Lover in the Rough (30 page)

“I would say rather the reverse,” Ariane muttered,” “that it is the amber witch who is the clay and he the strong hands molding it.”

Simon’s blond eyebrows rose in silent surprise. He turned and looked at Duncan and Amber for a few moments.

“You have a point,” Simon agreed. “Her eyes are as love-struck as his. Or is it dumb struck?”

When Simon turned back to Ariane, he bent over her once more, ensuring the privacy of their conversation. Before Ariane could stop herself, she pulled away. She covered the action by pretending to see to the tuning of her harp.

Simon wasn’t fooled. His black eyes narrowed and he straightened swiftly. While he didn’t consider himself as handsome as Erik—and certainly not as wealthy in land or goods—Simon was not accustomed to having a woman withdraw from him as though he were unclean.

“Have I done something to offend you, lady Ariane?” Simon asked coolly.

“Nay.”

“Such a quick answer. So false, too.”

“You startled me, ‘tis all. I didn’t expect to find you that close to me.”

Simon’s only answer was a thin smile.

“Shall I have Meg blend me a special soap to please your dainty nostrils?” he asked.

“Your scent is quite pleasant to me as it is,” Ariane said politely.

As she spoke, she realized it was true. Unlike many men, Simon didn’t smell of old sweat and clothes worn too long.

“You look surprised that I don’t stink like a midden,” Simon said. “Shall I test the truth of your words?”

With disconcerting quickness, he bent close to Ariane once more. She flinched in the instant before she managed to control her alarm. Very carefully she shifted her body on the wooden chair until she was no longer leaning away from Simon.

“You may breathe now,” he said dryly.

Ariane’s breath came in with a swift, husky sound that could have been a gasp of fear or pleasure. Considering the circumstances, Simon decided that fear was more likely.

Or disgust.

Simon’s lips flattened beneath his soft, closely clipped beard. He remembered all too well Ariane’s words when Duncan had asked if she would be a wife in fact as well as in name:

I will do my duty, but I am repelled by the prospect of the marriage bed
.

When asked if her coldness came because her heart belonged to another man, Ariane had been quite blunt.

I have no heart
.

There had been no doubt that she spoke the truth, for Amber had been touching Ariane the whole time and had found nothing but the bleakest honesty in the Norman heiress’ words.

Ariane had agreed to marriage, but she had also made it clear that the thought of coupling with a man revolted her. Even the man who was soon to be her husband.

Or, perhaps,
especially
him?

Simon straightened once more and stepped away as quickly as he had bent down to Ariane. Though nothing in his expression changed, she knew that she had cut his pride.

She also understood that he had done nothing to earn such a wound. Yet even as she opened her mouth to tell him so, she knew there would be no point.

Simon hadn’t earned her coldness, but she could do nothing to change it. All warmth had been torn from her a few months ago, during the long night when she had lain drugged and helpless while Geoffrey the Fair grunted over her like a pig rooting in a virgin orchard.

A shudder of revulsion coursed through Ariane. Her memories of that night were vague, distorted by whatever black potion Geoffrey had given to her to keep her silent and helpless. Sometimes she thought the blurring was merciful.

And sometimes she thought it only increased the horror.

“Simon,” Ariane whispered, not knowing that she had called his name aloud.

For a moment he paused as though he had heard. Then the hesitation vanished and he turned his back to her with cool finality. The teasing words of the newlyweds filled the silence.

“Have you time to ride with me?” Duncan asked Amber.

“For you, I have all the time in the world.”

“Just the world?” he asked, feigning hurt. “What of heaven and the hereafter?”

“Are you bargaining with me, husband?”

“Do I have something you would like to lay hand upon?” Duncan parried.

Amber’s smile was as old as Eve and as young as the blush mounting her cheeks.

Duncan’s answering laughter was a shout of masculine delight. “Precious Amber, how you please me.”

“Do I?”

“Always.”

“How?” she teased.

Duncan started to tell her, then remembered they weren’t alone.

“Ask me tonight,” he said in a low voice, “when the fire in the brazier is little more than scarlet coals veiled in silver ash.”

“You have my vow on it,” Amber said, resting her fingers on Duncan’s powerful forearm.

The look Duncan gave her was distinctly sensual.

“I will hold you to it,” he murmured. “Now, if you are finished here, let us be off to the horses.”

