The Warrior (11 page)

Hearing her genuine distress, seeing the look of pain in her lustrous gray eyes, Ranulf sank slowly into his bath. Her conviction actually sounded sincere. Perhaps she truly did believe in her father’s innocence.

He almost envied her such faith. He couldn’t remember a time in his life when he had ever believed in anyone or anything. Vengeance had been his only creed. But he was determined to quell his fury now. He refused to allow Ariane to make him lose control.

She deserved punishment for her outburst, he knew, and yet his conscience already was pricking him with guilt. Seeing her chafed wrists, the welts that had resulted from his order to prevent her escape, had disturbed him keenly.

Indeed, everything about the woman disturbed him. When she’d entered the chamber a short while ago, he had become instantly aware of her presence, all his senses alive, attuned to her, his body alert, nerves strumming, like a stallion catching the ready scent of a mare. It was all he could do to rein in his urges and his temper now. And now—with her silver eyes pleading, her breasts heaving with her passionate defense of her father, her carriage as proud as any queen’s—his blood stirred as for no wench he’d ever known. Lust, hot and sweet, coursed through his loins—while at the same time fury, scalding and fierce, still simmered in his veins at her perfidy in freeing her vassal. It infuriated him more that he could still desire her so intently after what she had done.

He
could
not soften toward her, Ranulf reminded himself. She was his enemy, not to be trusted. And her rebellion deserved some sort of reproof. She would have to learn that she could not challenge him without penalty. He needed to crush her defiance immediately, before it broadened.

“Such fierce nobility,” Ranulf said, forcing a note of mockery into his voice. “A pity I have no faith in your motives, demoiselle. Naturally you would assert your father’s innocence in order to prevent your own arrest. I might have believed you more readily had you not spurned the king’s command and refused to surrender Claredon to me.”

“I had no choice,” Ariane replied in a low voice.

“You had
every
choice,” he retorted. “You still have choices. Indeed, your fate depends a great deal on the path you elect to take now.”

“What . . . what do you mean?”

“Your submission, demoiselle. I would have your oath of obedience, and your allegiance to me as your overlord.”

“I . . .” She bit her lip. “I cannot give it. My allegiance belongs to my father.”

Ranulf grunted in exasperation. “This pretense of loyalty is wearing. You cannot wish to bear the consequences of remaining allied with a traitor.”

“It is not pretense. I stand by my father.”

“Such stubbornness will exact a high price.”

“I know.” Her reply was a mere whisper of sound.

Ranulf’s jaw hardened as he fixed her with a grim stare. He had given her every opportunity to save herself, but she seemed intent on resistance. God’s limbs, but it obliged him to use harsher measures to compel her obedience. But what? He suspected it would take more force than he was willing to wield to make her back down.

“You will learn that defiance is futile, demoiselle,” he said softly.

Reaching over the rim of the tub, he picked up the dagger he had set on the floor—and took grim satisfaction in the flash of alarm that shone in his bride’s eyes. Holding her apprehensive gaze, Ranulf drew the razor-sharp edge of the blade across his cheek, scraping away the stiff bristles, smiling a little when the tension left her body.

He felt little remorse in his tactics. She
should
rightly fear him, after what she had done. And the beauty deserved far worse punishment, Ranulf well knew, than he could bring himself to award her.

Disturbed by his lack of resolve, Ranulf let his head fall back, rolling it from side to side to ease the tight ache in his neck. A strange depression had settled heavily over him like a pall in the past hours. He had won Claredon with ease, without bloodshed, yet the victory left a bitter taste in his mouth, reminding him of his dire battles with his despised father. His mere existence had been challenged by his noble father, but he had fought back with a determination forged from torment. He had carved a destiny for himself, driven by revenge, fired by hatred, and eventually he had triumphed.

He had thought—hoped—his acquisition of Claredon would give him the chance to start anew, to prove he deserved the overlordship of such a vast demesne on his own merits, despite his baseborn origins and the scandals that had surrounded him his life long. . . .

Recollecting himself, Ranulf shrugged off the disconcerting reflection. He was not ordinarily given to morose wallowings in his past, nor did he have time for them at present. Reluctantly he returned his attention to Ariane. At the moment he wanted simply to get this infuriating, arousing wench off his hands, and seek ease from his exhaustion. Yet he would have to deal with her.

