Enchanted

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “Simon may have lemans and concubines with my blessings. Better he loose his cruelty and rutting on them than on me.”

  Meg tried to hide her shock, but couldn’t.

  “Lady Ariane, you have been misled as to the nature of what passes between man and woman in the marriage bed,” Meg said urgently.

  “You are mistaken. I have been well prepared for what is coming.”

  Each word Ariane spoke was clipped, precise, and cold.

  Even as Meg opened her mouth to argue the point, her Glendruid eyes saw the futility of further words. However Ariane had been betrayed, the act had wounded her too deeply for mere words to heal. Only deeds could touch her now. Only deeds could heal her soul.

  “In a fortnight or two,” Meg said quietly, “we will speak again of cruelty and betrayal. By then, you will have had more experience of Simon’s gentleness.”

  Ariane barely repressed a shudder.

  “If you will excuse me, Lady Margaret,” Ariane said tightly, “my bath grows cool waiting for me.”

  “Of course. I’ll send Blanche with more hot—”

  “No,” Ariane interrupted.

  Hearing the curtness of her own voice, she took a deep breath and forced a smile.

  “Thank you, Lady of Blackthorne,” Ariane said, “but I much prefer to see to my own needs in the bath.”

  Ariane left the room without looking back, for she was very much afraid she would see speculation in the Saxon girl’s shrewd green eyes. Ariane didn’t want that. She didn’t want to know what Meg would do if she discovered that the bride intended to take a deadly silver dagger to her wedding bed.

  How can I possibly kill Simon?

  How can I possibly not kill him?

  And failing all, can I kill myself?

  The conflicting questions raged through Ariane as she bathed. There was no answer to her wild thoughts save one.

  She could not lie beneath a man again.

  Any man.

  Even one who called to her from deep within an uncanny amethyst dream.

  6

  The marriage toasts from the assembled knights grew more and more unrestrained with each mug of ale and goblet of wine that was consumed. While the wedding ceremony itself had been elegant, brief, and reverent, the feast was making up for the previous restraint.

  Lord Erik, son of Robert of the North, watched the newly married couple from his seat at Duncan’s table at the head of the great hall. Nothing Erik saw stilled the uneasiness that was growing within him. Simon was courteous to his bride and no more. If he were anticipating the bedding of his Norman heiress, it didn’t show.

  But it was Ariane who truly disturbed Erik’s peace of mind. Though the bride wore Serena’s complex, fabulously beautiful weaving, there was no joy in Ariane’s face or gestures. Rather there were hints of terror and rage barely contained. Her magnificent amethyst eyes were shrouded by shadows that owed nothing to the night that had wrapped coldly around the keep.

  Through the ceremony and the celebration that followed, the bride’s fingers had kept moving subtly, as though seeking the harp to speak for all that was unspeakable within her.

  “Ariane. The Betrayed. But by whom, and in what way, and why?”

  No person turned away from the feasting to answer Erik’s words. They had been spoken too softly to be overheard by any of the revelers at the lord’s table at the head of the great hall.

  But Cassandra heard Erik clearly. As soon as the feast had ended and the rounds of increasingly rowdy toasts had commenced, she had come to stand just behind her former pupil. Silently she had watched while he lifted his goblet and responded to toasts with a gracious smile that revealed nothing of his thoughts.

  “Tell me, Learned,” Erik said without interrupting his study of Ariane, “what did the dress think of our Norman heiress?”

  “Serena’s weaving is like Serena herself,” Cassandra said.

  “And what might that be like?” Erik retorted. “I’ve never seen the old crone.”

  “She isn’t old.”

  Erik made an impatient sound. This was his first opportunity to have a private conversation with Cassandra since the nuptial dress had arrived at the keep. Curiosity—and the far more urgent needs of a lord who must defend a keep within the Disputed Lands’ turbulent borders—made him unusually abrupt.

  With a rather fierce smile, Erik lifted his goblet in response to a toast asking that the union be as fertile as there were stars in the sky.

