The Warrior (46 page)

The interlude in the meadow affected Ranulf more than he cared to admit, for it was then that his doubts began to haunt him: He began to question seriously his belief that Ariane was no better than the faithless, highborn damsels he had always known.

He strove to remain on his guard. His relief that Ariane had not betrayed him was profound, but not so overwhelming that he would forswear his defenses.

And yet, if he had wronged Ariane once, the possibility existed that he might again mistake even her innocent actions for treachery. Admittedly his judgment when it came to ladies of her class was slightly slanted in her disfavor.

Thus, Ranulf watched her closely, noting small things he had refused to acknowledge before. Ariane was demanding but well loved by her people, he admitted reluctantly as he observed their interplay. Their loyalty had been fully earned; her spirit, her wit, her beauty, her caring nature all commanded their allegiance. His squire, Burc, sang her praises for her tender and successful ministering of his wounds. She had even won the respect and admiration of some of his own vassals, most pointedly Payn FitzOsbern, Ranulf remarked with disquiet.

She had courage, certainly. She bore the indignities visited upon her with a regal grace, asking no quarter. Once, when Ranulf caught her gazing out the solar window to the east, her look wistful and poignant, as if longing for happier times, she shrugged off his inquiry with a wry smile and a shake of her lovely head, refusing to dwell on her sadness or bid for his sympathy.

In truth, Ranulf could not find much fault with her demeanor. Her practical, perceptive nature was quite feminine and pleasing, even if her sharp tongue and rash defiance at times infuriated him.

Her physical response to him was pleasing, as well. Incredibly so. He had never had a woman who so completely satisfied his carnal needs. In his bed, the regal maiden turned lusty wench, fulfilling even his most demanding passions, to the point that he no longer desired any other lover.

Yet he could not explain his hunger for her in terms of mere lust. He felt a fierce possessiveness toward Ariane, true, but he could not deny there was something more.

Her presence filled his senses, his every waking thought. He was truly bewitched, Ranulf concluded with dismay. At the most inopportune times, he would find himself thinking of her, remembering the sweetness of her taste, the silky softness of her body: during dull discussions of profits and rents, while settling disputes among his villeins, even in the midst of a mock melee while facing armed opponents—a dangerous moment to be letting his mind wander. He could not explain the soft feeling that would flow through him at odd moments, so unexpectedly that he had no defense against it . . . a new and strange emotion that he refused to examine more closely. A threatening sentiment he knew he needed to fight with all his might. He could not allow Ariane within the barriers he protected himself with.

He could not allow himself to completely dismiss his suspicions, either. For all he knew, she had deliberately set out to ensnare him, wielding her woman’s weapons against him with methodical calculation. In truth, she seemed softer, more sweetly responsive toward him, since the day in the meadow—although that could be rationalized by gratitude. He knew his lenience toward her mother had won Ariane’s indebtedness, if not her trust.

Her lack of trust annoyed Ranulf. He had shown her mercy in other instances; she should have had more faith in him than to think he would condemn a poor soul to almost certain death. And yet he had to remember how little faith
he
had placed in
her.
He had mistrusted Ariane so greatly as to accuse her of betrayal, when she had only endeavored to protect her beloved mother.

He could recognize and even admire the loyalty Ariane had shown her mother. When it came to those she loved, the vixen reacted with the courage and ferocity of a lioness. If he found himself wishing he could command such devotion for himself, however, Ranulf dismissed the notion as madness. He would never allow himself to lose his heart.

As for Ariane’s mother, Ranulf kept his word, escorting her daughter back to the cotter’s hut the following day with abundant provender for the afflicted woman. He regretted he could do no more to aid the Lady Constance. Acting on a compassionate impulse, Ranulf dispatched one of his most trusted knights and a contingent of men-at-arms to Vernay in Normandy, with an urgent summons for the Saracen concubine, Layla, who possessed skill in the Eastern healing arts. He said nothing of his plan to Ariane, though, for fear of raising her hopes needlessly.

He also banished the serving wench, Dena, from Claredon, sending her to one of the manor houses to serve. He disliked the spite and deceit Dena had shown, and would not tolerate a serf who held so little loyalty for her mistress.

