“Simon,” Ariane whispered, knowing she had wounded him without meaning to.
He looked at the elegant fingers placed in silent plea on his forearm.
“Simon, the Loyal,” Ariane said in a shaking voice. “You stayed, though you knew it would cost your life. You stayed, when many another man would have betrayed me.”
Simon’s breath locked in his throat as he looked deep into Ariane’s shadowed amethyst eyes.
“Very few men would have turned their back on you,” Simon said. “And no knight would have done such a craven thing.”
Ariane’s smile was as bleak as her experience of men.
“You are wrong, Simon. In the ways of betrayal, I am wiser than you. I have never known a man—knight or common serf—who would put my well-being above his own pleasure.”
“Ariane, the Betrayed,” Simon whispered. “Who was it, nightingale? Who betrayed you, and how?”
Ariane didn’t acknowledge Simon’s words. Instead, she tried to explain something to him that she herself was just now understanding.
“When I saw you standing across the trail, I thought instantly that your horse was speedy enough to carry you to safety.”
“Your mare wasn’t fleet.”
“Aye. Thus you stood across the trail, prepared to spend your life so that I might live.”
“I stood prepared to kill renegades.”
“Who were armored and riding war-horses and outnumbered you five to—”
“You should have run when I told you to,” Simon said, cutting across Ariane’s words.
“Nay!” she cried, leaning toward him. “I would rather have died than have lived a single day knowing that I had betrayed the very man who had been loyal to me!”
Simon looked at Ariane’s flushed face and blazing eyes and wanted nothing so much as to taste the emotion that was visibly running through her blood.
“Yet you flinch from my touch,” he said.
Ariane closed her eyes.
“It isn’t you, Simon. It is something that once happened.”
“Was it my doing?”
She shook her head. Strands of loose black hair slid forward, concealing all but a bit of the pale skin that showed through her unlaced dress.
“I…” Her voice cracked.
Simon put his hand gently over Ariane’s. Instead of pulling away, she twined her fingers in his and held on with a power that was surprising in a girl who looked so slender.
“Once,” Ariane whispered, “the daughter of a baron was fostered in a noble house. She was closer to me than a sister, young, naive…”
Ariane swallowed convulsively and closed her eyes.
Simon kissed the pale fingers that were clenched around his own.
“She was to wed a certain knight,” Ariane said hoarsely. “But her father found a better match for her, and the knight…”
Ariane dragged breath into her aching lungs. Tremors shook her body as though she were a leaf in the wind.
“Nightingale,” Simon said. “You can tell me when you’re stronger.”
“Nay,” she said fiercely. “If I don’t tell you now, I’ll lack the courage later.”
“No girl who gallops bare-handed into combat with armed knights lacks courage of any kind. Good sense, perhaps, but not courage.”
“That was easier to do than this.”
The clenched tightness of Ariane’s body radiated through to Simon.
“The spurned knight,” Ariane said in a rush, “decided that if he deflowered the girl, the other knight wouldn’t have her. So he forced himself on her. Then he went to her father, said that she had seduced him but he would be noble and marry her.”
Simon said something savage under his breath.
“The father went to the girl’s room and found her naked in bed, the blood of her lost virginity and more besides still drying on her legs, and he didn’t believe her cries of innocence. He called her a whore and a wanton and turned his back on her.”
“She told you this?” Simon asked softly.
“She?”
“The girl.”
Ariane took a wrenching, shuddering breath.
“Aye,” Ariane said. “She told me all of it, each cruel and disgusting thing the knight did to her.”
“And you’ve been afraid of the marriage bed ever since.”
Ariane shuddered convulsively. “I bathed her afterward, when no one else would soil their hands touching her.”
Simon took a swift, audible breath. He had seen enough of war and rapine to know what must have greeted Ariane’s innocent eyes when she washed her friend.
