Enchanted (5 page)

Hearing the curtness of her own voice, she took a
deep breath and forced a smile.

“Thank you, Lady of Blackthorne,”
Ariane said, “but I much prefer to see to my own needs in the
bath.”

Ariane left the room without looking back, for she
was very much afraid she would see speculation in the Saxon
girl’s shrewd green eyes. Ariane didn’t want that. She
didn’t want to know what Meg would do if she discovered that
the bride intended to take a deadly silver dagger to her wedding
bed.

How can I possibly kill
Simon
?

How can I possibly not kill
him
?

And failing all, can I kill
myself
?

The conflicting questions raged through Ariane as
she bathed. There was no answer to her wild thoughts save one.

She could not lie beneath a man again.

Any man.

Even one who called to her from deep within an
uncanny amethyst dream.

T
he marriage toasts from the
assembled knights grew more and more unrestrained with each mug of
ale and goblet of wine that was consumed. While the wedding
ceremony itself had been elegant, brief, and reverent, the feast
was making up for the previous restraint.

Lord Erik, son of Robert of the North, watched the
newly married couple from his seat at Duncan’s table at the
head of the great hall. Nothing Erik saw stilled the uneasiness
that was growing within him. Simon was courteous to his bride and
no more. If he were anticipating the bedding of his Norman heiress,
it didn’t show.

But it was Ariane who truly disturbed Erik’s
peace of mind. Though the bride wore Serena’s complex,
fabulously beautiful weaving, there was no joy in Ariane’s
face or gestures. Rather there were hints of terror and rage barely
contained. Her magnificent amethyst eyes were shrouded by shadows
that owed nothing to the night that had wrapped coldly around the
keep.

Through the ceremony and the celebration that
followed, the bride’s fingers had kept moving subtly, as
though seeking the harp to speak for all that was unspeakable
within her.

“Ariane. The Betrayed. But by whom, and in
what way, and why?”

No person turned away from the feasting to answer
Erik’s words. They had been spoken too softly to be overheard
by any of the revelers at the lord’s table at the head of the
great hall.

But Cassandra heard Erik clearly. As soon as the
feast had ended and the rounds of increasingly rowdy toasts had
commenced, she had come to stand just behind her former pupil.
Silently she had watched while he lifted his goblet and responded
to toasts with a gracious smile that revealed nothing of his
thoughts.

“Tell me, Learned,” Erik said without
interrupting his study of Ariane, “what did the dress think
of our Norman heiress?”

“Serena’s weaving is like Serena
herself,” Cassandra said.

“And what might that be like?” Erik
retorted. “I’ve never seen the old crone.”

“She isn’t old.”

Erik made an impatient sound. This was his first
opportunity to have a private conversation with Cassandra since the
nuptial dress had arrived at the keep. Curiosity—and the far
more urgent needs of a lord who must defend a keep within the
Disputed Lands’ turbulent borders—made him unusually
abrupt.

With a rather fierce smile, Erik lifted his goblet
in response to a toast asking that the union be as fertile as there
were stars in the sky.

“I don’t care if Serena is freshly
hatched or so old she rattles like sticks when she walks,”
Erik muttered as he set down the goblet with a thump.

Cassandra’s mouth formed into a line that was
suspiciously close to a smile.

“God’s teeth,” Erik said without
looking up. “Tell me what I must know and spare me the
embroidery!”

The Learned woman’s lips were frankly smiling
now. The quicksilver grey of her eyes gleamed with amusement. It
was rare to have Erik rise so easily to the bait.

“Be at rest,” she murmured.
“’Tis not your wedding night.”

“Be grateful,” he said through his
teeth. “I’m in no humor to seduce an ice queen tonight,
no matter how much wealth she brought across the sea to lay at my
feet.”

“Ah, but Ariane isn’t a goddess of
ice.”

A subtle change went over Erik. Though he made no
move, he was somehow more alive, more alert, a predator on a fresh
scent.

At Erik’s other side, Stagkiller rose to his
feet in a surge of power. He watched his master’s golden eyes
with eyes that were no less gold.

“The dress accepted Ariane!” Erik said
in a low voice.

“After a fashion.”

“Speak clearly.”

“A Learned speak clearly? What would become
of tradition?”

Belatedly, Erik understood that he was being deftly
teased by the woman whom he loved like a mother.

“Speak how you would, but do so
quickly,” Erik said. “Stagkiller is eager to course the
night. And so am I.”

