The Warrior (27 page)

Just then, the huge oaken door to the hall swung open to admit two sentries. They came hurrying up the aisles between the trestle tables.

“My lord,” one man said urgently. “I fear I bear bad tidings. There has been another occurrence of willful destruction.”

Ranulf shot Payn a grim look before asking, “What is it this time?”

“It is the armory. . . . But mayhap you should see for yourself.”

Smoldering silently, the new lord of Claredon and his vassal accompanied the sentries outside and down the tower entrance steps to the armory below, whose door now stood open. Within lay the store of weapons and armor used by the garrison. By the light of a torch, they could see the gleam of a thick, shiny matter covering nearly every surface.

With a finger, Ranulf tasted the sticky substance. “Honey! By the Chalice! . . .”

Someone had dripped honey over the chain mail hauberks and steel helmets, the swords and lances and shields. It would require every squire and page in the garrison to labor for countless hours, cleaning the metal with sand and vinegar to remove the gluelike coating.

“Injustice, you say?” Ranulf asked Payn in a dangerous tone, before he spun on his heel and stalked from the building.

He went directly to the fourth floor of the tower, to Ariane’s chamber. The guards on duty before her door snapped to attention when they spied their lord, and hastened to produce a key.

Unlocking the door and shoving it open, Ranulf entered and slammed it closed behind him.

He stopped abruptly in realization. He had startled Ariane in the act of preparing for bed. He caught a tantalizing glimpse of pale buttocks and long, slender legs before, with a gasp, she grabbed up the first thing to hand—her woolen tunic—and whirled to face him, clutching the garment to her breasts in an attempt to cover her nakedness.

“My lord . . . what do you want?” she demanded breathlessly.

His amber eyes, glittering with fury, darkened with another emotion as he stared intently. “I wished to speak with you.”

“I was washing away the day’s grime. Will you permit me a moment of privacy? I should like to dress.”

“No.”

Her eyes widened. “No?”

“A slave has no need for privacy.”

His taunt made Ariane stiffen her spine. “I am not a slave, my lord, as I have told you before. I am your
wife.
”

The outrage returned abruptly to Ranulf’s amber eyes. “You are my possession, nothing more. I will never acknowledge you as my wife—a mercenary, deceitful jade. Nor will you ever profit from my wealth and position.”

“I care naught for your wealth or position,” she retorted, her own eyes flashing defiance.

Ranulf stared at her, fury and admiration warring with each other. Fury won. “More lies?” When she stood regarding him with regal haughtiness, he gritted his teeth. “It matters not. The marriage will soon be annulled. I have sent a petition to Rome with a heavy bribe, applying for a swift hearing. But I did not come to argue a moot point. I mean to discuss the accidents and wanton destruction that have been plaguing the keep. I want them to cease at once.”

“Why come to me, my lord? I had naught to do with them. I have done precisely as you bade me.”

“I hold you responsible.”

Ariane’s eyebrows lifted. “How so? I no longer run this household. I can hardly be held to blame if things go awry. You are lord here now, as you have told me countless times.”

“And you have pitted your people against me, do not deny it!”

“I shall not attempt to, my lord. You would not believe me, in any case.”

“No, I would not.” His gaze, cold and vividly gold, held hers. “It will fall to you to clean the armor that your accomplices sought to ruin. And you will speak to your former people once more to demand that they cease their tricks.”

“Or what, my lord?”

Her calm was infuriating. Ranulf clenched his fists to repress the urge to shake her. “I warn you, wench, I am at the end of my patience. One more incident of subversion and I will punish the lot of them, without regard to justice! The officers of the household will be thrown in the dungeon. The freemen, I will cast out to starve. The serfs will be sent to the fields, where they may apply their backs to pulling a plow in place of oxen. The guilty will suffer with the innocent.”

Ariane winced inwardly at his threat, yet she met his furious gaze with an innocent look of serenity.

“I will speak to them, my lord. But I cannot promise complete success. The people of Claredon are not sheep, to blindly offer loyalty to a new lord. It must be earned.” She smiled archly. “And waging war against
me is not the way to go about it. Doubtless they would accept you more readily if you allowed me to run the household once more.”

His heavy brows snapped together. “God’s splendor! Do you think I am fool enough to trust you with such authority?”

“I think you would be a fool not to trust me.”

Ranulf seared her with a blazing look. Their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. She could see the rigid muscles flex in Ranulf’s jaw.

Slowly, without speaking, he moved toward her, closing the distance between them, till he stood directly in front of her, his nearness intimidating.

Ariane raised her chin, defiantly meeting his smoldering gaze. She refused to cower before him, although her heart had begun hammering like a drum. His next command startled her entirely.

“I would see you without your clothing. Remove it.”

“What?” She stared at him in disbelief, her composure suddenly shaken.

“Are you deaf, sweeting? I said I wish to see you. Take the garment away.”

When she remained frozen, Ranulf smiled tauntingly. “A slave has no need for modesty. And”—his gaze raked her boldly—“I much doubt you possess any charms I have not viewed before. I’ve seen any number of naked females . . . including you.”

“Then why must you see me again?” Ariane demanded breathlessly.

“Because I wish it.”

He meant to prove his power over her, Ariane realized, grinding her teeth. And there was little she could do to prevent him.

With stubborn determination, she lifted her chin regally, feigning indifference. She would not let him see her mortification.

Proudly, Ariane did as she was bid and let the tunic fall away. To her acute dismay, she felt Ranulf’s heated gaze scrutinizing her body, measuring, touching her intimately. Moving slowly over every inch of her, studying her as he would a slave. It was strangely, inexplicably arousing.

