over, his eyes stretched wide in an expression of anguish. He struggled to sit up, bending over his leg, rubbing at his knee, desperately trying to straighten it against the excruciating waves of pain.

"Here, let me." Ariel knelt up on the bed. She pushed his hands away. "Lie down again. I can't straighten it properly when you're sitting up."

He fell back on the bed with a moan. His face was white, his mouth set in a rictus of pain, sweat standing out on his brow.

Ariel felt the bent knee, her fingers probing even as he swore at her under his breath. She pulled something, pushed something, and drew his leg flat on the bed.

Simon exhaled. It was still agony, but it was bearable agony. "I've never been broken on the rack, but it has to be something similar," he mumbled, when he could speak again. The agony had happened once or twice before after lovemaking, but this time he hadn't been ready for it, so intent had he been on achieving his object. An achievement that so far transcended his hopes that he'd fallen into a satisfied stupor without thought for how he positioned his leg.

"Perhaps now you'd let me do something to ease it." Ariel hopped off the bed. "I have some salve."

He lay back and let her rub a strong-smelling ointment into his knee. It had a strangely warming, numbing effect. "What is it?"

"Dried mullein mostly."

"Are you a skilled herbalist or do you buy from one?"

"Sarah taught me everything I know."

Simon frowned, remembering a conversation he'd had with Edgar the previous day. Simon had asked him if he knew of a woman called Esther in the neighborhood. A single woman of good breeding who would have come onto Ravenspeare land from Huntingdon some thirty years earlier. Edgar had denied all knowledge of such a woman. But he had talked of dumb Sarah and her blind daughter-the only single women in the area.

"Sarah? Is she the dumb woman with the blind daughter?"

Ariel wiped her greasy hands on a towel. "Where did you hear of Sarah?"

"Edgar told me. I was asking if he knew of a woman called Esther in the neighborhood."

"Who's she?"

"I don't really know," he replied. "I suppose you haven't heard of her."

Ariel shook her head. "No. And I know most people in these parts. Why are you looking for her?"

Simon frowned. "I have reason to believe she may have had something to do with my family. There was some mention of her in my father's papers… but it's all very vague." He shrugged. "I suppose I just want to satisfy my curiosity." It wasn't an entirely accurate description of his intense interest in the puzzle, but if Ariel couldn't help him, then nothing was gained by pursuing it further.

"But we have other things to discuss, wife of mine. So come here and sit down." He patted the side of the bed.

Ariel hesitated, then shrugged and did as he said. "So, now you've consummated this marriage, are you sure of my loyalty?" There was a residual sting in her voice.

"If you assure me I have it," he replied evenly.

"And if I refuse?"

He sighed and tried a tentative flex of his knee. "Then, my wife, we will continue this afternoon's little exercise until you conceive. When you have produced an heir that will cement this so-called alliance between our families, I will release you from all marital obligations."

"Typical Puritan," Ariel declared with scorn. "Sex is a distasteful activity to be indulged purely for the purpose of procreation."

Simon went into a peal of laughter. "Now, just how, my dear girl, did you get that impression from the last hour?" Ariel blushed crossly.

"Besides," he continued, "this accusation of Puritanism grows irksome. As it happens, I have never held to the Puritan way of life and don't ever intend to."

"But you dress in the dark, somber clothes of a Puritan?"

"I've no taste for peacocking around. And besides, dark colors and simple cuts suit me."

"Oh-ho, you are vain, after all, Sir Puritan!" she crowed.

The laughter died out of his eyes and his face became dark. "I have little cause for vanity. I know it as well as anyone." Almost unconsciously, he touched the scar on his cheek.

There was silence for a minute, then Ariel said, "I do not find anything distasteful about you… except that you're a Hawkesmoor," she added.

Simon smiled. "As are you, madam wife. As are you. Well and truly."

Chapter Twelve

So in conclusion, my dear Helene, I don't really know what to make of my bride. I think you would probably like her. She has a straightforwardness that you would respond to, but she has also a deep personal reserve and she's more stubborn than the most obstinate mule.

Helene leaned back in her chair, Simon's letter fluttering to her lap. The fire was a warm glow in the small wainscoted parlor, and the wind and rain lashing the casements made it seem even cozier within. Her gaze rested on her eldest daughter, Marianne, sitting with her tambour frame on the other side of the hearth. The child was intent over her needle, sewing a sampler for her little sister's birthday. Louise, unaware of her sister's efforts on her behalf, was sitting on the floor playing spillikins with her young brother, James. His father's heir, the reason why Harold in his will had stipulated that if his widow remarried she would lose guardianship of her children.

Helene picked up Simon's letter again. I wish you could meet her, my dear. I would value your insight. Sometimes I believe I understand her, know what's going on behind that broad forehead, and then in the next minute I realize she's a complete enigma. She was unwilling for the marriage, as I've already mentioned, and while she seems resigned now, I have the strange feeling that she is not. Her brothers are brutes of the first water, and she is as different from them as crystal is from clay, but I still believe that in the deep-running rivers of her soul she could never bring herself to care truly for a Hawkesmoor.

"And you once said there would never be room in your heart for a Ravenspeare."

"I beg your pardon, Mama?"

"Nothing, my dear." Helene hadn't realized she'd spoken aloud. Ravenspeare Castle was a fifteen-mile journey across the fens from the dower house of Kelburn Manor. She was practically a neighbor of the Ravenspeares. And her own family's connection with the Hawkesmoors was so well known in the Fens, any interest she might take in the marriage of the earl of Hawkesmoor would cause no comment. It would not be unheard of for a neighbor to pay her respects to the bride and groom during their extended wedding celebrations. Not unheard of, but given the reputation of the lords of Ravenspeare, most unusual.

But Simon sounded strange in this letter. He was a faithful and regular correspondent; even from the battlefields of Europe, he had written monthly accounts. She could read his mood beneath the words as easily as if she'd been sitting in the same room with him. And he was clearly disturbed, uncertain, most uncharacteristically unsure of himself.

And all because some nineteen-year-old chit didn't understand her good fortune. She should be on her knees thanking God for giving her such a wonderful man as husband, instead of making him feel unwanted, withholding herself from him, when he so clearly wanted her… her what?

Her love?

Helene leaned forward abruptly and threw another log onto the fire. Her face was hot and a nasty sourness was in her belly. Of course Simon didn't feel love for his Ravenspeare bride, but it seemed he felt something. It seemed she interested him… intrigued him, even. And there was a softness behind his frank and puzzled confidences that Helene had come to believe was for herself alone.

Now it seemed she must share it. She despised the wave of jealousy as it flooded her veins, made her mouth turn down, her eyes narrow. But she couldn't seem to prevent it. It was demeaning and futile. She was the one who had refused to marry Simon after Harold's death. Oh, for invincible reasons, ones that Simon had understood without question. But all the rational thought in the world couldn't seem to stop the venom of jealousy from infecting her blood.

"Are you ill, Mama?" Marianne, of the three children ever the most watchful and careful of their mother, threw aside her embroidery and dropped to the floor at Helene's knees. Her eyes were filled with concern as she touched her mother's cheek with the back of her hand.

Helene smiled reassuringly, stroking the girl's bright head before kissing her brow. "Just a dark thought, my love. But it's passed now."

"About our father?" James cupped the spillikins in his small hands before letting them fall to the carpet to start a new game. The lad had no real memory of Harold, Helene knew, but he referred to his father on every possible occasion, as if he needed to make him real.

He would have benefited so much from a stepfather… such a one as Simon would be. Helene caught the tiny sigh before it escaped. "Come, let's all play spillikins." Smiling, she sat down on the floor among her children, who gathered around her like a trio of baby ducklings.

She would visit the new countess of Hawkesmoor as an old family friend ready to welcome her into her husband's world. She would see this Ariel for herself. And if the girl didn't understand the full worth of Simon Hawkesmoor, then Helene would make her understand in no uncertain terms.

Ariel watched the earl of Hawkesmoor draw back the longbow. Despite the cool afternoon, he, like the rest of the archery competitors, had shed his coat. The muscles of his shoulders bunched beneath the white shirt as he pulled back the thick willow. The shirt was tucked carelessly into his britches. A broad belt with a magnificent jeweled buckle outlined his slender waist, accentuated the taut buttocks and slim hips.

Desire flickered in her belly. The arrow was loosed from the bow and thudded into the center of the target. Ariel smiled and swung her legs as she sat on an upturned rain butt to one side of the archery court. She had abandoned her wedding finery for a simple gown of homespun russet linen. White cuffs banded the wrists and a deep white collar set off the creamy oval of her face. Her hair hung in a thick rope down the middle of her back. She wore no hoop and on her feet were a pair of sturdy leather clogs over woolen stockings.

Simon stepped back, took a tankard of ale from a waiting servant, and drained it in one gulp, his eyes on the lad who had run to the target to remove the arrow. It was pronounced a bull's-eye and the Ravenspeare brothers looked sour.

Ariel watched as Ralph stepped up to the mark. At this archery tournament, the earl of Hawkesmoor and his team were competing with the Ravenspeare brothers and theirs. Ralph drew his bow and his arm shook with the strain as he pulled the string taut. Ariel judged that as usual he was not sober. The arrow hit the target, but off center. Ralph muttered a vile oath and stepped back.

"Beggin' yer pardon, m'lady."

Ariel turned immediately to the girl bobbing a curtsy a few feet away from her. "What is it, Maisie?"

"Mistress Gertrude sent me, m'lady. Would you come to the kitchen?"

Ariel slid off the rain butt immediately and left the court with the long, energetic stride that set her skirt swinging about her ankles. Simon noted her departure but gave it not a second thought. Ariel was always about some household matter or other. However, once the contest was over, he went in search of her.

Leaning heavily on his cane, he limped through the kitchen garden and made his way to the stables. Sometimes he thought the only clues to Ariel's feelings lay here with Edgar and her horses. A wet nose pushed into his palm, and he realized the hounds had followed him. They now slept at night before the fire in Ariel's bedchamber.

He acknowledged them with a word and they walked sedately at his heels, matching his halting pace, into the stable-yard. At the door to the Arabians' block, they paused expectantly. Simon paused too. He could hear voices, Ranulf's voice, loud and hectoring, followed by Edgar's slow country drawl, impeded by the eternal straw between his teeth. There was no sign of Ariel.

"What's my sister done with the colt?"

"Sent 'im away, m'lord. I jest said so."

"Don't be insolent, man! Unless you want to feel my whip. Sent him away where?"

"I don't rightly know, m'lord. She told me to 'ave 'im shipped downriver t'other mornin' and I obeyed me orders- as I always does." Edgar's voice was phlegmatic, unperturbed by Ranulf's threats of violence.

"You must know where you shipped him." Ranulf's exasperation clearly came from his knowledge that this man was not to be cowed.

"That I don't, m'lord. Them what comes fer 'im knew where they were agoin' an' I didn't inquire. Not my business, sir."

Simon moved away from the door and limped rather more rapidly than was comfortable toward the mews. He didn't want Ranulf to catch him eavesdropping. But just what was going on? Ariel's horses were beautiful, but why was Ranulf so put out that one of the colts had disappeared?

He remembered now Ariel's questioning of her brother at the hunt picnic. He remembered hearing the tension in her voice as she asked him with such apparent casualness what he'd thought when he'd paid his unexpected visits to her stables. She had said she had no interest in selling them. But he remembered her flush, the way she had walked away from him.

Ariel was not an adept liar. Something was going on.

The mews was dark and cold, the air acrid. A faint shifting filled the quiet as the raptors, sensing the presence of a stranger, shifted on their perches.

"Can I 'elp, sir?"

The falconer appeared out of the shadows. He was a big man, with a large paunch and a squint that gave him an immediate air of suspicion.

"Hawkesmoor." Simon offered in identification.

"Afternoon, m'lord. You want to take a look at the birds before the hawking in the mornin'?"

"If you please."

The falconer walked him through the dimness along the perches, giving brief descriptions of each bird. "This 'ere is Lady Ariel's Wizard." He stopped at the merlin.

"Ah, yes, I saw him fly." Simon scratched the falcon's neck and the bird's bright eye regarded him coldly. "I thought be would renege, but he came back to the wrist as sweetly as you please."

"Aye, he's a bird wi' a mind of 'is own, but he'll return to Lady Ariel."

"Why's this one hooded on his perch?" Simon pointed to the bird next to Wizard. The gyrfalcon was almost pure white, heavy and powerful, and his massive claws gripped the perch. Everything about him bespoke malevolence.

"That's Satan. By name and nature," the falconer replied. "No one knows why 'e went bad, but 'e can't be trusted." He laughed shortly but with a degree of affection. "Not that you can trust an 'awk further than you can throw 'im, but this one's a real evil devil."

"Why do you keep him?"

"The earl 'as a fondness fer 'im." The man's tone was tart. "Like master like bird."

Simon let the statement lie. "So, which birds do you keep for your guests? My friends and I didn't bring our own."

"I've a beautiful peregrine for you, m'lord." The falconer's voice grew warmly enthusiastic. "I trained 'im fer Lady Ariel and she flies 'im often, but she says you're to 'ave 'im tomorrow. She'll be flyin' the merlin."

The slate gray falcon was indeed beautiful. "Any quirks?"

The falconer laughed softly. "Traveler likes a reward.

Flies better fer it, unlike most of 'em. I'll give you a pouch of chicken liver. Jest a taste now and agin will keep 'im flyin' sweet."

Simon nodded and scratched the bird between his ears. "Crafty one, are you?"

The falcon regarded him with an air almost of complacence, and Simon smiled. "I believe I'm going to enjoy you, Traveler."

The falconer accompanied him back to the door to the stableyard, where the hounds were waiting patiently. Since their adventure with the poisoned carcass, they rarely went off on their own.

Ranulf was crossing the yard from the Arabians' block as Simon emerged from the mews. "Magnificent birds you have, Ravenspeare," Simon called pleasantly.

Ranulf stopped to wait for him. He was glowering, clearly still out of temper, but whether because of the defeat in the archery court or because of the disappearance of the mysterious colt it was impossible to tell.

"I've a gyrfalcon you can try, brother-in-law." Ranulf's dark eyes watched the Hawkesmoor's reaction.

Simon shook his head, saying easily, "If you're offering me Satan, I have to say I'm not skilled enough to fly him."

Ranulf's lip curled. "Then I'll fly him myself."

"I'm sure you have the skill, Ranulf. I'll be flying Ariel's peregrine." Simon whistled up the dogs who were snuffling at the ground a few yards away.

"I see those damned hounds have taken to you," Ranulf snarled.

"They had little choice," Simon responded with a private smile that he knew would rile his enemy even more. "I've learned that the way to Ariel's confidence lies through her animals." He moved a little faster to keep up with Ranulf, who had increased his speed across the yard. "Her Arabians, for instance. An impressive stud, don't you think?"

Ranulf slowed his pace. "What has she said to you of her plans for them?"

"Only that they're her hobby. I've sent order to Hawkesmoor Manor to have new stables built for them. They should be ready soon after our return."

Ranulf shot him a quick look, his eyes sharply assessing. Then he said nonchalantly, "We shall be sorry to see you go, brother-in-law. Such a pleasant time as we're all having. But you'll excuse me if I leave you now. I have matters to attend to and it's not convenient to keep to your pace."

He strode off, leaving Simon to limp after him.

Chapter Thirteen

Ariel lay awake in the dark listening to the rumbling snores of the dogs beside the dying fire. Simon was sleeping next to her, but she knew that if she made the slightest move to get out of bed, he would awake. He slept as lightly as a cat. But he was also discreet, and she knew that whenever he woke at her movements, he pretended to be asleep, unless she went to the door. Then he would ask where she was going. He still locked the door whenever they were alone together in her chamber, though he now left the key in the door.

Ariel chafed at the restrictions on her freedom. She was accustomed to moving about at night. Often the horses needed tending, or she would need to visit a patient or a laboring woman in the farms and villages around. Her brothers had never given a damn what she had done, as long as it didn't interfere with their needs.

Tonight the moon was bright, she wasn't sleepy, and she wanted to feel free to go where she pleased without question.

In the secret drawer in the bottom of her wardrobe lay one thousand guineas. Her passport to complete freedom. Edgar had delivered the money to her in the stableyard under the very eyes of her brothers and her husband, tucked beneath a newly repaired saddle that he'd proffered for her inspection. It had been the matter of a moment to slip the notes free and secret them in her glove.

Now, in her mind's eye, she could see the pile of notes in their hiding place, almost feel them in her hand. And Mr. Carstairs had offered twice that for the mare in foal. Ariel had to deliver the foal first, but she was confident the dam would have no difficulty and the foal would be sound. The mare had produced two healthy colts already, and the stallion was one of the stud's best. With three thousand guineas she would be able to set up her own stables anywhere she pleased.

But the mare was not expected to deliver for another six weeks. In that time, if the Hawkesmoor had his way, she and her stud would be installed at Hawkesmoor Manor.

But that wasn't going to happen. The Hawkesmoor was rather different from what she'd expected; indeed, she enjoyed his company and more than enjoyed his bed, but that changed nothing. She was going to be an independent horse breeder with a line of racehorses that would be the envy of the racing world. She was going to be a free woman, living under no man's thumb. She had been used and dominated by Ravenspeare men all her life, and she was not going to exchange her brothers' dominion for a husband's.

She would need to move soon, before the mare delivered. She couldn't run her business for much longer from Ravenspeare Castle. Ranulf was already suspicious and, from what Edgar had told her, the disappearance of the colt had only increased his suspicions.

She was going to leave Ravenspeare Castle with her horses before the wedding month was up. She would take them to Holland and she would set up her stud there. And if Simon tracked her down, then she would offer him an annulment. He could keep her dowry, she'd have no need of it by then.

Simon lay still, breathing deeply, aware of every twitch in the slender body beside him. He knew she was awake, her mind racing. It was the same almost every night when she awoke from the light doze of physical fulfillment. She slept so little and yet she never seemed to be tired. She had boundless, enviable energy. An energy she seemed to draw from the air. But what was she thinking through the long hours of the night?

With a sudden sigh, Ariel slid out of bed. Simon watched through half-closed eyes as she padded barefoot to the window. The dogs lifted their heads from their paws for a moment, then dropped them heavily back again. "It'll soon be dawn," she said.

"Did you sleep as fitfully when you slept alone?" He sat up, not particularly surprised that she had guessed he was awake.

"I'm a night person. I like to move around at night."

"But you don't sleep in the day."

"I take a nap sometimes. Outdoors, usually."

He linked his hands behind his head. "Do you realize what an eccentric you are, Ariel?"

She turned in surprise. "Eccentric?"

"Very eccentric," he affirmed on a note of amusement Her naked body was a white outline against the dark window at her back. "What is it that you want to be doing at this god-awful hour?"

"I don't know." She stretched, rising on tiptoe, her breasts lifting against her taut rib cage, her stomach hollowed above the rich golden triangle at the apex of her thighs.

"I could offer a suggestion."

"Could you?" The restlessness remained in her voice, but it now had an underlying throb of interest. She ran her hands through the thick honeyed mass of her hair, tossed it back over her shoulders.

"Come here."

Ariel moved back to the bed slowly, placing each foot carefully on the floor, curling her toes against the polished wood, lifting her instep, feeling the stretch. Her blood was suddenly speeding through her veins. She stood at the bed beside him.

"Come closer." He slipped a hand around to her bottom and drew her a step forward until her knees were pressing against the bed frame. "Put your hands behind your back."

Ariel obeyed, a thrill of anticipation coursing through her belly. She clasped her hands tightly behind her.

Simon ran a hand over her breasts and belly, placed his flat palm over the curly bush at its base, fingering the soft mound beneath. Ariel quivered but kept her hands together in the small of her back. "Part your legs."

She did so, her eyes closing on a wash of pleasure as he opened her delicately and she felt his fingers slide inside her, while his thumb played upon the hardening, swelling nub of pleasure. His other hand stroked over her bottom, and her thighs clenched involuntarily as the spiral coiled in the pit of her belly. Holding her between his hands, he bent and kissed her belly, his tongue flickering over the dampening skin, darting into her navel, flicking at the sharp points of her hipbones.

Ariel shuddered, moistened her dry lips. Her breath came fast and shallow, her throat was hot and tight. Her hands were now clenched so tightly that her fingers were numb.

How did he know how to do this to her? How could he read her body so exactly that he knew when to still the movement of his fingers deep inside her, to cease all his caresses so that she hung in an agony of expectation and the coil built now under its own momentum, built and built so that her belly was as tight as a drum and she thought she would split asunder? And how did he know then that the merest flicker of the fingers still deep within her would hurl her into a moment of glorious oblivion when the coil sprung loose and exquisite joy flooded every cell and pore of her body?

But he did know. Weak and formless, she fell forward onto the bed, across his thighs. Simon, smiling, stroked down her back, his fingers damp from her body. After a minute he slipped his hands beneath her, turning her over as he shifted her up against his chest.

"Was I hurting your knee?" she mumbled feebly.

"I was just taking precautions." He caressed her hair, running his fingers through the thick fragrant strands flopping across his chest. "Still feel restless?"

She shook her head against his shoulder. "No. Sleepy."

He lifted her off his lap onto the bed beside him. "Sleep then." He slid down the pillows himself and pushed an arm beneath her head. "I wouldn't mind a peaceful hour myself, as it happens."

"But you didn't… I mean, can you sleep without-" "Yes," he said firmly. "You may return the favor a little later."

Ariel kissed the hollow of his shoulder. "That's very noble of you, my lord."

"My pleasure." He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, still smiling to himself.

He awoke to find the smile still curving his mouth. It seemed to be left over from his dream, together with a fuzzy sensation of pleasure. Then he came awake fully and the sensation was as clear and joyous as the daybreak beyond the window.

Ariel still lay beside him, but he had her feet at his shoulder instead of her head, which was hidden beneath the quilts. Lazily he reached down and ran his thumb hard from the nape of her neck along the knobbly line of her spine to her tailbone. Her back rippled under the firm caress.

She raised her head, but her hands continued the work of her mouth. He felt her head heavy against his thigh as her fingers rubbed and stroked. "I was returning the favor." Her voice was muffled by the thick covers, but he could hear her tone of drowsy, languid pleasure.

"May I suggest a variation on the theme?" he murmured.

"Like what?" Her head was resting now on his belly, and her breath whispered across his skin. Her tongue ran over the tip of his member in a delicious butterfly caress.

"Like this." He moved her legs astride his chest, lifted her hips and drew her backward so that he could match her dewy caresses with his own.

"Oh," murmured Ariel on a note of pleased surprise. And then again, "Oh."

It was a bitterly cold morning, the hoarfrost still thick on the grass, but the clouds were high in a pale blue sky and the sun, although weak, was definitely in evidence. A thin crust of ice had formed over the river, and a few disconsolate mallards paddled among the rushes. A blue heron stood on a decomposing tree stump in the mud of the far riverbank and, as the hawking party drew up opposite, took off with a coarse guttural cry, its neck folded as it swept away from the intruders.

The peregrine on Simon's wrist quivered at the sound, flexing his cruel claws against the thick falconer's glove. The Ravenspeare mews couldn't supply birds for the entire wedding party, so they were a small group-the lords of Ravenspeare and several of their closest friends, Oliver Becket among them; Ariel and the Hawkesmoor cadre; a dozen Fenlander guests who had brought their own falcons to the wedding celebrations.

Ranulf's gyrfalcon sat hooded and immobile on his master's wrist as the party rode along the bank. Ariel was aware of a deep, secret pleasure running through her body, investing every corner of her mind with a smugness that made her want to laugh aloud.

She rode a little away from the others, enjoying an apartness that made savoring her lascivious memories all the more piquant. Everything about the morning delighted her: the spritely gait of the roan mare beneath her; the wicked black eye of Wizard on her wrist as he turned his head consideringly around, taking in everything that moved within his sight; the icy bite of the air when she drew it into her lungs; the faint warmth on her face when she lifted it to the sun. She gloried in the energy bubbling in her veins, the deep chuckle that seemed lodged in her throat, the lovely thrumming of a body that still held the physical memories of the dawn as if they had been branded upon her.

Now and again she would glance over at Simon, riding in the midst of the cadre. To her now knowing eyes, he too had an air of quiet complacence, laughing and joking with his friends. She was finding it hard now to imagine that she had once thought him ugly. Now she saw how the scar somehowlent a grandeur to his asymmetrical countenance. The jagged spur of his nose, the prominent jaw, the skewed smile, the heavy bushes of his eyebrows, were all drawn with the thick, strong lines of self-assurance, of utter confidence. And yet she knew how his physical impairments, as he saw them, could at times render him uncertain and self-deriding. But she had never seen or heard him uncertain about the rightness of his convictions or the strength of his purpose.

Her train of thought was abruptly cut off as Simon loosed his bird and the peregrine soared into the vast blueness above the flat landscape on the trail of a minute speck, so high up and so tiny, Ariel wondered how Simon could possibly have sighted it. He must have amazingly acute eyesight and incredibly rapid reflexes. He must have thrown Traveler upward before the bird had even realized what he was supposed to be after.

But now the peregrine was closing in on its prey. The hawking party all watched, eyes squinting against the sun, as the drama played out far above them. The bird ducked, swerved, soared, and the peregrine followed every movement almost lazily, playing with its prey, it seemed to the watchers. And then Traveler struck, one plummeting dive, claws outstretched, curved beak dark against the sky, and the smaller bird was snatched from the air.

The peregrine rose in the air as if taking a victory flight for the watchers so far below. He caught a rising current of warm air and drifted languidly with it, mocking the heavy earthbound beings on the riverbank.

Simon walked his horse out in front of the party. He sat still, gazing upward, his left gloved arm lifted to receive the falcon.

"Do you have a reward for Traveler?" Ariel spoke quietly in the tense and yet reverent hush.

"Aye." Simon didn't take his eyes from his bird, but undipped a leather pouch from his belt.

The peregrine finally ceased his play on the current and flew with long, leisurely flaps of his wings back down to the river. He flew low along the water, his catch securely gripped in his beak, circled once, soared up, and landed neatly on Simon's upheld glove.

Simon gently took the small kestrel from Traveler's beak and slipped it in the game bag on his saddle. The hawk watched with his bright eye as with two fingers Simon extracted a bleeding piece of chicken liver from the pouch. He held the meat up to the hawk perched on his upraised arm ____________________

Ariel caught the deadly swoop of dark wings out of the corner of her eye before the chattering scream of Ranulf's gyrfalcon filled the air. It dived for the meat between Simon's fingers, claws outstretched to rend and tear, directly in front of Simon's face.

Ariel slashed at the bird with her riding crop, catching it across the back. Its screaming cry shivered in the air. Deflected from its path, it turned on her, with red eye and vicious beak open. She slashed at it again wildly, and it landed on the roan's neck, tearing with its claws at the mane and hide. The mare shrieked in pain, reared high, and Ariel flew from her back over the riverbank. The ice cracked beneath her as she fell heavily onto the fragile surface of the river and the freezing water engulfed her.

A silver streak darted from Simon's hand. The roan mare's anguished shrieks suddenly stopped. The gyrfalcon fell to the ground, Simon's small knife sticking out of its gray breast. The horse shivered and whimpered, blood pouring from the tears in her neck.

Simon cursed at the lost minutes as he secured the peregrine's jesses before handing the bird to his groom. He swung from his horse but others had reached the water before he could.

Jack waded through the ice toward Ariel, who was standing waist deep, her face white with shock, her eyes dazed. Jack held out his hand and for a second she didn't take it, then she grabbed it and allowed herself to be half dragged to the riverbank. Her green broadcloth habit, black with water, clung to her legs, hampering her movements.

Oliver bent to seize her free hand, to haul her up the incline of the riverbank. Simon thrust him aside, took hold of Ariel's hand, and yanked her up the bank. "Dear God, we have to get you out of these clothes, come with-"

She jerked out of his hold before he could finish, flinging Jack's restraining hand aside, and stumbled to the bleeding roan. She gazed at the wounds and then turned on Ranulf, who was still mounted, watching the proceedings with an air almost of amusement.

"You swine!" she hissed, stepping toward him, her eyes dark burning holes in her deathly white face, her mouth wrenched, her face a mask of hatred. "I will kill you for this, Ranulf. You had better lock your door at night, because so help me, I will-"

"Ariel!" Simon grabbed her shoulders, shocking her into silence, twisting her around her to face him. "This is not the time for that. You have to get out of those clothes and-"

"Don't you tell me what to do," she raged at him, unseeing in her blind hurt and fury. "Can you imagine what would have happened to your face? Look at my horse! Look at what's happened to her, damn your eyes. She took what was meant for you! Don't you understand that? Your face is ruined now, but just imagine what you would look like then?"

"Ariel." He spoke her name quietly, but his fingers gripped her chin hard. "Ariel." He repeated her name in the same tone, and his fingers gripped tighter until finally she felt them pressing into her skin, forcing her to acknowledge him. Finally she heard his voice, saw his eyes, heard what she had just said.

She dashed a hand across her eyes as if to clear her vision. "Forgive me. I didn't mean…"

"I don't want to hear another word," he said roughly now, releasing his grip. "You're going to catch your death, girl!" He began to unbutton her jacket. People moved forward, offering advice, assistance, but he ignored them, dragging the water-logged coat from Ariel's body. Her white shirt beneath was also soaked, but he couldn't strip that from her before all eyes.

He took off his cloak and wrapped it tightly around her. She was shivering now, her teeth chattering, her lips blue. "Jack, pass her up to me." He mounted the piebald and leaned down to take Ariel as Jack lifted her in his arms and swung her upward.

Simon settled her on the saddle in front of him, enfolding her in his arms. His lips were set in a thin line as he felt the uncontrollable shivers convulsing the slender frame. He kicked the piebald's flanks and the animal broke into a gallop, heading back to Ravenspeare Castle on the horizon.

Jack Chauncey bent and pulled the knife from the breast of the gyrfalcon, then he picked up the once magnificent bird by its feet and hurled it into the rushes like a dirty rag. He remounted and took the bridle of the trembling, injured mare. He glanced once toward the lords of Ravenspeare, then followed Simon, leading the roan. The rest of the cadre fell in behind him.

The piebald galloped over the drawbridge and into the castle. Simon bellowed for assistance as he drew rein and the animal came to a panting halt. Servants ran from the Great Hall.

"One of you take Lady Ariel." He handed her down to the brawny footman who stepped forward with alacrity. "Carry her to her chamber." He dismounted and followed the servant into the castle, limping as rapidly as he could, cursing his inability to carry his wife himself.

"Set her in the rocker by the fire. Send up that maidservant, what's her name, Doris. Have someone bring up hot water and a bathtub and replenish the log basket. And bring a warming pan, oh, and hot bricks for the bed." He rapped out orders as he threw more logs onto the fire, bellowing over his shoulder, "Hurry, man!"

The servant put his burden into the rocker and ran from the room. Ariel huddled in the cloak. Her soaked clothes were plastered to her skin, and her hair dripped down the back of her neck. She couldn't feel her hands or feet. The cold was in the marrow of her bones, as if the river ice had penetrated her skin.

Simon dragged off her boots and stockings. Her feet were the dead white of parchment. He took them between his hands, chafing them desperately.

"Oh, sir, what's 'appened?" Doris came running into the room with a warming pan. "Sam'l says summat's the matter with Lady Ariel."

"She fell in the river. Help me get her clothes off."

Doris thrust the warming pan under the covers on the bed and hurried to help. "Oh, lord, sir, Lady Ariel gets powerful bad when she takes cold," she said, tearing the buttons on Ariel's shirt in her haste to get it off her. "Weak chest she's got, and once she gets the cough and the wheezes, she's bad for weeks."

"Don't talk rot, Doris," Ariel remonstrated through violently chattering teeth. "I'll be fine once I'm warm again."

Two maids arrived laboring under a copper hip bath and several jugs of steaming water. "We'll fetch up more water directly, m'lady," the younger of the two said with a bobbing curtsy.

"An' Mistress Gertrude's warmin' 'ot bricks, ma'am," the other chimed in, pouring the water into the tub.

Simon and Doris between them had managed to get Ariel's clothes off. Simon noticed grimly that her skin was angrily reddened with the cold. He'd seen men chilled like that in the bitter winter battles, after slogging through frozen mud and icy streams. And he knew what frostbite and ague could do.

"Get in the water, sweetheart." He pushed her toward the tub.

"I'll get chilblains!" Ariel protested. "I can't plunge icy skin into hot water."

"On this occasion you can and you must." Simon lifted her off her feet and deposited her in the tub. Ariel yelled as the hot water seared her. "Chilblains are better than the ague," he declared. "Sit down, for God's sake."

Ariel would have refused if she'd had the strength of body and will. She knew she was right and Simon was wrong, but she hadn't the energy to resist as he pushed her down into the water. But despite the heat that warmed her skin, she couldn't stop shivering. She was cold deep inside and a tub of hot water made no impression on that inner freeze.

Simon hid his concern as he knelt before the tub and scrubbed her with a washcloth, desperately trying with friction to get some heat back into her. The maids were thrusting hot bricks wrapped in flannel into the bed. Doris was drying Ariel's hair in a thick towel. Steam rose from the tub, the fire was built to bonfire proportions, and sweat dripped from everyone in the room but Ariel, who continued to shiver.

Both Simon and Doris dried her. "She needs a nightgown or chamber robe," Simon instructed. Doris produced a thick woolen chamber robe.

"I hate that robe. It makes me itch," Ariel protested through chattering teeth. But no one took any notice of her, and in a very few minutes she was in bed, quilts piled up high on top of her, hot bricks pressed against her body. But still she shivered, and there was an ominously hectic flush on her cheeks.

Simon laid a hand on her forehead. "You can physic others, Ariel; what should we get for you?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. It will pass once I warm up. I wasn't in the water that long."

"Long enough," he said shortly. "There must be something…" He stopped when he saw that her eyes were closed and she seemed to be sleeping.

A tap on the door announced Jack Chauncey, who stood in the doorway. "I thought maybe Lady Hawkesmoor would like to know that her mare is back in the stables. Her groom is taking care of her. He said I was to tell Lady Ariel that the wounds were cleaning up nicely, but he would use a paste of saltwort to guard against corruption."

"Tell him to cauterize the wounds first." Ariel's voice was a thin croak. "With a sulphur match. It has to be done, the hawk's claws are filled with poisonous matter." She muttered something that sounded to her listeners like a string of curses from a shipping wharf, but her voice was lost in a bout of hollow coughing.

