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“Both. Perhaps Erik could leave us a few.”

  “Large ones?”

  “Does he have any other kind?” Duncan retorted. “Stagkiller is nearly as tall at the shoulder as my war stallion.”

  Laughing, shaking her head at the exaggeration, Amber brushed her cheek against one of Duncan’s battle-scarred hands.

  Ariane watched the newly married couple as a hunting falcon would watch an unexpected movement on the ground far below its wings. The words the lovers spoke were unimportant; it was the way each looked at the other, the touches they shared, the heightened awareness that flowed between them like an invisible river between opposite shores.

  “Baffling, isn’t it?” Simon asked softly.

  He had moved so close to Ariane that his breath stirred the hair at the nape of her neck.

  Too close.

  “What?” Ariane asked, startled.

  It took all of her courage not to draw away as she looked into Simon’s clear midnight eyes. But retreat would do no good. Nor would pleas to be left alone.

  Geoffrey had taught her that, and much else that she had buried behind walls of pain and betrayal.

  “’Tis baffling,” Simon explained, “how a formidable warrior such as the Scots Hammer becomes as river clay in a girl’s hands.”

  “I would say rather the reverse,” Ariane muttered, “that it is the amber witch who is the clay and he the strong hands molding it.”

  Simon’s blond eyebrows rose in silent surprise. He turned and looked at Duncan and Amber for a few moments.

  “You have a point,” Simon agreed. “Her eyes are as lovestruck as his. Or is it dumbstruck?”

  When Simon turned back to Ariane, he bent over her once more, ensuring the privacy of their conversation. Before Ariane could stop herself, she pulled away. She covered the action by pretending to see to the tuning of her harp.

  Simon wasn’t fooled. His black eyes narrowed and he straightened swiftly. While he didn’t consider himself as handsome as Erik—and certainly not as wealthy in land or goods—Simon was not accustomed to having a woman withdraw from him as though he were unclean.

  What made the matter even more irritating was that Simon had been certain his body called to Ariane as surely as her body called to him. She had taken one look at him walking toward her across Blackthorne Keep’s bailey the first time they met, and then she had kept on looking as though she had never seen a man before.

  Simon had looked at Ariane in just the same way, a recognition that defied understanding. He had seen more beautiful women in his life, but never had he seen one who compelled his senses so deeply. Even the siren Marie.

  At the time, it had seemed to Simon a cruel jest from God that Ariane was betrothed to Duncan of Maxwell, the Scots Hammer, a man who was Simon’s friend and Dominic’s ally. When it was discovered that Duncan loved another woman, Simon immediately had offered to wed the daughter of the powerful Norman baron. The marriage would ensure the peace that Dominic desperately needed in the Disputed Lands if his own Blackthorne Keep were to prosper.

  When Simon had proposed the marriage, he had been sure that Ariane preferred him above other men. Now he wasn’t so certain. Perhaps it was simply that she strove to keep him off-balance. That had certainly been Marie’s game, one that she had played exceedingly well.

  “Have I done something to offend you, Lady Ariane?” Simon asked coolly.

  “Nay.”

  “Such a quick answer. So false, too.”

  “You startled me, ’Tis all. I didn’t expect to find you that close to me.”

  Simon’s only answer was a thin smile.

  “Shall I have Meg blend me a special soap to please your dainty nostrils?” he asked.

  “Your scent is quite pleasant to me as it is,” Ariane said politely.

  As she spoke, she realized that she meant it. Unlike many men, Simon didn’t smell of old sweat and clothes worn too long.

  “You look surprised that I don’t stink like a midden,” Simon said. “Shall I test the truth of your words?”

  With disconcerting quickness, he bent close to Ariane once more. She flinched in the instant before she managed to control her alarm. Very carefully she shifted her body on the wooden chair until she was no longer leaning away from Simon.

  “You may breathe now,” he said dryly.

  Ariane’s breath came in with a swift, husky sound that could have been a gasp of fear or pleasure. Considering the circumstances, Simon decided that fear was more likely.

  Or disgust.

