Enchanted

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “First, let the Glendruid Wolf see Ariane as she is, without your vitality infusing the cloth,” Cassandra said.

  Simon started to ask a question, saw the gleam of amused anticipation in Cassandra’s eyes, and decided to say nothing at all.

  “What is this?” Dominic asked, striding into the room. “Meg says that Ariane is suddenly worse.”

  “Watch her closely, Wolf of Glendruid,” Cassandra said.

  The tone of the Learned woman’s voice told Dominic far more than her words. He watched Ariane as carefully as a hunter would watch for the first sight of a stag leaping from cover.

  “How does she appear to you?” Cassandra asked.

  Dominic glanced at Simon.

  “Speak freely,” Cassandra said. “Simon assures us that there is no affection between him and his wife.”

  “She looks like a woman with childbed fever,” Dominic said bluntly.

  “Or a knight with wound fever?” Cassandra offered.

  “Aye.”

  “Glendruid healer,” Cassandra said, turning to Meg. “Go to Ariane. Lay your hand upon the cloth Serena wove.”

  With a questioning glance, Meg did so.

  Nothing happened.

  “Now your husband,” Cassandra said.

  As Meg withdrew, Dominic went to the bed and touched the fabric.

  “Strange stuff,” he muttered. “I can’t say I like the feel of it at all.”

  “Step back,” Cassandra said.

  She placed her own hand on the fabric. After the space of four breaths, she moved away.

  Throughout it all, Ariane continued to whimper and thrash restlessly. Scarlet burned along her cheekbones, telling of fever’s fires rising within.

  “Simon,” Cassandra said.

  Reluctantly, Simon stepped forward and touched the fabric.

  As always, the texture pleased him. It was like Ariane’s kiss, never the same twice, changing even while he savored it. The look of the fabric itself was also endlessly intriguing, as though brilliant shadows of amethyst and violet and ebony had been threaded through, creating pictures that shifted with each breath, each moment.

  A woman of intense feeling, head thrown back, hair wild, lips open upon a cry of unbelievable pleasure.

  The enchanted.

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

  The enchanter.

  Now he was bending down to her, drinking her cries…

  “Do you see now?” Cassandra asked Dominic.

  The sound of Cassandra’s voice sent a shudder ripping through Simon. Raw yearning twisted within him.

  He felt as though he had almost touched something that could be neither weighed nor measured nor seen.

  Nor touched.

  “Aye,” Dominic said. “Ariane rests now. Is it a Learned thing?”

  “Not really,” Cassandra said. “It is an aspect of some Silverfells clan weavings. Each is different. Each becomes more different as it is worn. It simply…is.”

  Dominic rubbed his nose thoughtfully, then turned to his brother.

  “You will stay with Ariane,” Dominic said.

  Simon opened his mouth to protest, but the Glendruid wolf was still talking.

  “As soon as it is safe to travel, bring your wife to Blackthorne Keep.”

  “What if winter keeps us here?” Simon asked.

  “So be it. Baron Deguerre’s daughter is more important than having one more knight at Blackthorne, even a knight such as you. Unless…”

  Dominic’s voice died as he turned to look at his wife.

  “Unless you dream of greater danger, small falcon. Then I will reconsider Simon’s value to Blackthorne Keep.”

  15

  Cool water soothed Ariane’s dry lips and poured gently over her parched tongue. She swallowed eagerly. When no more liquid came to her mouth, she tried to lift herself toward the source of the water.

  Liquid overflowed Ariane’s lips and down her chin to her neck. Something warm and velvety ran over her skin, following the trail of the water.

  “Gently, nightingale.”

  With the words came a warm exhalation in the hollow of Ariane’s throat. Where drops of water had collected, the soft velvet brushed again, taking away the liquid.

  Thirst combined with a need to be closer to the gentle voice made her whimper and strain toward the words.

  “There is no need to fear. Neither the water nor I will leave you.”

