Chapter Five

A riana pushed shut the wooden door of her chamber and flung her cloak onto the bed. She was flushed with heat and an inner conflict that showed no sign of abating.

That kiss.

His lips on hers, feathery light. The broadness of his shoulders. The sinewy strength of his arms that held her so gently.

The coldness in his eyes when, just minutes later, he condemned anyone believed to be guilty of crimes against Darkmoor.

Ariana clamped a hand over her mouth, fearful that the turmoil churning her stomach may come pouring out of her in a wail that would be sure to bring her maid running. She couldn’t bear to be seen like this.

She was too hot. How could she think straight in this dreadful heat which covered her like an itchy blanket?

With shaking fingers, Ariana gathered up her long tresses of hair and tied them in a plait over her shoulder, relieved to feel some cool air against the back of her neck. She walked over to the nightstand and poured herself a small cup of ale from the earthenware pitcher, sipping it slowly.

That was better. Gradually, her heartrate slowed along with her racing thoughts, leaving her to confront an uncomfortable truth which her wildest dreams could never have foreseen.

She found her husband attractive.

Ariana squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to repel the notion, but it could not be denied. Otto’s image flickered before her. Tall, strong, irrefutably male. A potent concoction of untamed power and unanticipated kindness.

He had infected her, like a fever. See how she trembled like a foolish maiden? Ariana straightened her shoulders. This would never do. She was Ariana of Kenmar, made of sterner stuff than the silly ladies who simpered and giggled in her father’s hall. But in less than a day she had fallen prey to that very same affliction.

Which was ridiculous indeed. Her husband, forced upon her by circumstance, was Otto Sarragnac, the Feared One. And hadn’t he proved himself worthy of his reputation when he spoke so unfeelingly about the prisoners held at Traitor’s Gate?

Ariana shook her head to dispel any remaining confusion. Rescuing Ysmay had to be her number one priority. She couldn’t allow her resolve to weaken with memories of how it had felt to stand encircled in Otto’s arms. To feel his warm breath against her cheeks. The rasp of sharp stubble before the softness of his kiss.

Memories which gathered force within her, threatening to undermine everything.

She crossed her room and rummaged deep within her travelling case, breathing a sigh of relief when her fingers closed over the letter from her father.

She would write her reply, this very minute. What better way to channel her roving thoughts?

Ariana sat at her writing desk, bidding her hands to be steady else the ink would splatter everywhere. Though Sir Leon had never cared about the neatness of his daughter’s hand, Ariana prided herself on the flowing lines of her letters. Somehow, the act of marking empty parchment with lines that would last longer than she, had always calmed her. It was the same with her sketching; a pastime that never failed to bring her peace. She lowered her head and concentrated on her task, writing with studied concentration of her intentions to free the Rose of Kenmar at her first opportunity.

Sir Leon, of course, would assume she meant the ruby; the precious jewel which his avaricious mind could not forget. But no matter. The task had quietened her thoughts and clarified her resolve. For all his brooding masculinity and sudden smiles, the Earl of Darkmoor could not compete with the love and affection Ariana felt for her aunt.

She would free Ysmay.

Ariana waited for the ink to dry, then folded and sealed her letter, acting hastily now for fear of being interrupted. Sure enough, no sooner had the wax settled than she heard a knock on her chamber door and the maid, Allys, entered.

“I am to help you dress for dinner, milady.” The maid bobbed a curtsy and waited expectantly.

Ariana couldn’t help a sigh of regret. She had always hated the charade of dressing for dinner. The restrictive gowns. The hairpins that dug into her scalp. The knowledge that no matter how much time the maids spent pinning up her hair or straightening her skirts, she would never hold a candle to those dew-eyed young ladies whose hair fell into natural ringlets and who somehow knew how to hold their fans just so, batting their eyelids and quirking their pink lips into perfect smiles. Mayhap if her mother had lived for longer, or she’d had an older sister to guide her, she’d have found it all less daunting.

“I was hoping to have a tray brought up to my room,” Ariana tried. “I am weary from the events of the day.” Her halting words failed to sound credible to her own ears.