  Simon’s lips flattened beneath his soft, closely clipped beard. He remembered all too well Ariane’s words when Duncan had asked if she would be a wife in fact as well as in name:

  I will do my duty, but I am repelled by the prospect of the marriage bed.

  When asked if her coldness came because her heart belonged to another man, Ariane had been quite blunt.

  I have no heart.

  There had been no doubt that she spoke the truth, for Amber had been touching Ariane the whole time and had found nothing but the bleakest honesty in the Norman heiress’s words.

  Ariane had agreed to marriage, but she had also made it clear that the thought of coupling with a man revolted her. Even the man who was soon to be her husband.

  Or, perhaps, especially him?

  Simon’s mouth took on a grim line as he looked at the Norman heiress who had agreed to be his bride.

  When we first saw one another, was she watching me with fear while I watched her with desire?

  The thought chilled Simon, for he had vowed never again to want a woman more than she wanted him. That kind of wanting gave women power over a man, a cruel power that destroyed men.

  Could it be that Ariane is another Marie, playing hot and cold by turns, chaining a man to her with uncertainty, driving him mad with desire half-slaked?

  Or slaked not at all.

  But that game of feint and lure, retreat and summon, can be played by more than one.

  It was a game Simon had learned quite well at Marie’s hands. So well that he had ultimately beaten her at her own sport.

  Without a word, Simon straightened and stepped back from Ariane, not touching her in any way.

  Though relieved, Ariane sensed that her flinching from Simon had cut his pride. The thought worried her, for he had done nothing to earn such a wounding from her.

  Yet even as Ariane opened her mouth to tell Simon so, no words came. There was no point in denying the truth: the thought of coupling with a man made her blood freeze.

  Simon hadn’t earned her coldness, but she could do nothing to change it. All warmth had been torn from her months ago, during the long night when she had lain drugged and helpless while Geoffrey the Fair grunted over her like a pig rooting in a virgin orchard.

  A shudder of revulsion coursed through Ariane. Her memories of that terrible night were vague, distorted by whatever black potion Geoffrey had given to her to keep her silent and helpless.

  Sometimes Ariane thought the blurring was merciful.

  And sometimes she thought it only increased the horror.

  “Simon,” Ariane whispered, not knowing that she had called his name aloud.

  For a moment Simon paused as though he had heard her. Then he turned his back to her with cool finality.

  2

  The teasing words of the newlyweds filled the taut silence that had grown between Simon and Ariane.

  “Have you time to ride with me?” Duncan asked Amber.

  “For you, I have all the time in the world.”

  “Just the world?” he asked, feigning hurt. “What of heaven and the hereafter?”

  “Are you bargaining with me, husband?”

  “Do I have something you would like to lay hand upon?” Duncan parried.

  Amber’s smile was as old as Eve and as young as the blush mounting her cheeks.

  Duncan’s answering laughter was a sound of pure masculine delight.

  “Precious Amber, how you please me.”
>
  “Do I?”

  “Always.”

  “How?” she teased.

  Duncan started to tell her, then remembered they weren’t alone.

  “Ask me tonight,” he said in a low voice, “when the fire in the brazier is little more than scarlet coals veiled in silver ash.”

  “You have my vow on it,” Amber said, resting her fingers on Duncan’s powerful forearm.

  “I will hold you to it,” he murmured. “Now, if you are finished here, let us be off to the horses.”

  “Finished here?” Amber blinked. “Oh, my comb. I had forgotten.”

  She turned to Ariane, who was watching her with eyes as clear and remote as gems.

  “Have you seen a comb with red amber set in it?” Amber asked. “I think it must have fallen out of my hair somewhere in the keep.”

  “Once, you would have had but to ask, and the comb’s hiding place would come to me,” Ariane said in a low voice. “Once, but no more.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Ariane shrugged. “It matters not. I haven’t seen your comb. I’ll ask Blanche.”

  “Is your maid feeling better today?”

  “Nay.” Ariane’s mouth turned down. “I fear Blanche has a more common illness than that which laid my knights low on our travels from Normandy.”

