The Warrior (31 page)

“But you did intervene. Thus . . .”—he smiled down at her blandly—“it is up to you to make amends.”

When she stared up at him in puzzlement, Ranulf’s eyebrow lifted. “I wanted a wench tonight, yet you drove her away. But you will serve as well as Dena.”

“
Serve,
my lord?” Her breath seemed too shallow.

“If you do not wish the castle wenches pleasuring and entertaining me, then you must needs provide such service yourself.”

Ariane took a step back, her nails digging into her palms. “You have no right to require I serve you that way.”

A cool smile touched his lips. “You forget, it is my right as lord to take any serf in my demesne.”

Their gazes locked, warred. Ariane felt her temper rise, along with her resentment. In her shock at Ranulf’s abrupt reversal, she had momentarily forgotten her goal to consummate their betrothal. Now that Ranulf seemed willing, however, she was no longer quite so eager for the union. She had dreamed of this man making her his own, yearned for it, but not in anger, not in vengeance or as punishment for minor misdeeds. She wanted Ranulf to take her in love.

There was no sign of love or even tenderness in his expression now. Only a dangerous, seductive male arrogance that clearly said he intended to have his way, whatever her desires.

Her chin lifted. “I forget nothing, my lord. Indeed, I recall clearly your promise to wed me. I also remember that the Church considers me your
wife,
not your serf.”

Ranulf did not rise to the bait. “The marriage will soon be annulled.”

“Perhaps. Then again, perhaps not. There is a chance the Church will side with me.”

He smiled, almost lazily. “The issue is in the hands of the Pope now.”

“So it seems.”

“However . . .” He reached out to finger a lock of her silken hair. “As long as you have falsely declared yourself my wife, I see no reason I should not enjoy the entitlements of a husband. No one will gainsay me.”

“What . . . do you mean?”

“You are my possession. Why should I not avail myself of your lovely body?”

His voice had dropped to a sensual caress, making the insult sound like a promise of pleasure. Ariane felt herself go rigid as she tried to repress the thrill that quivered through her. “You would make me your whore?”

Unperturbed, Ranulf shook his head. “You speak in contradictions, demoiselle. You cannot be both whore and wife.”

“I can, if you refuse to acknowledge me as your wife.”

“I will never acknowledge you as such,” he replied.

“I will not whore for you!”

“And yet you will for other men.”

“What are you saying?”

“You lied about my ravishing you, so it is not unreasonable to assume you lied about other circumstances. For all I know, you may have shared your charms with half the men of your father’s garrison.”

She struck him then, drew her arm back and slapped his face with her open palm.

Ariane stared in horror at the livid imprint of her hand on his cheek. To her astonishment, Ranulf’s mouth curved in a slow grin as he rubbed the offended flesh. “I like you better fighting me. A spirited wench provides far better sport than a docile one.”

“Sport!” Her eyes flashed with fury. “Oh, you . . . you . . . arrogant oaf! If you want sport, you should go back to your leman!”

His arm shot out to wrap around Ariane’s waist. With inexorable insistence, Ranulf drew her to him, making her feel the desire that was so compellingly clear in the bulging contours beneath his tunic. “I want no other wench,” he murmured. “I want you.”

She started to struggle, but his hold was unbreakable. “You mean to rape me?” she demanded breathlessly.

“Rape or seduction . . . you may choose.” The light in his eyes clearly said he knew which one she would eventually choose.

He bent his head then. With unwavering determination, Ranulf captured her mouth, intent on sensual mastery.

He had waited long enough for her surrender. For too long he had tolerated her defiance, had maintained his rigid self-control, when there was no need. She should be sharing his bed instead of driving him to madness. The marriage would be annulled or not, regardless of whether he had her now, whether he satisfied his fierce craving for her, and he could contain his need no longer.

He was a fool to have denied himself all this time. Why should he not enjoy what was his until the annulment was granted? He had resisted the moment of surrender for fear of exposing his weakness, his vulnerability to her, defying the power she had to bewitch his mind and control his body. But he was done fighting himself.