Allys shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She was a short, slender girl with straight brown hair and a level gaze. Was she pleased to find herself elevated to the position of lady’s maid, Ariana wondered, or did she prefer the bustle and camaraderie of the kitchen?

“The earl has requested a place be laid for you in the great hall,” Allys said tonelessly.

Despite herself, Ariana felt her heart lift at this. Otto was thinking of her, wanting her company. How could she refuse him?

How could she refuse anyway? She had neither power nor agency in the halls of Darkmoor.

“Very well,” she sighed, dragging her feet over to the vanity table where Allys waited, hairbrush in hand.

Sometime later, attired in her best emerald-green gown with her hair carefully piled onto her head and a necklace of gleaming pearls fastened around her neck, Ariana was declared ready. Her corset pinched and she dared not make any sudden movements, lest her hair come tumbling down, but she correctly divined that the Countess of Darkmoor could not publicly dine without such pomp and ceremony.

“Please can you see that my letter is delivered to Sir Leon?” she asked Allys.

“Very good, milady.” The maid bobbed another curtsy and then left the chamber, pulling the door closed behind her noiselessly.

Left alone, Ariana felt a clutch of fear. She must descend to the great hall alone. At least in cold Castle Kenmar, feasting and ritual had been uncommon occurrences. There, she had been largely left to her own devices, eating from a trencher of bread and cheese which Chiara the castle cook had willingly brought up to her chamber when hunger dictated. But when the niceties were observed, perchance when Sir Leon entertained company, Ariana had always known that she would be amongst other women. A couple of them kind, most of them not. But all of them well able to attract the attention of her father’s men, drawing their eyes blessedly away from Ariana.

She had never before faced the prospect of being a lone lady in a hall full of warriors.

Ariana fingered the pearls that dipped into the hollows of her throat. She was Countess of Darkmoor now and must greet whatever obstacles came her way. She would hold her head high and remember that rescuing Ysmay was the only thing that mattered.

Still, her courage failed her at the entrance to the great hall and she ducked behind the high stone archway to better compose herself. The rumble of conversation was distinctly masculine, with guffaws of laughter and much scraping of chairs. Ariana risked peeking around the archway to scan the room for a familiar face. She knew that Merek took his meals in his chamber. Her only friend here could be Otto.

At first, she could see nothing but a blaze of light, for the hall was illuminated with flaming torches as well as a multitude of candles which flickered from the mighty pillars. The vast room was full of people, of men . All of them clad in the red and gold colors of Darkmoor. How could she recognize Otto amongst so many seasoned fighters?

She knew a thrill of relief when she spied him sitting high on the dais beside another man whom she hadn’t seen before. Once identified, his height and bearing made the Earl of Darkmoor unmistakable. Although the shuttered expression on his rugged face bore little resemblance to the courteous husband who had invited her on a tour of the castle. Ariana felt a thrill of foreboding travel up her spine. She had risked too much when she asked him to show her the dungeons. Pushed her advantage too far. Amidst the clamor of the knights and soldiers, her vulnerability was all too evident. She must stay on her guard around the Feared One and his men.

“Are you quite well, my lady?”

She jumped at the voice, smooth as oil slick, which came from behind her. Ariana recognized it at once and her heart sank as she turned to acknowledge Sir Althalos.

“Just getting my bearings,” she lied. “Good evening, Sir Althalos.”

A knowing look passed across his small dark eyes. He knew she had cowered here, intimidated and maybe even afraid. Ariana cursed herself for her foolishness, and for giving this weaselly man some advantage over her.

He proffered an arm, which she had no choice but to take. “Allow me to escort you to your seat.”

“You are most kind.” She inclined her head and rested the tips of her fingers against his crimson sleeves.

All conversation ceased in the great hall as they made their stately procession to the dais. Ariana felt hundreds of eyes turn upon her, felt her nostrils assaulted by the stench of sweat mixed with cooked meats. Well-honed fighting men sat on wooden benches pulled up to trestle tables all around the hall. Their bodies were loose, their limbs carelessly outstretched, meaning she must pick her way carefully around muscular legs and heavy boots. She deliberately held herself tall, refusing to repeat her earlier show of weakness, however much her heart pounded and perspiration gathered beneath the folds of her gown.

