Chapter Three

T he crowd were restless after the injured boy was stretchered out of the arena, but they soon settled when the next riders came into the ring. Ariana, however, felt her attention wandering to her new husband. He had cut a masterful figure astride his powerful horse, but more surprising than this had been his show of compassion.

It was not what she had been expecting from the Earl of Darkmoor.

“Your husband will be victorious today,” Sir Althalos commented drily, seeming to read her thoughts. His mead-stained lips curled up in a grimace as if the idea did not wholly please him.

“I have no doubt of it,” Ariana answered steadily.

“What think you of our yearly joust?” he continued. “The might of Darkmoor makes a worthy display, does it not?”

“Indeed, sir.” Ariana kept her reply short, not allowing Otto’s leering kinsman to rile her. She recognized him as the kind of man to make a sport of unsettling the ladies of the castle.

“And all in your honor,” Althalos concluded. He leaned back in his wooden chair, his arms folded across a sumptuous crimson cape which billowed in the breeze. His dark hair hung greasily around a pointed chin and his beady eyes, which missed nothing, were fixed on Ariana. She could feel his probing gaze sear into her mind. Looking for what? Impertinence? Fear? The latter probably. She could well imagine Sir Althalos enjoying her fear.

She lifted her chin higher, conscious that Otto had entered the ring for his final joust. The winner would hold high the silver shield and, finally, this ordeal would be over. She could stretch her legs and retire from the curious gaze of the public. Even better, she could put distance between herself and Sir Althalos.

Although she would not be cowed. Not by an aging man with yellow teeth and foul breath.

“I am more blessed than any bride,” she chirped sweetly, folding her hands in her lap.

Althalos raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You are happy in your match?”

“How could I not be?” Ariana gazed deliberately at the musclebound knight on the prancing horse, readying himself for a final charge. “I am wedded to the greatest warrior in the North.”

She chose her words carefully and saw that her arrow had met its mark. Althalos narrowed his cruel eyes but could say nothing, for the competitors were once again galloping towards one another, lances poised and ready. The crowd held its breath; Ariana among them. She cared little for the wellbeing of her husband, but divined that the day would pass more smoothly if the Earl of Darkmoor claimed victory in the jousting arena. Dust rose in a cloud around the two horses, so for a moment it was difficult to see the sequence of events, but the unmistakable sound of splintering wood reached her ears, followed by the thud of a fallen horseman.

The townsfolk of Darkmoor erupted into cheers; the swell of celebration hitting her like a strong wave. Ariana steadied herself against the handrail, blinking dust out of her eyes. Otto had won. Her vision cleared in time for her to see the triumphant lap of honor on his snorting charger. Otto swung his helm high above his head, the sun glinting on the metal, and his adoring crowd roared with delight. She couldn’t help a small smile at her husband’s obvious elation. A smile which turned to genuine pleasure when he dismounted and extended a hand to his fallen competitor.

The other man, whoever he may be, accepted Otto’s arm and struggled to his feet. Arm in arm, the contenders acknowledged the crowd and Ariana watched with growing confusion.

How come the man known as the Feared One was showing such humanity?

She felt Althalos appear at her side before he spoke. Her flesh prickled with distaste as his warm breath hit her neck.

“Have you no token, my lady, for your husband?”

His voice was mocking, and Ariana felt her cheeks redden. Of course, it was expected that a new bride would present the earl with a gift at this moment. But she had nothing prepared. Here in Darkmoor, she had no one to advise her, and had only learned of the joust after breaking her fast.

All at once the eyes of the crowd fell upon her, like a leaden weight dropping onto her shoulders. Althalos had attracted their attention with a gallant wave and Otto was already approaching the royal enclosure, his helm tucked beneath a muscular arm.

She swallowed drily as he walked closer, each step of his leather boots kicking up a small cloud of dust. Otto was breathing heavily, his cheeks flushed with exertion and the heat of the day. He would not be pleased to be brought here for nothing.

Which Althalos well knew.

Ariana fished in her pockets and drew out an embroidered handkerchief, a gift from her ladies in Kenmar. Chiara, the castle cook and a dear friend, had also presented her with a basket of her favorite pastries, but Ariana hadn’t been able to face them in the tumult of her hasty departure. This handkerchief was all she had of her past life, but now it must be surrendered. As Otto came to stand before her, she dipped into a small curtsy, her head held low.

“You need not curtsy before me,” he said gruffly. But he returned her courtly favor with a low bow, which prompted a ripple of applause to reverberate around the stands.

Ariana’s hands trembled as she leaned forward to fasten her handkerchief to Otto’s chainmail, where it fluttered gaily. Biting down on her lip in concentration, she gave thanks for his height which meant she could reach out to him with ease. Her body felt unsteady with nerves, as if she might tumble out of the enclosure with little warning.

