She kicked at Loriage’s side and the animal leaped forward, as exhilarated as his pretty mistress, mane and tail flying in the cool wind. They seemed to fly together, floating across the gently rolling fields, near houses, trees and watching people.
As they drew nearer the spring, Lyonene pulled back on Loriage’s reins. The last time she had seen Ranulf’s writing had been when Morell had forged the letters to Amicia. She looked around her, seeing the bushes and trees as hiding places, and suddenly she was afraid. She had never really known what had happened to Morell or Amicia and now the fact that she didn’t know haunted her.
Loriage felt his mistress’s change and tossed his head, flaring his nostrils, lifting one hoof in nervousness. “Hush, Lori,” she whispered, but she could not calm her own fears.
Neither the prancing horse nor the wary mistress saw the rabbit, and when the horse was aware of it, the little animal was beneath the slashing hoofs.
Loriage ducked his head and Lyonene, her thoughts turned elsewhere, went sailing over the animal’s head.
Ranulf came riding toward the spring just in time to see his little wife flying through the air and landing with a loud wet smack in the icy-cold spring. Quickly, he dismounted and ran toward her, but already she was sitting up, wiping the water from her eyes and looking about her in a bewildered manner.
Ranulf stood on the bank and grinned down at her, his hands on his hips. “I had thought to have an obedient wife, but there are extremes. I am sure, madam, I said ‘by’ the spring and not ‘in’ the spring.”
She looked up at him, startled, and then glared. “I should think you would be concerned for my welfare,” she said haughtily.
He walked down the bank and offered her his hand, and she did her best to pull him in with her but could not. He smiled at her as her teeth began to chatter and then swung her into his arms to carry her to dry ground. “What were you thinking to allow that devil horse of yours to throw you? Mayhaps I should feed him to the pigs.”
She moved closer to Ranulf, trying to get warm, but also thinking of how very long it had been since they had been truly alone. “It was not Loriage’s fault, but mine alone. I was … thinking of else.”
He moved her head from his shoulder and his black eyes were hard as he stared at her. “I have had enough of this. Am I so unworthy of your trust that you hide from me your thoughts?”
She stared back at him. They both had concealed their thoughts and feelings from each other too often, and the short time they’d had together had been fraught with difficulties because of their lack of trust. It was not easy to speak of the time in Ireland. “The letter you sent,” she began. “I was not sure it was yours. The forgeries—from before, I mean.”
He pulled her head back to his shoulder, relieved that her problems were so small and yet so sensible. He stroked her wet hair. “We have much to learn, do we not? I cannot blame you for what you did, thinking as you did. But we must learn to give, to trust. Here, what is this?” He could feel her hot tears even through the thick velvet of his tabard. “For once I am a good and chivalrous knight and my lady cries for it. That is not the way it should be.”
She smiled at him. “For me, you are always good and chivalrous, and I have always loved you.”
His eyes sparkled. “Always?” he teased.
She frowned slightly. “Except when you first made love to me and hurt me and when I saw Amicia in your arms and—”
He silenced her with his lips, moving quickly to her throat.
“Do you not think we have had enough talk? Are you not very cold in those wet clothes? What say you we remove them?”
“Tell me again that you love me.”
When he looked at her again, his eyes were very serious. “I love you completely and totally, more than my own life, and I beg your forgiveness for all the pain I have caused, for the weakness of my love that made you so mistrust me.”
She put her fingers to his lips. “These are wondrous words, but I do grow colder each moment and soon my son—our son—will need me. Or have you forgotten what to do with a woman you carry about in your arms?”
“You are an insolent baggage. See you how I punish such insolence.”
“I am a most willing and eager pupil,” she whispered as he pulled her closer to him.
About the Author
JUDE DEVERAUX is the author of thirty-seven New York Times bestsellers, including Scarlet Nights, Days of Gold, Lavender Morning, Return to Summerhouse, Secrets, Someone to Love, Wild Orchids, Holly, The Mulberry Tree, The Summerhouse, and Temptation. To date, there are more than 50 million copies of her books in print worldwide. She lives in North Carolina.
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By Jude Deveraux
THE BLACK LYON
THE ENCHANTED LAND
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE BLACK LYON. Copyright © 1980 by Jude Gilliam White. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition OCTOBER 2011 ISBN: 9780062135773
Print Edition ISBN: 9780380759118
FIRST EDITION
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