Lady At Arms (10 page)

Taking her silence as further defiance, he felt his ire rise. Refusing to waste time arguing with her, he reached out, turned an arm around her waist, and pulled her toward him. Though her lower body followed, her upper did not.

“For the love of God, Lizanne, let go!”

When she did not comply, he clamped her legs between his thighs and tried to pry her hands free. The tenacity of her hold amazed him, and he silently cursed the disadvantage of having only one free hand, the other occupied with steadying the rope.

“Release it, Lizanne!”

She turned to him and he saw tears had forged paths down her mud-streaked face. “I cannot,” she croaked.

She 
was
 terrified.

He removed his dagger from his belt and slashed at the root. A moment later, still grasping it, she fell against him.

“Put your arms around my neck,” Ranulf said, though he did not expect her to obey.

She pressed her head more deeply beneath his chin, slid her hands up his chest, and encircled his neck.

He stared at the top of her head. Would he ever understand this beautiful, wild creature?

They began a slow ascent, during which neither spoke. At the top, Ranulf’s men assisted him over the edge, but though he set Lizanne down, she immediately fell back against him. Thus, he supported her while his men extracted him from the sling.

He was baffled. From what he knew of this woman, he would have expected her to have recovered from the ordeal by now, but she continued to cling to him. Of course, she might be feigning helplessness in hopes of avoiding punishment.

He swung her up against his chest and carried her to his destrier. There, he ducked from beneath her arms, lifted her onto the saddle and, while Geoff steadied her, mounted behind.

When he pulled her back against him, she turned and slid her arms around his waist. Then she buried her face in the soft wool of his tunic. Nay, he did not think she was acting at all.

The ride back was torturous. His awkward baggage clung to him, pressing her body so tightly against his that he became far too aware of the differences between them. By the time they reached the camp, she was asleep though she continued to hold fast to him.

Ranulf carried her into his tent and lowered her onto a pallet. Though he tried to remove the root from her white-knuckled hand, he finally gave up for fear of awakening her. He did, however, remove the belt upon which Geoff’s dagger was fastened.

Fatigue setting in, he crossed to the squat table that held a platter of meats, cheeses, and bread, but dismissed the food and lifted a tankard of warm mead and drained it.

Upon returning to the tent opening, he spotted Walter across the way delivering instructions to the man chosen to ride north to Chesne to warn of the possibility of retaliation from Gilbert Balmaine. Although Ranulf’s impression of Lizanne’s brother was less than flattering, it was best to exercise caution.

Lizanne awoke slowly. For a moment, she thought she was at Penforke, but her eyes told otherwise, opening the window of her consciousness to remind her exactly where she was—and with whom. She turned her face toward the soothing breeze that wafted through the tent.

Wardieu stood at the opening. Though recollection of her escape was hazy, she remembered the riders descending upon her and the soul-wrenching moment when she stepped into empty space. She remembered a strong arm encircling her, carrying her to safety. Ranulf Wardieu’s arm.

She made no attempt to delve further, for it was disturbing to dwell on the comfort her enemy had provided—and that she had accepted it.

Hate being her best defense, she drew on it in the hope it would help her through the violation Wardieu intended to visit upon her this night.

He lowered the tent flap and turned, removed his belt and tossed it aside, then bent and pulled off his boots. As he reached to the hem of his tunic, his gaze fell upon her. Straightening, he folded his arms over his chest.

When Lizanne sat up, something dropped from her hand, and she saw it was the severed root and remembered how she had clung to Wardieu and pressed tight against him. And had wanted never to let go.

What a fool you are! This man is your enemy, and yet for the comfort of his arms, you traded strength for weakness—made yourself into a pitifully useless woman to be taken advantage of and ground underfoot. And be you assured, he 
will
 grind you underfoot. And worse.

In response to the emotions Lizanne made no attempt to keep from her face, Wardieu’s countenance darkened. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?” he demanded.

She drew a deep breath and pushed to her feet. “I did warn you.”

“Warn me?”