“Finished here?” Amber blinked. “Oh, my comb. I had forgotten.”

She turned to Ariane, who was watching her with eyes as clear and cool as gems.

“Have you seen a comb with red amber set in it?” Amber asked. “I think it must have fallen out of my hair somewhere in the keep.”

“Once, you would have had but to ask, and the comb’s hiding place would come to me,” Ariane said in a low voice. “Once, but no more.”

“I don’t understand.”

Ariane shrugged. “It matters not. I haven’t seen your comb. I’ll ask Blanche.”

“Is your maid feeling better today?”

“Nay.” Ariane’s mouth turned down. “I fear Blanche has a more common illness than that which lay my knights low on our travels from Normandy.”

“Oh?” Amber asked.

“I believe Blanche is breeding.”

“ ’Tis not an illness, but a blessing,” Simon said.

“To a married girl, perhaps,” Ariane said. “But Blanche is far from her home, her people, and, likely, from the boy who set her to breeding in the first place. Hardly a blessing, is it?”

A lithe movement of Simon’s shoulders dismissed Ariane’s objections.

“As your husband, I will see that your maid is well cared for,” Simon said. “We have need of more babes in the Disputed Lands.”

“Babes,” Ariane said in an odd voice.

“Aye, my future wife. Babes. Do you object?”

“Only to the means.”

“Means?”

“Coupling.” A shudder rippled through Ariane’s body. “ ’Tis a sorry way to such a wonderful goal.”

“It won’t seem so after you have been married,” Amber said kindly. “Then you will know that your maidenly fears are as groundless as the wind itself.”

“Aye,” Ariane said distantly. “Of course.”

But no one believed her, least of all herself.

Blindly Ariane’s hands sought the solace of the harp once more. The sounds that came from the graceful instrument were as dark as her thoughts. Even so, stroking the instrument brought a small measure of peace to her. It made her believe that she could endure what must be endured—grim, painful couplings and nightmares that tried to follow her into day.

Amber gave Ariane an odd look, but the Norman heiress didn’t notice. For the moment she was lost to all but the struggle to keep nightmares at bay.

“Perhaps it would be better not to rush the marriage,” Amber said in a low voice to Simon. “She is . . . unsettled.”

“Dominic is afraid that something else will go awry,” Simon said neutrally.

“Something else?” Then Amber realized what Simon meant. “Oh. Duncan’s marriage to me rather than to lady Ariane.” She had almost forgotten that her new husband was once betrothed to the woman who was now to marry Simon.

“Aye,” Simon agreed. “The northern boundary of Blackthorne Keep is secure, now that Erik is pleased with your marriage.”

Amber nodded.

“But that security could vanish,” Simon said bluntly, “if Baron Deguerre were to think that Duncan had jilted his daughter.”

Amber glanced quickly at Ariane. If she were listening, it didn’t show in her face or in the measured drawing of her fingers over the lap harp.

Not that it mattered if Ariane overheard. She knew the duties of a well-born woman better than anyone in the room. She had been raised to such duties.

“So the lady Ariane must be married,” Duncan agreed. “The quicker it happens, the better for all of us.”

“But—” began Amber, only to be overridden by Simon.

“And her husband must be someone who has the approval of both King Henry and Deguerre himself,” Simon added.

“But you don’t have that approval!” Amber said.

“Simon is far closer to Dominic than I,” Duncan interrupted, “so the English king will approve. He is Norman rather than Scots or Saxon, so Baron Deguerre will have less to complain of in that regard.”

“This baron,” Amber said, frowning. “Is he so powerful that kings are wary of him?”

“Yes,” Ariane said distinctly.

A ripple of discordant notes followed her answer.

“Had he married me to the son of another great Norman baron,” Ariane continued, “my father soon would have been the equal of your English Henry in wealth and military might, if not in law.”

“So Henry found a liaison better to his liking,” Simon agreed. “Because Deguerre wasn’t strong enough to take on Henry, King of the English, he accepted the match.”

“Then Deguerre offered Ariane to Duncan?” Amber asked.

Simon laughed.

“Nay, innocent witch,” Simon said. “The king’s emissary approached Dominic le Sabre, the Glendruid Wolf himself. The king offered a highborn heiress to any loyal knight of Dominic’s choosing.”

“Why didn’t Dominic choose you?” Amber asked Simon.

