Medieval 03 - Enchanted

?
    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