At her soft sound of protest, Ranulf gentled his mouth the slightest measure, but he refused to release her. He could feel his loins tighten in a fiery ache of anticipation. In moments he would have her beneath him, mounted and penetrated. If she was not a virgin, if she had played him false with other lovers, there would be no question as to whom she now belonged.

Then, God willing, his feverish desire for her would end. Once he had her, he would at last be delivered from the insane yearning that had tormented him for days. He could be rid of his wild obsession for her.

The tumult of his feelings showed in the passion he showered on her. He kissed her possessively, his tongue plumbing the depths of her honeyed sweetness. She resisted the domination of his mouth at first, wedging her palms against his chest, but he thwarted her by catching her wrists and twining her arms around his neck. Before she could escape, one of his hands swept downward to cup her buttocks, the other arm tightening at her waist.

Moments later, he felt a tiny shudder run through Ariane, heard the soft moan dredged from deep in her throat, a bewitching sound of surrender. His own passions spurred and heightened by her submission, Ranulf deepened his kiss, marking her as his, demanding, possessing . . . exulting when her arms closed around him of their own accord.

When finally he released her mouth and raised his head, Ariane stared wildly into his bright, triumphant eyes. She could read the truth there: the time for waiting was over.

She closed her own eyes and swayed against him, feeling the hard bulge of his sex throb against the soft yielding of her loins. He had won. She would not fight Ranulf, even though he desired her merely to appease his lustful appetites. He still refused to acknowledge her as his wife, still intended to annul their marriage, but she would not dwell on the sinfulness of a carnal relationship without the sanction of the marriage vows. She
wanted to consummate their union, and not simply to strengthen her legal position as his wife. She wanted Ranulf, wanted his kisses, his caresses, his possession. And she wanted to try to conquer his hostility. Perhaps if she surrendered fully to him, she could persuade him to change his mind about her, could make him see that she was not the treasonous jade he thought her.

She could only pray he would not hurt her overmuch. She had known no man intimately. Ranulf was so powerful, so strong, that he could crush her with one hand, or split her apart if he took her roughly. Some primal instinct assured her that he would not harm her, yet she had never been able to trust her senses where this man was concerned.

“Ranulf,” she whispered, her eyes imploring him to be gentle. “I have no desire to fight you. Show me what you want of me
. . . how to please you.”

Ranulf’s own eyes darkened at her surrender. He took a deep breath, trying to slow the hammering of his blood, grateful that she was willing to yield. He had never forced a woman to his will. He had no taste for rape, especially not with this woman, whose cool, regal beauty and defiant spirit had bewitched him from the first. If she ever knew the power she held over him . . . God help him. . . .

His real need was to conquer her with pleasure; he would be truly satisfied with nothing less. Experience told him he need not worry. The persuasive passion that was appreciated by his own castle wenches would stand him in good stead now. And yet Ariane was like no woman he had ever known. This tumult he felt inside—this warm burgeoning in his chest—was like no other feeling he had ever experienced. It shocked him to realize his hands trembled.

“Seduction, then,” he murmured, the words a husky, heated rasp against her lips as he gently drew her close in another devastating kiss, this one to seal their pact.

Almost reverently then, he loosened the drawstring at her gown’s neckline, and drew down the bodice, baring her beautiful breasts that loomed eager for a man’s caress. Her rose-hued nipples were already taut with arousal, he saw with primitive satisfaction. Bending his head, he captured one in his mouth.

In shock, Ariane drew a sharp breath as she felt the strong pull on the distended bud. Incredible heat washed over her, made more intense by the gentle lashing of his tongue.
What was he doing to her? ’Twas indecent that he should suckle her like a babe. And yet she could not find the strength to push him away. Her fingers clutched at his shoulders, even while her knees grew weak.

He subjected her other nipple to the same light, exquisitely gentle washing by his tongue, the same searing, wet heat. To her dismay then, he left off his attentions and began to undress her. In a few moments Ranulf had removed her clothing and she stood naked before him, her skin flushed with embarrassment and desire.

After a slow, rapt scrutiny of her body, however, he no longer seemed engrossed by her nudity. He was staring at the abraded skin on her shoulders and neck made by the rough wool of her tunic.