“I bathed her, and I knew what it was like to plead for mercy and yet have your legs yanked apart and a man hammering into you, tearing at you, hammering and hammering while he slobbered and—”
Simon’s hand came over Ariane’s mouth, stopping the words that were like knives sinking into both of them.
“Hush, nightingale,” he whispered. “It would not be like that between us. Never. I would sooner die than take you while you fought me and begged for mercy.”
Ariane looked into Simon’s dark eyes and found herself hoping that he spoke the truth.
Though she knew it was foolish to hope.
And yet…
“You fought for me,” she whispered.
“You fought for me,” he countered.
“You were loyal to me.” Ariane drew a shaking breath. “As soon as I am well once more, I will…”
Simon waited.
“I will endure the marriage embrace,” she whispered. “For you, my loyal knight. Only for you.”
“I want more than clenched teeth and duty.”
“I will give you all that I have.”
Simon closed his eyes. He could ask for no more and he knew it.
But he needed far more.
And he knew that, too.
18
The cobblestones in the bailey of Stone Ring Keep were crisp with frost. White plumes of breath rushed out from the horses standing patiently in the bailey. Erik’s lean, tall wolfhounds lounged near the gate, watching for the signal to leave. Men-at-arms talked loudly among themselves, eating cold meat as each bragged of what would happen were he the one to cross weapons with the renegade knight.
Smells of peat, woodsmoke and baking bread mingled with the earthy scents of field and stable. Small children chased one another through the pack animals, daring the stable boys to catch them. Their shrill voices rose and mingled with the silver breath of the horses whose packs were heavy with gifts from the lord of Stone Ring Keep to Simon and his wife.
Shod hooves rang like hammers against cobblestone when Simon’s riderless war-horse pranced into place at the front of the line. Muscular, fierce, glittering with swaths of chain mail, the steel-colored battle stallion was a fearsome sight. A squire walked next to the war-horse, firmly holding the bit.
Suddenly a reckless child took a dare and darted forward. Before he could get close enough to touch the war stallion, a man-at-arms collared the child, shook him by the scruff like a naughty puppy, and sent him chastened back to his friends.
The squire spoke in a low voice and held Shield’s bit tightly. The stallion’s nostrils flared widely as though testing the air for the smell of danger. Finding none, the war-horse snorted and shook his head, nearly sending the squire flying.
A groom came from the stables leading a sleek, long-legged mount whose color was that of ripe chestnuts. Normally used by Simon for hunting, the horse today was equipped with a small saddle that had been draped in a rich gold fabric. The horse’s hooves rang as clearly on the cobbles as any battle stallion’s, for Simon had personally overseen the shoeing of Ariane’s mount.
Never again would Simon’s lady be in danger because her horse lacked speed.
A stir went through the bailey as three people descended the steps of the forebuilding down to the grey cobblestones. A strong, gusting wind tugged at colorful mantles and sent Ariane’s headcloth swirling
out from her hair.
The corner of Erik’s crimson mantle lifted, revealing the richly embroidered cloth of the lining. A chain mail hauberk gleamed beneath the mantle. His shoulder-length hair burned the color of the autumn sun as he threw back his head to call his falcon from her flight. A clear, uncanny whistle soared from his lips upward into the sky.
The wind gusted again. Ariane’s dress rippled and shone like amethyst water, and like water it lapped against Simon’s metal chausses and curled up beneath his chain mail hauberk. The leather garments he wore under his armor were midnight blue, a color so dark it appeared black in all but the brightest light.
Even through steel links, Simon sensed the fey cloth clinging to him. He slid off one gauntlet and gathered up the errant fabric as gently as though it were a kitten, taking care not to snag the cloth on his armor. Before he released the dress, he stroked it with his fingertips. The alluring texture of the weaving caressed him in return.
His fingers opened, allowing the cloth to fall. For a time it clung to his hand. Then it slid reluctantly from his fingertips and settled back around Ariane’s legs.