They clambered up to the dais and Althalos pulled out her chair with an overdone display of chivalry. “My lady.” He bowed low.

“Thank you, Sir Althalos.”

With as much grace as she could muster, Ariana lowered herself into her chair and only then raised her eyes to her husband. “Good evening, my lord.”

Otto seemed momentarily surprised to see her there. The earl had been deep in conversation with the man at his side, merely picking at the platter of tempting morsels before him. “Ariana.” He nodded with just the merest flicker of a smile. “Let me pour you some wine.”

She thanked him, though she wanted neither food nor wine. Her stomach churned with a mixture of apprehension and exhaustion. Had it really been just one day since her wedding ceremony?

“Allow me to introduce my distant cousin and good friend, Angus de Neville.” Otto nodded to the man beside him; a tall, golden-haired giant of a man, clad in rich furs with eyes as blue as a summer sky. “Angus, this is my bride, Ariana, Countess of Darkmoor.”

The title tripped from his tongue clumsily, as if Otto shared Ariana’s incredulity that the worthy moniker should apply to her.

The golden-haired nobleman raised his goblet and smiled broadly. “Delighted to meet you, Countess. I apologize that I was not here for your wedding. Alas, I was detained in Wolvesley.”

Otto snorted before Ariana could think of a suitable reply. “Detained how, Angus?” he enquired mildly. “Perchance were the pleasures too manifold for you to take your leave?”

Ariana felt a blush stain her cheeks at her husband’s rudeness, but his friend laughed it off easily. “It is true, Countess, that in comparison to my cousin here, my life is one of idle enjoyment.” He took a long sip of wine. “I would not have it any other way.”

“Angus is the younger brother of the Earl of Wolvesley,” Otto commented drily. “He enjoys all of the riches and none of the responsibility.”

“And will you stay with us long?” Ariana asked politely, her voice sounding weak amidst so much clamor.

“Have no fear, my lady.” Angus bowed his head gallantly toward her. “I will be out of your way come the morrow. I must make haste to Hexham. Besides, I have no intention of overstaying my welcome with the wild warriors of Darkmoor.” He winked at her before raising his eyes to Otto and guffawing with mirth.

Ariana was mortified that her polite enquiry had been misinterpreted. “There is no need for you to leave us so soon.”

“Ah, but there is,” Otto injected. “Angus is unused to rough living. Our halls are not great enough, is that not right, my friend?”

“On the contrary, your halls do very well. Outside of Wolvesley, there is nowhere else I would rather be.”

Otto gave a burst of laughter which took Ariana by surprise. For a moment, the Feared One morphed into a genial young man with a solid sense of humor.

“You lie, Angus, but I thank you for the compliment. What about the beautiful Lady Emelia Foxton, your betrothed? Surely, she will be missing you?”

Angus straightened his face and nodded with a show of sobriety. “I am sure she is distraught at my absence.”

“Should you not do the lady a favor, and marry her already?”

“The favor is the lady’s to take, whenever she wishes. I await her word.” Angus paused to drink deeply from his goblet. “Although I have always believed that marriage is not a state to be hurried into.” He paused, as if remembering both his manners and the hurried nature of Otto’s recent nuptials. “But of course, if one’s betrothed is as lovely as the Lady Ariana, why wait?”

Ariana’s cheeks stung with heat at the falsehood. She had little experience of society, but tales of the redoubtable Lady Emelia Foxton, beloved companion of Princess Mary, had reached even her father’s chilly outpost. Lady Emelia was one of the wealthiest heiresses in England and a beauty in the bargain. By her side, Ariana was as lovely as a farmer’s daughter just in from working the fields.

Angus de Neville was toying with her.

If she had felt out of place before, now Ariana was awash with self-awareness. Thankfully, having paid their dues to the lady present, the men now paid her little heed, resuming the close conversation they’d been enjoying before her entrance. Ariana toyed with the food on her trencher, half wishing to re-join the banter, keenly aware that the eyes of Darkmoor were upon her. Surely if the men-at-arms saw her interacting with their lord and master, their interest in her would wane? They would look away, anxious not to be caught prying.

