Enchanted (6 page)

“You approve of the dress?” Erik asked
Simon casually.

“Aye.”

“That bodes well for the marriage,”
Erik said, satisfaction in every syllable.

“Does it?”

“Indeed. It foretells a lasting, passionate
union.”

“If my bride’s bed is half so beguiling
as her dress,” Simon said, smiling ironically, “I shall
deem myself the most fortunate of men.”

Ariane’s breath came in with a stifled sound
as fear returned in a rush. She moved to step away from Simon. His
fingers tightened around her wrist. Though the pressure
wasn’t painful, it was a clear warning of his superior
strength.

Nightmare bloomed like a black flower in
Ariane’s soul. It look every bit of her self-control not to
fight Simon’s firm grasp.

Abruptly he released the folds of her dress as
though it no longer pleased him.

“Patience, my dark nightingale,” Simon
said, his voice very soft and his eyes as black as hell. “We
cannot leave until you have been toasted by the lord of the
keep.”

Ariane closed her eyes briefly. “Of course.
Forgive me. I am…anxious.”

“All maids are,” Amber said in a gentle
voice. “There is naught to worry you. Simon is as gentle as
he is quick of hand.”

The smile Ariane managed was more than a trifle
desperate.

“Duncan,” Amber said, “toast the
union. We have tormented them quite long enough.”

“We have?” Duncan asked blankly.

“Have you forgotten so quickly how eager you
were to consummate your own union?” Erik asked.

Duncan flashed a smile at his own recent bride.
“Viewed that way, a wedding feast is
indeed a form of torment.”

Erik thrust a golden goblet into Duncan’s
hand, distracting him from Amber’s blushing smile. Duncan
took the hint and turned his attention to the newly wed couple. His
expression changed as he studied first Ariane and then Simon.
Slowly Duncan lifted his goblet.

The room became still.

“May you see the sacred
rowan bloom
,” Duncan said clearly.

A murmuring of agreement and wonder went through
the gathered knights as the story of Duncan and Amber’s love
was retold in scattered phrases.

“There is no danger of that, thank
God,” Simon retorted in a voice that went no farther than the
two couples. “Ariane is no witch to enchant love from an
unwilling warrior.”

Ariane gave Simon a sideways look and a thin smile.
“Ah, but I was, once.”

“What?” he asked.

“A witch,” she said succinctly.

Simon’s black eyes narrowed, but before he
could say anything, Ariane turned to the lord and lady of Stone
Ring Keep.

“Again, I thank you for your
generosity,” she said clearly.

“Again, I say it was our pleasure,”
Duncan said.

Ariane kept speaking as though she hadn’t
heard, raising her voice so that it carried through the great hall.
At the same time, she grabbed Amber’s hand with a speed that
rivaled the quickness of her husband, Simon.

A low sound came from Amber as the bleakness at the
center of Ariane’s soul rushed through the touch like a cold
river.

“If, at any time in the future,” Ariane
said quickly, “either man or woman hints that I received ill
treatment in the Disputed Lands, let it be known that such is a
lie. Am I speaking the truth, Learned?”

“Yes,” Amber said.

“Let it also be known that whatever happens
in this marriage,
Simon the Loyal bears no
blame
.”

Pale, swaying, Amber said, “Truth!”

Arine released her instantly and looked to
Cassandra.

“Will you be my witness, Learned?”
Ariane asked.

“All Learned will be your witness.”

“Whatever comes?”

“Whatever comes.”

Without another word, Ariane turned and walked from
the great hall. Each step, each breath, each motion of her body set
the sweeping folds of her dress rippling and swaying. Silver
shimmered and ran like springwater through the woven cloth, teasing
the eye with a sense of pattern just beneath the surface, just
beyond understanding, as tantalizing as the memory of summer heat
in deepest winter.

Duncan turned to Cassandra.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked
bluntly.

“I know only what you do.”

“I doubt that,” Duncan retorted.

Amber’s hand settled with a butterfly’s
delicacy on Duncan’s thick forearm. She looked into the
dangerous hazel glitter of his eyes without a bit of fear.

“Ariane spoke the truth,” Amber said.
“Cassandra—and through her, all Learned—witnessed
Ariane’s truth. That is all.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Neither did Ariane.”

Erik gave his sister a shrewd look.