  “I don’t care if Serena is freshly hatched or so old she rattles like sticks when she walks,” Erik muttered as he set down the goblet with a thump.

  Cassandra’s mouth formed into a line that was suspiciously close to a smile.

  “God’s teeth,” Erik said without looking up. “Tell me what I must know and spare me the embroidery!”

  The Learned woman’s lips were frankly smiling now. The quicksilver grey of her eyes gleamed with amusement. It was rare to have Erik rise so easily to the bait.

  “Be at rest,” she murmured. “’Tis not your wedding night.”

  “Be grateful,” he said through his teeth. “I’m in no humor to seduce an ice queen tonight, no matter how much wealth she brought across the sea to lay at my feet.”

  “Ah, but Ariane isn’t a goddess of ice.”

  A subtle change went over Erik. Though he made no move, he was somehow more alive, more alert, a predator on a fresh scent.

  At Erik’s other side, Stagkiller rose to his feet in a surge of power. He watched his master’s golden eyes with eyes that were no less gold.

  “The dress accepted Ariane!” Erik said in a low voice.

  “After a fashion.”

  “Speak clearly.”

  “A Learned speak clearly? What would become of tradition?”

  Belatedly, Erik understood that he was being deftly teased by the woman whom he loved like a mother.

  “Speak how you would, but do so quickly,” Erik said. “Stagkiller is eager to course the night. And so am I.”

  “‘Course the night.’” Cassandra smiled. “It suits you to have the unLearned think of you as a sorcerer who changes shape between wolf and man, doesn’t it?”

  Erik’s teeth showed in a swift, feral grin. “It has saved many a tedious negotiation with greedy cousins, outlaws, and rogue knights.”

  Cassandra laughed and gave in.

  “Ariane saw something within the cloth,” said the Learned woman.

  “What was it?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  The humor vanished from Erik’s face.

  “Then how do you know the dress accepted her?” he asked.

  “She held and stroked the cloth as though it were a puppy nuzzling for comfort. She took pleasure in it.”

  Erik grunted. “Then Ariane isn’t dead all the way to her soul, despite what Amber felt when she touched her.”

  “It seems not.”

  “There is no ‘seems’ about it,” he retorted. “Ariane saw something in the dress. It felt pleasant to her touch. It is hers and she is its. Passion exists in her, thank God.”

  “Aye. But will that passion be for Simon, or will Serena’s gift be a kind of armor against him?”

  For a time Erik looked broodingly out on the great hall of Stone Ring Keep.

  “I don’t know,” he said finally. “What of you?”

  “The rune stones are silent on the subject.”

  “Even the silver stones?”

  “Yes.”

  Erik muttered an oath under his breath. Cassandra’s ability to foresee future crossroads was useful, but not reliable. Prophecy came to her as it willed, rather than as she willed. Often what she saw was enigmatic, without easy interpretation, even by Learned and priests combined.

  Silently Erik resumed watching the assembled lords, ladies, knights, squires, and a scattering of gently born maidens who filled the great hall with shouts and laughter. When it was appropriate to respond to a toast, he did so, but his expression
held the people of the keep at bay.

  From his position at the raised table, seated to the right of Duncan, lord of Stone Ring Keep, Erik could see and name each knight who drank and called out toasts. He could name each of the hounds that surged and seethed beneath the long tables, questing for scraps. He could whistle each falcon’s special call and have each answer him from her perch behind a knight’s chair.

  It was the same for the serfs and servants, freemen and villeins of the keep and fields and countryside. Erik knew them all, knew their individual abilities, knew their kith and kin, and could predict with fair accuracy how each would respond to a given command.

  But the heiress Ariane, daughter of the powerful Baron Deguerre, was from a foreign place. She had come to the Disputed Lands unLearned, ungiving, a remote beauty wrapped in a cold as deep as that of winter itself.

  “Simon will find a way to her heart,” Erik said.

  “Is that hope or Learning speaking?” Cassandra asked.

  “What girl could resist the combination of wit, warrior and lover that is Simon?”

