Enchanted (18 page)

But there was no heat in his voice, for the cloth
had saved Ariane’s life.

“Learning, not witchery,” Erik
corrected. “You have a gift for it, no matter how you fight
and deny.
And so does Ariane
. Were she
not Norman, I would swear she had the blood of ancient Druids in
her veins.”

“I do,” Ariane said.

Her voice was so soft that it took a moment for
both men to realize that she had spoken.

“What did you say?” Erik asked, pinning
her with eyes that could have belonged to a falcon.

“My mother’s people were whispered to
be witches,” Ariane said simply. “It wasn’t true.
If you cut them, they bled the same as anyone. If you put a knife
in their heart, they died. They cast no spells. Nor did they
consort with the Dark Prince. They wore the holy cross and spoke
God’s prayers without difficulty or fault.”

“But some of your ancestors were different
nonetheless,” Erik said.

Again, it wasn’t quite a question.

“Different, not evil,” Ariane said
instantly.

“Aye,” Erik agreed. “’Tis a
hard thing for some men to accept, that difference isn’t
evil.”

Simon said nothing at all. The quality of his
silence was chilling.

“You need not fear,” Ariane said,
turning to Simon. “My gift of finding things didn’t
survive my…illness.”

“Your knife wound?” Simon asked.

“Nay. An illness that came to me in
Normandy.”

Erik looked at Ariane coolly as his mind sorted
through the various possibilities and patterns that would fit what
he knew of Ariane. No pattern emerged save one.

And that one made him fear for the peace of the
Disputed Lands.

“Illness?” Erik asked softly.
“When?”

In an instant Simon’s body came to battle
readiness. The softness of Erik’s voice was more dangerous
than the sound of a sword being drawn.

Ariane, too, heard the change in Erik’s
voice. He was every inch the heir of Lord Robert of the North, a
man whose wealth rivaled that of the king of the Scots.

“I fell ill shortly before I left
Normandy,” Ariane said to Erik.

“What kind of illness.”

Not a question. A demand.

Ariane flushed to the roots of her hair, then went
quite pale, wishing she had never brought up the subject. She had
no intention of telling Erik the circumstances that had resulted in
the loss of her gift.

“My wife,” Simon said distinctly,
“answers only to her husband, to her king, and to
God.”

For an instant it seemed that Erik would disregard
the challenge in Simon’s words. Then the Learned man changed,
intensity fading until he was once more an entertaining companion
for the hunt and the hearth.

“Forgive me,” Erik murmured to Ariane.
“I meant no rudeness.”

She nodded, relieved.

“But if ever you would like to regain your
gift,” he said softly to her, “come to Cassandra. Or to
me.”

Before Simon could speak, Ariane did. “My
gift can never be regained.”

The flatness of her voice closed the subject with
the finality of a door slamming shut.

“Just as well,” Simon said into the
uncomfortable silence. “I have no love of
witchery.”

“And Learning?” Erik challenged softly.
“What of it?”

“The Disputed Lands are welcome to their
Learning. I will put my faith in this.”

Simon drew his sword with startling speed. The
somber length of the blade gleamed in the daylight.

“Ah, your black sword,” Erik
murmured.

He looked at the weapon with open curiosity. It was
the first time he had seen it closely, for Simon used a different,
blunter weapon for mock battles.

There was something about the black sword that
intrigued Erik. It was as though a pattern had once existed, then
been erased.

Holding out his hand, Erik said, “May
I?”

However much the Learned sorcerer might irritate
Simon on occasion, he had no doubt of Erik’s
trust-worthiness. With a deft movement of his hands, Simon reversed
the sword and held it out pommel first.

The pommel was as black as the blade, and as
austere. It lacked decoration of any kind. Erik grasped the heavy
blade carefully and held the pommel up to the light. As he turned
the blade, sunshine poured over the dark metal of the pommel,
revealing that it had been reworked.

“As I thought,” Erik said. “It
held jewels once. Gold inlay, too, I would guess.”

“Aye,” Simon said.

Something in Simon’s voice made Erik look up
from his study of the sword.

