My Beloved by Karen Ranney Page A

night come to tempt him to forbidden joy. Even her scent acted upon his need, his senses so attuned to her it was almost pain. Whereas he was forbidden and restricted and denied in his waking state, he was allowed and encouraged in this blessed reverie.
    His hands, talented with a sword, with the instruments of war, were now imbued with the effortless grace of a lover. His fingers trailed across her skin, each separate and distinct touch causing a shiver in their wake. She was over him now, her head arched back as he cupped a breast in his hand, his thumb brushing its peak. He beckoned her closer and she held herself over him, no longer virgin as much as temptress. The taste of her nipple in his mouth, hot flesh against his tongue was too real to be crafted from mist and need.
    She was suddenly around him, over him, enveloping him, the hot passion of her almost as consuming as the words she whispered in his ear, the sound of their names, a chant of desire and repletion in one breath.
    His heart beat so loud and so strong it seemed to create a hollow in his stomach. His blood raced andhis mind lay dormant. He knew the taste of her. The scent of her was in his nostrils, her soft cries rang in his ears. He became her in that instant, or perhaps it was simply the way of dreams, especially those devoutly wished and forever lost.
    Then, it was over. It ended not with satiation, or even physical release. She simply disappeared. One moment she touched him, giving life to all those unvoiced wishes and secret thoughts. The next she was gone, and he awakened abruptly to a room silent in the hours before dawn. Yet he could still hear her voice, that sweet whisper when she spoke his name. It seemed to spiral down into nothingness, a whispered entreaty. Or was that his own cry? In his chest was an odd feeling almost like emptiness.
    He sat on the edge of his bed, certain that sleep would not come again this night.
    He walked to the table that served as his desk, sat and studied the accounts he kept so diligently in the light of the oil lamp. It was always kept burning, protection against moments such as these when night was too cloying and the walls too close.
    Langlinais boasted two stewards. Jerard worked to ensure his orders were followed, Sebastian arranged for the purchase of supplies and calculated the profits gleaned from all his holdings. He did so first to keep himself occupied. Most men hunted, or spent their time in tourneys or as guests at various demesne. But he could no longer be seen among people. His only safety was at Langlinais. The castle was not open to the casual guest either, and while willing to lend the traveler a place in the stable, no stranger was allowed within the great hall. But it was not to stave off his boredom that he knew everything about Langlinais, every coin spent or expended, every profit made. It was because he neededto know, in finite detail, the state of the Langlinais finances, the better to attempt to save his home.
    His midnight perusal of the figures did not alter the sum. Even with a good harvest, he would have to petition for more time to repay the balance of his ransom. It might well be a decision that proved unwise. The Templars did not grant extensions without punishing interest. Yet, he wrote the letter, trapped within his responsibility as aptly as he was his body.
    The night teetered along on thin legs. At times like these, when he could not sleep, he normally went to stand atop the east tower, carrying a torch to signal that all was well to the men-at-arms in the bailey and aligned on the walls below. They had become accustomed to his shadow, as he sat there for hours, his view of the countryside steeped in darkness.
    But instead of going to the tower, he found himself at the door of Juliana’s chamber. It was too close, only across the hallway. And at the end of the corridor, a door that led to the chapel. How convenient, to have his soul’s nesting place so quick at hand. He