He was more successful with the bathing than with the ignoring.
It had been easier not to see Ariane’s sensual appeal when her body was flushed with illness or chill with the aftermath of fever. Then he could think of her not as a girl whose aloof, dark beauty had set his body on fire from the first time he had seen her, but as flesh that needed to be washed and dried and salved, and then wrapped up once more against the autumn cold.
But the very feel of Ariane was different tonight. After she had taken the last of the medicine from his lips, she had changed. There was no subtle slackness in her body, as though all her strength were being spent in surviving an outlaw’s dagger. Though still unnaturally calm, her mind and body were throwing off the drugs and medicines that had held her in a healing thrall.
The elegant line of Ariane’s waist and hips had changed subtly, vibrantly. It was as though she were giving herself to his touch while he bathed her, transforming the bath from a cleansing ritual into something far more sensual.
Now her torso sang with a siren’s call to Simon, as did the long curves of her legs while he washed her. The lush thicket of her femininity made his breath wedge deep in his chest. He forced himself to look away from the midnight triangle, else his touch change from healing to loving.
’Tis foolish! I am not a green squire to stare as though I have never seen a woman’s soft cleft.
Simon took a deep breath and finished his work quickly, forcing himself to think of her as a patient.
Even so, Simon decided to forego rubbing scented salve into Ariane’s skin from her delicate toes to her graceful nape. The ointment smelled too sensuous to be a medicine in any case, though Cassandra had insisted it was necessary for Ariane’s cure.
Abruptly Simon began drawing the amethyst dress back up Ariane’s legs. Yet no matter how quickly he moved, how little he touched her, she felt different to his hands. Her limbs were more alive. More vital.
Inviting.
She was flushed with the kind of womanly fever that knew only one cure.
“God’s teeth,” Simon hissed. “What is wrong with me to lust after a girl who is in no condition to say aye or nay?”
Ariane is my wife.
“She isn’t well,” he muttered, pulling the dress up Ariane’s hips with unusual urgency.
Her body follows my touch like a flower follows the sun.
“She isn’t awake!”
Her body is awakened. I can sense it. I can feel it. Were I to bathe her softness with my tongue, I could taste it.
The thought sent a bolt of raw sensation through Simon, followed by a temptation so strong that it shook his body the way thunder shakes the ground.
Simon quit arguing with himself and concentrated on covering as much as possible of Ariane before he rubbed salve into her tender wound. But the dress’s long, flowing sleeves seemed to have a mind of their own. They tangled. They twisted. They were as elusive as smoke. They frustrated every approach.
And each time Simon lifted Ariane a different way in order to work on the sleeves, her breasts swayed and brushed over his arms, his hands. Once, his cheek knew her warmth and softness.
She smiled dreamily at the caress.
Blistering Saracen phrases whispered through the still room. Simon released Ariane, picked up a sleeve and eyed it as he would an ill-trained hound.
The fabric curled softly around his fingers and breathed a subtle perfume into his nostrils, moonrise and wild roses and a hint of storm.
Ariane’s scent.
The scent of the very balm Simon didn’t trust himself to rub into her changed flesh.
The balm that Cassandra insisted was vital for Ariane’s full recovery.
Closing his eyes, Simon groaned too softly for anyone to hear, even himself. Slowly his clenched fingers opened. The amethyst fabric slid from his grasp with a sound like a sigh.
He picked up one of the small pots that were arrayed on a chest near Ariane’s bed. The odor of the balm was astringent, bracing, brisk.
Medicinal not passionate.
Rather grimly Simon dabbed his index finger in the balm and began applying it with care to the scarlet scar between Ariane’s ribs. She lay very still, breathing softly, not quite asleep. A slight smile made her so beautiful that he felt a hand squeeze his heart.
Your body wants me, nightingale.
It has wanted me from the first, when you were Duncan’s betrothed.
And you fought that wanting as hard as I did.