“Spoils of war?” Erik asked
blandly.

“Aye.”

“A pity the pommel has been
ruined.”

“Ruined?” Simon laughed curtly.
“It affects the blade’s balance and edge not one whit.
In any case, Dominic’s life was worth far more than the
handful of gems I pried out of the pommel.”

“Ransom?” asked Erik.

“Yes.”

“An ancient Saracen custom.”

“So is treachery,” Simon retorted.

Erik’s smile was as cruel as the curve of a
falcon’s beak. “Treachery knows no single people. Like
Original Sin, it is a common heritage of Man.”

Simon’s answering smile was a replica of
Erik’s.

“In the end, we freed Dominic by
force,” Simon said. “Then we tore down the
sultan’s palace stone by stone and scattered it across the
desert.”

With a smooth, swift motion, Simon sheathed the
sword.

“They are coming,” Erik said.

Together Simon and Erik turned as Amber and Duncan
hurried across the bailey’s cobblestones to bid their guests
Godspeed.

Duncan’s appearance had been a signal for one
of his grooms. The young man came from the stable area at a trot,
leading two horses. The first was the stout mare that had been
Ariane’s mount while at Stone Ring Keep. The second was a
filly with the same muscular build and clear, steady eye.

“The dark mare is no racer,” Duncan
said to Simon, “but she has the unflinching heart of a
war-horse. So does her daughter. Take them, breed them to your
stallion, and let their sons carry your sons into battle and safely
home again.”

“Lord Duncan…” Simon began
formally. His voice died. “You are too generous. Already you
have given me enough to furnish a keep, yet I have no keep to my
name.”

“I could give you all I have and still be in
your debt,” Duncan said simply. “If you had not taken
my place next to Ariane, there would have been bloody chaos and
death where there now is peace and life.”

Duncan gave Simon a quick, hard hug while their
wives exchanged farewells.

“I will miss you, Simon the Loyal,”
Duncan said quietly.

“And I you,” Simon said, returning the
hug.

As Simon stepped back, he smiled wryly at
Duncan.

“To think,” Simon said, “that I
first met you at my brother’s wedding, when I held my knife
between your thighs to assure your good behavior.”

Duncan gave a crack of laughter.

“Glad I am that you have a steady
hand,” Duncan said.

“So am I,” Amber said dryly.

Smiling, Simon turned to Ariane and held out his
hand.

“Allow me to assist you,” he said.
“We must be on our way before more clouds gather.”

Before Ariane could agree or disagree, Simon swept
her up in his arms and deposited her on the back of
his long-legged hunting horse. The animal snorted and
sidestepped, sending shod hooves ringing against stone.

Ariane curbed the spirited beast with an ease that
made Simon smile. He turned to his own war stallion and vaulted
into the saddle.

Amid cries of Godspeed, the clatter of hooves, and
the eager barking of Erik’s wolfhounds, Simon, Ariane, Erik,
and their retainers set off for Stone Ring Keep. Very quickly the
cultivated fields fell away behind them. Forest rose around the
horses, an expanse of trees broken only by rare hamlets and even
more rare circles where ancient, uneven stones lifted their faces
to the sun.

Unseasonable storms had largely stolen the blazing
reds and golds from the trees, leaving naked branches black against
the cloud-streaked vault of the sky. Drifts of leaves swirled on
every gust of wind and piled against boulders and sacred stones
alike.

The closer the riders came to Stone Ring, the more
uneasy Simon became. Perhaps it was simply the loss of leaves from
the trees, but it seemed to him that there were more of the ragged
stone ruins now than there had been the last time he had taken the
trail.

Ariane watched intently also, as though sharing
Simon’s feeling that something about the nature of the land
itself had changed.

But it wasn’t until they reached Stone Ring
that Simon’s unease became urgent to the point of discomfort.
He didn’t want to look at the ragged curve of stone that made
up the single rocky ring.

Yet he couldn’t look away.

“What do you think of the land?” he
asked Erik.

“There is nothing amiss that I can see.
Perhaps Winter and Stagkiller will have different news.”

