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.