Enchanted (15 page)

And he hadn’t. She had fallen even as he
screamed her name. She hadn’t answered his cry then.

She still hadn’t answered him.

Ariane
.

But now Simon’s cry went no farther than the
turmoil of his soul, where Ariane’s wounding had become
another raw scar lying next to the still-livid scar that had come
when Dominic paid for the sins of his brother.

Slowly Simon reached for the pan of medicinal water
that had been warming near the brazier. He squeezed out a small
cloth and began to wash Ariane with great gentleness. As he worked
from her face to her breasts, he did his best to ignore the warm
rush of Ariane’s breath and the even warmer brush of her
breasts against his hand with each motion of the cloth.

He was more successful with the bathing than with
the ignoring.

It had been easier not to see Ariane’s
sensual appeal when her body was flushed with illness or chill with
the aftermath of fever. Then he could think of her not as a girl
whose aloof, dark beauty had set his body on fire from the first
time he had seen her, but as flesh that needed to be washed and
dried and salved, and then wrapped up once more against the autumn
cold.

But the very feel of Ariane was different tonight.
After she had taken the last of the medicine from his lips, she had
changed. There was no subtle slackness in her body, as though all
her strength were being spent in surviving an outlaw’s
dagger. Though still unnaturally
calm, her mind
and body were throwing off the drugs and medicines that had held
her in a healing thrall.

The elegant line of Ariane’s waist and hips
had changed subtly, vibrantly. It was as though she were giving
herself to his touch while he bathed her, transforming the bath
from a cleansing ritual into something far more sensual.

Now her torso sang with a siren’s call to
Simon, as did the long curves of her legs while he washed her. The
lush thicket of her femininity made his breath wedge deep in his
chest. He forced himself to look away from the midnight triangle,
else his touch change from healing to loving.

’
Tis foolish! I am not a
green squire to stare as though I have never seen a woman’s
soft cleft
.

Simon took a deep breath and finished his work
quickly, forcing himself to think of her as a patient.

Even so, Simon decided to forego rubbing scented
salve into Ariane’s skin from her delicate toes to her
graceful nape. The ointment smelled too sensuous to be a medicine
in any case, though Cassandra had insisted it was necessary for
Ariane’s cure.

Abruptly Simon began drawing the amethyst dress
back up Ariane’s legs. Yet no matter how quickly he moved,
how little he touched her, she felt different to his hands. Her
limbs were more alive. More vital.

Inviting.

She was flushed with the kind of womanly fever that
knew only one cure.

“God’s teeth,” Simon hissed.
“What is wrong with me to lust after a girl who is in no
condition to say aye or nay?”

Ariane is my wife
.

“She isn’t well,” he muttered,
pulling the dress up Ariane’s hips with unusual urgency.

Her body follows my touch like
a flower follows the sun
.

“She isn’t awake!”

Her body is awakened. I can
sense it. I can feel it. Were I to bathe her softness with my
tongue, I could taste it
.

The thought sent a bolt of raw sensation through
Simon, followed by a temptation so strong that it shook his body
the way thunder shakes the ground.

Simon quit arguing with himself and concentrated on
covering as much as possible of Ariane before he rubbed salve into
her tender wound. But the dress’s long, flowing sleeves
seemed to have a mind of their own. They tangled. They twisted.
They were as elusive as smoke. They frustrated every approach.

And each time Simon lifted Ariane a different way
in order to work on the sleeves, her breasts swayed and brushed
over his arms, his hands. Once, his cheek knew her warmth and
softness.

She smiled dreamily at the caress.

Blistering Saracen phrases whispered through the
still room. Simon released Ariane, picked up a sleeve and eyed it
as he would an ill-trained hound.

The fabric curled softly around his fingers and
breathed a subtle perfume into his nostrils, moonrise and wild
roses and a hint of storm.

Ariane’s scent.

The scent of the very balm Simon didn’t trust
himself to rub into her changed flesh.

The balm that Cassandra insisted was vital for
Ariane’s full recovery.

Closing his eyes, Simon groaned too softly for
anyone to hear, even himself. Slowly his clenched fingers opened.
The amethyst fabric slid from his grasp with a sound like a
sigh.

He picked up one of the small pots that were
arrayed on a chest near Ariane’s bed. The odor of the balm
was astringent, bracing, brisk.

Medicinal not passionate.

Rather grimly Simon dabbed his index finger in the
balm and began applying it with care to the scarlet scar
between Ariane’s ribs. She lay very still,
breathing softly, not quite asleep. A slight smile made her so
beautiful that he felt a hand squeeze his heart.

