Simon's attention, however, was taken by the figure standing in the middle of the court beside a roan mare. The girl from the riverbank. Judging by her mount's labored breathing, she must have ridden her hard to arrive before them. It had obviously not been difficult for her to guess his identity. At her heels stood the two massive wolfhounds, on her gauntleted wrist sat the hooded merlin. Ariel Ravenspeare. No crookbacked, walleyed, dolt, this one.
She had removed her hat and held it under her arm. Hair the color of liquid honey tumbled unrestrained to her shoulders, framing an oval face. From beneath long, curling sable lashes, clear, almond-shaped gray eyes met the earl of Hawkesmoor's startled scrutiny with an unnerving intensity. Her nose was small, her mouth full, her chin slightly pointed. She bore little physical resemblance to her brothers, and yet there was something about her that he saw now was intrinsically Ravenspeare. Something about the arrogance of her stance, the tilt of her chin.
She was beautifully formed, he noticed almost absently. From the sloping shoulders, to the nip of waist, to the curve of hip. He had a sudden reluctance to dismount, to reveal his own clumsy lameness to this girl, so perfect in her youth and freshness.
The three brothers came toward him. "We bid you welcome, Hawkesmoor." Ranulf spoke with studied formality, but he was angry, his charcoal eyes dark, a muscle twitching in his pale countenance, his mouth so compressed as to be barely visible.
Simon dismounted, extended his hand. All three brothers shook it, but with noticeable hesitation. Simon glanced to where the crimson-clad girl still stood beside her horse, with her dogs and her hawk. She hadn't moved a muscle. Simon reached up to his saddle, sliding the silver-mounted cane from the loops that held it. He wondered when Ranulf would call her forward.
"You are very welcome to Ravenspeare, my lords," Ranulf declared, his harsh voice ringing out through the quiet. He moved forward to greet the party who had dismounted with Simon. He had expected a party of lords and ladies, friends and relatives of the Hawkesmoor. Instead the man had come with a troop of fighting men. Ranulf knew them all for what they were, all lords who had fought on the battlefields of Europe beside the duke of Marlborough. They were armed only with the usual gentlemen's swords, but it was as clear as daylight to Ranulf that the earl of Hawkesmoor was accompanied by a protective cadre. Or was it an offensive cadre?
But this was only part of his anger. The main was directed at his sister, who, instead of awaiting her bridegroom in her wedding gown surrounded by her attendants, was standing
with insolent insouciance with her dogs and a damn hawk on her wrist, for all the world as if she expected to be married on horseback in the middle of a hunt.
"The lady?" Simon inquired, his eyes still on the girl.
"My sister," Ranulf said harshly. "Your bride, Hawkesmoor, although you'd not be blamed for doubting it. Come here, Ariel!" The command was issued in a tone more suited to summoning a dog.
Simon's eyes flicked contempt; then, before Ariel could respond to Ranulf's order, Simon walked toward her, trying not to lean too heavily on his cane, trying to hide the slight drag of his wounded leg. She remained where she was, watching him, her gaze unreadable.
"Madam." He bowed as he reached her. "I believe you had the advantage of me at the river."
When he smiled, he was not quite so ugly, Ariel thought. His eyes had a faraway look to them as if he'd spent many years gazing into the horizon, but they had a glint of humor too. She wondered whether his lameness was permanent or merely the result of a recent wound. The scar on his face would never leave him, though. It might fade, but he would bear it to his grave. Not that his physical appearance was relevant to anything, she reminded herself sharply. If her brothers had their way, he would never be her husband in anything but name. He was an accursed Hawkesmoor and he would not know the body of a Ravenspeare. She had no interest in him at all. He must be a cipher, a man of no more substance than a ghost who passed for a brief period through her life.
"I knew of no other Puritan likely to be on the road to Ravenspeare," she commented with a cold curtsy, continuing with distant irony, "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Hawkesmoor. If you'll excuse me, I'll prepare myself for the altar." Then she was gone, through the archway that led to the stableyard and the falconer's mews, the dogs at her heels.
Thoughtfully, Simon turned back to his hosts and his own watchful friends. "The Lady Ariel seems less than enthusiastic for this marriage."
Ranulf hissed through his teeth. Ariel was compelling him to make excuses to a damned Hawkesmoor. "My sister is headstrong, Hawkesmoor. But she is not unwilling, I assure you."
"Ariel is somewhat unconventional, Lord Hawkesmoor." It was Roland who spoke up now, his voice smoothly diplomatic, an insincere smile curving his thin mouth. "Her interests lie mostly with her horses, and, as you saw, she's a sportswoman. Her life on the fens has been somewhat isolated; she's not accustomed to society. But I assure you that you'll not find her any trouble. She'll settle onto your own estates easily enough and won't pester you for visits to court or the like."
He was talking of his sister as if she were some highly bred animal who, handled correctly, would accept a change of habitat without undue difficulty. Simon could think of no response, so he merely inclined his head and followed his hosts into the castle. From the little he'd seen of Lady Ariel, he hadn't formed the impression of a malleable personality.
"I daresay you'll wish to change your clothes." Ranulf snapped his fingers at a footman. "Show Lord Hawkesmoor and his party to their apartments." He glanced at his guest. "It wants but fifteen minutes to noon."
"Five minutes is all I'll need," Simon said with a pleasant smile, following the servant, leaving Ranulf looking astounded. He couldn't imagine how a man could ready himself with fresh linen, new garments, and formal wig, all in the space of five minutes.
The bells in the chapel began to ring as the clock struck noon. The two hundred wedding guests crossed the courtyard to the stone chapel. The strangeness of this wedding was lost on none of them. The groom had been true to his promise and in five minutes had returned to the Great Hall in a suit of dark cloth, unadorned except for the lace edging to his cravat. His appearance was in startling contrast to the lavish ceremonial finery of the Ravenspeare brothers and their guests, the men in their rich silks and velvets, the women like so many bright-plumaged exotic birds. His cropped head was almost shocking against the mass of luxuriant gray-powdered wigs as he took his place at the altar, his own friends, as soberly clad, standing in a semicircle to one side. Nothing could disguise the bearing of soldiers, and however hard they tried to keep their hands from their sword hilts, the tension of the effort was almost palpable in the dark stone chapel.
Ariel listened to the pealing bells as a flock of maids dressed her for her wedding. She had been dressing herself without assistance since she'd left the nursery, and this unusual attention added to her strange disembodied feeling. She felt empty… hollow. As if the well of emotion and feeling that normally centered her had dried up. She was going through the motions of this charade as if she were a marionette and her brothers were pulling the strings.
A Hawkesmoor had debauched her mother, caused her mother's death. Ariel had known this from early childhood, just as she had been fed the family hatred drip by drip until it ran in her veins. And in a matter of minutes she was to be wed to the son of the man who had caused her mother's death. The son of a dishonorable and dishonored family.