Enchanted (7 page)

Simon looked at the pale, slender fingers where
wisps of shredded kindling were heaped like stiff straw. With
careful, totally unnecessary care, he stirred a fingertip through
the woody offering.

As often as not, it was Ariane’s palm his
finger nuzzled, not splinters of wood. At the first touch, her hand
jerked subtly. The next touch startled her less. After a few
moments his fingertip was tracing the lines of her palm with a
gentleness that was very close to a caress.

“Mmmm,” Simon said, pretending to
choose among the slivers of fuel.

“You rumble like His Laziness,” Ariane
said.

Her voice sounded strange to her own ears.

To Simon, Ariane’s breathlessness was a small
victory, a sliver of wood turning smoky as it succumbed to
heat.

Reluctantly he took several bits of kindling and
returned his attention to the coals. He said something under his
breath when he saw that the fire had all but fled the embers while
he caressed Ariane’s palm.

Gently he blew across the dying coals. After a time
they flared again. First he placed splinters, then larger pieces of
kindling over the embers. Renewed heat flushed their silvery
faces.

The thought of sending a similar flush through
Ariane made Simon’s breath ache within his lungs.

“More,” Simon said.

The huskiness of his voice intrigued Ariane for a
reason she could not fathom. Forgetting the dagger waiting in the
bedside drapery, she sorted eagerly through the kindling basket,
relieved to think about something besides nightmare and death. Soon
she had several sizes of kindling ready for Simon.

“Perfect,” Simon said, leaning
forward.

The rush of his breath across Ariane’s cheek
was warm and pleasantly spiced with wine.

Simon saw the tiny flare of her nostrils as she
breathed in his own breath. When she smiled slightly, as though
savoring a small part of him, heat lanced
through Simon. He wanted very much to grab Ariane, push her witchy
violet skirts above her hips, and bury himself in her.

Much too soon
, advised
the cooler part of Simon’s brain.
The
game—if indeed it is a game she plays—has hardly
begun
.

With great precision, Simon placed gradually larger
pieces of kindling on the coals, then larger still. All the while
he blew carefully on the fragile fire.

Suddenly tongues of flame licked upward, consuming
the kindling in a soft burst of golden heat.

One-handed, Simon laid the rest of the fire. Then
he watched it in silence, stroking the steel-colored cat that
hadn’t budged from its privileged nest.

As Ariane watched Simon’s palm smooth the
length of the cat, she wondered what it would feel like to be
touched with such care by a warrior’s hard hand.

“Pour the wine for us,
nightingale.”

Ariane blinked as tension returned in a cold rush.
She had been so intent upon watching Simon’s hand that she
had forgotten the inevitable end of the night.

Unhappily she looked at the elegant silver designs
on the wine jug and wondered what savage potion lay concealed
within.

“I—I don’t want any,”
Ariane said baldly.

Simon gave her a swift black glance. When he saw
that calculation had returned to her eyes, he barely suppressed a
curse.

A heartbeat ago she was
watching my hand with longing. I am certain of it
.

And now she looks at me as
though she were a terrified Saracen maid and I a Christian warrior
bent on rape
.

She is like a wealthy
sultan’s fountain, hot and cold by turns
.

Is it truly fear that makes
her draw back again? Or is it merely a game to tease me and addle
my wits with lust
?

“Bring me a goblet,” Simon said evenly.
“It would be a pity to waste such fine wine.”

When Ariane realized that Simon meant to drink from
the jug himself, she felt a rush of relief.

“If—if you are having some, I will be
pleased to drink with you,” she said.

Her voice was so low that it took a moment for
Simon to understand. When he did, he gave her a glance that was
divided between irritation and amusement.

“Were you afraid of poison?” he asked
sardonically.

Ariane flinched. She shook her head. At each
movement of her head, the chains of tiny amethysts woven into her
hair burned with violet fire, reflecting the renewed leap of
flame.

Her hair is like a midnight
studded with amethyst stars. God’s blood, she is beautiful
beyond any man’s dreams
.

Longing went through Simon so violently that he had
to clench his jaw against it. Slowly he set His Laziness near the
fire-warmed hearth and stood to face his wife.

