Medieval 03 - Enchanted

healing, Ariane had been passion
incarnate. But the thrall was broken. Now Simon was afraid that all
he would be able to call from Ariane was cold duty and even colder
disgust.
    He wasn’t certain what he would do if that
happened.
    He was certain that he didn’t want to find
out.
    A falcon’s keening cry arrowed down from
overhead, pulling Simon from his bleak thoughts. Moments later,
Winter plummeted from the sapphire sky toward Erik’s
outstretched arm. Talons sank into leather gauntlet. Wide,
steel-grey wings flared and then settled crisply along the
bird’s sides. Peregrine and tawny-eyed sorcerer whistled to
one another.
    “She found no sign of armed men between here
and Stone Ring,” Erik said.
    Ariane let out a breath that she hadn’t been
aware of holding.
    Simon grunted and held his tongue.
    Erik was hardly the first knight who claimed to
understand his falcon’s mind, but he was the first knight
Simon had encountered who actually appeared to do so. Although
Simon didn’t understand how man and falcon communicated, he
was practical enough to accept that it happened—and that it
had saved the day when the renegades attacked.
    “Thank God,” Ariane said.
    Simon said nothing.
    “You seem unconvinced,” Erik said
blandly to Simon. “Would you like to query Winter
yourself?”
    “I’m not Learned.”
    “So you say.”
    “So I know ,” Simon corrected curtly.
    “You are a most curious unLearned man,”
Erik murmured.
    “How so?”
    Erik looked pointedly at Simon’s legs.
    Simon glanced down and saw that Ariane’s
dress had become entangled in his chausses again.
    “God’s teeth,” Simon muttered.
“The stuff clings worse than cat fur.”
    “Only to you,” Erik said.
    Simon looked up sharply at Erik. So did Ariane, who
was discreetly—and futilely—tugging at her dress,
trying to free it without snagging the lovely fabric.
    “What do you mean?” Simon asked.
    Erik shifted the peregrine to his shoulder, removed
one gauntlet, and reached for the dress.
    A subtle bit of wind shifted the fabric just out of
reach. The corner of Erik’s mouth curled up.
    “See?” he said. “It eludes
me.”
    “The wind eludes you,” retorted Simon
as he plucked at the dress.
    As quickly as Simon released one bit of material,
another part of the cloth got caught anew on his armor. Erik
watched and hid his smile behind his hand.
    Ariane bent over to help her husband. When her bare
fingers brushed Simon’s, a surge of pleasure went through her
at the contact of skin with skin. The pleasure was so sharp and so
startling that her breath broke. She snatched back her fingers as
though it had been fire rather than flesh she touched.
    Simon’s mouth flattened at the fresh evidence
that his wife disliked even the most casual physical contact withhim. But other than the line of his mouth,
nothing of his reaction showed. His fingers remained patient as
they dealt with the stubborn, beautiful fabric.
    “I am sorry,” Ariane said. “It
must be the autumn wind that makes the fabric cling. I will change
to another dress.”
    “No need,” Simon muttered without
looking up. “We should have left immediately after morning
chapel. If we delay while you change your clothes, it will be
eventide before we set out.”
    Before Ariane could open her mouth to protest that
it would require only a brief time for her to change, Erik took a
long stride forward. When he stopped, he was standing very close to
Ariane.
    Simon noted and said nothing, though he very much
disliked having his wife so close to the handsome blond
sorcerer.
    “Lady, if you will be so kind as to help me
demonstrate the special nature of Serena’s weaving?”
Erik asked.
    Simon gave him a sidelong glance. Though nothing
showed in Erik’s expression or tone of voice, the amusement
in him fairly radiated from his tawny eyes.
    “Of course, sir,” Ariane said.
“How may I help you?”
    “Take a fold of cloth and try to snag it on
my hauberk or chausses.”
    “I’ll do it,” Simon said
curtly.
    His voice said a lot more. It said that he had no
desire to have Ariane touch the muscular young sorcerer with
anything, even a fold of her dress.
    Simon’s hand shot out and gathered up a
fistful of cloth. He pulled it across Erik’s chain mail
hauberk. Nothing caught or snagged. Nor did the cloth show any
inclination to cling to the hauberk.
    “You have an extraordinary armorer,”
Simon said.
    “No armorer could take out the dents, nicks,
and