The Black Lyon (16 page)

"M mm. Jealousy so soon! She must indeed be beautiful. You must tell me what possessed you to marry her. I had thought Isabel soured you for all time."

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Lyonene listened breathlessly for Ranulf's answer, the reason he would give for the marriage.

Too much time elapsed and Lyonene knew Ranulf would give no answer. She returned to the dirty job of removing ashes. At least it was warmer before the fire.

"Remember that red-haired wench in London Town? The one Corbet and Sainneville fought for?"

Ranulf laughed again. "They were well into their cups and..."

"Neither you nor I were too sober. Thank the heavens for Hugo Fitz Waren."

"Aye, Hugo helped to pull them apart when I could not. I did not care who got the woman."

"She was a smart one. She knew then who was the earl. I shall never forget your face when she plastered that plump little body to you, sobbing that you'd saved her life that she owed you everything. Such eye-rolling at the mention of 'everything.'"

"Her 'everything' was not so bad after all."

Dacre fair shouted. "And how would you know what she had to offer, for she came to me that night."

"To you! Why would she want a weakling when she could have a man!"

"A weakling! Why, that little honey-fruit whispered that you frightened her more than the Devil himself."

"And she said to me she would as soon spend the night with a girl as one of your prettiness."

"Such prettiness I will show you!"

Lyonene turned to see Dacre leap at Ranulf's throat, and then the two men fell together to the rushes, massive strength pitted against the other. Lyonene was disgusted. That two grown men should wrestle one another on the floor in such a manner, and worse that it should be over a woman! They rolled to her feet, locked together, and as their faces were only inches apart, she calmly dropped the nearly full basket of ashes from her waist to the rushes, very near their faces. She did not wait to see the damage she had done but sedately walked away from them. She smiled slightly when she heard their struggles cease and their coughs and curses begin.

M aude seemed to appear from nowhere, and she clasped Lyonene's slight form to her much larger body, forcing her head to her ample shoulder.

"I will kill the wench," Dacre bellowed, his voice very near where M aude stood holding Lyonene. "M aude, let her go. I have my own manner of punishment for her."

"You scared the poor girl half to death." M aude stroked Lyonene's hair, completely hidden under the woolen veil that flowed down her back. "She is young and not used to the rough play of the king's earls." Her voice held such a sarcastic edge that Lyonene began to silently laugh, her shoulders shaking. M aude gave her a reproachful look. "You see, she is trembling with her fright." This made Lyonene laugh harder and a sound escaped her that was surprisingly like a sob.

"That is the one you teach to dance, M aude?" Ranulf's voice was gentle.

M aude nodded.

"Then keep her with you in the kitchen and send someone with water that we may remove this dust."

M aude pushed Lyonene's head back to her shoulder for the girl much wanted to see the havoc she had caused, feeling they wholly deserved it for their talk of tavern wenches. As M aude led her toward the kitchen, Lyonene heard Ranulf speak.

"M aude is teaching that one to dance. She says she is very good and will be ready to perform by the time we reach Wales."

"Well, then, let us see her. We can forgive her if she dances well."

"This one is mine, Dacre. She is young, too young for the rewards you have in mind. In a few years, when her dancing is better, then mayhaps you can 'forgive' her, but not yet."

M aude led Lyonene into the kitchen and gave her a pile of onions to chop—punishment for her behavior. She chopped and slashed with a vengeance as she thought of Ranulf's words about the London barmaid. She also remembered him saying, "This one is mine." How many other women had M aude taught to dance for him? She did not know when the onion tears and the real ones be gan to mingle.

Lyonene felt that M aude made an effort to separate her from Ranulf, for there were always jobs to do that required her presence far from him. She was thoroughly exhausted when she fell onto the mattress before the fire.

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The straw was uncomfortable and she longed for the comfort of the feather mattresses of M alvoisin.

M orning came too early and she sleepily mounted her little donkey.

"This might well be the night, for tomorrow we reach Wales."