"I retrieved your knife, Simon," Jack said a touch awkwardly, seeing his friend's grim visage as he lifted Ariel's head and propped more pillows beneath. "I know how much it means to you." He held out the knife.

Simon turned from the bed and took it with a nod of thanks. Jack had wiped the blade, but there remained a few dried rusty drops of the falcon's blood. It had been his father's knife. He thrust it into the sheath in his father's wide belt with the jeweled buckle.

Ariel turned her head on the high pillows. The coughing had ceased but her face was both white and flushed and her eyes were heavy under swollen lids. "Jack, will you remember to tell Edgar about the sulphur?"

"Of course, Lady Ariel."

Her chuckle was a faint thread. "Must we be so formal, sir?"

Jack smiled. "Not if you don't wish it, Ariel."

"I don't," she said, then turned her head away, and the men watched her desperate fight to keep the cough from breaking loose. It was a fight she lost.

"I'll tell Ravenspeare that you'll not be joining the party tonight," Jack said unnecessarily as he left the room.

Simon waited until Ariel was quieter, then he said, "Tell me what I can do for you, sweetheart. If you can help others, you know how to help yourself."

"Ephedra… but I don't have any."

He placed his hand on her brow. Her skin burned against his palm. "Then where will I get some?" he asked patiently.

"Sarah, but she-" The rest of the sentence was lost in a renewed attack of coughing.

"I've brought some 'ot flannels for Lady Ariel's chest, m'lord." Doris entered the room without bothering to knock. "They're soaked in camphor. She uses 'em for chest ailments. Cured Mistress Gertrude like a charm last Easter."

She proffered her strong-smelling cloths. "Shall I put 'em on, sir?"

"Yes… yes, if you think they'll help." Simon drew back the quilts and opened Ariel's robe, exposing her creamy breasts and the taut frame of her rib cage. Her flushed skin was raised in a rash.

"Get the robe off me!" Ariel demanded fretfully, her hand fluttering over her chest.

"Find her another robe, Doris. This is irritating her skin."

Doris carefully laid the aromatic flannel over Ariel's chest before fetching a wrapper of fine lawn from the dresser. "This isn't as warm, m'lord, but like as not it'll trouble 'er ladyship less."

Simon lifted Ariel from the bed as Doris eased off the woolen robe.

"I can do it myself." Ariel flapped at them as she tried to push her arms into the sleeves of the lawn wrapper. But another fit of coughing overtook her and she left them to it. The camphor-soaked flannel seemed to bring her some ease when she was finally lying back again, and her eyes closed.

"She'll get the ague and the lung fever agin, m'lord. You mark my words," Doris said doomfully.

"When did she last have it?"

"Oh, not since she was about ten or eleven. But I don't rightly know, m'lord. Nearly died of it she did, then. If it 'adn't been for daft dumb Sarah, she'd-"

"Lady Ariel just said this woman Sarah has some medicine," Simon interrupted, silencing Doris with an impatient hand gesture. "Where is she to be found?"

"We could send fer 'er, sir, but I don't rightly know as 'ow she'll come." Doris said. "But per'aps blind Jenny could come on 'er own if we send Edgar to fetch 'er."

"Why wouldn't the woman come if she's a friend of Lady Ariel's?" Simon demanded harshly.

Doris shook her head. "Oh, she'd go through fire an' water for Lady Ariel, but powerful afraid of Ravenspeare she is. Lady Ariel won't never ask 'er to come 'ere."

"Well, Lady Ariel isn't asking her. I am. Tell me where to find her."

Doris looked doubtful. "Best to send Edgar, m'lord. You'd need to drive the gig, and then the lane to the cut is powerful rutted, an' with this ice an' all."

"It needs a man steady on his feet. I understand you." His eyes were as bleak as his voice. "Then send Edgar with all speed. And tell him to bring the daughter too."

"Aye, m'lord." Doris, with a scared look, dropped a curtsy and raced from the room.

Simon returned to his vigil beside the bed, his eyes darkening as he stroked back the hair that clung damp with sweat to the broad brow.

Chapter Fourteen

Sarah sat at her loom beside the hearth, her fingers never ceasing their busy threading and weaving, as Edgar explained his errand, his voice uncharacteristically hurried. Sarah's fingers worked like automatons, her expression was serene, but behind her eyes the maelstrom raged.

Jenny stood by the table where she'd been slicing carrots for the women's midday meal, her hands now stilled.

"How bad is she, Edgar?"

"Eh, Miss Jenny, Doris says the cough's already in 'er lungs, she thinks." Edgar pulled at his cap in his hands. "'Is lordship of 'Awkesmoor is beside 'isself, Doris says."

The man who had come in peace, Sarah thought. Ariel had laughed bitterly when she'd first told of the Hawkesmoor's absurd ambition-to bring an end to the blood feud between their families. She had laughed bitterly and in complete disbelief, convinced that mere greed had prompted the man to instigate such an unnatural connection. But then Sarah sensed that Ariel's attitude had changed, that she now believed the earl of Hawkesmoor had genuinely if unrealistically wished with this marriage to heal the wounds of history.

And Sarah could have told her that Hawkesmoors, for all their passion and driving ambitions, were always more interested in love than in hate. And Geoffrey's son would be no exception.

"How long's it been since Ariel fell in the water?" Jenny asked.

Edgar frowned. "Two hours, per'aps." Jenny nodded briskly. "That's good. The fever may not yet have taken a grip." She began to move around the small room as deftly as if she were sighted, gathering things together. "Ephedra, Mother?"

Sarah nodded, and although Jenny couldn't see the gesture, she clearly sensed it. She kept up a running commentary of what she was putting together, "Slippery elm bark, coltsfoot, ground ivy, horehound, chamomile," and Sarah, listening intently, affirmed each selection in a silence that spoke as clearly as words to her daughter.

Sarah rose from her loom and went to the back of the room, where she unlocked a small corner cabinet. She took out a vial of smoked glass and added it to Jenny's basket.

Jenny touched it with an identifying finger, then said, "Ariel won't take laudanum, Mother."

Sarah simply laid a hand over her daughter's, and Jenny shrugged acceptingly and left the vial in the basket.

"I'm ready, Edgar." She looked expectantly toward the door where she knew Edgar still stood.

"The earl wants Mistress Sarah to come too," he stated, glancing at Sarah, who now stood stock-still beside the table.

Only now did Sarah fully acknowledge what she had known in her most secret heart since Ariel had first come with the news that she was to wed the earl of Hawkesmoor. She needed to see Geoffrey's son for herself. The son she never knew Geoffrey had had. If he had never come to Ravenspeare, she could have continued to live in the ignorance she had so long ago sworn never to question, but now she had the opportunity, she could no longer resist the need to see and to know.

"Mother doesn't like Ravenspeare," Jenny said into the silence. "Ariel would not expect her to go there."

" 'Is lordship was right insistent," Edgar persisted, twisting his cap between his hands. " 'E said as 'ow I was to bring you both, seeing as 'ow Lady Ariel is powerful bad and Mistress Sarah cured 'er the last time, when she was naught but a babby."

Jenny turned her blind eyes to her mother, who still stood immobile by the table. Her mother's fear and loathing of Ravenspeare Castle was one of the facts of their lives. There was no explanation for it, and when Jenny had once tried to probe, her mother had grown angry, which was such an extraordinary occurrence, her daughter had never brought up the subject again. Both she and Ariel accepted it and now no longer even speculated between themselves.

Sarah closed her eyes and let the surging panic have its way. Angry red circles of pain swirled within the blackness of her internal landscape. It had been long since she had permitted herself to feel the deep and dreadful loss, the old physical agony that still lived in her nerve endings, the agony of a violation that had exposed her soul and her body to the ultimate vileness.

She had taught herself to turn her mind away from the red and black of that memory, but now it filled her, filled every nook and cranny of her being until she couldn't breathe and thought she would choke on it. But she must let it come and then pass from her before she could face Ravenspeare Castle.

Jenny with a small cry came quickly over to her mother. She laid a hand on Sarah's shoulder and felt her mother's violent trembling. "You mustn't come," she said. "You mustn't. Ariel wouldn't expect it, and why would you do the bidding of a Hawkesmoor?"

Sarah ceased to tremble and the red mist faded. Jenny could never know that her mother would do the bidding of a Hawkesmoor out of an old love and an undying gratitude. And if that weren't enough, Ariel needed her. Ariel, whom she thought of as a second daughter. Ariel, in whom Ravenspeare blood flowed as it did in Sarah's natural daughter. Flowed, but without taint.

Sarah's tight, locked face relaxed again. She touched a hand to her throat, then to her lips, then she went to the hook by the door where hung her cloak and took down the thick woolen garment.

Jenny looked bewildered but she said nothing, merely fetched her own cloak, picked up the basket, and followed her mother and Edgar from the cottage, closing the door firmly behind them.

No one said a word throughout the journey, Edgar keeping to the taciturn, phlegmatic silence that suited him, Jenny too puzzled by her mother's volte-face to chat inconsequentially, and Sarah, always mute, locked in her own world as she prepared to pass beneath the arched entrance of Ravenspeare Castle.

Simon paced Ariel's bedchamber, the sound of his halting, uneven step loud in the silence. The hounds, now as restless as he, stood at the bed, their heavy heads sometimes resting on the covers as they gazed at Ariel's pale face on the pillow, or lifted to follow the man's anxious movements.

Ariel was finding it hard to breathe. Her breath wheezed in her chest and whispered through her mouth. But she felt, when she tried to assess her condition with the objectivity of a physician, that matters had not gone too far as yet. If Jenny came quickly with the ephedra and fever-reducing medicines, it should be possible to nip this impending attack of lung fever in the bud. She could not afford to be bedridden. She had to protect her horses from whatever Ranulf had in mind, be on hand for the mare's foaling, and conduct further negotiations with Mr. Carstairs.

As the list went round and round in her brain, she felt her fever rising with her level of anxiety and fought to calm herself. She touched the dogs heads, hoping their steady presence would soothe her, but the sound of Simon's pacing undid any good the dogs could do.

She struggled up a little on her pillows. "You don't have to stay in here, Simon. Go down and join the others in the Great Hall."

"Don't be absurd," he said shortly, coming over to the bed. He scrutinized her countenance, his sea blue eyes brimming with concern. "It would have been sensible to have kept out of the gyrfalcon's way."

Ariel's fever-filled eyes flashed. "I might say the same for you, sir."

"I didn't see it coming," he retorted.

"And I was supposed to stand by and watch it tear your face to pieces, I suppose."

Simon shook his head wearily. "It was just possible I might have been able to avert it myself."

Ariel opened her mouth to respond but any words were lost in a spasm of coughing. Simon, with a muttered exclamation, leaned over her, rubbing her back in a futile attempt to ease the dry hacking. At last it ceased and Ariel fell back against the pillows again. Simon wiped the sweat from her brow with his handkerchief.

Ariel closed her eyes, not wanting to meet his steady gaze. She remembered what she'd said about his ruined face, and the words now sounded dreadful to her. It didn't matter that she'd been beside herself with rage and fear for the injured roan; it had been unforgivable, almost taunting. But she was too tired to begin to apologize or explain. Her tiredness was bone deep and seemed to have replaced the marrow-deep chill. The hot bricks packed against her body had done their work, although somewhere she felt the cold lurking, a menacing shadow waiting to take shape again. She wanted to sleep but her fatigue was not sleep inducing, it merely brought aching limbs and dry eyes.

Simon turned away from her and went to the window, looking down into the inner court. He was waiting for the two women to appear with Edgar, but in the gloaming the court was deserted. The sounds of feasting from the Great Hall burst forth loud and raucous when the ironbound door was suddenly flung open and a man appeared, bent double, vomiting into the shrubs beside the steps. The celebrations and excess went on, even without the bride and groom.

Simon raised his eyes from the disagreeable sight and looked out over the castle walls to the flat countryside beyond. But it was too dark now to see anything; not even the octagon of Ely Cathedral was visible.

There was a sharp rap on the chamber door as he peered into the dark. He swung round, calling admittance as he did so. Two women, accompanied by Doris, entered. "Mistress Sarah, my lord, and Miss Jenny." Doris bobbed a curtsy as she performed introductions.

"My thanks, madam, for coming so quickly." Simon spoke courteously as he crossed the chamber, extending his hand to the older woman. Dumb, daft Sarah, Doris had called her. But there was nothing in the least daft about this woman's blue eyes as they surveyed him. She was gaunt, her hair white as snow, and deep in those unnerving eyes lurked a knowledge that made Simon oddly uneasy.

To his astonishment she took his large hand in both of hers, the warm dry skin of her palms enclosing it, her fingers curling around his. Simon felt the strangest sensation, as if something from this woman had passed into him. Only with the greatest difficulty did he resist the urge to snatch his hand from her clasp.

Then she released her hold and turned to the bed where her daughter was already bending over Ariel.

"Sarah, there was no need for you to come," Ariel protested, struggling up against the pillows. "All I need is some ephedra, and some coltsfoot lozenges and slippery elm bark for the cough. Jenny could have brought everything."

"Mother insisted," Jenny said, beginning to unpack the basket. Sarah merely smiled and opened Ariel's robe. Abruptly her fingers ceased their unbuttoning as her eyes fell on the bracelet around Ariel's wrist. She picked up the wrist delicately between finger and thumb and looked at the bracelet. The charms danced as she turned Ariel's wrist over to see the underside of the encircling serpent with the pearl apple in its mouth.

Slowly she turned her head to where the earl of Hawkesmoor stood just behind her. Her haunted eyes held his gaze for a minute as she still clasped Ariel's wrist, and there was a question in her gaze that he couldn't identify, let alone answer.

"What is it, Mother?" Jenny touched her mother's hand. She could feel her mother's tension.

"You're right, Ariel should take off the bracelet. It's hardly appropriate to wear it in bed." Simon's voice was brisk, masking his own unease. He didn't know what it was that had disturbed the older woman, but he found he couldn't bear the gaze of those blue eyes in the gaunt white face. It was as if she was stripping him bare, seeing through him somehow. The only obvious explanation was that something about the bracelet had upset her-it was something of an acquired taste after all-so he did as he always did when faced with a threat, attempted to remove it. He reached for Ariel's wrist and Sarah released her grip, brushing her hand across her eyes as if dispelling some image.

Simon unclasped the bracelet. For a moment he fingered the emerald swan, the silver rose, the delicate pearl insets in the serpentine chain, the round pearl apple in the serpent's mouth. The hairs on his neck lifted as he traced the reared head of the viper, the tiny black jet of its eye. Where had he seen it before? Why was it so familiar? He couldn't capture the nagging elusive memory.

He became aware of the woman Sarah's eyes on him again and looked up sharply, almost flushing as if caught in some wrongdoing. But she turned back to her patient immediately, and he dropped the bracelet into his pocket.

Sarah's fingers were once again deft and efficient as they finished unbuttoning Ariel's robe. Jenny removed the camphor-soaked cloths and Sarah unscrewed the lid of an alabaster pot and began to anoint Ariel's chest with an ointment that filled the chamber with fumes so strong that Simon's eyes began to water.

Recognizing that he'd only be in the way if he hovered by the bed, he sat down by the still-blazing fire. The dogs came to him immediately and sat at his feet, their heads resting on his knees. Simon watched the proceedings around the bed, struck by the sure-handed efficiency of the two women as they tended to Ariel. Once, Sarah glanced at him over her shoulder, and again he was shivered by that strange sense of knowledge. It was as if she knew him in ways that he didn't know himself. Perhaps she was a witch woman, he thought uneasily. One who had the "sight."

Doris came in with a jug of steaming hot water and a flat skillet. She placed the copper jug on the bedside table and then set the skillet on a trivet over the fire. Simon shifted his knees sideways so that he wouldn't hinder her work, and the girl blushed and pushed the dogs aside with rather more bustle than was strictly necessary.

She straightened and smoothed out her apron. "Will that be all, Mistress Sarah?"

"For the moment," Jenny responded, reaching into the basket again, taking out a handful of coltsfoot. "If you'll excuse me, my lord…" She reached across Simon's lap to throw the leaves into the skillet.

Simon grabbed his cane and stood up. He limped over to the window, out of harm's way, and perched on the cushioned seat beneath. He was unaware of Sarah's covert glance as he moved awkwardly to his new site, and by the time he was seated again, she had returned her attention to the cough medicine she was mixing with the hot water in the copper jug.

As the leaves heated in the skillet, the room filled with powerful fumes that smelled like incense, that pierced Simon's lungs with a clear coldness as he breathed it in. "It'll help Ariel to breathe cleanly," Jenny explained, hearing his slight gasp of surprise. "Perhaps you would prefer to go downstairs, sir."

Simon shook his head before he remembered that the woman couldn't see the gesture, but Sarah was looking directly at him with a thin eyebrow lifted, a question in her steady gaze.

"I am no nurse," he said, "but if you give me clear instructions, I'm certain I can manage."

Sarah nodded and turned back to Ariel, who was now propped high on pillows, the hectic flush still startling against her pale cheeks, her eyelids heavy and swollen, but to Simon's ear it seemed that already she was breathing more freely.

Ariel swallowed the hot tea of slippery elm and coltsfoot that Sarah poured from the jug, and then lay back, closing her eyes. "There's no need for you to stay longer, Sarah. You should never have come in the first place."

"You know quite well you can't prevent Mother from doing what she wants," Jenny said with a slight laugh. She came back to the bed and laid a hand on Ariel's forehead. "If you can sleep, Ariel, I think we might be out of the woods."

Ariel smiled somewhat feebly. "Let's hope so. It's the last time I'll be taking a swim in the Ouse in the middle of winter." —

"You never spoke a truer word," Simon declared, rising from the window seat and joining the others at the bed. Ariel still looked very ill to him, but her voice was less croaky and she hadn't been racked with one of those violent coughing spasms for five minutes or so.

"Sarah, there's no need for you stay longer," Ariel repeated with a mixture of pleading and urgency. "I can look after myself now, and I know you want to get home."

"If you explain what I need to do, I can manage to care for Ariel now." Simon hoped his hesitation didn't sound in his voice. It clearly mattered to Ariel that her friends shouldn't remain in the castle any longer than necessary, and it seemed to him that it was equally important she didn't get agitated. "And I'm sure Doris will help."

Sarah gave him another of her unnerving glances, then she touched Jenny's arm, drawing her away from the bed, her eyes bidding Simon to follow.

"Ariel needs to sleep," Jenny said in an undertone, taking the smoked-glass vial from her mother's hand as Sarah held it out. "But I doubt she'll take the laudanum. She's not the best patient," she added with a smile.

"Is the laudanum necessary?" Simon directed his question to Sarah, who responded with a decisive nod.

"Then Ariel will take it," he said evenly, glancing down at the small bottle he now held in his hand.

The older woman's eyes rested on his face for a minute, again with that intense and questing gaze. Slowly she raised a hand to Simon's face. As slowly, she touched the scar, tracing its jagged length with a fingertip.

Simon stood very still; he couldn't have moved away had he wished to. There was something so delicate yet so searching about a touch that was almost a caress. And the deep blue eyes looked into his and seemed to know him right through to his innermost core. But there was nothing sinister, nothing witchlike about the woman, only gentleness, and now he found there was something oddly comforting about that strange knowledge behind her eyes.

Jenny was standing very still. She looked puzzled. She couldn't see what her mother was doing, but she sensed the tension in the small space that enclosed the three of them, sensed the strangeness of her mother's taut vibrancy. Then Ariel coughed, a dry rasping sound behind them, and Sarah's hand fell from Simon's cheek. She moved away from him, gathering up her cloak, swinging it around her shoulders as she went back to the bed.

Jenny bent to replenish the leaves in the skillet on the trivet. "If you can keep these fresh, Lord Hawkesmoor, it will help, and you should rub the ointment onto Ariel's chest every three hours. And give her the tea for the cough whenever she wants it. There are also some lozenges she can suck to help soothe her throat and calm the cough. But if you can persuade her to drink the laudanum, she should sleep for six hours or so."

"Rest assured, I will persuade her," he said. His face and most particularly the scar still seemed to tingle with the lingering memory of Sarah's touch.

Jenny gave him a quick smile and returned to the bed, picking up her own cloak as she did so. She moved unerringly around the chamber, Simon noticed. Presumably she had been there before and had committed its contours and furniture to memory.

"We'll leave you now, Ariel." She bent to kiss the patient. "Be good and take your medicine and I'll ask Edgar to bring me back in the morning to see how you are."

Ariel's smile was rather feeble but it was definitely a smile. "I feel better already. Thank you both for coming, but I wish Sarah hadn't come."

"Your husband insisted," Jenny whispered against her ear. "According to Edgar."

Ariel flushed. "He had no right to do that."

Jenny shrugged. "Maybe not. But you know that no one could make Mother do something she really didn't wish to."

That, Ariel reflected, was certainly true. She glanced up into the older woman's thin face and read, as always, the hardness of purpose beneath the lines of suffering. "Thank you, Sarah," she murmured, returning the woman's kiss.

After the two women left, Simon came over to the bed, carrying the vial of laudanum and a glass.

"If that's what I think it is, you may save yourself the trouble," Ariel rasped, pulling the covers up to her chin and regarding him a touch belligerently. "I don't take laudanum, ever."

"There's a first time for everything," Simon responded, sitting on the bed beside her, holding flask and glass loosely between his hands. "Sarah said it was necessary for you to sleep, so sleep you will, my sweet."

"I wish to sleep and I will do so in my own good time," Ariel declared. "When my body's ready of its own accord."

"I don't think you should talk anymore." Simon continued to maintain his casual air. "Your voice is becoming fainter with every word." Carefully he unscrewed the top of the vial and poured a measure of laudanum into the glass.

"No! I won't take it," Ariel protested, ignoring the truth of his last comment.

"Why not?"

"Because it'll make me go to sleep!"

"I believe that's the idea," he said dryly.

"Yes, but it's a horrible, heavy sleep that I can't control. It's not like the belladonna draught I made for you. It's much much stronger and lasts for hours and I can't let myself sleep like that. I need to-" The rest was lost in a violent spasm of coughing so bad that it seemed as if all the women's ministrations had been for nothing.

Simon set the glass on the bedside table and lifted her up from the pillows, holding her against him, rubbing her back, until the convulsions finally ceased. "Here." He poured elm tea into the cup. She took it eagerly, then fell back on the pillows again.

"If Sarah had believed the belladonna to be sufficient, she would have prescribed it," he said. "But she prescribed the laudanum and it's as clear as day how much you need it." He proffered the glass.

Ariel pushed his hand away with a petulant gesture. "I won't," she said crossly. "I won't take it."

"I would never have believed such a child lurked behind that controlled exterior," Simon remarked. "And what a disagreeable child it is." He caught her chin, turning her averted face back toward him. "And if the disagreeable child doesn't wish to be treated like one, she'll know what's good for her and take the sleeping draught without any more silly fuss."

"You don't understand…"

"Maybe not, and you may help me to understand once you've taken your medicine." He slipped an arm beneath her neck and raised her head. "This could become ugly, my love. But one way or another, you will drink the sleeping draught."

Ariel looked into his eyes and read the truth therein. "Promise you won't leave me, then," she said. "While I'm asleep. While I can't look after myself, you'll stay."

He was profoundly moved by this plea. No wonder she slept so lightly, if she was always afraid of what might happen around her if she wasn't constantly alert.

"I will not leave this chamber," he promised. "Except, perhaps, to fetch something from my own chamber across the hall. Now, drink it down."

Ariel shuddered but gave up the fight. She would trust him to watch her back as she had watched his. She opened her mouth as he held the glass to her lips, and drained it with a grimace of distaste.

"That's my girl," he said softly, bending to kiss her. "Snuggle down and sleep. I'll be here."

"The dogs will need to go out," she murmured, slipping down the pillows. "Edgar will take them. They mustn't be left to roam."

"They won't be." He tucked the covers under the mattress. "Are you warm enough, or should the hot bricks be replaced?"

Ariel shook her head. "No, I'm too warm now." She closed her eyes.

Simon stood watching her for a minute, a soft smile curving his lips, then he returned to the seat beside the fire, inhaling the strong herbal fumes from the skillet. The dogs settled at his feet with a heavy sigh, and he leaned back in the rocker, closing his own eyes, listening to Ariel's regular breathing. He raised a hand and touched his scar, tracing the path of Sarah's fingers. It had been an extraordinary thing for the woman to do, and yet it had felt curiously natural, strangely right. As if in some way she had the right to touch him with an intimacy that not even Helene had ventured.

Not Geoffrey's son. Owen's son. Oh, he had all the familiar Hawkesmoor features, but he had those others too. Owen's quirky smile and the long earlobes and the large, prominent knuckles. And even if he hadn't had those features, she would have known. She would have known the minute she laid eyes on him.

Sarah touched her breasts, wizened and shriveled beneath her cloak and gown. When her babies had suckled, her breasts had been round and full and the babes' little milky mouths had sucked and nuzzled, their little faces pressed against the pillowy flesh. She could remember even now the astonishingly strong tugs on her nipples, the tiny curled fists pushing against her body, kneading the rich, rounded breast as the gush of milk spurted into their busy mouths. She had always had plenty of milk, more than enough for the child at her breast. She remembered the sudden painful rush of milk into her breasts at the infant's first hungry cry on waking. It would leak from her nipples, dripping into the opened mouth even before the baby had begun to suck.

And the boy, her son, her firstborn, had been such a greedy infant and so serious about his feeding. His little brow furrowed as he suckled, his little mouth pursed, his fat little fists pushed into the nurturing globes of her flesh.

How she had loved him. How she had kissed every crease of his chubby body, every little pink toe and finger. She remembered the delicious smell of his neck, the warm, milky vanilla scent that had filled her with a liquid joy.

Sarah closed her eyes as the gig rattled over the frozen mud-ridged lane. The child had slept beside her, curled against her, and she had opened her shift and suckled him in the night when he awoke and nuzzled with his little peeping cries. He would fall asleep at her breast, the tiny milky mouth slipping from her nipple, the blue-veined lids closing over his bright blue eyes.

She had carried him with her everywhere, fashioning a sling in which he lay against her breast, soothed to sleep with her movements. And later, when he slept less, he would lie looking up, his finger pointing to what he saw, his burbling chatter filled with excitement. Such a happy child he'd been. Cooing and smiling, still as connected to her body in infancy as he had been in the womb.

Perhaps, if Owen had lived to share the joy of their child, she would have rationed her attention and her love, parceled it out between them, but in the absence of the father, the child had absorbed everything she had to give with each suckling pull at her breast.

The bracelet had fascinated him, and when he grew strong enough to sit up alone and crawl across the floor with a rapidity that had astonished his mother, he would demand it with imperious babble and pointing finger. When she gave it to him, he would sit for hours playing with it, putting the charm into his mouth, cutting his teeth on the hard shiny emerald of the little swan.

When the lords of Ravenspeare came for her, he had been toddling, crowing with delight as he tottered on his chubby little legs, running unsteadily, arms flailing like windmills, into his mother's welcoming embrace.

It had been high summer when they'd come. She'd heard the hooves on the gravel sweep before the house. She had looked out of the nursery window and seen the four of them below, hard-faced beneath the plumed hats of the Cavalier. She'd known they would come, known from the moment her husband's death had left her unprotected in the house just ten miles across the fens from Ravenspeare Castle. But as the months had passed and they had not come, she had begun to lose her fear, to think that perhaps she was safe. But of course she should have known that the Ravenspeares never let an insult go unavenged.

She'd gone down to them, and even now, sitting in the gig beside Edgar and Jenny, Sarah could remember the weakness in her legs as they had carried her down the staircase to the hall where the men stood in their leather riding coats and britches, tapping their shiny boots with their whips, their gray eyes cold and deadly beneath the curling fall of their wigs.

They had said her presence was required in Ely at the magistrates' court to bear witness to a land dispute arising from the havoc of the past civil war. It was a common enough summons in the years following Charles II's restoration with the consequent storm of claims and counterclaims between dispossessed parliamentarians and the newly restored royalists. Her household staff thought nothing of the summons, and since the penalty of refusal was automatic loss by default of the disputed land, it didn't occur to them that she would not cooperate.

And indeed she had had no choice. In soft voices they had threatened her son, even as the earl of Ravenspeare's small dagger pressed against her ribs as he stood so close to her in the hall, a neighborly smile twisting his thin mouth, his voice dripping honeyed concern and vows of friendship for all to hear.

They took her to an inn, a secluded lodging frequented only by bargemen who came up the narrow drainage cut from the river to drink and carouse. Bargemen who, like most Fenmen, showed no interest in the affairs of others and, even if they did, knew how to keep a still tongue in their heads.

For four days the men of Ravenspeare had forced their prisoner to bear witness in their own particular fashion. They took turns with her and only when she was a mute, bleeding, befouled wreck had they left her. Even now she could still hear their laughter on the stairs while she huddled in the corner of the attic chamber, bruised, filthy, her own blood seeping from her, mingling with the vileness that they had spilled inside her…

" 'Ere we are, then, Mistress Sarah… Mistress Sarah…" Edgar touched her arm.

"Mother?"

The worry in Jenny's voice pierced Sarah's waking nightmare. She jerked on the bench as if she'd been kicked into awareness, just as they had kicked her into consciousness when they had wanted her again… wanted to hear her weep and plead as they plowed into her battered body…

"Mother, we're home. What is it? Are you ill?"

Sarah stumbled down from the gig. Edgar, waiting with upraised hand to help her, caught her as she half fell from the step.

"Eh, Miss Jenny, I think yer mam's taken bad," he said with concern. "I'll 'elp 'er inside."

Jenny followed them into the cottage. She touched her mother, who stood shivering beside the banked fire. She touched Sarah's face, eyes, with the tips of her fingers. "Oh, what is it? What's happened?" she whispered.

Abruptly, Sarah shook her head, reached up her hands to clasp Jenny's wrists in a reassuringly firm grip. She forced a smile at Edgar, who stood in the doorway with a worried frown on his normally phlegmatic countenance.

"I'll be off, then?" he said, a hesitant question in his voice. Sarah nodded and loosed Jenny's hold. She came over to Edgar and took his hands in a warm clasp that spoke as loudly as any words could have done. Then she kissed him lightly on the cheek. The man blushed and backed out of the cottage. "I'll be back to fetch Miss Jenny in the mornin', then."

"I'll be ready by seven," Jenny called, moving to stand beside her mother to wave good-bye. She put an arm around Sarah's shoulders and was relieved to feel that the rigidity had left her mother's body. Whatever had caused it, surely it had to do with her horror of Ravenspeare Castle.

Sarah turned back inside and sat down again at her loom, just as if she'd never left it. Her eyes rested for a moment on her daughter's blind, intelligent countenance. One of those four devils of Ravenspeare had fathered Jenny. Not that it mattered. Jenny was hers. She had been created in torment, and she bore the marks of that violent conception in her blindness, but she was unsullied. She was pure. She belonged only to her mother.

Chapter Fifteen

"I brought you some dinner, m'lord." Doris entered Ariel's chamber bearing a laden tray.

Simon looked up from his drowsy contemplation of the fire and realized that he was famished.

The dogs sniffed at the tray when Doris set it down on the table beside the fire. "Edgar's back, m'lord. Should I take the 'ounds down to 'im? They'll need a walk, like as not."

"Yes, do that, thank you." Simon reached for his cane and stood up, stretching stiffly. He smiled at Doris, then limped over to the bed. Ariel was sleeping heavily, her breathing slightly labored. Sweat beaded her pale, waxy countenance and tendrils of hair clung to her damp brow.

"I've brought some lavender water, m'lord." Doris hurried over to him, bearing a bottle of fragrant water and a cloth. "If we wipe Lady Ariel's brow with it, she'll feel better, even though she's asleep."

"I fear I'm an inadequate nurse," Simon said ruefully, watching Doris's deft attentions to the sleeping patient. "I believe we should anoint her chest again with the ointment."

"I'll see to it, m'lord. You sit down now and eat yer dinner. We wasn't too sure what you'd like in the kitchen, but Mistress Gertrude says that if the beef and venison don't appeal, then there's an eel pie in the pantry, an' she can do you a nice brook trout in butter, quick as 'op o' me thumb."

"This will do splendidly." Simon sat down before the tray of roasted beef ribs and venison pasty. Besides, there was a bottle of claret, ready with the cork drawn, a salad of celery and beetroot, a substantial chunk of cheddar, a quarter loaf of wheaten bread, and a slice of damson pie with a jug of thick golden cream. The good, wholesome food of his childhood, he thought, the saliva running with the pleasurable pang of hunger. He poured himself a glass of claret.

Romulus and Remus were sitting expectantly yet patiently beside the door. They seemed to know that Doris was their key to liberty and watched her as she moved about the chamber, replenishing the coltsfoot leaves in the skillet, removing the now cold bricks from the bed, smoothing down the sheets and pillows.

"I'll take the dogs now, m'lord, less'n there's somethin' else?"

"No, nothing… oh, ask Edgar for a report on the roan's condition, will you? Lady Ariel is bound to be concerned when she awakes."

"Yes, sir." Doris bobbed a curtsy, gathered the cold bricks to her meager bosom, whistled to the dogs, and went out.

Simon ate his dinner and drank his claret in a ruminative peace. It occurred to him that this was the pleasantest evening he'd spent since arriving at Ravenspeare Castle. He liked his own company and always had done. He threw more coltsfoot into the skillet when the heady fumes seemed to him to be losing their strength, and listened to his wife's breathing grow deeper and more even.

A sharp rap at the door, sounding more like the hilt of a sword than a hand, jerked him out of his contentment. But before he could speak, the door opened. Oliver Becket, holding a glass of cognac, stood somewhat unsteadily in the doorway, thrusting his dirk back into its scabbard.

"So, how's my bud doing?" he inquired, his eyes squinting at the bed. "I see you're playing nurse, then, my lord Hawkesmoor." He laughed and stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. "Poor work for one of the queen's soldiers, I would have thought. What would His Grace of Marlborough have to say, I wonder?" His laugh rasped unpleasantly. "But then, I expect he knows that tending sickbed is all that a cripple's good for."

"Did you want something, Becket?" Simon inquired, sipping his claret and regarding his visitor with scant interest.

"Oh, I just came to see how my bud was faring." Oliver approached the bed. "You'll grant a lover's right to be concerned, I trust." He glanced over to Simon, who hadn't moved from his chair, seemingly hadn't moved a muscle. Oliver's eyes narrowed. This lack of response to his barbed comments was most unsatisfying. He returned his attention to Ariel.

