Enchanted by Elizabeth Lowell Page B

gift is to see only that which can be touched and held and
weighed and measured?”
    “Aye,” Simon said with grim
satisfaction.
    “It still sounds more like a curse to
me.”
    “I don’t notice you galloping to Stone
Ring and its invisible rowan tree and demanding to be leg-shackled
by love.”
    Erik glanced sideways at Simon. Though Simon was
always tart of speech, his tongue seemed to have an unusual edge
this morning.
    “Long night?” Erik asked blandly.
    “It was a night like any other.”
    “Brrr.”
    Simon smiled thinly.
    “Does this mean that you will accept my offer
of a mantle lined with white weasels?” Erik asked.
    Simon laughed ruefully. “Aye, Learned.
I’ll take your gift.”
    “I’m sorry. When Lady Ariane was
accepted by Serena’s weaving, I hoped…” Erik
shrugged. “Ah, well, cold wives are why God gave us furred
animals andlemans. I’ll send for the
mantle lining immediately.”
    “I am in your debt.”
    “Nay,” Erik said instantly. “It
is I who will be forever in your debt. You gave me a gift beyond
compare when you agreed to marry the cold Norman
heiress.”
    Simon said nothing.
    Nor did Ariane, though she heard each word all too
clearly. There was nothing for her to say in any case. The men but
spoke the truth: A fur-lined mantle would warm Simon’s body
sooner than would Ariane the Betrayed.
    “If you hadn’t stepped forward,”
Erik continued, “Duncan would have wed Ariane, Amber would
have died in Ghost Glen, and my father’s lands would have
fallen to renegades.”
    Simon moved restively. What had happened between
Duncan and Amber in that place beyond the baffling mists was
something that couldn’t be weighed or measured.
    It confounded him.
    “It matters not to me,” Simon said.

“I’ll never know the terrible coils of love, nor see
the sacred rowan bloom.”
    “You are young yet.”
    Simon gave Erik a sidelong glance.
    “I am older than you,” Simon said.
“And I am married to a maiden carved of ice taken from the
bleak heart of the longest night of winter.”
    “I’m told that there is a sweet solace
for such coldness. Her name is Marie and her eyes are as black as
yours.”
    Anger and disgust snaked through Simon at the
thought of the skilled, faithless Marie, but nothing of what he
felt showed.
    “You must have been talking to Sven,”
Simon said. “He sings Marie’s praises in the hope that
some strapping foreign knight will fall into her trap and spill all
his secrets along with his seed.”
    Laughing, Erik bent to touch Stagkiller, who had
been prodding his master with increasing urgency.
    “What is it, beast?” Erik asked.
“What makes you uneasy?”
    The affection in Erik’s voice was as apparent
as the wolfhound’s great, gleaming fangs.
    “Perhaps he wants to change bodies with
you,” Simon said blandly.
    “Do you believe everything Sven hears when he
listens under eaves in the countryside?”
    Simon laughed and said nothing.
    Stagkiller bumped insistently against Erik.
    “Are you trying to knock me off my
feet?” Erik grumbled.
    As he bent to look into the wolfhound’s eyes,
Erik caught the subdued flash of gemstones in Ariane’s hair
from the corner of his eye.
    “Lady Ariane,” Erik said,
straightening. “Good morning to you.”
    A stillness came over Simon. Then he moved swiftly,
bringing Ariane into view. Instantly he knew that she had overheard
every word.
    That didn’t bother Simon particularly, for he
had said nothing to Erik that he hadn’t first said to his
unwilling wife.
    But the pain Simon sensed in Ariane did bother him.
It both chastened and angered him.
    “Have you taken breakfast?” Simon
asked, his tone neutral.
    Ariane gripped her harp tighter, holding it across
her body as though it were a shield.
    “No,” she said in a low voice.
    “Then do so. You are as thin as one of your
beloved harp strings.”
    Ariane’s fingers moved. A flurry of notes
rose in a minor key, then fell off sharply.
    “I’m not