The Warrior (51 page)

Veiled and cloaked, the woman urged her palfrey toward the practicing knights. When Ranulf saw her, he broke away from his men and rode toward her at an eager gallop. Coming to a plunging halt at her side, he apparently offered greetings. Ariane would have given a year off her life to hear the exchange between them—until the veiled woman bowed low and kissed his gloved hands.

A shaft of pain streaked through Ariane, so fierce it took her breath away, yet she forced herself to move away from the window. She would not allow herself to jump to foolish conclusions. Doubtless there were reasonable explanations for such a fawning display. Many people kissed the lord’s hand—supplicants for his favor, for example.

Trying unsuccessfully to repress the knot of apprehension inside her, Ariane made her way below to the great hall, where the new arrivals were just entering.

One of Ranulf’s younger knights, Richard of Lorne, approached Ariane at once, escorting the woman. “May I present Layla of Acre, milady, summoned from Vernay upon the lord’s orders. Lord Ranulf bids you find her private accommodations.”

Acre in the Holy Land? Vernay in Normandy?
Private?
Such disjointed thoughts flashed through Ariane’s mind, but she could only focus on the last. It was unusual for any but the highest-ranking guests to be afforded privacy, since a castle had few chambers and hundreds of people to shelter.

Just then, Layla raised her veil and Ariane caught her breath at the woman’s stunning beauty. Obviously from the East, Layla was sloe-eyed, with heavy black brows and lashes, full ruby-red lips, and darkly golden skin that seemed to glow with vitality. Lush and sultry, she possessed a figure that would entice any male . . . especially a lusty, sensual, physical male like Ranulf.

Was the beauty Ranulf’s leman? A Saracen from the East? Brought here from Vernay for what purpose?

It was all Ariane could do to nod civilly in acknowledgment of the imparted command. The thought of Ranulf rousing any other woman to passion scalded her with sick jealousy, but the realization that he had summoned his leman the vast distance from Normandy to take
her place made her feel as if her heart were slowly being ripped from her breast.

She did as she was bid without speaking, not trusting herself to say a word without losing any semblance of dignity or control. She led Layla to an alcove off the women’s dormitory, a small chamber with a bed built directly into the wall, curtained with rich hangings, all the while enduring sly looks from the Saracen beauty. When Layla expressed her thanks in heavily accented French that was both sultry and musical, Ariane nodded, still reeling from the blow. In a haze of pain, she returned to the solar to nurse her bleeding heart.

When, sometime later, Ranulf came in with his squire, Burc, directly from the training field, Ariane stood at the
window, her back to him, her stance rigid as glass. She felt brittle, fragile, perilously unstable: if he touched her, she would shatter, if he spoke, she would explode.

“Did you welcome Layla?” Ranulf asked as he unbuckled his sword belt, blithely unaware of the tension emanating from Ariane in waves.

“I did as you ordered, my lord,” she replied quietly, carefully, straining to keep any emotion from her voice. “She is your leman, is she not?”

“She
was. Her story is a wretched one. My lord father bought her from a brothel in Acre. She had been torn from a good family and sold there by slavers. My sire rescued her”—Ranulf’s tone turned sardonic—“in order to save her heathen soul, and brought her to Vernay, where I inherited her upon his . . . abdication.”

Ariane felt her heart whither a little further at Ranulf’s explanation. She no longer harbored any doubts that he had brought his beautiful Saracen concubine here to service him. Any wench will satisfy my carnal needs, he had claimed only recently, yet he had been dissatisfied enough with her to desire a foreign beauty in his bed instead, even at the expense of summoning the wench from another country.

If Ranulf thought she would meekly accede to his plans, though, Ariane vowed, he could think again.

Her fingers suddenly clenching into fists, she turned to confront him. Her face was set like flint, but the pain shimmering in her eyes was unmistakable.

Noticing, Ranulf paused in the act of pulling off his tunic, then cast a dismissive glance at his squire. “I desire a moment alone.”

When Burc had gone, Ranulf raised a concerned eyebrow at her. “What is amiss, sweeting?”

“
Sweeting? You bring your whore into my home to replace me in your bed and then shower me with endearments?” Ariane’s voice trembled with scorn and fury, while she looked as if she might again throw something at him.

