The Warrior (2 page)

Ranulf glanced back down at her sharply, as if in surprise. “And do you always agree with your father, my lady?”

She wrinkled her nose. “No, seldom, in truth. He claims it is my greatest failing.”

Ranulf chuckled faintly, a rough, rusty sound that made Ariane certain he was not a man who laughed often.

“Indeed, I suspect Father is so eager to be rid of me, he is grateful you are here to court me.”

“Court?” The tall knight grimaced slightly. “I am a soldier, demoiselle, not a poet.” The smile that played on his lips was self-deprecating, endearing somehow. “I know little of wooing a lady.”

She was certain he was wrong. If this strong, charismatic man put his mind to it, he could seduce the birds from the trees, Ariane suspected.

“Well, I know even less about courtship,” she answered boldly, “so you need not fear I will judge you harshly. You are my first suitor.”

“Your first? I cannot credit it. Can it be that the men in England are blind?”

Now she
knew
he was teasing her and being kind. She could make little claim to beauty, with her ungainly height and freckles that accompanied her fair skin and hair. She well knew her noble birth and the rich demesne of Claredon were her prime advantages.

“Alas,” she replied with a rueful laugh, “my appearance has little to say to the matter. My father refused to entertain the idea of suitors for me until he was certain which way the political winds blew.”

Ranulf studied her speculatively. “You are not afraid to speak your mind, I see.”

Wondering if his remark was a criticism, Ariane found herself flushing. Her lady mother had always warned that her wayward tongue would plunge her into trouble someday. Perhaps she
had
been too bold with Lord Ranulf, but her intuition told her he would not want a meek bride. Her chin rose slightly. “No, and I am not afraid to wed you, either, my lord.”

He smiled then. Fully. A slow, tender, sensual smile that softened his harsh features and made Ariane’s heart suddenly trip over itself. Unprepared for the intimate rush of warmth that suddenly rioted through her, she blinked at the dazzling sight, feeling as if the sun had burst from behind the clouds.

Was
this
what her women had admired and envied earlier? This bold, masculine appeal that held all the shock of a lightning bolt? Was it possible for a single smile to win a damsel’s heart?

Then Ranulf raised a gentle hand to brush her lower lip with the tip of a forefinger. He had barely touched her, yet her pulse skittered wildly, while a strange heat blossomed inside her, sending her emotions into a wild state of confusion.

Ariane stared up at him in mute bewilderment, startled by the feelings that had sprung to life at his slightest caress, the strange sensations that quivered through her body. Never had she been so vitally aware of being female than at this moment. Never before had she been shaken by a man’s touch.

“Then we are agreed, my lady? The betrothal will go forward?”

“Yes, my lord,” she murmured breathlessly.

When Ranulf held out his hand to her, Ariane shivered, not from apprehension, but from fascination and excitement and anticipation. She
wanted
this man for her husband, she realized. She wanted to wed this powerful, magnificent knight who cared enough to concern himself with her feelings and her fears. Who could make her tremble with merely a smile and a touch. Despite the rumors of his terrible past, she desired to be part of his future.

Hope took wing in her heart as she placed her trembling fingers in Ranulf’s hand. They would have a good marriage, Ariane vowed silently, remembering the reluctance she had sensed in him. She would endeavor to make Ranulf a good wife, strive never to give him cause to regret this day.

With a tremulous smile, Ariane clutched the rose he had given her and allowed the Black Dragon of Vernay to lead her back to Claredon’s tower and the betrothal celebration within.

1

Vernay Keep, Normandy: November 1154

The warm lips nuzzling his bare skin no longer had the power to arouse him, nor did the cool, silken hair trailing provocatively over his naked back. Ranulf lay sprawled on his stomach upon the musky linen sheets, sated and spent, his body glistening with sweat after his exertions. Pleasing two lusty wenches at once taxed even a man of his strength and stamina.

Yet Layla continued her merciless assault with mouth and tongue, her lush, opulent curves pressing erotically against him, her nails sending delicate shivers racing along his spine, her teeth intermittently nipping his buttocks with a sharpness that was just short of pain.

“Enough,” he muttered huskily—a command he lacked the energy to enforce.

When she bent to offer a luscious breast to him, teasing her dusky nipple against his mouth, Ranulf patiently averted his head. When she threaded her fingers through his raven hair and tugged insistently, he merely caught her wrist and pried loose her grip. It was only when Layla scraped her nails in a deliberate path over his scarred back that he finally reacted; she knew quite well such probing of his scars was forbidden, even though he had been unable to break her of the habit.

“
Cease,
wench.”

At his sharp tone, the ripe young body at his other side flinched, and Ranulf had to murmur gently to Flore and stroke her soothingly till she curled against him once more.

For temperament, he much preferred the petite, fair-haired Flore to the voluptuous Layla, whose ebony tresses were as dark as his own. Flore was a sweetly submissive Norman wench, always eager to do his bidding, whereas the foreign Layla had a grasping, querulous nature. Only because of her exquisite skills did he humor the beautiful Saracen.

“I seek simply to pleasure you, lord,” she said petulantly in her thick, honeyed accents. “You know well Layla pleases you far better than any other.”

Ranulf could not dispute her claim. Stolen from her family and enslaved in an infidel brothel, Layla had been trained in the sexual arts of the East, and knew well how to satisfy a man and bring his desire to a fever pitch.