“What, then?” Simon persisted.
“Why were you afraid to drink the wine?”

“I…”

Ariane’s voice died. A glance at
Simon’s face convinced her that he meant to have an answer.
For a wild instant she considered telling him the truth. Then she
remembered her father’s reaction and her jaws locked against
words of any kind.

Whore. Daughter of a whore.
Wanton spawn of Satan, you have ruined me. If I dared kill you, I
would
!

The truth had done Ariane no good with her father.
Nor had the priest been any more sympathetic. He had accused her of
lying in the sacred act of confession. Priest and father alike had
believed Geoffrey.

There was little hope that the near-stranger who
was her husband would believe her, when the men who had been
closest to her had not.

Speaking the truth would be foolish. It would serve
only to make it more difficult to catch Simon
off guard.

“I’ve heard,” Ariane said in a
thin voice, “that men can put something in wine
that…”

Again, Ariane’s voice failed.

“That makes maidens into wantons?”
Simon asked neutrally.

“Or makes them…helpless.”

“I’ve heard of such things too,”
Simon said.

“Have you?” Ariane asked.

“Aye, but I’ve never had to resort to
them to seduce a girl.”

The amusement buried just beneath the surface of
Simon’s words made his dark eyes gleam like water touched by
moonlight.

Ariane let out a breath she hadn’t been aware
of holding.

“And I never will.”

Simon restrained his anger with difficulty. It was
one thing for Ariane to play a sensual game. It was quite another
to slander a man’s honor.

“A man who would do that to a maid is beneath
a dog’s contempt,” Simon said in a clipped voice.

There was no amusement in Simon’s eyes now.
He was icy, savage.

“Do you believe me?” he asked.

Hastily Ariane nodded again.

“Excellent,” Simon said softly.

The quality of his voice made her flinch.

“I suspect you dislike me,” Simon
said.

“That’s not—”

“I suspect I repel you physically,” he
said, talking over Ariane’s interruption.

“Nay, ’tis not you,
’tis—”

“
But I have done nothing
to earn your contempt
,” Simon finished, his voice
deadly cold.

Knowing that she had hurt Simon caused surprising
pain to Ariane, further tightening her already overstrung nerves.
She hadn’t meant to demean him. Of all the men
she had ever known, it was Simon to whom she was most
drawn.

It frightened her even as it lured her.

“Simon,” she whispered.

He waited.

“I never meant to insult you,” Ariane
managed.

Raised blond eyebrows silently contradicted her
statement.

“Truly,” she said.

Simon held out his hand.

She flinched.

“You insult me every time you draw back from
me,” Simon said flatly.

Desperately Ariane tried to convince her husband
that her reticence had nothing to do with him.

“I cannot help it,” she said in a
rush.

“No doubt. Tell me, wife. What do you find so
disgusting about me?”

Ariane’s fragile hold on her self-control
snapped.

“It’s not you!” she raged.
“You are clean of limb and sweet of breath and quick and
strong and honorable and so comely it’s a wonder the fairies
haven’t slain you out of pure jealousy!”

Simon’s eyes widened.

“You are also thickheaded beyond
belief!” Ariane finished in a rising voice.

There was an instant of silence in which neither
could say who was more surprised by Ariane’s words. Then
Simon threw back his head and laughed.

“The last, at least, is true,” Simon
said.

“What?” asked Ariane warily.

“The part about my thick head.”

With a sound of exasperation, Ariane turned her
back on her maddening husband.

“You will believe the worst I say, but not
the best,” she muttered.

Simon’s only answer was the sound of wine
being poured into silver goblets. When the goblets were full,
he set them near the hearth to take off their
chill. He would like to have warmed himself by the fire as well,
but there was no chair big enough to take his weight.

He looked around quickly. The bed was close enough
to the fire to bask in warmth from the flames, but not close enough
to put the draperies in danger of burning. The bed was also where
Simon had every intention of spending the night.

But not alone.

“Come, my nervous nightingale. Sit with me by
the fire.”

The gentle rasp of Simon’s voice was like a
cat’s tongue. Intrigued despite her anger, Ariane risked a
quick look over her shoulder.

Simon was smiling and holding out his hand to her.
This time she sensed she must not refuse him, or he would simply
stalk from the room, leaving her to face her fate the next night,
or the night after.