  Cassandra’s hands moved slightly. A ring set with three stones sent sparks of red and blue and green into the candlelight.

  “Hope or Learning?” she repeated.

  “God’s blood,” snarled Erik, “why ask me?”

  “Your gift is to see patterns and connections that elude Learned and unLearned alike.”

  “My so-called gift is useless when it comes to divining what lies in a woman’s mind.”

  “Nonsense. You simply never have had a sufficient reason to try.”

  “Ariane makes me uneasy,” Erik said flatly. “And that is Learning, not hope.”

  “Yes,” Cassandra agreed.

  “Look at her. Have you ever known a person to be accepted by one of Serena’s weavings and not be calmed?”

  “No.”

  “Is Ariane calmed?”

  Erik’s question was rhetorical. Cassandra answered anyway.

  “Placid? No,” Cassandra said. “Calmed? Quite probably. We can only guess the state of Ariane’s distress if she were wearing different cloth.”

  The low sound Erik made sent a ripple of answering emotion through Stagkiller’s lean, powerful frame.

  “You are a source of endless comfort,” Erik said ironically.

  “Learning is rarely comfortable.”

  “What is it within Ariane that so harshly restrains normal passion?”

  “I was hoping you would tell me,” Cassandra said. “Better yet, tell Simon.”

  “God’s blood,” Erik said in a low voice. “If this marriage isn’t a fruitful one in all ways, the Glendruid Wolf will be brought to bay by men of blood and greed.”

  “Aye. And if Dominic falls, the Disputed Lands will know a harrowing such as hasn’t come since Druid times.”

  “Then light candles for Simon the Loyal and Ariane the Betrayed,” Erik said. “Their survival is ours.”

  As though Simon had heard, he turned and looked at Erik and Cassandra. As Simon turned, his long fingers closed around one of Ariane’s restless hands. The reflexive jerking away of her fingers was so quickly controlled that only Simon noticed.

  The line of his mouth flattened even more. The closer it came to the time when the bride would withdraw to her bedchamber to prepare for her groom, the colder Ariane’s flesh became.

  He began to fear it was no game that she played, nor even maidenly anxiety that made her draw away. Rather it was a simple truth: Ariane was cold to the marrow of her bones.

  “Come, my passionate bride,” Simon said sardonically.

  Eyes the violet of a wild summer storm gave Simon a swift glance.

  “It is time to take your leave of the feasting you so obviously have enjoyed,” he said.

  Ariane looked out over the raucous knights and wished herself far away, alone, listening to her harp instead of Simon’s rich voice vibrating with irony and bitterness.

  “So set aside your unused goblet and leave your untouched plate for the hounds,” Simon continued. “We will pay our respects to the lord of Stone Ring Keep together, as befits a married couple.”

  Though Ariane said nothing, she didn’t fight the easy power of Simon’s hand pulling her to her feet. She had known this moment would come.

  Without realizing it, Ariane’s free hand sought the soothing folds of the dress whose rich color matched her eyes. The longer she wore the luxurious fabric, the more she appreciated its calming texture.

  As much as Ariane enjoyed stroking the cloth, she was careful not to look into the uncanny fabric. She needed no more frightening, tempting visions of herself arching like a drawn bow at Simon’s touch, pleasure a rush of silver lightning stitching through her soul…

  Simon felt the subtle tremor that went through Ariane’s body as he led her toward Amber and Duncan.

  God’s teeth, am I that disgusting to my bride?

  The icy anger of Simon’s thought didn’t show on his face or in the gentleness with which he drew Ariane to his side.

  “Ah, there you are,” Duncan said, spotting Simon. “Impatient for the rest of the festivities, are you?”

  The laughter that went through the knights gathered nearby left no doubt as to what the remaining “festivities” were.

  “Not as impatient as my lovely bride,” Simon said, smiling down at Ariane. “Isn’t that so?”

  The smile she gave him in return was little more than a baring of teeth. No one but Simon seemed to notice. He squeezed her fingers between his in silent warning that she bridle her dislike of him while in public.

