Medieval 03 - Enchanted

I stand up and walk
away ?
    Yet even as the words battered within Simon’s
mind, the pounding of his own heartbeat overwhelmed them. Not
trusting himself to touch Ariane with his hands again, unable to
turn away from her sensuous, expectant beauty, he bent down to his
wife once more.
    Ariane murmured dreamily at the caress of
Simon’s cheek against her thigh. He breathed deeply, infusing
himself with her perfume, immersing himself in the fragrance of
passion as though it were a healing thrall.
    He kissed the creamy flesh with a languid care that
equaled her dreamlike movements. When he sucked lightly, creating a
rush of heat beneath her fair skin, she sighed raggedly and
shifted, making a deeper nest for him between her legs.
    Heal me .
    He whispered her name against her softness as he
tasted the essence of moonlight and roses and the wild, leashed
storm that seethed dreamily between them, enthralling both.
    A slow heat went through Ariane, a burning that was
all the more thorough for its languorous pace.
    I am on fire .
    I can taste it .
    Yes. Taste me .
    Swirling slowly, succumbing wholly to the sultry
thrall, Simon knew only the feel and taste of Ariane, her heat
flushing his skin until he breathed only pure fragrance and
fire.
    I burn .
    Yes .
    Burn with me .
    Always .
    We are .
    Burning .

17
    W arily Simon eyed the pot of fresh
balm Cassandra was handing to him. He uncapped it and sniffed.
    A luxuriant shudder went through him, memory and
desire combined.
    “Ariane,” Simon said huskily.
    “Of course,” said the Learned
woman.
    Saying nothing more, Simon put the cap back on the
pot with quick, final gestures and turned to Ariane’s
bed.
    “Does the balm displease you?”
Cassandra asked.
    A ripple of memory and dream entwined cascaded
through Simon. He had tried not to think about the past night, when
he had awakened half-dressed with his wholly naked wife lying
asleep in his arms…and the healing fragrance of the balm had
risen from his body as much as from hers.
    Simon had tried not to think of what had happened
between himself and his wife, because it made no sense. It had
neither reason nor logic. It could not be weighed or measured, held
or examined.
    It could not have happened.
    I can’t have shared her
healing .
    I can’t have felt her
burning .
    But he could have burned.
    He had.
    And so had she.
    “Thrice,” Cassandra said.Simon started, wondering how she had known.
    “What?” he demanded.
    “Until Ariane awakens, you must apply the
balm three times each day,” the Learned woman said
patiently.
    Despite Cassandra’s neutral expression, Simon
thought he detected an amused gleam in her quicksilver eyes.
    “Aye, you explained that to me several times
already,” Simon said shortly.
    This time he was certain the Learned woman
smiled.
    “Have you checked her wound this
morning?” Cassandra asked.
    “Not yet.”
    Simon’s tone was curt. He had no desire to
explain that he didn’t trust himself to undress his wife
again, much less to smooth fragrant, artful balm all over her skin
until there was nothing between them but roses and moonlight, a
distant storm, and a slow, consuming fire.
    He breathed deeply, trying to control the savage
response of his body.
    Just a dream. ’Tis
all .
    I fell asleep. And I
dreamed .
    Sweet God, I pray that I could
dream such dreams while still awake !
    And Ariane dream with
me …
    With a silent, searing curse, Simon went to the bed
and began undressing Ariane. When the last of the dress and bandage
fell away, he drew in a swift breath.
    The crimson line of the wound had faded to a pale
pink. There was not even the faintest shadow of bruising beneath
her creamy skin.
    “She will awaken soon,” Cassandra said
with satisfaction. “The healing is almost
complete.”
    “Almost?” Simon asked. “What
remains?”
    “We will know when she awakens.”
    With that cryptic comment, Cassandra turned and
left the room.
    In the silence that followed, the cry of yet
another storm came to Simon, muted by thick stone walls. Hepicked up a pot of medicinal ointment and sat on the
bed next to Ariane as he had so many times since she had been
wounded.
    “’Tis just as well Meg and Dominic left
for Blackthorne days ago,” Simon said as he rubbed the
pungent salve into what remained of the knife wound. “Despite
Meg’s determination and spirit, she would have suffered
during a cold, stormy ride back home.”
    Simon spoke aloud as had become his habit during
the