The Warrior (25 page)

“Rome cannot know that,” Ranulf retorted with grim satisfaction. In truth, such claims could easily be disproved, given the resources and political clout, but Ariane had neither—nor the freedom to wage a costly battle in ecclesiastical court. And perhaps the marriage would be dissolved before then. He was frustrated enough to try anything, including inventing evidence against her.

Yet the third justification for annulment would be easiest to establish—and the most difficult to refute. “It has been determined the lady is diseased,” Ranulf added with relentless determination.

Ariane’s heart sank like a stone. She had hoped to make it impossible for Ranulf to repudiate the marriage, but it seemed he would fight her every attempt at fairness.

“And just what disease am I supposed to have contracted, my lord?” she demanded dryly.

“The pox . . . leprosy . . . an illness of the mind, I care not. Naturally you will be confined to your quarters so you cannot inflict your malady on others.” He smiled grimly. “I suspect you would not care for such punishment. Meanwhile, you will enjoy none of the rank or privileges of my lady wife, only those of a slave.”

His hard gaze searched the crowd, and lit on the serving wench, Dena. “You, girl, what is your name?” he demanded in heavily accented English.

The buxom young maid stepped forward hesitantly. “Dena, milord.”

“What are your usual duties?”

“I serve in the kitchens, milord.”

“No longer. Henceforth you are in charge of the hall. And you will assume your lady’s place at meals.”

Stepping up on the dais, he rounded the long table to Ari-ane’s side. Grasping her arm, he pulled her from the carved chair, then pointed a commanding finger at the vacant seat. A collective gasp shuddered through the company. It was a grave insult to raise a serf so high, particularly a trollop such as Dena—and unlawful, as well. Had Ranulf been thinking rationally, he would have admitted that, by law, he could not arbitrarily turn a noblewoman into a slave, or elevate a serf to the position of lady, but his thoughts were in no way rational.

Ignoring the reaction of the crowd, Ranulf turned to address them. “You will call this wench lady no more. She is my slave, nothing more. Until the marriage is annulled, she will serve me as any other menial. You will cease to honor her in any way.”

Ariane closed her eyes in dismay. Ranulf not only had adroitly sidestepped her net, but he was intent on heaping shame upon her.

He kept hold of her arm. “Come, slave,” he ordered in a velvet-steel voice. “Let us retire abovestairs. I see no reason to make our dispute a public display.”

Ariane gritted her teeth. She would much prefer to face Ranulf here, where there would be witnesses to his violence. “But, my lord, I thought you were
fond
of public displays,” she retorted with mock innocence. “You insisted on Claredon’s entire populace hearing my declarations of allegiance, and you openly caressed me in this very hall this morning.”

“Lady . . .”
he warned, his voice rumbling above her like thunder, “you press me too hard.”

Ranulf turned her toward the stairwell and forced her to march before him. Payn followed, catching up to them as they reached the first step. “My lord . . . think carefully of what you do. Do not harm her overmuch.”

“Have you ever known me to raise a hand to a woman?” Ranulf demanded, scowling.

“Nay, but I have never seen you in so murderous a rage—”

“Calm your fears, Payn. I will stop short of murder.”

He would not slay her, Ranulf vowed as he urged Ariane before him, but neither would he countenance her defiance any longer. He would prove his mastery over her—if it took from now till the end of Christendom.

Forcing Ariane up two curving flights of stairs, he marched her past the women’s dormitory and thrust her within the bedchamber she had once called her own. Slamming the door behind them, Ranulf turned to face his bride . . . his enemy.

Ariane stood rubbing her arm, watching him warily. “I will not allow you to repudiate our betrothal,” she repeated, her chin raised stubbornly.

“Allow?”
His brows snapped together. “How many times must I remind you that you no longer have any authority, any rights, at all?”

She fell silent before his fierce scrutiny.

“Your plot was ill advised,” he said finally, his tone pure ice. “You were foolish to think you could force me to wed against my will, or that you could save your skin with a lie.”

“What lie is that my lord?”

“Our union was never consummated, as well you know. I never claimed your virginity.”

“What you did to me this morning was close enough as to make no difference.”

Ranulf gave a sharp bark of laughter. “You are greatly mistaken. What I did to you was just a sample of what I mean to do in the future.”

Alarm flickered in her eyes as he slowly began unbuckling his sword belt. “W-What do you intend to do?”

“Why, merely to prove your veracity.” He did not need a midwife present to examine her and determine if she was a virgin still. He laid the sword and belt on a chest, before he moved purposefully toward her, stalking her. “Just two days ago you claimed you were still a maid who had never had a man. Either you were lying then, or you are lying now. I mean to discover which.”

A sudden dryness welled in her throat as Ranulf came toward her. If he deflowered her now, as angry as he was, he would likely tear her asunder. “It will be rape.”

“If it so suits you.” His eyes fierce with fury, with passion, he reached out and caught her, pulling her inexorably into his arms.

“Nay!” she exclaimed, an instant before his mouth crushed down upon hers, smothering her angry words.

She writhed and fought to no avail; Ranulf simply closed his fist in her hair and held her still for his mouth, his tongue prying her lips apart in a fierce, hungry assault.

Ariane felt her heart hammering violently. Her head was held back, her spine arching until her breasts were pressed full against his mailed chest. Yet she would not plead or beg for mercy. He had none.

