The Warrior (33 page)

“Greetings, my sweet.”

Ariane stirred beneath the covers at the husky masculine voice murmuring in her ear. When she felt warm lips nuzzling her neck, accompanied by the sensual rasp of a stubbled jaw against her skin, she forced her eyes open and blinked to find Ranulf leaning over her, his weight braced on one elbow. He was smiling, the transformation of his dark visage startling. In the dawn light, he looked endearingly boyish and incredibly seductive, with his hair tousled and his jaw roughened by a night’s growth of black bristle.

“Have you no proper greeting for your lover?”

Still befuddled with sleep, she dragged her gaze from him and tried to focus her thoughts. The rays of sunlight filtering through the shutters made her realize the lateness of the hour. “Why did you not wake me earlier?”

“You were weary from your exertions last night.”

Ariane flushed as sensual memories of those exertions suddenly flooded her: the hot image of this man straining between her thighs, his lean, thrusting body shuddering as he moved over her, within her, his power immense, yet restrained. He had shown her an ecstasy she had never dreamed possible.

Unaware of the tumult of emotions rioting through her, Ranulf bent to cover her passion-bruised mouth with a fleeting kiss. “You pleased me well last night.”

His sunny mood grated on Ariane’s raw sensibilities. Not only did it shock her to be awakened by a naked man’s brazen, carnal attentions, it stung to be reminded so vividly of her surrender—and of her wanton conduct.

“Should I be honored by your praise, my lord?” she responded sourly in a voice still raspy with sleep.

To her surprise, Ranulf laughed, a sound that stunned her with its richness and warmth. “Verily, you should. I do not bestow such praise lightly.” He gazed down at her with heated eyes. “I wonder if the pleasure will be as great, now that the novelty of your virginal state has passed.” With one finger, he traced her lower lip. “I wonder how much greater
your pleasure will be. . . . I vow you tempt me sorely to examine the question, but you will doubtless be tender after having your body used so roughly.”

Her eyes had widened in dismay at his suggestion that they repeat their wicked coupling in broad daylight, but at Ranulf’s consideration, she relaxed to a degree. Testing his theory, Ariane moved her hips gingerly and winced at the twinge she felt between her thighs.

“Does it pain you?”

Grudgingly she shook her head. Her physical symptoms pained her far less than her conscience did. “Not much.”

“Good.” Ranulf smiled indulgently. “You may sleep for the remainder of the morning, but I had best rise. My men will not wonder to find me still abed with a winsome wench, yet I have matters that need my attention.”

Ariane shut her eyes in mortification. After the scene she had made last eve in the hall, his men would know precisely what had passed between them during the night. She had lain with Ranulf, if not eagerly, then without protesting overmuch. “I have no desire to be found here in your chamber,” she muttered, “much less in your bed. Nor do I intend to laze about all day.”

“Suit yourself. But I intend to amend your sentence. You will no longer be required to labor in the scullery.”

“Your generosity is overwhelming.”

Ignoring her dry retort, Ranulf reached for an object he had tucked among the pillows and held it up for her inspection.

“Perhaps you will find this more to your liking.”

He was holding a gold necklace of some sort, Ariane realized with a warm jolt of surprise. A collar torque whose ornamented ends bore Norse figures of dragons with jeweled eyes. The length of heavy gold tubing twisted on and off and opened in front.

Slipping his hand beneath her neck, Ranulf carefully wound it around her throat, while Ariane stared at him in shock.

“F-For me, my lord?”

“It was meant to be my wedding gift to you,” he murmured, “but although there is to be no marriage, I see no reason you may not have it. Consider it payment for the gift you gave me last night.”

Her maidenhead, Ariane thought with a savage pang of dismay, feeling the cool metal press against her skin like ice. She could have loved Ranulf, but she meant no more to him than any of the castle strumpets; he slaked his lust on her and paid for the pleasure with pretty baubles, and considered it a fair exchange.

“Forgive me if I fail to express proper gratitude, my lord,” she declared with asperity.

