The Black Lyon

reaching out, daring him, as her body increased the pulsating movements.
    One powerful hand swept her to him, clasping tightly the deep curve of her waist, the other crushing her to him. The tent was dark, much too dark as he looked into her half-closed eyes, but he saw the mouth that waited below the veil, and the hunger it showed more than matched his own.
    Enjoying and prolonging each exquisite moment, he stroked her skin, slightly damp from her dance, as was his own. She seemed to purr, a low, throaty sound, as he touched her. For only a very brief instant did her eyes open to meet his as he pulled the veil away and sought her lips, and then his eyes were closed too.
    The music from outside the tent slowed to a sensuous rhythm as if sensing what was taking place inside.
    Lyonene allowed her body to be supported totally by Ranulf’s strong hands. His lips touched hers gently, savoring the feel of them, the taste of them. His tongue ran across the edge of her teeth, delighting in the tiny chipped place. The agonizing slowness with which he took his pleasure of her weakened her body; she felt almost as if she were dying under his sweet torture. He ran his teeth along her lower lip, tasting the firmness of it, relishing its special flavor. The corners of her mouth received his unique attention, and then his urgency enveloped her, his lips crushing hers, moving as he delighted in the nectar of them.
    Lyonene pulled him to her, closer, ever closer, and ran her hands across the great muscles of his back, glorifying in the reserved power they held. The feel of his fingers caressing her bare skin made her mad to feel his dark, smooth skin under her hands. His lips moved to her ear, and soft words came to her, unknown words, meaningless yet allmeaning.
    It may have been a discordant sound from the music that made Lyonene return to herself, to know that she was Ranulf’s unwanted wife and not a serf girl as he now believed. He made love to a serf girl, a girl who danced for him, but he did not hold and caress his wife. Her pride, the pride of a lioness, returned to her and she knew that she could not continue with their lovemaking when he thought she was another.
    She steeled herself and refused to hear the words of love, and harder still, to feel the lips that traveled along her throat. She released him so quickly that she had a second before he realized she had fled the tent. She ran as hard and as fast as she was able before stopping. The built-up tears poured forth in a violent torrent. She cursed herself for a hundred times a fool. Her mind rang with her confusion. How could this man’s touch inflame her so, and how could he make such sweet love to one he thought to be only a serf girl, someone he cared for not at all?
    Maude found her and helped her to bathe her swollen face and change her clothes. No words were spoken as they made their way to the camp, and the old woman carefully shielded Lyonene’s view of Ranulf’s dark tent, silent now from the rages of an hour ago. Only Maude’s long understanding of Ranulf had been able to calm him from the anger he carried toward the girl. Lyonene breathed a ragged sigh in her sleep, and Maude shook her head in disgust.
    Maude sent Lyonene away from the camp for water early the next morning. Ranulf would appear soon, and he would easily know which of the four women had danced for him the night before. All she could do was prolong the inevitable.
    Lyonene’s thoughts still warred within her as she pulled the heavy bucket from the water. So loud were her thoughts that she did not hear the horses approach. Before she could protest, strong arms pulled her against a bony body, hands groping her beneath her serf’s garb. A mouth that gave a foul odor found hers. She began to kick and claw.
    “Sir Henry!” a familiar, laughing voice called. “I don’t believe you know how to treat a lady.”
    The old man released her and she spun around, her back to the voice. Keeping her head down, she raised a cautious glance to see Geoffrey before the man who had just attacked her.
    “Lady?” Sir Henry spat. “She is but a serf girl.”
    Geoffrey’s voice hid his contempt. “May I suggest, sir, that all pretty young women are ladies.”
    Lyonene felt the gratitude rising in her breast.
    Sir Henry laughed. “I see what you mean.”
    “You do not mind if I try?”
    “My experience bows to your pretty form.”
    Without even looking at her face, Geoffrey whirled Lyonene into his