“I will have your submission, demoiselle, one way or another. I suggest you consider your answer carefully. Your position as political prisoner is tenuous at best. A traitor’s daughter has fewer rights than the meanest serf.”

Ariane regarded him with disdain. “I am no traitor’s daughter, my lord, or a serf. I am your betrothed, or perhaps you had forgotten?”

“I beg to differ, demoiselle,” Ranulf replied with forced casualness, ignoring the sarcasm in her tone. “You no longer hold the position of my intended bride. Our betrothal is at an end. I will not be constrained to wed a traitor.”

From the startled look on her lovely face, he knew he had taken her aback. “I hold the law on my side, I believe. No ecclesiastical court would force me to honor the contract now. As for the benefits of matrimony, I no longer need marry you to possess the lands you would have inherited at your father’s passing. They already belong to me.”

He watched the complex play of emotions in her expressive eyes, none of which was expected. If he had to vouch a guess, he would swear she almost looked hurt.

Her reply was a long time in coming. “After all these years . . . you intend to cast me off like a worn cloak?”

He could not comprehend her reaction, unless she was attempting to play on his sympathies. She had claimed—most emphatically—that she regretted their betrothal. Indeed, her scathing denunciation still rang bitterly in his ears. “I have not cast you off, demoiselle. Your own actions are at fault. Had you surrendered Claredon to me willingly, I would have honored you as my wife.”

Ariane looked away, unable to bear his challenging regard. It wounded her that he could so casually dismiss the years of anguish and uncertainty he had caused her. “I would have done so,” she said quietly, “had you come any time these past five years—even as late as a fortnight ago.”

Ranulf’s mouth tightened. She was behaving as if
she
were the one wronged. Perhaps he
had
been delinquent in claiming her as his bride, but the revulsion and scorn she felt for him was reason enough for him to wish to end the betrothal. And she was the one who had defied a royal command and then compounded the crime by aiding her father’s vassal to escape. She had declared herself his enemy, and should expect no mercy. And yet, irrationally, to his disgust, Ranulf found himself wanting to offer her explanations he was under no obligation to give, even to apologize for repudiating their betrothal.

“I regret that I never came for you,” he said stiffly, “but I cannot undo the past—or countermand Henry’s wishes. My orders are to hold you as hostage.” When still she remained silent, gazing at him with that wounded look of accusation, Ranulf felt a defensive anger seize him. “You should have no complaint about the dissolution of our betrothal, sweeting. Ours was an arranged marriage. Indeed, you clearly told me of your regret just yesterday. A ‘grasping, baseborn pretender to nobility’ is the phrase you used, I believe. You claimed to rue my very name.”

The reminder that she had been tricked into making such a statement filled Ariane with impotent fury and despair. She wanted to strike him, to mar Ranulf’s harsh, handsome face with her nails; she wanted to rail at him, to wound him as he had her. And yet she dared not attempt any outright defiance, not when he held the power of life and death over her and her people.

“I will not protest your decision, my lord.” Her chin lifted proudly, while her voice took on an edge of icy disdain. “I will gladly release you from the contract. Indeed, I could not be persuaded otherwise. After your treachery, I would refuse to wed you under any circumstances.”

Any relief Ranulf felt at her easy acquiescence was countered by the contempt in her proud tone. With effort he clamped down on the ire her declaration aroused in him. He would not be manipulated into a response by this woman—or defied by her, either.

Yet it was a dilemma, how to punish her without being overly cruel. He dared not risk any sign of weakness, and yet he had tied his own hands in dealing with Ariane. Not only would he find physically harming someone so delicate and lovely supremely distasteful, but he had vowed never to subject a woman to the abuse his despised father had displayed toward his mother—or the torment he himself had endured. He refused to sink to such depths of depravity, or take out his violent wrath on creatures frailer and weaker than he.

