The Warrior (54 page)

His heart was still thudding unnaturally when they reached the hall where many of the castlefolk were engaged in the evening meal. Ariane started for the stairs, saying she would leave him to consult with his men, but Ranulf forestalled her with a hand on her arm. “Stay, lady.” Turning to summon a serf, he commanded the man to fetch the priest.

She gave Ranulf a quizzical look. “Is something amiss, my lord?”

“No.” He returned a brooding glance. “You will at last get your wish, demoiselle,” he replied cryptically.

Her confusion increased. “My wish?”

“You sought to become my wife. Before I leave, I mean to formally wed you.”

Her mouth opening, Ariane stared at Ranulf in shock, in disbelief.
“Why?”
she asked finally, her breath a rasp of sound.

“Why?”

“Why would you agree to a formal union between us after all this time? After standing so firmly against it, against me, for so long?”

Ranulf looked away, reluctant to meet her gaze. “Because King Henry wishes it. When last I saw him, he urged the marriage. If I am to seek his favor, I prefer not to face him from a position of weakness.”

“Is that all?” she asked quietly. “Is that your sole reason?”

It was not the sole reason, nor even the most important one, though it
was
true he could strengthen his position by acceding to Henry’s wishes regarding the marriage. But Ranulf was disinclined to confess his feelings of remorse to Ariane, or to divulge his need to protect her, or to expose his weakness for her, the desire that had become a raging obsession.

“ ’Tis reason enough,” Ranulf replied gruffly instead.

“No, my lord,” Ariane said finally, shaking. her head. “It is not enough. Not for me.” She took a deep breath. “You may choose to wed for political expediency, Ranulf, but I cannot. I will not speak the vows to become your wife. I will not wed you.”

26

It was Ranulf’s turn to stare. Had he misheard her? “Are you saying you
refuse
?”

“Aye, my lord,” Ariane replied quietly. “I will not wed you.”

Bafflement, disbelief, doubt all warred in Ranulf’s mind. Never had he considered her possible refusal. Yet perhaps Ariane was being coy, pretending to spurn his magnanimous offer in order to win further concessions from him.

Irritated by her ploy, he favored her with a quelling stare, one that never failed to make the most courageous of men quake in their boots. Instead of flinching, Ariane returned his gaze somberly, her expression one of incredible sadness.

“You once thought political expedience an adequate reason to wed,” Ranulf pointed out—quite reasonably, he thought.

“That . . . was before I came to know you.”

His scowl faded, to be replaced by true uncertainty. “What mean you, ‘before you came to know me’?”

“I understand you far better now, Ranulf. And that understanding weighs more with me than any politics.” She looked away, unable to meet his gaze further, and clasped her hands together to stop them from trembling. “The original reasons for an alliance between us no longer exist. I agreed to an arranged marriage to please my father, and to provide Claredon with a strong lord when he eventually passes from this life. But as you have often reminded me, you already are Claredon’s lord. And my father, in his present danger, doubtless has more vital worries to occupy his thoughts than which suitor I wed.”

A sinking sensation assaulted Ranulf in the pit of his stomach, though he ignored it as he strove to follow her rationale. The circumstances between them had indeed changed radically—but there were still reasons for the marriage, certainly on his part. He had initially agreed to the betrothal to further his own interests, and his original justification still had merit. He wanted heirs of Ariane. And the political basis was still sound, especially with the king pressing for the union. Both were reason enough to marry—or so Ranulf tried to convince himself. He did not want to examine too closely his eagerness to wed Ariane now. It was enough that he was willing to honor her as his lady wife.

“I will make the contract terms generous, if that is what concerns you,” he said finally.

“That is not at all what concerns me.” Ariane drew a steadying breath, summoning every ounce of courage she could muster, knowing she was taking the biggest gamble of her life. “I thank you my lord, but I must decline.”

He still could not believe she meant to refuse. He had expected her to leap at the offer. She had
won
the battle between them, by the Cross; he was willing to give Ariane exactly what she had been demanding for weeks.

Ranulf felt irrationally betrayed by her sudden, inexplicable reversal. Yet unable, unwilling, to recognize the feeling as pain, he took refuge in anger. He had opened his mouth to deliver a scathing reply when he noticed the crowd that had gathered around them, awaiting his orders.

“We shall discuss this in private,” he muttered so that only Ariane could hear.

“There is no need to discuss it further, my lord.”

His temper kindled. Taking her arm, Ranulf drew her toward the stairwell. “The solar—now.”

They ascended the steps without speaking, the only sound their footsteps and the clinking of his spurs.

“Now, what is the meaning of this nonsense?” he demanded in irritation when he had shut the door behind them in the solar. “For weeks now you have harped at me to make you my lady.”

“I have not harped at you,” Ariane replied quietly. “Nor is my position nonsense. I no longer expect to wed you.”

“Whyever not?” Ranulf exclaimed, torn between incomprehension and frustration, hurt and anger.

Her own gaze held anguish. “Because you will believe I tricked you to save my own skin and my inheritance. That I forced you into a union that is repugnant to you. I will not compel you to accept a marriage that is so distasteful to you, my lord.”

He stared at her a long moment. “It would not be distasteful to me,” he admitted finally, grudgingly.

“It would. I will not force you to marry against your wishes.”

