Enchanted (17 page)

He looked at the elegant fingers placed in silent
plea on his forearm.

“Simon, the Loyal,” Ariane said in a
shaking voice. “You stayed, though you knew it would cost
your life. You stayed, when many another man would have betrayed
me.”

Simon’s breath locked in his throat as he
looked deep into Ariane’s shadowed amethyst eyes.

“Very few men would have turned their back on
you,” Simon said. “And no knight would have done such a
craven thing.”

Ariane’s smile was as bleak as her experience
of men.

“You are wrong, Simon. In the ways of
betrayal, I am wiser than you. I have never known a
man—knight or common serf—who would put my well-being
above his own pleasure.”

“Ariane, the Betrayed,” Simon
whispered. “Who was it, nightingale? Who betrayed you, and
how?”

Ariane didn’t acknowledge Simon’s
words. Instead, she tried to explain something to him that she
herself was just now understanding.

“When I saw you standing across the trail, I
thought instantly that your horse was speedy enough to carry you to
safety.”

“Your mare wasn’t fleet.”

“Aye. Thus you stood across the trail,
prepared to spend your life so that I might live.”

“I stood prepared to kill
renegades.”

“Who were armored and riding war-horses and
outnumbered you five to—”

“You should have run when I told you
to,” Simon said, cutting across Ariane’s words.

“Nay!” she cried, leaning toward him.
“I would rather have died than have lived a single day
knowing that I had betrayed the very man who had been loyal to
me!”

Simon looked at Ariane’s flushed face and
blazing eyes and wanted nothing so much as to taste the emotion
that was visibly running through her blood.

“Yet you flinch from my touch,” he
said.

Ariane closed her eyes.

“It isn’t
you
, Simon. It is something that once
happened.”

“Was it my doing?”

She shook her head. Strands of loose black hair
slid forward, concealing all but a bit of the pale skin that showed
through her unlaced dress.

“I…” Her voice cracked.

Simon put his hand gently over Ariane’s.
Instead of pulling away, she twined her fingers in his and held on
with a power that was surprising in a girl who looked so
slender.

“Once,” Ariane whispered, “the
daughter of a baron was fostered in a noble house. She was closer
to me than a sister, young, naive…”

Ariane swallowed convulsively and closed her
eyes.

Simon kissed the pale fingers that were clenched
around his own.

“She was to wed a certain knight,”
Ariane said hoarsely. “But her father found a better match
for her, and the knight…”

Ariane dragged breath into her aching lungs.
Tremors shook her body as though she were a leaf in the wind.

“Nightingale,” Simon said. “You
can tell me when you’re stronger.”

“Nay,” she said fiercely. “If I
don’t tell you now, I’ll lack the courage
later.”

“No girl who gallops bare-handed into combat
with armed knights lacks courage of any kind. Good sense, perhaps,
but not courage.”

“That was easier to do than this.”

The clenched tightness of Ariane’s body
radiated through to Simon.

“The spurned knight,” Ariane said in a
rush, “decided that if he deflowered the girl, the other
knight wouldn’t have her. So he forced himself on her. Then
he went to her father, said that
she
had seduced him but he would be noble and marry her.”

Simon said something savage under his breath.

“The father went to the girl’s room and
found her naked in bed, the blood of her lost virginity and more
besides still drying on her legs, and he didn’t believe her
cries of innocence. He called her a whore and a wanton and turned
his back on her.”

“She told you this?” Simon asked
softly.

“She?”

“The girl.”

Ariane took a wrenching, shuddering breath.

“Aye,” Ariane said. “She told me
all of it, each cruel and disgusting thing the knight did to
her.”

“And you’ve been afraid of the marriage
bed ever since.”

Ariane shuddered convulsively. “I bathed her
afterward, when no one else would soil their hands touching
her.”

Simon took a swift, audible breath. He had seen
enough of war and rapine to know what must have greeted
Ariane’s innocent eyes when she washed her friend.

“I bathed her, and I knew what it was like to
plead for mercy and yet have your legs yanked apart and a man
hammering into you, tearing at you, hammering and hammering while
he slobbered and—”

Simon’s hand came over Ariane’s mouth,
stopping the words that were like knives sinking into both of
them.

“Hush, nightingale,” he whispered.
“It would not be like that between us. Never. I would sooner
die than take you while you fought me and begged for
mercy.”