“‘Course the night.’”
Cassandra smiled. “It suits you to have the unLearned think
of you as a sorcerer who changes shape between wolf and man,
doesn’t it?”

Erik’s teeth showed in a swift, feral grin.
“It has saved many a tedious negotiation with greedy cousins,
outlaws, and rogue knights.”

Cassandra laughed and gave in.

“Ariane saw something within the
cloth,” said the Learned woman.

“What was it?”

“She didn’t say.”

The humor vanished from Erik’s face.

“Then how do you know the dress accepted
her?” he asked.

“She held and stroked the cloth as though it
were a puppy nuzzling for comfort. She took pleasure in
it.”

Erik grunted. “Then Ariane isn’t dead
all the way to her soul, despite what Amber felt when she touched
her.”

“It seems not.”

“There is no ‘seems’ about
it,” he retorted. “Ariane
saw
something in the dress. It felt pleasant to her touch. It is hers
and she is its. Passion exists in her, thank God.”

“Aye. But will that passion be for Simon, or
will Serena’s gift be a kind of armor against him?”

For a time Erik looked broodingly out on the great
hall of Stone Ring Keep.

“I don’t know,” he said finally.
“What of you?”

“The rune stones are silent on the
subject.”

“Even the silver stones?”

“Yes.”

Erik muttered an oath under his breath.
Cassandra’s ability to foresee future crossroads was useful,
but not reliable. Prophecy came to her as it willed, rather than
as she
willed. Often what she saw was
enigmatic, without easy interpretation, even by Learned and priests
combined.

Silently Erik resumed watching the assembled lords,
ladies, knights, squires, and a scattering of gently born maidens
who filled the great hall with shouts and laughter. When it was
appropriate to respond to a toast, he did so, but his expression
held the people of the keep at bay.

From his position at the raised table, seated to
the right of Duncan, lord of Stone Ring Keep, Erik could see and
name each knight who drank and called out toasts. He could name
each of the hounds that surged and seethed beneath the long tables,
questing for scraps. He could whistle each falcon’s special
call and have each answer him from her perch behind a
knight’s chair.

It was the same for the serfs and servants, freemen
and villeins of the keep and fields and countryside. Erik knew them
all, knew their individual abilities, knew their kith and kin, and
could predict with fair accuracy how each would respond to a given
command.

But the heiress Ariane, daughter of the powerful
Baron Deguerre, was from a foreign place. She had come to the
Disputed Lands unLearned, ungiving, a remote beau
ty wrapped in a cold as deep as that of winter
itself.

“Simon will find a way to her heart,”
Erik said.

“Is that hope or Learning speaking?”
Cassandra asked.

“What girl could resist the combination of
wit, warrior and lover that is Simon?”

Cassandra’s hands moved slightly. A ring set
with three stones sent sparks of red and blue and green into the
candlelight.

“Hope or Learning?” she repeated.

“God’s blood,” snarled Erik,
“why ask me?”

“Your gift is to see patterns and connections
that elude Learned and unLearned alike.”

“My so-called gift is useless when it comes
to divining what lies in a woman’s mind.”

“Nonsense. You simply never have had a
sufficient reason to try.”

“Ariane makes me uneasy,” Erik said
flatly. “And that is Learning, not hope.”

“Yes,” Cassandra agreed.

“Look at her. Have you ever known a person to
be accepted by one of Serena’s weavings and not be
calmed?”

“No.”

“Is Ariane calmed?”

Erik’s question was rhetorical. Cassandra
answered anyway.

“Placid? No,” Cassandra said.
“Calmed? Quite probably. We can only guess the state of
Ariane’s distress if she were wearing different
cloth.”

The low sound Erik made sent a ripple of answering
emotion through Stagkiller’s lean, powerful frame.

“You are a source of endless comfort,”
Erik said ironically.

“Learning is rarely comfortable.”

“What is it within Ariane that so harshly
restrains normal passion?”

“I was hoping you would tell me,”
Cassandra said. “Better yet, tell Simon.”

“God’s blood,” Erik said in a low
voice. “If this marriage isn’t a fruitful one in all
ways, the Glendruid Wolf will be brought to bay by men of blood and
greed.”

“Aye. And if Dominic falls, the Disputed
Lands will know a harrowing such as hasn’t come since Druid
times.”

“Then light candles for Simon the Loyal and
Ariane the Betrayed,” Erik said. “Their survival is
ours.”