Her stinging reply took Ranulf aback, as did the sudden flash of hurt in her eyes. He had never bestowed such an expensive gift on a wench, but he had thought she would be pleased by his costly gesture. The ladies he knew at court all craved expensive presents, but Ariane’s eyes had first lit with suspicion rather than greed, and now she was staring at him with haughty disdain, as if he had committed a grave offense.

“I had thought it might serve to sweeten your temper,” he said uncertainly.

“There is naught wrong with my temper, save perhaps a surfeit of your lascivious attention.”

Not understanding, Ranulf chose to fight her incomprehensible anger with persuasion. Lazily he drew down the covers to expose a rosy-nippled breast, then dismayed her further by reaching his hand up to cup the pale globe. Despite her sudden squirming, he bent and pressed his lips against her abraded collarbone. “You may have your own garments back as well, sweeting. I will not have those rough peasant gowns marring your tender skin.”

Trying to repress the surge of tension and excitement his mere touch awakened in her, Ariane raised a scornful eyebrow. “Do I detect a pang of guilt, my lord, for your despicable treatment of me?”

He grinned. “Guilt is not what I feel for you, wench. As for treatment . . .” Some of his amusement faded. “After your deception, you deserve much worse than a simple rash.”

“I do not call it deception to claim what is my legal due.”

Ranulf shook his head, refusing to be drawn into an argument. “I will not debate the point with you again, my sweet.” His hand slowly, deliberately, swept down her body to delve beneath the covers.

Ariane drew a sharp breath when his fingers tangled in the warm thatch between her thighs. “Nay . . . do not! ’Tis indecent!”

“Is it?”

“You know it is,” she gasped as she tried to evade his probing fingers, though knowing she would use almost any excuse that might keep her from repeating last night’s wanton surrender. “The Church has proscribed such heathen acts.”

Ranulf grunted, although he removed his hand from her thigh and let it rest possessively on her stomach. “I doubt one more sin will render my soul any blacker. I have it on good authority that I am possessed by demons.”

Ariane was too genuinely shocked by his blasphemy to probe the bitterness that edged his tone. “Your soul may be beyond redemption, but what of mine?”

His gaze searched her face intently. “Are you so pure and innocent then, demoiselle?” When she had no answer for that, Ranulf shrugged. “The debauchery of the Church is well known. Half the clergy break their own laws regularly, holding orgies that make our revelry in the hall last night seem tame.”

“Even so . . . I do not wish you to . . . touch me like that . . .”

“You mean to pretend I do not arouse you?” he asked with a smile of amusement.

It vexed Ariane sorely that he should comprehend the real source of her discomfiture: his ability to stir her passions so effortlessly and turn her into a wanton. “You do not arouse me half so much as your impossible conceit would lead you to believe,” she retorted.

“Conceit?”
His eyebrow shot up. “No wench has yet had cause to complain of my prowess.”

Ariane raised her eyes to the beamed ceiling, praying for patience. Ranulf de Vernay was an arrogant, coddled male, so secure in his practiced power with women that she yearned to box his ears. “Mayhap you never heard a complaint because you never
wished
to hear one.”

His teeth flashed in a slow grin that was both intimate and sexual—and totally infuriating in its brazen disregard for her calculated insult. In lazy response, his hand swept slowly up her body to her breast again. With thumb and forefinger, he gently pinched the sensitive nipple, making it tighten instantly, and causing Ariane to draw another sharp breath. “Mayhap you protest because you fear what I make you feel.”

“I do
not
fear you,” Ariane gritted, wishing she could wipe that superior grin off his handsome face. “I simply have no desire to listen to you boast of your conquests.”

Before she could say anything further, though, Ranulf suddenly suspended his teasing and rose to dress. Unconcerned by his nudity, he strode across the chamber and bent to retrieve his clothing from a leather-covered coffer, giving her a view of his taut buttocks and long bare flanks, sleek and thickly muscled.

Ariane found herself staring at him in helpless admiration. There was strength and power in every hard line of his body, a masculine beauty that called to everything feminine within her. A beauty that made the savage scars on his back stand out even more incongruously. She remembered feeling those rough ridges beneath her fingertips last night as she clung to him in the throes of passion. Dismayed by the pity—as well as the hot feelings—the memory stirred in her, Ariane averted her gaze while Ranulf washed.