Ariane looked into Simon’s dark eyes and
found herself hoping that he spoke the truth.

Though she knew it was foolish to hope.

And yet…

“You fought for me,” she whispered.

“You fought for me,” he countered.

“You were loyal to me.” Ariane drew a
shaking breath. “As soon as I am well once more, I
will…”

Simon waited.

“I will endure the marriage embrace,”
she whispered. “For you, my loyal knight. Only for
you.”

“I want more than clenched teeth and
duty.”

“I will give you all that I have.”

Simon closed his eyes. He could ask for no more and
he knew it.

But he needed far more.

And he knew that, too.

T
he cobblestones in the bailey of Stone
Ring Keep were crisp with frost. White plumes of breath rushed out
from the horses standing patiently in the bailey. Erik’s
lean, tall wolfhounds lounged near the gate, watching for the
signal to leave. Men-at-arms talked loudly among themselves, eating
cold meat as each bragged of what would happen were he the one to
cross weapons with the renegade knight.

Smells of peat, woodsmoke and baking bread mingled
with the earthy scents of field and stable. Small children chased
one another through the pack animals, daring the stable boys to
catch them. Their shrill voices rose and mingled with the silver
breath of the horses whose packs were heavy with gifts from the
lord of Stone Ring Keep to Simon and his wife.

Shod hooves rang like hammers against cobblestone
when Simon’s riderless war-horse pranced into place at the
front of the line. Muscular, fierce, glittering with swaths of
chain mail, the steel-colored battle stallion was a fearsome sight.
A squire walked next to the war-horse, firmly holding the bit.

Suddenly a reckless child took a dare and darted
forward. Before he could get close enough to touch the war
stallion, a man-at-arms collared the child, shook him by the scruff
like a naughty puppy, and sent him chastened back to his
friends.

The squire spoke in a low voice and held
Shield’s bit tightly. The stallion’s nostrils flared
widely as though
testing the air for the smell
of danger. Finding none, the war-horse snorted and shook his head,
nearly sending the squire flying.

A groom came from the stables leading a sleek,
long-legged mount whose color was that of ripe chestnuts. Normally
used by Simon for hunting, the horse today was equipped with a
small saddle that had been draped in a rich gold fabric. The
horse’s hooves rang as clearly on the cobbles as any battle
stallion’s, for Simon had personally overseen the shoeing of
Ariane’s mount.

Never again would Simon’s lady be in danger
because her horse lacked speed.

A stir went through the bailey as three people
descended the steps of the forebuilding down to the grey
cobblestones. A strong, gusting wind tugged at colorful mantles and
sent Ariane’s headcloth swirling out from her hair.

The corner of Erik’s crimson mantle lifted,
revealing the richly embroidered cloth of the lining. A chain mail
hauberk gleamed beneath the mantle. His shoulder-length hair burned
the color of the autumn sun as he threw back his head to call his
falcon from her flight. A clear, uncanny whistle soared from his
lips upward into the sky.

The wind gusted again. Ariane’s dress rippled
and shone like amethyst water, and like water it lapped against
Simon’s metal chausses and curled up beneath his chain mail
hauberk. The leather garments he wore under his armor were midnight
blue, a color so dark it appeared black in all but the brightest
light.

Even through steel links, Simon sensed the fey
cloth clinging to him. He slid off one gauntlet and gathered up the
errant fabric as gently as though it were a kitten, taking care not
to snag the cloth on his armor. Before he released the dress, he
stroked it with his fingertips. The alluring texture of the weaving
caressed him in return.

His fingers opened, allowing the cloth to fall. For
a time it clung to his hand. Then it slid reluctantly from
his fingertips and settled back around Ariane’s
legs.

When Simon looked up, Ariane was watching him with
a curious intensity. Her lips were parted, her eyes half-shut, her
breath uneven. She looked like a woman who had just received a
secret caress.

Or would like to.

Hunger lanced through Simon. In the seven days
since Ariane had awakened, he had been careful not to touch her in
any but the most casual ways. He had overseen her meals, but he had
not fed her medicine from his own lips. Nor had he spent the day
bathing her in her bedchamber.

He had not spent the nights with her, either. Even
when she gathered her courage and invited him to do just that the
previous night.