Erik pulled up where the trail divided. To the
south lay Blackthorne Keep. To the west lay Sea Home.

Stagkiller emerged from the forest and bounded up
the slope back to Erik. Moments later Winter appeared
from behind a cloud and shot down to her saddle perch
in front of Erik.

The arrival of Erik’s beasts was noted only
absently by Simon. The longer he waited at the fork in the trail,
the more certain he became that the party was being watched.

“The trail out of the Disputed Lands is
empty,” Erik said to Simon. “You should have no trouble
with renegades of any stripe.”

Simon grunted.

“Is something wrong?” Erik asked.

Almost impatiently, Simon looked around the forest
again. No matter how carefully he watched, he saw nothing except
moss and lichen, ageless stone and living branches barren of all
but green tangles of mistletoe.

There was only one ring of stones. He was quite
certain of it. The only shadows were those cast by the sun in its
normal fashion. There was no mist to obscure the inside of the
circle that was bounded by stones.

Yet when Simon turned his back on the ring in order
to talk to Erik, he was uneasy.

“Nay,” Simon said. “All is well.
Or seems to be.”

“You sense something, don’t you?”
Erik asked.

“A cold wind.”

Erik gave Simon a sidelong glance and turned to
Ariane.

“What of you, lady? Are you at
ease?”

“It seems,” Ariane said hesitantly,
“that there are more stones than before.”

Erik looked at her sharply. “How
so?”

She shrugged. “Just that. I see more stones
than I did the last time I came this way.”

“The last time you came this way,”
Simon said curtly, “you were senseless from your
wound.”

While Simon spoke, he glanced around again. His
eyes narrowed against the sunlight lancing between gathering
clouds. Yet no matter how hard he looked, he saw nothing to justify
the odd prickling sensation over his skin.

“What do you feel?” Erik asked in a low
voice.

“A cold—”

“Wind,” Erik interrupted impatiently.
“I feel it too. What else?”

Simon looked at Erik. The tawny eyes looking back
at Simon were clear, intent, as fathomless as the sky.

“I feel a prickling beneath my skin,”
Simon admitted.

“Danger?”

“Not quite. But not quite safety,
either.”

“Ariane?” Erik asked, turning to
her.

“Yes. A prickling.
’Tis…odd.”

“Excellent,” Erik said with
satisfaction.

“Not to me,” Simon said bluntly.
“’Tis like we’re being watched.”

“We are, but most people wouldn’t
know.”

Steel whispered against its sheath as Simon drew
his sword with unnerving speed.

“I knew those renegades wouldn’t stay
in Silverfell,” Simon said.

“Be at ease,” Erik said.
“’Tis only the rowan.”

“What?”

Erik gestured with his head toward the stone
ring.

“The sacred rowan waits,” Erik said
simply.

“For what?” Ariane asked.

“Even the Druids didn’t know,”
Erik said. “They knew only that she waited.”

“God’s teeth,” hissed Simon.
“What drivel.”

He sheathed his sword with a single sweeping
motion.

Erik laughed like a sorcerer and turned his mount
toward Sea Home. The stallion reared and fought the bit, not
wanting to leave the other horses. Erik rode out the
stallion’s temper with the ease of sunlight riding water.

“Godspeed,” Erik said to Ariane and
Simon. “If you have need of anything, send to Sea Home. If it
is within Learned power, your need will be answered. You have our
vow on it.”

For a moment Simon was too surprised to say
anything.

“The Learned? Why?” Simon asked
bluntly.

“Cassandra has cast the silver rune
stones.”

Simon waited in taut silence. He sensed that he
wouldn’t like what was said next.

He was right.

“Your fate is also that of the
Learned,” Erik said. “Whether you wish it or not, we
are being woven into a tapestry of unknown design.”

“Perhaps,” Simon said.

His tone said he did not believe it at all.

Erik’s eyes blazed.

“Don’t hold on to your blindness too
long,” Erik said softly. “The cost of seeing the truth
too late will be more than any of us want to pay.
Especially you
.”

