The Warrior (22 page)

Repressing a grin, Payn sent the trembling page to the kitchens for some victuals, before saying to Ranulf in a laughing undertone, “I thought you intended to give the lady a lesson in obedience, but it appears she remains as defiant as ever.”

“The battle has only just begun, I assure you,” Ranulf promised darkly. When Payn chuckled, Ranulf felt his vexation begin to dissipate. Against his will, he grinned ruefully. “Have you naught better to do than crow over my failure?”

“Indeed, my lord,” Payn murmured amiably. “I know better than to linger with you in such a black mood. I shall leave you in peace to reexamine your strategy in taming the damsel.” Clapping Ranulf on the back as he rose, he left the high table to confer with two knights who had just entered the hall.

Relieved to be alone, Ranulf stared into his tankard of mead and contemplated the unique experience he had just suffered. He was unaccustomed to being denied any wench he wanted, and unacquainted with regretting the deprivation so sorely. Never had he had a woman in his bed who did not leave it fully satisfied; never before had he permitted one to leave until
he
was fully satisfied. Yet that was precisely what had just transpired with Ariane. The ache still had not receded from his loins; his blood still simmered for her. He had never felt such desire as that lady roused in him.

By the rood, what hold did that beautiful witch have over him, that he should crave her so?

His planned seduction had gone awry, snaring him in his own trap. He had aroused the sensual woman beneath Ariane’s cool, haunting demeanor, true, but afterward found himself burning with an unquenchable fire.

It had almost been worth the pain. For a few exquisite moments, he’d succeeded in compelling the defiant vixen to sheath her claws. The haughty maiden was not so regal, so disdainful, when she was panting and writhing with ecstasy in his arms. But the sight of her lustrous pearl-white skin flushed with passion, her glorious mane of silky hair tumbling wildly about her creamy breasts, her warm, sleep-scented form pressed fully against him, had increased his desire to a raging inferno. And then the wench had not only refused to succor him in return, she had looked at him with horror and loathing!

Shaking his head ruefully, Ranulf chided himself for behaving like a callow youth, allowing himself to be led around by his loins. He knew better. He had seen men so besotted by scheming noblewomen that they forgot to watch their backs. And he well knew the danger of underestimating his former betrothed even for a moment. She was a foe worthy of caution.

Yet he was more determined than ever to make Ariane yield. If he used his skills wisely, he could ultimately compel her cooperation, if not her loyalty. By employing passion as a weapon, by letting her experience ecstasy at his hands, he could conquer her will. . . .

A dangerous smile curved Ranulf’s lips as he thought of the battles to come. They would see who was the victor.

With that mollifying thought, he drained the last of his wine and called for more—at the same moment Ariane stepped up onto the dais on which the lord’s table was erected.

“You come late to your work,” Ranulf remarked mildly, vexed by the way his body responded merely to the sight of her. His loins throbbed nearly as much as the ribs that had been wounded in yesterday’s ambush. “I did not give you leave to laze in bed the day long.”

“I was
not
lazing about, my lord. I found it necessary to
wash,
” Ariane retorted with studied haughtiness. In truth, she had scrubbed her skin till it tingled, yet she had not succeeded in erasing the memory of her shameless, wanton response to Ranulf’s lovemaking, or the exquisite feel of his touch.

She felt his scrutiny now and raised her chin when his eyes narrowed at her appearance. She wore a rich bliaud of rose samite, with a deep blue chainse underneath. A square of patterned silk adorned her hair, held in place by a thin silver circlet around her forehead, while a jewelled girdle of silver links encircled her slender hips.

“You dress lavishly for a squire,” he mused, his tone deliberately provocative.

“You said you wished me to address the field serfs this morning and repeat my pledge to you. I thought this appropriate attire.”

If it was not quite the truth, Ariane felt justified in the lie. She had donned one of her better gowns, not to impress Claredon’s serfs with her consequence, but to bolster her defenses and help her maintain some semblance of poise. The Black Dragon of Vernay might have mortified her with his wicked, mind-wrenching caresses, but she was still lady of this hall, still retained a measure of pride. If he expected her to surrender meekly, he had greatly miscalculated. She refused to fall swooning at his feet as Ranulf seemed to think was his due.

