Authors: Elizabeth Lowell
What made the matter even more irritating was that
Simon had been certain his body called to Ariane as surely as her
body called to him. She had taken one look at him walking toward
her across Blackthorne Keep’s bailey the first time they met,
and then she had kept on looking as though she had never seen a man
before.
Simon had looked at Ariane in just the same way, a
recognition that defied understanding. He had seen more beautiful
women in his life, but never had he seen one who compelled his
senses so deeply. Even the siren Marie.
At the time, it had seemed to Simon a cruel jest
from God that Ariane was betrothed to Duncan of Maxwell, the Scots
Hammer, a man who was Simon’s friend and Dominic’s
ally. When it was discovered that Duncan loved another woman, Simon
immediately had offered to wed the daughter of the powerful Norman
baron. The marriage would ensure the peace that Dominic desperately
needed in the Disputed Lands if his own Blackthorne Keep were to
prosper.
When Simon had proposed the marriage, he had been
sure that Ariane preferred him above other men. Now he wasn’t
so certain. Perhaps it was simply that she strove to keep him
off-balance. That had certainly been Marie’s game, one that
she had played exceedingly well.
“Have I done something to offend you, Lady
Ariane?” Simon asked coolly.
“Nay.”
“Such a quick answer. So false,
too.”
“You startled me, ’Tis all. I
didn’t expect to find you that close to me.”
Simon’s only answer was a thin smile.
“Shall I have Meg blend me a special soap to
please your dainty nostrils?” he asked.
“Your scent is quite pleasant to me as it
is,” Ariane said politely.
As she spoke, she realized that she meant it.
Unlike
many men, Simon didn’t smell of old
sweat and clothes worn too long.
“You look surprised that I don’t stink
like a midden,” Simon said. “Shall I test the truth of
your words?”
With disconcerting quickness, he bent close to
Ariane once more. She flinched in the instant before she managed to
control her alarm. Very carefully she shifted her body on the
wooden chair until she was no longer leaning away from Simon.
“You may breathe now,” he said
dryly.
Ariane’s breath came in with a swift, husky
sound that could have been a gasp of fear or pleasure. Considering
the circumstances, Simon decided that fear was more likely.
Or disgust.
Simon’s lips flattened beneath his soft,
closely clipped beard. He remembered all too well Ariane’s
words when Duncan had asked if she would be a wife in fact as well
as in name:
I will do my duty, but I am
repelled by the prospect of the marriage bed
.
When asked if her coldness came because her heart
belonged to another man, Ariane had been quite blunt.
I have no heart
.
There had been no doubt that she spoke the truth,
for Amber had been touching Ariane the whole time and had found
nothing but the bleakest honesty in the Norman heiress’s
words.
Ariane had agreed to marriage, but she had also
made it clear that the thought of coupling with a man revolted her.
Even the man who was soon to be her husband.
Or, perhaps, especially him?
Simon’s mouth took on a grim line as he
looked at the Norman heiress who had agreed to be his bride.
When we first saw one another,
was she watching me with fear while I watched her with
desire
?
The thought chilled Simon, for he had vowed never
again to want a woman more than she wanted him. That
kind of wanting gave women power over a man, a cruel
power that destroyed men.
Could it be that Ariane is
another Marie, playing hot and cold by turns, chaining a man to her
with uncertainty, driving him mad with desire
half-slaked
?
Or slaked not at
all
.
But that game of feint and
lure, retreat and summon, can be played by more than
one
.
It was a game Simon had learned quite well at
Marie’s hands. So well that he had ultimately beaten her at
her own sport.
Without a word, Simon straightened and stepped back
from Ariane, not touching her in any way.
Though relieved, Ariane sensed that her flinching
from Simon had cut his pride. The thought worried her, for he had
done nothing to earn such a wounding from her.
Yet even as Ariane opened her mouth to tell Simon
so, no words came. There was no point in denying the truth: the
thought of coupling with a man made her blood freeze.