Fight no more. You are no longer betrothed to another. I am your husband. You are my wife.
Your smile ravishes my soul.
Just as Simon lifted his hand from Ariane’s wound, she turned on her side toward him. His fingers were caught in a sensuous vise between her breasts.
Heat flushed Simon from his forehead to his heels, but most of all he burned where erect flesh strained against his breeches. He counted his heartbeat in aching pulses that surged against restraining cloth.
With a long, hissing breath, Simon forced himself to withdraw from the sweet vise. As he retreated, his fingertips brushed one of Ariane’s nipples. It drew taut.
“God’s blood, ’tis too much,” Simon groaned through his teeth.
He told himself that he must stand up and leave Ariane. He meant to do just that. But the wretched sleeves had fallen across his lap, chaining him.
Simon reached for the pot of scented ointment that Cassandra had blended just for Ariane. The pot felt warm, smooth, the size and weight of a breast nestled against his palm.
The scent of roses and storm drifted into the room as Simon opened the pot. He inhaled deeply, taking into himself the perfume that, like the dress, enhanced rather than concealed the essence of Ariane.
Slowly Simon dipped his fingertips into the balm. It was warm, creamy, sleek, infused with all that was feminine.
And it burned like desire.
16
For nine days Simon had been tending Ariane as though she were a babe. For nine days he had told himself that he didn’t see the feminine allure of her breasts and hips. That he didn’t take a purely sensual pleasure in smoothing ointment into every bit of her skin. That he didn’t want to be like the balm, sinking into her very flesh, becoming part of it.
For nine days he had lied.
God’s aching teeth!
What was Cassandra thinking of when she ordered me to rub scented cream over every inch of Ariane? Am I made of stone not to burn with passion?
Ariane turned her head from side to side, sending gleaming coils of black hair sliding over her breasts. Her hands moved languidly, yet almost impatiently, questing for…something.
“Ariane,” Simon said in a low voice.
Her head turned as though in response, yet her eyes were closed. Deliberately Simon brushed the back of his fingers over her cheek. Her hand lifted, holding his fingers against her face.
She turned even more toward him, plainly accepting his touch.
Nay. Wanting it.
Demanding it.
“I wish I dared awaken you,” Simon whispered.
But that had been specifically forbidden by Cassandra. She had said that when Ariane was healed she would throw off the effects of the medicines. Until then, she would sleep. Rushing her awakening would only delay the healing.
When Simon began applying balm, the warmth of Ariane’s breath flowed over him. He told himself he was doing nothing different, nothing new, certainly nothing sensual…
Yet he couldn’t help noticing as though for the first time the winged grace of Ariane’s eyebrows. The black fringe of her lashes was so long that it rested against her skin. Her nose was a clean, straight line with delicately arched nostrils. Her cheekbones tempted his fingertips, as did the hollows beneath where shadows of firelight played.
The scent of the balm curled upward, increased by the warmth of Ariane’s body. The perfume caressed Simon invisibly with every touch of his skin against hers. He drew the scent deep into his lungs whi
le sensual heat burned from his navel to his knees.
He let out his breath and lightly stroked the violet cloth that concealed Ariane’s hips and legs. The fabric slid aside with the ease of water flowing, leaving Ariane naked.
Careful not to jar her, Simon lifted Ariane and turned her onto her unwounded side. He told himself that his hands hadn’t lingered on the swell of her hip. Nor had he molded his palm to her leg and curled his fingertips around to skim the lush darkness that lay concealed between her thighs.
A stifled sound came from Simon as the sword between his legs grew more adamant to be sheathed. It was as if he had never touched a woman before, never known the heady scent of a woman’s desire, never parted soft, perfumed lips and delved between to the very heart of desire.
Abruptly Simon jerked back his hands as though he had been holding them too close to flame.
This is madness.
Neither Simon’s reasoning side nor his unruly, passionate one disagreed with his conclusion.