  A hand stroked Ariane from crown to nape with slow, tender motions, reassuring her. Sighing raggedly, she turned toward the source of comfort. Her lips skimmed across something both hard and warm, slightly rough and wonderfully reassuring at the same time. At a distance she realized it was a hand.

  A man’s hand.

  Ariane tried to stiffen and pull away, but her body simply refused to obey the alarms of her awakening mind.

  “Softly, nightingale. Your wound is still healing. Lie still. You are safe.”

  Ariane sighed and turned her face once more into the large male hand that was being used not to hurt her, but rather to soothe her fears.

  “Open your lips,” Simon whispered. “’Tis water you need, and then gruel, and then tiny bits of minced meat and honey, and—”

  With an effort, Simon stopped the rushing words. He wanted Ariane to be well with an urgency that grew greater with each hour. The nine days he had spent caring for her had been the longest of his life.

  ’Tis savage enough that Dominic suffered torment because of my lust for Marie. But at least Dominic was a knight fully trained for pain and blood.

  ’Tis unbearable that my melancholy nightingale lies wounded and in pain because of me.

  “Why didn’t you flee when I gave you the chance?” Simon whispered.

  No answer came from Ariane’s pale lips except a kiss breathed into the center of his palm.

  Awake, she fears me.

  Asleep, she kisses me.

  Simon closed his eyes as the simple caress sank to the marrow of his bones and then deeper still, spreading through his soul like quicksilver ripples through black water.

  After a time Simon sipped from a cup, bent down to Ariane, and once again allowed a few drops to pass from his lips to hers. It was a method of giving liquid medicine that he had first seen used by Meg on Dominic. Meg’s patient, persistent attempts to get water within Dominic had saved his life.

  It was working on Ariane, too. Though she wasn’t truly awake, her body knew what it needed. Her mouth opened. Her tongue came out to lick up the wonderful moisture that had appeared on her lips. A few more drops flowed over her tongue in reward. She swallowed and lifted herself greedily, wanting more.

  This time Simon was prepared. Nothing spilled from Ariane’s lips to her throat. He caught his wife’s mouth beneath his own and trickled water over her tongue. She drank from him thirstily again and again, until the cup of medicine was empty. Then she sighed and relaxed once more.

  But like the amethyst cloth swirling around Ariane’s body, she clung to the warmth and vitality that was Simon.

  He looked at the pale fingers woven through his own much stronger fingers and felt an odd tightness in his throat. Tenderly he lifted their entwined hands, kissed Ariane’s cool skin, and resumed stroking her hair with his free hand.

  Gradually Simon became aware that someone had come into the room and was standing patiently behind him. The fragrance of incense cedar told him that it was Cassandra who had come so quietly into Ariane’s room.

  It wasn’t the first time that the Learned healer had come to stand vigil near her patient. While Cassandra had been adamant that it must be Simon who nursed Ariane, an hour rarely passed during the day when Cassandra didn’t look in.

  “The balm I brought three days ago,” the Learned woman said, “have you used it?”

  “Aye.”

  “And?”

  “She seems…” Simon hesitated.

  “What?” asked Cassandra sharply
.

  “She seems almost to enjoy it.”

  Cassandra’s grey eyes gleamed. “Excellent. And you?”

  “I?”

  “Does the balm please you as well?”

  Simon gave the healer a sideways glance.

  Cassandra simply waited, saying nothing.

  “Aye, it pleases me,” Simon said, “if that matters.”

  The Learned woman tilted her head and smiled. “It matters, Simon.”

  “Why?”

  “The balm was exactly blended to enhance all that is Ariane.”

  “Midnight, moonrise, roses, a storm,” Simon said, looking back at his wife. “Ariane.”

  “Has she awakened?” Cassandra asked.

  “Almost.”

  Cassandra went to the bed, watched Ariane for a moment, then shook her head slowly.

  “She won’t fully awaken this day, nor even on the morrow,” the Learned woman said.

  “In the past two days, she follows my touch as though more awake than asleep. Sometimes I almost believe she understands my words.”

  “She may.”

  Simon gave the Learned woman a quick glance.