Curtly Ranulf shook his head. “Were you attempting coercion, wild horses could not compel me to wed you. But that is hardly the case. I am reconciled to the marriage. I will be acting at my king’s behest—”

“King Henry’s wishes are not a good enough reason for me,” Ariane repeated stubbornly.

Muttering an oath, Ranulf shook his head again in disbelief. “I agree to honor you as my lady wife, and you refuse? No, I cannot accept it, wench. You will wed me tonight as planned, so that I may leave tomorrow with a clear conscience.”

Her chin lifted. “There, you see, Ranulf? You call me ‘wench’ in that scornful tone, as if I were dirt beneath your feet.”

Ranulf looked taken aback. “I mean naught by it. I call all females ‘wench.’ ”

“I know.” The ache in her throat made her voice quaver. “But I wish to mean more to you than other women. I want more, far more, my lord. I want to be accepted as your partner in life, the mother of your children, your true love—not your chattel, your leman, your slave.”

He stared at her, appraising her expression, noting her deadly seriousness. “You ask much, demoiselle.”

“Not so much, my lord.”

His lips compressed. “Would you see me on bended knee? Is that what you want from me?”

Ariane shook her head sadly.

“Then
what,
by the Saints?”

“I want a husband who can trust me, for one.”

“Trust?” Ranulf’s brow furrowed. “What has that to say to the matter?”

“Everything, my lord. You believe noblewomen cannot remain faithful to their vows; you think we have no honor, no scruples. But I consider a vow sacred. I intend to remain faithful to my lord husband until the day I die.”

Warily he searched Ariane’s beautiful face, realizing the truth of her commitment. He knew the value she placed on vows; he had seen proof of it in her devotion to her parents, her people. Indeed, that conviction was why he had at last risked surrender, why he was insisting now that she wed him. Her oath to honor and obey him she would hold sacred—but now she was refusing even to consider a marriage between them because of some nonsensical notion about trust.

Taking a steadying breath to control the tension rising within him, Ranulf decided it wiser to emphasize the advantages of the union. “Must I spell out what your dower rights would be, demoiselle?”

“No, I care not what they would be.”

“You care not?” His mouth curled skeptically. “What if I should die? I will be riding into an armed camp, to a castle under siege. I could be killed by a spent arrow, or assaulted by robbers on the road, for that matter. As my widow you would have certain rights to my estate.”

She flinched at the thought of Ranulf dying, but refused to look away. “You mistake my character,” Ariane said softly, “if you believe considerations of wealth and power are why I wish to be your wife.”

“Well, then . . . as my wife you would have more influence over the disposition of your precious Claredon,” he pointed out.

“Perhaps . . . but Claredon will survive without me. You will rule it justly, I have no doubt.”

His eyes narrowed. “If I manage to free your father, then will you reconsider?”

“My decision has naught to do with my father. I am profoundly grateful for all you have done—and will do—for my family, Ranulf. More grateful than I can ever say. But your generosity toward my parents will not sway me in this matter.”

An unfamiliar feeling of panic rose in Ranulf, but he managed to ward it off by summoning fresh anger. “Perhaps you have forgotten an important detail, my lady,” he said tightly. “We may already be wed. Your trick with the bedsheets may have cemented our union, whether you will it or not. Rome may very well have refused to dissolve the contract.”

“There is as much likelihood the annulment has been granted,” Ariane countered softly.

“If the Pope has not acted yet, I shall withdraw my petition. I no longer mean to seek an annulment.”

She would not reply.

His jaw clenching, Ranulf grasped at another argument. “Have you considered the consequences to yourself if you refuse? If your father is found guilty, you will be stripped of rank and possessions, forced to beg for your very bread. You will become a ward of the crown—and likely be forced to wed a man of Henry’s choosing.”

“That is preferable to the alternative. King Henry will give me to a man I cannot love or perhaps even respect . . . but I would rather that than have you come to despise me.”

At her quiet declaration, Ranulf felt suddenly faint, stunned, as if he had taken a sword thrust to the gut but could not yet feel the pain.

The blow she had dealt him showed on his features. Dismayed by his reaction, Ariane moved toward him, reaching out an imploring hand. She had to make Ranulf understand that she was not rejecting
him.
She was leaving him free to choose, giving him the chance to decide what he truly wanted.

Her features softened in entreaty as she gazed up at him. “You still do not understand, do you, Ranulf? I
want
to be your wife. But if you cannot admit your deepest feelings to yourself, if you do not know—truly
know
—deep in your heart that I can make you happy, that I can complete your life as you could mine, that our two hearts would be as one, then I must refuse your offer of marriage.”

He looked away, saying stiffly, “You want me to ply you with sweet words, but I am a soldier, not a poet.”

“No,” she replied earnestly. “I care not what words you use, although if you truly loved me, you would not hesitate to shout it from the castle walls. What matters only is what you
feel
for me. If you cannot trust me, if you think I have trapped you into wedding me, you would come to hate me. Ranulf . . . I could not bear it if that happened.”

“I could never hate you,” he said rigidly, his voice low.

“But you do not love me.”

There was a long, pregnant silence.

Ariane gazed at him sadly. “Now, at least, you desire my body. But when you grow tired of me, what then? Will you set me aside? Will you turn to another woman for comfort? Will you seek pleasure from your Saracen leman and forget me? I could not bear to lose you that way. My heart could not bear it. ’Tis better that I not wed you at all.”