The Warrior (50 page)

Ariane lowered her own gaze to hide her pain. That had
indeed been her strategy at first, but she had not counted on falling in love with this stubborn, hard-hearted lout. She shook her head, achingly aware that she was not loved by Ranulf in return.

“Not only my lot, but the people of Claredon’s—and yours as well.”

Ranulf’s brows shot up in disbelief that Ariane cared a whit for
his welfare.

“A castle needs a lady,” she insisted. “And a lord needs a wife.”

“I have managed well enough without one till now.”

“Have you?” Her tone was dubious. “I hear tell that Vernay is a cold, hostile place that provides you so little cheer, you refuse to live there.”

It was Ranulf’s turn to stiffen. “I collect Payn has been filling your head with nonsensical tales.”

“Are they nonsense, my lord? Or do you simply refuse to see reality? A wife could benefit you greatly.”

Willfully Ranulf returned his attention to the chessboard. “Good servants can see to my comfort, while any wench will satisfy my carnal needs. What need have I for a wife?”

That stymied her momentarily. “To provide sons, for one thing.”

“I have sons in Normandy.”

“
Legitimate sons, who are unconstrained by the bonds of serfdom. Members of the nobility. What of them? Have you never wished for heirs?”

Ranulf shifted uneasily on his stool. There were times in the past when he had thought wistfully of noble sons to follow him, youthful images of himself whom he could raise to knighthood. He would teach them gentleness and compassion, not the cut of the lash. . . . Yet noble sons could only be gotten from the loins of a noblewoman, and he had never met one yet whom he would trust to be the mother of his children . . . not until Ariane—

His mind shied away from that disturbing thought. “My wishes are hardly your concern,” he muttered. “And I believe it is your move.”

“A moment past, you demanded my loyalty,” Ariane retorted in frustration, “and yet when I offer it, you tell me to mind my own affairs!”

He could sense her growing vexation, and for some inexplicable reason it appeased him. Silently Ranulf vowed to give in to at least some of her demands regarding the running of his household. In truth, Ariane
was
a fine manager, and if reinstating her duties would sweeten her temper and win her loyalty, then he was willing to make concessions. Not that he would announce his surrender just yet. . . .

Aloud, Ranulf said, “I know you can well manage a household, wench, but that is scarcely a reason to wed you. I need you only to ease my lonely nights . . . and days.” He flashed Ariane a teasing, wicked grin. “I confess you pleasure me well. I find you entertaining.”

“Entertaining!”

“Aye. Your temper is amusing to watch. Your sharp tongue arouses me. . . .” His gaze swept over her, coming to linger on her breasts. “As does your lovely body. I like the challenge of a saucy, comely wench.”

“You . . . you . . .” she sputtered.

Her ire rising to the breaking point, Ariane picked up a wooden bishop and threw it at Ranulf’s broad chest. It bounced off and clattered to the floor.

He laughed at her outburst, the warm, rich sound filling the chamber. The knave actually had the audacity to laugh!

Her eyes flashed sparks as she reached for another piece, but Ranulf was quicker. With a sudden lunge, he moved around the table and caught her in his grasp, pinning both her arms to her sides. In a single, easy motion, he bore her down to the furs before the hearth.

Ariane struggled against his embrace, but Ranulf subdued her with ease. When finally she ceased squirming to glare at him, panting, he grinned down at her, his eyes bright. “You have challenged me and lost, demoiselle. Now you must pay a forfeit.”

Before she could catch her breath or even protest, he covered her mouth with his. His kiss was hungry, lusty, and when he finally raised his head, his eyes smoldered with need. “Ah, what you do to me, wench . . .”

He gazed down at her silently for a moment before shaking his head. An intimate, amused warmth entered his voice as he remarked, “And yet your methods of persuasion seem wanting. Why do you not try to use your womanly arts to stir my passion and sway my judgment instead of forever fighting me? A wise leman knows well how to bend a man to her whims—with honey, not vinegar.”

“I am not like your lemans,” Ariane said stiffly, refusing to be provoked further by his teasing.

In truth, she was like no other wench of his acquaintance, Ranulf reflected, and yet she was a woman, with a woman’s needs. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that he would do better to take the offensive, to use passion as a weapon in order to compel Ariane’s loyalty and bind her to him.

His lips curved upward in anticipation. He had enjoyed their fight, but he would relish her surrender more.

He bent to nibble at her lips, murmuring in a voice suddenly grown husky, “And I am not like other lords. Indeed, I am inclined to show you lenience and devise a penance you will enjoy.”

Ariane pushed futilely against his broad shoulders, deploring the way her senses throbbed at Ranulf’s gentle, arousing kisses. “I will derive no enjoyment from being mauled, you conceited oaf! I find no pleasure in your touch.”

“None?” His slow-growing smile was a sensual caress. “Methinks you are untruthful, wench. Shall I prove it?”

He had no need to prove his expertise, Ariane thought with despair. Ranulf well knew he could command her body’s every response. She twisted beneath him, but with his weight holding her down, she could not break free.

He did not bother to undress her, but merely tugged down the bodice of her tunics and shift, baring her beauty to his gaze. His golden eyes kindled. For a heartbeat, he buried his face in her breasts, drinking in the sweet warm fragrance of her skin. “Can I make you hot for me, I wonder?”

In answer to his own question, his mouth dipped to her repeatedly, tasting and kissing her erect nipples . . . until she whimpered.

