The Warrior (10 page)

Ariane’s wary gaze returned to the Black Dragon where he sat on a wooden bench, allowing his squire to attend him. Ranulf had not acknowledged her presence yet, thankfully. His woolen tunic had been removed, and now his mud-spattered boots were stripped off, his woolen chausses unlaced, leaving only linen braies covering his loins.

Seeing him thus, Ariane drew in a sharp breath at the sight of Ranulf’s powerful body. Nakedness was a common occurrence in castle life, and she had frequently seen unclothed men before. Her duties as chatelaine of the castle often required such exposure—helping the lord dress, bathing visitors of high rank, using her knowledge of medicines to dress the wounds of soldiers and serfs alike. And yet no man had ever affected her as strongly as this one did now; no physique had ever seemed as compelling as Ranulf’s masculine body . . . hard, muscular, battle-scarred.

His shoulders appeared massively wide, his chest broad and darkly furred, marked with badges of combat. His flat, taut belly tapered to narrow hips, while his thighs and calves bulged with ropes of muscle. But it was the force and energy that radiated from him, even when he was at ease, that commanded her attention. Somehow Ranulf de Vernay dominated the entire chamber.

He still had the power to awe her, Ariane realized with regret, yet he was a far more fearsome adversary now than ever. He looked supremely dangerous at present, with his jaw darkened by two days’ growth of black beard. Cold, harsh, merciless . . .

He was no longer simply her betrothed, the heartless suitor who had left her to pine and wither for so many years. He was her enemy.

The last of the servants finished their tasks and withdrew, giving her cautious, regretful glances as they passed, as if to apologize for abandoning their lady to the terrifying Black Dragon. Ariane returned faint smiles of reassurance, trying to pretend that her courage was not failing her. When they had gone, she stood unmoving by the wall, not daring to call attention to herself.

Moments later Ranulf dismissed his squire. As the door closed quietly behind the youth, Ariane’s heart rose to her throat. She had preferred to be alone with Ranulf when he meted out her punishment, but now that she was, she found herself hoping with a foolish desperation that he would forget about her.

He was toying with the dagger in his hand as he lounged on the bench, stroking the sharp steel blade with an almost absentminded caress. Ariane had the ominous feeling his silence was deliberate, a calculated attempt to shred her already raw nerves further.

Then suddenly he looked up, and she was pierced by bold, brilliant amber eyes. The impact took her breath away. His lean, hawklike features held a harsh look of simmering anger, while his gaze was like a lance pinning her against the wall. Quite clearly Ranulf had not forgotten her actions of last night—nor forgiven her.

Calling on every bit of courage she possessed, Ariane lifted her chin and coolly returned his gaze. She would not cower before him. The lady of Claredon had more pride.

His look darkened and warred with hers—until finally it dropped to her bound wrists. His hard mouth tightened.

“Come here.”

Ariane stood rooted to the floor.

“I won’t repeat myself, demoiselle,” he said in warning.

Stiffening her spine, she forced her feet to move.

She had taken but a few steps, though, when the door swung open once more. A serving wench entered the chamber, carrying a pile of linen towels and a carved wooden box that Ariane knew contained costly soaps.

Although grateful for the respite, Ariane found herself clenching her fingers in disapproval. Only she and the castle seneschal had keys to the storeroom containing soaps and spices and medicinal herbs. That a serf had been raiding the stocks of Claredon, now that no authority existed to exert control over the castle, raised her ire. And her raw nerves made her speak more sharply than usual.

“What is the meaning of this, Dena? You were taught never to enter a chamber unbidden.”

At the scolding, the girl lowered flashing brown eyes. “I beg pardon, my lady. I thought to bathe the new lord.”

“Well, knock beforehand next time—”

“What did you say to her?” Ranulf demanded, interrupting.

Ariane gave a start and glanced at him warily. She had spoken to the girl in English, the language most of Claredon’s serfs understood, instead of the Norman French of England’s ruling class. Was it possible Ranulf could not comprehend that tongue? If so, it might prove an advantage . . . Or he could simply be testing her . . .

“I advised her,” Ariane replied truthfully, “to remember her training and knock before entering a closed door.”