Your body wants me,
nightingale
.

It has wanted me from the
first, when you were Duncan’s betrothed
.

And you fought that wanting as
hard as I did
.

Fight no more. You are no
longer betrothed to another. I am your husband. You are my
wife
.

Your smile ravishes my
soul
.

Just as Simon lifted his hand from Ariane’s
wound, she turned on her side toward him. His fingers were caught
in a sensuous vise between her breasts.

Heat flushed Simon from his forehead to his heels,
but most of all he burned where erect flesh strained against his
breeches. He counted his heartbeat in aching pulses that surged
against restraining cloth.

With a long, hissing breath, Simon forced himself
to withdraw from the sweet vise. As he retreated, his fingertips
brushed one of Ariane’s nipples. It drew taut.

“God’s blood, ’tis too
much,” Simon groaned through his teeth.

He told himself that he must stand up and leave
Ariane. He meant to do just that. But the wretched sleeves had
fallen across his lap, chaining him.

Simon reached for the pot of scented ointment that
Cassandra had blended just for Ariane. The pot felt warm, smooth,
the size and weight of a breast nestled against his palm.

The scent of roses and storm drifted into the room
as Simon opened the pot. He inhaled deeply, taking into himself the
perfume that, like the dress, enhanced rather than concealed the
essence of Ariane.

Slowly Simon dipped his fingertips into the balm.
It was warm, creamy, sleek, infused with all that was feminine.

And it burned like desire.

F
or nine days Simon had been tending
Ariane as though she were a babe. For nine days he had told himself
that he didn’t see the feminine allure of her breasts and
hips. That he didn’t take a purely sensual pleasure in
smoothing ointment into every bit of her skin. That he didn’t
want to be like the balm, sinking into her very flesh, becoming
part of it.

For nine days he had lied.

God’s aching
teeth
!

What was Cassandra thinking of
when she ordered me to rub scented cream over every inch of Ariane?
Am I made of stone not to burn with passion
?

Ariane turned her head from side to side, sending
gleaming coils of black hair sliding over her breasts. Her hands
moved languidly, yet almost impatiently, questing
for…something.

“Ariane,” Simon said in a low
voice.

Her head turned as though in response, yet her eyes
were closed. Deliberately Simon brushed the back of his fingers
over her cheek. Her hand lifted, holding his fingers against her
face.

She turned even more toward him, plainly accepting
his touch.

Nay. Wanting it
.

Demanding it
.

“I wish I dared awaken you,” Simon
whispered.

But that had been specifically forbidden by
Cassandra. She had said that when Ariane was healed she would throw
off the effects of the medicines. Until then, she
would sleep. Rushing her awakening would only delay
the healing.

When Simon began applying balm, the warmth of
Ariane’s breath flowed over him. He told himself he was doing
nothing different, nothing new, certainly nothing
sensual…

Yet he couldn’t help noticing as though for
the first time the winged grace of Ariane’s eyebrows. The
black fringe of her lashes was so long that it rested against her
skin. Her nose was a clean, straight line with delicately arched
nostrils. Her cheekbones tempted his fingertips, as did the hollows
beneath where shadows of firelight played.

The scent of the balm curled upward, increased by
the warmth of Ariane’s body. The perfume caressed Simon
invisibly with every touch of his skin against hers. He drew the
scent deep into his lungs while sensual heat burned from his navel
to his knees.

He let out his breath and lightly stroked the
violet cloth that concealed Ariane’s hips and legs. The
fabric slid aside with the ease of water flowing, leaving Ariane
naked.

Careful not to jar her, Simon lifted Ariane and
turned her onto her unwounded side. He told himself that his hands
hadn’t lingered on the swell of her hip. Nor had he molded
his palm to her leg and curled his fingertips around to skim the
lush darkness that lay concealed between her thighs.

A stifled sound came from Simon as the sword
between his legs grew more adamant to be sheathed. It was as if he
had never touched a woman before, never known the heady scent of a
woman’s desire, never parted soft, perfumed lips and delved
between to the very heart of desire.

Abruptly Simon jerked back his hands as though he
had been holding them too close to flame.

This is madness
.

Neither Simon’s reasoning side nor his
unruly, pas
sionate one disagreed with his
conclusion.

He closed his eyes and dipped his fingertips into
the small pot of balm. Slowly he began stroking balm down
Ariane’s back. When he reached the flare of her buttocks, he
hesitated.

Ariane’s long legs moved restlessly. The
motion brought her hip up against the palm of Simon’s
hand.