“What else did you sense of Ariane’s
truth?” Erik asked.

“Nothing I could put words to. And even if I
could, I would not. What lies within Ariane’s soul is hers to
share or conceal.”

“Even from her husband?” Duncan
asked.

“Yes.”

Duncan made a frustrated sound and raked powerful
fingers through his thatch of dark brown
hair.

“I like it not,” Duncan growled
again.

“Don’t fret, my friend,” Simon
said. “Ariane was protecting me.”

Duncan gave the lithe knight a surprised look and
then laughed aloud.

“Protecting
you
?” Duncan asked in disbelief.

“Aye,” Simon said with an odd smile.
“A beguiling thought, is it not, to be protected by a fierce
little nightingale?”

“But what danger could come to you within the
walls of Stone Ring Keep?” Duncan asked.

“I’ll remember to ask
Ariane…eventually.”

With that, Simon turned to follow his wife.

“Wait!” called Amber. “It is
customary for a bride’s relatives to prepare her for the
groom.”

“As Ariane has neither sister nor mother,
niece nor aunt, she will just have to make do with the
groom,” Simon said without looking back.

“But—”

“Do not worry, Amber witch. I won’t
tear Ariane’s magnificent dress in my haste.”

I
f I cut my
throat, how can I be certain of doing a thorough job of
it
?

Ariane thought of all the horrible tales she had
heard of knights and battles. While there was plenty of gore in all
the stories, the blood had been drawn by warriors wielding
battle-axe and hammer, broadsword and lance.

Next to such weapons, the dainty dagger gleaming in
her hand seemed a joke.

God’s teeth! Is the
cursed blade even long enough to reach my heart
?

While Ariane stared at the dagger’s elegant
silver blade, the dress shimmered and curled caressingly around her
legs like a cat begging to be noticed.

Ariane’s thoughts scattered.

Distracted, she began pacing the small room, not
even noticing that Blanche had forgotten to kindle the fire in the
hearth. As a result, the room had a winter chill, as though all
heat had been sucked from the thick stone walls.

Why was I born a woman, with
none of a warrior’s strength or skill in piercing
flesh
?

The wind gusted. The draperies around the bed
stirred vaguely. Ariane’s dress moved restively no matter
what the wind did.

Even without that evil potion
Geoffrey put in my wine, I would have had no chance against
him
.

Simon would have
.

Ariane’s quick steps paused.

“Aye,” she said softly. “Simon.
So strong. So quick. Even Geoffrey’s murderous skill with the
sword would be hard put to equal Simon’s
swiftness.”

Again came the thought that had haunted Ariane
throughout the wedding ceremony.

Simon
.

I cannot kill him. Nor would
I, even if I could. I must be the one to die
.

But how? What can I do to make
Simon strike me down
?

Ariane couldn’t think of a time he had ever
lifted a hand to an unruly hound, much less to the highborn heiress
who had been first Duncan’s betrothed, then
Simon’s.

With a muttered word, Ariane resumed pacing,
ignoring the soft folds of dress that seemed determined to slow
her. Nothing she could think of seemed sufficient to disturb
Simon’s self-control. He would fight only on the order of his
lord and brother.

Or to defend
himself
.

Ariane came to a complete stop. Motionless, she
stood in the center of the room, turning the insight over and over
in her mind even as she turned the dagger over in her hands.

Would he see me as enough of a
threat to kill me
?

The idea almost made her laugh. Simon’s power
and skill were so great that he would probably hurt himself
laughing if she attacked him with the dagger.

Somehow, she would have to take him unawares, a
move so swift that he wouldn’t have time to think.

And laugh.

A man gone on drink has no
control over himself. Many toasts have been drunk already. Simon
will be forced to drink many more before he is free of the great
hall
.

Silently Ariane stood in the center of the room,
the dagger turning restlessly in her hands. The violet dress
seethed softly, redoubling the least flicker of
lantern light.

“Yes,” Ariane whispered finally.
“That is the answer. Simon is a warrior. When attacked, he
will attack in return with the heedless speed of a cat.”

She looked at the dagger.

“I will slash at him, he will kill me before
his better judgment interferes, and that will be the end of
it.”

A draft stirred the fabric of Ariane’s dress,
making it swirl around her feet with tiny, almost secret
motions.

I am mad even to think of
this. He will take the dagger from me and beat me most
soundly
.

