“This displeases you, Lady Alys?”
She looked up to see the wizard standing over her. She hadn’t realized he’d moved, and Sir Hector hastily stumbled out of his chair, knocking it over in the process, in his haste to get away from Navarre. If Simon were aware of his panic he made no comment, merely taking the seat the elderly knight had abandoned, using his good left hand.
“I am a modest soul. I’m unused to such a display of affection…”
“I’d hardly call it affection,” he said, his deep voice wry. “Animal lust, perhaps.”
The girl shrieked again, laughing, as Richard poured wine on her partially exposed breasts. Alys averted her gaze hastily, but not before she saw Richard’s hand fumbling at the hem of the lady’s robe.
“You’re shocked, my lady? You disapprove of a married man disporting while his wife is away?” Simon pursued the subject, watching her out of his still, golden eyes. “Most people are prey to lust. It’s a healthy enough urge.”
“For the men, perhaps,” she said. “You have yet to convince me that women suffer from the same flaw. Or that it would be in any way healthy if they did.”
“You don’t think women feel lust?”
“Not decent women.” Even as she spoke the words, she could hear the nasal tones of Reverend Mother Dominica with her endless lectures on the duties and trials of womankind. Since the Reverend Mother had managed to dispense with most of those trials and duties she wasn’t, perhaps, the best expert on the subject, but Alys hadn’t had much choice in the confines of the cloister. Sister Agnes, she of the hearty appetites and the genial nature, had hinted that perhaps a woman’s lot outside the convent held surprising pleasures, but she’d never elaborated, and now it was too late to ask.
“I think you were in the convent too long, my lady.”
“Not long enough,” she muttered gracelessly. “And lust is a sin.”
“You don’t strike me as much of an expert on sin, Lady Alys,” he murmured.
“And you certainly know far too much about the subject,” she shot back, startling a laugh out of him.
Obviously the household of Richard the Fair was unused to hearing the magician laugh. Even Richard himself stopping pawing his willing partner to stare at Simon of Navarre.
“Something amuses you, my Grendel?” he demanded. The young lady had somehow ended up on his lap, and he pushed her off, so that she landed with a muffled shriek among the bone-strewed rushes.
“You have been gracious enough to gift me with a clever wife, my lord,” Simon said.
“A clever woman is a curse,” Richard said flatly, eying Alys with profound distrust. “Change your mind, my friend. Choose the pretty one.”
“My lord,” said Simon, “I did.”
It was stated as simple truth, shocking Alys into momentary silence. The fact that anyone could prefer her to her gay, lovely half-sister was a wonder. He was a brilliant, devious man—surely he could have a reason for such an unlikely preference?
But she could think of none. The conversation had once more built into a muffled roar, and she turned to face the man whose bed she would eventually share. “You are most illogical, sir,” she said. “Have you fallen madly in love with me then?”
He laughed softly, as she meant him to. “I feel about love as you feel about lust, my lady. A sin and an abomination, a waste of time and a danger to the soul. Will you convince me otherwise?”
“I know as little of falling in love as I know of lust,” she said. “And I think, like you, I prefer to keep my acquaintance with that emotion limited. Life would be far tidier all around.”
His answering smile was cool and calculating, and utterly bewitching. “Life is seldom tidy, Lady Alys. And if you wish to fall in love with one of Richard’s stalwart young knights I will make no objection. After I acquaint you with the many and varied delights of lust.”
His face wasn’t that close to hers, and yet she felt caught, trapped, drowning in his golden eyes, the rich timbre of his voice. An enchanter, they called him, and she could well see why. He was enchanting her, against her will, enchanting her with indecent promises and sensual lures, and Alys had always fought her senses.
As she fought the profound effect he was having on her. “Is that future supposed to make me happy?”
“It should. Isn’t that what women want most? Prosperous, advantageous marriages and the freedom to love wherever they choose?”
“One person cannot control another’s love.”
“No. But I grant you the freedom to act upon it.”
“You give me leave to cuckold you?” she demanded, incredulous.
“I give you leave to bestow your love and your favors upon a worthy knight or noble if your heart demands it.”
“You believe the heart can demand such things?” she asked.
“I believe gullible humans can convince themselves of it,” he replied.
“You make it sound as if you’re not one of us. Human, that is,” she said.
“I’m certain most people wonder the same thing. Even Richard at times suspects I’m the embodiment of some ancient monster with fierce powers.”
“And does he fancy himself Beowulf?”
“God knows,” Simon replied. “I imagine Richard sees himself as the hero of any number of heroic tales.”
She glanced over at her brother. The very notion of Richard the Fair had seemed heroic indeed, and yet she’d never trusted in that particular fantasy. She had reason not to, with the faint memory of that day, so long ago, the plunging horses and her mother crying out for her, a memory that had somehow become connected with Richard. Unlike Claire, she’d never dreamed of being rescued from the convent by a forgetful, loving brother, though