His fingers flexed in sensual answer, testing the
resilience of her flesh. When he realized what he had done, he
froze, afraid that he had disturbed Ariane’s healing sleep.
After several breaths, he slowly relaxed. Ariane hadn’t
awakened.

Nor had she moved away from the long fingers
cupping her hip.

Slowly Simon lifted his hand. He dipped up more
balm and followed the line of Ariane’s spine to its base.
Without truly intending to, he skimmed over the shadow cleft
beyond.

Fire licked up his fingertips and shot through his
arm, sending a surge of heat through his loins. Reluctantly he
removed his hand while he could still trust himself to do so.

Simon wanted to give more to Ariane than a caress
that ended almost before it began. He wanted to follow the curve of
her bottom all the way around, until his palm was pressed between
her thighs, snug against her softness while his fingers penetrated
her sleek, scented heat.

Then he would retreat slowly, drawing her moisture
with him, letting it wash against his palm until he slid into her
again, penetrating her deeply, withdrawing, spreading the scent of
her desire until it clung to both of them like heat to fire.

I cannot. She isn’t
awake
.

But I am
.

Sweet Jesus, I am on
fire
.

Simon would have cursed, but hadn’t the
breath. He felt both potent and immensely alive, blood pouring
through him in powerful waves, making him even
harder than before.

A deep, almost soundless groan threaded between
Simon’s clenched teeth. Carefully thinking of nothing at all,
he rubbed the scented ointment down the curving length of
Ariane’s legs and into the finely wrought arch of her
feet.

Sighing, Ariane turned onto her back as though her
body had memorized the routine of balm and stroking. As she turned,
long black hair fanned across her breasts and belly. The faintly
curling ends of her hair caught and held on the triangle of
thicker, more curly hair that protected her most feminine
flesh.

As though entranced, Simon reached out and slowly,
very slowly, separated the two shades of midnight that were
Ariane’s hair. The temptation also to part the black triangle
with just one fingertip and seek the heat beneath was so great that
Simon’s hand shook.

I must not
.

Yet as quickly as he told himself it was wrong,
another part of himself rebelled.

Why? Look at her shifting,
sighing, wanting. Look at her breasts swelling in hope of my touch,
her nipples drawing taut, needing to be stroked
.

Rather grimly, Simon silenced his inner argument by
dipping his fingertips into the creamy ointment. He massaged it
into Ariane’s shoulders, her arms, her hands, until nothing
above her collarbones remained untouched.

Wishing that he were finished with the maddening
duty—and simultaneously glad that he wasn’t—Simon
probed deeply in the pot, scooping up more balm. He rubbed the
ointment over his palms and began speedily to complete his
task.

Ariane’s breasts were fuller than Simon
remembered, vibrant, taut. Even when he closed his eyes, he could
see the image of her burned against his eyelids. Her skin was as
fine-grained and pale as a sultan’s most prized pearl. The
tips of her breasts were tight pink buds waiting only
for the dewy moisture of his tongue to complete their
perfection.

Without knowing, without thinking, Simon lowered
his head to Ariane. Her breasts knew the caress of his forehead,
his cheek, his lips. Then his mouth parted and his tongue touched
one delicate bud.

She tasted of roses.

With a soundless groan Simon traced the tip of
Ariane’s breast, savoring her heat and changing textures with
his tongue.

“Silk,” he whispered, drawing his
tongue over the pale swell of her breast.

Ariane murmured and shifted. The motion brought an
erect nipple against his lips.

“Velvet,” he breathed, tasting
lightly.

She arched as though caught within a sensual dream.
Her taut, pink nipple rubbed along his lips.

“I cannot bear it,” Simon said in a low
voice.

He took Ariane into his mouth and loved her as he
had wanted to do since the first moment he had seen her standing
proud and frightened, waiting for a man she had never met to claim
her body for his bed and her womb for his heirs.

The sultry pleasure of Simon’s mouth
quickened Ariane’s heartbeat. With a dreamy murmur, she drew
up one knee.

Or had his hand slid beneath her knee, raising and
opening her as a lover would?

No. I am a healer, not a
lover
.

Then I should heal her. All of
her
.

But
—

The passionate part of Simon overrode the caution
he had learned at such great cost.

Isn’t that what
Cassandra said? Every bit of Ariane’s skin must know the
healing kiss of the balm
.

That was true enough. Cassandra had repeated the
warning more than once, as though the balm were the most important
part of the healing ritual.

Can I trust myself to touch
her so intimately
?

