The Silver Rose by Jane Feather Page A

them.
    “’Is lordship was down ’ere yesterday,” Edgar observed with seeming casualness.
    Ariel stopped. “Doing what?”
    “Jest lookin’ around, I reckon.”
    “Did he say anything?”
    “Not so’s you’d notice.” Edgar bent over the brazier again, warming his gnarled hands.
    Ariel frowned. “He couldn’t know about the colt. The negotiations have been so secret.”
    “Oh, I ’spect he was jest nosy,” Edgar responded.
    “But Ranulf never bothers with my horses. None of them do. They’re only interested in hunters.”
    “Per’aps ’e was lookin’ to see if’n ye ’ad a likely ’unter among this lot.”
    “Perhaps.” But Ariel was uneasy. If Ranulf suspected that instead of a harmless hobby his sister had a money-making business going, he’d have his hands on the proceeds beforeshe could blink an eye. In the morning she would casually mention his visit and see how he reacted. He might demand one of the stud, but with luck she could persuade him that none of them was up to his weight.
    Her mouth tightened. The lords of Ravenspeare rode their horses viciously hard. She would shoot one of her animals rather than let any one of her brothers own it. She turned back to the yard. “Good night, Edgar. I’ll leave the dogs loose tonight. There are so many strangers around, I’ll sleep better if the hounds are roaming.”
    “Aye,” the man agreed. “And I daresay I’ll sleep in the tack room, jest in case any of ’em gets restless with the noise.” He jerked his head speakingly toward the stableyard, where the row from the hall could be heard spilling around the castle.
    “Thanks.” She smiled at him in the dim light and left the stable block. There was no sign of the dogs, and if she didn’t call them, they would enjoy a night’s freedom after a day’s confinement. Judging by the racket, the night’s sottish revelries, in the absence of the bride and groom, would continue until dawn, and it wouldn’t be the first time if some of her brothers’ guests decided to go for a moonlit ride. She wanted no drink-sodden rider throwing his leg over one of her horses.
    She went back through the kitchen, throwing the bar over the door behind her. It would keep any drunkenly wandering guest from blundering into the stableyard through the kitchen. She had eaten very little at the feast and was suddenly aware that she was hungry. In the pantry she piled chicken legs, a large slice of veal and ham pie, and a bowl of syllabub on a tray, together with a tankard of mead from the keg, and hurried up the inside stairs.
    She closed the door of her own chamber and leaned back against it with a sigh of relief. The sounds from downstairs were muted and her own room seemed a haven of peace and privacy. She set her supper on the side table and tossed asideher cloak, before throwing fresh logs on the fire and trimming the lamp. Then, satisfied that all was as cozy as she could make it, she sat before the fire, kicked off her shoes, and took the tray on her knees.
    She was gnawing happily on a chicken leg when the door was suddenly thrown open. Oliver Becket stood there, two goblets in his hand, a twisted grin on his face.
    “Eh, bud, we must drink to your wedding night.” He stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. The kick wasn’t strong enough and the heavy oak merely swung against the frame.
    “Go away, Oliver.” Ariel kept her seat and continued to eat her chicken, hoping that a cool and sober response would penetrate her unwelcome visitor’s stupefied condition.
    “Don’t be unfriendly, bud,” he chided, placing the goblets with exaggerated care on the bedside table. “You were not wont to be unfriendly before.” His skewed grin intensified as he came toward her, hands outstretched. “Come, you can’t spend your wedding night alone.”
    “You’re drunk, Oliver.”
    He threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Of course I am, bud. What man would stay sober on such a night?