He smiled against her skin. “That is how I want you, sweeting . . . pleading for me . . .” Reaching down, he drew up her skirts and slipped a probing hand between her thighs. “Show me where you want me to caress you.”

She tried unsuccessfully to elude his searching fingers. “Ranulf, please. . . .”

“Please?” His teasing grin held an intimacy that made her heart twist. “Truly I like that word on your lips.”

“Nay, Ranulf! I don’t want you.”

He laughed softly.

“Your body wants me,” he murmured huskily against her throat.

“No . . .”

In answer, he rubbed his thumb along the wet, swollen lips of her sex, finding the tender nub that was the seat of her passion. “This bud is plump and juicy—evidence of your desire, sweeting. Can you honestly claim you dislike being stroked here?” Her muted whimper made him smile. Probingly, he slid two fingers into her sleek passage, making Ariane draw a sharp breath. “So, you feel no pleasure at my touch, at having my flesh buried within you?” His fingers thrust deeper, while his thumb caressed.

Her choked gasp was the only answer he needed.

“I crave a taste of you,” he announced softly in satisfaction.

Shifting his weight, Ranulf moved his mouth downward over her body, to her womanhood, his strong hands spreading her naked thighs for his enjoyment. When he lowered his head to her, Ariane clenched her teeth, trying desperately not to respond to each delicately provocative thrust of his tongue, but the sweet agony was too much to bear. Her hips strained against his mouth of their own accord.

When a moan dredged from deep within her throat, Ranulf stopped to gaze up at her in triumph. His lips, wet with her dew, curved in a tender smile.

Without haste, he raised his tunic and tugged at his braies, freeing himself. Then he slowly lowered himself upon her, sighing with pleasure as he entered her.

“I may not give you rest until the dawn,” he whispered as he began to move urgently within her.

With a soft moan, Ariane closed her eyes in surrender. And when the shattering ecstasy came moments later, the pleasure was more intense than anything she had ever known, while the heartache was greater than she thought she could bear.

Ranulf desired her only for her body, while she desperately needed and craved his love.

When it was over, when he was holding her trembling form in the aftermath of passion, she felt the helpless tears well in her eyes. One spilled over, despite her effort to quell it and the terrible ache in her heart.

“Ariane?” Ranulf raised himself on one elbow, his eyes dark with concern at the sight of her weeping. “Did I hurt you?”

Yes,
she wanted to cry, yet she sniffed and dashed away the moisture, determined to give him no cause to think she was employing feminine wiles. “No, it is naught.”

With a puzzled frown, he brushed her damp cheek with his thumb, tracing downward to her trembling mouth.

“Just hold me . . .” Ariane whispered, pressing her face against his chest.

Uncertainly, Ranulf wrapped his arms around her and gathered her close, comforting her silently with his embrace, offering her tenderness in the only way he knew how.

24

Ariane sighed as she watched the display of knightly exploits in the practice yard. Even from her position at the solar window, she could distinguish Ranulf from the scores of helmeted, mailed horsemen. He was the most powerful, the most dominating, the most compelling warrior of them all. And he had vanquished her as easily as he conducted his military triumphs.

She had fallen helplessly, hopelessly, in love with the unfeeling lout.

It was vexing, infuriating, and entirely unjust. Whenever she remembered Ranulf’s teasing laughter, her blood simmered. He claimed to find her
entertaining
! She provided sport for him, only that. He used her merely to slake his lust and to relieve his boredom.

She could not forgive him for his insensitivity, despite his recent carnal tenderness.

In the fortnight since his return from King Henry’s camp, Ranulf had shown her a passion that left her gasping and weak. Yet passion was no longer enough. Ariane wanted far more. No longer was she content merely to aspire to become his wife, or to await crumbs of attention tossed her way. Somehow, someway, she vowed to make Ranulf love her.

Regrettably, she had hit upon no suitable strategy to help her achieve those ends. As May had ripened into June, she’d marked little progress in her attempts at winning his love. Ranulf remained invulnerable, invincible, while he held the power to wring her heart dry.

At times—chiefly when she was in his arms—he seemed to soften toward her, raising her hopes that he was coming to care for her, even if he would not admit it. But more often he treated her with cool indifference. She could not count the minor concessions he had made regarding the running of the castle. Ranulf had turned several domestic matters over to her, placing the kitchen and tower staffs under her control, yet he had not given her back the keys to the castle or access to the household accounts. He had come no closer to honoring her as his lady, nor had he exhibited the least inclination to return her love.

“He regards you with all the tender concern of an ox,” Ariane muttered to herself, gazing after Ranulf’s distant figure in frustration.

Even his occasional tenderness was suspect. Three days before he had even gifted her with a costly bauble, the kind of present a lord might give his lady. The jewelled broach that pinned the front of a mantle together was carved of onyx in the shape of his device, a dragon rampant, with rubies for eyes and studded around with the same precious gems.

When Ranulf had first presented it to her, a warm glow had swept through Ariane—until she realized the significance of the gift: it branded her as his property.

“Is it not to your liking?” Ranulf asked.

“Nay . . . I mean . . . it is lovely. I am well pleased, my lord.” But she had been untruthful. She would rather have an avowal of affection from him than all the jewels in the kingdom.

She was preparing to turn away from the window when the watchman’s horn announced new arrivals at the castle gates. Ariane waited as a small party rode across the drawbridge and through the outer bailey. A strange sense of foreboding curled in her stomach when she realized one of the newcomers was a woman.