Medieval 03 - Enchanted

cleanly,”
Simon murmured to Ariane. “When I saw that dagger go into
you…”
    His voice faded to a raspy sound. He had relived
that moment many times; seeing the savage gleam of steel, knowing
that her tender flesh was no match for the blade, feeling the
sickening certainty that he could not reach her in time to save
her.
    And he hadn’t. She had fallen even as he
screamed her name. She hadn’t answered his cry then.
    She still hadn’t answered him.
    Ariane .
    But now Simon’s cry went no farther than the
turmoil of his soul, where Ariane’s wounding had become
another raw scar lying next to the still-livid scar that had come
when Dominic paid for the sins of his brother.
    Slowly Simon reached for the pan of medicinal water
that had been warming near the brazier. He squeezed out a small
cloth and began to wash Ariane with great gentleness. As he worked
from her face to her breasts, he did his best to ignore the warm
rush of Ariane’s breath and the even warmer brush of her
breasts against his hand with each motion of the cloth.
    He was more successful with the bathing than with
the ignoring.
    It had been easier not to see Ariane’s
sensual appeal when her body was flushed with illness or chill with
the aftermath of fever. Then he could think of her not as a girl
whose aloof, dark beauty had set his body on fire from the first
time he had seen her, but as flesh that needed to be washed and
dried and salved, and then wrapped up once more against the autumn
cold.
    But the very feel of Ariane was different tonight.
After she had taken the last of the medicine from his lips, she had
changed. There was no subtle slackness in her body, as though all
her strength were being spent in surviving an outlaw’s
dagger. Though still unnaturallycalm, her mind
and body were throwing off the drugs and medicines that had held
her in a healing thrall.
    The elegant line of Ariane’s waist and hips
had changed subtly, vibrantly. It was as though she were giving
herself to his touch while he bathed her, transforming the bath
from a cleansing ritual into something far more sensual.
    Now her torso sang with a siren’s call to
Simon, as did the long curves of her legs while he washed her. The
lush thicket of her femininity made his breath wedge deep in his
chest. He forced himself to look away from the midnight triangle,
else his touch change from healing to loving.
    ’ Tis foolish! I am not a
green squire to stare as though I have never seen a woman’s
soft cleft .
    Simon took a deep breath and finished his work
quickly, forcing himself to think of her as a patient.
    Even so, Simon decided to forego rubbing scented
salve into Ariane’s skin from her delicate toes to her
graceful nape. The ointment smelled too sensuous to be a medicine
in any case, though Cassandra had insisted it was necessary for
Ariane’s cure.
    Abruptly Simon began drawing the amethyst dress
back up Ariane’s legs. Yet no matter how quickly he moved,
how little he touched her, she felt different to his hands. Her
limbs were more alive. More vital.
    Inviting.
    She was flushed with the kind of womanly fever that
knew only one cure.
    “God’s teeth,” Simon hissed.
“What is wrong with me to lust after a girl who is in no
condition to say aye or nay?”
    Ariane is my wife .
    “She isn’t well,” he muttered,
pulling the dress up Ariane’s hips with unusual urgency.
    Her body follows my touch like
a flower follows the sun .
    “She isn’t awake!”
    Her body is awakened. I can
sense it. I can feel it. Were I to bathe her softness with my
tongue, I could taste it .
    The thought sent a bolt of raw sensation through
Simon, followed by a temptation so strong that it shook his body
the way thunder shakes the ground.
    Simon quit arguing with himself and concentrated on
covering as much as possible of Ariane before he rubbed salve into
her tender wound. But the dress’s long, flowing sleeves
seemed to have a mind of their own. They tangled. They twisted.
They were as elusive as smoke. They frustrated every approach.
    And each time Simon lifted Ariane a different way
in order to work on the sleeves, her breasts swayed and brushed
over his arms, his hands. Once, his cheek knew her warmth and
softness.
    She smiled dreamily at the caress.
    Blistering Saracen phrases whispered through the
still room. Simon released Ariane, picked up a sleeve and eyed it
as he would an ill-trained hound.
    The fabric curled softly around his fingers and
breathed a subtle