His gaze swept around the solar, seeking an answer. Having been fully occupied with securing the castle, he’d had no time earlier to inspect his new living quarters. The sight was pleasing. Norman society was enormously more sophisticated than England’s, but the appointments in this chamber compared favorably with the wealthier keeps in Normandy. Far more welcoming than his own solar at Vernay, with none of the disturbing associations, it provided richness without ostentation, comfort without being overly soft for a man of war accustomed to living in army camps.

A huge curtained bed dominated the chamber, while intricately carved chests and thickly padded benches stood in the corners and before the bronze-hooded hearth where embers glowed warmly. The two tall, shuttered embrasures would allow in ample light during the day, and the cushioned seats arranged in the deep-set window alcoves would afford a restful place for ladies engaged in needlework or conversation. There were also several gilt screens for privacy and to reduce drafts, finely woven carpets on the woodplank floor, tapestry hangings to accent the whitewashed walls, and even a brightly painted floral mural deco-rating the stone at the head of the bed.

Slowly Ranulf’s gaze returned to that bed with its rich quilt of brocade and additional coverlets of marten fur. Seeing it reminded him of the current circumstances and his dilemma. He was alone with a beautiful woman who was his prisoner, with no satisfactory notion of what to do with her.

He knew what he would like to do. He wanted her sprawled willingly in that bed, her legs wrapped hard around his hips as he appeased his carnal hunger—

Ranulf muttered an oath beneath his breath. The image of Ariane lying beneath him, her slim, silky body open for his pleasure, made his loins tighten painfully and caused his body to tauten like a bowstring. Yet she was no ill-bred leman to be taken at his pleasure. And the existence of the betrothal contracts constrained him further. He could not touch Ariane, could not consummate their relationship at least, while the legal documents existed, or he would be as good as married to her. No, he would have to find another way to punish her, much to his regret.

But what? He had no desire to keep her imprisoned, and yet he dared not let her have the run of the keep, for she could too easily aid her father’s men to freedom. Even if she gave him her solemn word, he could not trust her to keep it. Nobly born females, in his experience, had an inbred instinct for betrayal. His own mother . . . the wife of his foster lord . . . the ladies of the Norman court . . . all had shown how duplicitous they could be. And Ariane of Claredon had proven the danger in trusting her. He would constantly have to remain on his guard.

His gaze narrowing, Ranulf eyed the bed speculatively. ’Twas a pity he would have to keep his hands off her. One night in his bed and he might manage to compel her submission without any resort to violence. His skill as a lover had rarely been questioned. He knew well how to pleasure a wench and make her respond to his physical persuasions. If this damsel was like the other females of his acquaintance, he could soon have her trembling at his merest touch.

Yet Ariane, he was beginning to suspect, was perhaps a woman of a different stamp. Her regal air, her cool disdain, was as vexing as it was novel. ’Twould be intriguing to see if he could make her yield, if he could melt that haughty manner and turn her scorn to gasping surrender. . . .

Testing the smoothness of his shaven jaw with his palm, Ranulf returned his attention to her, considering her with a measuring gaze. “The hour grows late. It is time to retire.”

She stared at him a long moment, before warily, wordlessly turning toward the door.

“Where do you go, my lady?” Ranulf asked silkily. “I did not give you leave to withdraw.”

“But you said . . . you wanted to retire.”

“So I did. I suggest you prepare for bed.”

“W-What?”

“You can begin by disrobing.”

“You wish for me to
undress
?”

A smile curved his lips. “A clever observation, sweeting. You may make use of my bathwater if you choose. I will be done with it in a moment.”

Ariane stood frozen, staring at him as if he had taken leave of his senses.

“You will remain here for the night,” Ranulf explained vaguely. “I intend to keep you close, since I cannot trust you out of my sight. Doubtless you will find it preferable to being locked below in the dungeon.”

“I would infinitely prefer the dungeon,” she said with more heat than was wise.

“I do not mean to give you the choice. You will remain here where I can keep an eye on you. You will sleep in this chamber, in that bed, willing or no.”

Their gazes warred, but Ranulf refused to relent. He
wanted
her to worry about his intentions. No doubt she would much prefer to be locked chastely in her own apartments instead of being compelled to bear his company. It should prove a humbling experience, being forced to share a bed with him, the grasping knight she scorned as a dishonorable pretender to nobility.