The Black Lyon

years. She was aware that the Black Guard had come to their feet and that now the Black Lion also stood before her. Her nervousness increased.
    Ranulf had not felt so at ease in a long time. Only Eleanora, the queen, had ever made him feel so comfortable as this woman had. Even after having seen Melite and knowing that she had once been a beautiful woman, he was startled by Lyonene’s extraordinary beauty. Her head was lowered and he could not see her face, but her thick, curling hair tumbled down her back past her waist. It was tawny, a dark blond with thousands of dancing lights caught by the fire. Her figure was amply revealed by the tight tunic, and it made his mouth dry. A tiny waist, curving hips, a soft, inviting bosom. He could not remember ever having been so affected by a pretty woman.
    Lyonene raised timid eyes to Ranulf de Warbrooke, not sure what she expected but fearing the worst. He was dark, with eyes as black as coals and sable curls of hair that seemed to be ever unruly. The top of her head did not reach his shoulder.
    But the expression in his eyes was what intrigued her. Like her mother, she could judge a person’s character quickly. The Earl of Malvoisin’s eyes reminded her of a dog she had seen once. The dog had been caught in a trap, his leg nearly cut in half, and the pain had made him almost mad. It had taken a long time for Lyonene to soothe the animal and gain its trust so that she could release the iron jaws of the trap, and all the while the dog had looked at her with just such an expression of wariness, pain and near-dead hope as did the man who stood before her now.
    “I am most pleased you could come to Lorancourt, my lord, and pray forgive me for my tardiness in welcoming you.”
    Ranulf extended a hand to her and she put her small hand into his warm, large one. His touch could not have affected her more if he’d put a lighted brand to her fingertips. She almost gasped at the sensation but was glad she had not, fearful of giving offense. Gone was any knowledge of anyone else in the room. She became a disembodied hand, all feelings and thoughts transferred to the fingertips of that one small area. She stared stupidly at the two hands, one small and fair, the other large, battlehardened and coated in short dark hairs.
    He spoke again and she seemed to feel his voice through the tips of her fingers. “A beautiful woman need not ask forgiveness. A smile will be enough.” His voice had lost some of its smoothness; there was a hesitation in it. He put his other hand beneath her chin and lifted her face so he could look at her.
    She looked again at him, seeing a strong face, a jaw wellcut, slightly arched brows over the black eyes, a straight nose, the nostrils somewhat flared. Her gaze fell on his lips, which were well-shaped but held too rigid. Lucy had been correct; he was a handsome man. She smiled, timidly at first and then with more warmth. She looked behind the lips that did not smile and saw a … yes, a sweetness there, the same gentleness that her mother had seen. Of a sudden, she had an urge to laugh, so great was her relief at her findings. She moved against the fingers that held her chin. Never had a man’s touch made her feel so alive.
    Abruptly, Ranulf dropped his hand from her chin and relinquished the hand he held. “I must see to the Frisian,” he mumbled and made his way to the door, the Black Guard following suit.
    “Well!” William collapsed in the cushioned chair before the fire. “If a man were to live a thousand more years, he would not understand the mind of a woman. My wife treats the king’s champion as a gossiping washerwoman, then my daughter fair faints at the mere sight of him, and then she laughs in his face. If my lands are not forfeit in two weeks, I will not know why.”
    “William,” Melite began, but she knew she could not explain her own actions, much less those of her daughter. “He seems well content. Come, Lyonene, there are duties to see to.”
    Lyonene was anxious to leave the room, for she did not like to think her reactions to the man were so obvious. But it was true that she could not have felt more strongly if the slate roof of the donjon had rolled back and lightning had struck her.
    Lyonene dreaded being alone with her mother for she knew there would be questions that she could not answer.
    As if knowing her thoughts, Melite said, “No, there will be no questions. I ask only that you be kind to our guest, not because he is a