The Warrior (20 page)

She had hoped he had forgotten. Biting her lip, averting her gaze from his knowing expression, Ariane forced herself to attend to that masculine part of him that was so unlike herself.

Ranulf stiffened when she ran the soap over his swelling loins, suddenly recognizing the danger in his tactics. Not only had the damsel aroused more painful memories of his past, but her innocent ministrations were arousing him physically, a state likely to remain painfully unfulfilled. He was fiercely aware of her nearness . . . her flushed skin, her white teeth catching her pink lower lip, her sweet scent . . . His nostrils flared with primal masculine arousal. He could almost feel her soft woman’s body beneath him. . . .

Bewitched, aye, that was what Ariane had done to him. If he were wise, he would seriously attempt the seduction Payn had counseled. To try and bewitch
her
in order to win her surrender.

Ranulf’s gaze arrested as he stared at Ariane’s beautiful mouth. If he applied his powers of persuasion, he would wager a year’s tourney winnings she would not respond with the cool indifference and scorn that vexed him so. He would break down those haughty barriers and have her gasping and pleading for his touch. She would be eager enough to please him then. . . .

Ariane had finished her task with inordinate haste, he realized, feeling his loins throb. Schooling himself to patience, he took the soap from her nervous fingers and began making a lather in his own hands.

“Hand me my knife,” he said, softening his tone to a husky murmur. When her eyes widened with apprehension, Ranulf added with a slow smile to reassure her, “I merely mean to shave. I would not wish to chafe your pretty skin.”

He saw her quizzical frown with satisfaction. Let her wonder at his meaning.

When she had fetched his knife, she stood looking down at him uncertainly. Ranulf held her gaze as casually, almost lazily, he soaped his jaw.

“Take down your hair,” he ordered mildly.

“Why?”

“Because it pleases me for you to do so.”

Ariane felt her stubbornness rising, and yet she could not refuse him. Her hair was fashioned in a braided coronet, and it took a few moments to remove the pins and unplait it. When finally she did, a cloud of pale copper tresses whirled around her shoulders and breasts.

Ranulf drew a sharp breath at the sight. The thought of having that bright, silken hair spread over his pillow as he plunged his male sword within her warm sheath made blood rush to swell him to his full, throbbing length.

“And now your clothing, demoiselle.”

“You want me to disrobe?” Her voice was a breathless whisper.

“Yes. It is time to retire.” When she hesitated, he added softly, “Demoiselle, you will not elude your pledge of obedience so easily. Your gown . . . or must I remove it for you?”

With a silent oath of frustration, Ariane turned away to undress, removing her bliaud and chainse and hose, until she wore naught but her shift. The thin linen offered little protection; it had long sleeves and fell below the knees, yet the fine material showed her nipples and the triangle of curls at her womanhood—and did little to shield her from Ranulf’s scrutiny when he ordered her to turn around. His gaze glided slowly over her body, as if measuring her breasts for the way they would fit in his hands, her legs for how they would wrap around his hips.

Blushing and furious, Ariane crossed her arms belligerently over her chest. “Must you ogle me like a prize ewe at market?”

“You are more comely than any ewe. I confess I see much that I like.”

More than liked,
Ranulf amended to himself. She was a raving beauty who brought his keenly honed senses primitively alive. Her lissome young body was tall and long of limb, her bones fine and fragile, her lovely features haunting. Add to that breasts that were full and lush, a waist he could span with his hand, and hips made to succor a man, and he wanted her more than he could ever recall wanting a wench. He desired nothing more than to toss her on the bed and seat the burning shaft of him deep, deep inside her. . . .

God’s teeth, but she provided a temptation that threatened his good judgment. He was mad to put himself through this. He had wanted to compel her submission, to seduce her into yielding, but he had forgotten that his games would leave him unsated and sexually frustrated and gnashing his teeth with lust. He had tied his own hands in that regard. He couldn’t touch Ariane without paying the consequences, even if he overcame her resistance.

And yet . . . Why should he deny himself the pleasure of her flesh simply because he could not take her in the accepted fashion? The thought of having her ripe and eager, hot and writhing beneath him, made his loins ache and strengthened his resolve.