Ice condensed in Ariane’s stomach at the
thought. She doubted if she could string herself up to this pitch
again. It must end here, now.

Tonight.

Be quick, Simon. Be
strong
.

End my nightmare
.

S
imon watched while his wary bride
approached him. The hand she gave to him was trembling and cold.
Her eyes were dark and almost wild.

Laughter, curiosity,
flirtation, fear. She changes direction as quickly as a falcon on a
storm wind
.

I wonder if Dominic had this
much difficulty with his bride
.

God’s teeth. None of the
other women I’ve bedded has given me a tenth so much
trouble
.

Belatedly, Simon remembered that the other women
hadn’t been nervous, virginal, highborn girls. They had been
widows, concubines of fallen sultans, or infertile harem girls.

Once, and only once, his lover had been
married.

“Such a cold hand,” Simon said.

Ariane was in too much of a turmoil to answer.
Simon’s hand was so warm she thought it might burn her.

“Is your other hand as cold?” he
asked.

She nodded.

“I don’t think that’s
possible,” Simon said judiciously. “Show me.”

The hand he held out to her was large, elegant
despite that, and scarred with the inevitable marks of battle.

“Ariane.”

She jumped.

“If I were going to throw you on the floor
and ravish you like a slave girl, I would have done so many times
over by now.”

Ariane turned even more pale. Geoffrey had done his
worst, but it had taken him the better part of a night, for he was
much gone on drink.

When Simon realized she had taken him seriously, he
didn’t know whether to swear or laugh.

“Nightingale,” he said, sighing,
“do you have any idea what passes between a man and a woman
on their wedding night?”

“Yes.”

The intense stillness of Ariane’s body told
Simon that someone had explained full well to her what was expected
of a wife in the marriage bed.

And she loathed the thought of it.

“’Tis natural that it seem strange to
you,” he said. “It seems strange to a man the first
time or two.”

“It does?”

“Of course. ’Tis difficult to know
where to put one’s hands and arms and, er, other
parts.”

Before Ariane could respond to that surprising bit
of information—or to the pronounced red on Simon’s
cheekbones—he took her other hand and tugged her gently down
onto the bed.

“You were right,” he said. “This
hand is as cold as the other.”

Simon blew gently across Ariane’s right hand.
The contrast between the chill of her flesh and the heat of
Simon’s breath was so great that Ariane shivered.

“Try the wine,” Simon suggested.

Ariane bent and dipped her fingertip in one of the
goblets. Delicately she licked up a drop of wine.

“Nay,” she said. “Your hands are
warmer than the wine.”

Simon had meant that Ariane try to warm herself by
drinking the wine, but the sight of her pink tongue licking up wine
sent everything resembling thought from his head.

“Are you certain?” he asked.

The rasp was back in Simon’s deep voice. The
sound
of it pleased Ariane. Smiling, she bent
and dipped her finger in the wine once more.

Breath held, Simon watched as she circled her
wine-wet fingertip with the very tip of her tongue.

“’Tis quite certain,” Ariane
said. “Your hand is far warmer than the wine.”

“May I have some?”

She held out the cup.

“Nay, wife. From your fingers.”

“Do you mean…?” asked Ariane.

She looked at him uncertainly.

“I don’t bite,” Simon assured
her, smiling.

“Said the wolf to the lambkin,” Ariane
muttered.

Simon laughed, delighted by his bride’s
change from fear to amusement.

Ariane bent over and dipped her finger into the
wine again. As she lifted her hand toward Simon, wine ran down her
fingernail, beaded into a brilliant garnet drop, and threatened to
fall to the pale white lace of the bed cover. He ducked his head
and caught Ariane’s fingertip between his lips.

The heat of Simon’s mouth made the fire seem
cold. Ariane made a low sound as he gently released her finger.

“Is something wrong?” Simon asked.

“You are so very warm. It surprised
me.”

“You felt no displeasure?”

She shook her head.

“What of pleasure?” Simon asked.

“Now I know why the keep’s cats stalk
you. The warmth of your body draws them.”

Amusement gleamed in Simon’s dark eyes.

“Then you liked my heat,” he murmured,
smiling.