Save your clenched teeth and
endurance for the journey, wife. You will need it. I
don’t
.

Simon knew that the rage he felt at Ariane’s
lack of passion wasn’t reasonable. He also knew that rage
existed just the same. Until he was more certain of his temper in
that regard, he planned to touch Ariane no more than custom and
politeness required.

While Ariane had stayed in her bedchamber regaining
her full strength, Simon and Erik—often accompanied by Amber
and Duncan—had fattened Stone Ring Keep’s larder with
the fruits of hunting and hawking. When not pursuing stag or
waterfowl, Simon, Erik, and Duncan had hunted much more dangerous
game.

They had found none. All sign of the renegade
knights had dissolved in the icy autumn rains.

Nor would Erik permit the hunt to go into the area
known as Silverfells. Because the mysterious fells lay within
Erik’s Sea Home lands rather than those of Stone Ring Keep,
Simon had little choice but to bow to Erik’s edict.

As though Erik understood Simon’s
frustration, he had offered himself as a partner in the daily
battle practice that Dominic—and now Duncan—required of
his
men. When the two sinewy, fair-haired,
astonishingly agile warriors went at one another with sword and
shield, the other men stood and watched with something close to
fear, whispering among themselves about the duel of Archangel and
Sorcerer, each sun-bright and lightning-swift.

Yet the vigorous hunts and even more strenuous
workouts with Erik had not given Simon the peace of mind he sought
at night. He still dreamed of scented balm and sultry, yielding
flesh; and he awoke knotted with hunger.

All that had kept Simon from Ariane’s bed was
pride…and his fear that his hunger would be too strong for
him to control, that he would take whatever mummery of passion
Ariane offered.

And then he would hate himself for being so
weak.

Again.

It doesn’t matter.
Ariane isn’t well enough to put to the test of
passion
.

Is she
?

Despite Ariane’s protestations, Simon
didn’t see how she could be well. He had never known even the
strongest knight to recover from such a deep wound so swiftly.

Surely she isn’t healed.
Not completely. There might be something still wounded deep inside
her, something that she is too proud and reckless—and
dutiful—to acknowledge
.

The thought of causing Ariane any more hurt made
Simon cold.

And so did the thought that she might turn from him
despite her promise.

Are you fully healed now,
nightingale? If I go to your bed, will you come to me without
disgust
?

Do you remember the
balm’s sultry enchantment, when you lifted yourself toward my
touch
?

Night after night the questions had echoed in
Simon’s mind with the same frequency as his heartbeat. He
didn’t
know what he would do if
Ariane’s lush body were offered to him only to be withheld at
the ultimate moment, when her disgust overcame her promise to
him.

I will endure the marriage
embrace
.

For you
.

Simon didn’t want dry endurance from Ariane.
He wanted the sleek heat of her passion sheathing him. He wanted to
bend down and taste desire consuming her. He wanted the dream that
awakened him each night, sweating and shaking, aching with the need
to bathe once more in the sultry fountains of her desire.

I will give you all that I
have
.

In the thrall of healing, Ariane had been passion
incarnate. But the thrall was broken. Now Simon was afraid that all
he would be able to call from Ariane was cold duty and even colder
disgust.

He wasn’t certain what he would do if that
happened.

He was certain that he didn’t want to find
out.

A falcon’s keening cry arrowed down from
overhead, pulling Simon from his bleak thoughts. Moments later,
Winter plummeted from the sapphire sky toward Erik’s
outstretched arm. Talons sank into leather gauntlet. Wide,
steel-grey wings flared and then settled crisply along the
bird’s sides. Peregrine and tawny-eyed sorcerer whistled to
one another.

“She found no sign of armed men between here
and Stone Ring,” Erik said.

Ariane let out a breath that she hadn’t been
aware of holding.

Simon grunted and held his tongue.

Erik was hardly the first knight who claimed to
understand his falcon’s mind, but he was the first knight
Simon had encountered who actually appeared to do so. Although
Simon didn’t understand how man and falcon communicated, he
was practical enough to accept that it happened—and that it
had saved the day when the renegades attacked.

“Thank God,” Ariane said.

Simon said nothing.

“You seem unconvinced,” Erik said
blandly to Simon. “Would you like to query Winter
yourself?”

“I’m not Learned.”

“So you say.”

“So I
know
,” Simon corrected curtly.