Lifting the pitcher of wine, Ariane refilled his cup, pleased that she could do so without shaking overmuch. As she leaned forward over the table, though, she felt a large, sinewed hand fleetingly brush her buttocks.

With a gasp, Ariane jumped and whirled, her arm swinging instinctively. Grinning, Ranulf caught the hand that would have struck him an instant before her palm contacted his cheek.

“Do not touch me so!”

He gazed up at her with sensual challenge, his amber eyes dancing with teasing laughter. “Methinks you enjoyed my touch only moments ago.”

“Methinks your much-vaunted prowess as a lover overrated,” Ariane returned, glaring. “In truth, I found it sorely lacking.”

For a score of heartbeats, amusement warred with Ranulf’s pride . . . and won. Though wincing inwardly at the disparagement of his manhood, he could not help admiring the damsel’s courage. She dared taunt the dragon, apparently unafraid for her skin, while her gray eyes flashed sparks of fire.

He chuckled slowly, even as he gazed at Ariane in speculation. He had never seen her so angry, or so flustered. Gratified by the high flush of color on her cheeks, Ranulf wondered if he could provoke her into losing her temper altogether. Although it might be a childish desire, it would give him a small measure of satisfaction to make her feel a tenth of the frustration he’d experienced at being left unfulfilled after becoming so incredibly aroused.

Without giving himself time to debate, Ranulf scraped back his chair and drew her inexorably inside the cradle of his iron-muscled thighs.

Inhaling a sharp breath, Ariane braced her palms against his broad shoulders, feeling the chain mail links of his hauberk, which she had been required to help him don over his tunic a short while ago. She used all her might to resist, yet he refused to release her.

“You have not enough evidence to properly judge my prowess, demoiselle,” Ranulf said, laughter threading his tone. “My skill was not fully tested. Shall we return to the solar and resume the trial? I doubt not I could have you moaning in passion within moments, just as I did earlier.”

Her cheeks flooded scarlet. The lout was enjoying himself far too much at her expense. “You arrogant braggart, release me! I may be your hostage, but I am no common villein that you may insult at your leisure.”

His gaze caressed her, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous sensuality. “No, that you are not, my lady. Were you any common wench I could take you as I willed.”

When Ranulf raised her hand to kiss the tender skin on the inside of her wrist, Ariane closed her eyes in mortification at the havoc he caused her senses. He could arouse her with merely a touch.

“But you are not common,” Ranulf said. “And you are my acting squire as well. Or have you forgotten that?”

His words were slightly goading, but she bit back her reply at the reminder. “No, I have not forgotten.”

“No, what?”

“No,
my lord.
”

When a boy brought a bowl of oat porridge, Ariane took it from him and set it before Ranulf with restrained force, controlling the urge to dump it over his head.

He looked up at her challengingly, as if divining her thoughts. “I would not, were I you, or you will force me to take harsher measures. You would not care to be chained in the dungeon, I think.”

“That will not be necessary, my lord,” she replied stiffly. “You have me chained by my word just as effectively.”

“Have I, demoiselle?” He gave a soft huff of laughter edged with doubt. “Then I suggest you show a proper docility. Go and eat, and then fetch your mantle. The morning air will be brisk, and I would not wish my hostage to catch a chill.”

Her jaw set, Ariane turned away at once.

Still feeling the heat from her scorching gray eyes, Ranulf picked up his spoon to apply himself to his food, but his thoughts centered on his arousing, vexing foe and his own frustrating impotence in dealing with her. Every encounter with the beauty became a battle of wills, a battle he was hard-pressed to win. He had deliberately provoked her this time, true, but her reckless retorts were a provocation that demanded a response. Her public show of defiance in daring to strike him—

A sudden commotion beside him interrupted his thoughts—a clatter followed by a small cry of pain. Ranulf looked around, as did Ariane.

She had not seen what happened, but it was simple to guess. The young page, a boy of perhaps seven, had tripped and fallen beside Ranulf’s chair, dropping a pewter pitcher and sending wine splashing over the rushes and onto his lord’s boots.

