The Warrior (13 page)

She dreamed of her lover again. A haunting, erotic fantasy that faded like wisps of smoke as dawn stole through the shuttered windows.

Ariane was startled awake from a fitful doze, conscious of an incredible feeling of sadness. Only in slow increments did she become aware of other vivid sensations: a corded arm curled possessively about her waist . . . the searing heat of a hard, male body at her back . . . a fierce yearning within her that rose hot and formless and powerful.

Ranulf.

Sweet Mary. . . .

She froze, aware of his enveloping embrace, of his shaft, throbbing and hard, pressed against her buttocks, even through the layers of her clothing. For a score of heartbeats, Ariane lay there rigidly, not daring to move. She could hear Ranulf’s breathing, soft and even, feel his relaxed pose. . . .

Merciful God . . . he still slept.

Holding her breath, Ariane eased from beneath his arm and slipped from the bed. Silently, she fled to the sanctuary of the window alcove where she curled shivering on the cushioned seat. After the warmth of Ranulf’s bed, her rumpled bliaud provided little protection from the morning chill. And no garment could shield her from her shameful, traitorous thoughts. She could still feel the boldness of his body imprinting his maleness onto her, still sense the heated yearning that had swept through her at his unconscious embrace.

Mother Mary, what had come over her? Her only excuse was that her defenses had been sorely weakened. For the second straight night, she had scarcely slept, and her nerves were strained by fear and exhaustion.

Hearing a slight noise, Ariane glanced warily back at Ranulf. He had shifted his position to sprawl across the huge bed, a starkly masculine figure against the flaxen-hued sheets. Her attention caught, she studied his slumbering form, wondering how he could look so commanding and forceful even in sleep.

His face was drawn in clean, harsh angles, the features sensuously, ruthlessly chiseled. His heavy, slashing brows were black as night, his nose strong and hawkish, the chin square with a slight cleft. Long, ebony lashes closed over eyes she knew were a shade of brown that was nearly gold.

As for his body . . . Ariane bit her lip in dismay. That she found Ranulf physically appealing mortified as well as infuriated her. She was no longer the nervous, tongue-tied girl he had once awed, yet she couldn’t deny her fascination with him now. Old habits were difficult to forswear. She had dreamed of this man as her lover, the idol of all her girlhood fantasies. . . .

Abruptly she shook her head. She would crush her attraction for him if it took every ounce of strength she possessed. Ranulf was a cold, heartless devil, the man who held her hostage. She had wasted five of the best years of her life waiting and yearning for him—and he had cruelly shattered her most cherished dreams without a single measure of remorse, repudiating their betrothal contract as casually as he would cast aside a cloak that had outserved its purpose.

Curse you, Ranulf de Vernay.
He cared nothing for her. Worse, he considered her a traitor for closing the castle to him and for helping her father’s vassal escape. The man who should have been her lord and husband was now her bitter enemy.

The only fortunate turn was that she did not have to fear his ravishment. As Ranulf had pointed out, if he were to consummate their union, they would be wedded in the eyes of the Church. And the very thought was repugnant to him.

Ariane shut her eyes, trying to swallow the bitterness that choked her, to deny the pricking warmth of threatening tears. Lamenting lost dreams would serve no useful purpose. She must focus her efforts on the future, on safeguarding the people and home she loved. They depended upon her to shield them, to fight for them.

If she tried, perhaps she could atone in some measure for her inability to defend Claredon, to somehow assuage the guilt she felt for failing her father. Walter had brought them safely through years of civil war and lawlessness, only to have his demesne fall to a warlord who should have been an ally. And to be accused of treason for taking part in a revolt against the new king. . . . Ariane could never believe her father guilty of such foolish defiance, especially not when he so wanted peace for England. Certainly he had not been contemplating treason weeks ago when he’d left Claredon for Mortimer’s keep at Bridgenorth.

Yet now her father’s life might very well be forfeit. She had lost his demesne, the one thing that might have aided his cause and given him power to bargain with. Even if by God’s mercy his life was spared, the punishment for treason was severe. The thought of her father blind or without hands or genitals caused hot tears to well up in her throat.