When Simon looked up, Ariane was watching him with a curious intensity. Her lips were parted, her eyes half-shut, her breath uneven. She looked like a woman who had just received a secret caress.
Or would like to.
Hunger lanced through Simon. In the seven days since Ariane had awakened, he had been careful not to touch her in any but the most casual ways. He had overseen her meals, but he had not fed her medicine from his own lips. Nor had he spent the day bathing her in her bedchamber.
He had not spent the nights with her, either. Even when she gathered her courage and invited him to do just that the previous night.
Save your clenched teeth and endurance for the journey, wife. You will need it. I don’t.
Simon knew that the rage he felt at Ariane’s lack of passion wasn’t reasonable. He also knew that rage existed just the same. Until he was more certain of his temper in that regard, he planned to touch Ariane no more than custom and politeness required.
While Ariane had stayed in her bedchamber regaining her full strength, Simon and Erik—often accompanied by Amber and Duncan—had fattened Stone Ring Keep’s larder with the fruits of hunting and hawking. When not pursuing stag or waterfowl, Simon, Erik, and Duncan had hunted much more dangerous game.
They had found none. All sign of the renegade knights had dissolved in the icy autumn rains.
Nor would Erik permit the hunt to go into the area known as Silverfells. Because the mysterious fells lay within Erik’s Sea Home lands rather than those of Stone Ring Keep, Simon had little choice but to bow to Erik’s edict.
As though Erik understood Simon’s frustration, he had offered himself as a partner in the daily battle practice that Dominic—and now Duncan—required of his men. When the two sinewy, fair-haired, astonishingly agile warriors went at one another with sword and shield, the other men stood and watched with something close to fear, whispering among themselves about the duel of Archangel and Sorcerer, each sun-bright and lightning-swift.
Yet the vigorous hunts and even more strenuous workouts with Erik had not given Simon the peace of mind he sought at night. He still dreamed of scented balm and sultry, yielding flesh; and he awoke knotted with hunger.
All that had kept Simon from Ariane’s bed was pride…and his fear that his hunger would be too strong for him to control, that he would take whatever mummery of passion Ariane offered.
And then he would hate himself for being so weak.
Again.
It doesn’t matter. Ariane isn’t well enough to put to the test of passion.
Is she?
Despite Ariane’s protestations, Simon didn’t see how she could be well. He had never known even the strongest knight to recover from such a deep wound so swiftly.
Surely she isn’t healed. Not completely. There might be something still wounded deep inside her, something that she is too proud and reckless—and dutiful—to acknowledge.
The thought of causing Ariane any more hurt made Simon cold.
And so did the thought that she might turn from him despite her promise.
Are you fully healed now, nightingale? If I go to your bed, will you come to me without disgust?
Do you remember the balm’s sultry enchantment, when you lifted yourself toward my touch?
Night after night the questions had echoed in Simon’s mind with the same frequency as his heartbeat. He didn’t know what he would do if Ariane’s lush body were offered to him only to be withheld at the ultimate moment, when her disgust overcame her promise to him.
I will endure the marriage embrace.
For you.
Simon didn’t want dry endurance from Ariane. He wanted the sleek heat of her passion sheathing him. He wanted to bend down and taste desire consuming her. He wanted the dream that awakened him each night, sweating and shaking, aching with the need to bathe once more in the sultry fountains of her desire.
I will give you all that I have.
In the thrall of healing, Ariane had been passion incarnate. But the thrall was broken. Now Simon was afraid that all he would be able to call from Ariane was cold duty and even colder disgust.
He wasn’t certain what he would do if that happened.
He was certain that he didn’t want to find out.
A falcon’s keening cry arrowed down from overhead, pulling Simon from his bleak thoughts. Moments later, Winter plummeted from the sapphire sky toward Erik’s outstretched arm. Talons sank into leather gauntlet. Wide, steel-grey wings flared and then settled crisply along the bird’s sides. Peregrine and tawny-eyed sorcerer whistled to one another.