Ariane wanted to scream with sudden frustration at
the trap life had built around her. In her eyes, Simon was as
handsome as a god. Firelight burned in the gold of his hair and
gleamed within the midnight depths of his eyes.

When he smiled, it was like watching the sun rise
over
a bank of clouds, touching everything with
warmth. Yet Ariane had to sit close to Simon while thinking coldly
about the dagger that was now within her reach.

If he smiled again, she didn’t know what she
would do.

How can a man who is so fair
to look at be such a beast when taken by lust
?

There was no answer to Ariane’s silent,
desperate question. There never had been an answer. Geoffrey the
Fair was considered the most comely knight in the Norman lands, and
he had raped her without apology.

Maybe Simon would be
different. More kind
.

The thought was as beguiling to Ariane as
Simon’s smile. But on the heels of that thought came the
bitterness of past experience to warn her.

A man’s smile is like a
rainbow. If I foolishly chase it, I will be drawn from my true
path. Then I will relive my nightmare again and again and
again.

But I will be awake this time.
Every time
.

Ariane shuddered with fear and revulsion. Only the
thought of the dagger, bright and clean and hard, made it possible
for her to keep her self-control as nightmare threatened to
overwhelm her.

“Bring me some more wine,
nightingale.”

Without a word Ariane pick up a wine goblet and
held it out to Simon. He didn’t take it.

“I find that wine tastes better when sipped
from your fingertip,” he said.

Ariane looked at Simon intently. His eyes were like
his mind, clear and unclouded by drink.

Yet he must be weakened by wine if her plan had any
chance of succeeding.

“It will take until dawn to drink a goblet
from my hand,” Ariane protested.

“A night well spent.”

Ariane dipped her fingers in wine and held them out
to Simon. This time the warmth of his mouth didn’t startle
her. The pleasure, however, remained.

It pleased him, as well. He purred.

The feline sound coming from a fierce warrior made
Ariane smile.

“Do I amuse you, nightingale?” Simon
asked.

“’Tis odd to hear a warrior
purr,” she admitted.

Before Simon could answer, Ariane put two fingers
into the wine goblet. In her haste to get more wine into him, she
dipped up too much. Wine ran down her fingers to her palm, and from
there to her wrist.

So did Simon’s tongue.

If he had been holding her, Ariane would have
fought. But Simon hadn’t moved and it had been she who had
offered her wine-wet fingers.

“Such an odd sound,” Simon said.

“What?”

His tongue swept out and the hardened tip traced
the fragile blue veins of her wrist where life beat frantically
just beneath creamy skin.

“Oh!” Ariane said.

“Aye. That sound,” Simon said.
“Unease and surprise and pleasure combined.”

“You are so unexpected,” Ariane
said.

The frustration in her tone nearly made Simon
smile. He felt the same way about her.

“I?” Simon asked. “I am but a
simple warrior who—”

Ariane made a sound of exasperated
disagreement.

Simon never paused.

“—finds himself wed to an extraordinary
beauty who quails at the thought of a kiss, much less the proper
joining of man and wife.”

“I’m not.”

“Quailing at the thought of our union?”
he asked smoothly.

“I’m not beautiful. Both Meg and Amber
shine more brightly than I.”

Simon laughed outright. “Ariane, your beauty
beggars my ability to describe it.”

“And your silver tongue beggars my ability to
believe your words,” she retorted.

“Then you like my tongue.”

“More wine?” she asked, looking away
from Simon’s gleaming eyes. “But not from my
fingertips. It will take too long that way.”

“What will?”

Killing the bride
.

For a terrible instant Ariane thought she had
spoken aloud. When Simon only continued to look at her attentively,
she realized she hadn’t put her frantic thought into words.
With a ragged sigh, she gathered the shreds of her
self-control.

“Reaching the bottom of the goblet,”
she said quickly. “It will take too long drop by
drop.”

“Does something await us at the bottom of the
goblet?”

“Whatever we wish.”

Simon blinked. “Really.”

“Aye,” Ariane said, improvising
swiftly. “’Tis an old belief in Norman lands that a
wish made on a nuptial cup is granted, but the cup must be quickly
drunk.”