Quest accomplished, she tried to lean away from the heat and masculinity of her warrior husband, but Otto had already closed his fist around her wrist. She looked down in alarm.

“I thank you, Ariana,” he said, in a voice rich with surprise.

“It is nothing, my lord.”

“It is a mark of your esteem, is it not?”

Did he mock her? Ariana’s gaze flew upwards, but Otto’s face bore no trace of disingenuity. His eyes met hers, wide and honest.

“You rode well today,” she said. “Especially against the young boy, Benedict.” Her heart pounded at her daring, but it was true. Otto’s leniency in the ring had impressed her.

He raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Not all would agree with you.” Did she imagine it, or had his head inclined slightly towards Sir Althalos?

Ariana pressed her lips together. This feeling of connection between them was unexpected. She spoke up before she could think better of it. “Not all are so noble minded.”

She had gone too far. Fear twisted a knife into her stomach. Too late, she remembered Merek’s words of caution and she fought an urge to pull backwards as Otto’s shuttered off face creased with a sudden show of emotion. Was he enraged?

No. When she at last dared to glimpse upwards, she saw that the Feared One was amused.

“I am pleased to learn of such compassion in my bride.”

His words flummoxed her. Ariana lowered her face and fastened her gaze on the dusty ground. When she looked up again, it was to find Otto’s fierce brown eyes hovering inches from her own. Her breath caught in her throat as she inhaled his masculine aroma of heat and leather. And when his lips grazed against her cheek, she felt a shiver travel the length of her body.

His strong fingers finally released their grip on her wrist. “I bid you farewell, my lady,” he said.

“Farewell, my lord.” Heat rushed into her cheeks before she could look away, but Otto gave no sign of noticing her embarrassment. As he walked back to his horse, she slowly became aware of the clamoring crowd and the disdainful presence of Sir Althalos behind her.

“The earl puts on a show for his public.” Althalos spat out the words as if he had a nasty taste in his mouth.

Ariana straightened her back, determined not to be diminished by his bile.

“The people of Darkmoor are most loyal,” she stated. Althalos looked at her sharply and opened his mouth as if to speak, but Ariana cut him short with a dismissive nod of her head. “I bid you farewell, Sir Althalos,” she said, in a knowing parody of Otto.

And Althalos could do nothing but bow low as the new Countess of Darkmoor swept past him, away from the royal enclosure.

Ariana kept her head held high and her breathing steady until she reached the safety of her room, then she unfastened her cloak and clutched the back of a chair, sucking in lungfuls of air as a cool breeze wafted around her body.

The morning had unsettled her. Spiteful attention from a man such as Althalos was nothing new, but she was unused to being on public display, and totally unprepared for the rush of feeling she’d experienced when Otto’s lips met her cheek.

She put a hand to her face, as if a trace from his lips might still linger there. A tremor passed through her; one she didn’t fully understand. Otto Sarragnac was a sworn enemy of her people; a warrior she’d been raised to hate and fear. But in the short time she’d known him, he’d shown both compassion and kindness.

More than her own father had exhibited in many a year.

She had expected coldness and cruelty from the Earl of Darkmoor. It would have made her intended betrayal easier for her conscience to bear. But now this!

Ariana tugged absently at her loose sleeves as she paced the length of the room, recalling the moment their eyes had met across the jousting arena. She had experienced such a jolt of energy; it was like falling from a tree. Such a surge of awareness, of anticipation. Of life.

She made herself come to a standstill; her hands crossed over her heart so she could feel its frenzied rhythm.

This would never do.

Maybe Otto Sarragnac had put her under some kind of spell, for she was forgetting who she was and why she had willingly come here.

Not to play the part of an adoring wife in the stands, but to right a grievous wrong.

A wrong committed by the man she now called her husband.

A serving boy knocked on her half-open door and came into the chamber with his eyes cast studiously down.

“A letter has come for you, milady.”

“Thank you.”

She took the proffered roll of parchment and waited until the boy had bowed and left before opening it out. Her heart sank as she recognized her father’s inelegant scrawl.

Sir Leon wasted no words enquiring after his daughter’s happiness but got straight to reminding her of her duties to Kenmar. Ariana, he wrote, must recover the famous Rose of Kenmar; a beautiful ruby which once had belonged to Ariana’s grandmother.

Upon her death, it had not passed, as he’d hoped, to Ariana and thus to the coffers of Castle Kenmar, but instead to her Aunt Ysmay, the druid priestess. She had worn it always on a chain around her slender neck, its fiery colors matching the brightness in her eyes. Since her capture, the jewel had been claimed by Darkmoor, falling even further from Sir Leon’s clutches.

Ariana’s hands shook as she folded the parchment and placed it at the bottom of her travelling chest. If any of the maids should see it, her father’s plans would be revealed. And she, mayhap, would be considered complicit.