“She found no sign of armed men between here and Stone Ring,” Erik said.
Ariane let out a breath that she hadn’t been aware of holding.
Simon grunted and held his tongue.
Erik was hardly the first knight who claimed to understand his falcon’s mind, but he was the first knight Simon had encountered who actually appeared to do so. Although Simon didn’t understand how man and falcon communicated, he was practical enough to accept that it happened—and that it had saved the day when the renegades attacked.
“Thank God,” Ariane said.
Simon said nothing.
“You seem unconvinced,” Erik said blandly to Simon. “Would you like to query Winter yourself?”
“I’m not Learned.”
“So you say.”
“So I know,” Simon corrected curtly.
“You are a most curious unLearned man,” Erik murmured.
“How so?”
Erik looked pointedly at Simon’s legs.
Simon glanced down and saw that Ariane’s dress had become entangled in his chausses again.
“God’s teeth,” Simon muttered. “The stuff clings worse than cat fur.”
“Only to you,” Erik said.
Simon looked up sharply at Erik. So did Ariane, who was discreetly—and futilely—tugging at her dress, trying to free it without snagging the lovely fabric.
“What do you mean?” Simon asked.
Erik shifted the peregrine to his shoulder, removed one gauntlet, and reached for the dress.
A subtle bit of wind shifted the fabric just out of reach. The corner of Erik’s mouth curled up.
“See?” he said. “It eludes me.”
“The wind eludes you,” retorted Simon as he plucked at the dress.
As quickly as Simon released one bit of material, another part of the cloth got caught anew on his armor. Erik watched and hid his smile behind his hand.
Ariane bent over to help her husband. When her bare fingers brushed Simon’s, a surge of pleasure went through her at the contact of skin with skin. The pleasure was so sharp and so startling that her breath broke. She snatched back her fingers as though it had been fire rather than flesh she touched.
Simon’s mouth flattened at the fresh evidence that his wife disliked even the m
ost casual physical contact with him. But other than the line of his mouth, nothing of his reaction showed. His fingers remained patient as they dealt with the stubborn, beautiful fabric.
“I am sorry,” Ariane said. “It must be the autumn wind that makes the fabric cling. I will change to another dress.”
“No need,” Simon muttered without looking up. “We should have left immediately after morning chapel. If we delay while you change your clothes, it will be eventide before we set out.”
Before Ariane could open her mouth to protest that it would require only a brief time for her to change, Erik took a long stride forward. When he stopped, he was standing very close to Ariane.
Simon noted and said nothing, though he very much disliked having his wife so close to the handsome blond sorcerer.
“Lady, if you will be so kind as to help me demonstrate the special nature of Serena’s weaving?” Erik asked.
Simon gave him a sidelong glance. Though nothing showed in Erik’s expression or tone of voice, the amusement in him fairly radiated from his tawny eyes.
“Of course, sir,” Ariane said. “How may I help you?”
“Take a fold of cloth and try to snag it on my hauberk or chausses.”
“I’ll do it,” Simon said curtly.
His voice said a lot more. It said that he had no desire to have Ariane touch the muscular young sorcerer with anything, even a fold of her dress.
Simon’s hand shot out and gathered up a fistful of cloth. He pulled it across Erik’s chain mail hauberk. Nothing caught or snagged. Nor did the cloth show any inclination to cling to the hauberk.
“You have an extraordinary armorer,” Simon said.
“No armorer could take out the dents, nicks, and cuts your sword has left on my hauberk in the past week,” Erik said dryly.
Simon’s eyes narrowed. With startling speed he bent and dragged the amethyst fabric across Erik’s chausses. Cloth slid like sunlight over metal. There was no hesitation, no catching, no holding.
“By the Cross,” Simon said, straightening.
He looked at the cloth in his fist, then at Erik. Without a word Simon released the cloth. It slid as far down as his own thigh.
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