Glancing at the chessboard, Ranulf took a precautionary step backward. “You are mistaken. I have no intention of replacing you with Layla.”

“You intend to enjoy both of us together, is that it?” Her
voice lost its careful control. “You plan to practice your wicked perversions on
two
of us at once?”

Offering her a rueful smile, Ranulf shook his head. In the past he had been known to enjoy such sport, but asking Ariane to participate in such licentiousness was the farthest thing from his mind. He had no desire to bed Layla—or any wench other than Ariane, for that matter.

Hoping to calm her, he raised his hands, palms out, but she was too heated and hurt to notice.

Her eyes kindling, she pointed at the door. “I will not share you, do you mark me? Certainly not with that . . . that heathen creature!”

Ranulf’s conciliatory smile faded, while his eyes narrowed. It was one thing for him to overlook her sharp tongue because he enjoyed the spice of their spirited exchanges. It was another to let her rule him with ultimatums.

She ignored his look of warning entirely. “I will not endure such despicable treatment from you!” Ariane declared. “I will not share you!”

Ranulf stared in amazement as she stamped her slippered foot. With her stormy eyes both flashing sparks and sparkling with tears, she was the picture of defiance and wounded outrage. He had never seen such an outburst from her.

“What is this, sweeting?” he said slowly. “From your shrewishness, I could almost suppose you jealous.”

“Jealous!” She skewered him with her eyes. “I care not how many women you have! You can take your lust elsewhere—anywhere—it matters not to me. But I will not be subjected to the ridicule of everyone in this keep.”

“This keep and everything in it is mine, including you. Think you to tell me whom I will and will not bed?”

“I would not
dream of depriving you of your pleasure, my lord,” she retorted witheringly. “In truth, I would be delighted to be relieved of your lascivious attentions.”

He stared at her a long moment, seeing the hurt shimmering in her eyes, hearing the echo of tears underlying the hysterical note in her voice. Some of the heat left Ranulf’s expression. Ariane possessed pride aplenty, he had always known that, but her outburst had been due to more than wounded pride, he would stake his life on it. Despite her
denial, he could not help but believe she lied. She
was
jealous. She was jealous of a wench who meant nothing to him.

A slow smile of male triumph stretched Ranulf’s lips at this twist of events. Ariane was at fault this time.
She had been the one to erupt in a foolish, unwarranted fit of jealousy, while he had kept his calm. She was jealous! His self-satisfied smile broadened into a grin. He rather liked the idea of Ariane’s possessiveness.

His good humor, haplessly, had the same effect as pouring oil on flames. “You dare laugh?” With a shriek, Ariane clenched her fists in impotent fury, wishing she could strike him. “Oooh, you . . . you cur!” Trembling with rage, she wielded the only weapon at her command. “Must you be reminded that the Church considers adultery a sin
?”

“Adultery!” The smirk faded from Ranulf’s face.

“Yes, adultery! When a man fornicates with someone not his wife, it is deemed a sin!”

Suddenly sober, Ranulf crossed his arms over his chest. “You are not my wife. May I remind you that no vows were ever spoken between us?”

“The Church may view the matter differently!” Ariane retorted scathingly. “Your petition for annulment may not be granted.”

The corner of his mouth twisted with mockery. “Methinks your denunciation of adultery rings false, sweeting. I have never known a lady of your station to put principle above personal ambition.”

Her fury exploded. “I am nothing,
nothing, like the noblewomen you have known, you blind, thick-witted ox! I value honor and loyalty and virtue as much as you—more so! I always have! And I will not countenance your hypocritical standards any longer—or your despicable treatment. If you wish to lie with your strumpet, you will no longer lie with me
!”

Determined to force the issue of who between them was lord—and to drag an admission of jealousy from her if he could—Ranulf fixed her with a menacing look. “What right have you to dictate to me?” he demanded. “Perhaps you have a reason for your possessiveness?”

“You desire a reason? Because I am a stupid fool! Because I
love you, you wretched lout!”

For a long moment afterward, utter silence reigned. Ranulf could hear the slow thud of his heart as he stared at Ariane in startled disbelief.

She
loved
him? Love, as in affection? As in tenderness and soft-hearted concern? As in witless obsession?