  Ariane looked at the black clarity of Simon’s eyes and knew he sensed with great precision her distaste for being touched.

  “I am…overwhelmed by all that has happened,” Ariane said.

  Her voice was hoarse from the fierce restraint she applied not to scream.

  “Lord and lady, you have been both generous and kind in your gifts,” Ariane said.

  “The pleasure is ours,” Duncan said.

  “The dress becomes you,” Amber said. “I am glad.”

  Ariane’s slender fingers stroked the length of her sleeve. Silver embroidery flashed and gleamed with each motion of her body.

  “I would like to have thanked the weaver,” Ariane said. “Will you carry my gratitude to her?”

  “You can tell her yourself,” Amber said.

  “You told me Serena was a recluse,” Duncan objected.

  “She is, but she will see Ariane.”

  “Why?” Duncan asked.

  “Because Ariane completes the weaving,” Amber said simply.

  Simon looked at his bride with hooded eyes. There was no doubt that Ariane’s beauty was enhanced to an extraordinary degree by the vivid, lush fabric.

  “Do you not agree, Simon?” Amber asked.

  “Her skin is like a pearl lit from within,” Simon said without looking away from his bride. “And her eyes shame even the magnificent amethysts woven into her hair.”

  Startled, pleased, yet deeply wary of male admiration, Ariane found it impossible to breathe. The look in Simon’s eyes belied the restraint with which he had touched her up to now.

  He wanted her.

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

  The enchanter.

  And a frightening part of Ariane longed to be the enchanted. Frissons of yearning swept over her like shadows of the lightning that had been embroidered on the wedding dress.

  A stray draft from the great hall sent a fold of the dress curling around Simon’s free hand. His fingers caressed the fey cloth. Unwillingly he smiled with pure pleasure. It was as though warmth and laughter, passion and peace had been woven into the very fabric.

  Amber looked at the cloth clinging to Simon’s fingers and smiled with relief. She sensed her brother standing just behind her and turned. Erik, too, was watching the fabric being stroked by a warrior’s hard hand.

  “You approve of the dress
?” Erik asked Simon casually.

  “Aye.”

  “That bodes well for the marriage,” Erik said, satisfaction in every syllable.

  “Does it?”

  “Indeed. It foretells a lasting, passionate union.”

  “If my bride’s bed is half so beguiling as her dress,” Simon said, smiling ironically, “I shall deem myself the most fortunate of men.”

  Ariane’s breath came in with a stifled sound as fear returned in a rush. She moved to step away from Simon. His fingers tightened around her wrist. Though the pressure wasn’t painful, it was a clear warning of his superior strength.

  Nightmare bloomed like a black flower in Ariane’s soul. It look every bit of her self-control not to fight Simon’s firm grasp.

  Abruptly he released the folds of her dress as though it no longer pleased him.

  “Patience, my dark nightingale,” Simon said, his voice very soft and his eyes as black as hell. “We cannot leave until you have been toasted by the lord of the keep.”

  Ariane closed her eyes briefly. “Of course. Forgive me. I am…anxious.”

  “All maids are,” Amber said in a gentle voice. “There is naught to worry you. Simon is as gentle as he is quick of hand.”

  The smile Ariane managed was more than a trifle desperate.

  “Duncan,” Amber said, “toast the union. We have tormented them quite long enough.”

  “We have?” Duncan asked blankly.

  “Have you forgotten so quickly how eager you were to consummate your own union?” Erik asked.

  Duncan flashed a smile at his own recent bride. “Viewed that way, a wedding feast is indeed a form of torment.”

  Erik thrust a golden goblet into Duncan’s hand, distracting him from Amber’s blushing smile. Duncan took the hint and turned his attention to the newly wed couple. His expression changed as he studied first Ariane and then Simon. Slowly Duncan lifted his goblet.

  The room became still.

  “May you see the sacred rowan bloom,” Duncan said clearly.

  A murmuring of agreement and wonder went through the gathered knights as the story of Duncan and Amber’s love was retold in scattered phrases.