  “’Tis the balm,” Cassandra said simply. “It reaches past what we know of the world to another place, a place where waking and sleeping are combined. It is a special kind of dreaming.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Cassandra almost smiled. “Ariane will awaken feeling as though she has dreamed deeply. And within the dream, she will also feel deeply. As will you.”

  “Will she feel pain?” Simon asked sharply.

  “Nay, unless you intend it.”

  “Never. She has suffered enough on my behalf.” Simon hesitated. “Will she remember aught else?”

  “Such as?”

  “Disgust at my touch,” he said bluntly.

  “Are you disgusted to be touching her?” Cassandra asked.

  “No.”

  “Does she seem to draw away when you touch her?”

  “She draws closer.”

  “Excellent,” Cassandra said succinctly. “She progresses.”

  Simon stroked Ariane’s long, loose hair in silence for a time. As had happened before, she turned her face toward him, taking ease from his touch.

  “Will Ariane remember what she dreamed when she awakens?” Simon asked.

  “Very few do. Healing dreams are…” Cassandra shrugged. “Such dreams are very different from ordinary sleep.”

  When Cassandra turned away to stoke the fire, Simon picked up the herbs she had brought with her. He sniffed each packet carefully. When he was satisfied that the correct medicine lay within, he rubbed a bit of each herb delicately between thumb and forefinger, sniffed, tasted, waited for five breaths, and then either accepted or rejected the mix.

  “The yarrow is a bit musty,” Simon said at one point.

  “You have a very keen nose. I have sent for more yarrow. Until it comes, ’tis better to have some a bit musty than none at all.”

  Simon’s mouth drew down at one corner, but he said nothing. He mixed some of the herbs into water that had been heated on the brazier. Under Cassandra’s watchful eyes, he picked up a mortar and pestle, added various herbs, and ground them to dust with efficient, powerful strokes. The resulting powder was worked into a pungent salve.

  Throughout the room, the smell of the fires in the brazier and hearth gave way to the complex interplay of medicinal herbs and fragrant balm. Simon’s nostrils flared subtly, testing the salve for any false or overly potent scent. He rubbed some of the balm on the tender skin inside his wrist and waited.

  No burning arose. No itching. Nothing to suggest that the salve would do anything except what it was supposed to do. Heal.

  “You are very careful of your unwanted wife,” Cassandra said after a time.

  Simon threw her a black, slanting glance and said nothing.

  “Many men in your position would have been happy enough to make a token effort and then flee,” the Learned woman added.

  “I am not a coward, madam.”

  Though soft, the words cut like an ice-tipped wind.

  “Your bravery is well-known,” Cassandra said calmly. “No man would have raised a question if you had failed to save your wife from the rogue knight who had slain better-armed and more numerous enemies than you.”

  “Is there a point to this?” Simon asked in a low, impatient voice.

  “Simple curiosity.”

  “There is nothing simple about Learned curiosity.”

  The tone of Simon’s voice penetrated Ariane’s hazy awareness. She turned restlessly. Her fingers tightened on his hand as though afraid he would withdraw.

  “Exercise your curiosity elsewhere,” Simon said softly. “You are disturbing my wife.”

  “As you wish, healer. But remember, all of Ariane’s skin must know the healing kiss of the balm. Every bit.”

  Cassandra was out of the door before Simon realized what she had called him.

  Healer.

  Broodingly he looked down at Ariane’s wan face.

  If only it were that easy.

  If only I could heal her body with a handful of herbs and a soothing touch.

  Then perhaps I could heal my dark nightingale’s soul as well.

  Or my own soul. Equally dark.

  Unbidden, unwanted, Dominic’s words echoed in Simon’s mind.

  Like me, you left all warmth in the Saracen land…. Who will bring warmth to you if you marry Ariane?

  Ariane made a low noise, as though protesting something only she could understand.

  The sound brought Simon out of his bleak thoughts. What was past was irretrievable. What remained had to be lived with, whether sweet or bitter, savory or sour, fire or ice.

