The Black Lyon

first day I met you, you threw yourself at me with such force I was near blinded, and I have no proof you have not treated other men so. Now I am wed to you for three days and I have been driven to rape you twice and kill a boy for you. Yet here you lie in a tangle of hair and naught else and all I wish to do is make love to you.”
    Lyonene blinked up at him, torn between wishing he would kiss her and wanting to avoid what she knew the kissing would lead to.
    He pulled her close to him, and she buried her face in the thick mat of hair on his chest, rubbing her cheek against the softness. “I do not know of your loyalty yet,” he said, “whether you be an innocent or worse than Eve, but I know I desire you more than any other woman I have ever seen. Here, do not pull away. I will hurt you no more. I fear I have used you badly in my clumsy attempts, but I will try to redeem the time we have lost.”
    He lifted her mouth to meet his and softly, gently, touched her lips, taking a long, slow time before building the pressure on the sensitive flesh. He moved his lips, raking his teeth on her lower lip before drinking of the sweet honey of her mouth.
    Lyonene felt herself go liquid at his now gentle touch, at the feel of his skin, the size of him. He rolled her on her back, and she stiffened against the pain she knew came next, regretting the end of the sweet moments of his kisses. But he did not seem to notice her movements and began to trail hot kisses from the corner of her mouth to her ear, tasting her earlobe with the tip of his tongue.
    His lips moved down her neck, causing her to arch her neck, to surrender herself to him more fully. One hand moved along her hip, her waist, strong fingers on her ribs; then he touched her breast and she almost protested, so startled was she, but the sensation his hand sent along her body was not to be thwarted. His mouth traveled slowly down her body, igniting exquisite new fires.
    She felt herself leaving her body, her reason fleeing, and all that remained was a new, unfulfilled desire, a desire for something unknown. He seemed to have a hundred hands, a thousand lips, all seeking, touching and filling her mind till she was only sensation, nothing else. Frantically, she put her hands into his hair, the thick, soft mass curling about her fingers—her sensitive, vibrating fingertips.
    “Lioness, sweet Lioness,” he murmured, the deep rich tones adding to her wildness, the tremors of violence that shook her body. He came to her and there was no fear, no pain, only the beginning of the end of a need that consumed and blinded her.
    She did not need to follow his example, but the desire that overpowered her took hold and she more than met his passion. At last she cried out as she sank her nails into his back and arched to meet him. Slowly, receding waves shook her and she gradually relaxed and fell back on the white linen sheets. As Ranulf moved to roll from her, she pulled him back, not able to release him yet, exulting in the heaviness of him, the way his dark skin covered her body, damp, smelling strongly of earthy, masculine sweat.
    He rubbed his damp face in her neck, playfully, whiskers caressing, and moved to one side of her so he could see her face in the light from the thick candle by the bedside. He smoothed back a damp strand of hair from her temple.
    “I pleased you?” she whispered.
    He gave her a startled look and seemed amused by her question. “If you but knew…” he began and then stopped. “Aye, you pleased me exceedingly well and I fear you have taken all my strength,” he added as he saw her eyelids flicker in weariness. She was asleep almost before he finished speaking. In spite of his satiety, his tiredness, he watched her for a moment, curled against him, looking even younger than her few years. His passion was spent, and he remembered the day. He rolled from her and slept, his dreams troubled.
    In spite of the passion of the night, the morrow brought no respite from the pain between Ranulf and Lyonene. Giles’s death hung over them, as did the boy’s accusations. They crossed the ferry onto the Isle of Malvoisin, and for awhile Lyonene’s thoughts were overcome by the beauty and massive strength of the enormous castle complex. Black Hall was a stone house, furnished as she had never seen before, with the new tapestries Queen Eleanora had brought from Castile and windows covered with leaded panes of glass. She saw Ranulf’s pride in his house, which