"Not a beauty, my little bud," he mused. "No, you'd never call her a beauty, but quite an appealing creature, when she's well. A fever, of course, can turn any beauty into a hag. And I fear our patient is no exception." He brushed a finger over the girl's damp face. "Lank and waxen." He shook his head, tutting. "None of us can understand what made her act so foolishly. Can you, Hawkesmoor?"

Simon didn't deign to respond. He quietly sipped his claret, stretching his feet to the fire, and waited for the moment when he would have no choice but to pick up Oliver Becket's glove.

"No, none of us can understand why Ariel would jeopardize her horse for a Hawkesmoor. Falling through the ice is not unexpected, the chit is always rash and impetuous with her own safety, but to put her horse at risk…" He shook his head solemnly and drank from the glass in his hand. "No, not Ariel. And most particularly not for a lost cause." He laughed. "The gyrfalcon's attentions to your face could hardly have made matters worse, could they?"

"I daresay she surprised us both," Simon observed dispassionately.

Oliver stepped forward toward the fire, then something in the other man's eyes halted his advance. He lounged against the bedpost. "Do you truly appreciate her, Hawkesmoor? Have you learned what she likes? Have you discovered that little beauty spot on the underside of her-"

"You are a bore, Becket." Simon interrupted him, his voice still mild. "In fact, I would say you are about the most tedious and inconsequential little man I've ever come across."

Oliver's face flushed darkest red. His hand went to his belt, to the dirk in its scabbard. The other man watched him, unmoving.

"Don't imagine she's yours, Hawkesmoor," Oliver declared, his voice thick with vitriol. "She belongs to us. To her brothers and to me."

"Really?" Simon's eyebrows lifted. His voice sounded mildly curious, but his blue eyes were as hard and bright as glacial ice. "And to think I thought she was my wife."

Oliver's dirk was suddenly in his hand. He advanced on the seated man.

Simon didn't move, and his eyes remained fixed on Oliver's face, holding Becket's drunken, squinting, aggressive stare. "You'd draw on an unarmed man," he stated softly.

"You have a dagger," Oliver snarled. "Draw it and we'll throw for first strike."

Simon laughed, a quiet, scornful sound. "I fight my battles on the field, where they belong, Becket. Not in the chambers of sick women."

Oliver's dirk flew through the air, passing a bare inch from the seated man's face before burying itself in the wooden post of the mantel. Not by so much as a twitch did Simon indicate that he was aware of the weapon's path.

"Such an incontinent temper you have, Becket." Simon leaned forward and pulled the dirk free. He handed it back, hilt first, to its owner. "I believe you would do well to cultivate a cool head… at least in your dealings with me," he added thoughtfully.

"Do you threaten me?" Oliver was discomposed, blustering, but it was clear he could find no graceful path of retreat.

Simon shook his head. "I rather thought that was your territory, Becket."

Oliver spun on his heel, caught his foot in the fringe of the tapestry rug, nearly fell but righted himself by grabbing on to the bedpost again. He half stumbled, still off balance, to the door. "You won't have her," he declared over his shoulder, his little eyes squinting malevolently. "You won't have her, Hawkesmoor."

The door slammed shut behind him.

What in God's name had Ariel seen in him? The thought that that venomous fool had known Ariel before he had stung Simon.

Which little beauty spot had he meant? She had one on the underside of her right breast, and another little cluster tucked beneath the curve of her right buttock…

Simon's jaw clenched as he fought to control the surge of irrational fury, the wave of disgust at the thought of Becket's slimy fingers discovering the beauties and the tiny imperfections of Ariel's body.

Ariel moved, mumbled, kicked the covers from her. Her robe was translucent with sweat, clinging to her breasts. It was tangled around her waist, and her belly and thighs and the honey gold triangle at the base of her belly glistened with perspiration.

Simon wetted the cloth with lavender water and bathed her skin. It seemed to ease her, and her hectic murmurings ceased. He found a clean shift in the linen press, scented with the dried rose petals sprinkled between the garments. He bent over her, easing the soaked robe up her body, lifting her on the palm of his hand as he freed a fold caught beneath her bottom. In the grip of fever, she seemed weightless, insubstantial, easily held on his hand.

He maneuvered the garment over her head, and bathed her skin again with the cool, fragrant cloth before slipping the clean shift over her head, drawing it down her body. The sheets were damp beneath and above her, but he didn't know how to remedy that until Doris returned.

The girl came back within the half hour, the hounds prancing at her heels. "I'll bring clean sheets, m'lord," she said when Simon explained the situation. She took away his tray and returned with an armful of clean sheets and reheated bricks.

"Surely she doesn't need those? She's hot enough as it is."

"We need to break the fever, sir," Doris informed him knowledgeably. "Lady Ariel told me how to do it when me mam had the childbed fever. If you could lift 'er up…?" she added tentatively.

Simon lifted Ariel bodily from the bed. Her eyes fluttered open for a minute, but he could see no recognition in them and it frightened him. He sat down, holding her on his lap, listening to her vague mutterings, feeling her limp, boneless fragility. If this was what laudanum did, it was no wonder she had resisted taking it.

"There y'are, sir. It's all clean an' fresh, m'lord." Doris gave a last pat to the pillows.

Simon laid his burden back on the bed, and Doris packed the hot bricks against Ariel's inert body, then drew up the covers, piling on an extra quilt. "Will that be all, m'lord…? Oh, an' Edgar said as 'ow the roan's doin' well as could be expected. 'E's cauterized the wounds and put salve on 'em, and the mare's quiet."

"Thank you." Simon drew a guinea from his pocket and gave it to the maid with a smile. "Good night, Doris."

Doris gazed at the glittering largesse in wide-eyed astonishment. Then she bobbed a curtsy and took herself off at a run, almost as if she expected the coin to disappear into thin air if she stayed.

Simon's hand returned to his pocket. He had felt something else when he'd reached down for the guinea. He drew out Ariel's bracelet and held it up to the candlelight. What was it that had so disturbed the woman Sarah when she'd looked at it on Ariel's wrist? It was almost as if she'd seen some significance in the jewel.

It seemed he wasn't the only one who found it strangely disturbing. It was very odd.

He dropped the bracelet onto the top of the dresser and turned back to the bed. He yawned, aware of a deep physical fatigue. But where was he to sleep? Slipping into the furnace created by Ariel's fever-ridden body and the phalanx of hot bricks was not in the least appealing. Before Malplaquet, he could have slept easily in a chair, or even on the floor, wrapped up in his cloak. But then he'd had a different body. A supple, youthful, straight and strong frame unaffected by a little discomfort.

He thought longingly of his own cool, fresh bed in the chamber across the hall. But a promise was a promise.

He locked the door. Then he made up the fire, threw some more coltsfoot into the skillet, blew out all the candles, and with a resigned sigh removed his coat and boots and lay on top of the covers beside the now gently snoring Ariel. He drew the side of the topmost quilt up over his body, rolled onto his side facing Ariel, flinging a protective arm over her, and sank into oblivion. The dogs settled in front of the hearth with synchronized sighs of satisfaction.

Edgar bathed the roan's wounds again and renewed the paste of saltwort to guard against infection. The mare whickered feebly, her head hanging in surrender to the pain of the man's ministrations. Edgar laid a thick blanket over her flanks to guard against drafts, filled a pail with bran mash, and set it down in front of her. She snuffled but turned away.

Edgar was removing his leather apron when the door to the tack room edged open to admit a scrawny boy bearing a foaming tankard. "Lord of 'Awkesmoor sent this to ye, sir. In gratitude, like." He proffered the tankard. "'Tis best October, mulled and laced with apple brandy."

Edgar licked his lips. It was his favorite drink of a miserable winter night. "Well, that's right kindly of 'im, lad. Thankee." He took the tankard and turned back to the brazier with a little sigh of pleasure.

The boy tugged his forelock and disappeared into the night, the door clicking behind him.

Edgar sat down on his cot, stretched his legs to the brazier's warmth, and took a deep appreciative gulp of the mulled ale. The apple brandy hit his stomach with a fiery stab, then spread through his body, bringing a delicious languor to his limbs. He stretched out on the cot, propping the thin pillow behind his head as he finished his nightcap. But before he had drained the drink, the tankard fell to the floor from his suddenly nerveless fingers, splashing its contents onto the brazier, which hissed and spat. The tankard rolled to the far wall and Edgar's head lolled against the pillow, his body inert.

Ten minutes later the door opened softly and a head peered around. The man listened to the deathly silence, then as quietly withdrew, drawing the door closed behind him.

"He's out," he whispered to the three men who stood in the darkness before the double doors to the stable block. "The mare's in the fifth stall along."

Thieves in the night, they slithered through the darkness of the block, counting the stalls as they went, their eyes growing accustomed to the dark unrelieved by so much as a gleam of starlight from the high round window set above the doors that they had closed behind them.

They found the mare. Hands ran over her belly, checking that she was the horse in foal. A halter slipped over her neck, and two men bent to attach pieces of sacking to her hooves. The horse whinnied in puzzlement until a nosebag filled with grain silenced her.

They led her out of the block, across the stableyard, through the paddock, and down to the river. A flat barge was moored at the narrow dock, and a man stepped out of the trees as they approached with the mare.

"Let me see." His voice was a harsh, rasping whisper in the bitter night. He too ran his hands over the animal's belly first, before checking the rest of her. He grunted with satisfaction. "This is the one, all right. Keep the blanket over her, I don't want her getting chilled on the river." He stepped back and gestured that they should load the horse onto the barge.

She went trustingly. She had never been given cause to fear humankind. The hands that had touched her hitherto had only been of the gentlest; the voices she had heard hitherto had always been soft and caressing. And, indeed, she had nothing to fear from the earl of Ravenspeare, who watched sharply as she was led onto the barge and secured to the rail. She was too valuable a property to be treated with less than the utmost respect.

Chapter Sixteen

Jenny stood at the garden gate, listening for the sounds of Edgar's gig on the cart track. It was still dark and her mittened hands were chilled holding the handle of her basket. She heard the cottage door open behind her.

"Edgar's late," she called over her shoulder to her mother. "It's not like him."

She turned and came back up the path. "You shouldn't stand out in the cold in that thin robe, Mother." She pushed Sarah back into the warmth, following her in and closing the door. "Shall I make some more tea?"

Sarah nodded. She went to the small window, frowning like her daughter. Edgar was as reliable as the moon's cycle. If he said seven o'clock, it would be seven o'clock.

"I hope he hasn't had an accident." Jenny spoke her mother's thoughts as the kettle on the hob steamed. "Overturned the gig or something." She poured boiling water unerringly onto the raspberry leaves in the pot, and the fragrant aroma wafted upward.

Sarah brought mugs to the table and sliced bread from the quartern loaf on the board. She buttered the slices thickly and spread honey on the butter, handing one to Jenny.

"I might as well eat breakfast," Jenny agreed, pouring tea into the mugs before biting into the bread. "I wonder if I should walk up to the lane, see if I can get a ride to the castle from a carter. Or maybe someone will have news if anything's happened to delay him."

But something had, she knew, and she didn't demur when her mother put on her own cloak and accompanied her out into the now lightening morning, up the track to the lane running between the village and the castle.

A dray approached and came to a halt beside the two women. "Mornin', Mistress Sarah, Miss Jenny." The carter touched his forelock. "It's early fer you to be standin' around in the cold. Can I take you anywhere?"

"We were waiting for Edgar from the castle, Giles." Jenny recognized the man's voice. "He was supposed to come for me at seven, but something must have delayed him. Lady Ariel caught a chill yesterday and I was going to see how she's doing this morning."

"Oh, well, you 'op up, then, Miss Jenny." The carter jumped down to give the young woman a hand. " 'Ow bad is Lady Ariel? Is yer mam comin' too?" He glanced inquiringly at Sarah, who shook her head firmly and stepped back onto the verge. She had no need now to pass beneath the archway into Ravenspeare Castle.

"Ariel had the fever," Jenny said, not needing to see her mother's movement to know that she had refused the carter's offer. "She has a weak chest, you know, so it's always a matter of concern if she gets chilled."

"Oh, aye," the carter agreed sagely, raising a hand in farewell to dumb Sarah as he set the dray in motion again. "We can't 'ave Lady Ariel fallin' ill. What'd 'appen to the rest of us?" He turned the dray expertly on the narrow lane to return the way he'd come. "But we'll be losin' 'er soon enough, o'course. When she goes off to 'Awkesmoor."

Jenny murmured something that could have been taken for assent. Even if Ariel didn't go to Hawkesmoor, she didn't intend to stay at Ravenspeare. But Jenny was beginning to wonder about her friend's plans, and how Hawkesmoor would fit into them.

The question absorbed her and banished the puzzle about Edgar's failure to appear until the carter drew up before the arched door leading into the kitchen courtyard of Ravenspeare Castle. " 'Ere y'are, then, Miss Jenny. Should I come in wi' you?"

"No, I can find my way to the kitchen, thank you, Giles."

He nodded and jumped to the ground to assist her to

alight. "There'll be plenty of folk in the kitchen to 'elp you out."

Jenny smiled her agreement and went into the castle. She edged her away along the narrow path between two rows of vegetables in the kitchen garden and reached the opened door without misstep.

"Eh, Miss Jenny. You be come to see Lady Ariel, I'll be bound." Gertrude's cheery voice hailed the blind woman as she stood somewhat uncertainly in the doorway.

"Edgar was to come and collect me from home at seven, but he didn't appear." Jenny allowed her arm to be taken, allowed herself to be eased into a chair at the long table. "I begged a ride from Giles, the carter."

"That's funny." Gertrude frowned. "I 'aven't seen Edgar meself, this mornin'. 'E's usually in 'ere fer 'is breakfast by six." She looked around the busy kitchen. "Eh, Mister Timson? You seen Edgar this mornin'?"

Timson shook his head. "Can't say as I 'ave, Mistress Gertrude." He glanced around and grabbed a potboy by one thin but wiry wrist. "You, boy, run to the stables and see if Mister Edgar's there."

The lad raced off and Gertrude sat down beside Jenny, saying comfortably, "So, 'ow's yer mam doin' these days? She was 'ere lookin' to Lady Ariel, Doris says."

"She's well enough, thank you," Jenny replied, squashing memories of her mother's strange troubled behavior on the previous day. Her mother had seemed perfectly well ever since, so there was no point continuing to fret over it.

"Oh, Mistress Gertrude, Mister Timson, ye'd best come quick!" The potboy reappeared in the kitchen door, his eyes wide with a mixture of fright and excitement. "It's Mister Edgar. 'E's dead. Stone-cold dead."

"What?" Timson was at the door before Jenny and Gertrude were on their feet. He clipped the lad over the ear. "If this is one of yer jokes, young Benjie, I'll 'ave yer 'ide."

"'Tisn't, Mister Timson. Swear to God, it isn't," the lad burbled, chasing after the footman. Gertrude took Jenny's arm unceremoniously and hurried with her after them.

Edgar lay on his cot beside the now cold brazier. His eyes were closed, his face as white as milk. Not a twitch of breath, not a sign of life.

Timson stood somewhat helplessly looking down at the inert figure. Gertrude bustled over with Jenny, then stood aside respectfully so that the younger woman could make her own examination. Jenny bent over, her fingers deftly unbuttoning Edgar's jerkin and pulling up the rough homespun shirt beneath. She laid an ear to Edgar's bare chest, placed her flat palm over his mouth.

"He's not dead," she pronounced quietly.

"Ooo, I did think 'e was, Mister Timson," the potboy wailed, stepping out of the footman's reach. " 'Onest to God, I thought 'e was. It weren't no trick, mister."

"Scarper!" Timson ordered, raising a threatening hand. The lad scarpered.

"It's a death sleep," Gertrude pronounced in a voice full of doom. "I've seen 'em like that afore. Sleep like death, then off they goes, sliding into God's 'ands." She wiped her eyes with her apron. "Poor Mister Edgar. Such a good man, 'e was. Lady Ariel'll be beside 'erself."

Edgar twitched and a small popping sound came from between his closed lips.

"Death sleep or not, looks to me like 'e's wakin' from it," Timson observed. The tankard by the wall caught his eye, and he picked it up, sniffing judiciously. "Dipped a bit deep in the blackstrap, if you asks me. Powerful stuff'tis."

"May I see?" Jenny held out her hand for the tankard. She smelled it, then ran a finger over the drops clinging to the sides and licked it. She frowned but said nothing, merely placed the tankard on the floor and bent over Edgar again.

"Edgar? Can you hear me, Edgar?" She spoke softly but insistently. The man's eyelids fluttered, he lifted one hand from the cot, laboriously as if it weighed a ton and he was having to move it through treacle, and touched his mouth.

His eyes opened. His bewildered gaze fell on Jenny and a stricken look crossed his befogged eyes. "Oh, Miss Jenny, I were comin' to fetch you, weren't I? What time is it?"

"Close on eight," Jenny replied. "Lie back for a few more minutes, Edgar. You'll feel stronger shortly. Perhaps if you had some strong tea…?" She looked inquiringly at Gertrude.

"I'll send one o' the girls out wi' the tea," Gertrude said. "Anythin' else you'd be wantin'?"

Edgar shook his head and Gertrude went off. Edgar sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the cot. The ground rushed up to meet him and with a groan he dropped his head onto his knees.

" 'Ad a bit too much o' the blackstrap, Edgar," Timson opined jovially. "Gets to us all sometimes, but I never figured you fer a serious drinkin' man."

Edgar raised his head cautiously. He blinked around the tack room. "I'm not." He shook his head. "Lad brought me a tankard last even, after I'd seen to the 'osses. Wi' compliments of the earl of 'Awkesmoor, 'e said."

Jenny picked up the tankard again. "Lord Hawkesmoor sent you the drink?"

"Aye. An' right good it was, though powerful strong. Must 'ave gone to me 'ead."

"I expect that was it," Jenny said. "If you think you'll be all right now, I'll go inside and see Lady Ariel. I'll come back afterward."

"Aye, an' I'll be ready to take you 'ome whenever," Edgar said. " 'Ere, Timson, give me an 'and." He took the footman's proffered hand and staggered to his feet. "Gawd, I'd better see to the 'osses. Lady Ariel'll be wantin' to know 'ow the roan's doin'." Shaking his head, he stumbled slightly toward the door to the stables.

Early in the morning, Ariel's bedchamber had resembled market day in Cambridge as a stream of visitors inquired after her health. But at last she was left alone when the wedding guests set off for the day's sport.

A day of enforced idleness was not appealing, even though Ariel's physician self told her that it was as wise as it was necessary. She lay back against the pillows waiting for the skittering claws of the hounds in the corridor outside as Doris returned them from their morning's walk. Doris had taken them herself because Edgar would be out fetching Jenny.

Ariel sat up abruptly and looked at the clock. It was past eight. Edgar should have been back with Jenny long since.

The dogs yelped at the closed door even as she thought this. They burst into the chamber as Doris opened the door. "Mercy me, Lady Ariel, they've run me off me feet," she gasped, panting. " 'Ere's Miss Jenny, come to see 'ow y'are."

"Thank you for taking the dogs, Doris." Ariel smiled warmly at the girl. "I was worried about you, Jenny." She reached out a hand to grasp Jenny's as the other woman stepped closer. "Surely Edgar didn't forget to come for you."

"Not exactly," Jenny said evasively, gesturing slightly toward Doris, who could be heard setting the room to rights behind her. "How are you feeling this morning?" She placed a cool hand on Ariel's brow. "The fever's broken, then?"

"Yes, sometime in the night." Ariel opened her shift so that Jenny could listen to her chest. "I sweated rivers, it was quite disgusting. Poor Simon was constantly having to change the linen."

"He proved a good nurse, then?" Jenny inquired in an oddly flat voice.

"Surprisingly so." Simon's dry answer from the door made Jenny jump with a startled little gasp.

But she recovered quickly, beginning to palpate Ariel's throat as she responded neutrally, "Good morning, my lord."

"Good morning, Jenny. What's your opinion of the patient?"

"Better. Is your throat sore, Ariel?"

"Very."

"We should wrap it in hot flannel." She turned to address Doris. "Run down to the kitchen, Doris, and ask Mistress Gertrude to heat strips of flannel in the bread oven."

"Yes, miss." Doris hustled past the earl, who still stood in the doorway. Doris didn't notice the rather puzzled frown in his eyes.

Jenny seemed to be avoiding conversation with him. When he stepped closer to the bed, she jerked sideways, tension rippling through her thin frame. What on earth was the matter with the woman?

"Well, I'll leave you to your ministrations," he said, hearing the shade of awkwardness in his voice. "I'm sure she's in better hands than mine, Jenny."

Jenny didn't respond, seemed to be concentrating all her attention on taking Ariel's pulse.

"Enjoy the stag hunt, my lord," Ariel said. "I wish I was coming with you."

"Well, you can't," he stated, bending to kiss her. "You'll stay in bed wrapped in hot flannel, and I'll join you for dinner by the fire.",

When the door had closed behind him, Ariel said swiftly, "What happened with Edgar?"

Jenny sat on the edge of the bed. "Apparently he drank deep of a powerful mixture of blackstrap last night and overslept."

"What do you mean, apparently?" Ariel never missed a trick.

Jenny bit her lip. "There was more than October ale and apple brandy in the tankard, Ariel."

"Oh?" Ariel sat up, an intent look in her widened eyes.

"Verbenum, certainly, and maybe belladonna. And I could definitely taste celandine."

"Oh." Ariel stared at Jenny. "You're saying the blackstrap was drugged?"

Jenny shrugged. "There were only a few drops left. I could be wrong."

"No, you couldn't," Ariel said flatly. "Where is Edgar now?

"Checking on the horses."

Ariel felt the dread start from a pinprick somewhere in her chest and expand like a swelling balloon until it seemed to fill the whole cavity of her rib cage. She gazed in silent horror at Jenny's still figure beside her.

The two women waited in silence. Waited for what they both knew they were about to hear.

When Edgar entered the room a few minutes later, his face deathly white, his mouth and nostrils pinched, Ariel forestalled him. "What have we lost?"

"The mare in foal." He stood helplessly, wringing his hands. "I can't believe it 'appened. I can't believe I could 'ave drunk meself silly, but… but I did." A wail of anguish broke from him and his shoulders hunched. "I'll leave right away, m'lady. I wish I could do somethin' to show 'ow sorry I am, but-"

"There's no need to flay yourself, Edgar," Ariel broke in briskly. "It wasn't your fault. The blackstrap you drank was drugged. Jenny tasted it."

"Drugged?" Edgars shoulders snapped straight again and his eyes were suddenly wrathful, all anguish, remorse, and guilt banished. "Someone wanted me out of the way."

Ariel flung back the bedclothes as if they were stifling her, impeding her thought processes. "Ranulf," she stated.

Edgar's gaze shifted abruptly. He cast a glance to where Jenny now stood beside the bed, her face closed as granite. He cleared his throat. "The tankard, m'lady, it didn't… didn't come…" His voice faded.

Jenny picked up the thread, her voice cool and resolute. "Edgar told me earlier that the ale had been sent him by the earl of Hawkesmoor."

"The lad what brought it, m'lady, said 'is lordship sent it with 'is thanks. I thought because of lookin' after the roan." Edgar fell silent again, unable to look at the white face in the bed.

Simon? Simon had drugged Edgar and then staged a raid on the Arabians? Simon knew she bred them. As an experienced horseman, he would have seen that they were fine specimens. He had a perfect hiding place on his own estates, easily reached by barge along the rivers and drainage cuts crossing the fens. Could he have seen what a gold mine she had in her stables? Had he assumed that a naive young woman wouldn't realize how lucrative her hobby could be? Had he acted accordingly? Simon? How could it be possible? It wasn't possible.

"Which of the lads brought you the ale, Edgar?" She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, reaching for a wrap lying over the end rail.

"I didn't know 'im, ma'am." Edgar shuffled his feet uncomfortably, staring fixedly out of the window beyond the bed. In his shock and guilt, he had rushed in on Lady Ariel in her bedchamber without giving a thought to the intimacy of the surroundings. The sight of his lady sitting on the edge of the bed in her shift, swinging her bare legs, flooded him with embarrassment.

"You think he's not one of ours?" She thrust her arms into the sleeves of the wrapper, unaware of Edgar's discomfiture.

"Mebbe, m'lady. Mebbe 'e's new an' I 'adn't seen 'im afore."

"Go down to the kitchen and ask around," Ariel instructed as briskly as before. "Find out who knows him, where he comes from. And then find him. I'm going down to the stables to check on the others."

"Right y'are, m'lady." Edgar went eagerly to the door. "The roan's doin' fine this mornin'. Wounds closin' over nicely an' she 'ad some bran mash."

"Good." Ariel slipped from the bed and stood up gingerly, assessing her strength with a critical frown. "Go now, Edgar."

The man left and Ariel began to pace the bedchamber. "I don't believe Simon could have stolen the mare." "He had the opportunity," Jenny pointed out.

"Yes, but I don't believe he would do anything so underhanded. It's much more likely to have been Ranulf. He's been making inquiries, and Edgar told me he was livid when I shipped the colt out. He must have some inside information and he heard that I had a buyer for the mare."

In other circumstances it would have made Jenny smile to hear Ariel championing a Hawkesmoor-a man whom she would once have believed capable of any despicable act, a man whom a few short days ago she would have cheerfully pitchforked into the pits of hell.

"Well, whether it was your brother or not, I don't think you're going to do yourself or anyone else any good if you go out again in the cold, Ariel," she said practically.

"No." Ariel flopped down in the rocker, drawing the folds of the wrapper tightly around her. "You're right, I'm not." She bit a fingernail, tearing it off with a snap. She was going to have to move fast now. Ranulf would not stop at the mare.

Chapter Seventeen

Ranulf had a more than usually self-satisfied air, Simon thought, as the earl of Ravenspeare turned his horse toward the drawbridge and led the hunt clattering out of the castle, over the moat.

Simon rode up alongside his brother-in-law and offered a comment on the day's expectations.

"We should see good sport if Ralph has done his work," Ranulf replied. He cast a darkling look at his young brother riding just behind him. The younger man flushed.

"I can't be responsible for inept hunters. I've instructed the beaters and made sure the woods are well stocked. What more can I do?"

Ranulf didn't answer. "Do you intend to go to court when you leave us, Hawkesmoor?" His voice was pleasant, as if he was having the conversation with an amiable acquaintance. "You have the duchess of Marlborough's patronage, as I understand it."

"Sarah and I have a shared interest," Simon responded. "We're both deeply concerned for the health and welfare of her husband."

"Ah, yes, our valiant John, duke of Marlborough." Roland's tone, unlike his brother's, was caustic. "I've heard it said that Queen Anne grows a little impatient with her hero."

Simon's lips tightened for a moment, then relaxed. He smiled and shrugged. "Men of Marlborough's caliber don't find it easy to dance to the tunes of a whimsical conductor- monarch or no. But I've not yet heard his loyalty questioned." His voice had the faintest edge to it.

Roland made some nonchalant answer, not prepared to attack the character of a man known to be among Simon's closest friends, and regarded as a demigod by the whole country.

"Do you know anything about a woman called Esther in these parts, Ravenspeare?" Simon addressed Ranulf, his tone still light and conversational. "She would have come here some thirty years ago. Maybe a few more."

Ranulf looked surprised. "I was but ten years old."

"I just wondered. I've a mind to discover her whereabouts, if she's still alive."

Ranulf now looked very interested. "What's she to you, Hawkesmoor?"

"Nothing, as far as I know. But there seems to be some family mystery about her." He shrugged again. "I detest mysteries."

"She came from Hawkesmoor land to Ravenspeare land?" Roland asked sharply. As usual, of the brothers, he was the quickest to grasp the point.

"Possibly."

"Are you implying that there might be some connection between our two families with this woman?"

"I know of none," Simon lied smoothly. "Her name was mentioned in my father's papers. Not much was said about her, except that she left Hawkesmoor land and it was believed that she had moved to Ravenspeare. I was curious and simply wondered if the name meant anything to you."

"Not to me," Roland declared. He called over his shoulder, "Ralph, d'you know of a woman by the name of Esther living anywhere on Ravenspeare land?"

Ralph drew up alongside his brothers. His expression was still sullen. "I can't be expected to know the names of every tenant, let alone the fly-by-nights and vagrants coming through."

"No, that's certainly more in Ariel's line," Ranulf observed. "I should ask your wife, Hawkesmoor. If Ariel hasn't heard of the woman, you may rest assured that she isn't here… buried, maybe, but living…?" He shook his head, put spur to his horse, and took after the crying hounds toward a distant copse.

The rest of the hunt followed suit, and Simon dropped back into the midst of his own cadre. Ariel had never heard of Esther. Edgar had never heard of her. Perhaps Ranulf was right and she was dead. Thirty years was a long time, and the Ravenspeare involvement, if there had been any, would have concerned Ranulf's father, maybe even his uncles. Whatever had happened, it was now buried. If there had been any reference in the Ravenspeare archives, Ranulf would have known of it. And his ignorance had not been feigned.

But what had happened to the child? His father's papers had referred very clearly to Esther's child, fathered by Geoffrey's own brother Owen. A child that, on its father's death, Geoffrey had assumed responsibility for. But Simon couldn't remember his father ever referring to this unknown cousin. His own mother had never mentioned the child either. Was it a boy or a girl? Not even that simple fact had emerged from Geoffrey Hawkesmoor's cryptic papers.

Simon had discovered them only a few months ago, hidden beneath a false bottom of his father's desk. And that in itself was a puzzle. Why would such an act of family generosity have to be kept hidden, hidden from the world as if for all time? Did it have something to do with the child's mother? The papers referred obliquely to the woman's complete disappearance, to Geoffrey's several attempts to locate her.

But it was this unknown cousin who fascinated Simon. Why, if his father had assumed responsibility for the child, were there no provisions made in his will for his dependent? If this person still existed, Simon, his father's sole heir to a considerable estate, felt he owed him or her something. He didn't know why he should feel this obligation, but he did.

At the very end of his father's private papers, there was one reference to Ravenspeare. The only clue Simon had. I can only assume that the devil's brood have had a hand in her disappearance. It's not the Ravenspeare way to leave loose ends flapping in the wind, even though, in her present state, she's no threat to them. But they would have her somewhere under their eye, just in case that changed.

His own mother he remembered as a pale, shadowy-figure. She had spent her days lying on a couch. Everything about her was pale: her hair was so fair it was almost white, her eyes were the palest blue, her skin so thin it was almost translucent. She had worn pale clothes, the flowers in her boudoir had been as near to colorless as flowers could be, and the draperies had wafted in filmy bleached folds. She had been surrounded by hushed voices, hesitant movements, muffled footfalls.

Although he'd been a small child, he had always felt huge, clumsy, and bright-colored when he'd been taken to her. He had sat on the stool beside her couch, seeing his hands, dirty, ragged, rough, beside his mother's slender bloodless fingers. His feet in their great clumping boots had embarrassed him. His voice had been too loud, harsh, even when he'd tried to whisper. And she had tired of him so quickly. After a very few minutes, she would wave him away with a faint smile and his nurse would remove him without a word spoken.

He couldn't remember feeling much at all when she died. He'd attended the funeral, sitting solemnly beside his father in the carriage, standing at the graveside, throwing earth on the coffin. He remembered the darkness of the house, with the furniture and windows shrouded in black, his father's black presence, his own unrelieved mourning clothes. But when his father had come out of mourning, everything had changed. There was noise, laughter, company in the house. His father had taken him fishing and hunting. They had dined together whenever the earl was in residence at Hawkesmoor Manor, and his father had seemed a different man. A glowing, smiling, joyous man.

Until that dreadful day, when Simon was ten years old. That dreadful day when they'd told him that his father was dead. It was several years before he learned the truth of that death. That his father had been having an affair with the wife of the earl of Ravenspeare. That they had been caught in flagrante delicto. That the earl of Ravenspeare had killed both his wife and her lover in cold blood on a snowy London street.

Geoffrey Hawkesmoor had loved Margaret Ravenspeare. And now Geoffrey Hawkesmoor's son was fairly wed to Margaret Ravenspeare's daughter.

He realized he was frowning and noticed that his friends were all regarding him with a mixture of interest and concern.

"Something bothering you, Simon?" Peter asked.

Simon laughed, but without much humor. "You mean apart from being forced to accept the hospitality of a loathsome clan who won't settle for less than my blood?" He shook his head. "Come, let's join the sport."

It was late afternoon when Ariel heard the hunt returning-the clatter of iron-shod hooves and the shouts and bellows of servants and hunters alike as the riders dismounted, handing their horses to the waiting grooms before making their way into the Great Hall, where wine and food awaited them.

Ariel was sitting in the rocker, the dogs at her feet. Jenny had gone home long since, taken by Edgar after his fruitless search for the mysterious lad who'd brought him the poisoned chalice. The chamber was warm; the lamps threw a soft glow; a pot of fragrant herbs simmered on the trivet in the fire. A decanter of wine and a platter of savory tarts rested on the small table beside Ariel's chair.

As she heard the sounds from the court below, Ariel jerked out of her miserable reverie. She unwrapped the hot flannel from around her throat. The treatment had had some good effect. Her voice was less croaky, her throat less sore. But she was still fatigued after the night's fever and filled with a warm lassitude that dulled even her confusion of misery and anger. But she intended to go downstairs for dinner, so it was time now to throw off the lingering effects of her chill.

She had decided that she would say nothing to Simon about the mare's disappearance. Nothing either to Ranulf. She couldn't afford to give either of them an inkling of how important the horses were for her.

The dogs pricked up their ears and went to the door a good five minutes before Simon rapped once on the oak and immediately entered. He responded to their ecstatic greeting with a brief pat and a firm, "Down." When they'd retreated soulfully to their place on the hearth, he turned smiling to greet his wife.

"You look better. Are you?"

"Well enough to come down for dinner," she asserted. "Would you like wine?"

"Aye, I've a thirst on me to match a parched camel's." He brushed a finger lightly over her cheek, and to his surprise she seemed to draw back a little from his touch. He was reminded of Jenny's behavior to him that morning, and he frowned.

Ariel turned aside to pour wine into the two goblets on the tray. "Do you care for a cheese tart?"

"Thank you." He took one, then stood warming his backside before the fire, regarding her thoughtfully as he ate and drank. "Have you had a pleasant day?"

"Pleasant enough," she responded, not looking at him as she sipped her own wine. "Edgar says the roan is doing very well. I must go and see her tomorrow."

"Is it wise to go out in the cold so soon?"

