Medieval 03 - Enchanted

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 thoughsavoring 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