Ariane’s half-brother, Gilbert, Ranulf set free, with an admonition to curb his reckless defiance or face a drubbing again. His sister’s release from the dungeon, however, went much further toward curbing the boy’s rash outbursts than any threat could have done. When Gilbert earnestly begged her forgiveness for divulging her secret, Ariane even forgave him, Ranulf was aware.

It was two days after his discovery of Lady Constance that he received a missive bearing King Henry’s seal.

“A summons?” Payn asked when Ranulf had unrolled the parchment and perused the contents.

“Nay, a mission,” he replied almost grimly, handing the sheepskin to his vassal to read. “The Lady Eleanor requires an escort to reach the king’s camp at Bridgenorth.”

“And she asked for her favored knight as escort,” Payn surmised with an edge of amusement.

Ranulf grimaced. “You overstate the case. Far from favoring me, the queen doubtless acts to spite me. She has never forgiven me for spurning one of her ladies at court two winters past, and knows I would far rather be engaged in battle than attend her retinue. But one does not question the king’s command. Tell the men we ride for London in three days.”

That night Ranulf lay awake long into the night, regretting the distasteful task ahead of him, reminded of what he despised most in noblewomen. Queen Eleanor was a master at ruling men and their desires and compelling them to do her bidding, but her loyalty was to herself. She had contrived an annulment from Louis of France after bearing him two children, and then wed young Henry of Normandy in her search for power. Eleanor had half of the civilized world at her feet, attracting foolish poets and sycophants like flies to honey with her beauty and wit, which
was
extraordinary. Her court was a hive of intrigue and scheming, and the lovely queen not only encouraged it, but led the charge.

He could devise a hundred missions he would prefer over this one, Ranulf reflected. And to his surprise, he begrudged the time he would spend away from Claredon. It would be his first absence of any length since his arrival nearly five weeks ago, his first time away from Ariane.

He did not want to leave her.
The thought startled Ranulf.

She murmured a soft protest when he woke her from a deep sleep, but he ignored it, drawing her back against him, nestling her soft buttocks against his throbbing loins. Her breathing quickened when his arm wrapped around her hips, his fingers seeking and massaging the tender bud between her legs to slickness. And when he probed within her, coaxing her body to receive him, she soon was whimpering in pleasure.

His buttocks tightening, he thrust into her sleek hot passage from behind, pushing his burgeoning rod deep, closing his eyes and pretending to ignore the exquisite sense of completion he felt when joined to her, telling himself he needed her merely to slake his lust. She was simply a warm female body, a means to relieve his male ache, to ease the loneliness for a short while.

And if he lied to himself in the panting darkness, if he deceived himself as his shuddering body sought the ecstasy only she could give him, he was not prepared to acknowledge it.

He rose early the following morning, before Ariane awoke, and hastened to the arms field, where he drove himself to the point of physical exhaustion in an effort to obliterate his damnable obsession with the wench. Haplessly, he failed.

After unnecessarily leading a patrol over the demesne for countless hours, Ranulf returned late in the evening to find Ariane awaiting him in the solar while she worked her stitchery, with wine and food to ease his hunger and a warm fire burning in the hearth. At his entrance, she immediately set aside her simples and gave him a soft smile of welcome.

Ranulf stilled at the sight she made. Her pale hair glimmered like molten copper in the firelight, while her ivory skin glowed with an unearthly beauty. She looked for all the world like a mural rendering he had once seen of the Virgin Mary before the birth of her Son.

A dangerous image formed in his mind, a picture of Ariane swollen with his child. It filled him with such longing that he was shaken by it. He had to turn away to keep from betraying his weakness. For all that he had vowed to protect his heart, he felt the formidable shields of ice and steel threatened.

Ariane would not want to bear his child . . . would she? Would she care tenderly for a babe of his, nurturing it with the affection he had craved his life long but never known? He had heard tales of love between noble mother and child, but dismissed them as romantic fantasy, believing only peasants showed their offspring such affection.