"I shall be fine," she said, aware that her voice was toneless. "And there are things I need to do with my horses. Things Edgar isn't quite up to. He's very good at following orders, but he'd be the first to admit that he lacks initiative."

"A sterling fellow, in his way," Simon agreed. "A man one would appreciate having at one's back. He reminds me of a corporal I had in the army. Utterly trustworthy, absolutely reliable." He took another deep gulp of his wine. "Jackson pulled me off the battlefield at Malplaquet and then was killed himself as he knelt beside me, trying to staunch my blood with his bare hands."

His expression was bleak but there was a remembering fondness in his voice. Then he threw back the contents of his glass, and Ariel watched the long, sun-browned column of his throat working. And despite weakness and anger, desire prickled across her skin, tightened her scalp.

Simon set the empty glass down. "I must get out of my dirt before dinner. Are you certain it's wise for you to come down?"

"If I stay up here, I shall go crazy."

"I could keep you company?" He wondered why he felt tentative about the offer.

Ariel shook her head. "There's no need for you to isolate yourself either, my lord. We will go down together."

"Very well." He offered her a half bow and left the room.

Ariel rose from the rocker and moved with slow, lethargic step to the armoire. She was wearing one of her old gowns, comfortable, but dowdy even on the most generous assessment. Although it was tempting to stay as she was, a needle of pride pricked her to change into one of her trousseau gowns.

She needed something dramatic to add life to her pallid countenance and sluggish blood. Ranulf was expecting her to be wan, downcast, but Ranulf wasn't going to get that satisfaction. She would shimmer and stand out.

She felt a renewed surge of her customary energy when she surveyed herself in the mirror fifteen minutes later, in a gown whose scarlet overskirt, thickly figured with gold, was looped up at the sides to reveal a gold underskirt. The upper sleeves were banded in thick gold braid, with a cascade of white lace ruffles falling over her forearms.

She was twisting her hair over a comb on top of her head, trying to tease out a few side ringlets, when the door opened to admit Simon. As usual, he'd rapped sharply just the once and entered immediately. Now he stood in the doorway, watching her. She could see him behind her in the mirror. He was dressed in black velvet with a broad collar of silver lace; silver lace edged the deep turned-back cuffs of his sleeves and the pockets of his coat.

"It astonishes me that you don't need a maid to help you dress."

"I've always managed on my own." She twisted a ringlet tightly around her forefinger before releasing it to spring against her cheek.

"How do you lace yourself?"

Ariel shrugged, still without turning to face him. "I don't trouble overmuch about tight-lacing, and the hoop is easy enough to fasten for oneself at the waist."

He rested his cane against the wall and came up behind her, placing his hands on either side of her waist. He smiled slightly as his thumbs and forefingers met, forming a girdle. "No, you have little need for tight-lacing."

"You have very large hands," she returned, two spots of color high on her cheekbones. The warmth of his encircling hands was spreading through her body, sending the now familiar jolts of lust into her belly. Her feet in their dainty satin slippers shifted and tapped on the polished floorboards. She tried to move away but his clasped hands wouldn't yield. She put her own over them and tried to loosen his fingers. But he only laughed and tightened their grip.

He put his lips against the curve of her neck where it met her shoulders. His breath was warm, his lips firm, and when his teeth lightly grazed the soft creamy skin and his tongue traced the line of her shoulder to the collar of her gown, Ariel shuddered with pleasure.

"We should go down," she whispered, her voice sounding as hoarse and raspy as it had done when her throat was at its sorest.

He raised his head and looked into her eyes in the mirror. "Is something troubling you, Ariel?"

She stared back at him and read candid concern and the bright flickers of arousal in the blue eyes holding her own.

"No," she said. "Nothing… nothing at all. What could be troubling me?"

"I don't know." He loosened his hands from her waist, brought them instead to her upper arms, holding her lightly, still watching her in the mirror. "But something is."

"I'm tired and feeling a bit weak," she said, breaking his gaze by turning her head, stepping away from his hold.

"Then you should stay up here."

"No!" The negative was more vehement than she had intended, and she heard his swift indrawn breath. "I beg your pardon, I didn't mean to shout."

"It was certainly unnecessary," he remarked mildly. "Come, let us go." He gave her his arm.

Ariel glanced again at the mirror. They made a startling pair, his somber black velvet against the vivid brilliance of her scarlet and gold; his towering frame, the rippling strength in the rock-hard muscles, against her own slenderness; the smooth pallor of her cheeks, the soft regularity of her features, against the harsh lines of his countenance, the dramatic twisting scar, the prominent spur of his nose.

A startling pair-a deeply contrasting pair. And yet they seemed to fit in some way. Simon had once talked disparagingly of Beauty and the Beast, but the pair she saw in the mirror were unusual, different, and yet they fitted like the two pieces of a jigsaw you'd never have thought to put together.

Simon followed her eyes to the mirror as she hesitated. But it seemed that he didn't see what she saw, because his face closed suddenly, his eyes hardened, and with his free hand he almost compulsively touched the scar, then he turned his arm beneath hers and his fingers slid around the underside of her wrist as if he was afraid she was going to move away from him. He reached for his cane against the wall and limped with her from the room.

As they descended the staircase to the Great Hall, Ranulf came to the foot to greet them. He had a glass in his hand and his narrowed eyes were filled with malice. "That gown must have cost me a pretty penny, sister."

Ariel dropped him a mocking curtsy. "Are you regretting your bride gift, brother?"

His hand shot out, caught her wrist where the serpentine bracelet glittered. The silver rose chinked against the emerald swan as he raised her hand to the light and the deep ruby in its furled center glowed through the silver like the coals of a brazier. "I expect bargains to be kept," he said. "And where they are not, then I demand redress."

Still holding her wrist, he examined her intently, and when he spoke, it was in a different tone, a smooth, slippery voice. "You appear a little wan despite your finery, my dear. Still a little chilled, perhaps? I trust you haven't ventured outside today."

"No," Ariel said. "I remained withindoors."

"Ah." He nodded. "Then perhaps something else has made you a little peaked." He raised an eyebrow.

"No," Ariel said, consideringly. "I don't believe so." She smiled, and no one could tell what an effort it cost her. "I daresay it's because I've been withindoors, Ranulf. You know how I hate to be confined."

Ranulf frowned and her heart leaped.

When he'd whipped her as a child, it had infuriated him that she wouldn't cry, wouldn't show him that he had hurt her, and she felt that same grim determination now.

The lethargy fell from her like a sloughed skin. She turned a radiant smile upon Simon, announcing gaily, "I'm hungry. Let us sit at the board, husband. I had no dinner last night, and I've had little appetite throughout the day, but now I find myself famished." It was her turn to lead him forward, her small hand closing over his fingers, tugging him toward their seats at the top table.

Simon watched how Ariel chattered with Jack Chauncey about the stag hunt, appearing to eat with indiscriminate gusto of everything that came her way, except that the quantity of food on her plate didn't diminish. She was also drinking her wine rather faster than usual, Simon noted.

"Are you not hungry, husband?" She forked a piece of roast pork onto his plate from the serving salver. "This is most succulent. Shall I find you a piece of the crackling? There." Triumphantly she put a crisp golden chunk of crackling on his plate. She smiled, peeping up at him from beneath her long, curling lashes. "You do like it, don't you?"

He took the offering between finger and thumb and bit it. Ariel's fingers suddenly closed around his wrist, diverting his hand with the last half of the treat to her own mouth. He found himself fascinated by her little white teeth as they took the morsel from his fingers, the moistness of her lips, the little flicker of her pink tongue over her lips to catch any unsightly spots of grease. Her fingers tightened around his wrist for a minute, and her great gray eyes were filled with lascivious promise.

Simon gave up wondering what was behind Ariel's sudden animation. Only a fool would refuse to enjoy it. "Just what are you up to?" he murmured, smoothing his thumb over her mouth. Her tongue darted and her lips closed over the very tip of his thumb.

At any other dining table, outside a brothel, such behavior would be the height of indelicacy, Simon thought. He should be shocked at his bride's immodest behavior, even though he knew it would pass unnoticed in the general drunken depravity around them-except of course by the jealous eyes of her brothers and Oliver Becket. But instead it made him smile. And that shocked him more than anything.

He glanced across the table. His friends were deeply engaged in conversation.

He slid his free hand under Ariel's bottom on the bench. Her muscles beneath the heavy figured silk of her gown clenched against his palm. He went to work quietly, intently, until she ceased her mischievous play with his thumb and whispered, "Don't."

"I thought you wished to play," he returned with an innocent smile.

"It was just a tease."

"So is this. Raise yourself and part your thighs a little."

Her teeth caught her bottom lip, her brow dampened with a little bead of moisture, but she shifted on the bench as he'd directed. His fingers slid deeper against her. Her hands were clenched in her lap, her eyes fixed upon her plate.

Simon grinned and with his free hand nonchalantly picked up a chicken drumstick. He ate it with every appearance of enjoyment, entering into a lively conversation with his other neighbor on the kinds of flies best used for trout fishing in the Ouse.

Ariel couldn't believe he was doing this to her. She heard his voice carrying on his conversation with careless ease while an intensity of pleasure flowed from his fingers. His pleasure in what he was doing swept into her own, became inextricable from her own, and as she fought to control the inevitable, a bubble of laughter grew in her chest. This staid Puritan husband of hers was as capable of outrageous behavior as any rampant Cavalier had been in the debauched court of Charles II.

When it happened, as it had to, she clung to reality as if it were a piece of driftwood in the storm-tossed waters of bliss. She had to keep quiet even as her body exploded and a passing thought for the moisture dampening her gown flitted through her brain. Then the tension left her body, her muscles relaxed, and he slid his hand from beneath her with a final Angering squeeze of her bottom.

With unsteady hand, Ariel reached for her goblet of wine. Were her eyes heavy, her cheeks flushed? She raised her eyes from their studious contemplation of her plate and met Oliver's dark gaze. He knew. He knew because he knew her. She forced herself to keep her eyes steady, to stare him out of countenance, even as her heart pounded and the glass nearly slipped from her suddenly clammy fingers.

It was Oliver who looked away first, routed by her unwavering stare, his angry chagrin blazing in his eyes. Ariel released her breath on a long exhalation, only then realizing that she'd been holding it throughout the silent encounter.

Simon glanced at her, his eyes gleaming wickedly. Ariel pushed a crystal bowl of syllabub toward him. "Gertrude makes a wonderful syllabub, my lord. Won't you try some?"

"Thank you, no, I don't have a sweet tooth." His mouth curved in one of his swift smiles, his eyes crinkling. "Except of course for certain nectars from certain honeyed cups."

Ariel to her annoyance blushed deeply. "If you will excuse me, sir, I have some matters to attend to in the kitchen."

He rose politely as she slid out from the bench and was still smiling to himself when he resumed his seat.

Ariel made her way to the kitchen, although she had no real errand there, but it was one place where she could gather herself together amid the hustle and bustle and no one would question her presence. Her mind returned to the horses. She wondered if Ranulf knew about her deal with Mr. Carstairs.

Not that it really mattered now. Edgar had recruited an army of stable lads to patrol the Arabians' block. No one would get past them tonight. Within the next few days, she would have shipped them all out to safety. And soon enough she would follow them.

She was listening with half an ear to Gertrude, who was complaining that her copper kettles needed resoldering and the tinker hadn't been by in six months. "Send Sam to the Romany encampment. I'm sure there'll be someone there skilled at mending pots."

Gertrude frowned. "Them Romanies are trouble, m'lady. Don't want 'em around 'ere. There'll steal the tears outta yer eyes soon as look at you."

"They need work," Ariel stated with a slight dismissive gesture. "If they're treated courteously, they'll behave courteously." She moved toward the pantries, leaving Gertrude muttering her disagreement. It was not a disagreement she would voice openly to Lady Ariel, whose tolerance for Romanies was well known, if disapproved of.

Ariel examined the laden slate shelves in the pantries, but she wasn't really seeing the cheeses, the bowls of butter and cream and buttermilk, the cold hams, flitches of bacon, roasted fowl.

She hadn't realized until today that she had been growing ambivalent about her life's plan. That somewhere at the back of her head, deep in her heart, had been lurking the faint thought that maybe she wouldn't have to leave this marriage in order to do what she needed to do. The tantalizing little question had been steadily pushing up its head like the first snowdrop through the ice-hard ground of winter. What would Simon say if she asked him to support her in her venture? If she told him she wanted to breed and sell racehorses from the Hawkesmoor stables? If she explained to him how vital it was for her to be independent? Free? Even if she would never use that freedom to do anything that would hurt him or their marriage?

But now she knew she could never ask him. He was a man with supreme authority over his wife. Why should he be any different from any of the other men who had had dominion over her? She couldn't trust him to be different.

And he was a Hawkesmoor.

She would leave as she'd always intended to do. And short of kidnapping her from some secluded spot in Holland, he would have little redress.

Chapter Eighteen

Ariel was changing into her riding habit the next morning, in preparation for a ride with Simon, when the sounds of commotion drifted up to her window from the court below. Buttoning her jacket, she went to the window and looked down. A group of riders in royal livery had just clattered over the drawbridge. Ravenspeare servants rushed to greet them, and as Ariel watched curiously, Ranulf and Roland came down the steps from the Great Hall.

The lead rider dismounted, bowed to the earl of Ravenspeare, and handed him a rolled parchment as he began to speak in a manner that seemed more like proclamation than ordinary discourse.

Ariel opened her window and leaned out, her curiosity now well piqued. Other guests were swarming from the hall, and she saw Simon and his friends among them.

Ranulf glanced up at her window. He cupped his hands around his mouth and commanded in ringing accents, "Sister, come down."

Ariel stepped back from the window, hastily tugged on her boots, and went to the door, Romulus and Remus nudging her knees in their anxiety to get there first. "No, I think you'd better stay in here." She pushed them back and closed the door firmly on their protesting howls. She ran down the stone stairs, across the now deserted hall, and into the court. The melee of guests moved aside, creating a path for her as she made her way to the group in the center.

"What is it?"

"A gift, my dear sister," Roland informed her, and the note of sardonic amusement in his voice instantly put her on her guard. Whatever had amused her brother was at her expense.

"A wedding gift from Her Majesty," Ranulf declared, turning to look at her, his eyes bright with malice. "Such an honor, my dear sister. Not only has Her Majesty gifted you with betrothal presents, but now she has sent you the most magnificent wedding gift." He stepped aside and gestured with a wide flourish to a liveried groom who held the bridle of a sway-backed, dirty-gray nag. The beast stood with lowered head, blowing miserably through foam-flecked lips.

"My lady, Her Majesty also wishes you to accept the saddle and sheepskin as a token of her good wishes for your future happiness," intoned the gentleman whose elaborate braided livery signified that he was the leader of the gift-bringing party. He laid an indicative hand on the sheepskin saddlecloth that had seen many a better day and the worn tooled leather of the saddle itself.

Ariel stared at the beast. "That is nor a horse!" Simon put his hand on the back of her neck, a seemingly casual gesture of affection, but his fingers tightened in a warning that she was for the moment too astounded to heed. "No." She shook her head definitely. "That poor creature belongs to some other species altogether."

"Ariel, be careful." Simon spoke softly but urgently against her ear. "The queen will want to know exactly how you reacted to her gift."

Ariel stiffened. Swallowed. Glanced up at him and met his deadly serious gaze. "I can't," she mouthed, her own eyes brimming with laughter. "How can I?"

"You must."

Pressing her fingers to her lips, she turned back to her gift's waiting escort. "I am deeply honored by Her Majesty's condescension," she said, her voice trembling with a mixture of laughter and indignation. "Such a… such a… magnificent animal," she managed in a rush before laughter got the better of her. She turned her head into Simon's chest, her shoulders shaking.

He turned her firmly back to face the still-expectant messengers. The leader was beginning to look a little askance. She bit her lip hard and stepped forward to stroke the animal's damp neck. "I beg you will tell Her Majesty how overwhelmed I am by the generosity of her gift, sir. And the saddle is… is… I am beyond words." She buried her scarlet face in the gelding's neck.

"You must ride him at once, my dear Ariel." Roland said. "How better to demonstrate your appreciation than to put the horse through his paces? When you return, you will be able to write to Her Majesty with a full description of how her gift rides."

Ariel raised her head slowly and stared at her brother, who met her horrified expression with a bland smile. She turned appealing eyes to Simon, who said heartily, "What a splendid idea, Ravenspeare. Come, Ariel, let me put you up. We were going to ride out anyway, so now you may do so on Her Majesty's gift."

"No!" Ariel whispered desperately. It was one thing to force herself to murmur platitudes, quite another actually to mount the pathetic excuse for horseflesh. Forgetting the queen's observant messengers, she turned, ready to flee, but Simon anticipated her, stepping in front of her.

"Come, my dear. Let me put you up," he repeated firmly, catching her around the waist. Before Ariel could open her mouth in further protest, she found herself seated upon the worn, slippery leather saddle, and the nag beneath her let out a kind of creaking sigh like worn-out bedropes beneath the weight of a giant.

"I do not believe Her Majesty would expect me to ride the horse until he's recovered from his journey," she said. "See how tired he is."

"Oh, he's well up to a canter across the fens," Ranulf declared. "We'll all accompany you."

"That won't be necessary, Ravenspeare," Simon put in swiftly. "Ariel and I had already planned to ride into Cambridge this morning. My groom is bringing my horse now."

On cue, the man appeared, leading Simon's huge, ungainly piebald. Simon mounted. "Lead the way, Ariel." He positioned his horse behind the nag, so that when Ariel nudged her mount's flanks, the gray had little choice but to move forward toward the drawbridge with the piebald nosing its rump.

Ariel, who had been terrified the animal would either refuse to move or collapse to its knees with exhaustion, could only be grateful for Simon's foresight, even as she cursed him for forcing this ridiculous embarrassment upon her.

Once off the drawbridge and out of sight of the crowd in the court, she demanded, "How could you compel me to ride this?"

"You had no choice." He brought his mount alongside the gray, who immediately slackened pace without the prod behind. "You can be sure the queen has at least one observer among the guests who keeps her informed of the proceedings, and she will certainly demand a full report from her messengers."

"But… but… but this is not a gift, it's an insult!" Ariel wailed, trying an experimental encouraging kick to the gray's withered flanks.

"Not according to Queen Anne," Simon declared with a grin. "As you are discovering, my dear, our dearly beloved sovereign is of a frugal temperament when it comes to acknowledging the services of her loyal subjects. I expect that pathetic beast was destined for the slaughterhouse and she thought of a better future for it… while it still had breath in its lungs."

"Breath is a debatable point," Ariel said. "I do not believe in cruelty to animals, Simon, and I will ride it no farther." She drew rein, which was hardly necessary since the animal was barely moving anyway, and dismounted. "If you insist upon going into Cambridge, then your horse will have to carry us both. He's powerful enough."

"Without doubt. But what are you going to do with Her Majesty's gift?"

"Tether him and let him graze until we come back." Ariel suited action to words, looping the nag's bridle over a spindly thornbush beside the dike. "If he's still extant when we return, which seems unlikely, I'll put him out to pasture."

"But you will write Her Majesty a suitably grateful letter of thanks?" Simon leaned down, holding out his hand.

"I shall endeavor to express my feelings in such a way that she won't have the faintest idea what I mean." Ariel took the proffered hand and sprang lightly upward, settling onto the saddle in front of Simon. "Why are we going into Cambridge?"

"I thought I might buy you a wedding gift." He slipped one arm around her waist and took the reins in his other hand.

Ariel was too surprised to say anything immediately. "I think I've had enough wedding gifts for one day, thank you," she managed eventually, trying to make a joke but wondering if instead she sounded merely ungracious. She was very aware of his body at her back and his breath whispering against her bare neck. It would be so natural to lean into his casual embrace, but instead she drew herself upright, stiffening her back, reminding herself that she was once more in possession of her senses, once more on track. The time for romantic dalliance with her husband was over, brought to an end by the loss of the mare.

Simon frowned as she drew away from him. "Is something the matter?"

"No," she returned with a light laugh. "What could be?"

"I'm asking you." When she didn't respond to the dry comment, he clicked his tongue and the piebald moved forward, his long, loping gait lengthening as he broke into a canter, clearly unhampered by the double weight.

"What kind of wedding gift?" Ariel inquired after a minute, trying again for a tone that would break the sudden tension.

"I thought you didn't want one." "Well, it depends what it is."

"Ah. Well, what would you like?"

"I don't know. No one's ever asked me such a question before. Ravenspeares don't really go in for gift giving." The serpentine bracelet on her wrist beneath her glove seemed suddenly heavy as she said this. The only valuable gift anyone had ever given her. And she didn't like it, for all its strange medieval beauty.

"Well, Hawkesmoors do go in for gift giving," Simon commented as they rode into Cambridge. "It's one of the great pleasures of life, I find." He turned his horse into the yard of the Bear Inn and dismounted, handing the reins to an ostler. Ariel slipped down unaided.

"Come fer the fair, m'lord?" the ostler inquired cheerfully. "On Parker's Piece, 'tis."

"Oh, a fair!" Ariel's face lit up and for a minute she forgot her dragging depression. "I haven't been to a fair since I was tiny. May we go?"

"By all means." Simon smiled at her enthusiasm. This almost childlike eagerness was a new side to his bride and infinitely preferable to the resurgence of that stiffness she hadn't shown since they'd consummated their marriage. She wasn't exactly hostile, he thought, but she was definitely not the warm and amusing companion he'd been growing accustomed to. "But shall we break our fast at the inn first?"

"Oh, no, let us buy a pie from a pieman… and some roasted chestnuts… and we can drink mulled wine from one of the stalls." She pranced ahead of him out of the inn yard, stopping in the lane outside as she remembered belatedly that her companion couldn't match her speed.

Simon was perfectly agreeable to anything that took her fancy and allowed her to lead the way through the narrow streets between the high gray stone walls of the colleges to the expanse of grass that went by the name of Parker's Piece. Braziers burned and the sweet smell of roasting chestnuts filled the cold air; hawkers called their wares, ringing their bells as they threaded through the crowd, who gathered around morris dancers, mummers, dancing bears, and various freaks who drew gasps of fascinated revulsion. Ariel darted hither and thither, slipping through the crowd where Simon couldn't easily go.

"There's a woman with two heads over there." After one of her forays, she returned to Simon's side. "She couldn't really have, could she?" She looked up at him in genuine inquiry.

"Why couldn't she?" he asked gravely, entranced by an ingenuousness so unlike her customary down-to-earth self.

Ariel shuddered deliciously. "It seems impossible, but I saw it with my own eyes. How horrible. Fancy having four eyes… and two tongues. Shall I buy us some pies? There's a pieman over by the mummers. Would you like venison… or beef… or kidney?"

"Venison."

She darted away and then almost immediately turned back. "Oh, I don't have any money."

Simon dug into his pocket and produced a shilling. She disappeared into the crowd and he paused, leaning against a trestle table, resting his leg for a minute. Fairs were not his idea of amusement, but Ariel in her enthusiasm was amusement enough.

But something was wrong. Ever since he'd returned from the stag hunt yesterday afternoon, he'd sensed that she was troubled, off-key in some way. Oh, they'd amused themselves wickedly at the banquet and she'd been her usual wonderfully responsive self both then and later that night in bed. But her face in repose, when she didn't know he was watching her, was tense, her mouth tight, her eyes shadowed with something he would have sworn was distress.

" 'Ow about a fairing, m'lord?" A peddler stopped beside him, his singsong voice breaking into Simon's reverie. The man carried a tray slung around his neck and pushed it close to Simon's chest… too close for comfort. Dark eyes glittered in a swarthy countenance and he grinned, exposing a black cavernous mouth with toothless gums. His tongue was startlingly red, poking between his grinning lips.

"See m'fairings, m'lord." He rattled the contents of his tray. "Every one a genuine treasure." He began to finger the trinkets, fixing Simon with a piercing stare that its recipient assumed was supposed to have some mesmerizing quality. "There's jewels from the Indies, an' a real live shrunken 'ead from the Africas." He picked up the latter disgusting object, holding it up by a hank of black hair. "Shockin' cannonballs they is in them parts. What d'ye fancy, m'lord?"

Simon's nose wrinkled at the fetid breath issuing from the black hole of the peddler's mouth. He was about to send him about his business when his eye fell on a small carved horse buried amid the jumble of colored glass, beads, and scarves. He picked it out with fastidious fingers and laid it on the palm of his hand.

"Genuine whalebone, m'lord," the peddler said eagerly. "I knew the very sailorman what catched the whale. Big as the Tower o' Lunnon, 'e said. 'E carved this off a rib. 'Uge ribs, they 'ave… or so I'm told." His voice faded as he saw his potential customer wasn't listening but was examining the object with considerable interest.

It was a very beautiful object, carved in full gallop, and the flowing mane, lovingly delineated, seemed to undulate with life and movement. The clean lines of the body rippled with muscular power. The dull ivory color of the bone had an opalescence to it. It seemed to emit a soft glow that breathed life into the carving.

Simon wondered what it was that reminded him so much of Ariel… whether it was the life and power of the horse, or its simple, unadorned beauty, or its creamy sheen. His fingers closed over it as it lay on his palm, and he reached with his free hand into his pocket. "How much?"

The peddler's eyes narrowed to a calculating gleam. " 'Alf a guinea, m'lord. Seein' as there's not another like it. The sailorman what carved it drownded." His mouth twisted into a travesty of a sorrowful grimace.

"I'll give you half a crown." It seemed somewhat unchivalrous to bargain over the price of a wedding gift to his bride, but Simon couldn't bring himself to accept being cheated by this unsavory individual, who was as likely to have robbed the sailor and helped him on his way to his heavenly reward as to have come by any of his wares honestly.

"I dunno I can go that low, sir," the man whined. "I've got ten nippers an' the wife's mortal bad. Three shillin' an' we'll call it a deal." He held out a filth-encrusted claw to shake on the bargain.

Simon glanced around. Ariel was pushing her way toward them. "Here." He slapped a crown into the man's filthy palm and turned away from him.

"They didn't have venison, but they had goose and bacon. They smelled so wonderful, I couldn't resist." Ariel proffered a steaming pie even as she bit into the flaky crust of her own. "And there's a gingerbread stall," she mumbled through a mouthful. "But I didn't have enough money. We can go back, though. They had little marchpane figures. Oh, and there's a snake charmer. Truly… He has a real snake and it curls out of the basket when he plays the flute."

Simon ate his pie, listening to her excited babble, smiling to himself. While her pleasure delighted him, it also saddened him a little. It showed how much her childhood had lacked the simple joys of ordinary growing.

"Come and see the snake charmer." Dusting flakes of pastry from her hands, she took his arm and led him into the fray, still chattering. Everything fascinated her; it was as if she had lost several layers of defensive shell, Simon thought, allowing himself to be pulled hither and thither as sights caught her attention, or the enticing wares of a food stall set her juices running.

It was midafternoon when he finally managed to drag her away, back to the Bear Inn. "It'll be dusk before we get back, and we have to pick up that misbegotten nag, if he's still there."

"Oh, yes, I'd forgotten about him." Ariel was suddenly sober, almost as if she were replacing the layers of responsibility she had shed during the day. She shivered, cold in the late afternoon chill as her exuberance left her. It was time to go back. She had a lot to arrange in a very short time.

"You're cold." Simon took her hand. "We'll go into the inn and have a tankard of porter before facing the ride back."

Ariel let her hand lie in his, but he felt it as a passive gesture rather than one with any feeling to it. He cast a sidelong glance at her. The day's glow had faded from her cheeks, and the brightness of her eyes was now dulled. Her mouth was set.

"Do you not want to go back?" he asked on impulse, lightly brushing her taut mouth with a fingertip. "If you like, we could stay in town for the night. I'll send a message to Ravenspeare."

Her heart jumped. A night with just the two of them in an anonymous chamber of the town's best inn? But she could no longer lose herself in the ephemeral dream of pleasure. She had to get her horses out of Ravenspeare. Her horses and herself.

"No," she said. "I don't think that would be a good idea."

He shrugged. "I don't see why not. But it's up to you."

Ariel bit her lip. "All the wedding guests…" she murmured vaguely. "And I can't leave the household to manage alone. It wouldn't be fair."

"Of course not," he said, smoothly agreeable, not a hint of his puzzled frustration showing in voice or expression. "But before we go back, I have a wedding present for you."

"Oh. But… but when… how… when did you buy it?" She stared at him in astonishment, having completely forgotten their earlier conversation.

Simon took a deep draught of porter from the leather tankard at his elbow. "When you weren't looking." He drew the whalebone horse from his coat pocket and placed it carefully on the counter.

"Oh, how lovely!" Ariel exclaimed, as he had known she would. She picked it up and held it to the light slanting through the mullioned window. "How it glows… how it moves!" She turned a radiant face up to him. "It's the most beautiful present I could ever imagine having. Thank you." Leaning over, she kissed his cheek and it felt a more intimate caress than the most passionate kisses she had showered on him in the privacy of the bedchamber.

For a moment her eyes held his and he thought he read a question in the gray gaze, then the shutters came down again and she said politely, "It really is very lovely. It was very clever of you to find it." She stood up, shaking down the skirt of her riding habit. "We should go before it gets dark."

They said almost nothing throughout the cold ride back to Ravenspeare, both lost in their own thoughts. Ariel held the bone horse tightly in her gloved hand.

The queen's gift was grazing placidly where they'd left him. Reluctantly, Ariel mounted him and again he sighed and creaked in weary protest. "Never mind," she said, reaching down to pat his curved neck. "From now on you can live a life of luxury. Bran mash, green pastures, and no one will ever mount you again." The nag whinnied and almost picked up his hooves as if in perfect understanding of this promise.

When they reached the stableyard, Ariel said she wanted to make her evening rounds of her horses. Simon hesitated, wanting to suggest that he accompany her, but she had swung on her heel and strode off before he could open his mouth.

"What the hell is going on with you, girl?" Simon muttered. If something was troubling her, why would she not confide in him? He'd surely done nothing to give her cause for mistrust. Exasperation warred with unease as he limped away toward the castle, from where the sounds of merriment were already floating on the night air.

Edgar came out of the gloom to greet his mistress as she slipped into the warm, brazier-lit stable. "Good even, m'lady."

"Good evening, Edgar. Is everything all right? No unexpected visitors while I was gone? No sounds of trespass? No signs of anything untoward?"

"Nothin', m'lady." Edgar leaned against a stall, sucking the inevitable straw. "We patrolled every half hour last night, an' the dogs were in 'ere, on watch the 'ole time. But I 'aven't seen the 'ounds today."

"Oh, Lord, I forgot!" Ariel exclaimed. "They must still be shut up in my chamber. I'll let them out directly and they can roam loose again tonight. We must keep our guard up until I can arrange to ship all the horses out to Derek." She began to walk up the aisle, pausing at each stall, recognizing the individual shuffles and welcoming whickers of her stud. They were all so beautiful, glossy with health.

Where was the mare in foal? A wave of impotent fury rocked her, and unbidden tears of loss and rage pricked behind her eyes. How dared anyone take what was hers? The theft was more than a nuisance, more than a simple statement of power. It was a violation of her self. No one would ever, ever have that power over her again.

"It will be new moon the day after tomorrow," she said, her voice clipped. "We will move them that night. Have the men bring three barges to the dock in the morning and we'll ship them out before midnight. My brothers and their guests will be well gone in drink by then. We'll need at least six men to move the horses quickly and quietly. Can you arrange that?"

"Aye," Edgar agreed, phlegmatic as always.

Ariel frowned to herself. It should be safe enough, once the revelry in the hall had reached its peak. But she would have to slip away from Simon.

Her hand slid into her pocket and closed around the beautiful bone horse. Tears pricked behind her eyes and with an angry gesture she dashed them away with her free hand and went back outside into the cold.

Oliver Becket lurched through the arch into the stable-yard as Ariel appeared. His head felt as huge and swollen as a decaying pumpkin, about to burst and spew forth its rotting seeds. The noise and smells in the Great Hall had become intolerable, and he'd stumbled out into the air, hoping to calm his roiling stomach and soothe his pounding head. He was accustomed to getting drunk, but this was the worst he had ever felt. Common sense told him that wasn't the case. The mind had the devil's own ability to spread the gentle blanket of amnesia over the more unpleasant consequences of excess.

He tossed his wig to the ground, put his head under the pump, and worked the handle, sending a stream of icy water over his head and down his back, soaking his clothes; and his head, while it still ached, began to clear.

He let go the pump handle and straightened, throwing off the freezing water with a shake. He blinked water from his eyes, staring blearily at Ariel, who came across the yard toward him.

"You look as if you've been for a swim." She greeted him unsmiling, her voice level. "Hardly wise in these temperatures. If you've the headache, I can give you a powder."

Her accurate diagnosis of his condition did little to improve it. Anger knotted his chest. An anger that swelled to a crimson rage as he looked at her. She returned his gaze steadily, and he knew that she no longer saw the man who for a twelvemonth had been her lover. Once she had looked at him with smiling eyes, tentatively expressing her desire. He had become accustomed to the idea that she was his for the taking, ready and willing whenever he thought to snap his fingers.

But now she looked at him and there was no hiding that she didn't like what she saw. Her disdain shone from her clear gray eyes, radiated from every still, straight line of her lissome frame.

He had a sudden vivid image of her at the table the previous evening. Crimson and gold, lusciously sensual, her eyes filled with the mischievous promising pleasure that used to be for him alone. But now it had a different object. He'd watched her turn the full power of that sensuality upon the Hawkesmoor, and only then had Oliver Becket understood what he'd taken for granted, mocked even, certainly underestimated when, with her brother's connivance, he had possessed the little Ravenspeare.

He remembered now, and it was gall and wormwood, the way she'd played with the Hawkesmoor last evening-that private, wicked little game they'd played together. He had seen the moment when pleasure had overwhelmed her, had recognized the sudden relaxation, the transfiguration of her face, the suddenly heavy eyelids, the glow of her skin. And the smug satisfaction of the Hawkesmoor had been a twisting knife in his gut.

For a minute he was speechless, impotent with rage. He stared at her, imagining her body joined with the Hawkesmoor's. His nostrils flared as if he could scent the odors of sex clinging to her.

Ariel unconsciously took a step backward, away from him. From the naked viciousness in his eyes, the taut malevolence in his set face. "Are you ill, Oliver?" She tried to sound normal, to keep the unease from her voice.