T
hunder leaped down from the peaks
and through the glen in a deafening drumroll of sound. Behind the
thunder came a seething quicksilver curtain of rain. The air was
cold and fresh, infused with the myriad scents of woodland and
meadow.

Just below the brow of the hill, in a place that
commanded a sweeping view of fells, woodland, and glen, Simon had
made camp in the ruins of a Roman fort. The fort itself had been
built on the ruins of an even more ancient fortification. Though
the ceiling of the long room was only half in place, that half
provided shelter from the driving rain for Ariane. Warmth came from
a bonfire burning wildly beneath an opening in the ceiling
timbers.

Another fire winked and leaped on the opposite side
of one of the fort’s inner walls, where Simon’s squire
and the three men-at-arms had set up their own shelter. The highest
flames of their fire were visible, for the interior wall had
crumbled until it was barely waist-high. Rich scents of meat and
vegetables simmering in a pot rose with the smoke into the watery
twilight.

Men talked among themselves, sharing coarse jokes
and rough laughter. Blanche’s voice wove through the darker
tones of the men like high, trilled birdsong. Her laughter was
breathless, sensual, as teasing as a lover’s hand sliding up
a thigh to stop just short of the goal…and then seizing the
trophy with thorough care.

Simon had no doubt that Blanche was giving the men
quite a chase. For all of Blanche’s whining about lack of
luxury on the trail, and the long hours of
riding at the pace of a walking man, she had been very generous
with her favors at the end of the day.

For that, Simon was grateful. If Blanche had simply
teased the men, or lain with one and taunted the others, there
would have been the kind of ugliness that Marie once had created
among Dominic’s warriors during the Holy Crusade. But
apparently those kinds of vicious female games didn’t please
Blanche. Having a warm man between her legs did.

Her girlish laughter pealed through the twilight,
followed by masculine shouts as she flipped an ancient brass coin
and they called out their choice.

“Heads!”

“Heads!”

“Heads!”

The coin gleamed and turned almost lazily above the
wall, reflecting the nearby flames. Blanche’s pale, dirty
fingers flashed as she snagged the coin out of the air. Invisible
behind the wall, she smacked the coin against her bare thigh.

“Heads it is, lads,” Blanche said.

A round of groans went up. Now the men would have
to wait to discover who would have the first turn with Blanche.

“Oh, blind me,” she said, laughing.
“Come on. Come on. ’Tis room for all. Oh! Mind you warm
your hands first, you cold bastard!”

Hiding his smile, Simon turned back to the fire.
Blanche might be as loose as a hound’s lips, but she
wasn’t a girl to cause trouble among the men.

He only hoped that Ariane didn’t understand
the meaning of the grunts, giggles, and skirmishes that were going
on barely four yards away. The ruined inner wall provided the
illusion of privacy, but no more.

“Are you certain that you’re warm
enough?” Simon asked.

Ariane looked up at the question. In the firelight,
Simon’s eyes were both dark and golden
with reflected fire. His hauberk gleamed with every muscular shift
of his body.

Ariane nodded, silently telling Simon that she was
warm enough.

The motion of her head sent firelight sliding like
a lover’s hands through her unbound hair. Midnight strands
coiled damply against her face and steamed slightly from the heat
of the fire.

“Are you certain?” Simon asked.
“You were wet to the skin.”

He had reason to know. He had stripped a shivering
Ariane of all garments save a long chemise. The rest of her clothes
were drying on lances wedged into cracks in the stone floor.

Again Ariane nodded, for she knew her teeth would
chatter were she to risk unlocking her jaw to speak.

Simon bent down and pulled his fur-lined mantle
more tightly around his wife. As he drew back his hands, his thumbs
traced the line of her jaw.

A shiver coursed through Ariane that had nothing to
do with the temperature.

“You’re chilled,” Simon said
instantly.

“N-no. ’Tis you who wears nothing but
cold metal. Take b-back your mantle and warm yourself.”

“God’s
teeth
.”

Impatiently Simon undid the fastenings on his chain
mail hauberk and set it aside with an ease that belied the weight
of the armor. The task would have been more quickly accomplished
with his squire’s aid, but Edward was otherwise involved.