As though Simon had heard, he turned and looked at
Erik and Cassandra. As Simon turned, his long fingers closed around
one of Ariane’s restless hands. The reflexive jerking away of
her fingers was so quickly controlled that only Simon noticed.

The line of his mouth flattened even more. The
closer it came to the time when the bride would withdraw to her
bedchamber to prepare for her groom, the colder Ariane’s
flesh became.

He began to fear it was no game that she played,
nor even maidenly anxiety that made her draw away. Rather it was a
simple truth: Ariane was cold to the marrow of her bones.

“Come, my passionate bride,” Simon said
sardonically.

Eyes the violet of a wild summer storm gave Simon a
swift glance.

“It is time to take your leave of the
feasting you so obviously have enjoyed,” he said.

Ariane looked out over the raucous knights and
wished herself far away, alone, listening to her harp instead of
Simon’s rich voice vibrating with irony and bitterness.

“So set aside your unused goblet and leave
your untouched plate for the hounds,” Simon continued.
“We will pay our respects to the lord of Stone Ring Keep
together, as befits a married couple.”

Though Ariane said nothing, she didn’t fight
the easy power of Simon’s hand pulling her to her feet. She
had known this moment would come.

Without realizing it, Ariane’s free hand
sought the
soothing folds of the dress whose
rich color matched her eyes. The longer she wore the luxurious
fabric, the more she appreciated its calming texture.

As much as Ariane enjoyed stroking the cloth, she
was careful not to look
into
the
uncanny fabric. She needed no more frightening, tempting visions of
herself arching like a drawn bow at Simon’s touch, pleasure a
rush of silver lightning stitching through her soul…

Simon felt the subtle tremor that went through
Ariane’s body as he led her toward Amber and Duncan.

God’s teeth, am I that
disgusting to my bride
?

The icy anger of Simon’s thought didn’t
show on his face or in the gentleness with which he drew Ariane to
his side.

“Ah, there you are,” Duncan said,
spotting Simon. “Impatient for the rest of the festivities,
are you?”

The laughter that went through the knights gathered
nearby left no doubt as to what the remaining
“festivities” were.

“Not as impatient as my lovely bride,”
Simon said, smiling down at Ariane. “Isn’t that
so?”

The smile she gave him in return was little more
than a baring of teeth. No one but Simon seemed to notice. He
squeezed her fingers between his in silent warning that she bridle
her dislike of him while in public.

Ariane looked at the black clarity of Simon’s
eyes and knew he sensed with great precision her distaste for being
touched.

“I am…overwhelmed by all that has
happened,” Ariane said.

Her voice was hoarse from the fierce restraint she
applied not to scream.

“Lord and lady, you have been both generous
and kind in your gifts,” Ariane said.

“The pleasure is ours,” Duncan
said.

“The dress becomes you,” Amber said.
“I am glad.”

Ariane’s slender fingers stroked the length
of her sleeve. Silver embroidery flashed and gleamed with each
motion of her body.

“I would like to have thanked the
weaver,” Ariane said. “Will you carry my gratitude to
her?”

“You can tell her yourself,” Amber
said.

“You told me Serena was a recluse,”
Duncan objected.

“She is, but she will see Ariane.”

“Why?” Duncan asked.

“Because Ariane completes the weaving,”
Amber said simply.

Simon looked at his bride with hooded eyes. There
was no doubt that Ariane’s beauty was enhanced to an
extraordinary degree by the vivid, lush fabric.

“Do you not agree, Simon?” Amber
asked.

“Her skin is like a pearl lit from
within,” Simon said without looking away from his bride.
“And her eyes shame even the magnificent amethysts woven into
her hair.”

Startled, pleased, yet deeply wary of male
admiration, Ariane found it impossible to breathe. The look in
Simon’s eyes belied the restraint with which he had touched
her up to now.

He wanted her.

A warrior both disciplined and
passionate, his whole being focused in the moment
.

The enchanter
.

And a frightening part of Ariane longed to be the
enchanted. Frissons of yearning swept over her like shadows of the
lightning that had been embroidered on the wedding dress.

A stray draft from the great hall sent a fold of
the dress curling around Simon’s free hand. His fingers
caressed the fey cloth. Unwillingly he smiled with pure pleasure.
It was as though warmth and laughter, passion and peace had been
woven into the very fabric.

Amber looked at the cloth clinging to Simon’s
fingers and smiled with relief. She sensed her brother standing
just behind her and turned. Erik, too, was
watching the fabric being stroked by a warrior’s hard
hand.