  “Oh?” amber asked.

  “I believe Blanche is breeding.”

  “’Tis not an illness, but a blessing,” Simon said.

  “To a married girl, perhaps,” Ariane said. “But Blanche is far from her home, her people, and, likely, from the boy who set her to breeding in the first place. Hardly a blessing, is it?”

  A lithe movement of Simon’s shoulders dismissed Ariane’s objections.

  “As your husband, I will see that your maid is well cared for,” Simon said coolly. “We have need of more babes in the Disputed Lands.”

  “Babes,” Ariane said in an odd voice.

  “Aye, my future wife. Babes. Do you object?”

  “Only to the means.”

  “Means?”

  “Coupling.” A shudder rippled through Ariane’s body. “’Tis a sorry way to such a sweet goal.”

  “It won’t seem so after you have been married,” Amber said kindly. “Then you will know that your maidenly fears are as groundless as the wind itself.”

  “Aye,” Ariane said distantly. “Of course.”

  But no one believed her, least of all herself.

  Blindly Ariane’s hands sought the solace of the harp once more. The sounds that came from the graceful instrument were as dark as her thoughts. Even so, stroking the instrument brought a small measure of peace to her. It made her believe that she could endure what must be endured—grim, painful couplings and nightmares that tried to follow her into day.

  Amber gave Ariane an odd look, but the Norman heiress didn’t notice.

  “Perhaps it would be better not to rush the marriage,” Amber said in a low voice to Simon. “Ariane is…unsettled.”

  “Dominic is afraid that something else will go awry if we wait.”

  “Something else?” Then Amber realized what Simon meant. “Oh. Duncan’s marriage to me rather than to Lady Ariane.”

  “Aye,” Simon said sardonically.

  “In any event,” Simon said, “the northern boundary of Blackthorne Keep is secure once more, now that your brother Erik is pleased with your marriage.”

  Amber nodded.

  “But that security could vanish,” Simon said bluntly, “if Baron Deguerre were to think that Duncan had jilted his daughter for love of you.”

  Amber glanced quickly at Ariane. If she were listening, it didn’t show in her face or in the measured drawing of her fingers over the lap harp.

  “Do not fear for Lady Ariane’s tender feelings,” Simon said sardonically. “She was raised a highborn maid. She knows her duty is to wed whoever enters into the marriage bargain.”

  “Lady Ariane must be married to a loyal vassal of Dominic le Sabre,” Duncan said flatly. “The quicker it happens, the better for all of us.”

  “But—” began Amber, only to be overridden by Simon.

  “And her husband must be someone who has the approval of both King Henry and Deguerre himself,” Simon added.

  “But you don’t have that approval!” Amber retorted.

  “Simon is as loyal to Dominic as any man alive,” Duncan said, “so the English king will approve the marriage. Simon is Norman rather than Scots or Saxon, so Baron Deguerre will have less to complain of in that regard than if the groom had been me.”

  “Aye. In all ways that matter,” Simon said, “I am a more desirable husband for Deguerre’s daughter than Duncan.”

  “This baron,” Amber said, frowning. “Is he so powerful that kings are wary of him?”

  “Yes,” Ariane said distinctly.

  A ripple of discordant notes accompanied the single word.

  “Had he married me to Geoffrey the Fair, who is the son of another great Norman baron,” Ariane continued, “my father soon would have been the equal of your English Henry in wealth and military might, if not in law. So I was betrothed instead to a knight whose loyalty is to Henry rather than to a Norman duke.”

  “Now,” Simon said dryly, “all we have to do is convince Baron Deguerre that his daughter is well pleased with me. That way there will be no excuse for war.”

  “Ah,” Amber said. “That explains the story Sven has been spreading among the people of the keep and countryside.”

  “Story?” Ariane asked.

  Simon laughed mirthlessly. “Aye, and quite a tale it is, too.”

  Ariane said nothing more, but her fingers plucked an ascending series of notes from the harp. As though she had spoken a question, Simon answered her.