His tongue plundered, subduing her, robbing her of breath. She whimpered, but Ranulf paid no heed to her protests. His arms folded tightly about her in a merciless grip that would not permit her to move, his battle-clad thighs forged against hers.

He would not beat or maim or torture her, he vowed as he bent her to his will. He would merely frighten her into admitting the truth, force her to give up her scheme. He would merely punish her with his embrace and let her imagine the worst. . . .

The damning truth was, though, he had no desire to threaten her with physical violence. He wanted to punish her with pleasure instead. He wanted her mindless and gasping beneath him. He wanted to appease this relentless desire he had for her, to satisfy his fierce need to plunge hot and deep inside her, and perhaps to ease at last the raging ardor she awoke in him. God’s breath, how he wanted her! Anger and arousal made his blood surge hot, his body harden and throb; he was driven by a force more powerful than his fury. Holding her hard against him, he anchored her head and devoured her mouth, a low, guttural noise sounding deep in his throat.

Unable to escape, Ariane opened helplessly to his plundering invasion. She tried to recall the countless reasons she should resist him, tried to remember the shaming memories of her recent surrender, and yet reason fled.

A strange warmth began to grow in the depths of her body, setting her pulse racing. Weak, dazed, Ariane found herself clasping Ranulf to her as she yielded to his flaming kisses, even as dismay licked at the edges of her consciousness. She would have to fight herself as much as him if this continued. She felt as if she were drowning in his possession. . . .

She heard Ranulf give a growl, raw and primitive, and almost cried out loud when he broke off his heated kiss. Her knees would have buckled had his large hands not been cupping her buttocks, but he supported her fully as his mouth moved hotly over her throat. Helplessly Ariane moaned, clutching at his powerful shoulders. “Ranulf . . .”

Ranulf froze at her hoarse plea for fulfillment. Suddenly he cursed, squeezing his eyes shut as desperately he fought for control, as he strove for sanity. How had he become so carried away when he had not even wanted to touch her? His rod was stiff and aching beneath his tunic, his body throbbing with forbidden need. He had been so hot to have her that he had forgotten his purpose in embracing her, forgotten this deceitful wench was his enemy. This was precisely what she wanted—for him to consummate their union.

“No, by the Saints! As God is my witness, you will not win. . . .”

His hands came up to grasp her shoulders as firmly he set her away from him. He would not allow her to work her wiles to gain his surrender.

He stood staring down at her, breathing hard as he fought the urge to drag her back into his embrace. In the contest of wills, he had lost this skirmish. His threat of physical violence had not been enough to frighten her. “You will pay fully for your treachery, wench. I will make your life a misery—I swear it! Henceforth all the meanest tasks in the castle will be yours. If you thought serving as my squire was humbling, you will find your new duties thrice as onerous.”

No longer believing in his own self-discipline, Ranulf released her and forced himself to take a step back. His eyes swept her. “I will leave you as untouched as I found you. If you have a care for your skin, you will keep out of my sight until an annulment is granted and I can be rid of you for good.”

His amber eyes fierce, Ranulf turned on his heel and stalked from the chamber, the door he had slammed reverberating in his wake.

Staring after him in dismay, Ariane raised a hand to her bruised lips, her thoughts a welter of confusion.

She had not wanted him to go. She had wanted him to remain with her. She had wanted his touch, his possession, wanted him to take her.

How was it possible? Ranulf was her enemy, the man she had sworn to hate. Yet she had melted instantly at his touch. His fierce kisses had turned her blood to fire; the scent and taste of him still burned in her memory.
Sweet Virgin, what was she to do?
He had left her aching with longing, her body trembling with need and regret.

Daunted, she touched her fingers to her aching lips, still hot and tender from his assault. She had survived his fury for the time being, yet she had lost this battle, just as she feared she would lose all the ones in the future.

Ranulf had thwarted her attempt at justice, vowing to annul their marriage and force her to serve as his slave. Yet his method of revenge was not what alarmed her. What frightened her most was how he could command her body at will.

11

Ranulf had a revolt on his hands.

It began so subtly that at first he was not even aware of it, but as frequent, inexplicable accidents and incidents of subversion occurred all over the keep, he realized the Claredon castlefolk were up in arms against him, on behalf of their lady.

The first incident befell him two days after he had relegated Ariane to the life of a castle drudge. The dishes of his midday meal were so salted as to render them inedible, the wine so foul, he suspected it of being poisoned. Gagging, Ranulf spat it out and bellowed for the castle cook.

The large-bellied man who came hurrying up from the kitchens put on a humble show and professed his abject apologies to the lord, lamenting that he had been too liberal with the salt, vowing that his hand had slipped over the wine barrel.

When, disbelieving, Ranulf tersely suggested the former lady of Claredon might have been involved in a bungled attempt to poison him, the accusation was vehemently denied. Unable to prove otherwise, Ranulf repressed the urge to clout the oaf, but as punishment, forced him to drink the flagon of wine, watching in grim satisfaction when the man raced for the garderobe to empty his stomach.

His satisfaction faded that afternoon when he discovered that a dozen saddle girths had been cut, not clear through, but enough to avoid obvious detection and cause injury if they gave way while in use. Roaring his displeasure, Ranulf had every groom and lackey in the stables dragged before him for questioning, but no one admitted to the deed.