“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.”
7
If 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, hamme
ring 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 closing 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.
Simon looked at the pale, slender fingers where wisps of shredded kindling were heaped like stiff straw. With careful, totally unnecessary care, he stirred a fingertip through the woody offering.
As often as not, it was Ariane’s palm his finger nuzzled, not splinters of wood. At the first touch, her hand jerked subtly. The next touch startled her less. After a few moments his fingertip was tracing the lines of her palm with a gentleness that was very close to a caress.
“Mmmm,” Simon said, pretending to choose among the slivers of fuel.
“You rumble like His Laziness,” Ariane said.
Her voice sounded strange to her own ears.
To Simon, Ariane’s breathlessness was a small victory, a sliver of wood turning smoky as it succumbed to heat.
Reluctantly he took several bits of kindling and returned his attention to the coals. He said something under his breath when he saw that the fire had all but fled the embers while he caressed Ariane’s palm.
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