She sat down by the fire again, a considering frown on her brow. Oliver Becket was a young, agile, supple man. But he had been physically mastered by an older man suffering from a disabling wound. Of course, Oliver had been caught in somewhat awkward circumstances. She looked curiously around the room and could see no sign of Simon's cane. It would seem he could walk unaided when necessary.

"I should be grateful if you would turn out the lamp," her husband remarked in his calm voice. "I find it hard to fall asleep in the light."

"I was hoping to finish my supper."

"Then do so by firelight. If you're going to share this bed, pray tell me now so that I ensure I sleep tidily."

For answer, Ariel got up and pulled the truckle bed from beneath the fourposter. "You may sleep as untidily as you please, my lord."

"Good." With a contented groan, he rolled onto his belly, flung both legs wide apart under the quilts, and settled into the feather mattress.

Ariel looked disdainfully at the narrow straw pallet on the truckle bed. There was no pillow and the only cover was a thin blanket. Hardly adequate on a damp and freezing winter night.

"Is there a hot brick in my bed?"

"How would I know?" came a pillow-muffled mumble. "But there's definitely one in mine." His toes wriggled pleasurably around the blanket-wrapped brick, and Ariel ground her teeth.

Very funny, my lord. She fetched the velvet cloak she'd been wearing earlier and tossed it on top of the blanket. It wasn't much help, but it was better than nothing.

She turned out the oil lamp and stood by the fire to warm herself before venturing into her icy little bed. Deep, rumbling, rhythmic breathing emanated from the fourposter behind her. The earl of Hawkesmoor was clearly a swift and sound sleeper. She glanced at her neglected supper tray in the firelight but found she'd lost interest in its contents. She picked up one of the fragrant goblets Oliver had brought in and sipped at the warm spiced wine. That at least had been a good thought, she reflected sourly. Mulled wine to accompany rapine adultery. Was there nothing Ranulf wouldn't stoop to?

Ariel shrugged. It was a rhetorical question. Huddling closer to the fire, she began to undress, casting aside her wedding gown with a grimace of disgust. This morning she had thought it pretty; now it seemed a tawdry garment to trick out a deceitful charade. She dragged her shut over her head, took a deep breath, and dived across the room, slithering under the covers before the cold air could chill her skin too much. But in no time her once-warmed flesh was as cold as the coarse sheet she lay upon. Her teeth began to chatter and she rolled onto her side, drawing up her knees, dragging the cloak over her head to keep the cold from her ears.

An icy blast hit her naked skin when the covers at the bottom of the bed were suddenly lifted. "You have more need of this than I." The hot brick, blessedly warm, was thrust up against her bare feet and the covers tucked tightly in again.

Ariel rolled onto her back, stretching her feet around the glorious warmth. She blinked at the shadowy figure standing at the end of the truckle bed. He had a blanket drawn around his shoulders. "My thanks, sir."

"I'm loath to part with it, but I'll get no sleep with your teeth chattering like a pair of castanets," was the amused response. Simon turned back to the fourposter, dragged off the top quilt, and tossed it over the slender frame in the truckle bed. "Now perhaps we may both get some sleep. This has been one of the most tedious days I have spent in many a long year. I'll be right glad when it's over." So saying, he dropped the blanket from his shoulders and swung himself up into his own bed, his lame leg following more slowly than the rest of him so that Ariel caught a glimpse in the shadows of an ugly red rawness snaking up his inner leg.

She closed her eyes tightly. "I could say the same, my lord."

"No doubt."

There was silence in the chamber now, except for the crackle of the fire, but beyond the locked door the sounds of merriment still rose faintly from the Great Hall. Ariel felt curiously secure tucked up in her little servant's bed at the foot of the fourposter, while the shouts, the rocking laughter, the bangs and crashes came from below.

She'd lain listening to such riotous celebrations many a wakeful night in her twenty years, and even behind a locked door, even with the dogs beside her, she hadn't felt truly safe from the wildness. And she had never been able to sleep until the abrupt silence that always fell at dawn. But she was very sleepy now, deliciously languid as the warmth crept through her. So why, even after Oliver's assault, did she know herself tonight to be immune from danger?