Ranulf’s gaze bored into her. “You would do well to remember your own precarious position. You are lady here no longer, nor do you have the right to command
my
servants. Your authority here is no greater than any serf’s.”

She flushed at the reprimand and fell silent. Dena’s sly glance at Ranulf implied that she at least understood the import of his harsh declaration, and that she was enjoying her lady’s humiliation.

“Tell her to set her burden down and leave us.”

When Ariane reluctantly complied, Dena bobbed a curtsey and hastened to obey, while at the same time letting her gaze travel over Ranulf’s nearly naked body. As she bent to leave the towels and soap beside the tub, the neck of her tunic slipped half off one shoulder, baring a good deal of a generous breast. And as she took her leave, she gave Ranulf a seductive display of swaying hips, explicitly announcing her availability to the new lord and her eagerness to share his bed.

He seemed not to notice. He kept his hard gaze trained on Ariane until the door had shut once more, leaving them alone.

“The wench seems far friendlier than my own bride,” he said dryly.

“Perhaps she does not know you as well as I do,” Ariane retorted. “Or perhaps she does not object to the stench of treachery as keenly.”

Her charge cut Ranulf in the raw. She dared speak of his treachery after her own betrayal?

A muscle flexed in his jaw, while his gaze impaled her. “You have a sharp tongue, demoiselle. I advise you to curb it.”

She fell silent, but a flicker of contempt crossed her features. Ranulf’s jaw tightened. She should have been meek and frightened, cowering before his anger and begging for mercy, not favoring him with that regal disdain.

“I told you to come here. Do it.
Now.
” His deep, impatient voice barked the word when she hesitated.

Marshalling her courage, Ariane forced herself to obey. When she halted before Ranulf, regarding him uneasily, he ordered her to hold out her bound hands, which she did hesitantly.

She knew an instant of alarm when Ranulf lifted his dagger—alarm that turned to shock as he sliced through her bonds, freeing her hands. Ariane stood staring down at him as feeling rushed back into her numb fingers. Absently rubbing her wrists, she searched his harsh face, wondering at his game.

“Why . . . did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Set me free.”

“But I have not freed you, demoiselle.” His mouth twisted in a grim smile. “On the contrary. You are still very much my hostage. But I see no need to bind you. If you tried to run, you would not get far.”

Ariane bit her lip at that unpalatable truth. She was entirely in Ranulf’s power. She stood quietly, vaguely aware of the musky scent of sweat and maleness that emanated from him. It was not unpleasant; indeed, it was strangely, disturbingly arousing.

Summoning her failing courage, she forced herself to ask the question whose answer she dreaded. “Then . . . what do you intend to do with me?”

His piercing gaze studied her face. “I have not yet decided.” Her relief at his reply was merely temporary, though. “I might have forgiven your defense of the castle, but helping a prisoner escape . . .”

“Simon escaped?” She could not keep the hopeful eagerness from her voice.

“He was not found,” Ranulf replied tersely. “The guard who failed his responsibility is now chained in Claredon’s dungeon.” At her faint look of guilt, his black eyebrow rose. “What did you plan by your betrayal, sweeting? To have your knight seek assistance? To summon reinforcements to your rescue? To raise a rebellion?”

When she wouldn’t answer, his eyes narrowed. “You cost me a goodly ransom—and his escape will no doubt cause a great deal of trouble in the future. I shall have to carefully consider what punishment you deserve.” Raising a hand, Ranulf rubbed the bristle on his jaw thoughtfully. “If you were in my position, what would you do?”

The question took her aback. Ariane eyed him warily, wondering at his intent. “I suppose . . . I would hold you prisoner . . . till you yielded.”

“And would you yield, demoiselle?”

“No,” she replied stiffly.

“Then imprisoning you would do no good, would it? What of locking you in your chamber, starving you into submission? No? I suspect that would have no result except to reduce you to skin and bones.” His bold gaze slowly swept her slender body. “You cannot afford to lose much flesh. And I would have no use for you then.”

She did not care in the least for the vague threat implied in his words, or the muted smile that curved his handsome mouth. His regard was thoughtful but alert, as if he were intent on toying with her, the way the stable cat eyed a captive mouse. Perhaps this was to be her punishment, to be tormented by uncertainty.