"Sickened by the sight of you," he said in a low rasp. "Are you enjoying the Hawkesmoor, Ariel? Does he know what to do to make you whimper… to make you…"

She listened for too long as he continued with a stream of soft vile obscenities that smirched her just by their sound. But somehow she couldn't move away, couldn't even turn her eyes aside from the dreadful hating glare of his bloodshot gaze.

Neither of them was aware of the silent spectator, of the moment when the earl of Hawkesmoor moved out of the shadows of the archway leading to the inner court. The intense tableau was shattered when his silver-knobbed cane smacked down across Oliver Becket's shoulders. Oliver reeled sideways with a yell that sounded more surprised than pained. He stumbled to one knee. A hand grabbed the back of his collar and hauled him upright.

"If there is one thing I cannot abide, Becket, it's a foul mouth in the presence of women." The earl's easy voice sounded as mellifluous as honey after the vileness of Oliver's tirade. Ariel shook her head as if to rid herself of the slimy tendrils of Oliver's malevolence.

"Ariel, would you leave us, please? Mr. Becket and I have some private business to attend to." The earl's hand twisted in Oliver's collar, and Oliver found himself hauled up onto his tiptoes. He realized then what Ariel had realized long since-that whatever weakness had resulted from the injury to the Hawkesmoor's thigh, it was more than compensated by the strength in his arms and upper body.

Ariel looked uncertain. Simon repeated, "Go."

His voice was quiet and courteous, but it didn't occur to Ariel that she had any choice in the matter. She obeyed immediately, almost stumbling into the stable block, trembling, her knees quivering like jellies, her skin feeling soiled and sticky. It wasn't so much the filthy words Oliver had spoken. She knew them all, heard them in the fields all the time. But it was the concentration of his spite that had crept beneath her skin. The dreadful realization that someone could loathe her, could wish to harm her with such single-minded intensity.

Greedily she inhaled the rich scents of manure and horseflesh and hay. The loamy, earthbound purity of her animals. She leaned against the open door and breathed deeply, watching the two men, mere outlines in the night gloom. She was too far away to hear what was said.

Simon's hand twisted again in Oliver's collar, and Becket's suffused eyes began to pop, his mouth falling open like that of a gaffed fish. "My patience has finally run out,"

Simon declared without heat or emphasis. "You are a tedious bore, Becket, and I am sick to death of your attentions to my wife. For as long as I remain on Ravenspeare land, you will make yourself scarce."

Almost indifferently he jerked his wrist upward and Oliver's toes left the ground. The corded veins stood out on the earl's wrist, the muscles of his arms bunched hard as they took Becket's weight.

"I have ten men, soldiers and friends, loyal to me to the last drop of blood. If I see you anywhere in my wife's vicinity again, they and I will ensure that you never possess a woman again. We have learned some tricks in our campaigning… tricks that work well on men who make sport of women. I assure you we will not hesitate to use them."

He held Oliver aloft for what to the suspended man seemed like an eternity at the doors of hell, then he dropped him, dusted his palms off against each other, turned his back on Becket, and limped slowly and deliberately to the stable block, where Ariel waited.

Oliver stood massaging his throat. He would have given anything for the courage to leap on the cripple's back, bring him down, and pound him into the cobbles. But he didn't dare. The Hawkesmoor had turned his back on him with all the contempt a cat would show a mouse, and here he stood as paralyzed by terror as any mouse toyed with by a cat.

Ariel was shivering, her arms wrapped around herself in a convulsive hug. She wanted to run from Simon even as he came up to her. She couldn't bear that he had heard Oliver's dreadful words, the filthy insults that marked her body and her soul with his vile possession… a possession that, God help her, she had once enjoyed.

Simon stopped a short way away from her. He regarded her in silence and she stared back at him, her eyes haunted. Again she shivered, knowing that she could not bear him to touch her. Could not bear the touch of any man when she was seared with such hideous self-disgust and contempt.

"Becket was your lover for a twelvemonth, you said." His voice was flat but she heard the flick of repulsion. She couldn't answer, merely turned away with a tiny gesture of distress.

"What in God's name did you see in such a sewer rat?" Simon hadn't intended to use this tone with her, but he couldn't help it. The corrosive memory of Becket's slimy jibes over Ariel's sleeping body the night of her fever rose anew, and his mouth filled with the sourness of bile.

Ariel flushed deepest crimson and then paled, whiter than milk. A blue tinge appeared around her gray lips, and her eyes were dead as ash, sunken in their sockets. And as always her response to attack was to attack back.

"I suppose, my lord, I felt for him what I felt for you," she said, her voice thin and bitter. "Desire, isn't that what you call it? Lust. Isn't that what it comes down to? If I satisfy my lust with you, is there any reason why I shouldn't have satisfied it with Oliver? It's a basic human need. Oliver was a poor choice, I admit it freely. But then my choices were somewhat limited. As indeed they have been all along."

She turned on her heel and walked swiftly away, far too swiftly for him to follow. She held her head high although tears of rage and misery stung her eyes. She would not be despised by anyone. And most certainly not by a damned Hawkesmoor. How could he not have understood the loneliness, the need for affection and attention that had made her such easy game for Oliver's advances?

But he didn't understand because he didn't care to. And it didn't matter anyway. It was over, this brief interlude of married bliss. And she would kick the dust of Ravenspeare and marriage from her heels with the greatest of pleasure.

Simon didn't attempt to follow her. He was stunned by her bitter words, reminded forcefully that she had grown in this hostile, depraved soil and had to have been damaged by it. Maybe he had been harsh, but there had been no need for her almost vicious response.

Did she really not feel anything for him? It would explain her withdrawal, her stiffness, but it wouldn't explain the warmth and easy affection, the humor. But then, those, o course, were the products of lust-a basic need to be satisfied on the only available object!

He swore under his breath, knowing he didn't believe she meant what she'd said. But it still angered him.

He limped back to the castle, preferring for the moment the revelry of the Great Hall to privacy with his bride.

Chapter Nineteen

Helene's carriage jolted in a cart track as it ascended Fore-hill in the town of Ely. The winter afternoon was drawing in and she was weary and now beginning to feel a little uncertain about this unscheduled bride visit.

She had left home in good time that morning and should have arrived at Ravenspeare comfortably by midafternoon, when she could have simply paid an afternoon visit to the bride, and if an invitation to stay the night had been forthcoming, then she could have accepted it without too great a sense of intrusion.

But ill luck had dogged the journey, and it was now far beyond a respectable hour for visiting. She would have to spend the night at a hostelry in Ely and send greetings to Ravenspeare by messenger.

A leader had thrown a shoe just outside Huntingdon, and a few miles farther on, just as they left St. Ives, the front wheel had rolled over an ice-filmed puddle that proved to be a crater in the road large enough to swallow a coach and four. The wheel axle had split, the coach had listed dangerously, and Helene had had to extricate herself by climbing through the window into the ditch beside the disabled vehicle.

At which point she had been on the verge of giving up this ill-fated expedition, when a young squire had come to her rescue, all polite solicitude and eagerness to help. Without listening to her vague expostulations, he had loaded Helene, her maid, and her portmanteau into his gig and driven her back to St. Ives, where he had procured a coach for her from the Jolly Bargeman. And Helene had somehow allowed matters to run their course, rather enjoying having decisions made for her, all the details taken care of by this personable and extremely attentive youth.

Her husband's will had left her financially independent and in full charge of all decisions affecting herself and her children. It was a consideration and respect not often accorded widows, and Helene was fully sensible of its advantages, but there were times when it was rather pleasant to be taken care of by a pair of strong male hands.

Helene peered out of the window as the hired carriage, in the charge of her own coachman and postilions, rattled over the cobbles toward the Lamb Inn. The early dusk had been creeping over the damp, flat land for the last half hour. Rooks cawed, circling over the gaunt treetops as they prepared to settle for the night. Helene could smell fog. She had the native-born Fenlander's nose for the rolling ground mist that could engulf every landmark in its path, thickening as it drifted.

Simon would have taken care of her. There was a time when he had wanted nothing else. After Harold's death he had pressed her, gently, and with complete understanding of her situation, but he had made no secret of his own desires. He wanted her as his wife. He wanted her to bear his children. He wanted to love her and care for her-to achieve the emotional destiny that with the carelessness of youth they had squandered at the only time when it would have been possible to fulfill.

But then it was too late. She could not have given up her children. Not even for Simon. Not even for the happiness of a lifetime of his loving care. To see them only occasionally, to have almost no say in their education and care, to have them under her roof for only a few weeks a year? No, she couldn't have done such a thing.

And now Simon was married to a Ravenspeare, and there was no point even fantasizing anymore.

Helene touched her soft skin. Did it feel dryer, like parchment, these days? Were the crow's-feet etched deeper as

each day passed? What kind of a creature was this new countess of Hawkesmoor? Young, certainly. Twelve years younger than Helene. In the full flush of youthful beauty, of course. Life as yet would have planted no faint lines and wrinkles on the fresh complexion. Her eyes would be as yet unfaded by the yearnings and the sorrows that a succession of even relatively uneventful years brought with them.

The carriage came to a rattling halt in the yard of the Lamb Inn, and an ostler leaped to open the door for its passengers. Helene descended, followed by her maid, a rosy-cheeked youngster who grinned mischievously at the osder as she directed him in a mock-haughty tone to be careful of her ladyship's dressing case.

The lad winked at her and hoisted the leather case onto his shoulders. The innkeeper had come running as soon as he'd judged the quality of the passenger in the hired coach and was now escorting her ladyship into the inn with promises of a private parlor and his best bedchamber.

Helene detested staying in inns. The Lamb was respectable enough but Ely, despite its cathedral, was not a crossroads town or on a major highway, and its main hostelry served mostly local travelers and neighborhood folk. The private parlor was small, slightly musty, and overlooked the street, which was quiet enough at this time of day, but by cockcrow it would be a babbling sea of activity.

"Do you have a lad I can send with a message to Ravenspeare Castle?" She drew off her gloves and set her plumed hat on a gateleg table, noticing a swath of dust that some chambermaid had missed in her clearly desultory cleaning.

"Tonight, ma'am?" The landlord surreptitiously swiped at the tabletop with his baize apron.

"It's but three miles." Helene shivered in the dank chill that the sullen coals in the fireplace couldn't dissipate. The bed linen was bound to be damp.

The landlord poked the fire. "I can send Billy Potts. Would you be wantin' a nice drop o' milk punch to warm ye?"

"Tea," Helene said decisively. "And I'd like a coddled egg and a bowl of soup for my dinner."

"An' a nice bottle of best burgundy?" her host offered hopefully.

"Just the tea, thank you." She sat down at the table with her folding leather standish, containing several sheets of paper, a quill pen, and a leather inkwell.

The landlord bowed and left his sadly unexpansive customer to her letter writing.

Helene wrote two letters. She addressed one to Lady Hawkesmoor and folded it into the second sheet of paper, which she sealed with wax from the candle and addressed to Lord Hawkesmoor.

Billy Potts loped off on his errand cheerfully enough. He was a spry lad and ran easily over the fields, hopping over stiles, ducking through hedges, leaping dikes and narrow drainage cuts, reducing the three miles by road between Ravenspeare and Ely to a mere mile and a half.

He arrived at Ravenspeare Castle within half an hour to find the central courtyard ablaze with pitch torches and flambeaux staked around the perimeter. The wedding guests were watching riders tilting at a quintain set up in the center of the court. Whenever a rider's lance struck the quintain awry and he was unhorsed by the great sack of flour swinging round on him, shrieks of laughter and applause rocked the evening air and the man was obliged as forfeit to down a sconce of burgundy in one breath.

Billy Potts stood watching in wide-eyed fascination. He'd heard tales of what went on behind the walls of Ravenspeare Castle, but this scene where the garish light of the flambeaux flickered in the wreathing fog was beyond his imagination. The guests were all lavishly dressed beneath fur-trimmed cloaks, their faces flushed in the strange light as if they were overheated, impervious to the dank winter chill.

"What're you doin' 'ere, lad?" A gruff voice arrested him as he made to slip along the wall to get a closer look at the sport. A hand caught his shoulder.

"I've a message fer Lord 'Awkesmoor," Billy said, ducking his head in respect. His interlocutor was a man impressively dressed in velvet livery.

"Who from?" Timson looked suspiciously at the messenger.

Billy shrugged. "Lady what come to the Lamb, sir. Don't know 'er name." He proffered the folded sheet.

"Lady?" Timson's nose wrinkled. What was a lady doing sending messages to a bridegroom in the midst of his wedding festivities? Lady Ariel's bridegroom to boot. He held up the paper and peered at it. Literacy was not his strong suit but he could make out the letters inscribed in a flowing hand. An elegant hand, he reckoned. He sniffed. No suspicious perfume to the paper.

"This 'ere lady. She's stayin' at the Lamb?"

Billy ducked his head again in acknowledgment. "Ordered a coddled egg fer 'er supper wiv a pot o' tea."

Timson chuckled richly. That would put old Jones's nose out of joint. The landlord was a friend of his, and Timson knew well how much he liked a customer with expansive tastes.

"All right, then, be off with you. I'll see 'is lordship gets this." He clipped Billy in a friendly fashion over the ear and made his way into the noisy throng.

The fog and damp were playing merry hell with Simon's lame leg, and he had declined to take part in the tilting. Ariel stood beside him and he knew she was aware of his pain and the effort it cost him just to stay on his feet, but for once she didn't offer to use her magic fingers and her salves to ease him. And he had no desire to ask for an intimate attention she wouldn't freely give. Fortunately, the cadre drew attention away from the bridegroom's lack of participation by throwing themselves into the proceedings with more enthusiasm than usual, leaving the bride and groom to stand side by side, but as distant as if an ocean separated them.

The absence of Oliver Becket had caused a few raised eyebrows, a few questions. But no one seemed to have an answer, not even Ranulf, who had not seen Oliver since he'd lurched drunkenly from the Great Hall the previous evening.

No one noticed Timson approach Lord Hawkesmoor as he half perched, half leaned against one of the benches that lined the court for the spectators. Ariel was alert to every wince, every shift of Simon's body as he tried to ease whatever particular part was paining him, and her fingers ached to ease his suffering. But she kept her hands to herself, her fingers curled into her palms, her eyes fixed unseeing upon the tilting as she forced herself to think only of how the thickening fog would work to her advantage if it would just stay around until tomorrow night, the night of the new moon.

When Timson popped up beside her bearing his messages, she gave him barely a glance until she heard him say, "A message come for you, m'lord. From the Lamb at Ely."

"A message?" Simon looked astonished. "For me?" He took the missive and immediately recognized Helene's handwriting.

"What is it?" Ariel sensed his alarm and spoke without thought, for a moment forgetting their estrangement. "Who's it from?"

He shook his head in curt dismissal and moved stiffly away toward the brighter fight of the Great Hall. What could have brought Helene to seek him out here? Some disaster with the children? It had to be something very personal, and totally unexpected. She had mentioned nothing untoward in any of her letters since his marriage.

Ariel pushed her way through the noisy crowd, following Simon into the hall, where the servants were putting the final touches to the long tables for the banquet to follow the tournament. Whatever was going on, she needed to know.

"Is it bad news?"

Simon unfolded the first sheet of paper. The second, bearing Ariel's name, fell out. As he bent stiffly to retrieve it, Ariel leaped forward to forestall him. She picked it up and was about to hand it back when she read her name.

"Oh, this is for me."

"So it would seem," he said dryly. First glance at his own letter had made everything clear as day. Helene was perfectly candid. She wanted to see his bride. She wanted to see how things were between them. Some things he'd hinted at in his letters made her a little uneasy, and she thought that she might be able to help if his bride was confused or uncertain. It was dreadful that she'd had no woman to prepare her for matrimony, and Helene thought that maybe, if she could win Ariel's confidence, she could perhaps help her. And by doing so, help her dearest friend, whose happiness was more important to her than her own.

You are also, my dearest friend, riddled with a particularly feminine species of curiosity, Simon reflected as he slowly reread the missive. But could she help? Could a woman break through this thorny thicket that had sprung up between him and his wife, mediate in some way between them?

Ariel studied his face before looking at her own letter. She read a flash of wry amusement, followed immediately by a frowning speculation. She dropped her eyes to her own missive.

The writer introduced herself as Lady Kelburn, a very old childhood friend of Simon's, and also a Fenland neighbor. She said that she wished to pay a neighborly bride visit, and since the wedding party was of such long duration, she didn't think it would come amiss for her to visit the bride during the festivities. She had intended to arrive at a respectably conventional visiting hour that afternoon, but the journey had been plagued with delays, so now she was benighted and putting up at the Lamb in Ely, from where she hoped to pay a morning visit to the bride on the following day.

Ariel looked up at Simon. "You've never mentioned Lady Kelburn to me."

"No." He massaged the back of his neck with one hand. "I thought it would be time enough to introduce you to my dearest and oldest friend when you were finally settled under my roof. It appears, however, that Helene had other ideas."

"The Lamb is all very well for peddlers and local farmers, but it's no comfortable place for a lady," Ariel said slowly. Lady Kelburn, Simon's oldest and dearest friend, could perhaps serve a useful purpose over the next two days. She could distract Simon's attention from his wife.

Ariel glanced around the hall. "But then perhaps, my lord, you would consider this no suitable or comfortable place for a lady either."

"What are you suggesting?" His voice had an edge to match her own.

"That we send Edgar with the carriage to bring your friend here for the night. I can guarantee the sheets will be aired, and if you wish to dine alone with her, then I could have a fire kindled in the green parlor." Ariel softened her tone.

Simon was frowning and she could see him thinking of the rowdy evening ahead. His gaze flicked with clear distaste around the Great Hall, tidy and welcoming now, but what would it look like in a few short hours? "What is this green parlor?"

"It's my private room… it's hidden away a bit in the north turret."

His frown deepened. "But you said on our wedding night that you had no private parlor or boudoir."

She shrugged. "I don't in general care to share it."

"I see." He stood in frowning silence for a minute. Why should he be suspicious of her offer? Certainly, they were at odds at present, but that would be no reason for her to deny hospitality to a benighted traveler. And she was a most accomplished hostess.

He forced a smile. "I thank you for your generosity, Ariel. Helene must be very anxious to meet you, because she loathes traveling, even such a relatively short distance. And she has a most particular dislike of inns. I'll ride over at once and convey your invitation myself." He drew his cloak more securely around his shoulders and moved back toward the door. "I will accompany you."

He turned back to her. "Why would you wish to?" "It would be appropriate for me to issue my own invitation."

Simon nodded. "Indeed it would." Then on impulse he reached over and teasingly tugged her long, honeyed braid. "And I daresay you're as anxious to satisfy your curiosity about Helene as she is about you. It would be most unkind of me to deprive you both of the earliest opportunity to do so."

When she didn't immediately respond, he took a turn of the braid around his wrist and drew her head closer to him. He said gravely, "I do not care to be at odds with you, Ariel. If I was at fault yesterday, then I beg your pardon."

Ariel bit her lip. He cupped her chin on the palm of his free hand and lifted her face. His eyes searched hers. "What do you say?"

"I do not care to be at odds either," she heard herself murmur, then pulled away from him. "I'll just go and give instruction to the servants about Lady Kelburn's reception. I'll meet you in the stables in a few minutes."

Simon stood with folded arms for several minutes after she had gone. He'd tried to throw a bridge across the ocean, and for a minute she'd caught it, but then she'd dropped it. Why?

With an impatient shake of his head, he made his way to the stables. Although he would have preferred to have orchestrated this meeting between his former lover and his bride at his own place and in his own time, instead of having it thrust upon him, maybe Helene's arrival was opportune. If she could befriend Ariel-if Ariel would open up to her, confide in her-then maybe he in turn would understand his bride better. A woman could ask questions he couldn't ask himself, and Helene could teach him how to reach Ariel.

A groom saddled Simon's horse and a neat gray gelding for Ariel. The roan was still recuperating but doing nicely, according to Edgar, who emerged from the Arabians' block to find out who was riding out at such an inhospitable hour.

Ariel hurried into the yard, drawing up the hood of her caped riding cloak. "Presumably, Lady Kelburn will have her own carriage and cattle?"

"Yes, and her maid also, I'm sure. Helene travels in fitting style."

"Oh." What exactly was fitting style? A lumbering coach and six? A mountain of baggage? Outriders and postilions for safety? A stiff and starchy lady's maid? Maybe she traveled with her own sheets.

"Edgar, you'll need to make room in the stables for carriage horses," she instructed, none of this derisive speculation showing on her face. "And there'll be a coachman, postilions… I don't know how many. Arrange to have them taken to the gatehouse for the night." She led the gray to the mounting block and swung into the saddle, gathering up the reins. "Are you willing to ride as the crow flies, my lord?"

Simon thought he detected in her voice the old note of taunting challenge, but he chose to ignore it. "I'm easier on horseback than on foot. So lead on, ma'am."

Ariel needed no further encouragement and he followed her out of the stableyard into the steadily thickening fog. She turned off the rutted track and into the fields. The sails of a windmill creaked eerily in the gray darkness.

It was a real Fenland fog that would stay around for several days, and nothing would suit her plans better. Moonlight and starlight would be obliterated and noise would be deadened. The barges with her stud would slide soundlessly down the canal to the river and the safety of Derek's farm.

In two days' time it would all be over. It was apprehension that was making her feel so dismal.

Simon's voice broke abruptly into her reflections. "The castle is full to overflowing with guests, Ariel. Where will you accommodate Helene?"

"I told Timson to have your belongings moved into my chamber and Lady Kelburn can have yours," Ariel replied.

"Of course." Simon frowned into the damp gloom. How would Helene feel retiring to bed knowing that her former lover was tucked up snugly with his young bride across the hall? Helene's intellectual understanding of his marriage was one thing, but facing the reality was something else. But he could not express these reservations to Ariel.

Helene was surveying the Lamb's attempt at coddled eggs with some dismay when she heard the sound of feet on the narrow wooden stairs outside her parlor. There was a brisk knock. Her heart jumped and she spun round to the door. She would know that sound anywhere. Only Simon knocked in that way. She waited for him to enter as he always did, immediately on the knock, but instead, after a second's pause, the knock was repeated.

"Enter."

The door opened and Simon stood there, damp tendrils of fog clinging to his cloak, glistening in his bared head. He filled the door, standing there smiling at her, his deep blue eyes alight with pleasure.

With a delighted cry, Helene ran to him and only as he embraced her did she become aware of the still figure standing just behind him on the shadowy landing. Instinctively she moderated the passionate embrace, lightly kissing his cheek, then stepping back from him with an inquiring eyebrow raised.

Simon reached behind him and drew the figure forward. "Helene, may I make you known to my wife?"

Helene saw a young woman, slender, about average height, but with an air of self-possession that made her seem taller. She had thrown back the hood of her riding cloak, and a long, thick honey-colored plait fell down her back. Her gray eyes regarded Helene with an unnervingly grave speculation that to Helene held a tinge of suspicion. This was no ingenue miss, Helene thought, stepping forward, hand extended.

"Lady Kelburn, I am come to bid you welcome to Ravenspeare Castle." The girl forestalled Helene's words of greeting, taking the proffered hand in a cool, firm grasp. "It is my husband's wish, and mine too, that you should return with us tonight." She cast an eye around the dingy parlor and suddenly smiled. "You do us much honor by your visit, and it seems but meager appreciation to leave you in such miserable accommodations on such a nasty night. I'm certain the sheets will be damp and you'll catch an ague."

The smile took Helene aback. The gray eyes shone, giving the impression of sunlight coming out over a shadowed lake, and the smile seemed to spread throughout her form, so that she seemed to soften at the edges, all the tension, and what Helene now recognized as anxiety, dissipated.

"I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Hawkesmoor." Helene clasped the girl's hand in both of hers. "My maid tells me the sheets are most definitely damp, and I confess I'll not be sorry to leave the Lamb's idea of a coddled egg."

Simon gave a crack of laughter, his own relief now transparent. "Then let us be on our way before the evening grows much older. Ariel and I came on horseback, but I took the liberty of instructing the ostlers to put your horses back in the traces of your carriage."

"I must pay my shot even if the hospitality lacked certain amenities."

"I have already done so," Simon stated. "A servant is coming to take down your portmanteau. All you need to do, my dear, is pick up your cloak, summon your maid, and come with us."

Ariel noticed how Helene's cheeks took on a delicate flush of pleasure, how her eyes sparkled, her lips curved, as Simon swept her along on the force of his own intentions, anticipating, taking charge. He had been so certain Helene would come with him. Maybe he was right to have been so, but if she had been in Helene's place, Ariel thought, she would have been rather put out at this sweeping mastery of events.

However, she said nothing, merely accompanied Helene to the coach, where she gave precise directions to the coachman. She noted that Lady Kelburn was not so nervous a traveler that she needed more than two postilions and two outriders; her maid was a round and bouncy creature with no starch to her and a Fenland accent that would make her perfectly acceptable in the servants' quarters of Ravenspeare Castle.

"Will you travel in the coach with me, Ariel?" Helene laid a hand over Ariel's as she prepared to climb into the vehicle. "The postilion could lead your horse. I know Simon must ride; the shaking and the jolting of a coach cause him too much discomfort; but I would be glad of your company."

Ariel's jaw dropped as she struggled to find a way to refuse gracefully. She detested traveling in a closed vehicle, but she had no wish to appear discourteous.

"Ariel becomes travel sick in coaches, Helene," Simon said smoothly. "And she gets an insufferable headache. Mount up, Ariel, and let's be on our way. It's too raw a night to be dallying."

Ariel offered Helene an apologetic smile, murmured something about being dreadful company in a coach, and mounted her horse. "How did you know I can't abide carriages?"

Simon, riding beside her out of the yard, cast her an amused glance. "Your face, dear girl, was quite sufficient to tell us all."

"I really can't bear coaches," Ariel insisted. "It wasn't that I didn't wish to ride with your friend. Indeed, I'm sure she's very charming."

"She is," Simon agreed. "Both charming and very anxious to be your friend also." He glanced at the pale shadow of her face in the fog. "I hope you will admit her to your friendship, Ariel. It would please me greatly."

"Of course," she said. And for the life of him, he couldn't understand why there was no enthusiasm in her dull voice.

Chapter Twenty

When they reached Ravenspeare, only the faintly sulphurous fumes of the now extinguished flambeaux and pitch torches remained of the exuberant tilting tournament. The noise of the banquet swelled through the firmly closed doors to the Great Hall, but there was no sign of visible life from the party.

Helene descended from the carriage, her hand resting for a moment in Simon's. She looked around the orderly stable-yard, her ear cocked toward the muted racket from the castle.

"Don't worry, Lady Kelburn," Ariel said swiftly. "You won't have to meet my brothers or their guests tonight. We will dine privately."

"I wouldn't wish to be discourteous to my hosts," Helene said a shade doubtfully, glancing at Simon.

However, it was Ariel who answered. "I assure you, ma'am, that your hosts are not in the least aware of your arrival. And you will find it much more comfortable if they remain in ignorance."

The acid lacing the girl's voice shocked Helene a little. She knew the reputation of the Ravenspeares, but still her finer feelings were dismayed by this slip of a girl's contemptuous dismissal of her family… of the men who had had authority over her until her wedding. She glanced again at Simon.

Ariel is somewhat outspoken," he said quietly. "But on this occasion I won't fault her. She speaks but the truth."

Ariel's eyes flashed as she heard "on this occasion." He was telling Helene as clear as day that he had had occasion in the past to take his wife to task. Just as if she were a child whose less than perfect behavior he considered he could discuss with a close friend.

But it didn't matter what he said or did. It was a temporary irritation. She didn't need to let it upset her.

"Excuse me. I'll make the rounds of my horses while I'm here. Timson will show you to the green parlor, my lord, if you go into the house through the side door. And he will show Lady Kelburn's maid to her ladyship's chamber with the baggage. I'm sure Lady Kelburn would enjoy a glass of sherry… or ratafia, perhaps. You have but to give the order." She turned away, her cloak swirling around her with the energy of her movement as she stalked off.

"Oh, dear," Simon murmured. "I fear I've trodden on my bride's sometimes delicate toes."

"She seems a… a… well, rather unusual," Helene finished, after a fruitless search for the right word.

"Downright eccentric is a more accurate description," Simon replied with a little laugh that somehow lacked conviction. "I have never met anyone remotely resembling my wife, Helene." He linked his arm in hers and ushered her to the side door of the castle.

Timson was waiting to greet them and within minutes Helene found herself looking with approval and relief around a small yet cozy turret chamber. It took its name, presumably, from the green embroidered tapestries that lined the paneled walls and the green motifs in the embroidered rugs. A table was set for three before a massive log fire, and decanters and glasses reposed upon a pier table against one wall.

"I haven't been here before," Simon observed with an appreciative nod.

"It's Lady Ariel's private sitting room, my lord. She don't usually bring folk 'ere, lest their lordships discover it," Timson informed him as placidly as if it were perfectly normal for a young woman in a gentleman's household to keep her private parlor a secret.

Helene looked startled, Simon merely comprehending.

The room was on the floor above the bedchambers, in the same turret as Ariel's bedchamber immediately below. It had the same atmosphere as that room. A secluded oasis in a desert of sandstorms.

"Lady Ariel said you'd be servin' yourselves, m'lord, so I'll leave you and show Lady Kelburn's maid to the bedchamber." He bowed himself out, closing the door firmly.

"The household seems to run very smoothly," Helene said, drawing off her gloves. "Why should that surprise me, I wonder?"

"It surprised me too. But Ariel is a woman of many facets, as you will discover soon enough, my dear." He reached over her shoulders to unclasp her cloak.

Helene put her hands up to cover his. "I shouldn't have come, Simon, should I? But I would so much like to help if I can."

He made no attempt to move his hands, merely allowed his head to rest on top of hers. "If you can gain Ariel's confidence, my love, I shall be ever in your debt. There is so much that I don't understand about her. I have tried, but she keeps eluding me." He frowned, and they stood for a minute in silence, holding each other with all the easy familiarity of long and friendly lovers.

Ariel stood in the doorway, watching them as they stood with their backs to her. She could read the true history of their relationship in every line of their bodies, in the smooth melding of one into the other. A violent surge of jealousy shook her, and she stepped silently back onto the landing, letting her hand slip from the door latch.

She had no right to feel such resentment. Of course her husband had had his share of lovers. And he had had to contend with Oliver Becket's devil-driven malice. On his wedding night, no less.

No, she had no right to feel even a twinge of dismay at this situation. Not when she didn't intend to fulfill the duties of a wife for very much longer. If Simon chose to keep a mistress, it would not be any concern of hers.

She stepped back in the room, saying loudly, "I've left the dogs with Edgar for the night, since I wasn't sure how Lady Kelburn might feel about sharing her dinner with a pair of wolfhounds."

Simon moved away from Helene, holding her cloak. "Helene's taste in dogs tends to run to the lapdog variety." He laid the cloak over a chair back. "May I pour you both a glass of wine?"

"Lapdogs?" Ariel said on a note of wonder. "But they're not what one would call dogs, Lady Kelburn."

"Please call me Helene, my dear." Helene smoothed her hair where it had come loose beneath the hood of her cloak and smiled at Ariel. "Simon's exaggerating somewhat, but my spaniels certainly wouldn't be a match for wolfhounds." She took the glass Simon handed her and sat down beside the fire, a deft flick of her hand automatically correcting the graceful fall of her skirts.

Ariel sat down opposite and sipped her wine. Her ankles were crossed and she uncrossed them hastily. The broadcloth skirt of her riding habit was creased, and it didn't seem to fall away around her with the natural grace of Helene's dark blue velvet.

Simon limped over and sat on the sofa beside Helene, stretching his leg to the fire, absently rubbing his thigh.

"Your wound still pains you badly," Helene stated.

"It's worse than usual today." Simon grimaced, sipped his wine. "But Ariel has magic fingers and a physician's treasury of potions and ointments." He sent her a wry glance, half plaintive, half questioning, and she blushed crimson, jumping to her feet.

"I'll make up a sleeping draught for you later. Shall we have supper? I own I'm famished."

The evening passed pleasantly enough. Ariel was an attentive hostess and Helene was clearly happy to be in such comfortable surroundings after the sparse cheer at the Lamb. Simon was aware that she was assessing Ariel with all the shrewdness of experience. She knew almost all there was to know about Ariel's background, and she was in Simon's confidence-she knew how he felt about his marriage and his bride. He hoped that her insights would be helpful to him.

And what did Ariel think of Helene? What impression was she forming of her husband's oldest and dearest friend? Would she want the full history of their relationship? He realized that he hoped she would care enough to ask him.

Ariel left Simon to show Helene to her bedchamber and, after a friendly good night, vanished into her own chamber. For a moment she held the door ajar, listening, despising herself, but unable to resist the urge. For her pains she heard Simon grimly instructing Helene and her maid to throw the bar across the door and not raise it until morning. He didn't expand on the instruction, and Helene didn't ask for reasons.

Ariel clicked the door shut and moved away to the fire, absently unfastening her riding habit. She would not eavesdrop further. Let Simon and Helene bid each other good night in private. Besides, the maid was there.

She bit her hp in frustration. What was she thinking? Jealousy was a completely foreign emotion and she didn't know what to do with it… particularly when it was so utterly out of place.

She was in her shift, her back to the door, warming her hands at the fire, when Simon returned. He closed the door quietly and came over to her, setting his cane against the wall as he eased into a chair with a little sigh of relief.

"Helene's your mistress?" Lucifer! She hadn't meant to ask. Her nails dug punishingly into her palms.

"No," Simon responded, leaning back in the chair and linking his hands behind his head in his customary relaxed posture. "Not anymore."

"Oh." It was no good, she had to find out. She turned to look at him. His face was grave as befitted a serious subject, but his eyes were clear and bore the hint of a smile. "When did she stop being your mistress?"

"When I decided to take a wife."

"Oh." Her vocabulary seemed to be severely limited this evening. "How long were you lovers?" Even as she asked she realized that her catechism was no different in essence from Simon's questions about her relationship with Oliver. And if her own questions were prompted by something as stupid but unmanageable as jealousy, then so could his have been. Maybe what he'd been expressing was not purely disgust but jealousy.

Simon stretched with a lazy yawn. "Since we were shamefully young. I was all of fifteen, I believe. We were very precocious."

"But… but… but that's…" Ariel added rapidly in her head. "Nineteen years!"

"Yes, I suppose it must be. On and off, of course. The war was something of a disruption." His smile now reached his mouth. "What else would you like to know?"

"Why didn't you marry? Were your parents against it?"