She was surprised that he did not require her to act as his squire when he began to dress, but when she grudgingly offered her assistance, Ranulf declined. “I told you, your menial service is ended.”

“Why would you end my service?” Ariane asked warily.

“Because the sentence was too harsh, I admit. I have a much more pleasant role for you in mind—that of lover. You will resume sleeping here in my chamber each night and bear me company here during the day.”

Ariane sat up abruptly in bed, clutching the covers to her chest. “You would have everyone think me your leman.” Leman was but a name for mistress.

“Nay, not my leman. You are merely my political hostage once more.”

“But you expect me to share your bed?”

Ranulf raised an eyebrow. “I should think you would be pleased that you no longer must toil as a slave.”

“As long as you refuse to acknowledge me as your lady wife, my place is not in your bed.”

“It is, Ariane,” he replied tersely. “We are lovers now. You cannot deny it.”

When Ranulf noticed the dismay in her eyes, his expression softened. “You will not find the role of lover so onerous. I daresay you will even come to enjoy it.”

“I would rather scrub pigsties.”

He sent her a grin—that potent, roguish male smile he gave so rarely. “Perhaps, but I am no longer angry enough to require you to do so. And it would be a waste of your beauty and talents besides.”

Ariane’s hands fisted around the covers. “Why?” she demanded. “Why must you take me as your lover when there are doubtless other woman who would be pleased to share your bed?”

Surprised by her anger, Ranulf regarded her curiously. He could not understand her resistance to sharing his bed. In truth, he had expected Ariane to be honored by his favor. He could name a dozen wenches who would eagerly take her place.

Perhaps she did not realize the pleasure he intended to shower on her. Or perhaps she simply felt continued resentment because she no longer held the position as chatelaine of Claredon. But if she was attempting to arouse his guilt for not wedding her, she would not succeed.

Nor would she learn his true reason for taking her as lover. He would not admit to Ariane that having her in his bed was the only way he knew to conquer his obsession with her. “You are a desirable woman, and I desire you. I need no other reason.”

When her jaw tightened, Ranulf turned away to pull on his undertunic, feeling oddly vexed by her response. Ariane had won a victory over him, if she only knew it. He had lost the battle with his iron will last night, surrendered at last to his obsessive desire for her. He had even changed his long-standing policies because of her. Rarely before had he allowed a woman to sleep with him. And yet he was willing to make exceptions for Ariane.

In truth, he liked the thought of her waking in his bed each morn, rosily naked, her cheeks sleep-flushed and pink, his scent on her silken skin. He would relish having her near, if simply for the pleasure of touching her, although he had never been a man to touch anyone without a reason. He certainly relished kissing her. He rarely kissed a woman on the lips, but the heat of that sweetly curved mouth bewitched him.
She
bewitched him.

He wanted nothing more than to return to that bed now and savor her delicious heat, to bury himself deeply within her and explore the depths of her passion. He wanted to spend the entire day with her, teaching her how to enjoy her body and showing her how to please him. But he remembered Ariane’s virginal state and crushed the notion.

A feeling of tenderness swept through him as he recalled her pain last eve. How fragile and delicate she had felt in his arms. How innocent. How hot and wild she had become, writhing in ecstasy beneath him. He would give her time to recover from his attentions, but tonight . . . The thought of the passionate lovemaking to come made Ranulf harden abruptly.

He should be furious with himself for surrendering to her, Ranulf knew. By his own actions he had sealed their betrothal contract. But it made no matter. He would not withdraw his petition from Rome. The annulment would still go forward as planned. He would somehow conquer his guilt, as well. Ariane knew she could hold only herself to blame for the consequences of her deception, even if she refused to admit it.

Meanwhile they would enjoy each other. At least until he satisfied his fierce craving for her. Until she surrendered fully to him. He intended to keep her warm and weak and pliant from his lovemaking. Ariane was stubborn and strong willed, more than a challenge for any warrior, even him. He would need every advantage at his command in order to make her yield.

Attempting to ignore her silent anger, Ranulf finished dressing in a tunic of forest green velvet. Then he slung his mantle over his shoulders and turned to her.