“No,” Ranulf said slowly. “I shall have to think of a better, more fitting penance.”

Although aware he was attempting to intimidate her, Ariane couldn’t prevent herself from glancing nervously, involuntarily, at the bed. Was his vassal’s conjecture correct? Did Ranulf mean to ravish her? To conquer her with passion?

She took a steadying breath. “What of the others . . . my father’s men? You didn’t harm them?”

“They are my prisoners, and no longer your concern.”

“But . . . The man you wounded last night? Might I not at least see to his injuries?”

“No.”

His abrupt reply brooked no argument, yet she couldn’t accept defeat so easily. She tried once more, striving to keep the anger from her tone. “My lord Ranulf . . . Please, will you not reconsider? As lady, it is my duty to see to the sick and injured.”

He returned her gaze fiercely, impaling her with his hot golden eyes. “Do you forget? You are lady here no longer.”

“But no one else at Claredon has a knowledge of medicines.”

“My own leech will see to him. Your man will be given adequate care.”

She would have to be satisfied with that, Ariane knew.

Ranulf rose to his feet suddenly, making her shrink back in alarm. But he did not reach for her as she expected. Instead he began to strip off his braies.

“What are you doing?” she exclaimed, unnerved.

His mouth curved in an innocent smile as he bared his body. “I am bathing, what did you think? I intend to remove the stench that is so offensive to my lady.”

He turned and strode boldly toward the tub, and to her dismay, she could not drag her gaze away from the sight of his taut, powerful body sculpted with muscle. Even his buttocks were lean and firm—

Suddenly Ariane drew a sharp breath as her gaze settled on Ranulf’s broad back. It was scored with ribbons of color—the pale white of dead flesh intermeshed with welts of darker tissue. No sword alone had caused those fierce weals. She had viewed floggings before, and tended the resultant wounds, but never had she seen any so severe. How had Ranulf come by such terrible scars?

He seemed oblivious to her regard. Setting his dagger on the floor within reach, he stepped into the tub and sank slowly into the water, partially facing her. After ducking his head, he reached for a piece of soap scented with oil of rosemary and began scrubbing vigorously at his arms and chest.

Ariane stood there hesitantly, wondering if he intended for her to assist him as she might have a noble guest. Would he require her to wash his back, to touch those fierce scars?

The silence stretched out for so long that she optimistically thought Ranulf might have forgotten her. But when he had washed and rinsed his black hair, he glanced up at her. “I spent the whole of today securing the castle and the surrounding countryside. On the morrow I shall see to the demesne manor at Wyclif. That
is
the name of your father’s property directly to the north?”

“Yes.”

“I want a peaceful transition of power. And I require your full cooperation.”

Her eyes widened. “You expect me to aid you in usurping my father’s demesne?”

Usurping? Her choice of words stabbed a festering wound of Ranulf’s. How many times had he heard the allegation that he was undeserving of the spoils earned by his own labors?

“You forget, demoiselle. This is no longer your father’s demesne. The king gave me his holdings here. The honor of Claredon is mine.”

“Because you stole it through deception and trickery.”

“Stole?”
Her heated accusation caused Ranulf’s temper to explode. “By my faith!” His hands gripping the sides of the tub, he rose up half out of the water. “There was no theft here! Your father’s lands and castle were forfeit because of his treason against the king—a fitting retribution for traitors.”

“My father is not a traitor! I am willing to stake my life on it!”

Ranulf gritted his teeth, fighting for restraint. “A foolish wager, demoiselle. Will you deny that your father is at this moment entrenched with Mortimer at Bridgenorth Castle, which is under siege by King Henry?”

Ariane’s spirited defense faltered beneath that fierce gaze. “No, that I cannot deny. But my father was called there last month to provide knight’s service. He could not refuse the summons of his liege lord. Yet he took merely a handful of men, just the twenty knights fees he owed Mortimer. If he were minded to treachery, why did he contribute so small a force?”

“If he were loyal to Henry, why did he not forswear his oath when Mortimer declared his rebellion?”

“I do not
know
!” Ariane cried in anguish. “I only know that he would never have chosen to defy the new king! Not now—not when England at last has a chance for peace!”