Then what? Her pulse quickened at the thought of how the Earl of Darkmoor might punish a disobedient bride. But a shudder rippled through her as she imagined the cold eyes of Sir Althalos lighting up in pleasure at her plight.

With a surge of impatience, she slammed shut the wooden chest and paced over to the narrow window. Her father wanted too much, and too soon. She had been a bride in Darkmoor for little more than a day. Did he expect her to already have gained access to the vaults? She was sure the prized ruby would be locked away somewhere in the castle. None could see it and not realize its rarity.

But it was a rarity that mattered little to Ariana. Recently among the druids, the Rose of Kenmar had come to mean not just the precious jewel, but also the beautiful woman who wore it. Ysmay, the greatest healer Kenmar had ever known.

Ariana had every intention of rescuing Ysmay from her wrongful imprisonment in Darkmoor. As for the jewel, she would deal with that later. Her father would be furious, but what did it matter? She was a daughter of Darkmoor now. He had signed her away with his own hand.

But Sir Leon would not rest until he had her reply. She must send one soon, else her days would be plagued with his missives.

Deep in thought, she didn’t hear the approaching footsteps and jumped in shock when the earl’s looming figure appeared in her doorway. Otto was so tall and broad he took most of the light; his shadow fell across the wooden floor onto the neat linens on her bed.

He inclined his head. “My lady.”

She dipped into an answering curtsy. “My lord.”

Impatience flashed across his eyes. “I have been Earl of Darkmoor for less than a month but already I grow bored with the bowing and scraping. Stand tall, Ariana, when I enter the room. You are my wife, not a servant.”

Though his words were generous, his commanding tone was harsh, and Ariana’s limbs trembled with anxiety. Not least because of the quest she had been contemplating just moments earlier. Nonetheless she gathered her composure and acquiesced with a graceful nod. A lock of her long hair fell across her cheek, but she resisted the urge to push it away. Instead, she linked her fingers together tightly, lest the earl see their tremors.

Otto put a hand to his brow. His chainmail had been removed and he was clad in a dark tunic embroidered with fine gold thread. It fell away from his shoulders to reveal his bronzed skin and the merest hint of a carved, muscular chest. Ariana’s nerves intensified into a small ball in the pit of her stomach. She pinched her nails into the backs of her hands until the pain steadied her thoughts.

“I have come with an offer,” he stated. His voice was rich and deep, like a cool river on a hot day.

She took a breath. “I should be pleased to hear it.”

He raised an eyebrow and all at once she was flooded with trepidation. Had the earl come to claim his bride, in the way she had expected last night? It was nothing more than his due. She had no right to resist him. But all at once, the trembling in her limbs intensified. She reached out to steady herself against the back of a wooden chair as Otto stepped forward in alarm.

“Are you unwell, Ariana?” He reached out a strong hand towards her and she couldn’t help an instinctive flinch away. Realization flashed across his rugged face, closely followed by annoyance. He cleared his throat and looked away, towards the narrow window. “I meant only to invite you on a tour of the castle.”

A potent mixture of relief and embarrassment made her weak. Heat suffused her spine and sprung into her cheeks. She smoothed her sleeves and swallowed. “I should like that.”

He nodded sharply. “I have some time before luncheon.”

“I have no engagements.” It was a statement of fact, but bitterly made. Ariana hated to be idle. Back home in Kenmar, she was kept busy with work around the humble castle. And when work was done, she would ride out into the hills with her charcoal and a roll of parchment, always keen to snatch a moment to sketch—sometimes basing her line drawings on the bounteous nature all around, sometimes letting her imagination run wild. She had never been one to while away her days with chatter and embroidery, the way she suspected the Countess of Darkmoor may be expected to.

Although she had not yet been introduced to any ladies to chatter to. The great hall of Darkmoor Castle had been filled mainly with men during yesterday’s wedding feast. Back then, she had been relieved to have no scathing eyes raking over her gown and finding it wanting.

Otto inclined his head. “Shall we?”

He did not hold out his arm for Ariana to take, but she had not been brought up to expect chivalry. Pausing only to fasten her cloak and pull up her hood, Ariana preceded him out of her bedchamber and out onto the sunlit gallery.

“Where shall we go?” She couldn’t help a flicker of excitement at Otto’s attention, but she told herself this was because he was unwittingly playing into her hands. If she could discover where the dungeons were located, mayhap she could locate Ysmay this very day.

“This way.” Otto strode past her, taking the lead down the spiral stone staircase and out of the grand entrance doors to the inner courtyard. Ariana had to hurry to keep pace with him, wary of tripping on her long skirts.