  Abruptly Simon turned away from his sleeping wife. Despite her muted, unknowing protests, he slid his hand from hers and began the cleansing ritual that Meg had insisted he learn before she left with Dominic for Blackthorne Keep.

  With deft, gentle hands that smelled of medicinal soap, Simon partially undid the silver laces on Ariane’s dress and eased amethyst fabric from her shoulders. As he handled the dress, he no longer questioned Cassandra’s edict that Serena’s weaving remain against Ariane’s skin. He had seen for himself that she rested more easily when wrapped in the cloth.

  And when Simon was touching her, she rested most deeply of all.

  When she is truly well, will she trust me enough to let me touch her as a husband rather than a healer?

  The unexpected thought made Simon’s hands stop in mid-movement. Violet cloth and cool silver laces slid from his motionless fingers.

  The bodice of Ariane’s dress fell away. Flickering fire from the brazier cast shadows of light and darkness over her smooth breasts. The ripples of shadow and firelight made her breasts look as though they were being stroked by immaterial fingers.

  And as though stroked, her nipples became taut.

  “Nightingale,” Simon whispered.

  Ariane’s head moved restlessly. Her breasts shifted with subtle, enticing movements, as though asking to be admired by Simon’s eyes, his hands, his mouth.

  With a silent curse, Simon closed his eyes. He had undressed Ariane thrice daily for nine days, and despite the beautiful temptation of her body, never once had he touched her in any way other than as a healer. But now…

  Now he wanted to be the light on her breasts, caressing her in shades of dusk and fire.

  Now he wanted to take the weight of her breasts in his palms while his thumbs flicked her nipples into full pink buds.

  Now he wanted to curl his tongue around those buds and draw her into his mouth.

  And then he wanted more. Much more.

  He wanted things he could neither name nor describe. He wanted to burn as the phoenix burned, and know what the phoenix knew as it rose from the flames only to return again and then again, feeling the ecstatic fire burn all the way through to his soul.

  A low sound was dragged fro
m deep within Simon. It shocked him, but not as much as the violence of his need for Ariane’s unwilling body. He was full to bursting, hard as a battle sword, and burning as though fresh from the forge.

  “God’s teeth,” he hissed beneath his breath. “Does Cassandra think I’m a eunuch not to lust for the very flesh I am supposed to heal? Seeing Ariane’s breasts in the firelight…’tis like having hot coals spilled between my legs!”

  Shaken by his own sudden lack of control, Simon clenched his hands into fists, squeezing the amethyst cloth between his fingers until his arms ached.

  After too long a time for his own comfort, Simon could breathe without feeling as though it were flames rather than air he was taking into his lungs. Slowly he released Ariane’s dress and began unwinding from around her ribs the strip of violet cloth that was acting as both binding and bandage.

  The wound was a thin scarlet line centered between two ribs. Already the skin had knitted back together as though never sliced by a renegade’s dagger. The flesh around the wound was warm but not hot, flushed with the pink of healing rather than with the livid red of a wound gone to deadly fever.

  “’Tis worth putting up with Learned and Glendruid witchery combined to see you healing so cleanly,” Simon murmured to Ariane. “When I saw that dagger go into you…”

  His voice faded to a raspy sound. He had relived that moment many times; seeing the savage gleam of steel, knowing that her tender flesh was no match for the blade, feeling the sickening certainty that he could not reach her in time to save her.

  And he hadn’t. She had fallen even as he screamed her name. She hadn’t answered his cry then.

  She still hadn’t answered him.

  Ariane.

  But now Simon’s cry went no farther than the turmoil of his soul, where Ariane’s wounding had become another raw scar lying next to the still-livid scar that had come when Dominic paid for the sins of his brother.

  Slowly Simon reached for the pan of medicinal water that had been warming near the brazier. He squeezed out a small cloth and began to wash Ariane with great gentleness. As he worked from her face to her breasts, he did his best to ignore the warm rush of Ariane’s breath and the even warmer brush of her breasts against his hand with each motion of the cloth.