The Warrior (52 page)

Ariane tried not to let her hopes swell too high. She wanted too desperately to believe a cure for her beloved mother was possible. Yet for the first time in a long, long while, she felt a spark of true joy at the promise Layla’s remedy held.

She was genuinely grateful for the Saracen’s presence, and surprised herself by actually feeling sympathy for a beautiful woman who was in truth a potential rival. Layla had doubtless led a wretched life; it must have been terrible, being sold into slavery in a strange land.

Yet when Ariane was lying in Ranulf’s bed that night, her worries regarding the beautiful concubine returned full force. Ranulf claimed he did not mean to replace her with his former leman, Ariane knew, yet he had scarcely spoken a word to her throughout the evening meal. And when they retired to the solar, he had not made love to her, nor even touched her. Instead, he had turned away, lying on his side, giving her his scarred back.

Ariane sensed that his withdrawal was not mere indifference; in truth, he seemed almost ill at ease with her. If she did not know better, she would have thought him
nervous.
Perhaps her avowal of love earlier had disturbed him. She regretted now blurting out the truth in so rash a fashion. She had wanted to tell him, to admit her feelings, but not in such a manner—not shouted in anger.

“Would you rather your Saracen leman share your bed in my place?” Ariane asked Ranulf quietly, and then held her breath, awaiting his answer.

“I told you, she holds no interest for me.”

“She is very beautiful,” Ariane murmured almost inaudibly.

“Layla’s bounteous charms cannot compare to your attractions, if that is what you ask.”

“Then why do you turn away from me? Have I done something to displease you?”

With a sigh, Ranulf rolled over and gathered Ariane in his arms. She nestled against his naked heat gratefully, and yet even this comforting closeness was unsatisfying. Ranulf was absently stroking her hair, yet he remained silent, uncommunicative. He seemed distracted, deep in thought, hardly aware of her presence.

In truth, Ranulf was brooding over her earlier profession of love. Ariane’s admission had terrified him. Could it be true? Could she believe herself in love with him? Or was this merely another scheme of hers to win his surrender? He
wanted
to believe her.

A pale copper lock of her hair curled around his fingers, sleek and vibrant, with a life of its own. Ranulf stared at it a moment, then raised it to his lips.

“Ranulf?” she murmured in the silence. “I meant what I said earlier. . . . I love you.” Abruptly she felt him stiffen against her.

“Do you?” The cynicism in his tone clearly conveyed his doubt.

Ariane drew back, trying to see his face. “Why can you not believe me?” she asked softly. “Because of your mother’s betrayal so long ago?”

Reflecting reluctantly on his bitter past, Ranulf raised his gaze, his mouth drawn in a rigid line, his eyes bleak. “Aye . . . I suppose . . . in part. I hated her . . . the noblewoman who gave me birth. She lay with her peasant lover in sin, and defiled the honor of Vernay. Because of her, my life became a living hell.”

“Perhaps she allowed her heart to rule her head. It happens, sometimes, when feelings become so strong that naught else matters. Love makes fools of us at times.”

The curling of his lip told her clearly how strongly he scorned the notion of love.

“Love?” he murmured softly. “The word holds no meaning for me.” He had never known a woman’s love, never wished to. Love was the villain in too many tales for him to suddenly wish to embrace it.

Sorrowfully, her heart aching, Ariane searched his face. After his experiences, she could understand why Ranulf would be disdainful of love. Why he would hold little belief in its power. Why he could not believe any noblewoman could be faithful to her vows. “My lord, will you condemn all of us for the sins of a few?”

He remained ominously silent.

“You have my love and loyalty,” Ariane vowed softly. “As God is my witness, I give it to you freely, and with all my heart.”

Searchingly, desperately wanting to believe, Ranulf returned her gaze. In the dim light of the bedside candle, the gray of her eyes looked silver and softly luminous—and utterly honest. He could almost, almost believe her.

And yet the harsh lessons of a lifetime could not be forgotten. He had spoken true. He knew nothing of love. After so many years of hate, he doubted he was capable of it.

His mouth twisted with a bitterness he could not hide. “I cannot return your love. I have no heart.”

She placed her hand on his bare, muscled chest, splaying her fingers against his breastbone, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat beneath her palm. “I think you do, my lord. It wants only nurturing to be freed from its shell of armor.”

Her own heart felt as if it were breaking when he gently caught her wrist and drew her hand away. And yet he did not release her completely. Instead, he regarded her bleakly, his eyes tormented.

“What am I to do with you?” he murmured almost to himself.

“Can you not simply trust me, Ranulf?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. Trusting her would be like baring his breast for a sword thrust. The depth of his mistrust for women of her kind was exceeded only by his hatred for his father.

Feeling somehow brittle, he lowered his head, pressing his face to her breast, as if seeking solace. His very uncertainty struck a tender chord in Ariane. She held him gently, her fingers stroking his dark hair, not pressing him to give assurances he could not give. She had known how difficult winning his heart would be, how deeply afraid Ranulf was to love or trust her.

Silently, tenderly, she tilted his head up and drew his lips to hers for a kiss, renewing her vow to make him love her. If only she could prove her loyalty to him, she might be able to overcome his fear of betrayal. But somehow, some way she intended to heal this man who had lived too long with demons from his past.