No. I will beguile him first.
I will bide my time until he is lost to the coils of lust and ale.
Then I will strike
.

He will strike back fiercely.
It will end
.

It will not. You are mad even
to think of this
.

Ariane ignored the inner argument just as she
ignored the soothing caress of the Learned fabric. She had become
used to fragments of herself arguing since the night when she lay
helpless, bound by nightmare and Geoffrey’s sweating,
hammering body.

Far better to die than to endure such masculine
savagery again.

At least death will be
quick
.

The thought brought a measure of comfort to Ariane.
No matter how many well-wishers slowed Simon’s progress
through the great hall toward her bedchamber, no matter how many
toasts must be drunk to avoid insult to other knights, Simon would
make a swift job of her death.

She had never seen such quickness as his. Not even
Geoffrey the Fair, who was renowned for fighting two and three men
at once.

And winning.

No one will blame Simon for
what happens. After all, he will only be defending himself against
a murderous bride
.

Oddly, making certain that Simon didn’t
suffer because of her death was important to Ariane. He had been
kind
to her in his own way. Not the kindness of
lackeys or men seeking favors, but a simple awareness that she had
neither his strength nor his stamina on the trail. He had been
careful of her in a way that had nothing to do with the politeness
of a knight toward a highborn maiden.

The sound of footsteps in the hall broke into
Ariane’s thoughts.

“Who goes?” she asked.

Her voice was so tight it was almost hoarse.

“Your husband. May I enter?”

“It is too soon,” Ariane said without
thinking.

“Too soon?”

“I’m not—not ready.”

Simon’s laughter was rather teasing and quite
male. It ruffled nerves Ariane had never known existed in her
body.

“It will be my pleasure to ready you most
thoroughly,” Simon said in a deep voice. “Open the door
for me, nightingale.”

Ariane moved to put the dagger in its sheath at her
waist, only to remember that the dress was laced from neck to
knees. There was no belt from which to hang a sheath.

Frantically she looked around for a place to put
the dagger. It must be within her reach while she lay in bed. That
would be when she most needed it.

The sash holding one of the bed draperies aside was
the best hiding place Ariane could find for the blade. Hurriedly
she slid the dagger between the folds of cloth and went to the
door.

“Ariane.”

Simon’s voice was no longer teasing. He meant
to have access to the bedchamber.

And to his wife.

With shaking hands, Ariane opened the door.

“There was no barrier to your entry,”
she said in a low voice.

Her glance didn’t lift from the floor.

“Your lack of welcome is a bigger barrier
than any contrived by a locksmith,” Simon said.

Ariane said nothing. Nor did she look up to his
face.

“If I am so ugly in your eyes, why did you
want the Learned to witness that whatever comes of this marriage is
your doing, not mine?” Simon challenged gently.

“You are not ugly in my eyes,” Ariane
said.

“Then look at me, nightingale.”

Drawing a deep breath, Ariane forced herself to
confront her husband’s black glance. What she saw drew a
startled sound from her.

One of the keep’s cats was draped around
Simon’s neck. When his long, tapering fingers moved
caressingly under the cat’s chin, it purred with the sound of
thick rain on water. Claws slid in and out of their sheaths,
telling of feline ecstasy. Though the claws pierced Simon’s
shirt to test the flesh beneath, he showed no impatience. He simply
kept stroking the cat and watching Ariane’s violet eyes.

Belatedly Ariane realized that Simon held a jug of
wine and two goblets in the hand that wasn’t busy petting the
cat.

“You drank little wine,” Simon said,
following her glance.

Ariane shuddered, remembering the night another man
had pressed wine upon her.

“I have little liking for wine,” she
said tightly.

“English wine can bite the tongue. But this
is Norman wine. Drink with me.”

It wasn’t a request. Nor was it an order.

Not quite.

Ariane decided that she would pretend to drink, for
it was clear that Simon hadn’t yet drunk enough to lose the
edge of his wit, much less his judgment.

“As you wish,” Ariane murmured.

Simon stepped into the room. Instantly Ariane
stepped back, then covered the action by making a fuss of
clos
ing the door. She doubted that Simon was
fooled.

A glance at his face told her she was right.

“Why is there no fire?” Simon
asked.

For the space of an aching breath, Ariane thought
he was asking about her lack of passion. Then her lungs eased as
she realized that he was looking at the barren hearth.