Even if the lad had been standing about on one foot
and then the other, waiting to be of service, Simon wouldn’t
have called. He wanted no male to see Ariane in such an arresting
state of disarray.

“Tomorrow you will wear that witchy
dress,” Simon said as he stripped off his soft leather shirt.
“It turns water like a duck’s back.”

Ariane gave him a mutinous look. She hadn’t
worn the amethyst dress since she had realized that it was more
than it appeared to be.

Or at least, the dress seemed to be more. It was
difficult to be certain when dealing with Learned things.

In any case, the thought of the supple, warm fabric
stropping itself on Simon like a cat was unsettling. It made Ariane
wonder what it would feel like if it were her own hand stroking him
rather than the fabric.

“I will wear what I p-please,” Ariane
said.

Simon said something rude beneath his breath, threw
more wood on the bonfire, and sat next to his wife.

The boughs the men-at-arms had gathered formed a
surprisingly comfortable mattress. The bedding that had been thrown
over the boughs was dry. So was Simon’s mantle, for the
Learned had done something to the fur lining they had given to
Simon that made it shed water. When it rained, he simply reversed
the mantle so that the fur side faced out.

Ariane’s mantle, however, was of the more
usual variety. It was wet clear through, as were the clothes she
had worn. They steamed gently by the fire, hanging from lances like
bedraggled pennants.

“By your leave, madam,” Simon said
sardonically.

Simon took the fur mantle from Ariane’s hands
and whipped it around his own shoulders, which were now bare. She
made a startled sound as she felt herself lifted up. Very quickly
she was resettled in Simon’s lap.

“Is something wrong?” he asked blandly,
drawing the warm mantle closely around both of them.

“I—you are so q-quick. It makes me
f-forget that you are very strong as well.”

“And you look like a drowned cat. It makes me
forget that you still have claws and a haughty
disposition.”

“At l-least I don’t shed,” she
muttered.

Simon laughed.

For a time there was silence but for the crackle of
flames, the liquid murmur of rain, and random noises
from beyond the wall. Slowly the chills that had been
racking Ariane subsided. As the warmth of fire and man seeped into
her cold flesh, she sighed and relaxed a bit against Simon’s
seductive heat.

When her cheek rested against the muscular pad of
his shoulder, Ariane was reminded that Simon wore no shirt. Except
for his supple leather breeches he was naked.

The thought sent an odd sensation glittering
through her. It wasn’t quite unease.

And it certainly wasn’t relaxation.

From beyond the crumbling interior wall came a
breathless, definitely female cry.

“Do you think Blanche is comfortable and
warm?” Ariane asked after a moment.

Beneath her cheek, Simon’s chest moved as
though with silent laughter.

“Warmer than you are,” he assured
her.

“How so?”

“She is lying between at least two strapping
young men.”

Ariane made a startled sound.

“Two?” she asked after a moment.

A rumbling sound came from Simon that could have
been agreement. Or it could have been the contented purr of a very,
very large cat.

“At once?” Ariane pressed.

“Aye.”

“Is that…comfortable?”

“In what way?” Simon countered.

Ariane couldn’t see the laughter in
Simon’s narrowed eyes, but she could sense it very
clearly.

“It must be quite, ah, intimate,”
Ariane said carefully.

“Like eggs in a nest.”

“Do you sleep thus?”

“Of course not.”

Sighing, Ariane leaned back once more.

“I prefer having wenches rather than
men-at-arms to warm me,” Simon said blandly.

Ariane’s mouth opened. A flush swept up her
cheeks when she realized that her husband was teasing her.

At least, she thought he was.

Simon laughed at the expressions crossing
Ariane’s face. It occurred to him that she was truly an
innocent in the ways of men and women.

Except in her
dreams
.

Heat lanced through Simon as echoes of an
inexplicable, impossible dream coursed through his mind.

The memories both haunted and restrained him.
During the Holy Crusade, he had learned to his cost that his own
intense sensuality could be a weapon turned against him.

In his dreams, Ariane had matched that sensuality
perfectly.