  “Sven is saying that we fell in love when I escorted you from Blackthorne to Stone Ring Keep.”

  Ariane’s hands jerked as the outrageous tale yanked her out of her unhappy thoughts.

  “Love?” she muttered. “What a pail of slops that is! Men have no love of their betrothed. They love only the dowry and the power.”

  Amber winced, but Simon laughed.

  “Aye, my lady,” he said. “Slops indeed.”

  “But ’tis a clever tale,” Duncan said admiringly. “Even the king himself must bow before a girl’s absolute right to choose her husband. Deguerre can do no less.”

  “Dominic indeed deserves to be called the Glendruid Wolf,” Amber said. “His clever plans bring peace, not war.”

  “It was Simon’s idea to marry me, not his brother’s,” Ariane said. “Simon’s mind is even quicker than his hands.”

  A brief expression of surprise showed on Simon’s face. The last thing he expected from Ariane was a compliment, however casually it was delivered.

  On the other hand, perhaps she was simply picking up the threads of the teasing game once more.

  “Do you think that Deguerre will believe you?” Amber asked Simon doubtfully.

  “Believe what? That I’ve married his daughter?”

  “That it was a…” Amber groped for words.

  “‘…drawing together of hearts that defied English king and Norman father equally,’” Ariane quoted. “‘For love, of course.’”

  Ariane’s tone exactly captured the mockery that had been in Simon’s voice when he had proposed marrying Ariane himself as a solution to the dangerous dilemma of her broken engagement.

  Simon shrugged. “Deguerre can believe the tale or he can go begging in Jerusalem. Either way, before midnight mass is sung, Lady Ariane will be my wife.”

  A shout from the bailey below distracted Simon. He went to the slit window, listened, and gave Duncan a sideways look.

  “You waited too long to escape, O mighty lord of Stone Ring Keep,” Simon said, bowing as low as a Saracen would to his sultan. “The serf with the wandering pig—what is his name?”

  “The pig’s?” Duncan asked in disbelief.

  “The serf’s,” Simon
corrected, deadpan.

  “Ethelrod.”

  “Ah, how could one forget?” Simon said. “Apparently the pig has acquired a taste for apples. By the bushel basket.”

  “That is why pigs are turned loose to root in the orchard after harvest,” Duncan retorted. “Otherwise only the worms would fatten.”

  “At present, the pig in question is underground, rooting in one of your cellars.”

  “God’s blood,” Duncan said through his teeth as he strode out the door. “I told Ethelrod to build a pen stout enough to hold that clever swine.”

  “Excuse me,” Amber said, trying not to laugh out loud. “I must see this. Ethelrod’s pig is a source of much amusement to the people of the keep.”

  “Unless that swine is kept under control,” Simon said dryly, “it will be the source of much bacon.”

  Amber burst out laughing and hurried after her husband.

  Simon’s quick eyes caught the shadow of a smile on Ariane’s lips. The beauty of it reminded him of the first instant he had seen the Norman heiress. He had felt as though the breath had been driven from his body by a mailed fist.

  Even now it was hard to believe that Ariane was almost within his reach, a highborn girl engaged to a bastard whose only claim to wealth or worth lay in his quick sword arm.

  Without meaning to, Simon reached out to her.

  “Ariane…” he whispered.

  Ariane blinked at the sound of her name. For a few moments she had forgotten she wasn’t alone.

  When Simon’s hand touched her hair, she flinched away.

  Slowly Simon lowered his hand. The effort not to clench it into a fist was so great it left him aching. Yet he made the effort without knowing it, for he had vowed never again to let lust for a woman rule his actions.

  “Soon we will be husband and wife,” he said flatly.

  A shudder went over Ariane.

  “Do you react like this to all men,” Simon asked, “or just to me?”

  “I will do my duty,” Ariane said in a low voice.

  Yet even as she spoke, she realized that the words were a lie. She had thought she could go through with her wifely duties. Now she knew she could not. She simply couldn’t force herself to submit to rape again.

  Unfortunately the realization had come too late. The wedding was set. The trap was sprung.