Medieval 03 - Enchanted

perfume into his nostrils, moonrise and wild
roses and a hint of storm.
    Ariane’s scent.
    The scent of the very balm Simon didn’t trust
himself to rub into her changed flesh.
    The balm that Cassandra insisted was vital for
Ariane’s full recovery.
    Closing his eyes, Simon groaned too softly for
anyone to hear, even himself. Slowly his clenched fingers opened.
The amethyst fabric slid from his grasp with a sound like a
sigh.
    He picked up one of the small pots that were
arrayed on a chest near Ariane’s bed. The odor of the balm
was astringent, bracing, brisk.
    Medicinal not passionate.
    Rather grimly Simon dabbed his index finger in the
balm and began applying it with care to the scarlet scarbetween Ariane’s ribs. She lay very still,
breathing softly, not quite asleep. A slight smile made her so
beautiful that he felt a hand squeeze his heart.
    Your body wants me,
nightingale .
    It has wanted me from the
first, when you were Duncan’s betrothed .
    And you fought that wanting as
hard as I did .
    Fight no more. You are no
longer betrothed to another. I am your husband. You are my
wife .
    Your smile ravishes my
soul .
    Just as Simon lifted his hand from Ariane’s
wound, she turned on her side toward him. His fingers were caught
in a sensuous vise between her breasts.
    Heat flushed Simon from his forehead to his heels,
but most of all he burned where erect flesh strained against his
breeches. He counted his heartbeat in aching pulses that surged
against restraining cloth.
    With a long, hissing breath, Simon forced himself
to withdraw from the sweet vise. As he retreated, his fingertips
brushed one of Ariane’s nipples. It drew taut.
    “God’s blood, ’tis too
much,” Simon groaned through his teeth.
    He told himself that he must stand up and leave
Ariane. He meant to do just that. But the wretched sleeves had
fallen across his lap, chaining him.
    Simon reached for the pot of scented ointment that
Cassandra had blended just for Ariane. The pot felt warm, smooth,
the size and weight of a breast nestled against his palm.
    The scent of roses and storm drifted into the room
as Simon opened the pot. He inhaled deeply, taking into himself the
perfume that, like the dress, enhanced rather than concealed the
essence of Ariane.
    Slowly Simon dipped his fingertips into the balm.
It was warm, creamy, sleek, infused with all that was feminine.
    And it burned like desire.

16
    F or nine days Simon had been tending
Ariane as though she were a babe. For nine days he had told himself
that he didn’t see the feminine allure of her breasts and
hips. That he didn’t take a purely sensual pleasure in
smoothing ointment into every bit of her skin. That he didn’t
want to be like the balm, sinking into her very flesh, becoming
part of it.
    For nine days he had lied.
    God’s aching
teeth !
    What was Cassandra thinking of
when she ordered me to rub scented cream over every inch of Ariane?
Am I made of stone not to burn with passion ?
    Ariane turned her head from side to side, sending
gleaming coils of black hair sliding over her breasts. Her hands
moved languidly, yet almost impatiently, questing
for…something.
    “Ariane,” Simon said in a low
voice.
    Her head turned as though in response, yet her eyes
were closed. Deliberately Simon brushed the back of his fingers
over her cheek. Her hand lifted, holding his fingers against her
face.
    She turned even more toward him, plainly accepting
his touch.
    Nay. Wanting it .
    Demanding it .
    “I wish I dared awaken you,” Simon
whispered.
    But that had been specifically forbidden by
Cassandra. She had said that when Ariane was healed she would throw
off the effects of the medicines. Until then, shewould sleep. Rushing her awakening would only delay
the healing.
    When Simon began applying balm, the warmth of
Ariane’s breath flowed over him. He told himself he was doing
nothing different, nothing new, certainly nothing
sensual…
    Yet he couldn’t help noticing as though for
the first time the winged grace of Ariane’s eyebrows. The
black fringe of her lashes was so long that it rested against her
skin. Her nose was a clean, straight line with delicately arched
nostrils. Her cheekbones tempted his fingertips, as did the hollows
beneath where shadows of firelight played.
    The scent of the balm curled upward, increased by
the warmth of Ariane’s body. The perfume caressed Simon
invisibly with every touch of his skin against hers. He drew the
scent deep into his lungs while