She smoothed Geoff’s tunic over her thighs. “I told you ‘twould not be easy to hold me.” Realizing something was missing, she looked down. The belt was gone and, with it, the dagger. She snapped her chin up.

His smile greeted her. “Missing something?”

She squared her shoulders, stepped near him, and reached to the tray of food. After some consideration, she chose a chunk of hard white cheese and popped it in her mouth. Though her hunger had been a pretense to avoid confronting Wardieu head-on, the taste of food suddenly made it very real. She swallowed and reached for another morsel.

“You cause a lot of trouble, woman! Did you truly think to so easily escape me?”

She shrugged. “Actually, I thought it would be more difficult. Mayhap the next time you ought to send four to fetch me. I do enjoy a challenge.”

His nostrils flared. “There will not be a next time. I shan’t underestimate you again.”

She turned away. “Aye, you will.”

“Then you have learned naught from your failure—and do not forget you did, indeed fail.”

With her back to him, she drew her teeth across her bottom lip and forced a shrug. “I would have made it if not for that little ravine.”

“Need I remind you that you nearly broke your neck in that 
little 
ravine?”

She rounded on him. “If your men had not chased me down like common game, I would not have lost my footing!”

“You ran from them?”

“Certainly! Did you think I would simply throw up my hands and surrender? I went to a lot of trouble to escape you.” She snatched up a strip of dried meat and lifted it to her mouth.

Wardieu’s hand closed over her wrist, denying her the food.

She looked up. “Do you mind? I am hungry.” When he did not release her, she leaned forward and brought her mouth to the meat.

He muttered something and pushed her away. “Will you give me no peace, witch?”

She sank onto his wooden chest and clasped her hands between her knees. “I will not. As you do not play fair, why should I?”

He turned slowly to face her. “You are the one who does not play fair, Lizanne. I but follow the rules set by you.”

“There was nothing unfair in what I did!”

“Nothing?” He gave a bark of laughter, then closed the distance between them. “You attacked me downwind, abducted me, chained me, and stabbed me. You think that is fair?”

She jumped to her feet, a mistake that brought her within inches of him. “I had my reasons!” Reasons that, strangely, were no longer as clear as they had been a sennight past.

“Reasons you prefer to keep to yourself,” he reminded her.

She could hardly breathe for the heat his body radiated between them.

“Tell me”—his eyes bored into her—“what sin have I committed that is so terrible to warrant such hatred?”

Not for the first time, she considered revealing her knowledge of his marauding exploits, but she was certain that to do so would place her in greater danger. Still, she asked, “If I tell you, will you release me?”

The anger in his eyes flickered and, for a moment, he said nothing, then he reached up and drew a thumb across her lower lip. “I make no promise.”

She could not move. Though she tried to fathom the strange feeling his caress evoked, she knew only that it was not entirely unpleasant as it should be.

Thankfully, he lowered his hand and stepped back. “When you and I are done, I will send you back to your brother. Not before.”

When they were done…

Lizanne closed her eyes so he would not see her fear. When he was finished bedding her, perhaps even getting her with child, he would allow her to return to Penforke. A fortnight? A month? A twelvemonth? When?

“Then I have nothing to gain by enlightening you.” She stepped past him to a corner of the tent where a washbasin was set on a stool, snatched up the thick cloth beside it, and dipped it in the water. Alert to Wardieu’s movements about the tent as she fought for a composure that had slipped so far that she did not think she would recapture it this night, she took her time scrubbing her face clean.

When he moved behind her, it took all of her self-control to not react.

“Have a care,” he said near her ear, his breath stirring her hair and sending shivers up her spine. “I would not want you to rub away your beauty.”

Though she knew she was acting like a child, she scrubbed more vigorously.

He yanked the cloth from her hand.

She whipped around and tread upon his toes. “Give it to me!”

Holding it out of reach, he swept his gaze over her face. “You are clean. Now remove those filthy clothes and lie down.”

Even before fear leapt in her eyes, Ranulf knew he had poorly chosen his words.