"No, I believe they would have welcomed it, but we were young. We thought everything could wait on our own whim… or, at least," he amended, "I thought that. I wanted to go to war. I didn't want to leave a wife behind. But I also thought in my arrogant selfishness that Helene would wait until I'd sown my martial oats, as it were, and was ready to settle down."

"And she didn't?"

"She wasn't permitted to."

"Oh." She turned back to the fire, staring down into the flames. If Simon had married Helene, would her own future be any different from, the one she now faced? Probably not These last several weeks had been no more than a hiccup in her plans.

Simon spoke from behind her, and his voice was taut and demanding. "Come here, Ariel." He reached for her. Taking her by the waist, he pulled her backward onto his knee.

For a minute she perched gingerly, holding herself stiff. He ran a hand up her back, his fingers playing along her spine. She fought to withstand the creeping pleasure of his touch, his closeness, the scent of his skin, the hardness of his thighs beneath her. And she told herself that she didn't have to fight it. There was no reason why they shouldn't enjoy each other while she was still with him. But even as she relaxed against him, she knew that she was playing with fire. Every moment they spent in shared pleasure she would later pay for in an eternity of loneliness.

When Ariel went down to the stables the next morning, the fog was so thick she couldn't see her hand in front of her. The kitchen staff were sluggish as they went about their work, affected by the dismal damp that crept into the bones of even the youngest and spryest members of the household. Rheumatism and ague were the constant ills of Fenlanders, one reason why Old Man with its pain-numbing, brain-numbing qualities was such a popular opiate among the inhabitants of the local villages and hamlets.

Ariel pulled her cloak close around her as she left the warmth of the kitchen and ran across the vegetable garden to the stableyard. She could try a hot poultice of mallows on Simon's wound, if he could be persuaded to lie up by the fire in the green parlor. He would have Helene to keep him company, and his cadre. And if Simon could be kept well amused and distracted while his wife was otherwise occupied, then a serious logistical problem would be taken care of.

Edgar was waiting for her, his breath steaming in the frigid air of the tack room that not even the charcoal brazier could do much to warm. "It'll be a good night fer it," he said without preamble.

"Yes, perfect." Ariel's teeth chattered despite the hounds' hot breath wreathing around her as they stood, front paws on her shoulders, to greet her with ecstatic licks and barks. "There won't be a glint of moonlight. I had a message from Derek yesterday. He said he would be ready to receive them all at dawn tomorrow. Are the ferrymen secured?"

"Aye. Secured and closemouthed as always. It's amazin' how dumb a man grows when 'e chews on a golden guinea."

Edgar's chuckle was sardonic as he spat out a mangled straw and selected another one from the bale he was sitting on.

"We must muffle their hooves with sacking. We don't want to risk a sound, even through the fog," Ariel was saying as she made her way through the connecting door into the stable block itself. The Arabians snorted and shuffled. They all wore blankets against the chill, and braziers burned at either end of the low building.

She went down the line, entering each stall to run her hands over the lines of each patient animal, checking as always for the slightest soreness or swelling. Her heart was thudding painfully. It was so close now-the moment when she would secure her independence.

Ariel sat on a bale of straw, leaning against the partition wall of the stall. Would Simon choose divorce or annulment? He would have to give her her legal freedom in order to go on with his own life. He would want to marry, sire an heir. He would want a wife who was prepared to accept a life limited to her position as his countess and the mother of his heirs. A life that kept her bound to him, dependent on his kindness for her emotional well-being, and his generosity for the very clothes on her back.

Ariel got to her feet with a sigh. Divorce… annulment… it all came to the same thing.

The day passed slowly. The lords of Ravenspeare and their guests settled for card play, and tempers ran as high as the stakes as the drink flowed freely. The absence of the Hawkesmoor party drew little remark, and the servants kept as far from the Great Hall as they could while still performing their duties.

In the green parlor in the north turret, the card play was for minimal stakes, the conversation was lively, and the servants were attentive. Simon lay on a sofa in his shirt and chamber robe, a hot poultice of mallow leaves easing the ache in his wounded leg. Helene was plying an embroidery needle; the men were playing basset. Ariel was in and out of the room, and it took Simon quite a while amid the buzz of conversation and the general sense of well-being in the parlor to realize that she was more often out than in.

He was feeling easier in his mind after the night they had shared.

"What's keeping you so busy today?" he asked casually, when she reappeared in the middle of the afternoon after what seemed a particularly long absence.

"Oh, just household things." Ariel picked up the wine decanter, moving around the room to refill glasses. "It's a good opportunity when the weather's like this to do all the little things that get put off."

Simon glanced up from the cards he was shuffling. His eyes narrowed as he watched her. Her hair was untidy and tendrils clung damply to her forehead. But she didn't look hot. Quite the opposite. More as if she'd been out and about in the frigid damp fog. As if aware of his sudden scrutiny, she shot him a quick look, and her ears turned pink. He watched as the color spread to her cheeks.

"What kind of things?" he pressed, dealing cards with deft rapidity. Ariel's gaze fixed in familiar fascination on his hands. It seemed to her that while his long fingers flew like the shuttles of a loom, his actual hands and wrists barely moved at all. Of all the manifold pleasures of his body, she adored his hands the most. They were so large, the knuckles so prominent, and yet their touch was so delicate it wouldn't bruise the skin on an overripe peach.

"Oh, reorganizing the stillroom and the linen closet. There's sewing and darning-"

"But I thought you were not expert with a needle," he interrupted, still casual, as he selected a card from his hand and tossed a guinea to the table. "Banker's stake, gentlemen."

"Ariel didn't say she was doing the needlework herself," Helene pointed out, a little puzzled by Simon's inquisition. It was clearly making Ariel uncomfortable.

"No, I didn't," Ariel said, shooting Helene a grateful smile. "But men don't know the first thing about organizing domestic matters."

"And how should we, Ariel?" Lord Stanton asked with a laugh, matching the banker's stake with his own and laying down a card face up. "Men are such poor creatures. We have none of the arts of creating comfort. We're only good for making war and havoc."

"Speak for yourself, man." Simon turned over the top card from the intact pack in the middle of the table. It matched his own card. "The bank wins, I believe, gentlemen."

"The bank's winning all too often, it seems to me," Jack declared, taking up his wine. A chorus of agreement came from the cadre, and Simon laughingly yielded the bank to Stanton.

Ariel, grateful that the attention had shifted from her, wandered to the window. Dusk was falling already, although it was hard to differentiate any change in the light through the fog. She had been down at the river, checking on the flat barges that would be used to transport the horses. A perfectionist, she would not be satisfied until she had personally checked every rivet, every rope, every block and tackle that would be used to secure her animals. She knew she had been driving the ferrymen to distraction with her fussing, but they'd been well paid and could put up with it.

"I'm just going to see if anything's required in the Great Hall," she said, sliding to the door, offering an almost guilty smile to the room at large. "Is there anything anyone needs here?"

"Yes, your company," Simon observed, leaning back and regarding her quizzically. "You seem to be having trouble sitting still."

"It's the weather. It makes me itchy," Ariel said as she departed, closing the door behind her.

Simon shook his head and returned his attention to the game.

Ariel sped down the spiral stairs to the floor beneath. She hurried along the corridor, took the side staircase, and approached the Great Hall from the kitchen. She stood in the shadow of the staircase watching the scene. If there was a sober member of the group, he or she was hiding it well. A few couples were engaged in a lewd dance on one of the tables, to the strains of a jig played by the musicians in the gallery. A hogshead of malmsey had been broached, the tap left on so that the wine flowed stickily across the floor.

Ranulf was sitting at the top table, his eyes unfocused, his mouth thinned. He didn't seem to be enjoying himself, Ariel reflected. But then, he very rarely did. Even the heights of debauchery faded to please him, although he was always striving for some new sensation.

Roland was nibbling amiably at the ear of Lord Darsett's mistress. The woman was giggling, even while her hand was lost in her protector's crotch.

Ralph appeared to be asleep in a bowl of venison stew.

There was no sign of Oliver Becket.

Ariel moved away, back to the kitchen. It was as safe tonight as it ever would be. Ranulf did not suspect anything. And he wouldn't be going down to the river on a night like this without a good reason.

"Doris?" She beckoned the girl, who was putting the finishing touches to a dish of roasted partridges for the green parlor's dinner.

Doris, beaming, abandoned her task and hurried over, wiping her hands on her apron. "Yes, m'lady."

"I need you to do something for me. At ten o'clock I need you to come to the green parlor and fetch me."

"Fetch you fer what, m'lady?"

"Just say that I'm needed at a birthing in the village and Edgar's waiting with the gig to take me."

"Oh… but who's 'avin' the baby, m'lady?"

Ariel sighed. "You don't have to worry about that. Just come upstairs at ten o'clock and give me the message. Can you do that?"

Doris looked mightily puzzled, but the instructions were simple enough, so she bobbed a curtsy and said she could. Ariel nodded and left the kitchen, returning again to the stables, where Edgar was alone, muffling the hooves of the horses in preparation for moving them out.

"I'll start at this end," Ariel said, gathering up sheets of sacking and entering the far stall.

"Don't you think you'll be missed up at the castle?" Edgar inquired phlegmatically. "You don't want to draw attention to things, seems to me."

Ariel paused in the act of lifting Serenissima's hoof. Edgar was right. Still, she was afraid she would only draw more attention with her stupid blushes around Simon. "I'll just do a couple," she compromised. "Then I'll go back for dinner."

Somehow she would get through dinner.

She hurried upstairs and found Simon alone in the parlor. "Where is everyone? Timson is bringing dinner up in ten minutes."

"They went to change." Simon flexed his poulticed thigh. "Since I'm playing the invalid today, I'm excused such courtesies, but…?" He raised an eyebrow as he ran his eye over Ariel's tousled clothing.

Ariel glanced down at her old riding habit and cursed her stupidity. "Forgive me. I… I was forgetting that we have guests," she said somewhat lamely. "Everyone is so easy and informal, I… I just forgot."

"I expect you've been too busy today to worry about such unimportant matters." Simon watched the flush crimson her cheeks. "Come here, wife of mine." He held out a hand.

Ariel crossed the room, trying to hide her reluctance. He took both her hands and held them firmly as she stood in front of him. His eyes were still quizzical.

"What's going on, Ariel?"

"Nothing! I've just been very busy doing things… things that have to be done." She tugged at her hands but his grip tightened.

"You wouldn't be hiding something from me, would you?

"No!" she exclaimed. "And you're making me blush because you're making me feel guilty, and I don't have any thing to feel guilty about. You know how I go red at the slightest thing."

He laughed and released her hands. "Yes, I do. Very well, forgive me for being suspicious. If you say you're not hiding anything, then of course I believe you."

Ariel spun away from him as flames blazed in her cheeks. "I have to go and change." She whisked from the parlor, leaving Simon staring reflectively into the fire. He was far from convinced she was telling him the truth.

Ariel, praying her clumsy blushes hadn't put him on his guard, pulled a simple gown of gray wool out of the armoire. Its only ornament was a band of turquoise silk beneath the bosom, and matching bands on the sleeves. When she had first acquired it, she had considered it the height of elegance, but compared with her admittedly scanty trousseau wardrobe, it struck her as pathetically plain and unfashionable. However, silks and velvets were ill suited for the rough work she would have to do later. Dinner was an agony. She felt Simon's eyes on her constantly and covered her confusion by seeing to her guests' needs when the servants were gone as attentively as Timson himself. Not a glass was left empty, a plate unfilled.

Doris's knock on the dot of ten o'clock was a blessed relief.

"M'lady's wanted at a birthin'," Doris announced with a curtsy. She was frowning as she struggled to be word perfect. "Edgar's waitin' wi' the gig in the yard." She curtsied again and said with a rush of inspiration, "If you could come quick, m'lady. The mother's powerful bad."

Ariel leaped to her feet. "Yes, of course. I'll come directly." She cast a distracted glance around the table. "Forgive me, Helene… gentlemen. I may be back late, so I'll see you in the morning. Simon, don't wait up for me." She almost raced from the room, her heart jumping with relief.

"What was all that about?" Helene asked, puzzled.

"I wish I knew." Simon leaned back in his chair, idly twisting the stem of his glass between his fingers.

"But… but a birthing?"

"Remember I wrote to you that Ariel is a midwife and a leechwoman," he said, still somewhat absently. "She's much in demand in the neighborhood as a healer."

"Yes, I remember now." Helene sipped her own wine. "I don't think I took it seriously."

Simon's laugh was short. "Believe me, my dear, one must always take Ariel seriously whatever she does." He rose from his chair and hobbled to the window, staring out into the blackness.

"It's a raw night for errands of mercy," Jack said.

"Mmm." Simon returned to his chair. He stared down into his wineglass, then suddenly he exhaled and his chair scraped again on the floor. "Goddamn it! The little wretch has been lying to me all day!" He hauled himself upright, grabbing for his cane. "Where are my britches, damn it! I can't go out in my drawers!"

"I'll fetch them." Jack leaped to his feet. "But what are you going to do?" 1

"Find out what's going on," Simon declared grimly.

"Let me go for you."

"Just fetch my britches… oh, and my cloak. It's cold as the grave outside." He shrugged out of his chamber robe and sat down to unpeel the mallow poultice from his leg.

"Let me help." Helene took the discarded poultice from him. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No… thank you, he added belatedly. "I'll attend to my devious young wife myself. Ah, Jack, give them here." He almost snatched his britches from Jack and thrust his feet into the legs. His booted heel caught on the material, and he hopped for a moment on his good leg, cursing under his breath, before Jack gave him a push back onto the chair and manipulated the britches over his boots.

"Thanks." Simon stood up again. He fastened the hooks at his waist and clasped the silver buckle of his belt. He slung his cloak over his shoulders. "Forgive me for breaking up the party, but I have the unmistakable feeling that marital duty calls. In fact," he added savagely, "I've been ignoring that damned clarion call for far too long."

The door banged shut behind him, and his halting step, sounding remarkably fast, descended the stairs.

Chapter Twenty-one

Simon made straight for the kitchen. If Ariel had been summoned to assist a laboring woman, the servants would know about it. When Doris caught sight of him, she turned and fled toward the scullery. Simon's lips thinned.

"Can I 'elp you, m'lord? Is there something you need abovestairs?" Timson asked anxiously.

"Only my wife. Do you happen to know where I might find her?"

Timson stroked his chin. "Can't say as I do, m'lord."

"She's not been summoned to the village, then?"

For a moment Timson looked puzzled, then speculation and calculation flashed across his eyes and Simon guessed the man was trying to decide how Lady Ariel would want him to respond to a situation he knew nothing about.

"I 'aven't been in the kitchen much this evenin', m'lord," Timson said slowly. "But I could ask around."

"Don't bother. I'm sure I'll get the same answer from everyone." Simon limped to the kitchen door. It seemed the household automatically closed ranks around their lady whether or not they knew what was going on.

He felt his way down the kitchen path, using his stick as if he were a blind man. The fog was all but impenetrable and the silence in the still air was eerie, as if all living things had been choked by the wet, frigid, suffocating blanket. The stableyard was deserted, not even the faintest glimmer of a lantern showing through the gray-whiteness.

Simon leaned on his cane in the middle of the yard and listened intently. Then he heard something. A faint bark, instantly silenced. It was hard in the disorienting fog to get a sense of the direction. He waited, immobile, concentrating all his faculties as he had so often done in the past when patrolling a picket line, listening for the faint crack of a twig, rustle of a leaf, that would indicate the approach of a stranger.

Then it seemed that he could hear voices, faint whispering tendrils coming to him through the fog. He raised his head and sniffed like an animal scenting the wind. It was all too easy for the overstretched mind to play tricks in these conditions. All too easy to fabricate the sound one wanted to hear. But they were there. Those disembodied voices. And they were coming from the direction of the river.

He waited until he had oriented himself, then set off, his cane tapping the cobbles ahead of him as he felt his way toward the path that led from the stableyard down to the river. On the path his boots crunched on ice, went through to the iron-hard mud beneath. The ice was already broken up, shards of it cracking beneath his heels. Something resembling a troop of cavalry had trampled down this path very recently.

He increased his speed, knowing it was risky when he was blind as well as lame on the uneven and treacherous track, but the voices were sounding more solid now, although he couldn't make them out. Then something barreled out of the darkness and flung itself at him.

He swore as his foot slipped. He flung out his hands and found a tree trunk right beside him. He clung to it, recovering his balance, as one of the wolfhounds slobbered ecstatically on his chest. The second materialized, a paler gray streak against the thick gray darkness.

"Down!" he commanded in a harsh whisper that brought them instantly to heel. Their eyes glowing yellow, they sat grinning up at him, clearly delighted to welcome him to whatever game was in progress.

Where the hounds were, there he would find Ariel.

In confirmation, Ariel's voice, muffled in fog, drifted from the river, "Romulus… Remus… where the devil are you?"

"Come, Mama's calling," Simon murmured, pushing himself away from the tree. "Let's go and surprise her, shall we?"

The fog seemed, if possible, even thicker by the river, but his eyes were now accustomed and he could make out shapes as he emerged from the path onto the riverbank, the dogs bounding ahead of him, unhindered by the stygian gloom.

Simon stared in astonishment. Several torches now offered a diffused light, their flames a snakelike flicker tonguing the fog. Ariel's entire Arabian stud was gathered on the banks of the river where three flat barges were moored. As he watched, the men who were moving among the animals began to lead them onto the barges.

Ariel's fluid shape seemed to be everywhere, adjusting halters, calming, stroking. There was no sound, no jingling of harness, no clatter of hoof, as the haltered animals were led on board. They must have muffled the hooves with sacking, Simon thought incredulously.

How could Ariel have had this monumental transport in her head and never given him so much as an inkling? All day she'd been making these preparations, and not once had he guessed. But how could he guess, when he hadn't the faintest idea why she would be doing this? The stables at Hawkesmoor would be ready for her stud in a matter of weeks. So where the hell was she taking them? And why?

But he wasn't going to find any answers standing on the sidelines. He moved forward away from the trees and onto the flat bank.

The dogs raced forward, barking excitedly, and Ariel hissed at them. "Quiet!"

"Should 'ave left 'em in the tack room." It was Edgar's voice and it was Edgar who saw Simon first. "M'lord?" His tone was expressionless but it brought Ariel swinging around on her heel.

"Simon!"

"The very same," he agreed, stepping toward her. "And would you mind telling me just what in the name of grace is going on here?"

Ariel dropped the halter she was holding. She walked slowly over to him. What could she say? How could she possibly explain what he was seeing?

Her eyes in the greenish yellow light were glittering with dismay. "You aren't supposed to be here." The stupid words spoke themselves even as she tried desperately to think of a satisfactory explanation.

"I rather got that impression myself," he observed with an amiability that didn't deceive her. "What's going on?"

"I don't have time to explain here. Please go back to the castle." She tried to keep her tone moderate, but he heard her desperate urgency.

"That's not good enough. I want to know now." His voice was clipped.

Ariel in her mind's eye saw Ranulf plunging through the trees to discover the scene at the river while she bandied words with her husband.

She grabbed his sleeve, trying to drag him around to the trees again. "For God's sake, Simon. Go back. Can't you see that this has nothing to do with you? Can't you see you're in the way? I have to go back and help before-"

He moved a hand to her wrist, his fingers closing over the fragile bones as she tugged to free herself. "You are going nowhere. Now, tell me what you're doing here."

Ariel cast an almost wild look over her shoulder. The loading seemed to have stopped and everyone was looking at the two locked shadows. She began to speak with rapid desperation. "I have to move the horses out before Ranulf steals any more of them. Can't you understand?"

Simon shook his head. "Not yet. Why would Ranulf steal them?"

"Because they're worth money, you dolt!" She clapped her hand to her mouth as his eyes blazed. She stepped back involuntarily under a thrill of fear, but her wrist remained fast. "Please, I'm sorry." Wretchedly she apologized. "But this isn't the time to explain anything, Simon."

"Nevertheless, you will continue." The edge to his voice would have cut steel. "And I suggest that you choose your words from now on with the greatest care. If you wanted to move the stud away from Ravenspeare, then why aren't they going to Hawkesmoor?"

Ariel drew a deep breath. "It's not as simple as that. I… I… oh, I can't explain."

"Can't you?" His voice was now so cold and flat, she shriveled beneath it like a new growth under the onslaught of a spring frost. All the power of her purpose seemed to leak away. "Can't you, Ariel?"

He moved his free hand to her chin, catching it between finger and thumb, forcing her to look up and meet a pitiless gaze. The silver knob of the cane he continued to hold was cold against her jaw. Each word was now an icy caress. "But never mind, because I begin to understand. Oh, yes, I am afraid that I finally begin to understand."

He kept hold of her wrist, holding her alongside him as he limped to where Edgar was still standing stolidly with the horses.

"Return the horses to their stables and-"

"No!" Ariel cried. "No, you can't do that."

"Oh yes I can. Or have you forgotten the nature of the marriage contract, madam wife?" The words punched at her. "But then, I doubt you read the fine print, since it was a contract you never intended to honor." He turned back to Edgar. "Return them immediately. Put a double guard on them overnight, and keep the dogs roaming free."

Edgar didn't move. Only his eyes flickered from the earl's set face to Ariel's white countenance. Men and horses stood quiet in the wreathing fog, the tension apparent even to those who couldn't hear what was being said. One of the hounds gave vent to a questioning bark that was more of a tentative yap.

"Do not oblige me to repeat myself, man." Simon's voice was that same icy caress, and it sent shivers up Ariel's spine.

"Do as his lordship says, Edgar," she said, defeated. Edgar must not suffer for his loyalty to her.

Edgar reached for the dogs' collars and held them firmly. He turned to the men with the horses behind him. "Take 'em back."

Simon gave a short satisfied nod and turned away as if he had no more interest in the scene. He brought his cane up, the knob pressing firmly into the small of Ariel's back. "Let us return to the house. I'd like to hear your explanations, even if I can guess them myself, in more comfortable surroundings."

Ariel hung back, looking over her shoulder at the ruin of her great escape. The knob of the cane pressed more firmly.

She bit her lip, tears of angry frustration filling her eyes. But she moved forward, stumbling over a stone, kicking it aside with a savage execration under her breath.

She had lost everything. Without her stud under her own control, she had no income to ensure her own future.

His anger felt like a knife edge against her skin. It hadn't taken him more than a heartbeat to guess the truth-that she had never had any intention of trying to make their marriage work.

And through her desperation, anger blazed that he'd dictated to her, ridden roughshod over her actions and her wishes, just as her brothers had always done. How right she had been not to have trusted him. But now what difference did it make?

Involuntarily she increased her pace but he was still holding her wrist and jerked her back beside him so that she was forced to go at the speed he dictated.

"Damn you, Hawkesmoor!" She stopped dead on the path so that he almost stumbled. Anger consumed her. "You've wrecked my life, ruined everything I've worked for, and I will not be brought to heel like a dog on a leash."

"Then walk properly instead of all this stopping and starting."

Ariel compressed her lips but said nothing more as they continued toward the side door of the castle.

The party in the green parlor had broken up soon after Simon's departure. Helene had already dismissed her maid when she heard what she'd been waiting for-Simon's unmistakable footsteps in the passage outside. Consumed with curiosity, she opened her door a crack. Simon and Ariel were coming down the corridor toward her. Simon's face was drawn and haggard, but his eyes were ablaze with blue fire. He held Ariel's wrist as he limped along. Ariel's face was pale and set, a sheen of tears in her eyes. She looked both wildly angry and bitterly crushed.

Helene stepped back as they reached Ariel's bedchamber opposite. Ariel opened the door and as she stepped in she flung her wrist free of Simon's hold almost as if by so doing she could fling him bodily away from her. It looked to Helene as if she was about to slam the door in his face, but Simon moved behind her with surprising dexterity and the door closed on them both with a decisive click

Helene despised herself but couldn't help herself. She glanced along the deserted passage, then slipped out and behind the tapestry that hung against the cold stone wall beside Ariel's door. She didn't know whether she'd be able to hear anything through the crack around the door hinges, but her curiosity was a ravening beast. She had come here to help Simon in his marriage, and if that marriage was in trouble, and it certainly looked as if it was, then she needed to know. She pressed her ear against the sliver of a gap.

"So, I've ruined your life… wrecked everything… I think you said." Simon leaned against the windowsill. He was too worked up to sit down, but after his difficult and frigid walk, his leg was aching like the devil and couldn't take his full weight any longer.

Ariel threw off her cloak. "You had no right to do that!" She had lost all desire to be conciliatory. Of course, he wouldn't understand, whatever words she used. Anyone who could ride roughshod over her the way he had just done couldn't be trusted to understand anything. "Those are my horses. They're not yours. They don't belong to you. You have no rights over them."

"My dear girl," he interrupted with a raised hand. "According to the laws of marriage, what belongs to you belongs also to me."

"So you are going to claim my horses." she said bitterly.

"No, of course I'm not. I have no interest in your damned horses," he snapped, realizing that this issue would get them seriously off track. "I am, however, interested in what's been going on in that devious little head of yours since the moment you knelt at the altar. If you wanted to move your stud, why the hell didn't you discuss it with me first? You knew perfectly well I was prepared to accommodate them at Hawkesmoor Manor."

Ariel was suddenly blinded with tears. How could she begin to explain the miserable tangle in this atmosphere? He wasn't prepared to listen, let alone understand. It wasn't even worth the effort. She turned aside, with an inarticulate gesture of frustration that Simon interpreted as curt dismissal.

His fingers curled into his palms as he fought his anger. He spoke slowly and unemphatically. "Very well. If you won't explain to me, then let me tell you what I think has been going on."

Ariel remained with her back to him, and he said with the same lack of emphasis, "Look at me, Ariel."

As she turned to face him, dashing a hand across her eyes, everything fell into place. Her many evasions when he'd questioned her about her plans for her horses, her tense exchanges with Ranulf about his visits to the stables, the impressively scientific expertise of her breeding program, and most importantly the suspicion he'd had all along that Ariel had been holding herself back from this marriage.

All this time he had thought the betrayal would come from her brothers, when instead it had been his wife who'd been plotting the ultimate betrayal.

"Just when, my dear wife, did you intend to join your horses? Or were you going to depart with them tonight? Didn't you even bother to leave me a note?" He glanced around the room with heavy sarcasm. "But perhaps I don't even deserve an explanation for my wife's desertion."

Ariel stared at a knot in the paneling over his head, trying to pretend she was somewhere else. It was a technique she had perfected over the years when things became too ugly, but like so many others, it didn't seem to work with the Hawkesmoor.

After a pause, Simon continued in the same tone, "At a rough guess, I would estimate that stud of yours in its present composition is worth maybe twenty thousand guineas, depending, of course, on the quality of the stallion. But I'm sure he's a prime beast. You wouldn't have truck with anything less than prime, would you, my dear?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Still silent? I must be on the right track then. I wonder where you were intending to set up your stud. I assume you have contacts already in the racing world…"

Recognition flashed in her eyes and he said, "Ah, yes, I can see that I got that one right."

He stopped suddenly, running a hand through his hair. "Dear God, Ariel. Just what did you have in mind? A divorce? An annulment?"

"It doesn't matter now," she said tonelessly.

"Doesn't matter! It doesn't matter that this marriage was a sham from the very beginning? Of course," he added acidly, "I was forgetting that you never intended it to be consummated! I can't think why you didn't help your brothers do away with me."

Ariel flushed crimson. "That's not just. I only wanted to be free to live the way I choose."

"None of us has that freedom, girl," he exclaimed harshly.

"I didn't mean it quite like that… Oh, what's the use." She dashed the tears from her eyes again. "For once in my life, I wanted to be financially independent."

He frowned. "As I recall, the marriage settlements allow for very generous financial provision for your needs."

"But I'd still be accountable to you!" she fired at him with renewed energy. "I'd be dependent on a generosity that my brother compelled from you. And you know damn well why he did that, Hawkesmoor. It sure as hell wasn't for my sake! It was to score a victory over you. Anyway, that money doesn't belong to me, does it? It's not produced by my own labor and skill. It's charity. Pure sweet charity!"

"Well, that's about as novel an interpretation of marriage settlements as I've heard." Simon pushed himself away from his window-seat perch. "I can't continue with this tonight. I'm too angry to think clearly." He began to unbutton his coat. "Get undressed and go to bed, Ariel."

"I can't sleep."

"Then stay awake if you must. Do I have to lock the door?"

Ariel shrugged. "What difference does it make? I'm a prisoner in this marriage whether you make it obvious or not."

He threw off the rest of his clothes and climbed into bed. He propped the pillows behind his head and regarded her set face and glittering eyes thoughtfully.

"If you're going to be tempted to leave this room before morning, Ariel, I suggest you lock the door and bring me the key. I can't answer for the consequences if you assert your independence again this evening."

Ariel stalked to the door, turned the key, and hurled it onto the bed beside him. Then she slumped in the rocker beside the fire.

Simon pushed the key beneath his pillows and lay back, every nerve stretched toward the hunched figure in the dim firelight. He was more hurt than he could have believed possible. He had thought she was beginning to open up to him, to offer him more of herself than her body. He thought he'd meant something to her. But all along she had been intending to leave him. Nothing he had said or done in the days since their marriage had penetrated the thicket she had planted around herself.

He could understand how she might long to escape her brothers' tyranny. But it had never occurred to him that Ariel might see him too as a tyrant and view their marriage as a new prison. A prison she was determined to escape at whatever cost.

Helene crept away from the door. She had never heard Simon speak with such bitterness. But because she knew him, she had heard the hurt that fueled the corrosive anger. And she wanted to slap the silly chit of a girl who would reject what Simon was offering for something as sterile as financial independence.

Chapter Twenty-two

Simon awoke at dawn. Automatically he ran a hand over the space beside him. It was cold and empty and he realized why he was feeling so leaden. The previous night's miserable business played over in his head as he hauled himself up into a half-sitting position against the headboard.

Ariel was lying fully clothed on the truckle bed, the thin blanket pulled up to her chin, her gloved hands crossed over her breast. Her eyes were closed, the lashes dark half-moons against her pale cheeks.

Simon watched her sleep. Even asleep her jaw and mouth had an obstinate set. This was what he had won through his mission of peace.

He threw off the covers and struggled to his feet. His body groaned, his leg shrieked as it took his weight. It had been a while since his mornings had been quite so bad, but then, he'd missed Ariel's ministrations last night.

He stood over the truckle bed, trying to decide if she was really asleep. If not, it was a decent imitation. He dressed slowly, ran a hand over his unshaven chin, and decided it would have to wait.

He took the key from under his pillow, hobbled to the door, and let himself out of the chamber. If Ariel was truly afraid of Ranulf's stealing her horses, then her husband had better do something about it.

The doors to the Great Hall stood open, and he limped through the busy servants setting the place to rights, and stepped out into the courtyard. The fog had dissipated, but the moisture was still heavy in the air and the ground was sodden.

The dogs bounded to greet him as he entered the stable-yard. Edgar stood in the doorway to the Arabians' block. He chewed on his straw and watched the earl's approach.

"Morning, Edgar."

"Mornin', m'lord." Edgar's face and voice were expressionless.

"We had better do something about Lady Ariel's horses," Simon said without preamble. "Are they really in danger from Lord Ravenspeare?"

" 'E's took a mare in foal already."

Simon nodded. "Walk me through them, Edgar, and tell me what special accommodations they're going to need. Then we'll arrange to have them transported to Hawkesmoor Manor."

"An' 'ow does Lady Ariel feel about that, if I might be so bold, m'lord?" Edgar didn't move from the doorway.

"I believe she will see the advantages," Simon responded evenly.

Edgar stepped aside, although reluctance stiffened every line of his body, and the two men entered the block together.

Ariel waited until Simon's step had faded in the passage before she sat up. She pushed aside the blanket and swung her legs over the edge of the cot. But instead of getting up, she sat on the edge and stared down at her stockinged feet.

She hadn't slept for more than five minutes at any one time during the interminable night. Her eyes felt as if they'd been scoured with lye, and her throat prickled with all the unshed tears that had gathered and been swallowed.

What was she supposed to do now? For some reason she could no longer get up any indignation, let alone rage, over the collapse of her life's ambition. It now seemed completely trivial beside Simon's autocratic blindness. He had made no attempt to understand why her independence meant so much to her. He had not even considered that she might have been afraid to confide in him.

He had made no attempt to consider that all her experiences hitherto might have made her wary… that with one word of understanding last night he could have won her complete trust. Instead he'd trampled all over her with the full force of his authority-no different from her father, no different from Ranulf.

A soft tap at the door brought her head up with a snap. "Who is it?"

"Helene. May I come in, my dear?"

Ariel jumped up, pushing the truckle bed back beneath the fourposter with her foot. She wasn't prepared to advertise that she hadn't slept in her husband's bed. She ran her hands through her tumbled hair, then gave up the attempt to make herself look less disheveled. She'd slept in her clothes and looked it. "Yes."

Helene came into the room. She was in dishabille, but fresh and tidy, her hair falling down her back in a well-brushed skein; her face looked older, more worn in the harsh gray light of dawn.

"Forgive me, Ariel, but I couldn't help overhearing last night."

Ariel flushed crimson. "How… how… I didn't realize we were speaking so loudly."

Helene had the grace to blush, but it was only a faint reddening and Ariel barely remarked it. "I know Simon very well, my dear. And perhaps I can help you understand him. I don't mean to be impertinent, to step in where I'm not welcome, but if I can help, I hope you'll let me. Believe me, my interests are of the purest."

She took Ariel's hands in a warm clasp. "Come into my chamber, my dear. My maid has brought tea and you look sadly in need of something to warm you."

Her voice was so filled with genuine concern and understanding, Ariel felt some of her weariness lift. She had always faced alone the upheavals and complications of her life, and there was something ineffably comforting in sharing this misery with this gentle older woman, who was Simon's confidante, who had been his lover, who had known him from childhood.

She allowed herself to be drawn out of her own cold, miserable chamber filled with the sourness of bad feelings, and into Helene's room, where the fire was blazing and a tray of tea waited.

"Sit down by the fire." Helene poured tea. "Explain to me what happened last night," she invited, handing Ariel a cup. "I heard raised voices. Simon was angry, and he very rarely gets angry."

Ariel cupped her hands around the hot teacup, inhaling the steam. She propped her stockinged feet on the fender and offered her description of the night's events.

"It's only now that I realize how much I was hoping he would be different from other men," she said when the narrative was complete. "I know I'm different from other women, and sometimes he's said that he understands what's made me the way I am, but understanding isn't accepting, is it?" She looked up at Helene, sitting opposite.

