The Warrior (12 page)

She had not yet moved, Ranulf noted as he forced away the erotic reflection. “It will go easier for you if you submit to me willingly,” he warned, his tone casual.

“I will not be dishonored,” Ariane replied at last, her voice shaking.

“Dishonor? Is that what it would be, demoiselle?”

“Yes, if you take me without the blessing of the Church.”

“That presumes you still have honor to lose.”

Letting his dagger drop to the floor with a clatter, Ranulf rose abruptly to his feet and stepped dripping from the tub. His nude body glistening, he strode purposefully toward her.

Ariane warily tried to retreat, but he reached out to capture her long plait and slowly wrap it around his hand. Imprisoning her thus, he moved closer, crowding her with his towering body, his amber gaze boring into her. He was so near, Ariane could feel his skin’s heat, could smell his clean masculine scent, spiced with the fragrance of rosemary, enveloping her.

“Are you still chaste, sweeting? Or have you played me false in that matter as well?”

“Of course I am chaste . . .” she retorted breathlessly.

“Your father’s vassal, the one you helped escape. You claim you were never lovers?”

“Lovers?
Simon?
Certainly we were never lovers—”

“You expect me to believe you have never been intimate with a man?”

“Yes . . . most assuredly I do.”

“You are far older than most maids, a spinster almost.”

Stung by the injustice of his accusation, Ariane felt fresh anger rising within her. “And whose fault is that, my lord? You left me neglected and unwed for years.”

His eyebrow rose as he searched her face. “You will forgive my skepticism if I doubt your virtue. My past experiences with noblewomen have not led me to put any faith in their protestations of innocence.”

She wondered what had occurred to incite such bitterness in his tone, even as she met Ranulf’s gaze scornfully. “I care not what you believe. I am still a maiden.”

“There is one sure way to discover if you are telling the truth.”

Her response became a gasp as his hand rose to close gently around her throat. Her hands came up to resist him, which was a mistake, she discovered as her palms encountered the granite wall of his bare chest. It was a distinct shock to feel the warm furred flesh still damp from his bath.

Desperately, Ariane tried to ward him off. “You will not . . . take me without the sanction of marriage vows.”

“I have the right,” Ranulf said softly, determined to make her understand the power he held over her, the better to appreciate the leniency he intended to show her. “I could keep you chained in my bed, forcing you to service me. I could claim you as the spoils of war, and no one would gainsay me. The king would even understand. I could take you now and no one would stop me.”

Ariane felt her heart pounding in her throat as she stared up at him. His harsh, sun-bronzed face was so close she could feel his breath soft on her lips. “You . . . would rape a gentlewoman?”

A smile flickered across his mouth as he thought seriously about her question. “I much doubt it would be rape. I have never before found it necessary to resort to such tactics. The wenches I’ve been required to subdue eventually offered no resistance. They came willingly to my bed, even eagerly.”

Her eyes widened incredulously. “You dare boast of your conquests?”

“No boast, sweeting, simple fact. Women find pleasure in my arms—as you would, I am certain.”

His arrogant implication left Ariane speechless with outrage. The idea that she might actually enjoy her ravishment affronted her. “I shall
never
share your bed without benefit of marriage. I will never come to you willingly!”

“We shall see.”

His soft declaration held a threat, Ariane was certain, but it was Ranulf’s dangerous look that disturbed her more. His stormy countenance had softened, to be replaced by something heated and intense in his golden eyes. She had never been more aware of a man—of his body, of his nudity. When he leaned into her, pressing against her, she could feel his quickening desire, the hardening ridge of his manhood against her belly.

With a gasp of alarm, she tried once more to break free of his imprisoning hold, but his fingers on her throat were like velvet manacles.

“The sooner you accept me as your liege, the easier it will go for you.”

Ariane held her breath, forcing herself to stand utterly still, trying not to show her panic, yet she knew Ranulf could feel her pulse hammering wildly beneath his palm.