Simon hadn’t earned her coldness, but she
could do nothing to change it. All warmth had been torn from her
months ago, during the long night when she had lain drugged and
helpless while Geoffrey the Fair grunted over her like a pig
rooting in a virgin orchard.
A shudder of revulsion coursed through Ariane. Her
memories of that terrible night were vague, distorted by whatever
black potion Geoffrey had given to her to keep her silent and
helpless.
Sometimes Ariane thought the blurring was
merciful.
And sometimes she thought it only increased the
horror.
“Simon,” Ariane whispered, not knowing
that she had called his name aloud.
For a moment Simon paused as though he had heard
her. Then he turned his back to her with cool finality.
T
he teasing words of the newlyweds
filled the taut silence that had grown between Simon and
Ariane.
“Have you time to ride with me?” Duncan
asked Amber.
“For you, I have all the time in the
world.”
“Just the world?” he asked, feigning
hurt. “What of heaven and the hereafter?”
“Are you bargaining with me,
husband?”
“Do I have something you would like to lay
hand upon?” Duncan parried.
Amber’s smile was as old as Eve and as young
as the blush mounting her cheeks.
Duncan’s answering laughter was a sound of
pure masculine delight.
“Precious Amber, how you please
me.”
“Do I?”
“Always.”
“How?” she teased.
Duncan started to tell her, then remembered they
weren’t alone.
“Ask me tonight,” he said in a low
voice, “when the fire in the brazier is little more than
scarlet coals veiled in silver ash.”
“You have my vow on it,” Amber said,
resting her fingers on Duncan’s powerful forearm.
“I will hold you to it,” he murmured.
“Now, if you are finished here, let us be off to the
horses.”
“Finished here?” Amber blinked.
“Oh, my comb. I had forgotten.”
She turned to Ariane, who was watching her with
eyes as clear and remote as gems.
“Have you seen a comb with red amber set in
it?” Amber asked. “I think it must have fallen out of
my hair somewhere in the keep.”
“Once, you would have had but to ask, and the
comb’s hiding place would come to me,” Ariane said in a
low voice. “Once, but no more.”
“I don’t understand.”
Ariane shrugged. “It matters not. I
haven’t seen your comb. I’ll ask Blanche.”
“Is your maid feeling better
today?”
“Nay.” Ariane’s mouth turned
down. “I fear Blanche has a more common illness than that
which laid my knights low on our travels from Normandy.”
“Oh?” amber asked.
“I believe Blanche is breeding.”
“’Tis not an illness, but a
blessing,” Simon said.
“To a married girl, perhaps,” Ariane
said. “But Blanche is far from her home, her people, and,
likely, from the boy who set her to breeding in the first place.
Hardly a blessing, is it?”
A lithe movement of Simon’s shoulders
dismissed Ariane’s objections.
“As your husband, I will see that your maid
is well cared for,” Simon said coolly. “We have need of
more babes in the Disputed Lands.”
“Babes,” Ariane said in an odd
voice.
“Aye, my future wife. Babes. Do you
object?”
“Only to the means.”
“Means?”
“Coupling.” A shudder rippled through
Ariane’s body. “’Tis a sorry way to such a sweet
goal.”
“It won’t seem so after you have been
married,” Amber said kindly. “Then you will know that
your maidenly fears are as groundless as the wind
itself.”
“Aye,” Ariane said distantly. “Of
course.”
But no one believed her, least of all herself.
Blindly Ariane’s hands sought the solace of
the harp once more. The sounds that came from the graceful
instrument were as dark as her thoughts. Even so, stroking the
instrument brought a small measure of peace to her. It made her
believe that she could endure what must be endured—grim,
painful couplings and nightmares that tried to follow her into
day.
Amber gave Ariane an odd look, but the Norman
heiress didn’t notice.
“Perhaps it would be better not to rush the
marriage,” Amber said in a low voice to Simon. “Ariane
is…unsettled.”