But Otto and Angus were as thick as thieves, and humble modesty prevented her from speaking up. She had no wish to converse with Althalos, and dared not so much as glance sideways towards him for fear he may try to engage her. As the seconds ticked by, her silence became inescapable. She was like a young child allowed to dine with the adults for the first time. A cold flower of anxiety unfurled in her stomach as she watched Otto’s long fingers grip the stem of his goblet.

Was Otto displeased with her?

Worse, had he discovered her missive to Sir Leon?

Surely not, she reasoned, dampening down her panic. Why then would he have greeted her and poured her wine? Even requested her presence in the great hall?

A flurry of footsteps announced the arrival of a fourth man who was to join them on the dais. He was tall and gray-haired, with a kind but noble face. He bowed low, first to Otto, then Ariana, and finally to Angus de Neville. His nod to Sir Althalos was distinctly more abrupt.

Otto raised his hand towards the man. “Ariana, this is Gaius, one of my longest-serving knights.”

“I am pleased to meet you,” she said, smiling. Perhaps Gaius would inspire some conversation in which she could participate. She would feel so much more comfortable if she could talk and laugh with another.

“You, too, my lady.” His blue eyes were crinkled with sincerity, but no sooner had he settled himself than Otto turned to bring him into conversation with Angus.

Ariana’s spirits sank.

Althalos, who was seated at her left, leaned closer. “You are not eating, my lady. Allow me to assist you.”

Ariana steeled herself not to flinch away from the sourness of his breath. “I have little appetite,” she replied, honestly.

It was the wrong thing to say. Althalos quirked an eyebrow. “Perhaps the Darkmoor kitchens are not as well equipped as those you are accustomed to?”

His words met their mark, but she cleared her throat and spoke to him levelly. “I believe you know that is not true, Sir Althalos.”

Her brutal honesty made Althalos choke on a mouthful of food, and her lips twitched into a smile, but she regretted her impulsive words almost immediately. Her husband’s uncle was an unpleasant man; it would not do to make an enemy out of him.

“On the contrary,” she continued, “it is the case that I am unaccustomed to such rich and wonderful foodstuffs.” She waved her hand over the laden tabletop which groaned with roasted meats.

“Perhaps you would prefer a bowl of broth?” Althalos suggested drily.

“Indeed, I would.”

She had not counted on the hovering page who scampered off to the kitchen to repeat her request; one that surely would not endear her to either the servants or the household.

How could she ask for mere broth when she was seated in such company?

Her spirits plummeted further when their handsome guest, Angus de Neville, gave her a quick glance over the rim of his goblet. What must he think of her?

What must Otto think of her?

Ariana folded her hands in her lap and looked down, avoiding further conversation. When a bowl of steaming broth was placed before her, she surprised herself by sniffing hungrily, tempted by the simple fare.

She met Otto’s eye as she picked up her spoon and he treated her to another slight smile. Small comfort, but there nonetheless.

The vegetable broth was quite tasty. Ariana found herself relaxing in her high-backed chair. Gradually the chatter in the great hall resumed to its earlier levels. She was a novelty no longer. Within days, hopefully her presence on the dais would warrant no comment.

A fearsomely tall, broad-shouldered man made his way up the steps of the dais to speak to Otto, his thunderous footsteps making the ground beneath them shake. She watched from the corner of her eye as the men conversed; one warrior to another. The new man’s thighs, encased in breeches, were as wide as tree trunks. No wonder the might of Darkmoor was feared far and wide, with men such as this to fight for it.

No wonder the druids had crumbled so quickly.

With shaking fingers, Ariana placed her spoon carefully in her bowl, but she could do little to stem the tide of memory. She heard Merek’s voice as if he was speaking directly into her ear.

“But for Otto’s return, your aunt would likely have been killed.”

Was this giant of a man one of those responsible for plundering the druid camp and taking Ysmay prisoner? What hope would those peaceful people have had against such a brute?