And not take her
.

Merciful God. Is it
possible
?

Simon closed his eyes and forced himself not to
move, for he couldn’t say whether his next motion would have
been toward or away from Ariane.

And if it were toward, he wasn’t certain
where healing would stop and loving would begin.

“Nightingale,” Simon said in a ragged
voice. “If only you were awake.”

Ariane made a low, anxious sound. The line of her
body became less relaxed. Her legs moved restlessly, as though she
were trying to run after something but found herself hopelessly
mired. One arm thrashed out, bumping into Simon’s thigh.

As soon as she felt his muscular presence, she let
out a long breath and became calmer. Very shortly her hand relaxed
and slid from his thigh to the bed cover, but the back of her
fingers remained pressed against him.

Nor was the contact accidental, for when Simon
eased away, Ariane’s hand soon sought out the timeless
reassurance of flesh against flesh.

His flesh.

Her desire.

“Was I right about that, nightingale?”
Simon whispered. “Did you look at me with more favor and less
disgust than you looked at other men?”

No answer came save that of Ariane’s hand
pressed against Simon’s thigh.

“And desire,” he said, bending down to
Ariane once more. “Did I see it in you? Did I taste it in
your kisses?”

Simon ran his strong hands down Ariane’s body
from breasts to the dark triangle he wanted more than he wanted to
breathe. The perfume of balm spread in the wake of his palms.

“When you first saw me, your eyes
widened,” Simon said. “Was that less than a month ago?
By the saints, it
seems a lifetime. You
belonged to another, then. I could scarcely allow myself to look at
you.”

Simon’s palm shaped the back of
Ariane’s flexed leg, massaging in balm and revealing more of
her beauty with every slow pressure of his hand.

“The setting sun struck amethyst fire from
your eyes,” he whispered. “And your mouth…Dear
God, the sight of your tongue sliding along your lower lip nearly
made me spill my seed.”

A shudder ripped through Simon as he remembered.
And remembering, he pressed small kisses beneath Ariane’s
breasts, over her belly, lingering to test the sweet dimple of her
navel with his tongue.

“I didn’t want to desire any
woman,” Simon whispered. “Not like this. Not like a
brand burning below my belly.”

Simon’s warm breath washed over
Ariane’s skin while his hands and mouth continued caressing
her, healer and lover combined.

“I saw the quickening of your pulse whenever
I approached. It could have been fear, but whenever you thought I
wouldn’t know, you
watched
me.”

His hand slid down Ariane’s body until at
last he felt the dense, sensuous triangle of hair pressing against
his palm. He rubbed as delicately as a sigh, teasing the seductive
mound whose heat rose to meet him. A low sound came from Ariane,
half moan, half whimper.

And she moved toward Simon’s touch, not
away.

His own breath became a groan. He wanted to wake
her, to take her, to watch her eyes shimmer with passion as he
sheathed himself deep within her body. He felt as though he had
wanted that all of his life.

Simon dipped his fingers into the balm one last
time. With great care he rubbed the creamy mixture from
Ariane’s navel to her thighs. Her leg flexed more deeply. The
motion caused her hips to lift just a little.

It was enough. Simon’s fingertips skimmed the
secret flesh that was flushed by desire. Ariane made a murmurous
sound of pleasure and stretched dreamily, stroking herself against
his fingers.

Delicately he drew his fingertips between her
thighs, discovering and tracing her sultry softness in the same
hushed moments. He sensed the ripple of pleasure radiating through
her, heard it in her ragged sigh, saw it in the languid movement of
her hips.

“What are your dreams, nightingale?”
Simon asked in a soft, rough voice. “Do you want me now the
way I wanted you the first time I saw you?”

Very gently, Simon caressed the edges of
Ariane’s tightly furled petals. The hot, sensuous dew of her
response gilded his fingers and made his heartbeat quicken. With
exquisite care, he eased a fingertip just between the sultry folds.
His touch eased slowly forward, caressing and parting her at the
same time.

At the peak of the caress, Simon discovered the
hidden pearl. It was sleek, firm, full. When his moist fingertip
circled, Ariane sighed brokenly. Her hips moved subtly,
luxuriously, as though seeking more.

Simon’s hand withdrew until nothing of his
body was touching Ariane. She made a protesting sound and turned
her head from side to side with a languid restlessness that spoke
eloquently of both her desire and the healing thrall of the
dream.

It was as Cassandra had said.
Ariane will awaken feeling as though she has dreamed
deeply. And within the dream, she will also feel deeply. As will
you
.