Finishing his task of shaving, Ranulf rinsed his face and then rose to his feet. When he had stepped dripping from the tub, he stood waiting with his legs spread, his arms held out.

“The towel, lady,” he said blandly, flashing a careless, very male smile. “I am growing chilled.”

Ariane’s jaw snapped shut at that obvious falsehood. She had woken next to him this morning, and could honestly say she had never known a man with skin so hot as Ranulf’s. It would take a winter’s storm to chill his overheated blood—or reduce his swelling erection. His nude body was clearly aroused, she saw with a fierce blush.

“I see no harm in your growing chilled,” she retorted in a dampening tone. “Mayhap it will cool your lust.”

His smile widened provocatively, but she could tell by the glimmer in his amber eyes he would not relent. He intended her to dry him.

Picking up a linen towel, Ariane approached him warily, trying to maintain her composure. Ranulf was well over six feet of sheer power, all hard muscle and intensity, and he looked supremely dangerous with his raven hair wet and tousled, his golden, hawkish gaze focused solely on her, a light dancing in their striking depths. Her acknowledged fascination for the man only added to her vexation, and she used more force than necessary as she dried his beautiful, scarred body.

“Have a care, demoiselle. I would keep my skin.”

With effort, Ariane slowed her movements. Then she caught sight of the fresh blood seeping from the cuts on his side and sucked in her breath in dismay. She had opened Ranulf’s wounds with her harshness.

Immediately contrite, she gazed up at him. “You are bleeding anew.”

“It is nothing.”

Ariane shook her head, beset by guilt. She owed Ranulf at least a minimum of gratitude for his earlier restraint in sparing the lives of his attackers and burying the dead. Certainly Ranulf did not deserve to be
mauled
by her. “I must tend these gashes.”

“I said it is nothing, demoiselle.”

Her chin rose stubbornly. “I am acting in place of your squire, my lord—an assignment you yourself set for me. You will allow me to carry out my oath and serve you.”

She spoke in a voice of authority, the regal command of a chatelaine accustomed to ruling a vast household staff. Ranulf stared at her a long moment, his look wary, as if he feared she might inflict him with bodily harm. “Very well,” he said finally.

Ariane understood his wariness. She had given him little reason to trust her, she reminded herself as she went to fetch her supplies.

Ranulf reluctantly allowed her to apply a poultice and bind his ribs with strips of linen, but he watched her closely. He told himself Ariane could do him no harm, and yet her ministrations seemed far too intimate for the simple task she performed. Or perhaps he simply felt too vulnerable. His former betrothed saw too much with those luminous gray eyes, making him feel as if his soul were stripped naked.

When Ariane paused momentarily to gaze up at him, some softer, gentler emotion slipped through him so surreptitiously that he could not quell it.

Ranulf cursed silently. The bewitching wench was weaving an irresistible spell over him. Despite his best efforts, he felt his blood begin to heat uncontrollably.

Against his will, he raised a hand to touch her cheek. When Ariane drew a sharp breath and tried unsuccessfully to draw away, Ranulf stilled. He did not want her flinching from him.

With a finger under her chin, he forced her to meet his gaze. “You need not fear me. I am not so harsh a master. I am gentle with horses, hawks . . . women.”

“I am not afraid,” Ariane lied, feeling her pulse race at the dark flame that lit his golden eyes. “But neither will I listen to you boast of your conquests.”

That smile returned to flicker across his lips. “I would not be so churlish,” he replied innocently.

His utter calm was unnerving. When she tried to draw back, he caught her wrist. “Methinks I could win you, should I attempt it.”

His audacity knew no bounds. She drew her wrist from his grasp—yet she could not escape him. With deceptive speed, his arm wrapped around her waist and he pulled her upright, into the hot strength of his groin. Her body came instantly alive with tremors of excitement. Dismayed, Ariane pressed her palms against his broad chest, braced to fight, but it was like shoving against a wall of stone.

“Release me!” she exclaimed to no avail.

“Why should I?” His tone was husky, sensual. “Earlier you were willing to exchange your body for the lives of your men.”

“Not my body,” Ariane replied. “Only my services.”

“Then service me.”