She tried to swallow down her last mouthful of broth but found herself choking. One cough, then another. Her hand went to her throat as her chair scraped back and Ariana struggled to catch her breath. In seconds, Otto came to her aid.

“What is it?” he enquired; heavy brows knitted together. “Here, drink this.”

Ariana clutched at the goblet and desperately gulped down the wine, which washed down the stubborn broth. Her sides heaved as her breathing returned to normal.

“Thank you,” she managed.

“Take a moment,” he advised.

The eyes of Darkmoor were upon her once again. Ariana grew even hotter with the realization she had acquitted herself badly. She wanted to leave now, before anything else could go wrong, but Otto was already righting her chair and guiding her into it.

“Better?” he asked.

“Thank you, my lord.” She dared not look at Sir Althalos, nor Angus, nor the assembled soldiers below her. When would this ordeal end?

Otto returned to his own place, but she felt the force of his gaze still upon her, while Angus and Gaius looked studiously away.

“There are no other women here,” Otto announced, as if newly surprised by their absence. “I apologize for it, Ariana. It is only right that you should have female company.”

She inclined her head. “Please, do not trouble on my account.”

Otto waved his hand expansively. “It is no trouble, and it is no less than your due. We have been the preserve of men since my mother’s death and I’m sure our manners are the worse for it.” He paused for a moment as Angus spluttered his agreement. “My father did not encourage distractions, but there are noble ladies, wives and daughters of our knights, who we could invite to the castle,” he floundered, clearly unsure what women might do when left alone together.

Ariana smiled her thanks, carefully masking her fears. “That would be most pleasant.”

“Good.” Otto’s face was transformed by his smile. “Robin.” He clicked his fingers towards his page. “See that Lady Elspeth and Mistress Lucietta receive an invitation to dine with us tomorrow.”

Lady Elspeth and Mistress Lucietta, Ariana recited their names in her head. Names which told her nothing about the women she would meet. Would they become kind, supportive confidantes, like Chiara back home in Kenmar? Or would they snipe and snigger behind her back, like so many others in Sir Leon’s castle?

She shook herself out of her reverie to find Althalos’s cold eyes set upon her, a small smile playing over his lips. What lapse of etiquette had she displayed now?

Ariana pressed a napkin to her lips, determined to remain an object of ridicule no longer. She raised her chin and sought out Otto’s gaze. “Forgive me, husband, but I find myself out of sorts. I will retire early.” She pushed back her chair and stood from the table, before any of the men assembled could react.

Otto was the first to his feet. “I shall accompany you,” he said, making Ariana’s heart leap.

But Althalos was also out of his chair and lifting a restraining hand to his nephew. “I will not hear of it, my lord. I shall escort Lady Ariana. Pray, be seated now and finish your meal.”

Ariana pressed her lips together, silencing any plea for Otto’s support. Althalos could hardly insist on accompanying her all the way back to her chamber. What harm could another minute in the man’s odious company do her?

She inclined her head to Otto, Angus and Gaius, the elderly knight, allowing Althalos to take her arm and lead her down the wooden steps of the dais. With her eyes fixed on the arched doorway and freedom, Ariana cared less about the keen appraisal of the men as they paraded through the great hall. Soon she could close her chamber door and pull her hair free of its ridiculous trappings.

She turned to face Althalos as soon as they passed into the stone-flagged entrance hall. Standing beneath the mighty Darkmoor coat of arms, she pulled herself up to her full height.

“I bid you good evening, Sir Althalos.”

She expected him to bow and take his leave, but instead he held tightly to her arm, keeping her prisoner by his side.

“I am surprised you agreed with such good grace,” he announced, cold eyes raking her over. Making her feel foolish and worthless, as was no doubt his intent.

She could wrench her arm free and walk away. He could hardly chase after her. But after the scene on the dais, Ariana had no wish to create another.

She swallowed; aware she was walking into his trap. “Agreed to what?”

Althalos smiled. “Why, to the earl installing his whore here in Darkmoor Castle, right under your very nose.”