If he also gained a bitter measure of satisfaction in possessing the exotic concubine his detested father had brought back from the Holy Land . . . well then, he would not deny himself the pleasure, even if he was perforce required to bear with Layla’s sharp tongue and acid jealousy. He could have chosen from a dozen peasant wenches just as eager to warm his bed, and yet tonight he had needed the fierce release the Saracen could bring him. He needed to forget. Summoning Flore at the same time only increased the odds that he would find respite from the demons that shadowed him.

“You are cruel to Layla, lord,” she complained, running her tongue over her pouting lower lip.

“Methinks thrice is enough,” Ranulf retorted, his tone dry, “even for a woman of your passion.”

In answer, she captured his hand and held it to the satiny flesh of her generous breast. “You dislike my passion? You desire Layla no longer?”

Ranulf grinned unwillingly as he gave her taut nipple a playful squeeze. “You would have to geld me to quench my desire for you, wench. But it is time for you to seek your own pallet.” When Layla made to protest, Ranulf raised his powerful body up on one elbow. “You know my wishes. I sleep alone.”

In truth, he was not singling her out for punishment by sending her away. His solitary slumber was a self-imposed rule. Though he took great pleasure in the female body, he rarely lingered with a woman. Too much sensual indulgence bred softness in a warrior; a knight who cavorted too often grew lazy and careless.

When Layla refused to budge, Ranulf gave her bare flank a mild cuff, which made her squeal in mock protest.

Defiantly, she lay back upon the dishevelled pillows, gazing up at him with languorous, seductive eyes. Provocatively her long fingers played over her sumptuous breasts, caressing the dusky crimson nipples in erotic invitation, while her lush thighs spread for his masculine appreciation. “Once more, lord, I beg you. . . .”

Despite her disobedience, Ranulf gave a rough chuckle. He was sated enough at the moment to be amused at her tactics, and wise enough to relent. Sometimes it behooved a man to let a wench win small victories so that she yielded more readily in important matters.

“Once more, then.” His fingers splayed over the smooth mound between her thighs, shaved bare in the Saracen style . . . parting the damp, passion-flushed lips, seeking the tender nubbin that was a woman’s delight.

Layla drew a sharp breath and closed her eyes, while her legs opened wide, giving his stroking fingers full access to her heated, dewy center. With controlled expertise, he caressed the slick flesh, sliding slowly inside the hot, sleek moistness. Layla quivered with arousal. In merely moments a throaty moan of rapture escaped her; her head fell back in ecstasy as she arched her supple back, her voluptuous, golden body undulating in the flickering candlelight.

Ranulf viewed her breathless, writhing response with gratification. Layla deserved to be rewarded for her earlier exquisite ministrations. She had provided him comfort tonight; it was only fair he reciprocate. Indeed, for the past fortnight—ever since he’d returned home to Vernay to cool his heels and await a summons from Duke Henry—Layla had succored him frequently. He should feel more remorse, perhaps, at relaxing his own strict custom of self-denial. Yet if he indulged his lust more often than usual when occupying Vernay Keep, it was because the diversion helped keep the memories at bay.

Restlessly, Ranulf lifted his gaze from the panting woman in his bed to glance beyond the open bed curtains. The solar at Vernay, where the lord slept and spent his leisure, remained a cold, stark, spartan chamber, devoid of comforts other than a roaring fire in the hearth and an occasional tapestry draping the stone walls to thwart the chill. He had refused to change a single appointment since his father’s tenancy, perversely determined to preserve the bitter evidence of his past.

Yet
he
was lord here now, Ranulf reminded himself. The honor of Vernay belonged to
him,
given to him in fief by Duke Henry, along with a charter of nobility that had reinstated him to his rightful rank. He was a disinherited, landless castoff no longer.

For all his present power and wealth, though, he could not quell the unease that always assaulted him in this chamber—the place where his father had flayed the flesh from his back. Even now, his skin turned clammy with dread each time he entered these apartments, for he could not help recalling the terror and pain of his youth. He had no need even to shut his eyes to remember crouching there against the far wall as a child, naked and trembling, waiting to endure the punishment of a vengeful sire. Not even the current consolation of heated female flesh could completely drive away the memories—although it made up in some measure for the countless hours of fear and torment he had suffered here.

The distant blare of the night watchman’s horn brought Ranulf’s head up like a wolf scenting the wind. At his sudden tensing, Layla’s eyes flew open.

“Nay! My lord . . . you cannot cease. . . .” Her demanding tone was sharp and insistent—and breathless as well.

He smiled faintly as his brutal memories faded. “We have time.”

And they would. Any new arrival must first await the lowering of the drawbridge, then ride through the outer and inner baileys before seeking entrance to Vernay’s tower.

He had the leisure to bring Layla to fulfillment.

Yet even before the grateful, sobbing woman had collapsed against him, Ranulf’s thoughts had already moved ahead to review his plans. If the new arrival was indeed the duke’s messenger with a summons, it meant King Stephen had died and Henry was preparing to claim his rightful crown as king of England. And since Henry was certain to be met with resistance, he would need to raise adequate forces to ensure the successful assumption of power.

Ranulf felt anticipation swell at the promised conflict. Not only was he willing to supply the knight’s fees he owed his liege, he was impatient to take up arms for Henry. He had remained idle too long, his battle sword and lance growing rusty with disuse. For the past three months and more, peace had reigned in Normandy. There had been no rebellions, no skirmishes, not even a nearby tourney where he could hone his skills and exhaust his frustrations in the melee or increase his wealth by capturing enemy knights for ransom.