Helene sipped her tea. "Simon is one of the most understanding and unusual men I've ever met," she said slowly. "And you, my dear, are extraordinarily lucky to have him for husband. He will give you all the kindness and consideration a wife could possibly expect. Surely you can give him that in return?"

Ariel set down her teacup. Her face was very white, her heavy eyes as clear as a rain-washed dawn sky. "Kindness and consideration aren't enough, Helene. They're lukewarm emotions, all very well in their place. But I want much more. I want the kind of understanding and acceptance that comes from love." Her voice didn't waver as she spoke the truth as she had only now understood it.

Helene reached over and took her hands again. "Don't wish for the moon, child. Believe me, companionship, friendship, kindness, loyalty, are as precious as anything. And Simon will give you all of those things."

"But not love?" Ariel's voice was still steady.

Helene squeezed her hands. "My dear, he's a Hawkesmoor. Your father killed his father. He can feel warmth, affection for you, but there can never be room in his heart for a Ravenspeare."

"He told you this?"

"In those very words," Helene said quietly.

"Thank you." Ariel gently pulled her hands free and stood up. "I knew it, of course. If you'll excuse me now, I have some household matters to attend to." She smiled distantly at Helene and went back to her own chamber.

When Simon returned fifteen minutes later, Ariel was sitting at the dresser, brushing her hair. Her plain gown of dark brown linen did nothing to alleviate her pallor. She didn't turn from the mirror, but her heavy-lidded eyes met his in the glass as he came up behind her.

"I've been talking with Edgar… making arrangements to remove the stud to Hawkesmoor," Simon stated. She looked so wretched he almost forgot his own hurt and disappointment. Almost put his arms around her, his fingertips itching to soothe her swollen eyelids.

But her face hardened, her mouth set in a firm line, and he pushed aside the impulse.

"I'm to have no say in their disposition, then?" she said in a flat angry voice.

Simon sighed. "Of course you are. Your decisions will be honored in my stables. But since you were so anxious about your brother, I thought it important to act quickly." He couldn't help adding with heavy sarcasm, "Forgive me if I made a decision that was not mine to make."

Ariel's fingers moved rapidly through her hair, plaiting the thick strands hanging over her shoulder. "Of course it was yours to make. Aren't all decisions concerning me yours to make, my lord?"

He refused to lose his temper again. "Probably," he said with deliberate affability. "But if I do you the courtesy of consulting you, then-"

"I should be grateful for the consideration," she interrupted swiftly. "Yes, I understand that. I learn my lessons well, sir."

Simon brought his steepled fingers up to his mouth as her angry eyes glared at him in the mirror.

"Ariel, we both know that this is not about your horses. If you wish to continue with your breeding program from Hawkesmoor Manor, then you may do so with my blessing. I have no objections to your pursuing a hobby. But we both know that that isn't what you want. Don't we?"

When she said nothing, he continued evenly, "You want financial independence in order to have a way out of this marriage. I understand that now. But it's not something I can allow. You may breed your horses. You may even sell them, although having a horse trader for wife sits uncomfortably with me. But if you make a profit, I would have to insist that it be put in trust for your children-our children. You would not have access to it yourself."

Ariel's face lost the last tinge of color. It was bone white, her eyes blue-shadowed gray hollows. But still she said nothing.

Simon ran his fingertips over his mouth. Her silence somehow was worse than anything. It was filled with accusation and a kind of resignation that was a skewer in his gut. He had come to admire that quality she had of something wild and untouched, but now she reminded him of a newly broken pony.

He put his hands on her shoulders and she shrank from him. His hands dropped to his sides again.

He left the chamber, closing the door carefully behind him, the gentle click giving no indication of his frustration.

Ariel stared at her image in the mirror until the lines of the reflection began to waver and she had the strange sensation that she was entering her own eyes, moving behind them to the world inside herself.

Companionship, friendship, loyalty. Necessary but not sufficient, she thought with cold clarity. She could not give herself in love to a man who could never love her. She could not settle for such lukewarm comfort, whatever Helene might say. And she could not stay here, continuing with the farcical celebrations of a sham marriage, behaving as if nothing had happened.

She had to go away and think what to do. Away from the distractions of Simon's presence, from his eyes, his countenance, his wonderful hands. She had to go somewhere where she could think clearly.

She rose from the dresser, pulled a battered satchel from the armoire, and threw a few things into it. Then she tossed her cloak over her shoulders and went to the door. She stopped with her hand on the latch, remembering Simon's taunts about running away without a word of explanation.

It would be cowardly and childish to leave without a word. She returned to the escritoire and scrawled a few words on a piece of paper. I have to think what to do. I'm not running away. No frills, but it was succinct. She folded the sheet, wrote Simon's name on it, and propped it on the mantel. Her eye fell on the little bone horse she had placed beside the candlestick where she could see it from the bed. She dropped it into her pocket.

Helene's door opened as Ariel left her chamber. She looked askance at the satchel. "Are you going somewhere, my dear?"

Ariel shook her head. She'd had enough of Simon's ex-mistress and her so-called desire to help. "I'm taking some things to a friend," she said shortly and hurried away.

Ariel walked the three miles to Sarah and Jenny's cottage.

It didn't occur to her to seek shelter anywhere but with her friends. The dogs bounded ahead of her as she walked briskly along the lane, her mind now a blank, as she gave herself up to the gusting winter air slicing into her lungs, soothing her burning eyes, relieving the nagging ache behind her temples.

Jenny threw open the door at her knock, exclaiming in surprise, "Ariel, you walked here!"

"I needed the exercise." Ariel entered the small room, placing her satchel on the floor by the door. She glanced outside to where the dogs were merrily playing leapfrog in the small garden and whistled them in. "May I stay here for a few days?"

Jenny glanced toward her mother, who rose from the spinning wheel and came over to Ariel. Sarah placed her hands on Ariel's face. She touched her eyelids, her mouth, as if smoothing away the lines of pain she saw there. Then she drew her to the settle by the fire.

"What's happened, Ariel?" Jenny sat beside her, chafing her hands.

Ariel told them as succinctly as she could. When she'd finished, Jenny said nothing but looked at her mother. Sarah looked grave and Ariel felt a little shiver of dismay. The older woman didn't approve of her being here.

"I shouldn't have come, Sarah?"

"Of course you should have," Jenny exclaimed. "Shouldn't she, Mother? We're your friends, where else would you go?"

Ariel continued to look uncertainly at Sarah, who, after a minute, smiled at her, reached out again, and touched her cheek.

"The earl had no right to take over your horses like that," Jenny stated, fiercely partisan.

"He's my husband. Husbands have those kinds of rights," Ariel responded, still looking at Sarah, who at this shook her head slightly but still smiled, as if at some absurdity. She raised her eyebrows in a skeptical question mark, and Ariel bit her hp, saying miserably, "No, that's not the real problem, Sarah."

The dogs' heads were resting on her knees, and she stroked them absently, drawing some comfort from their inarticulate support. "Helene, his friend-well, actually she is, was, his mistress-said he couldn't love me. She said he'd told her that himself."

Romulus raised his head and licked her face with a great slobbering swipe of his tongue. Ariel didn't seem to notice. Sarah's eyes were fixed attentively upon her, but that secret smile still seemed to lurk in their clear blue depths.

"I need him to love me," Ariel said in barely a whisper. "What am I to do if he can't?" Jenny didn't know what to answer and she looked to her mother, who raised a hand in a gentle gesture commanding silence.

Ariel continued in the same low voice, "It's all very well for Simon to say I have to trust him, but he has to trust me too. But he can't love me, so I suppose he can't see that I might love him. And if I love him, then of course I wouldn't use my own financial resources to run away from him. I wouldn't need to. So there's no reason why I shouldn't have them." She looked helplessly at her friends. "I'm not making much sense, am I?"

Jenny looked doubtful, but Sarah merely stood up, briskly fetching the kettle and setting it over the fire. Ariel felt a prickle of resentment at Sarah's apparent lack of sympathy for her miserable situation.

"I won't stay if you think I shouldn't," she said.

Sarah shook her head in brisk negative and hugged her. She gestured to the narrow ladder at the rear of the cottage that led up to the apple loft, and Jenny said instantly as if her mother had spoken, "You can sleep in the loft, Ariel. There's a pallet up there. Come and see." She went swiftly to the ladder, and Ariel, having picked up her satchel, followed her.

Ariel knew that the two women shared a bed downstairs that would certainly not accommodate three, and had been prepared to curl up on the hard wooden settle, so the small, sweet-smelling loft with its round window and straw-filled pallet felt almost luxurious. "This is perfect, Jenny." She set her bag down and went to the window. "I don't think Sarah approves of my being here, though."

"Of course she does," Jenny said stoutly. "Anyway, you haven't run away from your husband properly. You just need some time to think."

"Yes," Ariel agreed, gazing out at the circle of overcast sky. "I just need some time to think." But where her thoughts would take her, she had no idea.

"Where's Ariel this morning?" Jack Chauncey inquired jovially as he joined Simon on one of the long benches at the breakfast table in the Great Hall.

Simon sliced ham off the bone, laying the slivers on his platter. "Out and about, I expect."

"So, what was the mystery last night?" Peter Lancet inquired, taking a deep draught of his ale.

Simon spread mustard on his ham. "No mystery. It was just something to do with Ariel's horses."

His friends exchanged glances, then began to talk animatedly of other things.

"Is Lady Kelburn going to join the day's festivities?" Lord Stanton asked.

"I doubt it. She intended to pay only a very short bridal visit to my wife. In fact, if you'll excuse me, I should go and see how she is this morning." Simon stood up, reaching for his cane. He nodded to his companions and left the hall.

"Trouble?" Stanton asked the company in general.

"Feels like it," Jack returned. "Disharmony in the marital nest, I'd guess."

Simon was well aware of his friends' curiosity, but he wasn't about to satisfy it. He raised a hand to knock at Helene's door, then paused. If Ariel was around, she should discuss with her guest Helene's plans for departure. He went into Ariel's bedchamber but was not surprised to find it empty. His eye fed on the white paper on the mantel.

With a sense of foreboding, he took it down and unfolded it. His shout of rage reached Helene in the room opposite. She threw open her door and ran to him. "What is it, Simon?"

He scrunched the paper into a ball and hurled it into the fire. "I'll give her time to think!" he declared savagely. "I have tried to keep my patience, but so help me, Helene, she would try the patience of Job."

"Ariel?"

"Yes, of course Ariel," he snapped. "There's no one else in the world likely to plague me to death." Then he shook his head impatiently. "I beg your pardon, Helene. I had no right to shout at you."

"That's all right," she said. "What's happened now? I… I couldn't help but overhear some of what was said between you last night…"

"You heard?" He looked incredulous.

She blushed. "I listened."

He pushed a hand through his hair.

"I was concerned for you."

"Yes, I'm sure you were." He sat down heavily. "So you know all about it. What you don't know is that my reluctant bride has turned fugitive." He looked at her sharply. "Or did you know that?"

Helene shook her head. "No, she didn't say anything to me about-"

"Oh, so you've discussed this with her already?"

"I talked to her this morning, after you left." Helene sat on the bed, regarding him anxiously. "I suppose I've been interfering, but I thought maybe I could help. I couldn't understand how she could fail to see what was under her nose. She's so young, so naive. I felt I had to point it out to her."

And what exactly, my dear friend, did you point out to her?"

"That she was lucky to have such a husband," Helene said, the simplicity of her words merely accentuating the fervor of her conviction. "I told her she should be grateful for your kindness, your consideration."

Simon closed his eyes briefly, imagining how Ariel would react to such a homily.

"I've made things worse, haven't I?" Helene twisted her hands in her lap. She couldn't remember seeing Simon look so bleak.

"Probably. But with the best of intentions." Absently he pressed the heel of a hand into his aching thigh. A distracted frown drew his thick eyebrows together. "Did she say anything else?"

"Only that she had wanted you to accept her as she is."

"Give me strength!" Simon muttered. "She is the most impossible girl."

Helene stared at him, her hands suddenly still in her lap. "Do you accept her as she is, Simon?"

He gave a short laugh. "Yes, of course I do. I told you I wouldn't change anything about her. But that doesn't stop me wanting to wring her obstinate little neck."

"I think my work here is done," Helene said wryly. "I'll tell my maid to pack up my things, if you would send order to the stables for my carriage."

She stood up and Simon rose with her. He took her in his arms and hugged her. "I feel such a fool," she said, on a tiny sob that was buried in his shoulder. "Such a meddling fool. I did want to help."

"I know. We'll look back and laugh about it one of these days." His voice was lightly rueful, but his eyes were far from certain.

"What are you going to do?"

"Do? Fetch her back and teach her a few long-overdue lessons about acceptance," he declared savagely.

After he'd seen a subdued and chastened Helene into her carriage, Simon stood in the stableyard, slapping his gloves into the palm of one hand, wondering how to explain to his brothers-in-law that the bride had disappeared from the festivities. He would bring her back smartly enough, but first he had to find her. If she wasn't with Sarah and Jenny, then it might take him a day or two to lay hands on her. He needed to produce an excuse for Ariel's absence that would also make it reasonable for him and his friends to remain at Ravenspeare. "Tricky" was hardly the word for such an absurd situation.

"Hawkesmoor, I trust you'll be joining the party again today." The earl of Ravenspeare's voice broke opportunely into his sardonic musing. Ranulf s gray eyes regarded him with famfiiar malevolence. "You look a trifle befuddled, brother-in-law."

"I find myself at something of a loss," Simon agreed mildly. "Your sister, Ravenspeare, has absented herself from the celebrations."

Ranulf's expression sharpened. "What d'you mean?" He glanced involuntarily toward the stables where the Arabians were housed.

"They're still here, Ravenspeare," Simon said with a cool smile. "But I'm having them transported to Hawkesmoor within the week."

"Those horses belong to Ravenspeare," Ranulf declared, almost spitting in his vehemence. "My sister bought them with money from the estate, and they do not belong to her." He spun on his heel and stalked off.

"That's not true, m'lord." Edgar seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. He chewed meditatively on his straw. "Lady Ariel sold jewelry that her mother had left her to buy the stallion and the first mare. There was enough left to maintain the stables for a couple of years, and now they pay for themselves."

"Does Lord Ravenspeare know this?"

Edgar shrugged. "Must do. If 'e's so sure they're 'is legally, why'd 'e try to steal 'em?"

"Point taken." Simon nodded and set off back to the castle. The three brothers came to meet him as he crossed the grassy square in the inner courtyard.

"I wasn't paying attention, Hawkesmoor. What did you say about my sister?" Ranulf demanded, standing flanked by his brothers, hands resting on his hips. "What have you done with her?"

"I?" Simon raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "Nothing at all. But she's decided to retreat from all the excitement. She was finding it a bit tiring."

The three brothers stared at him incredulously. "Where is she?" Roland asked, a spark of interest enlivening his usually flat gray eyes.

Simon shrugged, struck with inspiration. Helene had caused enough trouble, now she could be useful. "She went to stay with a friend of mine for a few days."

"What friend?"

"Lady Kelburn. She paid Ariel a bride visit yesterday and they left this morning."

" 'S'true there was some woman visiting last night," Ralph said, trying very hard not to slur his words. "Timson told me."

"She can't leave in the middle of her own wedding!" Ranulf declared.

Simon shrugged again. "Forgive me, Ravenspeare, but I agreed with her that it would be wise for her to go somewhere quiet for a few days. All this junketing and sport may not be good for certain conditions."

"You mean she's breeding?" Roland demanded as his brothers still tried to grasp Hawkesmoor's meaning.

"It's a little soon to know," Simon said smoothly. "But I don't want to take any risks. Lady Kelburn's visit and invitation were most opportune. However," he added with an expansive smile. "Even in the absence of the bride, we may

continue to celebrate. I expect her to return here within a few days."

Ranulf examined him in silence for a minute, his expression intensely speculative. Then he said with a sneer, "Ah, well, I daresay we can contrive to amuse ourselves, Hawkesmoor. But I'm damned if I'm going to keep two hundred guests at my table celebrating a wedding without a bride."

The three brothers turned and went back to the Great Hall, making no attempt to adapt their pace to their brother-in-law's slower one. The hall was filled with breakfasting guests, and Ranulf, with an agile jump, leaped onto the top table.

"Give me your horn?" He snapped his fingers at Ralph, who blinked and then pulled out the hunting horn thrust into his belt.

Ranulf blew a long note and the hubbub in the cavernous hall died as people stared in astonishment at their host in his midnight blue velvet riding dress standing in the middle of the table.

"Ladies and gentlemen. My dear guests," Ranulf began in a voice of spun sugar. "I very much regret to tell you that the wedding celebrations have come to a premature end. Lady Hawkesmoor has been suddenly called away."

The silence elongated as the crowd struggled to understand what had been said. Then whispers started up. "What did he say?" "What was that about the bride?" "Where did she go?" "Is she ill?"

Simon listened in mingled disgust and amusement. On one level he didn't blame Ranulf. The man was probably fed up to the teeth with entertaining such a greedy throng at what must be exorbitant cost. But to bring his party to such a violently abrupt conclusion was scandalous. The court would buzz with it, and God alone knew what the queen would make of it. It was unlike Ranulf to be so careless of Her Majesty's disapproval.

"What the hell's going on, Simon?" Jack spoke at his shoulder. "Are we leaving?"

"No," Simon said. "We aren't. I'm obliged to attend to my wife, and I can't stay in this snake pit without someone watching my back." He limped off, leaving Jack scratching his head in bemusement.

Chapter Twenty-three

"So my bud's with this Lady Kelburn, you say?" Oliver Becket slumped over the table in the Rising Sun tavern in Cambridge. Idly he traced a pattern in the dribble of ale that had spilled from his overfull tankard when the potboy had thumped it down.

Ranulf regarded his friend with a degree of irritation. He needed Oliver's attention and clearheaded assistance, and the man appeared to be as drink sodden as Ralph. "Apparently she's staying with the Kelburn woman for a few days." His expression grew black. "If she really is breeding, I'm going to have to do something about it. Lucifer! But that bloody-minded girl has completely run out of hand!"

Oliver nodded sagely. "Can't have a Hawkesmoor child taking off with her dowry."

"No. But I'd cross that bridge when it comes. While she's away I intend to get those Arabians out of the stables and settle the Hawkesmoor once and for all. Then we'd start afresh."

"I'll get rid of that Hawkesmoor bastard for you." Oliver's bloodshot eyes glared at the pattern he was making on the stained planking. "That what you want me to do, Ranulf?"

No. I'll take care of that myself. I want you to see to the horses." Ranulf sipped his claret with a faintly fastidious frown. "I'm staging a party this evening, and while we and the Hawkesmoor and his friends are so occupied, you will raid the stables and get the entire stud off Ravenspeare

Oh." Oliver blinked his eyes heavily. "Much rather do away with the Hawkesmoor, Ranulf."

"What did he do to you?" Ranulf leaned forward curiously. Something had occurred between the Hawkesmoor and Oliver to drive the latter from Ravenspeare Castle, but so far Oliver wasn't telling.

Oliver flushed and buried his face in his tankard. "Let's just say I bear the man a grudge." When he set down the now empty tankard, his eyes had cleared and his voice was less slurred. "What about Ariel?"

"Oh, don't worry about my sister. Once she's been shorn of her horses and her husband, I'll deal with her. She'll remember her place again."

"Not sure she ever knew it," Oliver remarked with unusual sagacity. "But if those horses of hers are so valuable, won't you need her to run the breeding program?"

"She'll run it." Ranulf's lips thinned. "She'll run it for me. I intend to keep a stallion and a mare from the stud, as seed for a new strain, and ship the rest off to the Hook of Holland as I did with the mare. My agent'll find buyers for them there."

"Mmm." Oliver nodded. "And you'll have Ariel back, widowed, her dowry returned to Ravenspeare…"

"Precisely. And I swear that my sister will never leave Ravenspeare land, if I have to keep her in shackles." Ranulf refilled his glass from the dusty bottle on the table beside his elbow.

"No more husbands, then?" Ranulf shook his head.

"So where does that leave me… vis-a-vis your sister?"

"Wherever you wish it to, my friend."

"I've a score or two to settle with that young woman," Oliver mused, a nasty glint in his eye.

"Then you may settle them with my blessing." Ranulf reached over and punched his friend's upper arm. "You may have exclusive rights to my sister, Oliver. But first we have to get rid of the Hawkesmoor."

"So what's this party, then?"

Ranulf's eyes narrowed. "One of my specials, Oliver."

"Oh-ho. That why you're in town?" Oliver managed to look relatively astute.

Ranulf merely nodded. "I've a little game in mind, and while we're playing it, the Hawkesmoor will suffer an accident. And this time," he added with a savage frown, "there'll be no interference from my busybody little sister." He drained the contents of his glass, his charcoal eyes spitting remembered anger.

Then he continued, with a small dismissive shake of his head, "But while we're busy in the Great Hall, Oliver, you will be busy in the stables. Nine o'clock tonight. You'll drive the animals to the livery stables in Huntingdon. They're primed to receive 'em. My men will take them from there to the shipyard in Harwich in the morning."

Oliver grunted. "Poor compensation for missing one of your special parties, Ranulf."

"Never mind, you'll have my sister soon enough to make up for it." Ranulf pushed back his chair with a scrape on the sawdust-littered door. "There are men on guard around the stables. Make sure you come prepared to deal with them. Fortunately you won't have to contend with those damn dogs. They've gone with Ariel on retreat."

Oliver's grin was wolfish. "I claim the right to collect the widow from the Kelburn woman… comfort her in her bereavement."

Ranulf laughed. "We'll see. I'm off now to choose the toys for my party this evening."

"You sure the Hawkesmoor and his friends will play? Your little games aren't likely to appeal to that stiff-necked clan of Puritans."

"They'll play," Ranulf said confidently. "They'd play because they'll think they might be able to influence the proceedings for the good. They won't be able to stand aside, turning a blind eye to the plight of my pretty toys."

"Oh, what a reader of men's souls you are, Ranulf."

Oliver chuckled and snapped his fingers at a passing potboy, gesturing to his empty tankard.

"You won't be able to do your part if you're befuddled, man."

Oliver chuckled again. "Don't worry, Ranulf. I'm a past master at sobering up when the need arises."

Ranulf knew that this was true, so he merely raised a hand in salute and went on his way to a small house on the far side of Midsummer Meadow where he could pick and choose the toys for his special party.

Simon rode down the narrow track to the drainage cut. The reed-thatched cottage stood on a knoll above the dike. Even when he reached the gate, he hadn't decided exactly how he was going to deal with the situation. Arguing with Ariel would accomplish nothing. Neither did he see much profit in taking the caveman route. Hauling her off by her hair, while it had a certain appeal in his present mood, would cast him in the role of villain, and he'd had enough of that from Ariel.

Even when he dismounted, tethered the piebald to the fence, and started up the path, he hadn't formed his opening words.

But his feet took him up the narrow path running between orderly rows of winter cabbages and root vegetables. At the door he hesitated. Then he raised his hand and knocked.

Almost immediately the door was opened. Sarah stood on the threshold, a coarse apron wrapped around her gaunt frame. Her hands were stained with some kind of greenish dye, and she wiped them on her apron as she regarded him gravely.

"Good morning." The conventional greeting spoke itself. Her expression didn't change, but she stepped back, holding the door wider in invitation. He felt a stab of relief. She knew why he had come and she was not denying him entrance.

Simon stepped into the square room. He knew immediately that Ariel wasn't there. "You're alone?"

Sarah nodded again and closed the door. She gestured to the settle by the fire and went to lift off a cauldron of green bubbling water from the swinging hook above the flame.

Simon reached to help her with the heavy pot. "Is that dye?"

She smiled and set the cauldron down away from the fire. He watched as she prodded the contents with a pair of wooden tongs, then lifted up a length of woven cloth to the light. Simon glanced interrogatively to the spinning wheel and loom in the corner of the cottage and again she smiled. The cloth was ad her own work.

It was astonishing, he thought, how she managed to communicate. It was almost as if she threw her thoughts at him. He remembered again the uncanny moments in Ariel's bedchamber when she had touched his face. She had that same look in her eye now, questing and yet full of a deep knowledge.

Something flickered at the periphery of his vision and he turned his head to the table. Slowly he rose from the settle and went over. He picked up Ariel's bracelet, holding it in the palm of his hand. Absently he rubbed his thigh, which had been aching like the devil since Ariel's departure had brought an end to her ministrations.

"She is with you, then?"

Sarah nodded and fetched down a bottle from a shelf above the range. She uncorked it and poured a glass of some dark liquid, which she handed to Simon.

It had a strong medicinal smell, reminding him of some of Ariel's less pleasant tasting potions, but he drank it anyway. He was in the house of a trio of leechwomen, and presumably Sarah was aware of his discomfort. She was aware of so many things.

Simon sat down on the settle again, then stretched out his leg to the fire as he poured the bracelet from hand to hand, watching the glow of the ruby nestling within the furled silver petals of the rose, the deep fire-shot green of the emerald swan.

"I have come to fetch her," he said, his eyes still on the bracelet. "Her place is with me. She cannot run away from that." Now he looked up, across at Sarah, who was seated on a low stool on the other side of the fire.

Her eyes seemed to look right into him.

"I would like her to come back of her own accord… because she wants to… but…" He paused, returning his attention to the bracelet. "But whether she wants to or not, she must come back."

Sarah watched him play with the bracelet as he talked. And she remembered again how the child had played with it for hours, babbling his baby talk, sucking the charm, cutting his teeth on the fine gold links. The man was frowning down at the jewel as he tossed it from hand to hand, running his fingers sensuously over the curve of the serpent's head, the smooth roundness of the pearl apple.

"Will you support me in this, ma'am?" He looked up sharply, his sea blue eyes both candid and determined.

Sarah rose from her stool. She came over to him and bent to take his face between her worn hands. She looked deep into his eyes and a strange shiver ran down Simon's spine. Her fingers moved over his face as they had done once before, gently tracing the scar, the etched lines of suffering, the crow's-feet, the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth.

He sat still, mesmerized by her touch, by her all-seeing gaze. "Do you have the sight?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "I feel that you know so much about me."

Sarah smiled and shook her head. Slowly she released his face and then took his hands, running a finger over his palms, turning them over to play with his knuckles as if she was learning him in some way. Learning him almost like a lover, he thought with another shiver.

Then she released his hands and moved back to her stool, where she sat very still, looking at him with that same intensity. But he felt only warmth and strength flowing from her.

"Am I right about Ariel?" he asked into the silence. "I believe you know her almost as a mother. Am I right to insist that she comes back?" He steepled his fingers and regarded Sarah ruefully. "She has a touch of the wild about her, and I don't want to destroy it. I want her to trust me enough to know that I won't hurt her."

Sarah's face was again grave. To his deep disappointment he could read no answer in her eyes, and she gave nothing away in her quiet stillness.

"Since she's not here, then I'll come back later." Simon rose to his feet. It was only when he was standing that he realized that the ache in his thigh had faded and his leg was moving more easily. These leechwomen had powerful medicines.

Sarah remained seated, her haunted blue eyes bright as they watched him.

He replaced the bracelet on the table, not hiding his disappointment at her lack of reaction. "I can't read your silence, ma'am."

Suddenly she rose and walked over to a narrow ladder leading up into the loft. She gestured that he should go up. Puzzled but obedient, Simon climbed with difficulty up the rickety narrow rungs and hauled himself into the small loft area. Ariel's presence was in the air, so strong he could almost imagine she had left her spirit behind. Her nightgown was thrown over the end of the simple straw-filled pallet where she slept. Her hairbrushes were on a wooden chest, and a pair of shoes had been cast carelessly into a corner.

His heart seemed to jump in his breast and his blood was pounding in his head. On the pillow stood the bone horse, glowing in the light from the round unshuttered window. He limped the two steps necessary to reach the pallet and picked up the horse.

A smile curved his mouth as a deep and glorious certainty slowly infused his blood. He was a blind, stupid fool. He had understood himself no better than he had understood Ariel. Gently he placed the carving back on the pillow.

He negotiated his way back down the ladder. Sarah was waiting for him, standing immobile by the table.

She smiled.

"You knew what I didn't know myself," he said wonderingly. "It never occurred to me that I could love another woman other than Helene… let alone a Ravenspeare. And I don't suppose it ever occurred to Ariel that she too could love against all the forces of history and reason."

Sarah's smile didn't waver. She came toward him and, taking his hands, kissed his cheek. He pressed his lips to her soft, parchmendike cheek and inhaled her scent and was filled with an immeasurable sense of comfort.

"I'll return later, ma'am."

Sarah picked up the bracelet as the door closed behind him. The bracelet had been the only thing she'd had time to give her baby when she'd sent him away to his uncle. The lords of Ravenspeare, their knives pressed to her belly, had given her time to make provision for her son before they'd taken her away, and she remembered now how pathetically grateful she'd been for that consideration. As grateful as a victim to his torturer for some unhoped-for leniency. She'd arranged for the child to be taken to Geoffrey, and she'd enclosed the bracelet… in pitiful payment, in gratitude… for what she begged him to do for Owen's son.

And somehow the bracelet had passed from Geoffrey's hands to Ravenspeare hands-following some other dark strand of blood and passion flowing between the two families.

Many years ago, Sarah would have wept for the memories that now consumed her, but her tears were long since dried The well had dried up when she'd understood how pointless tears were, how useless in the face of reality-a blind daughter to care for and a life to live and make good for both of them. She had had only one driving condition for the new life. Her son must never be touched by his mother's violation. He must never know in his mother this broken, dreadfufly damaged woman. Therefore his mother must disappear so completely that not even Geoffrey could find her. And she had succeeded.

The sound of voices outside brought an end to her reverie. She turned her attention to the pot of soup simmering on the trivet as Ariel bounced energetically through the door, Jenny following rather more slowly.

"Edgar says all the wedding guests have gone home, Sarah. Ranulf apparently told them that the celebrations were at an end and sent them packing! Isn't that unbelievable, even for my brother?" She hung her cloak on the peg by the door and began to lay out soup bowls as she spoke.

"But your husband and his friends are still there," Jenny put in.

"Yes." Ariel set a dish of salt on the table. "So Edgar says. And Simon told him to be ready to move the stud to Hawkesmoor the day after tomorrow." She sat down on a stool, propping her elbows on the table. And soon after that, the Hawkesmoor would be ready to leave himself.

She picked up her bracelet from the table and clasped it around her wrist, wondering idly why she'd forgotten to put it on that morning. But then, she was so miserable and preoccupied, it was amazing she remembered her own head.

Presumably, as soon as Simon was ready to leave Ravenspeare, he would come for her and cart her off to Hawkesmoor willy-nilly. An exasperated husband dealing with a recalcitrant wife.

Presumably, once the preparations were made for moving the stud to Hawkesmoor, that was what he would do. It would not be a simple transport, so it would take a day or two to put in train. She supposed she should be grateful that he was still willing to allow her to keep her horses-to pursue her hobby under his eye. But she wasn't. She knew what she wanted, and she knew she was crying for the moon.

She became aware of Sarah's eyes on her and flushed, knowing that the older woman would have read her thoughts.

She couldn't continue to cower in Sarah's cottage. It was cowardly and futile. And she couldn't bear him to come and drag her away. "I'd better go back to the castle," she said heavily. "Nothing's going to change; I don't know why I ever thought it might. I have no choices anymore."

Sarah smiled more to herself than to Ariel and ladled barley soup into the waiting bowls.

The three lords of Ravenspeare were gathered in the Great Hall when Simon returned to the castle.

"Ah, Hawkesmoor, well timed indeed. We're having a little party this evening. I do trust you and your friends will join us." Ranulf reached over the table to fill a crystal glass with wine, which he held out to the new arrival. "Try this. I'd value your opinion."

Simon took a sip and nodded. "A fine rioja." He sat down on the long bench. "It's very quiet in here these days."

"Sadly so," Roland said. "I must say I miss the festivities. But Ranulf has put together a little entertainment for us all tonight. You will attend, won't you?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, it's a very fine entertainment," Ralph babbled "You'll enjoy it, Hawkesmoor, I promise you."

Simon drank his wine thoughtfully. If they were up to one of their lethal little tricks again, he'd best be on his guard. And the most effective way to do that was to appear not to be. Lulled into a false sense of security, they would overreach themselves or spring their trap prematurely.

Of course, he could always refuse to play their nasty little games, but he was in a mood to meet his brothers-in-law head-on. He was growing bored with turning the other cheek.

He nodded pleasantly. "I'm sure it will be a most amusing evening, gentlemen."

Ralph giggled into his wine. "Oh, yes, most amusing."

"How long are you planning on staying, Hawkesmoor?" Roland inquired. "Not that I mean to say you're overstaying your welcome or anything… but Ranulf and I have a mind to return to London soon. Winter in the country pads damnably, don't you agree?"

"I'll be out of your hair in a day or two," Simon said easily. "I expect Ariel to return from Lady Kelburn's quite soon."

"Ah." Roland nodded and sipped his wine. "Quite so." He glanced toward the door as the clump of booted feet, the jangle of spurs, heralded the return of the cadre from a hawking expedition. "Gentlemen, my brothers and I have planned a treat for you this evening. A little entertainment in true Ravenspeare style."

Jack cast his whip and gloves on the table. "Sounds interesting." He raised an interrogative brow at Simon, who shrugged and pushed the wine bottle across to him.

"Try this. It's a fine rioja. Our host's cedars are beyond compare."

Simon had the air of one settled comfortably in the company of friends, Jack thought, startled to see the earl so much at ease with his brothers-in-law. Imperceptibly he had developed the same nonchalant, almost slovenly air as he sprawled at the table, cradling his wine goblet in one hand, his eyes heavy lidded as if he'd already been drinking deep.

But what might fool the Ravenspeares wouldn't fool the cadre. They took their cue from Simon, without as yet knowing why, and slouched at their ease at the table.

The girls arrived half an hour later. Fourteen of them, the cream of Mistress Hibbert's establishment. Ranulf had picked them carefully. He wanted them young, fresh, as yet unmarked by their profession, and among their number were two accredited virgins. Pale, frightened little girls, whose tawdry finery made them look like children dressing up in their mothers' clothes.

"Come, come, my pretties." Ranulf rose from the table, clapping his hands. "Come and drink… eat-See what we have for you. Delicacies I daresay you've never even dreamed of."

The servants had piled platters of oysters, smoked eel and trout, and golden-crusted venison patties on the table, but the younger girls' eyes all went as one to the basket of sweet pastries, the rhenish cream, the marchpane cakes, the bowls of syllabub.