She backed into the stool, nearly upsetting the basin of water.

He sighed. “’Tis late, Lizanne, and we rise early come morn. I but meant that you cannot sleep in that tunic, nor those boots—look at them.”

Her face paled, and she protectively folded her arms across her chest.

Not so long ago, the thought of owning her fear had appealed to him, but no more. “I give you my word, you will not suffer my attentions.” He motioned to the pallet he had laid her upon following their return to camp. “You have your bed, I have mine. Providing you do not leave yours, neither shall I.”

Warily, she looked to the far side of the tent, and he saw her surprise when her eyes shifted from her pallet to his.

“You will, of course, be bound.”

Her gaze sprang back to his. “Why?”

He nearly laughed. “As already told, I have no intention of underestimating you again. And I will have a good night’s sleep.”

She rubbed one wrist, then the other. “I do not like being bound.”

“I certainly sympathize.” Indeed, the time he had spent as her prisoner was still so fresh he could feel the manacles’ bite. “Nevertheless, it shall be done—unless you prefer my arm about you through the night.”

She caught her breath, and her eyes swept left and right as if in search of a way past him. But this time there would be no escaping him. Shoulders slumping as if the last of her defiance had run out of her, she said, “You may bind me.”

Though tempted to remind her he did not require her permission, he said, “Go to your pallet and remove your tunic and boots. I will come to you when you are done.”

She complied, and he turned away to give her privacy.

Shortly, she said, “I am ready.”

Ranulf retrieved a rope from his chest and crossed to where she had pulled the blanket up to her chin. He dropped to his haunches. “Give me your hands.”

She slid them out from beneath the blanket and pressed them together.

As he reached to apply the rope, he saw the abrasions on her wrists caused by her own struggles against imprisonment. Though rope did not cut as deeply as manacles, she was surely sore.

Resenting that he should care for her comfort, he pressed the rope into her hands. “Put it around your waist.”

“Why?”

“It will suffice.”

“I do not understand.”

“And I am tired.” Not that he would get the good night’s sleep he had hoped for. “The other end I shall hold to.”

Something he did not like glittered in her eyes before she blinked it away.

“I warn you,” he said, “I shall feel every move you make through the rope. If it does not remain taut, I will take up the slack—even if it means you end up in my bed.”

Whatever had come and gone in her eyes did not come again. She turned the blanket back, revealing thin undergarments, and quickly threaded the rope around her waist.

“I will knot it,” he said.

She flinched when his hands brushed hers, and he heard her teeth grind when he knotted the rope a second time. And a third.

“Do not test me,” he said and straightened. He tossed the end of the rope onto his pallet and began to douse the candles about the tent.

“Would you leave one burning?” Lizanne called when only one remained to be put out.

He peered into the shadows that had fallen over the pallets. Was she plotting again? If so, of what use was candlelight when the absence of light would surely serve her better?

“It was…dark in the ravine,” she said.

Ranulf smiled grimly. 
Walter will not like it, but methinks you will be in my bed tonight, Lady.

He left the candle burning, crossed to his pallet, and removed his tunic and boots, then he laid down and wound the rope around one hand. As he pulled the blanket over him, the rope loosened.

He took up the slack—and more.

Lizanne gasped.

“Keep it taut,” he growled.

“I but turned over.”

“Taut, Lizanne!”

Lizanne stared across the space between the pallets and picked out Wardieu’s pale hair. She had not been testing him. Indeed, she was not even sure she could now that it was dark but for the one candle. She knew she had raised his suspicions in asking him to leave it burning, but she did not mind, for it was better that he think ill of her than he know the deepening fear that had gripped her as he extinguished each candle. The darkness was far too eager to return her to her flight from Wardieu’s men. Worse, as she had darted among trees and scrambled over rocks and roots, her fear mixing with the smell of damp earth, she had returned to the first time she had fled this man—the night he had cut down Gilbert and tried to ravish her.

Had he?

She startled.

And the devil snapped the rope. “Be still!”

He had. Of course he had.