A Match for the el Maiens Ch. 02

The stone walls were hung with an old tapestry telling a legend and some astonishingly beautiful works of art (some of which she had given him). There were shelves and heaps of books and a desk full of papers of all kinds: sketches he drew of the castle gardens and of Arkyll, requests from poets and artists for patronage, somebody's scribbled notes on a theory about Northern architecture, letters from people Arianna did not want to hear any more gossip about. The floor was scattered with cushions, baskets of nuts and jars of sweets, books, sculptures. Ladda and the maids complained bitterly about how difficult it was to clean but never to Clair's face.

Arianna plumped up some cushions that Arkyll must have come to lie in. By the side of Clair's tidily rolled bedding was his old box-desk from his army days. She picked up off the top of it a sketch he had once done in his old troop, when he was still just a Captain together with Hanya Vashin and with Arianna's cousin, Pava el Jien van Vail. The sketch showed Pava and his four junior officers; Pava was sitting on the ground with the handsome young Lieutenants clustered around him. Pava was handsome himself in the high-collared Sietter uniform. His broad blond good looks provided a perfect setting for the exquisite dark-haired beauty of his favourite baby Lieutenant sitting in the affectionate curve of his arm. Lieutenant-Lord Tashka el Maien van Sietter sat leaning back on Pava with his mischievous slanted eyes sparkling. Pava's Lieutenants had all been famous for their looks and their high military intelligence, nicknamed the Angels. Pava was very proud of them but most of all of Tashka. Arianna traced a wistful finger over his warm smiling features, the tip of her finger rested briefly on the full curve of his el Jien mouth, which was just like her own.

She put the picture carefully back down, then she saw another sticking out from under the box-desk lid.

It was a drawing of herself, a sketch done for a formal portrait to send to van Sietter (as if he cared). She opened the lid to put it away, frowning in surprise, and discovered that it lived with packets of letters on which Tashka's seal had been broken and a drawing of Hanya Vashin. Hanya was standing easily back on one leg, his hand on his hip, his attractive blond face tilted and the beautiful eyes which were so sweet and warm in his son's face looking out of the pencil-lines at her. There was an uncharacteristically soft smile on his lips. Arianna considered his fit disciplined rangy body, the lean handsome face. She thought with a secretive smile that even with everything she knew of him, she could have been tempted as Sevianne had been to take him for a one-day-one-night.

"What are you about in my boxes?" a tired husky voice cut in. She swung round, her heart jumping into her mouth and her round eyes wide with surprise.

He was dusty with the journey, his dark blue linen travelling suit and the thigh-length black riding boots that encased his lovely long legs were grey with dirt, his lean tanned face lined with dirt. His slanted eyes were grey like rain-clouds, his elegantly cut black hair tousled, his graceful head was tipped back to stare mistrustfully at her past long lashes. One hand rested on the elaborate hilt of a rapier sword swinging off his slim hips against his mud-stained boots, as if he might draw his sword in defence against his own Lady wife. It was evident from the state of his clothes that the bridge was down over the Arven again, obliging him to ford the river, lose a day on his journey and fail to come home as he had planned in time to meet the Knights and Dames himself.

"Why?" she said in a voice like winter. "What is there in your boxes that I may not see?" Her heart was still thumping in her chest, she tightened her full el Jien mouth in a frightened sneer at him.

He could not answer that. He only stepped aside for her to pass and she left the room with her head held high. As her grey silk skirts swept by, he caught a breath of her perfume: sweet, soft, clear, like flowers by a stream in the early summer. He was weary with a week's hard riding, he could not help leaning towards that sweet clear scent and the full curving figure of his famously beautiful and chaste Lady wife.

"Damn Angels to Hell," he cursed angrily as he turned away. "What the Hell business of hers are my boxes. Sweet Hell." He picked his way across his untidy floor, squatted down and took out the pictures of Arianna and Hanya: tall and strong and fair.

"Hell," he said savagely. "Sweet Angels of Heaven and Hell."