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?"