If it had been a dream….

Not knowing truth from enchantment was an acid
eating at Simon, for he believed only in those things that could be
weighed and measured and counted. He had to know whether Ariane was
as cold as she seemed or as warm as the dream.

We tasted one
another
.

“Don’t worry about your
handmaiden,” Simon said against the scented dampness of
Ariane’s hair. “She is the warmest person in this
miserable camp.”

“But—”

“Have you heard Blanche complain?”
Simon interrupted.

Ariane blinked. “All I’ve heard is
laughter.”

“Then she must be well pleased. Unlike you,
Blanche has never failed to complain when things weren’t to
her liking. She should have been born a queen.”

“Aye.”

Ariane sighed again and unwittingly snuggled closer
to Simon’s warmth. Blanche’s ceaseless complaints had
made the past three days on the road rather trying for
everyone, but most of all for Ariane, whom Blanche
was supposed to be tending. As often as not, it had been the other
way around.

“’Tis kind of the men to see to
Blanche’s warmth,” Ariane said after a time. “It
must be quite uncomfortable for them.”

Simon made a sound that could have been stifled
amusement or a wordless question.

“How so?” Simon asked carefully.

“Blanche’s clothes were even wetter
than mine,” Ariane explained. “She must feel quite
clammy to the men warming her.”

“I think not.”

“No?”

“No. When I saw her, the girl was naked as an
egg.”

Ariane sat up abruptly, barely avoiding banging
into Simon’s chin.

“What were you doing watching my naked
handmaiden?” Ariane demanded.

The crackle in Ariane’s eyes was more than
matched by the tartness of her voice.

The lady was not pleased.

Simon smiled lazily, warmed by the fire in his
wife’s eyes.

“Have you had carnal knowledge of
Blanche?” Ariane demanded.

He raised his eyebrows. “When would I have
done that?”

“While I was ill.”

“Not so, nightingale. Between bathing you,
rubbing balm into you, bandaging you, and dosing you, I barely had
time to eat, much less to dally with unappealing
wenches.”

Ariane opened her mouth, then closed it.

“Unappealing?” she asked softly after a
moment.

“Aye.”

“She has hair the color of honey and eyes the
blue of a robin’s egg,” Ariane pointed out.

“I prefer hair the color of midnight and eyes
that make amethysts pale by comparison.”

Ariane looked into Simon’s dark, intense eyes
and wondered how she could ever have thought them bleak or
austere.

They were extraordinarily beautiful.

“Are you certain Blanche doesn’t appeal
to you?” Ariane asked. “She has a…a warm nature
toward men.”

“So does a muddy hound.”

Ariane smiled, then snickered, then put her head
against Simon’s shoulder and laughed until she was
breathless.

A ripple of pleasure went through Simon when he
felt the complete relaxation of Ariane’s body against his.
She had not been so at ease with him since she had awakened from
her healing dreams.

It gave him hope even as it ignited his blood.

Simon shifted his weight slightly, drawing Ariane
even closer. As always, his body responded to her presence by
becoming more sensitive, more alert. His blood was quickened by the
mere scent of her. Already he was drawn as taut as a harp
string.

He wondered what Ariane would do when she
discovered his arousal. Perhaps enough of the healing thrall
remained deep within her that she wouldn’t draw back in cold
distaste.

The thought that Ariane might find his body
appealing sent a shudder of raw desire through Simon.

“Are you warm enough?” Ariane asked
instantly.

“Wherever you touch me, I am warm
enough.”

Ariane thought that over for a time.

“I cannot cover your back,” she said
seriously, “and I barely cover half of your chest.”

“The mantle serves for my back.”

“And your front?”

“You could rub me with your hands.”

Ariane lifted her hands to chafe warmth into
Simon’s skin, but found that her position crosswise on his
lap made
giving him a thorough rubdown
difficult. She squirmed about, trying to lever herself into a
better position.

Simon’s breath came in swiftly when
Ariane’s soft bottom moved over his own hardened flesh.

“Sorry,” Ariane said in a low voice.
“Sitting thus, I can reach you with only one hand.”