Medieval 03 - Enchanted

of
kindling lay just beyond her reach. Between her and the basket was
Simon’s muscular body.
    “It’s to your right,” Ariane
said.
    “I know,” he said. “My right arm
is full of His Laziness.”
    “His Laziness?”
    Then Ariane understood. She laughed
unexpectedly.
    To Simon, the sounds were as musical as any Ariane
had drawn from her harp.
    “The cat,” she said. “Is he truly
called His Laziness?”
    The sound of agreement Simon made was rather like
the cat’s purr.
    Disarmed, Ariane reached around Simon until her
fingers could close around the basket handle. It was a long reach.
Simon’s back was broad. Even beneath the luxurious indigo
folds of his shirt, she could sense the power and heat of the long
muscles on either side of his spine.
    The cat’s ecstatic purring vibrated in
Ariane’s ear as she bent far forward to retrieve the basket.
When Simon drew a breath, his back brushed against Ariane’s
arm. She looked at him with sudden wariness.
    If he noticed the contact, it didn’t distract
him. He was still leaning forward, his expression intent, his lips
shaped to send air in a steady stream over the coals.
    The sight of Simon’s pursed mouth intrigued
Ariane.
    Odd. I thought his lips were
hard, ungiving. But now they look almost…tender .
    Simon’s breath flowed out. Coals shimmered
with new heat.
    “Kindling,” he breathed.
    It was a moment before the request sank through
Ariane’s curious thoughts. She snatched the basket from the
hearth, reached in, and grabbed the first thing that came to hand.
Quickly she held the piece of wood out to Simon.
    “Here,” she said.
    The wood was half again as long as her hand and
thicker than three fingers held together.
    “Too large,” Simon said. “The
fire is still too shy to take that burden. Something much smaller
is required.”
    Ariane hesitated, struck by the teasing quality
buried within Simon’s rich voice.
    “Quickly,” he said without looking at
her. “If the coals burn too long alone, they will spend
themselves without ever creating true fire.”
    Blindly Ariane felt through the kindling basket
until she found dry slivers of wood at the bottom. She held them
out on her palm.
    As Simon took the offering, his fingers drew over
Ariane’s hand in a gesture that was strangely caressing. She
shivered and found it difficult to breathe.
    When Simon felt the telltale quiver, he smiled
within the concealment of his very short, fine beard.
    “Just right,” Simon murmured.

“You will quickly learn to build a fine fire.”
    Ariane thought of protesting that she had Blanche
to perform such tasks. In the end, Ariane held her tongue, not
wanting to disturb the fragile sense of playfulness she sensed in
her warrior husband.
    Ariane told herself that her caution came from
wanting Simon to be off guard when she finally was driven to use
the dagger.
    She wasn’t certain she believed it.
    What does it matter ?
Ariane mocked herself silently. Death will
come soon enough. Is it so terrible to take pleasure in the bit of
softness that lies so surprisingly within this warrior ?
    Intently, memorizing each deft moment with a
thoroughness she neither questioned nor understood, Ariane watched
as Simon added the slivers of kindling to the tiny mound of coals.
Heat grew in response to his breath fanning warmly over the
ashes.
    “More,” he said. “A bit bigger
this time. The fire grows less shy.”
    Ariane rummaged heedlessly in the basket, winced
when a silver went into her flesh, then kept on searching without
looking away from the pale gold of Simon’s head.
    His hair looked as soft as a kitten’s ears.
She wondered if it would feel half so smooth between her
fingers.
    “Ariane?”
    “Here,” she said, startled, holding out
her hand.
    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