“Dominic is afraid that something else will
go awry if we wait.”
“Something else?” Then Amber realized
what Simon meant. “Oh. Duncan’s marriage to me rather
than to Lady Ariane.”
“Aye,” Simon said sardonically.
“In any event,” Simon said, “the
northern boundary of Blackthorne Keep is secure once more, now that
your brother Erik is pleased with your marriage.”
Amber nodded.
“But that security could vanish,” Simon
said bluntly, “if Baron Deguerre were to think that Duncan
had jilted his daughter for love of you.”
Amber glanced quickly at Ariane. If she were
listening, it didn’t show in her face or in the measured
drawing of her fingers over the lap harp.
“Do not fear for Lady Ariane’s tender
feelings,” Simon said sardonically. “She was raised a
highborn maid. She knows her duty is to wed whoever enters into the
marriage bargain.”
“Lady Ariane must be married to a loyal
vassal of Dominic le Sabre,” Duncan said flatly. “The
quicker it happens, the better for all of us.”
“But—” began Amber, only to be
overridden by Simon.
“And her husband must be someone who has the
approval of both King Henry and Deguerre himself,” Simon
added.
“But you don’t have that
approval!” Amber retorted.
“Simon is as loyal to Dominic as any man
alive,” Duncan said, “so the English king will approve
the marriage. Simon is Norman rather than Scots or Saxon, so Baron
Deguerre will have less to complain of in that regard than if the
groom had been me.”
“Aye. In all ways that matter,” Simon
said, “I am a more desirable husband for Deguerre’s
daughter than Duncan.”
“This baron,” Amber said, frowning.
“Is he so powerful that kings are wary of him?”
“Yes,” Ariane said distinctly.
A ripple of discordant notes accompanied the single
word.
“Had he married me to Geoffrey the Fair, who
is the son of another great Norman baron,” Ariane continued,
“my father soon would have been the equal of your English
Henry in wealth and military might, if not in law. So I was
betrothed instead to a knight whose loyalty is to Henry rather than
to a Norman duke.”
“Now,” Simon said dryly, “all we
have to do is convince Baron Deguerre that his daughter is well
pleased with me. That way there will be no excuse for
war.”
“Ah,” Amber said. “That explains
the story Sven has been spreading among the people of the keep and
countryside.”
“Story?” Ariane asked.
Simon laughed mirthlessly. “Aye, and quite a
tale it is, too.”
Ariane said nothing more, but her fingers plucked
an ascending series of notes from the harp. As though she had
spoken a question, Simon answered her.
“Sven is saying that we fell in love when I
escorted you from Blackthorne to Stone Ring Keep.”
Ariane’s hands jerked as the outrageous tale
yanked her out of her unhappy thoughts.
“
Love
?” she
muttered. “What a pail of slops that is! Men have no love of
their betrothed. They love only the dowry and the power.”
Amber winced, but Simon laughed.
“Aye, my lady,” he said. “Slops
indeed.”
“But ’tis a clever tale,” Duncan
said admiringly. “Even the king himself must bow before a
girl’s absolute right to choose her husband. Deguerre can do
no less.”
“Dominic indeed deserves to be called the
Glendruid Wolf,” Amber said. “His clever plans bring
peace, not war.”
“It was Simon’s idea to marry me, not
his brother’s,” Ariane said. “Simon’s mind
is even quicker than his hands.”
A brief expression of surprise showed on
Simon’s face. The last thing he expected from Ariane was a
compliment, however casually it was delivered.
On the other hand, perhaps she was simply picking
up the threads of the teasing game once more.
“Do you think that Deguerre will believe
you?” Amber asked Simon doubtfully.
“Believe what? That I’ve married his
daughter?”
“That it was a…” Amber groped for
words.
“‘…drawing together of hearts
that defied English king and Norman father equally,’”
Ariane quoted. “‘For
love
,
of course.’”