“Odd. I’m an old Norman and I’ve
never heard of it.”

“You’re teasing me.”

“The thought appeals.”

“Simon,” Ariane said a trifle
desperately.

“A whole goblet?” he asked.

“Aye.”

“One wish per cup?”

“Aye,” she said.

“What if I have two wishes?”

“Then you must drink two goblets.
Quickly.”

“And you?” he asked.

“I have only one wish.”

Simon saw the sudden return of darkness to
Ariane’s eyes and wondered what her thoughts were.

“What wish is that, nightingale?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Ever?”

For a moment Ariane didn’t answer. Then she
lowered long black lashes over her eyes, concealing the darkness
within.

“Not yet,” she whispered.

“But someday?”

“Someday you will know.”

The fire crackled in the silence, sending up sparks
that died almost before they lived. Broodingly, Simon looked from
the fire to his enigmatic wife.

You are like those sparks,
nightingale. Flashes of brilliant heat against a consuming
darkness
.

What was it Amber said about
you? You had endured a betrayal so deep it all but killed your
soul
.

Yet I can call fiery sparks
from your darkness
.

“Make your wish,” Simon said
huskily.

Ariane looked at the goblet that he was holding out
to her and shook her head.

“You go first,” she said.

“Another ‘old’
tradition?”

Ignoring the teasing in Simon’s voice, she
nodded urgently.

Without looking away from Ariane, Simon lifted the
goblet.

“May I burn like the phoenix within your
amethyst fire,” he said. “And like the phoenix, may I
arise to burn again.”

Simon drank to the last drop, turned the goblet
upside down to show that it was empty, and poured more wine from
the ewer.

“Your turn,” he said.

Ariane eyed the goblet with faint alarm. Though
Simon had filled it barely half-f, it still was a daunting
amount of wine to her.

“I cannot drink so quickly as you,” she
said.

He smiled. “’Tis just as well,
nightingale. You would be too addled to crawl, much less to
fly.”

Taking a deep breath, Ariane raised the goblet to
her lips.

“Your wish,” Simon said.

“’Tis for you.”

Surprised, Simon couldn’t think of anything
to say.

“May nothing of what passes here tonight
cause you difficulty,” Ariane said in a rush.

Before Simon could ask what Ariane meant by that
toast, she lifted the goblet to her lips and drank as quickly as
she could without choking. Wine spread over her tongue and through
her body in a dizzying wave of warmth.

“Here,” she said breathlessly, pressing
the goblet into his hands. “Your second wish.”

“There’s no hurry.”

Ariane looked so disappointed that Simon shrugged,
filled the goblet, and toasted her again.

“May I some day understand the darkness in
which my nightingale flies,” he said distinctly.

With an anxiousness Ariane couldn’t conceal,
she watched Simon drink. When he finished the last drop, she let
out a sigh.

Surely that will be enough to
slow him. He drank toasts downstairs while I but pretended to drink
mine. He has had two full goblets while I have had but half of
one
.

Surely
…

“Don’t look so nervous,” Simon
said dryly, lowering the goblet. “I won’t fall
senseless after this small bit of drink.”

He poured more wine in the goblet and turned to
Ariane.

“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “I
had only the one wish.”

“For me, not for you.”

“’Tis enough. If that wish comes true,
none other matters.”

The intensity of Ariane’s voice and eyes told
Simon that she meant exactly what she said. Whatever her game, it
was deadly serious.

Frowning, he looked into the burgundy depths of the
wine. The liquid swirled slightly, capturing
streamers of light from the hearth.

“Then we will have to do it a few drops at a
time,” Simon said. “Slower that way,” his smile
flashed, “but never tedious.”

“I don’t understand.”

Saying nothing, Simon drank a small bit of wine.
Deliberately, he left a gleaming trail of liquid on his lips.

“Sip from me,” he said simply.

Surprise showed on Ariane’s face, but she
lifted her fingertips to Simon’s mouth, preparing to blot up
the wine.

He turned his head aside.

“Nay, nightingale. With your lips.”

Ariane’s eyes widened, revealing magnificent
amethyst depths framed in thick black lashes. She had kissed
Geoffrey only a few times, and never on the mouth. Even in
nightmare, she had avoided that.