Ariane pressed a hand to her mouth to hold back the sob trembling inside her, yet she couldn’t prevent the tears from spilling over. Blessed Virgin, she was utterly helpless to aid him. At present she could not even find the strength to fight the desolation assaulting her. . . . Burying her face in her hands, she gave in to strain and despair and softly wept.

“I do not recall granting you permission to leave my bed, demoiselle.”

The husky, sleep-laden sound of Ranulf’s voice startled her. Choking back her sobs, Ariane turned abruptly to find golden eyes above a hawklike nose surveying her intently. She swallowed thickly and hastily wiped at her eyes. Her humiliation at her defeat was great enough without adding the shame of weeping before him.

“Come here,” he commanded quietly.

For a moment she hesitated, but the implacable look in his eyes brooked no defiance and she closed the distance to the bed. To her shock and dismay, Ranulf reached out to grasp a handful of her gown, and with a gentle tug, pulled her down to sit beside him on the bed.

He studied her for a long moment, trying to discern if the emotion glistening in her eyes was genuine or feigned, if the soft sound of her sobbing when he’d awakened had been a calculated ploy for sympathy. He did not want to see the misery etched in her lovely face, and yet he could not completely trust it. In truth, he trusted no women and few men. And the cool, bewitching beauty of this particular damsel, with her spiky-wet lashes and trembling mouth, doubly set him on his guard.

His urge to touch her was strong—and keenly disconcerting. He understood the desire that tugged at his loins. His customary morning arousal had made him hard and throbbing beneath the bed linens, yet he was well familiar with waking in such a painful state—and having so haunting a wench so near at hand did nothing to cool his blood. Yet the softer feelings running rampant inside him bewildered him. The urge to draw Ariane into his arms, to hold and comfort her and kiss away her sorrow, was a novel, startling experience for him. He had never embraced a woman merely to offer comfort, without lust driving him.

Determinedly Ranulf steeled himself against the need to console her. He did not wish her to see how much he desired her, or perceive how her tears affected him. He would not give her such weapons to use over him, or allow her to think she could employ her womanly attributes to advance her position. At the moment she sat stiffly beside him, her delicate chin lifted at a defiant angle, her gaze wary.

“Why were you weeping?”

“I was not weeping,” she replied, the tremor in her voice belying her words.

“No?” He raised a hand to brush a teardrop from her cheek with his forefinger. “What is this wetness on your face, then?” When she remained silent, Ranulf narrowed his gaze. “I cannot be manipulated by tears, demoiselle. Or swayed by womanly arts.”

Vexation shot through Ariane at his callous assumption of her motives. She had too much pride ever to use such ploys, and lacked the talent besides. Never having been to court, she had little experience in flirtation or persuading a man to do her bidding. Furthermore, her mother’s teaching had always stressed honesty and principle when dealing with others.

“I doubt a man of your stamp would understand how a woman could succumb to despair in a moment of weakness,” she muttered.

He winced inwardly at the scorn in her tone.
A man of your stamp.
Ariane knew of the scandal surrounding his birth, evidently. Knew he had been forced to claw his way up to the ranks of nobility. A highborn lady like she would not consider him good enough to aspire to her hand. Only his possession of Vernay had made it possible.

Ranulf looked at her sharply, refusing to let her see how her words cut. “I asked a question of you, lady, and I expect a truthful answer. Why did you weep?”

Ariane averted her gaze. “My father has been condemned as a traitor . . . I bear the shame for losing his demesne . . . I am your prisoner . . . you repudiated our betrothal . . . I believe I have ample cause to weep.”

“You have naught to be ashamed of regarding the fall of this keep. Your defeat was inevitable.”

“That is not so! You would never have taken Claredon had you not resorted to deception and guile.”

Willfully Ranulf ignored her accusation, quelling his resentment in favor of logic. “The fact that I averted bloodshed and the expense of a long siege by my ruse does not soothe your conscience?”

Ariane shook her head sadly. “My father depended upon me.”

“And my king depended on me,” Ranulf replied reasonably. “I but carried out Henry’s commands. Surely you can understand that.”

“You will never convince me that securing your own interests was not your chief goal.”

