Free Enchanted by Elizabeth Lowell Page B

bride .
    God’s teeth. None of the
other women I’ve bedded has given me a tenth so much
trouble .
    Belatedly, Simon remembered that the other women
hadn’t been nervous, virginal, highborn girls. They had been
widows, concubines of fallen sultans, or infertile harem girls.
    Once, and only once, his lover had been
married.
    “Such a cold hand,” Simon said.
    Ariane was in too much of a turmoil to answer.
Simon’s hand was so warm she thought it might burn her.
    “Is your other hand as cold?” he
asked.
    She nodded.
    “I don’t think that’s
possible,” Simon said judiciously. “Show me.”
    The hand he held out to her was large, elegant
despite that, and scarred with the inevitable marks of battle.
    “Ariane.”
    She jumped.
    “If I were going to throw you on the floor
and ravish you like a slave girl, I would have done so many times
over by now.”
    Ariane turned even more pale. Geoffrey had done his
worst, but it had taken him the better part of a night, for he was
much gone on drink.
    When Simon realized she had taken him seriously, he
didn’t know whether to swear or laugh.
    “Nightingale,” he said, sighing,
“do you have any idea what passes between a man and a woman
on their wedding night?”
    “Yes.”
    The intense stillness of Ariane’s body told
Simon that someone had explained full well to her what was expected
of a wife in the marriage bed.
    And she loathed the thought of it.
    “’Tis natural that it seem strange to
you,” he said. “It seems strange to a man the first
time or two.”
    “It does?”
    “Of course. ’Tis difficult to know
where to put one’s hands and arms and, er, other
parts.”
    Before Ariane could respond to that surprising bit
of information—or to the pronounced red on Simon’s
cheekbones—he took her other hand and tugged her gently down
onto the bed.
    “You were right,” he said. “This
hand is as cold as the other.”
    Simon blew gently across Ariane’s right hand.
The contrast between the chill of her flesh and the heat of
Simon’s breath was so great that Ariane shivered.
    “Try the wine,” Simon suggested.
    Ariane bent and dipped her fingertip in one of the
goblets. Delicately she licked up a drop of wine.
    “Nay,” she said. “Your hands are
warmer than the wine.”
    Simon had meant that Ariane try to warm herself by
drinking the wine, but the sight of her pink tongue licking up wine
sent everything resembling thought from his head.
    “Are you certain?” he asked.
    The rasp was back in Simon’s deep voice. The
soundof it pleased Ariane. Smiling, she bent
and dipped her finger in the wine once more.
    Breath held, Simon watched as she circled her
wine-wet fingertip with the very tip of her tongue.
    “’Tis quite certain,” Ariane
said. “Your hand is far warmer than the wine.”
    “May I have some?”
    She held out the cup.
    “Nay, wife. From your fingers.”
    “Do you mean…?” asked Ariane.
    She looked at him uncertainly.
    “I don’t bite,” Simon assured
her, smiling.
    “Said the wolf to the lambkin,” Ariane
muttered.
    Simon laughed, delighted by his bride’s
change from fear to amusement.
    Ariane bent over and dipped her finger into the
wine again. As she lifted her hand toward Simon, wine ran down her
fingernail, beaded into a brilliant garnet drop, and threatened to
fall to the pale white lace of the bed cover. He ducked his head
and caught Ariane’s fingertip between his lips.
    The heat of Simon’s mouth made the fire seem
cold. Ariane made a low sound as he gently released her finger.
    “Is something wrong?” Simon asked.
    “You are so very warm. It surprised
me.”
    “You felt no displeasure?”
    She shook her head.
    “What of pleasure?” Simon asked.
    “Now I know why the keep’s cats stalk
you. The warmth of your body draws them.”
    Amusement gleamed in Simon’s dark eyes.
    “Then you liked my heat,” he murmured,
smiling.
    Ariane wanted to scream with sudden frustration at
the trap life had built around