Ranulf merely looked at her, one quick glance that made her reme
mber her boast of crossbows. Then, before she could recover from her surprise, he began to insert arrows, drawn from the leather bag at his waist, and fire them with a dazzling rapidity. In less than a minute, he had fired ten arrows, never once missing the tree.
She stared up at him. “I have never seen the like.” She lifted her skirts and ran toward the distant tree. She struggled to pull an arrow from the tree and was startled when Ranulf appeared beside her and easily removed the arrow she could not. She had not heard him approach.
She turned to him, laughing. “I think there is little that my father can teach you.”
Ranulf said not a word, but his expression showed that he agreed with her.
“You must show this Welsh longbow to him. He will train his men to use it.”
“Nay, I do not think so. Even my own men refuse to use it. They think it an unchivalrous weapon and have a fear that it will somehow reduce them to foot soldiers.”
“I see that you do not have such a fear yourself.” Her eyes twinkled and laughter threatened to escape as he raised one eyebrow at her. “Think I could learn to shoot this long stick?”
“You may try.” Ranulf demonstrated the proper handling of the new weapon.
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!”
She turned in his arms, and he held her, lightly, not even daring to breathe for fear he’d crush her in his surging desire.
Lyonene felt her heart would burst, it was beating so hard. His arms were about her, his hands on her back, and she could feel the warmth of him through her heavy woolen surcoat. She looked from his eyes to his lips, and she hoped he would kiss her, yes, she wanted him to kiss her, and her heart beat faster as unconsciously she swayed toward him, her soft breasts touching his chest. She felt his sharp intake of breath. His face was so close that she could feel his breath, so warm and soft. How would it feel to kiss a man?
His arms dropped away.
“Dinner will be served and my mother will expect me.” She searched for something calming to say. She smiled up at him. “Thank you for the archer’s lesson, and now, Lion, we needs must return to the castle, for my father’s temper would make even a lion tremble when his viands are late.”
At his look of puzzlement at her name for him, she continued. “It is strange, is it not, that we are both named for lions? My father vows that on the day of my birth I gave him such a look of contempt that he named me for a lioness, but my mother says he thought of the name Lyonene because of the color of my hair.”
Ranulf lightly touched a strand of her tawny hair. “I could not think you could give anyone a look of contempt.”
She laughed. “You do not know me, for I am possessed by a terrible temper.”
“Then the name well suits you, as I fear mine does also. At least you are not cursed with an ugly blackness such as mine.”
“Bah! It is only the jongleurs who demand all men be fair with eyes of blue. You would make other men seem colorless.” She turned quickly. “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.
Ranulf pulled one of the curls that lay wildly about her cheeks, her hood having fallen away. “You would never make a knight. Your lies would dishonor your liege lord.”
Lyonene opened her mouth in mock horror. “And you, Lion, would be worse as a woman with your picking up of whatever great objects lie in your path.”
“Great objects!” His hands encircled Lyonene’s waist and lifted her, her head high in the air, her hands on his shoulders. “You weigh less than my armor.”