Medieval 03 - Enchanted

him in the direction of the keep’s armory.
Smiling, Meg waited for Ariane to accompany them.
    Carefully Ariane set her harp on a side table. As
she turned back to Meg, light from a nearby lamp danced and
glittered over the haft of the jeweled dagger she wore on the
girdle that rode low on her hips. An answering flash of amethysts
gleamed at her wrist and neck.
    The two women hurried from the solar, their long
skirts whispering over the keep’s stone floors. Golden bells
chimed sweetly with each step Meg took.
    As Meg and Ariane descended the stairway, lamplight
gave way to torches set in holders along the walls. Air disturbed
by their bodies made the torch flames dip and sway, sending shadows
sliding crazily over the stones.
    The armory was near the barracks, for men-at-arms
guarded both the costly weapons and the wellhead that was the
keep’s source of water. At Blackthorne Keep, the armory with
its iron door and impregnable stone walls also served as a treasure
room. There Thomas the Strong stood guard over weapons and wealth
alike.
    As often was the case, Marie, widow of Robert the
Cuckold, was nearby. Thomas was her favorite among the knights
garrisoned within the keep.
    Except, of course, for Dominic and Simon.
    “Lord,” Marie said, bowing low to
Dominic in the Saracen fashion. “We see too little of
you.”
    The sensual light in Marie’s dark eyes and
the huskiness of her voice carried another
message—should Dominic ever tire of his Glendruid wife, Marie
would be ready to serve him in any fashion he desired.
    Meg smiled with genuine amusement. She and Marie
had reached an agreement, one that had been privately struck. Marie
would cease lying in wait for Dominic and confine her
seraglio-learned wiles to unmarried men, or Meg would see that
Marie found a position as a whore in a London brothel.
    “And you, Simon,” Marie murmured,
smiling up at him from under long back lashes. “’Tis
sad that such a generously endowed man is so stingy with
his…presence.”
    Lips more red than a ripe cherry pouted for an
instant, only to widen into a sensual smile that was for Simon and
Simon alone. Marie stepped very close to him, stood on tiptoe, and
kissed him on the lips.
    For an instant Simon stiffened as though he had
been slapped. Then his hands unclenched and he accepted
Marie’s kiss with an ease that spoke of long familiarity.
    Ariane watched and thought how lovely her jeweled
dagger would look between Marie’s shoulder blades.
    “Congratulations on your fine marriage,
sir,” Marie said when Simon ended the kiss.
    The huskiness in Marie’s voice had doubled.
Her eyes were heavy-lidded, watching only Simon. Her clever hands
smoothed down the bodice of her dress and over her full, flaring
hips. The red silk—a parting gift from Dominic—glowed
in the torchlight as though alive.
    “Thank you,” Simon said.
    Casually he widened the space between them, but not
far enough to suit Ariane. Each time Marie took a deep breath, and
it seemed the wench took no other kind, the tips of her full
breasts nearly brushed against Simon.
    “’Tis my hope that you won’t
forget old friends who shared…everything…with you
through the Holy War,” Marie said.
    “I forget nothing,” Simon promised
softly.
    For a moment Marie’s long lashes swept down,
shielding her eyes. Then she looked up at Simon once more. Her lips
gleamed from a recent licking and her eyes were half-closed. The
hardened tips of her breasts showed clearly through the red
silk.
    “Nor do I forget,” Marie murmured.
“You least of all, for you were best of all. Do you remember
that, too?”
    “Marie,” Meg said clearly.
“Remember our bargain?”
    “Aye, Lady Margaret.”
    “Simon, too, is married.”
    Marie smiled and flashed a sideways look at Ariane
before speaking.
    “Aye, lady,” Marie said. “But
’tis said freely about the keep that Lady Ariane has no
interest whose bed her husband warms, so long as it isn’t her
own.”
    “That is not true,” Ariane said
distinctly.
    Marie’s smile said she didn’t believe
it.
    “I am glad,” Marie murmured, but it was
to Simon she spoke. “A sword too long without a sheath grows
rusty.”
    Marie’s fingers went directly from the laces
at the neck of Simon’s shirt to the lacing of his breeches.
His hand shot out with startling quickness, keeping Marie’s
prowling fingers from their goal.
    “Ah, Simon,” Marie said huskily,
leaning toward him, “I am happy that yours is a