He closed his eyes and dipped his fingertips into the small pot of balm. Slowly he began stroking balm down Ariane’s back. When he reached the flare of her buttocks, he hesitated.
Ariane’s long legs moved restlessly. The motion brought her hip up against the palm of Simon’s hand.
His fingers flexed in sensual answer, testing the resilience of her flesh. When he realized what he had done, he froze, afraid that he had disturbed Ariane’s healing sleep. After several breaths, he slowly relaxed. Ariane hadn’t awakened.
Nor had she moved away from the long fingers cupping her hip.
Slowly Simon lifted his hand. He dipped up more balm and followed the line of Ariane’s spine to its base. Without truly intending to, he skimmed over the shadow cleft beyond.
Fire licked up his fingertips and shot through his arm, sending a surge of heat through his loins. Reluctantly he removed his hand while he could still trust himself to do so.
Simon wanted to give more to Ariane than a caress that ended almost before it began. He wanted to follow the curve of her bottom all the way around, until his palm was pressed between her thighs, snug against her softness while his fingers penetrated her sleek, scented heat.
Then he would retreat slowly, drawing her moisture with him, letting it wash against his palm until he slid into her again, penetrating her deeply, withdrawing, spreading the scent of her desire until it clung to both of them like heat to fire.
I cannot. She isn’t awake.
But I am.
Sweet Jesus, I am on fire.
Simon would have cursed, but hadn’t the breath. He felt both potent and immensely alive, blood pouring through him in powerful waves, making him even harder than before.
A deep, almost soundless groan threaded between Simon’s clenched teeth. Carefully thinking of nothing at all, he rubbed the scented ointment down the curving length of Ariane’s legs and into the finely wrought arch of her feet.
Sighing, Ariane turned onto her back as though her body had memorized the routine of balm and stroking. As she turned, long black hair fanned across her breasts and belly. The faintly curling ends of her hair caught and held on the triangle of thicker, more curly hair that protected her most feminine flesh.
As though entranced, Simon reached out and slowly, very slowly, separated the two shades of midnight that were Ariane’s hair. The temptation also to part the black triangle with just one fingertip and seek the heat beneath was so great that Simon’s hand shook.
I must not.
Yet as quickly as he told himself it was wrong, another part of himself rebelled.
Why? Look at her shifting, sighing, wanting. Look at her breasts swelling in hope of my touch, her nipples drawing taut, needing to be stroked.
Rather grimly, Simon silenced his inner argument by dipping his fingertips into the creamy ointment. He massaged it into Ariane’s shoulders, her arms, her hands, until nothing above her collarbones remained untouched.
Wishing that he were finished with the maddening duty—and simultaneously glad that he wasn’t—Simon probed deeply in the pot, scooping up more balm. He rubbed the ointment over his palms and began speedily to complete his task.
Ariane’s breasts were fuller than Simon remembered, vibrant, taut. Even when he closed his eyes, he could see the image of her burned against his eyelids. Her skin was as fine-grained and pale as a sultan’s most prized pearl. The tips of her breasts were tight pink buds waiting only for the dewy moisture of his tongue to complete their perfection.
Without knowing, without thinking, Simon lowered his head to Ariane. Her breasts knew the caress of his forehead, his cheek, his lips. Then his mouth parted and his tongue touched one delicate bud.
She tasted of roses.
With a soundless groan Simon traced the tip of Ariane’s breast, savoring her heat and changing textures with his tongue.
“Silk,” he whispered, drawing his tongue over the pale swell of her breast.
Ariane murmured and shifted. The motion brought an erect nipple against his lips.
“Velvet,” he breathed, tasting lightly.
She arched as though caught within a sensual dream. Her taut, pink nipple rubbed along his lips.
“I cannot bear it,” Simon said in a low voice.
He took Ariane into his mouth and loved her as he had wanted to do since the first moment he had seen her standing proud and frightened, waiting for a man she had never met to claim her body for his bed and her womb for his heirs.