The late morning sun had grown strong; Ariana’s fur-trimmed cloak was unnecessary. She felt heat building at the back of her neck as she followed her husband around a corner towards a lawn of sparse grass. She looked around at this unfamiliar part of the castle, where weeds grew up through cracks in the rough stone. All around them, servants paused in their work and bowed low as they passed. Ariana knew they would be judging her, gossiping about her uncommon height and unfashionable wardrobe.

Smoke billowed out of the bakehouse, which was at least twice the size of the one in Kenmar. Shouting and banging from within indicated a frenzy of work in progress. Ariana flinched away, reluctant to be a nuisance, but Otto veered from the gray-stone building and turned sharply to the right, bringing them to a sudden halt by a circular tower which had loomed up out of nowhere.

She put out a hand to the sun-warmed stone. A strong breeze cooled her cheeks and brought birdsong floating up from the woods below them.

“What is this?”

He glanced down at her with all-knowing eyes which made her stomach twist. “Come and see.” He fished in his tunic for a long iron key and swung open the door. “After you, Ariana.”

She picked up her skirts and walked past him, conscious of the need to brush against his broad chest. Had he stood so close on purpose?

The air inside the tower smelled dank after the freshness of the day and she had to blink until her eyes adjusted to the gloom. The stone steps were narrow and steep. She concentrated on where she was putting her feet, trying to stay away from the gray walls which ran with damp.

She had expected wealth and riches from the famed fortress of Darkmoor, not poor accommodation such as this.

All at once, apprehension sized her. She paused and felt the commanding bulk of Otto press against her back. “Why have you brought me here?”

“You will see.” His voice was gravelly and deep, giving nothing away.

Had he already discovered her treachery? Had he brought her here to imprison her—or dispose of her?

A thrill of fear made her blood run colder than the tower she was forced to ascend. But with the bulk of the earl behind her, she had no choice but to continue. At least she was walking towards a bright chink of sunlight; one which grew bigger and more welcoming with every twist of the stairs.

Finally, she emerged into a spacious, circular chamber. It was flooded with sunlight from several large windows which had been cut into the stone. After the gloom of the stairwell, the brightness was a blessing. Relief made her knees weaken and her chest heave inside the restrictive bodice of her gown. She put out a hand to a tapestried wall while she caught her breath.

Barely affected by the steep climb, Otto walked to the center of the chamber and put his hands on his slim hips.

“What do you think?”

She pushed back her hood and lifted her dark hair away from her neck while she cast her eyes around. Two upholstered chairs were positioned near an unlit fireplace and at the other side stood a large wooden table. Other than that, the room was empty.

“What is this place?”

“It is my tower.” He smiled slightly. “Come and look.”

He waved her over to one of the windows and after a moment’s hesitation, she came to join him. Side by side, they gazed out at an unparalleled scene. Ariana couldn’t help a gasp of surprise. Up here, they were far above the treetops. All of Darkmoor spread out before them in a patchwork of rolling fields. Here and there, small dots indicated cattle or men working the land. If she shaded her eyes, she fancied she could see a shimmering line on the horizon which must be the sea.

“It is beautiful,” she exclaimed, honestly.

“It is useful,” he corrected her. “From this tower, I can see to the very edge of our dominion. None can enter into Darkmoor lands from the east without my knowledge.”

His words made her knees start to tremble once again. Why was he telling her this? Had he somehow divined her intentions?

She made her voice light. “Surely you have castle guards for such a chore?”

He pursed his full lips, and she once again noticed his chiseled cheekbones, so sharp they might cut her. “Of course. We have many guards here. But I prefer to keep an eye on things myself.”

“You have no one to entrust with this task?” she questioned.

He shook his head.

Her pulse quickened and to buy herself time, she strolled casually over to another window. But she no longer had any interest in the view. “That must be very lonely for you,” she commented.

His hunter’s eyes followed her every move. She was trapped here, she realized. No one knew where she was. No one would hear her if she screamed. Though that mattered little, for even if her plight was known, no one in Darkmoor would dare stand against the earl. Far above them, the sun shifted behind a cloud and the tower room was plunged into shadows. Otto became one with the darkness. A masculine force of muscle and brawn. A warrior, trained to trust only himself.

“I have been raised to expect little else,” he stated.

Ariana’s growing anxieties were tempered by a small jolt of recognition. Nor me , she wanted to say. But the words dried on her tongue.

She swallowed and dampened her lips. “What about me?” she forced out. If a confrontation was coming, then she would prefer to get it over with. “Can the Earl of Darkmoor not trust his wife?”

All at once, she regretted her bravado. Otto stalked over to her, like a lion approaching its prey. “What about you?” he murmured, bringing his warm, bronzed hand to her flushed cheek. “Can I trust Ariana of Kenmar?” His gaze tightened; eyes boring into hers. “Let’s talk about that, shall we?”