The Black Lyon Read online

  “You have journeyed far to ask me this one question? Could you not have sent another messenger?”

  “Do not give me more questions, but answer me.”

  She looked down at her hands. “I did not think you cared for my answer. I am well, as you see, and am carrying your child. William runs your castle quite well.”

  “Lyonene! What has made you as this? I am tired. I have ridden all night and all this day without stop to come to you, and now you greet me coldly.”

  “ ’Tis not I who is cold.”

  He pulled the mail coif from over his head and bent to douse his face and hair in the little stream. “I understand naught of this. Have my letters displeased you? I am not used to writing such letters. Geoffrey says I am clumsy with a pen, though my studies have pleased my teachers.” He leaned back against a tree, the heavy armor dragging at him. “I did not mean to give offense, however I did so.”

  Lyonene could not hold her tears. Ranulf was usually so sure of himself. She remembered the last time they had been together in this glade, how he had boasted, how pleased he was at his child.

  “The babe does not trouble you?”

  She kept her head lowered so he could not see her tears and shook her head.

  “Has my blackness grown uglier while I was away that you can bear me no longer?”

  She again only shook her head.

  “By all that’s holy, Lyonene, look at me!” he shouted. “I leave a wife who laughs, one who kisses me, and in a month I return to one who hates me afresh.”

  Tears blurred her vision, choked her words. “I do not hate you.”

  “Then why do you send me flowers and a few days later naught but a few short words delivered by a nervous boy?”

  “You came just to see why I did such? Just for those few short words?”

  The pain she saw in his eyes made her heart tighten as if steel bands bound it. “Nay,” he said, seriously, “it was but an excuse. I came because I thought my Lioness awaited me with kisses and open arms. I tire of angry words and battle.” He held out his hand to her, palm upward, and before she thought, she was in his arms, the iron mail cutting into her soft flesh.

  She cried against him, tears running along his neck.

  “You rust my mail,” he teased. “Had I known I got but tears for my journey, I would have stayed with Maularde. Can you not spare me one kiss?”

  She put one hand on each side of his face and kissed him with a violence she had not known she possessed. He pulled her closer to him, deepening the kiss, lips crushed in one another, their stored desires released in a passion of liquid fire.

  He pulled back from her. “You do indeed remember me?”

  “Nay, I know you not. You are a great black beast of a man come to make love to me.”

  He ran his lips along her neck. “You would have me as I am, for I fear that even I quell at the stench I have worked up?”

  “Aye, I will have you no matter your smell or your treachery.”

  “What is this you speak of?”

  “Do you mean to waste so much time in talk?” She began unbuckling the heavy sword belt.

  “Nay,” he chuckled. “I need no more words.”

  A month apart had raised their desires for one another to fever pitch. They were frantic, clumsy, as they tore their clothes from their bodies. Ranulf, dressed for war, was slower, the iron mail difficult to remove. When Lyonene stood nude before him, the filtered sunlight showing golden on her skin, he paused, and she ran to him. The cold, iron mail bit into her flesh, pinching, nipping, but the slight pain only increased her need for him.

  “Nay, do not remove it, come to me.”

  She pulled him to her on the velvety ground, relishing in the contrast of his warm, sweet-dampened skin against her legs and the massive hardness, coldness, the total maleness of the iron against her soft breasts.

  They came together almost violently, Lyonene crying out at the first moments of painful pleasure. Her hips rose to meet his need of her and they soared together to new heights of fury, of storm-tossed seas and a bursting of lights of fulfillment.

  They lay together, locked tightly to one another, their hearts thundering, complete in the dewy aftermoments of their love. Ranulf rolled from her, but kept her to him with one leg over her thighs, his hand caressing her cheek, his eyes soft and happy.

  “I think you please me more than I remember.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” she smiled up at him. “I would but please a man as powerful as the Black Lion is at this moment.”

  “You give me overmuch credit. I fear the Black Lion has no power at this moment.”

  “You are wrong, for the stench of you may lay me low.”

  Ranulf grinned at her. “A wench who would have me come to her clad in iron is not a lady of delicate sensibilities.”

  She put her arms around his neck and pulled him to her in a fierce hug. “Nay, I fear I am not a lady when I am near you.” She pulled back and kissed him. “I will help you remove this heavy thing and then we may return home. Mayhaps I will share a tub of hot water with you.”

  “A delightful prospect.”

  She helped to pull the mail from him, and he pulled her close to him. “You have not told me the cause for your anger at me. Do not say you felt no anger, for I have come to know you.”

  “Nay, it matters not my reasons. The anger and the reasons are at an end now. You are with me and naught else matters.”

  “I have become as an old woman since I took you to wife and fret overmuch on too many things. I do not feel your troubles are at an end and will not be unless you tell me the causes. Am I so formidable a husband that I am not worthy of your trust?”

  “Nay, it is not your trust in me that plagues me, but mine in you. Do not question me more. It is gone now and we are together. I ask for no more.”

  He kissed her forehead, not really sure of her answer, but helpless to learn more. He held her at arms’ length, studying her body. There was a little more fullness in her breasts, her stomach harder, only slightly rounder. He ran his hands over her, impersonally.

  “I hope I meet with your approval and you make your purchase.”

  He ignored her. “I thought women were ill when they carried children. You do not seem affected by my son.”

  She shrugged. “I believe some women are. I am glad not to be ill. My husband causes me enough worry without his son adding to it.”

  “I am a sweet-tempered man and never give you cause for concern.”

  “Aye, it is me that creates my own troubles.”

  He frowned at her, her acquiescence more alarming than her anger. He held her against his chest, almost frightened by her strange words. “I will listen, whatever your troubles.” His grip on her tightened until she could not breathe. “There is no other man you desire?”

  She hit him with all her might, with her fist, just under his ribs. “You have a meager brain and I will not glory your question with an answer. Now dress yourself so we may return home.” As he turned away smugly, she could not resist a jibe. “There could be no other man, for you took all the most handsome when you took your guard.” His hand gripping her wrist caused such pain as to bring tears to her eyes. “Ranulf, you hurt me! I do but jest. I want no other man. Release me, you great oaf!”

  He let her wrist go and then smiled at her, as if ashamed. “I fear there are some jests I cannot see humor in. I have told you I will never share you.”

  Her eyes blazed intensely. “And what of you, my husband, am I to share you?” Her voice was serious, almost a whisper.

  He seemed startled, her question surprising him. “I have not thought of it. I think it is different with a man than a woman.”

  “Are my feelings of hurt and jealousy less than yours because you are a man?”

  “Nay, I cannot answer. I have never considered the idea ere now.” He was serious, his brow creased as he concentrated. “All men go to war and there are always women. I do not think it would be the sam