The Black Lyon

At the first touch of Ranulf’s lips, Lyonene thought all her senses had flown. She felt only his lips, his body next to hers, and she had never experienced anything that made her feel like this. She slanted her head to the side and put her arms around his neck, pulling him closer and closer to her. His arms tightened and she felt his strong, hard body pressed to her, every inch of her hungering for more of him.

His lips parted and she followed his example, moving her lips under his. She clung to him, meeting his demanding, searching mouth. Her heart beat wildly, thundering in her ears. She would never let go; she never wanted this moment to end.

Lyonene had so tamed the Black Lion that, when her head was turned, he looked upon her with the lovesick expression of a young squire gazing at his chosen lady.

Ranulf stared at her. “I would not know when a man is such as you say, good to look at.” His voice was stiff.

She studied his black eyes, the thick curling hair, which he left uncovered. “I should think you would know.”

Ranulf, to his consternation, could feel the blood rushing to his face. Confused, he looked at his men and saw that they had paused in their eating to stare at him. He turned back to Lyonene, who smiled up at him mischievously. He returned her smile slightly. “You are an imp. What man is going to follow a knight who blushes?”

Lyonene’s laugh rang out, a pretty sound which was infectious. She put both hands on his arm and touched her forehead to his shoulder.

“See the tree at the edge of the wood? I will race you.” She gathered her skirts and mantle edge over her arm and ran.

Ranulf stood quietly and watched the lovely sight of firm, shapely calves and little feet running so inexpertly across the forest’s floor. When she was halfway to the tree, he caught up with her in a few easy strides.

Lyonene looked over her shoulder to see him easily gaining on her. She remembered a trick she had used as a child to win races against the boys of Lorancourt. When Ranulf was nearly beside her, she sidestepped into his path, throwing him off balance as he swerved to keep from hitting her, and thus she gained a few seconds’ time.

She heard Ranulf’s snort behind her and laughed in satisfaction at her successful trick. Then the breath was near taken from her as he threw a strong arm around her waist, lifting her from the ground, still running, not even hesitating when he took on the added burden of her weight.

When Lyonene recovered from her surprise, she began laughing, and by the time they reached the tree she was near helpless. He sat her down and she leaned against the tree, tears rolling down her cheeks, blurring her vision. “I won,” she gasped.

“Won! You did not even race with honor. You cheated.”

She wiped her tears and saw to her joy that Ranulf was smiling and that his features had softened. He looked like a boy. “My head reached the tree first, before any of you arrived, so I won the race.” She could hardly keep the laughter inside her.

Lyonene took it in all confidence but found she could not bend the bow more than an inch or two. She looked in exasperation to Ranulf.

Quickly, he stood behind her, his great arms about her, and pulled the strong bow back. As Ranulf bent to sight the arrow, he was aware of the fragrance of her—roses and smoke—and of her cool cheek so near his. He could feel every luscious curve of her against him, her buttocks pressed against his groin. He ached to turn her to him, longed to feel her softness near him, to kiss her moist lips, parted slightly now in concentration. He tried to give directions to her concerning the bow but found that his voice betrayed his desire since her ear was so close to his lips; he could almost taste the flesh of her earlobe between his teeth. She released the arrow.

“I hit it!”