M aude's statement drew Lyonene awake, and all day she tried to dissuade herself from going ahead with the dance. When they stopped for dinner and she saw first one of the women running her finger down Ranulf's jaw and then Ranulf holding the woman's hand for a brief moment, Lyonene was decided. She would not think of the consequences of this night; she only knew she wanted him to see her, to hold her hand and no one else's.

As Ranulf's tent was erected, Lyonene saw M aude talking to him and knew he had agreed to the old woman's suggestions. Her heart began to beat rapidly.

She had no time to think as M aude pulled her into the seclusion of the trees. The beginnings of a protest were stifled as her clothes were removed. Soon the silken dancing costume encircled her. It was as if she were no longer Lyonene but someone else: a dark beauty, a Saracen who had been trained from childhood to tempt and entice men with her fluid body motions. She could hear the strange music in her head and her hips began to move slowly, a secret smile on her face.

M aude took a silvered piece of glass, a mirror, from the wooden box and a jar of black powder. She applied the kohl to Lyonene's eyelids, upper and lower, and darkened her eyebrows. There were transparent veils, soft, gentle colors, added to the costume, then one about her hair that hid the lower part of her face.

It was a different woman who stared back at her from the little mirror, and the dark, sultry eyes promised things Lyonene knew too little of—promises of passion and satin skin. She walked with ease and confidence to the candlelit tent.

Ranulf half-reclined on a low cot and did not see at first the dark girl who entered his tent, only hearing M aude's music, joined by a flute and little vibrating instruments like drums. He was instantly surprised by the confidence exuded by the girl, her movements sure and seductive. He then forgot that he knew this to be a serf girl, for somehow she was transformed into such as he'd not seen since his years in the Holy Lands.

Each slow undulation was a gesture of love, and he began to feel that this girl danced for him alone in a way no other woman ever had. Her hips moved toward him, her arms beckoning, her smoky eyes caressing him. Always the dances that M aude knew so well had excited him, but this girl was more, giving him a feeling of longing as well as lust. A veil fell at his feet, revealing one long slim leg hidden and yet revealed beneath the silk trousers. The music increased its speed and the girl turned her back to him, glimpses of her hair showing through a dark veil.

Another scarf drifted through the heavy air and he saw a curved hip, the gold belt flashing in the reflected candlelight. Her hips moved faster, the tiny bells tinkling in rhythm to her movements. The exposed hip was golden, creamy, while the other teased his bewildered gaze as it moved from behind a folded veil and then disappeared.

She turned to the side, the shape of her body showing through the silks. Her breasts rose again and again as her hips moved forward and back, and always her eyes entranced him, smiling, frowning, tempting, shunning, ever changing. Her fluid arms emphasized her liquid movements.

Another veil fell and he saw more of her beautiful body. Her stomach undulated, showing the lovely secret of her navel. Ranulf was frozen where he lay, unable to break the paralyzing spell of desire and fascination she wove about him.

The music's speed increased and his breath deepened as yet another veil fell to the floor. Her breasts rounded above the silk, gleaming, moving, quivering as she danced and he heard her low, throaty, lusty laugh, growling, filling his own body with tremors of unfulfilled passion.

He was afraid to move, afraid she was an apparition of pleasure that might disappear at his merest breath. She moved closer to him, slowly, tortuously, exquisitely, her skin giving off a delicate perfume. With fear but uncontrolled longings, he put out a hand to touch her. A brief whisper of creamed satin skin against his fingertips and she drew away, her head falling back as she near drove 109

his senses mad with that laugh, so low, yet permeating him with its promise.

Her arm grazed his face, close to his lips, exciting him further to depths of what seemed to be a new part of his being. Then, abruptly, she moved away from him, far away, to a darkened side of the tent; her dark eyes and golden body were radiant against the cream-colored silk walls. He could not bear the void she had left behind. The music was reaching a frenzied peak and her eyes challenged him now, her hands reaching out, daring him, as her body increased the pulsating movements.

. One powerful hand swept her to him, clasping tightly the deep curve of her waist, the other crushing her to him. The tent was dark, much too dark as he looked into her half-closed eyes, but he saw the mouth that waited below the veil, and the hunger it showed more than matched his own.