For an interminable moment, he stood staring down at her . . . but then his hand abruptly fell away as he smiled tauntingly. “You are fortunate that I am too weary to properly attend you tonight, demoiselle. It is a firm rule of mine—I never take a wench unless I have the energy to see to her pleasure as well as my own. But after remaining awake for two full days, I expect the exertion would tax even my stamina.”

Stepping back, he left Ariane gaping at his temerity as he turned to pick up a linen cloth and towel himself dry. To her shock, his erection was flushed and engorged, standing nearly to his belly. After a nervous glance, she dared not look further at him.

When he saw how she averted her gaze, Ranulf chuckled in wry amusement. It was sweetly satisfying to see this scornful, haughty damsel disconcerted. “You should feel honored, sweeting,” he prodded. “I don’t usually allow my women to remain with me the night through.”

“Honored!” The sheer audacity of his statement took her breath away. “It is not an honor! And I am not your
woman
!”

“Indeed, you
are,
demoiselle. You are mine to do with as I will.”

The urge to slap his arrogant face made Ariane’s palm tingle, but seeing the sparkle of humor in his eyes turn hot, glimmering, made her think better of it.

“You knave,” she muttered heatedly under her breath, a retort Ranulf unfortunately heard.

“Such offended pride. Such righteous indignation.”

Her chin snapped up. “You dare mock me.”

“Aye, I do,” he replied with a maddening smile. “I crave the enjoyment of seeing your temper rise.”

“You are cruel.”

“Cruel?” A slashing eyebrow rose abruptly, while his smile faded. “You think you deserve kindness? After your defiance yesterday? When your actions were tantamount to treason? You should consider yourself fortunate, demoiselle. Any other lord would have had you flogged senseless, or spread your legs and used your body without regard to your station or innocence. I have not harmed you—nor will I unless you give me further cause.”

She fell silent, her accusing gaze a flashing mixture of frustration and despair and impotent fury. Her reaction disturbed Ranulf’s conscience far more than continued argument could have done. Deciding it time to end his deliberate attempt to provoke her, he returned her regard steadily, trying to give the appearance of indifference.

“You can rest easy, sweeting. As much as I would enjoy your body, I intend to deny myself the pleasure. Taking you would cement our betrothal contract and validate our marriage, God forbid. It would take a decree from the pope to annul, and I would not care to be put to such bother.”

Her eyes widened in disbelief, and he could feel her gaze following him as he moved about the room, snuffing the candles in the wall sconces.

He had spoken the truth, though. For once he was too weary to do justice to his bed partner or his carnal nature, despite the blood that pooled thickly in his loins, hot and potent, despite the way his fiery betrothed—former betrothed, Ranulf corrected himself—aroused him. He would compel her to share his bed, although naught more physical would occur between them, not tonight at any event.

Even so, her evident aversion to the idea of accepting his attentions stung his male pride. He had never before been denied by any woman he wanted. In truth, much of his trouble had always been that wenches were overly attracted to him. His female villeins often clamored for his favor, eager to bear him sons who would raise their own status and perhaps elevate them to a better life. They knew his feelings about children. He loved the three children he had sired—he who allowed himself to care about nothing and no one. Children were his one weakness, and he was stubbornly resolved on providing his own a better life than he had known, one without the shame, the pain, the bleak loneliness he had endured.

Ranulf left the single large candle lit for the night and drew down the bedclothes before glancing over his shoulder at Ariane. “Why do you tarry?”

Her wariness had returned, as well as that proud defiance that stirred his anger and unwilling admiration.

“I tell you, I will not lie with you,” she replied with feigned bravado.

She had never seen anyone react so swiftly. In two strides Ranulf had closed the distance between them and scooped her up in his arms. In three more, he had carried her to the bed and dropped her onto the soft feather mattress, following her down to pin her with the partial weight of his body. Ruthlessly, he captured her flailing arms and locked them over her head.