And yet Ariane’s mother had demonstrated by example that such unselfish love did exist among women of her rank. Lady Constance had risked her very life to nurse her only son. And she had also taken in her lord’s bastard, Gilbert, to provide him a better life.

Would Ariane be willing to do the same with
his
bastards? Ranulf wondered. Would she raise his children at Claredon if he asked it of her?

Not that he would ask. He would not take his children from their mothers and bring them to a foreign country, exposing them to loneliness and scorn, simply to gratify his own need for their company. They were well provided for now, their futures assured. They would be better off where they lived—

“How fared your day, my lord?” Ariane asked softly, interrupting his thoughts as she rose to aid him out of his armor.

Missing his children, reminded of the need to resist the warmth in her gray eyes, Ranulf answered tersely, his tone almost harsh. “Well enough.” When he saw the searching look Ariane gave him, he renewed his vow to close his heart and mind against any soft intrusions.

Ariane was forgiving of his foul mood, though. Since her release from fear over her mother’s plight, she had been too overwhelmed with gratitude to take umbrage at Ranulf’s occasional brusque manner or his usual detachment. And with the freedom from fear came hope. Hope that in time Ranulf would cease regarding her as a bitter adversary and come to look upon her as someone meaningful, even vital, to his happiness.

That day in the meadow, she had been given a glimpse beyond the impregnable barrier he had erected between himself and everyone else. She had touched the vulnerable core of him, the tender center he always kept guarded and remote. He had shown her a gentler side to his nature, baring his mail-armored heart for the fleetest of moments, and she would not rest until she had rent the whole shield. She wanted passionately to free him from his unyielding defenses, to divest him of his protective armor. She wanted Ranulf to reach for her again in tenderness, in trust. To ease this constant ache in her own heart.

It was the following morning, though, when Ariane realized how very far she was from earning Ranulf’s trust.

The day began badly, for she had to hear from Payn that Ranulf was being sent on the king’s business, and that no less a personage than the new queen of England, Eleanor of Aquitaine, might pay a visit to Claredon.

Disgruntled by Ranulf’s lack of consideration, Ariane hastened to inspect the keep—both the tower and the castle grounds, making mental lists of the countless tasks that required attention. She had a thousand and one details to see to, even if Ranulf had forbidden her to take a hand in the running of the castle. Under no circumstances short of imprisonment would she allow the queen of England to see Claredon at less than its very best.

When Ranulf came in for the midday meal, the keep was ahum with activity as the castlefolk prepared for his departure and Lady Eleanor’s possible arrival. Ranulf scowled at all the bustle as he ran up the steps to the solar, regretting the nuisance of preparing for royalty, as well as wary of the enormous expense. Royal visits had been known to beggar many a hapless host.

When he entered the solar antechamber, though, he came to an abrupt halt, feeling as if he had taken a blow to his midsection with a lance. Ariane and Payn stood with their heads together before the solar door, both laughing.

The sight of Ariane gazing up so sweetly at his vassal sent a sick stab of jealousy streaking through Ranulf. Her gray eyes were alight with amusement and more: admiration for the tall, handsome knight.

“What find you so humorous?” Ranulf demanded, making them both jump with his harshness.

Sobering, Payn and Ariane glanced briefly at each other.

“It was naught, Ranulf,” Payn said evenly. “The Lady Ariane was telling me of the time King Stephen paid a visit to Claredon—”

“Can you not find a more worthwhile occupation than dallying here and listening to tales?”

Stiffening, Payn looked as if he might refute the remark, but he merely gave a brief bow. “As you wish, my lord.”

When he had gone, Ranulf turned his attention to Ariane, a muscle in his jaw flexing. “Do not seek to win Payn over with your artifices. You will not succeed.”

Her eyes widened at his grim tone and at his implication. Apparently Ranulf had mistaken her growing friendship with Payn FitzOsbern for a flirtation and had reacted with unreasoning jealousy. “We engaged in merely a harmless conversation, my lord, only that—”

Ranulf’s regard never wavered. His heart thrummed against his ribs, his chest rioting with the devastating emotions that threatened him. “You belong to me, Ariane,” he stated brusquely. “You would do well to accept it.”