Medieval 03 - Enchanted

the kindness of
lackeys or men seeking favors, but a simple awareness that she had
neither his strength nor his stamina on the trail. He had been
careful of her in a way that had nothing to do with the politeness
of a knight toward a highborn maiden.
    The sound of footsteps in the hall broke into
Ariane’s thoughts.
    “Who goes?” she asked.
    Her voice was so tight it was almost hoarse.
    “Your husband. May I enter?”
    “It is too soon,” Ariane said without
thinking.
    “Too soon?”
    “I’m not—not ready.”
    Simon’s laughter was rather teasing and quite
male. It ruffled nerves Ariane had never known existed in her
body.
    “It will be my pleasure to ready you most
thoroughly,” Simon said in a deep voice. “Open the door
for me, nightingale.”
    Ariane moved to put the dagger in its sheath at her
waist, only to remember that the dress was laced from neck to
knees. There was no belt from which to hang a sheath.
    Frantically she looked around for a place to put
the dagger. It must be within her reach while she lay in bed. That
would be when she most needed it.
    The sash holding one of the bed draperies aside was
the best hiding place Ariane could find for the blade. Hurriedly
she slid the dagger between the folds of cloth and went to the
door.
    “Ariane.”
    Simon’s voice was no longer teasing. He meant
to have access to the bedchamber.
    And to his wife.
    With shaking hands, Ariane opened the door.
    “There was no barrier to your entry,”
she said in a low voice.
    Her glance didn’t lift from the floor.
    “Your lack of welcome is a bigger barrier
than any contrived by a locksmith,” Simon said.
    Ariane said nothing. Nor did she look up to his
face.
    “If I am so ugly in your eyes, why did you
want the Learned to witness that whatever comes of this marriage is
your doing, not mine?” Simon challenged gently.
    “You are not ugly in my eyes,” Ariane
said.
    “Then look at me, nightingale.”
    Drawing a deep breath, Ariane forced herself to
confront her husband’s black glance. What she saw drew a
startled sound from her.
    One of the keep’s cats was draped around
Simon’s neck. When his long, tapering fingers moved
caressingly under the cat’s chin, it purred with the sound of
thick rain on water. Claws slid in and out of their sheaths,
telling of feline ecstasy. Though the claws pierced Simon’s
shirt to test the flesh beneath, he showed no impatience. He simply
kept stroking the cat and watching Ariane’s violet eyes.
    Belatedly Ariane realized that Simon held a jug of
wine and two goblets in the hand that wasn’t busy petting the
cat.
    “You drank little wine,” Simon said,
following her glance.
    Ariane shuddered, remembering the night another man
had pressed wine upon her.
    “I have little liking for wine,” she
said tightly.
    “English wine can bite the tongue. But this
is Norman wine. Drink with me.”
    It wasn’t a request. Nor was it an order.
    Not quite.
    Ariane decided that she would pretend to drink, for
it was clear that Simon hadn’t yet drunk enough to lose the
edge of his wit, much less his judgment.
    “As you wish,” Ariane murmured.
    Simon stepped into the room. Instantly Ariane
stepped back, then covered the action by making a fuss of
closing the door. She doubted that Simon was
fooled.
    A glance at his face told her she was right.
    “Why is there no fire?” Simon
asked.
    For the space of an aching breath, Ariane thought
he was asking about her lack of passion. Then her lungs eased as
she realized that he was looking at the barren hearth.
    “Blanche has been ill.”
    Casually Simon set the wine and goblets on a chest
that held extra coverings for the bed. He lifted the cat from his
neck and settled the animal in the crook of his arm. With easy
grace, he knelt and stirred the ashes, seeking any embers. There
were only a few, and they were quite small.
    Ariane started for the door. “I’ll call
for fresh coals.”
    “No.”
    Though the word was quietly spoken, Ariane stopped
so quickly that her dress swirled forward.
    “What is already in the hearth will be
enough,” Simon said.
    “They are barely alive.”
    “Aye. But they are alive. Be ready to hand me kindling. Very small
at first. No more than slivers.”
    As Simon spoke, he gathered the scarce coals and
began breathing gently on them. After a few moments, the larger
coal began to flush with inner heat.
    “Kindling, please,” Simon murmured.
    Ariane started and looked around. A basket