Free The Silver Rose by Jane Feather

her down the stairs to where Ranulf stood, black browed and hard eyed, waiting for her.
    “I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, sister. But if you think to sabotage me, then you’d better think again. You make one false step, and I swear you’ll rue it to your dying day.”
    “I’m here, aren’t I?” Ariel said. “Dressed for the sacrifice. Virginal, pure, sweetly innocent. Aren’t I, Ranulf?”
    “You are insolent!” he said furiously, taking her arm in an iron grip.
    He marched with her across the court and into the chapel. His fingers bruised her arm, biting deep into the flesh. As the organ played and people gazed admiringly at the beautiful bride, his fingers bit deeper as if he were afraid she would suddenly pull herself free and run from him.
    Simon Hawkesmoor watched the progress of his bride and her brother toward him. He noticed the position of Ranulf’s hand on the girl’s arm, read the strength of his grip in the almost vicious determination in his eyes. The girl herself was white faced, her lips taut. It was clear to Simon that she was not approaching the altar of her own free will. But then neither in essence was he, he reflected with a grim twist of his mouth, turning resolutely to face the altar. A greater good than personal preference was to be served by this union. The girl would come around eventually. She was young; it would be for him to use his greater maturity and experience to bring her to an acceptance of her new life.
    Ranulf didn’t release his sister’s arm until she was kneeling at the altar rail beside Lord Hawkesmoor, and he remained standing slightly to one side of her, instead of stepping back into the body of the church.
    Ariel’s hands were clasped on the rail, and she stared down at the serpent bracelet on her wrist, concentrating all her thoughts on its intricate pattern, on the delicate charms. The noon sun lit up the rose window above the altar, and when she twisted her wrist slightly, the ruby in the heart of the rose sprang into blood red flame. Fascinated, she moved her wrist so that the emerald swan was caught in the swimming colored rays. It was quite beautiful.
    The glint of silver, the glow of emerald, caught Simon’s eye as he stared steadfastly at the intoning priest. He turned his head to the flickering jeweled light on his bride’s wrist, resting on the rail beside his own hands. There was something oddly familiar about the bracelet she wore. He frowned, trying to retrieve the memory, but it remained elusive, leaving him only with a vague sense of disquiet.
    Ariel was unaware that she was holding herself rigidly away from the powerful frame beside her, aware of the priest’s voice reciting the service only on some distant plane that seemed to have nothing to do with her.
    Lord Hawkesmoor’s firm voice broke into her trance, startling her. He was making his responses with a resonant conviction. Her mouth dried. The priest asked her if she took Lord Hawkesmoor to be her lawful wedded husband.
    Ariel’s eyes fixed on the earl’s hands resting on the altar rail. They were huge, with bony knuckles, pared nails, callused fingers. She shuddered at the thought of those hands on her body, touching her in the ways of love. The priest spoke again, nervously repeating his question. There was a rustle and shifting in the body of the chapel behind her, but Ariel didn’t hear it. She was thinking that if she married this man, she was signing his death warrant.
    Ranulf moved forward. He put his hand on the back of her neck. It could have been interpreted as a gesture of reassurance,but Ariel felt the pressure, forcing her to lower her head in an assumption of acquiescence. There was nothing she could do. Not at this time. She was bait in the trap. And then it occurred to her that if she wished to, if she wished to save the Hawkesmoor from her brothers’ vengeance, she could work to keep the trap from springing. But why would a Ravenspeare save a