It was even more arousing to Ranulf. He sucked in his breath at the sight of Ariane naked and vulnerable before him, letting his gaze caress the high, sweet mounds of her breasts . . . the narrow waist and flaring hips . . . lingering on the thatch of red-gold curls between her thighs . . . her long, slim legs . . . He knew he should leave at once, before his iron control slipped irrevocably, and yet he could not bring himself to take the first step.

He looked his fill, drinking in every nuance and detail of her exquisite form. She was a woman made for a man, her breasts tipped by delicate, rosebud nipples, her hips deliciously rounded, her thighs long and smooth. His own body tautened with hunger. He wanted to touch her ivory marble skin, to revel in her silky softness, to suckle those inviting nipples, to taste her woman’s essence. He yearned to have her naked beneath him, the slick heat of her sheath enveloping him as he rode her, her legs wrapped around his waist while she writhed in ecstasy. . . .

Realizing where his urges were leading him, Ranulf cursed silently at himself. It enraged him that the deceitful wench could make him want her so powerfully.

Ariane shivered as the tense silence drew out. Ranulf’s regard was always like scorching embers, but now it seemed to burn everywhere it touched.

“My lord? . . .” she said breathlessly, ashamed at the weakness in her voice.

Ranulf’s voice, when he replied, was low and husky and intense. “Your form is pleasing to look upon. I wonder that you do not use it to court my favor.”

She stiffened at his insulting implication, and abruptly drew the woolen tunic back up to cover herself. “I am not a strumpet, any more than I am your slave.”

“No?”

Even as she steeled herself for an assault, Ranulf reached up and slid his hand beneath the crumpled tunic she held, the flesh of his palm deliberately grazing her erect, swollen nipple. Her breasts engorged painfully under that light touch.

She gasped and took a step back, yet there was nowhere to run. Her buttocks came up against the oaken table that contained the washbasin.

His teeth flashed in a knowing smile. With thumb and forefinger, he captured her left nipple. The resultant shock of fire that streaked though Ariane weakened her knees, yet she clenched her teeth, refusing to surrender.

“Do you recall the pleasure I gave you when I stroked your nipples?” Ranulf asked, his husky murmur caressing her senses the way his fingers did her breasts.

“No . . . please . . . do not . . .”

Her plea was ignored entirely. He stood over her, crowding her with his powerful body, and tugged the tunic from her nerveless grasp. “Do you remember how I plied the wet rosebud between your thighs?” Holding her gaze, he traced a finger between her breasts, downward to her narrow waist, drawing his hand slowly, lingeringly, over her skin. “I could show you such pleasure again, sweeting. . . .”

Unable to bear the taunting gleam in his eyes, the hard sensuality of his expression, Ariane averted her face. Yet she could not move. She stood helplessly as he threaded his fingers through the dense curls guarding her femininity. Her body went rigid at his expert touch; her cheeks flushed scarlet. But she could no more have resisted him than she could have overpowered him.

Insinuating his hand between her thighs, he stroked her moist cleft, his finger toying with her. “Do you not find this arousing?”

Her gasp became a moan as a spasm of longing went through her. Her hips arched instinctively, her quivering thighs opening to him.

“I thought so.” Ranulf laughed softly. “I would win a reckoning between us,” he said evenly, even as he wondered if it were true. “I could take you here and make you beg for me.”

“Could you . . . my lord?” Trembling, she raised her gaze to his.

Ranulf hesitated. His narrowed look had followed every flicker of shock, every startled reaction, on her face. Now he saw the triumph in Ariane’s gray eyes and froze, fighting the battle between desire and self-control that raged within him. She would prey on his weakness if he gave in. . . .

His laughter turned harsh. “Ah, no, slave. You will not prevail so easily. Our union will never be consummated. Rather than enjoy you myself, I will give you to one of my vassels.”

It was an idle threat, in truth. He would break his vows and lock her in the dungeon long before he let another man mount her. Ariane was
his.
He would never permit another man to touch her.

His hand fell away, his mouth tightening as he stepped back, needing the distance.

Their eyes clashed wordlessly.

“I
will
win,” he repeated with ominous softness, before he turned abruptly and let himself from the chamber.

Wanting to scream with vexation, Ariane dug her nails into the wool tunic she still clutched to her breast. Her heart was thrumming from the dangerous encounter, her breath coming too rapidly.

Shaken, dazed, she closed her eyes and drew a shuddering breath. Only now, after he was gone, was she even aware how badly she had wanted Ranulf to stay. Only now, after her near escape, could she think clearly enough to frame into words the vague notion that had come to her as he’d tormented her with his sensual caresses: Somehow she had to turn his lusty passions to her advantage. She was no temptress, but somehow she had to learn to tame the dragon. For if Ranulf could be persuaded to bed her, it would greatly strengthen her claim to being his wife.

Remembering the intense heat she’d seen in his golden eyes moments ago, Ariane chided herself for a fool. She had been close to victory without knowing it—and then she had senselessly reminded him of their controversy by challenging him openly. If only she had curbed her tongue, Ranulf might even now be claiming her maidenhead and spilling his seed within her. Lashing out at him in defiance was not the way to win a man’s regard, or to consummate a betrothal. She should have feigned meekness at least, even if she could not have managed the grace and equanimity her lady mother would have counseled.

Throwing the despised woolen tunic on the floor in disgust, Ariane glared at the oaken door with its heavy iron bands.

“I would not wager on victory yet, my arrogant lord,” she muttered. “You are not so ruthless as your legend suggests, nor as invincible as you pretend.”

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