“Blanche has been ill.”

Casually Simon set the wine and goblets on a chest
that held extra coverings for the bed. He lifted the cat from his
neck and settled the animal in the crook of his arm. With easy
grace, he knelt and stirred the ashes, seeking any embers. There
were only a few, and they were quite small.

Ariane started for the door. “I’ll call
for fresh coals.”

“No.”

Though the word was quietly spoken, Ariane stopped
so quickly that her dress swirled forward.

“What is already in the hearth will be
enough,” Simon said.

“They are barely alive.”

“Aye. But they
are
alive. Be ready to hand me kindling. Very small
at first. No more than slivers.”

As Simon spoke, he gathered the scarce coals and
began breathing gently on them. After a few moments, the larger
coal began to flush with inner heat.

“Kindling, please,” Simon murmured.

Ariane started and looked around. A basket of
kindling lay just beyond her reach. Between her and the basket was
Simon’s muscular body.

“It’s to your right,” Ariane
said.

“I know,” he said. “My right arm
is full of His Laziness.”

“His Laziness?”

Then Ariane understood. She laughed
unexpectedly.

To Simon, the sounds were as musical as any Ariane
had drawn from her harp.

“The cat,” she said. “Is he truly
called His Laziness?”

The sound of agreement Simon made was rather like
the cat’s purr.

Disarmed, Ariane reached around Simon until her
fingers could close around the basket handle. It was a long reach.
Simon’s back was broad. Even beneath the luxurious indigo
folds of his shirt, she could sense the power and heat of the long
muscles on either side of his spine.

The cat’s ecstatic purring vibrated in
Ariane’s ear as she bent far forward to retrieve the basket.
When Simon drew a breath, his back brushed against Ariane’s
arm. She looked at him with sudden wariness.

If he noticed the contact, it didn’t distract
him. He was still leaning forward, his expression intent, his lips
shaped to send air in a steady stream over the coals.

The sight of Simon’s pursed mouth intrigued
Ariane.

Odd. I thought his lips were
hard, ungiving. But now they look almost…tender
.

Simon’s breath flowed out. Coals shimmered
with new heat.

“Kindling,” he breathed.

It was a moment before the request sank through
Ariane’s curious thoughts. She snatched the basket from the
hearth, reached in, and grabbed the first thing that came to hand.
Quickly she held the piece of wood out to Simon.

“Here,” she said.

The wood was half again as long as her hand and
thicker than three fingers held together.

“Too large,” Simon said. “The
fire is still too shy to take that burden. Something much smaller
is required.”

Ariane hesitated, struck by the teasing quality
buried within Simon’s rich voice.

“Quickly,” he said without looking at
her. “If the coals burn too long alone, they will spend
themselves without ever creating true fire.”

Blindly Ariane felt through the kindling basket
until she found dry slivers of wood at the bottom. She held them
out on her palm.

As Simon took the offering, his fingers drew over
Ariane’s hand in a gesture that was strangely caressing. She
shivered and found it difficult to breathe.

When Simon felt the telltale quiver, he smiled
within the concealment of his very short, fine beard.

“Just right,” Simon murmured.
“You will quickly learn to build a fine fire.”

Ariane thought of protesting that she had Blanche
to perform such tasks. In the end, Ariane held her tongue, not
wanting to disturb the fragile sense of playfulness she sensed in
her warrior husband.

Ariane told herself that her caution came from
wanting Simon to be off guard when she finally was driven to use
the dagger.

She wasn’t certain she believed it.

What does it matter
?
Ariane mocked herself silently.
Death will
come soon enough. Is it so terrible to take pleasure in the bit of
softness that lies so surprisingly within this warrior
?

Intently, memorizing each deft moment with a
thoroughness she neither questioned nor understood, Ariane watched
as Simon added the slivers of kindling to the tiny mound of coals.
Heat grew in response to his breath fanning warmly over the
ashes.

“More,” he said. “A bit bigger
this time. The fire grows less shy.”

Ariane rummaged heedlessly in the basket, winced
when a silver went into her flesh, then kept on searching without
looking away from the pale gold of Simon’s head.

His hair looked as soft as a kitten’s ears.
She wondered if it would feel half so smooth between her
fingers.

“Ariane?”

“Here,” she said, startled, holding out
her hand.