The hot, hungry look in his golden eyes alarmed her. “You were the one,” she said too breathlessly, “who refused to consummate the betrothal contract.”

His voice dropped to a seductive murmur. “There are ways to enjoy carnal pleasure that do not involve losing your maidenhead, sweeting.”

Her eyes went wide as she stared up at him. When slowly he raised his hand, barely brushing the full aching globe of her breast with his palm, she gasped.

Noting her body’s unwilling response, he smiled tenderly. “You want me, demoiselle, it is obvious. Your nipples are peaked . . . your heart is beating too rapidly . . . your breath has quickened . . . your skin is flushed . . .”

“I do not want you!”

“Your body wants me. It is clear you are a maiden languishing for a man.”

Ariane shut her eyes, praying for deliverance. She should never have allowed him to know she resented her virgin state. “I am languishing for no one, most especially you!”

“You mean to say you have never wondered what it would be like to have a man between your thighs?”

“No . . . I, mean yes, I never . . .”

“Permit me to show you,” he murmured, his voice going even softer, deeper, stroking her senses like dark velvet. “Let us see if we can make your lovely body turn traitor. . . .”

He cradled her against him with a gentleness that belied the dangerous determination in his eyes. Then, to her complete startlement and dismay, he bent and kissed her, his lips warm and incredibly soft. The shock sent a wave of heat streaking through Ariane, a shock so powerful it paralyzed her. She could do nothing to defend herself against the tender caress of his mouth as he coaxed hers open, the feel of his tongue, slow and hot and wet, as he leisurely explored her.

In truth, rather than fight him, she only wanted to cling to Ranulf. It seemed she had waited nearly half her life for this, to know the taste of his kiss. She had dreamed of it, of this man as lover, as husband. She could scarcely believe so powerful a warrior could be so incredibly gentle.

Of their own accord her arms lifted and twined around his neck. With a soft sound of triumph deep in his throat, he tightened his hold, enveloping her in the heat and smell of his body while his mouth ravished hers tenderly. He was a dark fire, slowly igniting her senses.

Long moments later Ranulf drew back, but only to whisper against her lips, “Let me show you pleasure, Ariane. Let me please you as I would have you please me. . . .”

For one, mad moment she almost succumbed to his honeyed words. Ranulf knew about women, about passion, and she wanted desperately to experience what had been denied her for so many years.

So many years . . .

The remembrance jolted Ariane to awareness. She wanted to know about passion, but this black rogue would not be the one to show her!

With a sudden cry, she pushed hard against his chest. To her surprise, he released her at once. Freed, she fled across the room, her cool hands pressed against her burning cheeks, her body trembling.

There was a taut silence while she stood there shaking. When he made no movement toward her, she at last risked a glance at Ranulf. He remained where she had left him, firelight outlining the sleek muscle and sinew of his nude body. He was watching her, an enigmatic expression on his harsh features.

His tone when he spoke, however, was calm, unheated. “You are stubborn indeed, but so am I, sweet vixen.”

She was startled by the lazy smile that filled his eyes. There was a promise there in the golden depths, warning her that the battle was not over.

“It is time to retire,” Ranulf said casually.

Ariane swallowed hard, realizing he had ordered her to bed, wondering if he meant to carry on the conflict there. She considered disobeying, but remembered how Ranulf had forcibly carried her there the last time. Had that been merely two nights ago?

Moving stiffly over to the bed, she climbed beneath the covers. Then she turned on her side, giving him her back, and waited rigidly for Ranulf to join her.

She remained still when she felt his weight shift the mattress. For an interminable moment he leaned over her, while Ariane held her breath. She could feel his amber gaze caressing her, scrutinizing her, as if gauging the strength of her resistance.

Yet “Pleasant dreams, demoiselle,” was all he said, before rolling over and settling his body for slumber.

Ariane willed her hammering heart to quieten. Once more she had escaped ravishment, but it was growing harder and harder to maintain her defenses.

The dream returned, this time far more erotic than any reality. She could feel the intense heat of Ranulf at her back, the hardness and detail of him as he pressed against her. Beneath the covers, her smooth bare legs entwined with his hair-roughened ones, his granite thigh wedged between her knees.