The sultry pleasure of Simon’s mouth quickened Ariane’s heartbeat. With a dreamy murmur, she drew up one knee.
Or had his hand slid beneath her knee, raising and opening her as a lover would?
No. I am a healer, not a lover.
Then I should heal her. All of her.
But—
The passionate part of Simon overrode the caution he had learned at such great cost.
Isn’t that what Cassandra said? Every bit of Ariane’s skin must know the healing kiss of the balm.
That was true enough. Cassandra had repeated the warning more than once, as though the balm were the most important part of the healing ritual.
Can I trust myself to touch her so intimately?
And not take her.
Merciful God. Is it possible?
Simon closed his eyes and forced himself not to move, for he couldn’t say whether his next motion would have been toward or away from Ariane.
And if it were toward, he wasn’t certain where healing would stop and loving would begin.
“Nightingale,” Simon said in a ragged voice. “If only you were awake.”
Ariane made a low, anxious sound. The line of her body became less relaxed. Her legs moved restlessly, as though she were trying to run after something but found herself hopelessly mired. One arm thrashed out, bumping into Simon’s thigh.
As soon as she felt his muscular presence, she let out a long breath and became calmer. Very shortly her hand relaxed and slid from his thigh to the bed cover, but the back of her fingers remained pressed against him.
Nor was the contact accidental, for when Simon eased away, Ariane’s hand soon sought out the timeless reassurance of flesh against flesh.
His flesh.
Her desire.
“Was I right about that, nightingale?” Simon whispered. “Did you look at me with more favor and less disgust than you looked at other men?”
No answer came save that of Ariane’s hand pressed against Simon’s thigh.
“And desire,” he said, bending down to Ariane once more. “Did I see it in you? Did I taste it in your kisses?”
Simon ran his strong hands down Ariane’s body from breasts to the dark triangle he wanted more than he wanted to breathe. The perfume of balm spread in the wake of his palms.
“When you first saw me, your eyes widened,” Simon said. “Was that less than a month ago? By the saints, it seems a lifetime. You belonged to another, then. I could scarcely allow myself to look at you.”
“The setting sun struck amethyst fire from your eyes,” he whispered. “And your mouth…Dear God, the sight of your tongue sliding along your lower lip nearly made me spill my seed.”
A shudder ripped through Simon as he remembered. And remembering, he pressed small kisses beneath Ariane’s breasts, over her belly, lingering to test the sweet dimple of her navel with his tongue.
“I didn’t want to desire any woman,” Simon whispered. “Not like this. Not like a brand burning below my belly.”
Simon’s warm breath washed over Ariane’s skin while his hands and mouth continued caressing her, healer and lover combined.
“I saw the quickening of your pulse whenever I approached. It could have been fear, but whenever you thought I wouldn’t know, you watched me.”
His hand slid down Ariane’s body until at last he felt the dense, sensuous triangle of hair pressing against his palm. He rubbed as delicately as a sigh, teasing the seductive mound whose heat rose to meet him. A low sound came from Ariane, half moan, half whimper.
And she moved toward Simon’s touch, not away.
His own breath became a groan. He wanted to wake her, to take her, to watch her eyes shimmer with passion as he sheathed himself deep within her body. He felt as though he had wanted that all of his life.
Simon dipped his fingers into the balm one last time. With great care he rubbed the creamy mixture from Ariane’s navel to her thighs. Her leg flexed more deeply. The motion caused her hips to lift just a little.
It was enough. Simon’s fingertips skimmed the secret flesh that was flushed by desire. Ariane made a murmurous sound of pleasure and stretched dreamily, stroking herself against his fingers.
Delicately he drew his fingertips between her thighs, discovering and tracing her sultry softness in the same hushed moments. He sensed the ripple of pleasure radiating through her, heard it in her ragged sigh, saw it in the languid movement of her hips.
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