Medieval 03 - Enchanted

elsewhere,”
Simon said softly. “You are disturbing my wife.”
    “As you wish, healer. But remember, all of
Ariane’s skin must know the healing kiss of the balm. Every
bit.”
    Cassandra was out of the door before Simon realized
what she had called him.
    Healer .
    Broodingly he looked down at Ariane’s wan
face.
    If only it were that
easy .
    If only I could heal her body
with a handful of herbs and a soothing touch .
    Then perhaps I could heal my
dark nightingale’s soul as well .
    Or my own soul. Equally
dark.
    Unbidden, unwanted, Dominic’s words echoed in
Simon’s mind.
    Like me, you left all warmth
in the Saracen land…. Who will bring warmth to you if you
marry Ariane ?
    Ariane made a low noise, as though protesting
something only she could understand.
    The sound brought Simon out of his bleak thoughts.
What was past was irretrievable. What remained had to be lived
with, whether sweet or bitter, savory or sour, fire or ice.
    Abruptly Simon turned away from his sleeping wife.
Despite her muted, unknowing protests, he slid his hand from hers
and began the cleansing ritual that Meg had insisted he learn
before she left with Dominic for Blackthorne Keep.
    With deft, gentle hands that smelled of medicinal
soap, Simon partially undid the silver laces on Ariane’s
dress and eased amethyst fabric from her shoulders. As he handled
the dress, he no longer questioned Cassandra’s edict that
Serena’s weaving remain against Ariane’s skin. He had
seen for himself that she rested more easily when wrapped in the
cloth.
    And when Simon was touching her, she rested most
deeply of all.
    When she is truly well, will
she trust me enough to let me touch her as a husband rather than a
healer ?
    The unexpected thought made Simon’s hands
stop in mid-movement. Violet cloth and cool silver laces slid from
his motionless fingers.
    The bodice of Ariane’s dress fell away.
Flickering fire from the brazier cast shadows of light and darkness
over her smooth breasts. The ripples of shadow and firelight made
her breasts look as though they were being stroked by immaterial
fingers.
    And as though stroked, her nipples became taut.
    “Nightingale,” Simon whispered.
    Ariane’s head moved restlessly. Her breasts
shifted with subtle, enticing movements, as though asking to be
admired by Simon’s eyes, his hands, his mouth.
    With a silent curse, Simon closed his eyes. He had
undressed Ariane thrice daily for nine days, and despite the
beautiful temptation of her body, never once had he touched her in
any way other than as a healer. But now…
    Now he wanted to be the light on her breasts,
caressing her in shades of dusk and fire.
    Now he wanted to take the weight of her breasts in
his palms while his thumbs flicked her nipples into full pink
buds.
    Now he wanted to curl his tongue around those buds
and draw her into his mouth.
    And then he wanted more. Much more.
    He wanted things he could neither name nor
describe. He wanted to burn as the phoenix burned, and know what
the phoenix knew as it rose from the flames only to return again
and then again, feeling the ecstatic fire burn all the way through
to his soul.
    A low sound was dragged from deep within Simon. It
shocked him, but not as much as the violence of his need for
Ariane’s unwilling body. He was full to bursting, hard as a
battle sword, and burning as though fresh from the forge.
    “God’s teeth,” he hissed beneath
his breath. “Does Cassandra think I’m a eunuch not to
lust for the very flesh I am supposed to heal? Seeing
Ariane’s breasts in the firelight…’tis like
having hot coals spilled between my legs!”
    Shaken by his own sudden lack of control, Simon
clenched his hands into fists, squeezing the amethyst cloth between
his fingers until his arms ached.
    After too long a time for his own comfort, Simon
could breathe without feeling as though it were flames rather than
air he was taking into his lungs. Slowly he released Ariane’s
dress and began unwinding from around her ribs the strip of violet
cloth that was acting as both binding and bandage.
    The wound was a thin scarlet line centered between
two ribs. Already the skin had knitted back together as though
never sliced by a renegade’s dagger. The flesh around the
wound was warm but not hot, flushed with the pink of healing rather
than with the livid red of a wound gone to deadly fever.
    “’Tis worth putting up with Learned and
Glendruid witchery combined to see you healing so