The only possible answer lay breathing sonorously above her. She snuggled further down, curling her toes over the hot brick. Her unbedded husband was ugly and lame and a

Hawkesmoor, but it seemed he possessed the most comforting qualities of strength and dependability.

It was past dawn when she awoke to short, soft barks and scratching from beyond the door. The dogs would start quietly, but if she didn't respond at Once, they'd be baying in full cry in no time. Ariel didn't trust the tempers of her brothers or indeed of any of the other heavy-headed guests, who presumably had not been long in their beds, if they were woken by such a racket. Ranulf was as likely as not to burst from his chamber with a pistol in hand to put a summary stop to the noise.

She slid out of the truckle bed, pulling the velvet cloak around her shoulders, and ran to the door. "Hush. Wait a minute," she called urgently, hearing the escalating shrillness in the renewed barking.

She turned back to the room. The Hawkesmoor was still asleep. She remembered that he'd put the key beneath the thick bolster. She flew across to the bed and tried to thrust her hand beneath the bolster on which lay his heavy sleeping head. "Oh, wake up," she muttered. "Or move over." Her fingers slithered under the starched linen.

"Goodness me, has my wife decided to join me in the marital bed after all?" Simon murmured. She hadn't felt him move, but her wrist was caught in the vise of his fingers, and she was aware of their strength as something frightening. She could almost see the fragile bones snapping beneath the pressure.

"I need the key to the door." Something told her that it would be unwise to pull at her imprisoned wrist.

"But if I'd wished you to leave the chamber without my knowledge, I wouldn't have taken the key," he pointed out in tones of sweet reason.

"I have to let the dogs in before they raise the roof," she said urgently. "Please let me have the key. Otherwise they'll wake everyone up and then God only knows what will happen."

Simon released her wrist and sat up, feeling beneath the bolster for the key. "Here." He tossed it to her. She missed the catch and the iron key fell to the floor with a clatter. "Butterfingers," he accused with a lazy grin.

Ariel glared at him, picked up the key, and dived for the door, flinging it open just as Romulus threw back his head and bayed in full throat.

The hounds leaped into the chamber and Ariel slammed the door behind them. They raced and snuffled around the room, jumped up at her with their great paws resting on her cloaked shoulders, smothering her face with sloppy kisses, before turning their attention to the stranger in the bed.

Simon was sitting up against the carved headboard. The quilts lay over his thighs, his torso was bare. "Down," he commanded in his soft voice as the dogs both jumped as one onto the bed.

Ariel waited to see what would happen. The man didn't move, merely repeated his command, and after an instant's hesitation the hounds jumped back to the floor. They sat beside the bed, their heads resting on the quilt, their eyes fixed adoringly on the man.

"Very impressive," Ariel declared, her voice a little thick. She stroked the dogs' heads for something to do with her hands, something to take her eyes off Simon Hawkesmoor's upper body-an overwhelmingly powerful triangle formed by the broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. The muscles rippled smoothly beneath the taut skin, darkly tanned, as if he had spent much time shirtless under a summer sun. His nipples were small and hard, his navel a tight whorl in the hard flatness of his abdomen. It was almost impossible to believe that this man dragged himself around on a cane.

She thought of Oliver's torso. Pale, slender, taut-skinned too, but it lacked the hardness of a man accustomed to using his muscles in heavy physical labor. She had the feeling that this man could as easily turn his hand to a plowshare as wield a massive broadsword. And he would consider neither task inappropriate.

The silence was suddenly oppressive in the dimly lit room. Simon's sea blue eyes rested quizzically on Ariel's face, and Ariel found that she was blushing. She turned away abruptly and went to the armoire.

"How convenient for Becket that the dogs were not with you last evening when he came a-calling."

There was an edge to the voice that sent a shiver down her spine. Did he still then believe that she had invited Oliver to her bed? That she had been a willing partner in the attempt to cuckold her husband?

"Convenient for Oliver, perhaps," she said stiffly, pulling out her riding habit and boots from the armoire. Her husband said nothing. Ariel found hose and a clean shift in the dresser drawer. Then she glanced toward the bed. The man still sat serenely against the bolster as if that taut exchange had not taken place. "I must get dressed and see to my horses," she said.