The Warrior (21 page)

Through a dim haze she felt him slowly stroking her belly, gliding upward to cover her breast, to knead softly with his calloused palm. Ariane moaned softly in her sleep and arched her back against the sensuous pressure, straining closer to his caressing palm, wishing the thin barrier of linen between them would disappear. Her nipple tightened against his hand, and she shivered with delight. For such a large, rough hand, his touch was like silk. Her buttocks, nestled in the saddle of his hips, squirmed as pleasurable tremors coursed down the insides of her thighs.

Reveling in the naked heat and strength of him, she murmured in protest when his caressing fingers left off their erotic plundering. Yet his hand only moved lower beneath the bedclothes, to dip below the hem of her shift, drawing up the thin material. She felt her body quicken as his palm stroked along her thigh, her hip; the touch of his hand against her bare skin made her pulse race. When his fingers slipped intimately between her thighs, a hair’s breadth from the heat of her womanhood, it excited her almost unbearably.

She should awaken, Ariane told herself. She should force her eyes to open and end this wanton dream, but then she might never know the completion of her fantasies, the elusive fulfillment of all her longings. And the wonderful, moist, aching weakness that pulsed to life in that secret shameful place between her thighs, the exquisite feelings radiating through her flesh, were not to be denied. Her woman’s body craved his touch, craved the maleness of him. Her thighs fell apart, allowing him access.

His fingers splayed to clasp her woman’s mound, pressing against the soft curls guarding her femininity. Ariane drew a sharp breath, her body stiffening.

Be easy, sweeting. You have naught to fear from me.
His husky whisper soothed her, coaxing her restless, feverish limbs to relax. Blessed Saints, her dream was so real, so sinful. Almost as if Ranulf were truly here, lying with her, stroking her in wicked, forbidden ways.

She should push him away, and yet the clamoring in her blood prevented her from relinquishing her exquisite illusion. Her body was on fire, burning beneath his touch, her nipples aching points of flame. She mewed, her hips lifting in instinctive supplication as he found her soft, silky female cleft, parted the quivering folds of flesh.
Aye, open for me, cherie . . . let me in . . . let me savor your treasures. . . .
Dear Mary, she wanted this, wanted his incredible, magical touch.

The fingers were bolder now, exploring her with hot, slick strokes, sliding inside her, probing.
Jesu, so hot you are . . . so wet for me
. . . His heated words whispered into her ear an invitation to his own special paradise.

Ariane whimpered. Sweet Virgin, was it possible to die from so much pleasure? Her will was no longer her own. His lean, sinewy, stroking fingers had stolen it from her. Desire was like a taut bow inside her, drawn ever tighter by his brazen fingers. He was learning the moist secrets of her, every exquisite pleasure point, sending small convulsive reactions running through her.

Yes, show me your passion, my beauty. Let it go. . . .

Her breath came harshly, her senses reeling. Her mind had fled to a hot dark place filled with sensation, yet her body remained surrounded by fire, centered around the captivating caress of his hand.
Come for me, lover. Give in to the pleasure. Feel it. . . .

Suddenly she was writhing with frantic need, straining toward a mounting, burning frenzy. She sobbed, clutching mindlessly at him as the world seemed to explode. With a cry she surged against his hand, enveloped in a fountain of flames. His arm came around her to hold her trembling body in the aftershocks of rapture.

For an endless moment, while the flames receded and her body cooled, Ariane lay there limply, not wanting to believe she had engaged in such a wanton act, twisting and straining with need so intense she’d been mindless with it. She could feel Ranulf at her back, his body hard against hers, throbbing with its own male need. Her heavy eyelids lifting, she gradually became aware of the candlelight, of the faint gray ribbons of dawn slipping through the shutters.

She blinked in confusion, while her cheeks flamed. This was real—no dream—her senses screamed in awareness. Ranulf had aroused her from sleep and stroked her to ecstasy, without her knowledge or permission. He had taken control of her body, displaying his power over her.

Ariane felt a wave of despair wash over her. Ranulf had vowed to compel her submission, and this was his proof. Perhaps he had stopped short of forcing her, but he had seduced her—and shown her more pleasure than she had ever dreamed possible.

Sweet Jesu, what was she to do? She could feel the hunger in his big, powerful body, feel the throbbing heat of desire in the swollen shaft pressed against her buttocks.

With a gentle tug on her shoulder, Ranulf eased her onto her back. He saw how she kept her eyes shut, refusing to look at him, and a smile of primitive satisfaction curved his mouth. Her body had surrendered, overwhelmed by blind desire; he had won that victory at least.

His seduction had not been totally honorable, perhaps, for he had waited till she slept, till her defenses were lowered. Yet he had given Ariane precisely what she wanted, what her eager body had cried out for. What his own cried out for now.

Throbbing with the primal need to mount the hot, aroused woman in his arms, Ranulf slowly drew down the bedclothes, exposing that beautiful, slender form to his view, taking in her dishabille. Her chemise had ridden up over her hips and the thatch of red-gold curls at the juncture of her pale thighs drew his hot gaze. He bent over that sweet portal, his nostrils flaring slightly as he drank in the enticing scent of her. He wanted nothing more than to settle his body over hers and plunge into her, claiming the honeyed treasure there, but he would have to take his pleasure in less conventional ways.

“Beautiful . . .” he murmured hoarsely. “Open for me again, sweeting. Let me savor you . . . give you another taste of ecstasy. Let me fill you . . .”