Ariane turned her head slightly, the only outward indication that she was listening very carefully to his answer.

“For now, my brother has more need of me at Blackthorne Keep. In any case, he had already given Stone Ring Keep at the Northern boundary to Duncan to take by force, if necessary.”

Amber frowned. “The Glendruid Wolf is said to be a man who prefers peace to war.”

“He does,” Simon said simply. “But without a strong, friendly lord in Stone Ring Keep, Blackthorne Keep itself would be vulnerable. Dominic would take on Hell itself rather than risk his wife, his unborn children, and his keep.”

“My dowry is sufficient to enlarge Stone Ring Keep and its defenses,” Ariane said, “as well as hire knights, buy war horses, weapons, supplies . . .”

“Everything a lord needs to keep outlaws, opportunists and Norsemen at bay,” Simon said.

Amber looked alarmed.

“Don’t worry,” Duncan said. “Erik is providing you with a dowry to equal Ariane’s. Stone Ring Keep will be safe.”

“Even if Deguerre launches a second Norman invasion?” Simon asked dryly.

“I will stand by the Glendruid Wolf no matter what Deguerre threatens,” Duncan vowed.

Simon’s smile was fleeting, but genuine.

“I have no doubt of that,” he said. “Nor does my brother. But it would be far better to keep Deguerre from having an excuse to go to war in the first place.”

“Ah,” Amber said. “That explains the story Sven has been spreading among the people of the keep and countryside.”

“Story?” Ariane asked.

Simon laughed mirthlessly. “Aye, and quite a tale it is, too.”

Ariane said nothing, but her fingers plucked an ascending series of notes from the harp. As though she had spoken a question, Simon answered her.

“Sven is saying that we fell in love when I escorted you from Blackthorne to Stone Ring Keep.”

Ariane’s hands jerked. The outrageous tale pulled her out of her unhappy thoughts.

“Love?”
she muttered. “What a pail of slops that is.”

Amber winced, but Simon’s laughter was genuine.

“Aye, my lady,” he said. “Slops indeed.”

“But it is a clever tale,” Duncan said admiringly. “Even the king himself must bow before a lass’ right to chose her husband. Deguerre can do no less.”

“Dominic indeed deserves to be called the Glendruid Wolf,” Amber said. “Peace, not war.”

“It was Simon’s idea, not his brother’s,” Ariane said. “His mind is even quicker than his hands.”

A brief expression of surprise showed on Simon’s face. The last thing he expect from Ariane was a compliment, however casually it was delivered.

“Do you think that Deguerre will believe you?” Amber asked Simon doubtfully.

“Believe what? That I’ve married his daughter?”

“That it was a . . .” She groped for words.

“ ‘ . . . drawing together of hearts that defied English king and Norman father equally,’ ” Ariane quoted. “ ‘For
love
, of course,’ ”

Ariane’s tone exactly captured the mockery that had been in Simon’s voice when he had proposed this second marriage as a solution to the dangerous dilemma of Ariane’s broken engagement.

Simon shrugged. “Deguerre can believe the tale or he can go begging in Jerusalem. Either way, before the midnight mass is sung, lady Ariane will be my wife.”

A shout from the bailey below caught Simon’s attention. He went to the slit window, listened, and gave Duncan a sideways look.

“You waited too long to escape, o mighty lord of Stone Ring Keep,” Simon said, bowing as low as a Saracen would to his sultan. “The serf with the wandering pig—what is his name?”

“The pig’s?” Duncan muttered.

“The serf’s,” Simon corrected, deadpan.

“Ethelrod.”

“Ah, how could one forget?” Simon said. “Apparently the pig has acquired a taste for apples. By the bushel basket.”

“That is why pigs are turned loose to root in the orchard after harvest,” Duncan retorted. “Otherwise only the worms would fatten.”

“At present, the pig in question is underground, rooting in one of
your
cellars.”

“God’s blood,” Duncan said through his teeth as he strode out the door. “I told Ethelrod to build a pen stout enough to hold that clever swine.”

“Excuse us,” Amber said, trying not to laugh out loud. “I must see this. Ethelrod’s pig is a source of much amusement to the people of the keep.”

“Unless that swine is kept under control,” Simon said, “it will be the source of much bacon.”

Amber burst out laughing and hurried after her husband.