Enjoying and prolonging each exquisite moment, he stroked her skin, slightly damp from her dance, as was his own. She seemed to purr, a low, throaty sound, as he touched her. For only a very brief instant did her eyes open to meet his as he pulled the veil away and sought her lips, and then his eyes were closed too.

The music from outside the tent slowed to a sensuous rhythm as if sensing what was taking place inside.

Lyonene allowed her body to be supported totally by Ranulf's strong hands. His lips touched hers gently, savoring the feel of them, the taste of them. His tongue ran across the edge of her teeth, delighting in the tiny chipped place. The agonizing slowness with which he took his pleasure of her weakened her body; she felt almost as if she were dying under his sweet torture. He ran his teeth along her lower lip, tasting the firmness of it, relishing its special flavor. The comers of her mouth received his unique attention, and then his urgency enveloped her, his lips crushing hers, moving as he delighted in the nectar of them.

Lyonene pulled him to her, closer, ever closer, and ran her hands across the great muscles of his back, glorifying in the reserved power they held. The feel of his fingers caressing her bare skin made her mad to feel his dark, smooth skin under her hands. His lips moved to her ear, and soft words came to her, unknown words, meaningless yet all-meaning.

It may have been a discordant sound from the music that made Lyonene return to herself, to know that she was Ranulf's unwanted wife and not a serf girl as he now believed. He made love to a serf girl, a girl who danced for him, but he did not hold and caress his wife. Her pride, the pride of a lioness, returned to her and she knew that she could not continue with their lovemaking when he thought she was another.

She steeled herself and refused to hear the words of love, and harder still, to feel the lips that traveled along her throat. She released him so quickly that she had a second before he realized she had fled the tent. She ran as hard and as fast as she was able before stopping. The built-up tears poured forth in a violent torrent. She cursed herself for a hundred times a fool. Her mind rang with her confusion. How could this man's touch inflame her so, and how could he make such sweet love to one he thought to be only a serf girl, someone he cared for not at all?

M aude found her and helped her to bathe her swollen face and change her clothes. No words were spoken as they made their way to the camp, and the old woman carefully shielded Lyonene's view of Ranulf's dark tent, silent now from the rages of an hour ago. Only M aude's long understanding of Ranulf had been able to calm him from the anger he carried toward the girl. Lyonene breathed a ragged sigh in her sleep, and M aude shook her head in disgust.

* * *

Lyonene's thoughts still warred within her as she pulled the heavy bucket from the water. So loud were her thoughts that she did not hear the horses approach. Before she could protest, strong arms pulled her against a bony body, hands groping her beneath her serf's garb. A mouth that gave a foul odor found hers. She began to kick and claw.

Ill

"Sir Henry!" a familiar, laughing voice called. "I don't

believe you know how to treat a lady."

The old man released her and she spun around, her back to the voice. Keeping her head down, she raised a cautious glance to see Geoffrey before the man who had just attacked her.

"Lady?" Sir Henry spat. "She is but a serf girl."

Geoffrey's voice hid his contempt. "M ay I suggest, sir, that all pretty young women are ladies."

Lyonene felt the gratitude rising in her breast.

Sir Henry laughed. "I see what you mean."

"You do not mind if I try?"

"M y experience bows to your pretty form."

Without even looking at her face, Geoffrey whirled Lyonene into his arms and began to kiss her. She was aghast that he would do this to her. He bad no more respect for her than Sir Henry had.

"I see my little brother has found entertainment that pleasures him. M ayhaps you can excite this one more than I, for she runs from my caresses. There are some young women who prefer pretty boys rather than men— Dacre has proven that."

Geoffrey looked up to see Ranulf astride Tighe's broad back and lazily smiled. "She seems to find me acceptable enough, and my thanks for the comparison to Lord Dacre." He looked down at Lyonene's face, her jaw set against the inevitable exposure of her identity. Geoffrey stared at her in horror and turned her to face Ranulf.