“You are a most curious unLearned man,”
Erik murmured.

“How so?”

Erik looked pointedly at Simon’s legs.

Simon glanced down and saw that Ariane’s
dress had become entangled in his chausses again.

“God’s teeth,” Simon muttered.
“The stuff clings worse than cat fur.”

“Only to you,” Erik said.

Simon looked up sharply at Erik. So did Ariane, who
was discreetly—and futilely—tugging at her dress,
trying to free it without snagging the lovely fabric.

“What do you mean?” Simon asked.

Erik shifted the peregrine to his shoulder, removed
one gauntlet, and reached for the dress.

A subtle bit of wind shifted the fabric just out of
reach. The corner of Erik’s mouth curled up.

“See?” he said. “It eludes
me.”

“The wind eludes you,” retorted Simon
as he plucked at the dress.

As quickly as Simon released one bit of material,
another part of the cloth got caught anew on his armor. Erik
watched and hid his smile behind his hand.

Ariane bent over to help her husband. When her bare
fingers brushed Simon’s, a surge of pleasure went through her
at the contact of skin with skin. The pleasure was so sharp and so
startling that her breath broke. She snatched back her fingers as
though it had been fire rather than flesh she touched.

Simon’s mouth flattened at the fresh evidence
that his wife disliked even the most casual physical contact with
him. But other than the line of his mouth,
nothing of his reaction showed. His fingers remained patient as
they dealt with the stubborn, beautiful fabric.

“I am sorry,” Ariane said. “It
must be the autumn wind that makes the fabric cling. I will change
to another dress.”

“No need,” Simon muttered without
looking up. “We should have left immediately after morning
chapel. If we delay while you change your clothes, it will be
eventide before we set out.”

Before Ariane could open her mouth to protest that
it would require only a brief time for her to change, Erik took a
long stride forward. When he stopped, he was standing very close to
Ariane.

Simon noted and said nothing, though he very much
disliked having his wife so close to the handsome blond
sorcerer.

“Lady, if you will be so kind as to help me
demonstrate the special nature of Serena’s weaving?”
Erik asked.

Simon gave him a sidelong glance. Though nothing
showed in Erik’s expression or tone of voice, the amusement
in him fairly radiated from his tawny eyes.

“Of course, sir,” Ariane said.
“How may I help you?”

“Take a fold of cloth and try to snag it on
my hauberk or chausses.”

“I’ll do it,” Simon said
curtly.

His voice said a lot more. It said that he had no
desire to have Ariane touch the muscular young sorcerer with
anything, even a fold of her dress.

Simon’s hand shot out and gathered up a
fistful of cloth. He pulled it across Erik’s chain mail
hauberk. Nothing caught or snagged. Nor did the cloth show any
inclination to cling to the hauberk.

“You have an extraordinary armorer,”
Simon said.

“No armorer could take out the dents, nicks,
and cuts your sword has left on my hauberk in the past week,”
Erik said dryly.

Simon’s eyes narrowed. With startling speed
he bent and dragged the amethyst fabric across Erik’s
chausses. Cloth slid like sunlight over metal. There was no
hesitation, no catching, no holding.

“By the Cross,” Simon said,
straightening.

He looked at the cloth in his fist, then at Erik.
Without a word Simon released the cloth. It slid as far down as his
own thigh.

And stuck.

Simon stepped back as though burned. The amethyst
cloth followed until Ariane grabbed it and shook it down into place
around her ankles.

“You see?” Erik asked Simon.

Ariane and Simon exchanged a dismayed glance.

“That’s why you could rip a bandage
from the dress,” Erik explained. “Anyone else would
have had to fight the cloth, and his own distaste for handling it,
to make a bandage. And even then, it would have required a knife to
sever the threads.”

“I don’t understand,” Ariane
said.

Simon wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“The weavings of the Silverfell clan can be a
kind of armor,” Erik said. “Whoever the fabric’s
wearer trusts may do anything to the cloth, including tear it.
Ariane trusts you.”

A black glance was Simon’s only answer.

“The cloth pleases you,” Erik said.

It wasn’t quite a question, but Simon nodded,
compelled by the intensity that burned just beneath Erik’s
calm surface.

“Yes. The cloth pleases me. Very much.”
The words came from Simon as though dragged.
“Witchery.”