Ranulf shook his head dazedly, doubting her claim, refusing to believe her profession of love. His entire life he had been betrayed and manipulated by nobly born women like her. Though he had begun to hope Ariane was different, he could not help but wonder if her motive was only mercenary. She had tried to trick him into formalizing their union once before. Perhaps this was merely another attempt at forcing his hand.

Deliberately keeping his features blank, Ranulf leaned a muscular shoulder against the oaken bedpost. “Are you quite finished?”

Ariane felt as if he had slapped her. She had just bared her soul to Ranulf, declared her love for him, yet his expression remained cool, his eyes neutral. No, not neutral. There was doubt there, even suspicion.

And he seemed determined to ignore her declaration—as well as to change the subject.

“Sheath your claws, vixen,” Ranulf said abruptly. “I sent for Layla, not to act as my leman, but as a healer.”

Her dismay faltered, to be replaced by confusion. “A . . . healer?”

“Aye. I summoned her because she is skilled in the medical arts of the East. She originally comes from a family of physicians—physicians whose knowledge is far more advanced than any our leeches possess. I had hopes Layla might be able to aid your diseased mother.”

It was Ariane’s turn to stare in shock. “You brought her here . . . to cure my mother?”

“To
attempt
a cure, yes. You yourself said that a successful treatment for leprosy is unknown. Layla cannot be expected to work miracles, but if she can ease your lady mother’s plight, then I will consider it worth the expense.”

When Ariane remained mute, Ranulf continued. “I ordered Layla to bring her medicine baskets from Normandy without revealing why. At the time, Burc was still ailing from his wounds, so it will be assumed that I summoned her to tend him. No one else knows the true reason. And I expect most will think Layla my leman, just as you did. It would be wise to foster that mistaken assumption if we wish to keep your mother’s secret.”

Stunned, Ariane could only gaze at him wordlessly.

“I had thought you would be pleased,” Ranulf said dryly, “but instead you rant at me like an alewife.”

“I am pl-pleased,” Ariane stammered. “And grateful . . . immensely grateful, my lord.” Mollified, greatly chastened, she bowed her head. “Forgive me, my lord . . . for my outburst. I apologize . . . most humbly.”

Uncrossing his arms, he strode over to her and put a finger under her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. His amber eyes had kindled with a heat she recognized so well . . . and something else that she could not name.

“Save your gratitude for Layla. You can repay me in services rendered. Now, I suggest we confer with her to see what is best to be done with your mother.”

“But . . . will she even minister to a leper?”

“I have no doubt the wench is greedy enough,” Ranulf said cynically. “If she can help, I intend to reward her with her freedom and fund her return passage to the Holy Land.”

“Ranulf . . .” A huge lump in her throat choked Ariane, making her voice quaver. Unable to speak, she reached for his hands and bent to kiss them, as she had seen Layla do.

Ranulf withdrew his hands abruptly, looking supremely ill at ease. “Come, assist me to wash, and then we will summon Layla.”

Layla showed no surprise at being summoned to the lord’s solar in the presence of another beautiful woman, even the previous chatelaine of the castle and a lady far above her in rank. Indeed, Layla’s sensual, catlike smile when she glanced at the huge bed expressed anticipation rather than dismay.

Evidently the Saracen woman had reached the same conclusion as Ariane regarding the reason for her presence at Claredon: that they were rivals for the lord’s carnal attentions. Ranulf, however, quickly disabused Layla of the notion, and explained his proposition.

Her response could be read in the emotions that flickered across her exotic, expressive features: disappointment, feminine pique, shrewd resignation, and finally, burgeoning delight. She seemed to regret Ranulf’s indifference to her charms, but be truly eager to win her return passage to her homeland. With scarcely a moment’s hesitation, she promised to devote her best efforts toward helping the poor, afflicted woman. Ariane felt hopeful that Layla would at least make a sincere attempt.

It was hours later, after they had journeyed to the eastern wood so that Layla might examine the Lady Constance, when Ariane allowed her hope full rein. Layla seemed confident she could concoct a treatment that would at least slow the ravaging effects of the disease. In addition to potions and perfumed lotions for the skin, she claimed to possess a certain green mold made from stale bread and the juice of pomegranates that multiplied when left in moist, warm darkness. At present she had too little of the mold to prepare more than a few applications of a poultice, but in time, she thought she could grow enough for Lady Constance’s needs.