Shocked, breathless, Ariane could only stare up at him.

“You will lie with me, my lady,” he said with lethal softness. “You will warm my bed if I command it. You will clean my boots if I say so. And by the Virgin, you will curb your defiant tongue in my hearing, do you understand me?”

Ariane gritted her teeth, staring back at Ranulf with trepidation and seething fury. “Yes, I understand.”

“Yes,
what?
”

“Yes, my lord.”

His glittering eyes narrowed as they locked with hers. Suddenly feeling the softness of her body beneath him, Ranulf swore under his breath. That same stark, sexual awareness that he’d experienced last night when Ariane had lain beneath him struck him again with the force of a battering ram, exploding to pool thick and hot in his loins.

God’s blood, he needed a woman. He had been celibate for several weeks now, having denied himself often during the five months of the recent campaign. And having such a winsome captive so near at hand without being able to touch her would prove a sore strain on his fortitude. Yet he had brought this dilemma on himself. God’s teeth, but this close proximity was supposed to serve as
her
punishment, not his own.

Shutting his eyes, Ranulf forced himself to exhale slowly. Jesu, he was tired. Bone tired, his body stiff with weariness and need. Abruptly easing his weight off her, Ranulf reached down to pull the sheets and a fur coverlet up over them both. Rolling over to face the far wall then, he closed his eyes and forced his body to relax, willing the tension and exhaustion to drain from muscle and sinew.

Not daring to move, Ariane stared at the back of his head, a dawning sense of relief stealing over her. It seemed as if Ranulf did indeed mean what he said about not ravishing her . . . at least not this night.

Their confrontation had not gone as she expected. Ranulf had not hurt her precisely. He had tormented her with threats, yes, raising her fears with his taunts and innuendos. And yet she was still free, somewhat. He hadn’t incarcerated her in the dungeon, and for that she was grateful. Being forced to sleep in Ranulf’s chamber, even in his bed, was by far the lesser punishment, for imprisoned, she could be of no help to any of the inhabitants of Claredon, nor defend them against the Black Dragon. Not that she had managed to give much of an accounting of herself tonight.

Still, she hadn’t surrendered to Ranulf entirely . . . and he hadn’t ravished her. . . .

Shaking with rage and relief, she listened with growing resentment as Ranulf’s breathing settled into a quiet rhythm. He was obviously unafraid to turn his back on her. He had not bothered to hide any of his weapons, evidently believing she would never have the courage to use them against him. Courage had little to say to the matter, though. She would not be so foolish as to attempt his life. Even if she managed to kill the lord of Vernay, his vassals would most certainly avenge his death, not only on her but on the hapless people of Claredon. No, for the moment she would have to accept his rule.

Her gaze focusing on his hair, she realized his wet, raven locks had curled into damp tendrils that shimmered softly with blue highlights. For an instant, Ariane found herself wondering if his hair was as soft, as silken, as it looked, but she quelled the urge to reach up and test it. Her gaze dropped lower. Beneath the edge of the coverlet, she could see the beginning of his broad back and the terrible scars that crisscrossed the ravaged flesh. Ruthlessly she crushed the involuntary surge of sympathy that stirred within her. The lord of Vernay was a black-hearted devil, who needed no compassion or pity from anyone, least of all his helpless prisoner.

Turning her head, Ariane stared blindly up at the canopy overhead, a dull ache constricting her chest. No, this encounter with Ranulf was nothing like what she had once expected or hoped.

This should have been her wedding night. She had dreamed of her first time with Ranulf. Countless times she had imagined lying with him, giving herself to her husband in love and honor, opening her body to him, responding to his tender caresses. . . .

Her dreams bore no resemblance to this . . . this mockery of a solemn marriage bedding. She was sharing his bed, yes, but not in love or honor.

They were enemies now. The lord of Vernay had repudiated their betrothal and refused to touch her, while she shrank from him in fear and loathing.

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