The Silver Rose (22 page)

“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

T
HE 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.