If only he could believe her, Ranulf thought the next morning as he sat watching Ariane speak with the serfs at the lower end of the hall. Something of his feelings for her must have shown on his face, for his vassal remarked on it.

“You are smitten by her, admit it,” Payn murmured, satisfaction in his tone.

Ranulf dragged his gaze away from Ariane. Smitten, aye. The wench had tied him into knots. She had taken hold of him in a way he could no longer control, and the thought terrified him. He was bewildered by his feelings, plagued by doubts—and he knew it was futile to try to hide his turmoil from his closest friend.

“She is the lady of Claredon in all but name, my lord,” Payn observed. “You may as well make her lady of it in truth.”

Ranulf stared into his wine cup. Already he had made so many concessions to Ariane that she practically ran his keep. Against his better judgment, he had yielded to her ambitions, even though he knew he risked betrayal.

Betrayal, that was the rub.

“How can I
know if I can trust her?” Frustration marked his words, while his fists clenched around his chalice.

“You cannot, Ranulf,” Payn replied solemnly. “You must simply have faith that she will be true to you. I think that with the Lady Ariane the risk will not be too great.”

But what if it were? Ranulf reflected. He knew himself well enough to predict his reaction. He would never countenance an unfaithful wife. He would slay her first in a jealous rage—or imprison her. Could he do that to Ariane? What kind of husband would he make her, a man with his brutal past? He knew nothing of love or tenderness; he had none to give her.

Yet what if his vassal was right? Ranulf reflected in a turmoil of agitation. He
had
changed in the past weeks. Despite his austere self-discipline, he was coming to appreciate the comforts of a settled life. He
liked
having a gentlewoman at his side, looking after his needs.

Upon occasion he had even let his thoughts stray. What would it be like having Ariane as his wife? The pleasure of waking up in her arms each morning? The joy of having her beneath him each night? The possibility of having children by her?

He closed his eyes, recalling last night when he had finally made love to her. The fierce sweetness of it had possessed him totally, leaving no room to doubt her sincerity when she professed to love him.

And yet in the cold light of day, his doubts returned to torment him. Could he ever come to forget his bitter past? Would it ever be possible for him to begin again . . . fresh and clean and new . . . with Ariane at his side? Would she fight with him against the world, if need be?

And what of Ariane herself? She claimed to love him now, but what if she had mistaken her heart? Could he watch her turn from him in indifference and scorn? Was it even possible that he could make her happy?

Looking up, Ranulf sought her out with his gaze—and frowned at what he saw. The lad, Gilbert, was accompanying Ariane from the hall.

Repressing the jealous urge to follow them and discover their intent, Ranulf forced himself to attend to his meal. He would not question her loyalty. She had asked for his trust, and he would give it . . . this time. And yet it was hard, harder than riding unarmed against a legion of enemy knights.

Adjacent to the hall, in a dark alcove, Ariane was eying her half-brother quizzically. Though surprised, she had been relieved that Gilbert had sought her out. She had seen little of him in the past weeks since his challenge of Ranulf; in truth, he seemed to be avoiding her, as if afraid to face her after betraying her mother’s secret to the new lord of Claredon, even though she had given her forgiveness.

Gilbert looked at her now grimly, sparing a brief, stealthy glance at the shadows that surrounded them. “My lady, I have a missive for you. A serf brought this onto the castle grounds, and entrusted me to give it directly into your hands, none other.”

He withdrew a scrap of parchment that he had tucked in his belt, and offered it to her with a bow.

Curious, and with a growing sense of unease, Ariane accepted the note and quickly scanned the two brief lines.

“Mother Mary in heaven,” she whispered, her heart suddenly pounding.

“What is it, my lady?” Gilbert asked anxiously, with a show of his former impassioned concern.

“Simon Crecy has returned.” Looking up, she gazed at her brother with dismay. “He desires me to meet him in the forest.”

25

For much of the day Ariane agonized over torn loyalties, divided between her allegiance to her father and Claredon and her pledge to Ranulf.

She desperately wanted to prove her loyalty to Ranulf. Were she truly devoted to the new lord, she would turn over Simon’s missive to him and allow Ranulf to deal with it. What better proof than to deliver his enemy into his hands? Yet by betraying Simon, she might be sending a good man to his death. Ranulf had been furious at Simon’s escape and the subsequent ambush all those weeks ago, and would be more so to discover his foe skulking in the forest. More damning, if she were caught harboring a fugitive, Ranulf would see her action as a betrayal—more treachery on her part.

And yet Simon might have word of her father. Or he might have returned to Claredon to seek aid for Walter’s cause. And Ranulf would put a swift end to any hopes she had for her father’s deliverance.

But no, Ranulf was a fair and merciful lord. Surely he would not condemn Simon without a hearing? Surely he would permit her the opportunity to learn of her father’s fate and assist him if she could?

Mother of Christ, what course should she take?

Anguish showed in Ariane’s eyes when she at last approached Ranulf as he came into the hall from the tiltyard.

“What is amiss?” he demanded, concerned by her obvious agitation.

She forced herself to cease twisting the cords of her girdle between her fingers and found the courage to answer. “I would speak with you, my lord . . . on a matter most urgent.”

“Yes?”

“In private, if I might.”

Nodding briefly, Ranulf led the way to the solar. When they were alone with the door firmly closed, he turned to Ariane with a probing look and was startled to see the tears that shone in her eyes.