Ariane’s tone exactly captured the mockery
that had been in Simon’s voice when he had proposed marrying
Ariane himself as a solution to the dangerous dilemma of her broken
engagement.
Simon shrugged. “Deguerre can believe the
tale or he can go begging in Jerusalem. Either way, before midnight
mass is sung, Lady Ariane will be my wife.”
A shout from the bailey below distracted Simon. He
went to the slit window, listened, and gave Duncan a sideways
look.
“You waited too long to escape, O mighty lord
of Stone Ring Keep,” Simon said, bowing as low as a Saracen
would to his sultan. “The serf with the wandering
pig—what is his name?”
“The pig’s?” Duncan asked in
disbelief.
“The serf’s,” Simon corrected,
deadpan.
“Ethelrod.”
“Ah, how could one forget?” Simon said.
“Apparently the pig has acquired a taste for apples. By the
bushel basket.”
“That is why pigs are turned loose to root in
the orchard after harvest,” Duncan retorted. “Otherwise
only the worms would fatten.”
“At present, the pig in question is
underground, rooting in one of
your
cellars.”
“God’s blood,” Duncan said
through his teeth as he strode out the door. “I told Ethelrod
to build a pen stout enough to hold that clever swine.”
“Excuse me,” Amber said, trying not to
laugh out loud. “I must see this. Ethelrod’s pig is a
source of much amusement to the people of the keep.”
“Unless that swine is kept under
control,” Simon said dryly, “it will be the source of
much bacon.”
Amber burst out laughing and hurried after her
husband.
Simon’s quick eyes caught the shadow of a
smile on Ariane’s lips. The beauty of it reminded him of the
first instant he had seen the Norman heiress. He had felt as though
the breath had been driven from his body by a mailed fist.
Even now it was hard to believe that Ariane was
almost within his reach, a highborn girl engaged to a bastard whose
only claim to wealth or worth lay in his quick sword arm.
Without meaning to, Simon reached out to her.
“Ariane…” he whispered.
Ariane blinked at the sound of her name. For a few
moments she had forgotten she wasn’t alone.
When Simon’s hand touched her hair, she
flinched away.
Slowly Simon lowered his hand. The effort not to
clench it into a fist was so great it left him aching. Yet he made
the effort without knowing it, for he had vowed never again to let
lust for a woman rule his actions.
“Soon we will be husband and wife,” he
said flatly.
A shudder went over Ariane.
“Do you react like this to all men,”
Simon asked, “or just to me?”
“I will do my duty,” Ariane said in a
low voice.
Yet even as she spoke, she realized that the words
were a lie. She had thought she could go through with her wifely
duties. Now she knew she could not. She simply couldn’t force
herself to submit to rape again.
Unfortunately the realization had come too late.
The wedding was set. The trap was sprung.
No way out
.
Except one
.
Yet this time the thought of death brought no
comfort to Ariane.
How can I kill Simon, whose
only crime is love of his brother
?
Failing that, how can I endure
rape again, and then again, all the years of my life
?
“My duty,” she whispered.
“Duty,” Simon repeated in a low voice.
“Is that all you will be able to bring to the marriage? Is
your beauty like the whore Marie’s, a lush fabric wrapped
around a soul of icy calculations?”
Ariane said nothing, for she was afraid if her
mouth opened, a scream of rage and betrayal would be all that came
out.
“Your anticipation of our marriage overwhelms
me,” Simon said sardonically. “See that I don’t
have to send a man-at-arms to fetch you to the altar. For by
Christ’s blue eyes, I will do just that if I must.”
Simon turned and left the room without another
word.
None was needed. Ariane had no doubt that Simon
would do exactly as he said. He was, in all things, a man who kept
his vows.
No escape
.
Save one
…
Without knowing it, Ariane’s fingers closed
around the harp strings. A despairing, dissonant wail was ripped
from the instrument.
It was the only sound Ariane made.
The wedding would begin before the sun set and end
before the moon rose. Before the moon set once more, the bride must
find a way to kill.
Or die.