Swiftly retracing her steps, Ariane bent to help the child rise. He scarcely seemed to notice her assistance. Trembling, the boy eyed Ranulf with terror, shrinking back as if fearful the lord might strike him with his powerful fist.

Instinctively Ariane stepped in front of the boy, sheltering him behind her skirts. “My lord . . . it was only a spill.”

Ranulf went very still as he watched the child’s white-faced expression. “Come here, lad,” he said quietly. When the boy stood rooted to the floor, Ranulf added even more softly, “I will not harm you. I do not strike small boys.”

Slowly the young page inched out from behind Ariane and approached Ranulf. “I b-beg pardon, m-my l-lord,” he stammered in a high, frightened voice, while tears filled his eyes.

“What are you called, lad?”

“W-William.”

“Your fall was an accident, was it not, William? You did not purposely drench me with wine.”

“Aye, my l-lord. I m-mean, n-nay.”

“Then I see no reason for punishment.”

“B-But I was cl-clumsy, my l-lord.”

“If you endeavor to serve me well in future, then I will think no more of this incident.”

“Aye, my l-lord.”

Ranulf’s startling gentleness did not shock Ariane as it once might have, although his kindness was sorely at odds with his renown as the feared Black Dragon.

“He is the son of Lord Aubert, a friend of my father’s,” she offered in explanation. “William fosters here as a page.”

Ranulf smiled, that rare, dazzling smile that made it seem as if the sun had suddenly burst through a mass of storm clouds. The effect nearly took Ariane’s breath away. “So you wish to be a knight?”

William’s small face brightened, and he lost that petrified look. “Oh, aye, milord! My Lord Walter pledged to train me. . . .” The boy came to a faltering stop, as if remembering his lord was no longer in power.

“I see no reason your training cannot continue,” Ranulf said mildly. “If you are diligent in learning your duties as page, then I will promote you to squire and teach you how to wield a sword.”

“
You will teach me? Oh, my lord . . .” The boy’s tone held excitement and reverence, as if being trained by the Black Dragon was the height of his every ambition.

Ariane could see Ranulf had earned a devotee for life. And she recognized the sentiment. She had once viewed Ranulf with that same adoration—hero worship for a powerful warlord who had been kind to a nervous young girl.

“I have a son about your age,” she was surprised to hear Ranulf say, and more surprised by his look. His face had softened completely, his eyes filling with something warm, gentle. Ranulf sighed softly.

“I did not know you had a son.”

He glanced at Ariane absently. “I have two, and a daughter as well.”

She felt another jolt of surprise at his admission. Many lords had no notion of the number of children they had sired; generally they ignored their offspring as the regretful consequence of passion. But Ranulf not only knew, but had spoken of them with pride.

“They are bastards, all.” His tone was pointed, almost challenging.

“So I would imagine,” Ariane replied frankly, “since you have no wife.”

She saw him bite back a smile, but there was little humor in his eyes; the amber depths were entirely serious. She was puzzled by Ranulf’s expression. He watched her carefully, almost as if expecting her to respond with scorn and contempt.

“I would not expect a noble lady such as yourself,” he said without inflection, “to hold an indulgent view of bastard children born to serfs.”

“You have acknowledged them?”

“Yes. And provided for their welfare.”

“Then there is no shame attached to their birth. As for indulgence, I have an example in my lady mother. She not only accepted my father’s bastard, but brought him into the castle to train as a cleric.”

“Would that all noblewomen could be so generous.”

His bitterness confused her, disturbed her, but before she could quiz him about it, Ranulf stiffened suddenly, as if recalling to whom he was speaking.

“I believe I dismissed you, demoiselle,” he said.

His remote tone, coming on the heels of his warmth toward the young William, made Ariane wince. With sparks flaring between them anew, she turned away with an abruptness that was almost a flounce.

Alone, Ranulf ate his food without tasting it, his thoughts centered once more on how to deal with the disturbing Ariane. He could not quite believe her reasonable view of bastard children. He’d had too much painful experience with the scorn and derision of her noble class and station.

It could have been moments or hours before Ranulf heard a throat being cleared nervously. He looked around to find the aged, balding priest of Claredon standing beside his chair, gazing at him in trepidation.