“Indeed it was. But only consider my position. I could not have allowed you to challenge my authority. I would have appeared a fool could I not even manage to control my own betrothed.”

It stung her that he would put forth so rational an argument in so reasonable a tone, but before she could think of a proper rebuttal, he quizzed her on another point she had introduced.

“You said you would gladly dissolve our betrothal. Did you speak true?”

Her chin rose regally. “I do not lie, my lord.”

“Then why do you weep over it?”

“Merely because I no longer desire to marry
you
does not mean I have no wish to marry at all.”

Ranulf eyed her thoughtfully, wondering what troubled her. She was still young and beautiful enough—incredibly so—to easily attract another suitor. “I see no reason you cannot still wed. Even a maid of your”—his gaze raked her while his tone turned dry—“advanced years should still be able to garner a husband.”

“After your rejection? Without a marriage portion to bring to my new lord? I suspect you have made a future marriage for me impossible.”

He’d had little to do with the loss of her inheritance, actually; her father’s treason was to blame. “Not impossible, demoiselle. Perhaps it is unfair that your father’s castle was awarded to me . . . but your lack of dowry should not be an insurmountable impediment to marriage. You are not ill favored. For a noble maiden still intact, there are always men seeking a bride. Mayhap some of my own vassals might be interested.”

“They would be willing to take your leavings?”

“Leavings?”

“Who would credit my maiden status after you forced me to sleep in your bed?”

His brow clearing, he laughed—confounding her completely. “Who would credit that I allowed a wench to pass the whole night with me? Especially one of your class. No one who knows me well would accuse me of defiling you. My aversion to noblewomen is well known—and so is my ability to find wenches willing to share my bed. I have no need to resort to ravishment, I assure you. No, they will consider you my hostage, nothing more. Do not fret overmuch on that score.”

She looked skeptical and faintly puzzled. “How easy it is for you to mock my pain.”

His gaze softened. “I do not mock you, lady.” He paused, searching her face. “Is marriage so important to you, then?”

“It is to any woman. A man may fight and compete in tourneys and travel the land. A woman has only her home and family to care for.” Biting her lip, she looked away. “I no longer have either.”

Ranulf shifted uncomfortably. He was not accustomed to feeling guilt, yet he felt a flash of it now. He had never considered her perspective. He’d thought a girl so young would be content to remain in her father’s castle, rather than be hauled off to Normandy as the bride of the Black Dragon—but perhaps he’d merely persuaded himself of her reticence to justify his delay, to ease his conscience for not proceeding with the marriage. He should have come for her sooner, certainly. Then again, Ariane professed to loathe him. She had less desire to wed him than he did her.

“You could always enter a nunnery,” he suggested lamely when she remained silent.

Ariane shook her head. “I am not fitted for the church. My lady mother always said . . .” She faltered, realizing she had strayed to dangerous ground.

“Yes? What said your mother?”

“That my tongue was too barbed for the peace of a convent.”

Ranulf’s hard mouth curved in a sudden grin. “A wise woman, your mother. I have had a taste of that barbed tongue.” He noted the flash of fire in Ariane’s eyes with satisfaction, strangely preferring that show of spirit to her despair. “The Lady Constance . . . I met her but once at the betrothal ceremony, she was all that was gracious. She died some years past?”

Ariane stiffened at the reminder. “We lost her four springs ago,” she said carefully, reluctant to discuss her beloved mother’s passing. What the world knew was not the truth, but it would have to suffice.

“You mourn her loss?”

“Aye . . . keenly.” That much was certainly true.

He heard the sadness in her voice, saw the grief in her eyes. Involuntarily, Ranulf raised his hand to stroke the elegant hollow beneath her cheekbone, but she flinched at his touch and pulled back.

Shifting his weight, he pushed the pillows behind his back and sat up, drawing Ariane’s gaze to his powerful bare torso, to the soft mat of curling hair on his chest. Seeing it, she recalled the feel of him last night when she had tried to ward Ranulf off, and felt a quickening in her body that was totally unexpected.

“I would rather not be doomed to maidenhood,” she murmured in an attempt to return the conversation to the subject at hand.