“Your garments did this?” he asked, reaching out to trace the rash with his fingertips.

Ariane winced and nodded warily.

The concern he felt mellowed the sharp desire to a softer longing. Needing to touch her, to assuage her pain, he stepped closer and bent to place a soft kiss on the line of her collarbone. The delicate contact was incredibly light, and yet she felt it intensely, as if his lips were smoldering coals.

Ariane gazed up at him in confusion. She couldn’t understand why Ranulf was being so gentle with her. When was her punishment to begin? He acted not as if he meant to wreak vengeance on her; in truth, he treated her as if she were something precious.

Without a word, he lifted her in his arms as though she were nearly weightless, and carried her to the bed. Lowering her to the soft marten fur, Ranulf gave her a kiss that was ravishing in its tenderness, then stood back to undress.

Suddenly breathless, Ariane watched him, unable to look away.

Loosening the underarm laces of his tunic, he drew it over his head and tossed it aside. His shirt followed, exposing the corded muscles bulging in his arms and shoulders and powerful chest. Her eyes darkened at seeing the healing gouges on Ranulf’s side, the fresh scars reminding her of how he had been assaulted by his enemies . . . her people.

His shoes and chainse came next, baring iron-hewn thighs and strong calves. Ranulf’s bold gaze met hers as his hands went to the waist tie of his braies. When he tugged them down over his hips and stood, Ariane’s breath caught in her throat. He was fully aroused, his blatant erection rock-hard and straining to his navel, rising proudly from the crisp, black hair at his groin.

She trembled at the enormous, pulsing size of him, and yet a shiver of excitement ran up her spine at the sight of the shameless, compelling man standing boldly before her. There was beauty in such stark masculinity, the incredible power of his body, the sculpted perfection. He was potent and vital, the epitome of every feminine fantasy. And she wanted him.

He was watching her, his eyes hot with thinly veiled desire. His smoldering gaze sent a responsive desire coursing through Ariane, despite her innocence.

“Do you fear me?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper of sound.

Ariane swallowed and forced herself to shake her head in denial. She would not think of how Ranulf might hurt her with his remarkable size and strength. She would think only of the incredible pleasure his caresses had once made her feel.

“Good.” His slow smile held the quiet brilliance of a rare jewel, while his eyes glimmered with pure male sensuality. “I would not wish you to be afraid.”

How could she possibly be afraid when he was looking at her as if she were the most beautiful woman in all Christendom?

He joined her in the bed, then. Still holding her gaze, Ranulf sat down beside her and ran his hand slowly over her body with a practiced touch. She tensed, trembling at the featherlight caress. When his stroking reached her flat belly, she drew a sharp breath. And when he splayed his long fingers at the rise of her woman’s mound, her breath arrested entirely.

Ranulf smiled in satisfaction at her response. He was aching with need, the pulsing of his blood, the swelling of his erection causing a longing so fierce it was near pain. And yet he could not sate his primitive hunger just yet. First he must fulfill the exquisite task of bringing her to pleasure.

She gave a start when he reached above her head for a pillow and carefully placed it beneath her hips. Her cheeks flamed scarlet. “M-My lord Ranulf . . . what are you doing?”

Without replying, he shifted his position and moved over her, to kneel between her parted legs. She felt the soft rush of his breath as he bent to kiss her belly.

“Be still,” he commanded when her hips shifted nervously.

His heated eyes roaming her body, he ran his hands slowly up her quivering inner thighs, making her open wide for him. Ariane trembled in mortification and anticipation. He seemed to be studying the triangle of red-gold curls between her thighs.

With sensual determination, his hands slid beneath her body to separately cup the pale spheres of her buttocks. Ariane bit her lower lip to keep from whimpering as he slowly squeezed and kneaded, as his fingers stroked the dark crevice between.

“Ranulf . . .” she murmured in protest. “You should not . . . ’tis sinful . . .”

“Hush,” he ordered in a deep tone that vibrated with urgency, resonating in her blood and the throbbing between her legs.