The Silver Rose

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."