Lowering his head, his mouth pursed, he gently kissed the dewy cleft between her thighs, his tongue flicking out to stroke the hidden bud.

Ariane had lain tense and rigid beneath his burning scrutiny, but at his scandalous action, she gave a startled yelp and clutched at his hair, gripping hard. When he lifted his head, their eyes locked, hers panicked, his hot and bright.

“No . . . you cannot. . . .”

“I can, demoiselle.” The raw, husky sound stroked her sensitive nerve endings.

“No . . . please . . . I beg you. . . .”

He smiled indulgently as she caught the bold hand that had strayed to cover her thigh. “You may beg me all you like.”

“No!
Ranulf!
”

Realizing her genuine shock, Ranulf abandoned his attempt to show Ariane another means of enjoying pleasure. His eyes smoldered as his hand turned to capture her wrist. “Then you touch me. Feel how hard, how aroused you make me.”

Deliberately he drew her palm against his flat, hard-muscled belly, pressing her fingers against his throbbing member. She could feel him in her hand, hot and huge and pulsing. Ranulf grimaced in pure pleasure, while Ariane’s eyes widened in alarm.

“No!” Again she tried unsuccessfully to pull from his grasp. “ ’Tis sinful!” she exclaimed, clutching at any excuse that might save her.

His expression sobered. “You would deny me after I pleasured you?”

“Yes!” Oh, what would make him cease? “It is unholy, against Church law.”

When she succeeded in wrenching her hand away, Ranulf’s jaw hardened in sexual frustration. He wanted Ariane sweet and willing, not panicked and trembling like a frightened rabbit. He could not stroke himself, either, not without rousing her disgust. But his self-denial only left him aching carnally and his raw temper ready to explode—an explosion he resolved to control.

He had won a victory of sorts, he reminded himself. Ariane had found ecstasy in his touch. But while he felt a savage gratification knowing that he could affect her so, he would not rest until she surrendered fully.

“I doubt you fear opposing the Church as much as you fear the pleasure I make you feel,” Ranulf murmured wryly, with a casualness he did not feel.

Ariane averted her face, realizing the truth of his accusation. She had proved an easy conquest. Ranulf had not boasted in the slightest when he warned her that women found pleasure in his arms, but his seduction had been effortless. She was mortified by her response to his wicked caresses, her wanton surrender. She had not put up the least resistance. She had
wanted
him to touch her, to make love to her. She wanted him as lover and husband and lord.

Her heart ached with the knowledge. She would not have protested even his most scandalous caresses had they been given in love, had Ranulf cared the slightest for her. But he considered her his enemy, and this was his method of punishment, of proving his power over her. Yet even more than her capitulation, her own wantonness roused her despair. Ranulf might not have taken her maidenhead, but he had ruined her for any other man—and she had
enjoyed
her ruination.

Ariane closed her eyes, wishing she could disappear.

He had caught his fingers in her long tangled hair and was sifting it absently, as if testing a skein of silk for quality. When he raised an errant curl to his mouth, though, Ariane gasped and roughly drew it from his grasp.

“May I have leave to dress?” she snapped, still refusing to look at him.

“If you must. I would rather spend the next few hours teaching you a proper display of submission.” His tone was soft, self-assured, ripe with satisfaction.

It earned him a baleful glare—which Ariane regretted immediately. He looked like a ruffian with his raven hair tousled, his hard, sculpted face darkened with a shadow of whiskers. Yet his flagrant masculinity called out to her as he lounged there on one elbow. Even at ease, he seemed so powerful, so very male, with his corded muscles and look of limitless strength.

It was his expression, though, that set her heart to pounding. His amber eyes gleamed sensually as he deliberately caught her hair again and slowly wrapped his fingers in her tresses, holding her prisoner.

“Do you think you can resist me for long, demoiselle?” he asked in a low, husky murmur that stroked her senses.

No. And that was the trouble. She could not resist this devastating man, not when he was looking at her thus, his eyes heated with a flame of desire and promise.

Summoning every ounce of willpower she possessed, Ariane raised her chin and invoked a look of scorn. “You flatter yourself, my lord, if you think I will ever submit to you willingly.”

Ranulf’s lips twisted in a male smile that was provocative, indulgent. “Unwillingly, then, it matters not, wench. In truth, I will enjoy taming your defiance . . . and devising a penance we can both enjoy.”

Ariane quivered with the effort to keep her defenses in position. “I shall always despise you,” she declared in a fervent, trembling voice.

His knowing smile never wavered as he bent over her to kiss an impudent breast the way a lover might, making her flinch from the arousing warmth on her sensitive nipple. “Do not make rash statements, demoiselle, or I might be compelled to disprove them.”

Untangling his hand from her hair, he threw off the covers and rose naked from the bed. Without another glance at Ariane, he found his braies and began to dress.

9

“Did you pass a good night, my lord?” Payn queried when Ranulf joined him in the great hall to break the morning fast.

Answering with merely a grimace, Ranulf accepted a wooden cup filled with honey mead from a young page and settled into the lord’s chair.

“I take that as a denial,” his vassal said sympathetically. “The Lady Ariane was not accommodating?”

“If you have a care for your skin, you will refrain from mentioning that wench’s name in my hearing.” Irritably Ranulf glanced around the hall. The last of the straw pallets and blankets and hides were being rolled up to make way for the trestle tables, but the high table was bare. “Where is my cursed meal? Can a man not even be served a crust of bread in his own hall?”