"Come sit with me." Simon reached out and grabbed the hand of the littlest and frailest girl. He moved up on the bench to accommodate her and selected an oyster in its gray craggy shell. He held it to her lips and the child opened her mouth obediently, swallowing the slithery thing with a small shudder. She shuddered again when the big, fearsomely ugly man put an arm around her, drawing her against him on the bench.

Jack took charge of the second child, following Simon's lead, drawing her onto his lap as he tempted her with delicacies. The rest of the cadre picked as carefully, and the boldest and bravest were left for the lords of Ravenspeare.

The wine flowed, music played from the gallery, the servants disappeared to the kitchen. They knew from long experience that when the lords of Ravenspeare amused themselves as they intended to do this night, a wise servant made himself scarce.

"I'd never 'ave thought it of 'is lordship of 'Awkesmoor," Timson declared, sitting at the kitchen table, helping himself to the knuckle of veal Maisie put before him.

"I wish I knew what's goin' on wi' Lady Ariel." Gertrude plumped down on the bench opposite him. "Try a little o', this lamprey stew, Mr. Timson." She spooned a generous helping onto his plate.

"Lady Ariel's stayin' wi' Mistress Sarah and Miss Jenny, Timson declared, clearing his throat, waving aside the refilled spoon hovering over his platter. "Thankee, Mistress Gertrude, that'll do me."

"Aye, but why? That's what I asks meself." Gertrude took an unladylike draught from an ale tankard at her elbow. "She popped in this mornin' to keep an eye on things, jest as she always does. So what's goin' on?"

"Lady Ariel 'as 'er reasons," Timson opined. "Always 'as 'ad, ever since she was nobbut a nipper."

"So what's 'is lordship doin' wi' those poor young things in the 'ad?" Gertrude demanded darkly.

Timson shrugged. "That I don't know, Mistress Gertrude. But I'd not be venturin' to find out."

Chapter Twenty-four

"Are you going up to the castle now, Ariel?" Jenny looked up from the stocking she was darning, turning her wide blue eyes toward Ariel, who was standing somewhat irresolutely beside the table, her boots in her hand.

Ariel, who hadn't fully made up her mind whether to put on her boots or put them away again, said, "How did you know I was even thinking of going out, Jenny?"

"You mentioned it earlier, and you haven't been able to settle to anything all evening."

Ariel sat down and began to lace up her boots. "Yes, I'm going up to the castle."

"To see your husband." It was a rhetorical question. Sarah continued stripping the casings off a sheaf of honesty, revealing the silver sheen of the dried leaves beneath. Jenny said for her, "I expect it's for the best."

"Yes, I'm sure it is," Ariel commented somewhat dryly. She reached for her cloak. "Would you keep the dogs here? I have a feeling they might be in the way."

Sarah rose immediately and laid a hand on each neck. The hounds sat staring mournfully as Ariel went to the door, saying, "Don't wait up for me."

"Should we worry if you don't come back at all?" Jenny asked with an unusually mischievous glint in her eye.

Ariel blushed scarlet, although she couldn't imagine why. She shot a hot look at Sarah, who was considerately busying herself with the dogs. "Just don't wait up for me," she repeated, and left.

It was a crisp, star-filled night. The river was high and its smell of mud and reeds and rank, decaying waterweed permeated the air. She had no idea what she was going to say to

Simon, and within her mind angry, defiant bravado warred with supplicant anxiety. Neither of which were useful.

She broke a laurel switch from the hedge and cut viciously at the tangle of hedgerow as she passed. In essence, she was bowing her head beneath the yoke of her marriage because she didn't have any choice. Not without her horses. She couldn't skulk around accepting Sarah's charity forever. She was a married woman with no financial resources of her own, her husband's chattel; and any court in the land would defend a husband's right to take his wife and sequester her in the marital home.

How her brothers would laugh. And the last laugh was always the loudest. She'd taunted them as she'd foiled their own plans for the Hawkesmoor, and now she was neatly hoist on her own petard.

The three miles to the castle disappeared beneath her feet like three inches under this bitter musing. She avoided the kitchen, slipped swiftly across the deserted stableyard, noting the watchmen's lamps burning in the Arabians' block, and entered the inner courtyard to the Great Hall, whose great iron-barred doors stood ajar to the freezing night.

She heard high-pitched squeals, roars of laughter, the sounds of furniture being overturned. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Ariel ran up the steps, then she stood transfixed in the open doorway at the scene being played out before her. Her eyes took in the row of girls facing the line of men with their pistols cocked, trigger fingers poised. She knew this game of her brothers; it had been played many times in various forms over the years. Sickened, she stared at Simon, unable to believe that she was ready seeing him-a part of this-that he wasn't some figment of her disordered and overwrought imagination.

Then realization dawned in maddeningly slow degrees as she saw Ranulf s pistol move sideways just a fraction of an inch, so that instead of pointing directly at the terrified girl against the wall it was now at an oblique angle toward the man standing beside him.

Half an hour earlier, Ranulf had sprung his surprise on the Hawkesmoor cadre.

"A contest, gentlemen. Since you all seem to have chosen a filly, now you must win her."

Simon felt the girl creep closer against his body. Her fear of the massive, ugly man who had claimed her had died within the first half hour, when he had made no attempt to touch her in the lewd ways she had been taught to expect. From the shelter of his large frame, she had kept a wary watch upon the other men and had seen to her astonishment that most of the girls were being treated with as much respect as herself. All except for the three unlucky enough to fall to the hands of the lords of Ravenspeare.

"Yes, yes, a contest!" Ralph flung out a hand, sending a crystal goblet flying to the floor. He leaped to his feet, sending the girl who had been sitting on his lap to join the goblet on the floor with an unceremonious shove.

"We shall play William Tell, Hawkesmoor. Split the apple, and the girl's yours. Fail, and you go lonely to bed. Where are the apples, Roland?"

"In the fruit bowl, where you'd expect them," Roland drawled, regarding his young brother with his habitual air of contempt. He had bared the breast of the girl he held on his knee and now rolled her nipple between his fingers. Her sharp indrawn breath was the only indication that his attentions were less than gentle.

"I trust you'll see your way to competing, gentlemen," Roland continued in the same drawl. "Any girl rejected must go back unfeed to Mistress Hibbert. Not a pleasant fate."

"I'll fee them all myself," Peter Stanton said angrily. Ranulf gave a short barking laugh. "I assure you, Stanton, that Mistress Hibbert knows which side her bread is buttered, and if I make bad report of any one of these girls, the whore will find herself begging her bread on the wharf at Harwich after a particularly unpleasant session with the Hibberts' overseer.

"And they know it, don't you, my dears?" He leered at the girls, who, even while shrinking in obvious terror, moved away from the protectors whose protection was suddenly becoming dangerous.

"Come, whores, over here." Ralph raced around the room, grabbing the girls, manhandling them over to the wad. His eyes glittered madly in his drink-bloated face. "Here, now stand absolutely still if you value your skins." He grinned and snatched up the fruit bowl from the table. Cradling it in the crook of an arm, he marched down the line of girls, carefully balancing a bright green apple on each disheveled head.

"What the hell's he doing?" Jack murmured to Simon, unable to believe his eyes.

"We're ad to play William Ted, it would seem," Simon responded sardonically, indicating the pistols that Ralph was laying upon the table. "Our hosts' idea of gracious entertainment."

"I'd not take my part in such a piece of filthy debauchery," Peter declared.

There was a chorus of agreement. "Consider for a minute." Simon spoke swiftly in an undertone, his eyes never leaving the brothers and their victims. "Win the girl, send her home. Lose her, and she'd fad foul of her whoremaster and victim to our hosts. And if matters degenerate to an open brawl, the girls will suffer regardless." He reached for one of the pistols on the table and hefted it thoughtfully, then glanced across at the row of girls. The child he'd been protecting gazed at him in wide-eyed terror and appeal.

He smiled reassuringly and sighted along the barrel of the gun, murmuring, "Do you doubt your skid, gentlemen?" "Ah, so the Hawkesmoor's not such a puny sportsman after all," Ranulf declared, stepping up beside Simon, caressing the long barrel of his pistol. "Come, gentlemen, take your places."

"And if you're too fastidious to enjoy the game as it stands, pretend you're shying for coconuts at the fair!" Ralph giggled, taking up his own pistol.

"For God's sake, man, your hand's shaking like a leaf!" Jack exclaimed in disgust. "Ravenspeare! You let that drunken sot take aim and I'll shoot the pistol out of his hand."

"Aye, Ralph, back away. This is no game for drunken fools!" It was Roland who moved suddenly, knocking his brother's pistol aside. His eyes were cold and hard and deadly as they held Ralph's besotted gaze. "You ruin this at your peril, brother," he hissed, his face so close to the younger man's that his spittle showered Ralph's cheeks.

Ralph swore a vile oath, wiping his face with the back of his hand. But through his drunkenness a spark of light showed. More than one accidental shooting in the halls of Ravenspeare Castle could cause raised eyebrows. He turned aside, his face sullen, grabbed a wine bottle from the table, and put it to his lips.

There was a small general exhalation of breath, then the men took up their places. The Hawkesmoor cadre were as still as sharpshooters, every man's eye fixed immovable on the shiny green apple that was his target. And the girls, terrified, some of them well gone in drink themselves, struggled to control chattering teeth and quivering necks.

Simon felt the fine hairs on his nape lift; a sensation of acute awareness prickled his ear. Just the tension of this moment, with the girl's huge eyes swimming in front of his gaze? Or something else… something not quite right… but what could possibly be right about anything…

A rush of air, a cry as piercing as a hunting horn's, ripped the tense silence into shreds. Ranulf staggered sideways under an almighty buffet to his shoulder as Ariel's full weight cannoned into him. As Ranulf went reeling, his pistol flying from his fingers, Simon found himself on the receiving end of a barrage of invective that singed his ears.

"You… you would dare to play these vile games! You with your sober Puritan suits and your Hawkesmoor airs and graces, looking down on Ravenspeares, telling me to hold my tongue, not to play the games that only demean the players… and look at you!" Her face was pink with outrage, her gray eyes so hot they scorched, and the words fed from her tongue in a higgledy-piggledy outpouring of outraged justice.

"Look at what you're doing! You… ad of you…" An expansive hand swallowed up the astounded cadre in one gesture. "You're no better than my brothers. In fact you're worse, because you're hypocrites, every damn one of you… No, don't you deny it!" she cried as Simon, slowly beginning to recover his senses, took breath to interrupt. "You want to play for a woman in your bed, husband. Then you can damn well play for your wife!"

In one bound she had snatched the apple from the head of Simon's whore, shoving the girl out of the way. She stood facing him, the apple in her hand.

"All right, Hawkesmoor. I challenge you."

Ranulf had picked up his fallen pistol. He stood staring down at it in bemusement. Roland lowered his own weapon and looked at his sister. His eyes held the knowledge of what had ready happened… what Ariel had seen and prevented. And behind the frustration lurked a spark of amusement and something akin to admiration.

"Wed, well," he said almost to himself. "Baby sister's foiled us again." He continued to regard her with the same gleam in his eye, recognizing that Ariel was now rather entangled in her motives. Having achieved the practical issue of her intervention, something else was going on now, and Simon, earl of Hawkesmoor, was definitely her target.

"Lady Hawkesmoor… Ariel… there's no need to get upset," Stanton began.

"No, indeed, ma'am. Your husband was only-"

"I've no need for my friends to make my excuses to my wife," Simon interrupted, his voice unusually sharp. He cradled the barrel of the pistol in his left palm.

"So, you've come back, my wife."

"Just in time to save my brother's pistol from throwing a little to the left," she retorted.

"Ah." Simon nodded, casting a sideways glance at Ranulf. "That was why I felt that pricking in my thumbs." He returned his attention to Ariel, standing with the apple between her hands. "It seems your return was timely."

"Hardly," she snapped. "When I find you in the midst of an orgy."

"It's not always wise to believe the evidence of one's eyes," he advised. "But we can discuss that later. For now, we have more serious business to attend to, I believe."

He took a step back, squinted at her, then said evenly, "Stand still, Ariel. You're shaking… with anger, not fear, no doubt… but if you move so much as an eyelash, you make my task impossible."

His eyes were steady, once again clear and blue as glacial ice. Ariel took a deep steadying breath as she balanced the apple on her head. She dropped her hands to her sides and faced him, her eyes still fierce yet exultant with challenge.

The Great Hall fell completely silent. It was as if not a rustle of air breathed through the group of men and women. Even Ralph was transfixed. Something primitive, elemental, surged between the man with his pistol and the silent and immobile girl. It was contained in their eyes. An overpowering, almost sexual tension that thrummed in the air.

Simon took his time. On some detached plane, he was aware of the absurdity of indulging in such a primitive reaction, such an irrational response to challenge. But on another plane, he knew what this was about. It wasn't about rational thought and civilized reaction. It was about trust. The wild, untamed side of Ariel had chosen this crazy challenge as a leap of faith. Not intentionally and she was probably not even aware of it in the curious exultation of this moment. But that was what was happening. She was challenging him to deserve her trust.

He raised the pistol, supported it on his forearm lest the slightest quiver of a finger prove their undoing. He sighted. For a minute Ariel's eyes filled his sights. Huge, glowing, defiant, yet filled with an emotion that stunned him as he recognized it. It was need. Ariel, who never needed anything from anyone, needed him to make this right for them both.

He moved his sight to the apple, until it filled his vision. The small black tip of the stem showed at the bright green apex. Gently… oh, so gently… he squeezed the trigger.

The report was so violent in the deathly hush that the girls screamed shrilly almost in unison, and even men used to the sounds of a battlefield flinched. Only Ariel didn't move. After a minute she raised a hand and almost wonderingly touched her head. Her scalp still felt heavy where the apple had rested, and her hair still seemed to crackle from the rush of air from the bullet. But the apple, in two neat segments, had flown to the floor, and her hair wasn't even parted.

Simon laid the pistol down and limped over to her. He took her hands in a firm clasp and said with not entirely feigned sternness, "Of ad the insanities, Ariel! I cannot imagine how you persuaded me to do such a thing."

"You did it because you wanted to," she returned. "Because you needed to."

"That is nor what I needed to do with you," he said dryly, catching her chin between finger and thumb. "I have let you run us both ragged for too long, my dear girl. The worm is about to turn."

"Oh?" Ariel exclaimed. "What worm? I was the worm who wasn't allowed to have her horses!"

"Could someone explain what's going on?" Jack inquired somewhat plaintively. "Worms and horses seem an unlikely combination."

"Not in my wife's scheme of things." Simon reached behind him for his cane. "Come. Let us discuss these improbable bedfellows in privacy." He made her hand fast beneath his arm and turned with her toward the stairs.

"What's that?" Ariel said suddenly, resisting his encouraging pressure.

"What's what?" Simon's voice was impatient.

"That!" she said, breaking free of his hold and running toward the open doors. As she reached them a blood-spattered figure staggered through into the hall.

"Edgar!"

"The 'osses!" Edgar gasped, falling to his knees, one hand pressed to his shoulder, which hung at an odd angle. Blood poured from a gash on his head, blinding him. "The 'osses, m'lord. Men… men in the stableyard… after 'em… can't 'old 'em off."

"Oh, you bastard swine son of a filth-eating sewer rat!" Ariel cursed Ranulf, who was already on his way out of the hall. Ariel looked wildly around. "You, girl!" She pointed to one of the girls who seemed less vacuous than the others. "Get help for Edgar from the kitchen." Then she was off, her plait flying behind her.

Roland and Ralph, both in the dark about the true nature of Ariel's racing stud and their brother's own plans for it, took a minute or two before they set off in pursuit of brother and sister.

"Go on," Simon gritted as his friends hesitated when he limped toward the door. "For God's sake, go on-Keep an eye on Ariel. I'll follow as fast as I can."

Jack gave him one last concerned look, then nodded, and loped off toward the sounds of battle coming from the stableyard.

Simon's mouth was set in a dour line as he hobbled, forcing himself to an almost impossible pace toward the arch to the stableyard. Once there, he stared for a minute in disbelief. Ariel's Arabians were standing in a shivering string to the far side of the yard in the charge of a gang of gypsies. A pitched battle was being waged on the cobbles in the fitful glare of pitch torches.

The men of the Ravenspeare stables were fighting with staves, pitchforks, stones; and their opponents, dark clad, faces smeared with soot, wielded the same. As Simon watched, trying to distinguish the figures, Ariel plunged into the midst of the melee.

Simon opened his mouth to bellow at her, but then his own friends had dived forward and she was lost to view in the encircling company. Simon's eyes darted around the wild scene as he tried to decide where his own intervention should be made. His gaze fed on a tad, slim figure standing on a water butt, his sword in his hand, his head thrown back, his eyes glittering in the light of the torch behind him.

Oliver Becket.

Becket cheered on his men with a rousing cry, then yelled across the yard, "Ravenspeare! Let's show this rabble how it's done!" He leaped from the barrel into the fray.

"A mid… a mid!" Ralph squealed excitedly, racing forward, head down, sword waving without direction.

Roland's eyes flicked toward Ranulf, who hadn't responded to Becket's cad to arms and stood glaring angrily at the fracas, ripping at a fingernail with his teeth. Roland glanced at the Hawkesmoor, who, still unflappably, was taking in the scene with a soldier's observant eye.

The two battle lines swayed, then a flame shot up from the thatched roof of the barn. A horse screamed in fear at the smell of smoke. Ariel dodged sideways out of the grappling fines.

She darted to the horses. "Do something useful, you thieving dolts! Get them to leeward of the smoke before they stampede!" She kicked, punched, pulled, grabbed, at the ragged, filthy youths, some of whom somehow found themselves leading the high-strung beasts out of the direct line of the smoke, while others raced to douse the flames, filling buckets from the pump.

Simon's friends stepped backward as Ariel abandoned the fight and, like the earl, they stood and took stock, the immediate need for action now lessened.

The Becket contingent were all hardy scrappers, from the gypsy encampment for the most part, and they followed no rules of combat. The Ravenspeare men, those whom Simon and Edgar had employed to guard the horses, were not natural fighters. They were grooms, field hands, gardeners, and it was clear to Simon once he'd sorted out the confusion that his men were getting the worst of it.

The barn was now merrily afire, the flames shooting up into the star-studded sky. Simon listened, hearing a dull rumbling roar from across the fields. It was a roll of voices, gathering momentum, like impending thunder. And then the sound became distinct. It was the panicked chant of "Fire!" on the tongues of a great crowd. People poured into the yard, men and women, armed with buckets, flails, pitchforks.

One of the Ravenspeare men gave a sudden unearthly shriek and fell to the cobbles, a knife jutting from his arm. At the sight, the crowd, who had come ready for anything, charged into the melee, to the rescue of the sons and husbands of their own villages.

"Oh, God, you have to stop it!" Ariel was suddenly at Simon's side, her face black with soot, her hair flying from its pins. "They're going to kill each other. All of them. It's a Romany fight."

The local people loathed and feared the gypsies. Brawls were constantly breaking out, and it would take little to start a full-scale battle between the two camps. And the wounding of one of their own was all the tinder needed.

"Ravenspeare! Call off your men!" Simon bellowed over the noise. "For God's sake, man, this is no good for anyone."

Ranulf's eyes glittered. "Call off yours, Hawkesmoor. The horses 'are mine. Get out of here and take my damnable sister with you, and I'll call off my men."

Ariel jumped forward and was pulled back with an unceremonious jerk as Simon grabbed and hung on to her arm. "You murdering bastard!" she gasped at her brother. Words were futile but they were ad Simon was allowing her. "You wouldn't give a tinker's damn if every man here died."

"Why should I?" he laughed. "Yield your horses, sister, and I'll grant the lives of your precious peasants."

"Jack, take my wife." Simon thrust Ariel from him and she spun into Jack Chauncey's arms, too startled for a minute to speak.

Simon drew his sword. He took a step toward Ranulf. "So, it must be as it's always been, Ravenspeare." His voice was without a trace of expression and his eyes were cold and flat. "We will settle this in blood, as such things have always been settled between our two families."

Ranulf drew his sword inch by inch from his scabbard, his mocking gray gaze never leaving his brother-in-law's. "You think I can't best a cripple, Hawkesmoor?"

"Yes, I think that." Simon stepped back, clearing a space around them with a sweep of his sword. "Ted your pander to cad off your men first."

Ranulf's mouth twitched at this contemptuous epithet. But his eyes were greedy, too greedy for revenge upon the Hawkesmoor to defend his best friend too strenuously.

He bellowed over his shoulder, his voice rising above the tumult. "Cad off your men, Oliver. I have a better way of settling this."

Oliver, emerging from the fray, looked stunned. But he had danced to Ranulf's tune for too many years to question the notes, even now in the midst of this splendid mayhem that he alone had created. He turned with a slashing sword back to the fray, cursing and beating through the throng.

"Quell it, Jack." Simon spoke quietly as he stood waiting. The cadre moved into the fray, using their swords with quiet, unemotional efficiency as they would when quelling a riot. Men fed back, bleeding, moaning, the wildness dying from their eyes as they realized how lost they had been in the blood madness.

Ariel stood still, her heart in her throat. The barn's damp thatch was now sullenly smoldering, and the torches threw garish light over the stableyard as the two men paced out a dueling piste. From all sides, eyes watched them.

How could Simon match Ranulf in an even contest? Ranulf had two sound legs. He was fast. He was not plagued with debilitating aches and pains.

Why were his friends not fearful? She could see nothing on their faces as they conferred with Simon and paced the piste.

Then Jack took Simon's hand, pressed it, and stepped back, the others joining him beside Ariel. She looked up at Jack, unable to frame her fear, and he gave her an almost quizzical smile and took her hand.

Ranulf looked over his shoulder at his two brothers, standing behind him. He grinned at them. "The final game of the tournament, my brothers. A fitting end to our wedding celebrations, I believe."

Ralph sniggered. Roland merely raised an eyebrow.

Simon lifted his sword in salute. Ranulf returned the courtesy.

The two women hastened, breathless, along the uneven lane. The sounds of mayhem, the smell of smoke, the clash of weapons, grew ever closer and more immediate, drowning out any words Jenny formed. Her mother's hand was on her arm, guiding her because they were going too fast for the younger woman's blind feet to step true. Ahead of them the hounds barked, every now and again turning back as if to herd the women onward.

Sarah had heard the sounds first. So faint behind the snug walls of the cottage, for a minute she believed she was imagining them, except that the dogs had raced to the door and stood, ears cocked, every line of their graceful, powerful bodies straining.

And then Romulus had thrown himself at the door, raising his voice in a great baying cry of anxiety and distress. Remus had promptly followed suit.

"What is it? What's the matter with them?" Jenny had rushed over to them, trying to calm them, but they had continued to batter the doors, giving vent to that unearthly cry.

Sarah had fetched her cloak from the peg, and Jenny, in bewilderment, had donned her own. The minute she had opened the doors, the hounds had shot out like gray cannon-bads, and as the women had hurried in their wake, they returned again and again, rounding them up, herding them along toward the smoke-filled skyline and the sounds of battle.

"Is it Ariel, Mother?" Jenny's voice was barely a whisper. Sarah merely took her hand in a tighter grip and hurried her along.

They reached the stableyard just as the violent hubbub seemed to be dying down. Jenny blinked as if she could somehow clear her blind eyes as she stood clutching her mother's hand. Ad around her, Jenny could feel the press of people. She could smell the reek of blood and stale humanity, and the stench of fear twitched in her nostrils. But she could hear no words to help her form a coherent picture of her surroundings. Her mother's hand gripped hers, and Jenny clung to it as the only solid beam in a frightening maelstrom that had no shape for her.

Sarah stepped a little forward into the yard. She saw the two men with their drawn swords, facing each other in the torchlight. She saw the circle of faces, eager, curious, malicious, surrounding them, watching the spectacle of death. She saw Ariel, the dogs now at her side, although she seemed unaware of them. She seemed to Sarah to be in a trance, her face bloodless, her lips blue.

Swords clashed and Ariel jumped as if it wasn't the sound she'd been expecting. Nausea was bitter in her throat, filling her mouth, and she thought she wouldn't be able to stay on her feet. And then she saw what was happening.

Simon wasn't moving. He stood rock solid, foursquare on the cobbles, and he was driving back Ranulf's attack with the sheer power and force of his upper body. But then she saw that he was moving, but they were small sideways shifts, mere flickers of his torso, taking him out of the line of Ranulf s snaking blade. And again and again, he caught his opponent's blade and forced it back.

It was as if Ranulf's opponent were a many-armed Hercules, Ariel thought in disbelief. Wherever her brother placed his blade, Simon's blade was waiting for it. Neither man was using the slender tempered steel of a dueling rapier, but Simon's weapon seemed somehow thicker, sharper, broader, and yet it moved as if with a life of its own.

Ranulf feinted, lunged beneath Simon's arm, trying to throw him off balance, hoping that he could slide behind him, forcing him to turn. Simon sidestepped. It was more of a hop than a step, and for one impossible second he was poised on the ball of his strong foot. Then his great cavalry sword flashed up and under, the blade crashing against the underside of Ranulf's hilt, and the other man's sword crashed to the ground.

Simon bent awkwardly and picked up the fallen sword. Suddenly all the grace seemed to have gone from him. That impossible pirouette was now just an image in the minds of everyone who had seen it. He straightened, and Ariel could see immediately that he was in pain. The white lines were drawn deeper than usual from his nose to his mouth, and his lips were set.

"Ravenspeare." He handed the sword hilt-first to Ranulf, who was staring flabbergasted. "The horses are now to be transported to Hawkesmoor."

"No!" Ralph surged forward, his eyes wild and staring. "You think you can better a Ravenspeare, Hawkesmoor!" He had a knife in his hand.

Ariel's shriek brought Simon swinging round, but Ralph was already upon him, his hand raised to plunge the knife into the Hawkesmoor's neck.

Sarah's thin body was suddenly between the two men. Ralph couldn't have halted the knife's stabbing trajectory if he'd wanted to. Sarah fed to the ground in a flutter of dark material, her hand pressed to her throat, where blood pulsed strongly between her fingers.

"Sarah," Ariel whispered, moving forward like a somnambulist. Simon had fallen heavily to his knees beside the fallen woman, his hands pressing a fold of material against the wound.

"Mother! Mother! Where are you?" Jenny's voice broke the hushed stillness. She came toward the group, her hands outstretched as her feet stumbled over the uneven cobbles. Ad her usual sensory antennae had deserted her in the evil-smelling place where the people crowded thickly against her.

"Sarah?" Ariel bent low, pressing her ear to the woman's mouth. "No," she whispered. "No. It can't be." She raised her eyes to Simon, whose hands were still pressed to the wound in Sarah's throat.

Ariel reached up for Jenny's hand, pulling her down to the cobbles beside her. Jenny laid her hands on her mother, feeling her breast. Tears slipped soundlessly down her cheeks as she laid her face against Sarah's.

Sarah opened her eyes. For a moment they were unclouded. Her gaze moved slowly over the three faces bending over her. With a supreme effort she raised her hand and touched Jenny's tear-wet cheeks. Her hand moved to Ariel, who bent her head lower for the benediction, clasping the hand, pressing a kiss in the palm.

Then Sarah turned her eyes to Simon. She reached up and touched his face as she had touched it twice before. Then she kissed her own fingertips and pressed them against his mouth.

Instinctively his fingers closed over hers. He stared down into her face, and incredibly she smiled at him, a smile of deep, abiding pleasure as if what she saw she found good.

And Sarah's thoughts were as unclouded as her eyes. The son must not know his mother. The mother died at Ravenspeare hands and the son must not know that. It was time for the blood and the violence, and the passions that only flared to destroy, to cease.

Her hand moved blindly toward Ariel again, grasping her wrist with astonishing strength. Her fingers grappled with the bracelet with sudden urgency, as if there was something she had to do, and quickly.

"What is it?" Ariel whispered. "The bracelet… you want the bracelet?" With feverish fingers she unclasped it and Sarah took it with that same strength, crushing it in her hand. The bracelet connected the blood of the past. The bracelet would go with her to the grave, together with the secrets it carried.

Again Sarah looked at Simon. And then her gaze traveled slowly and lovingly over the faces of her daughter and the girl who was all but her daughter as they clung together beside the only mother either of them had ever known. She let her hand with the bracelet fall to her side, but her fingers remained closed tightly over it. Now her eyes clouded, but that same smile was on her lips.

It was Ariel who leaned over and closed her eyes. "There are no words," she whispered, taking Jenny in her arms.

Simon rose slowly and awkwardly to his feet. He looked down at the dead woman, at the glitter of gold between her closed fist. Why? Why the bracelet? His own elusive memory played hide-and-seek, and yet he knew in his blood and bones and sinew that the woman Sarah had taken a secret to her grave that was almost his, but that she would not have had him share.

Chapter Twenty-five

The death-the shocking random suddenness of such a death-sent the crowds slinking away, melting into the smoky shadows. Ralph stood held fast by two of the cadre. His eyes were bemused, his expression sullen, like a small boy kept from the playground.

"Ravenspeare, I want your brother arraigned for murder," Simon said steadily.

"He's a Ravenspeare. Not a common criminal!" Ranulf declared, but much of his bluster had vanished. He had been defeated in passage of arms by the Hawkesmoor, and his idiot young brother had finally gone too far.

"He killed in cold blood," Jack Chauncey said. "Before witnesses. He will stand trial."

"And he will hang," Ariel said with soft vehemence, looking up from Sarah's body. She stood, drawing Jenny up with her. "I am shamed by my blood."

Men were lifting Sarah's body from the cobbles, bearing her into the castle. Ariel slipped her arm into Jenny's and guided her after them.

"You would pursue this through the courts, Hawkesmoor?" Roland asked, his voice alone of the three brothers calm, dispassionate. "The scandal will benefit no one."

Simon rested on his sword point. He was anxious to get to Ariel, and suddenly he knew he had had a lifetime's worth of the Ravenspeare brothers. "Wed?"

"Banishment," Roland said succinctly. "We'd send him to the colonies to make his fortune there. One of our ships is leaving for Virginia from Harwich at the end of the week. Let him go."

Ralph began to bluster but both of his brothers swung

round on him and he collapsed, seeming to lose all his stuffing as he hung from the hands holding him upright.

"You expect me to trust your word?" Simon's eyebrows lifted incredulously.

Ranulf took a step forward, but Roland raised an arresting hand. "Steady, Ranulf. The man has cause enough to doubt when he's been set upon in the back by that cub."

"We'll see it done," Jack said. "If that's what you want, Simon."

Simon looked down at the cobbles, where Sarah's blood glistened fresh and red. He raised his sword. "Ravenspeare. Swear before these witnesses, on your sword, over the blood of the woman your brother killed, that there will be no more blood shed between our two families. We may not live as friends, but we will live in peace. You will swear on your sword oath that your sister's children will be the currency of truce."

Ranulf glanced at Roland. Roland's nod was almost imperceptible, but it was the cool word of wisdom that the elder had learned to accept. He stepped forward, his face grim, his eyes dark burning holes of rebellion. He raised his sword and repeated the words the Hawkesmoor dictated. Each word was wrenched from him as if with red-hot pincers, but not even Ranulf, earl of Ravenspeare, would be forsworn on such an oath before so many witnesses.

Simon remained in the stableyard, somehow unwilling to leave the small patch of earth where the woman Sarah had given her life for his. He leaned on his sword, gazing down at the cobbles, feeling a great sense of peace invade him. Despite the blood and violence of the last hours, he felt purified in some inexplicable way. The woman's smile, the touch of her fingers, had been a benediction, had conveyed something… a feeling of love… that filled him with warmth and peace and strength.

And he thought that she had not died in vain. That from her death had come the first seeds of peace.

Ariel's soft steps brought his head up from his rapt reverie. He held out his arms to her and she came into his embrace, her tear-wet face resting against his shoulder.

"Why do I feel that Sarah wanted to die… was ready to die?" Her words were muffled. "It's wicked to think that, but I can't help it."

Simon stroked her hair, pushing the tear-sodden streaks away from her cheeks, where they were stuck. "I was thinking that she didn't die in vain," he said.

"She gave her life for yours."

"Yes, but much more than that." Gently he told her what Sarah's death had brought about. "Maybe it's fanciful to believe that she intended such a thing." He smiled, tilting Ariel's face to kiss her mouth.

"No, I don't think it is," Ariel said. "No one knew Sarah, not even Jenny, but everyone knew that she never acted without reason, or without thought for the consequences."

"And you, my love? Have you given proper thought for the consequences of marriage to a Hawkesmoor now?"

Ariel's smile was rueful. "Long since," she said. "And I will not have my horses. It's almost frightening that something once so important should now seem so trivial."

"And if I say that of course you may have your horses?" he asked gravely. "Your horses and your independence. What do you say then, my love?"

Ariel looked up at him, a dash of wonder in her eyes. Then she said consideringly, "I would only want my independence for me, not because of you."

"Ah." He nodded. "Of course. Such a simple distinction, but so vital."

He walked with her back to the castle and into the kitchen, where Jenny was sitting beside the fire, her hands lying loosely in her lap.

"Jenny, you must come with us to Hawkesmoor," Ariel said, kneeling on the flagstones beside her, taking her hands. "You will come and live with us."

Jenny shook her head and smiled. "You will be needed in Hawkesmoor, Ariel, but someone must stay here to help the people in these parts. But I had an idea. Something that came to me while I was with Mother a minute ago." She looked up at the earl, standing at Ariel's shoulder. "I hope you will help, my lord, because my mother had… had some feeling for you that I don't understand. But-"

"My dear Jenny, you have only to ask."

"Well, I was thinking that perhaps we could train other people to help the sick… the way Mother trained me and Ariel. We would perhaps have to pay people if we're to take them away from their regular work, but Mother would live always in the hands of others."

"Oh, yes," Ariel breathed. "How perfect, Jenny. I will help you. I can use the money from the racing stable, and we'll set up a school for midwives and herbalists."

Simon ran a somewhat distracted hand through his hair. Somewhere between breeding racehorses and running a training program for would-be midwives and apothecaries, his wife might find time for him.

He cleared his throat a mite plaintively and Ariel looked up immediately, her eyes on fire with her enthusiasm. "Oh, yes," she said with instant comprehension. "I must be a wife too, of course."

"I shall be eternally in your debt, madam wife." He offered a mock bow and proffered his arm. "Perhaps now might be a good moment?"

Content

The Silver Rose by Jane Feather