The Warrior (29 page)

She recognized that familiar chest, that hard, powerful body. Horrified, Ariane looked up into hard eyes of amber gold. “M-My lord . . .” she stammered. “I beg pardon. . . .”

Ranulf’s gaze went from her flushed face to his vassal’s. “It seems you have lost your way, Bertran. You sought the garderobe to relieve yourself, I believe.”

He shook his dark head. “Rather relieve myself with this wensh, Ranulf.”

Ranulf leveled an arctic stare at the knight. To Ariane’s shock, he slipped his arm around her waist and drew her hard against him. “Not yours.
Mine.
And I guard well what is mine.”

She sucked in her breath sharply as she felt Ranulf’s hand brazenly brush her breast. She wanted to slap his hand away, yet considered it wiser not to protest when his display of male possessiveness offered her protection.

Bertran blinked at the action, while his expression grew sulky. “Aye, milord. I knew not how it was between you. I shall find me another wench-sh.” With a vapid smile, Bertran turned and strolled off in search of more willing female companionship.

To Ariane’s relief, Ranulf released her at once.

“Were you harmed?” he asked sharply.

“No,” she replied, rubbing her sore wrist. Her relief faded as Ranulf’s hot gaze shifted to hers, hard and accusing.

“I will not have you seducing my men to win their sympathy,” he said in a voice tight with anger.

“Seduce—?” Ariane gaped at him. “ ’Tis not true. I did nothing to encourage his interest.”

Ranulf’s mouth curled as his gaze dropped to her bosom, where the bodice of her rough woolen gown gaped open, exposing the upper swells of her breasts. “Indeed? You merely allowed him to ogle your charms and taunted him with the promise of your body? Cover yourself,” Ranulf ordered as she opened her mouth in denial.

Ariane ground her teeth in indignation, but she obediently retied the drawstring to her bodice. Ranulf would not believe her protestations of innocence. He was stubbornly determined to think the worst of her—

A plaintive whine at her feet momentarily distracted her attention. The castle dogs had gathered around to sniff the rushes. With a grimace, Ariane bent to pick up the platter she had dropped. Most of the cakes had fallen on the floor, and she left them there for the dogs to devour.

When she stood once more, Ranulf was still eyeing her sternly. “Be warned, wench. You think to ease your plight by winning over my vassals, but I am well acquainted with the ploys of your kind. I will not countenance such trickery in my keep, do you comprehend? I will not have my men sniffing at your honey the way these hounds pant after sweets.”

At the unfairness of the accusation, Ariane was almost too incensed to speak. Almost. She understood why Ranulf would side with his knight against her, but
he
was to blame for the indignity she had just suffered. Her reduction in status to menial laborer had earned the disrespect of his vassals, while Ranulf’s own contemptuous treatment of her for the past two weeks had encouraged others to treat her similarly.

“Then I suggest, my lord,” she retorted, her eyes flashing silver sparks, “that you lock your men in the kennels where they may be safe from my evil influence!”

Not giving him a chance to reply or to reprimand her for her insolence, she whirled, her head held high, and marched back to the stairwell leading to the kitchens, feeling Ranulf’s piercing gaze boring into her all the while.

He seemed to watch her more intently after that. Each time Ranulf spied Ariane with another man, be it his own or one of Claredon’s, she felt the impact of his smoldering scrutiny. Had she not known better, she would have thought him jealous. But Ranulf cared nothing for her, Ariane was certain. He watched her only to see if she would make a false move.

His caution annoyed her, until she remembered his admitted contempt for highborn damsels. For some reason, Ranulf did not trust noblewomen—and after her attempt to cement their marriage, he trusted
her
least of all.

Still, his vigilance was not due solely to mistrust, Ariane suspected, or a desire for revenge, or the possessiveness of a lord toward his property. The savage heat in his eyes was not mere suspicion, or hostility, or even a determination to conquer.

Desire was there as well.

Each time she came near Ranulf, the air crackled with a tension that was two parts sexual. And he resented her for rousing his lust, Ariane was certain. She could almost feel the conflict within him, a strong man battling for control over his own will. Certainly she could sense the pressure building behind his temper.

An explosion between them seemed imminent. Yet Ariane found herself anticipating it with a strange mingling of apprehension and excitement.

The explosion nearly came the day after the incident with Bertran, when Gilbert waylaid her on her way to early mass. Ranulf had relented enough in his punishment to allow her to seek comfort for her soul. As she prepared to enter the chapel in the inner bailey, Gilbert drew her aside on the pretext of offering her a cool drink of water from the well.

At first she listened to him with only half an ear, her thoughts distracted as she mentally debated the wisdom of asking Gilbert to pay a visit to the east woods in her stead. But his ranting soon alarmed her.

Ranulf, returning from exercising his destrier in the outer bailey, felt his heart lurch when he spied the two of them standing so close together. The boy’s fair hair was a shade lighter than Ariane’s, and their heads glinted pale red-gold in the early morning sunlight.

The sight seared Ranulf with jealousy. He put little trust in the faithfulness of women, noble ones most of all. And since hearing the rumor of Ariane’s wanton activities from the serving wench Dena, he had been haunted by images of his former bride sneaking out of the castle to consort with her lover, this lad in particular.

His first primal instinct was to thrash the young whelp to a pulp, and yet he clamped it down. Rather than trysting, they were more likely conspiring to rebel against his rule. The boy seemed to be arguing with Ariane, about what Ranulf could not hear at this distance. The lad was holding forth intently while Ariane shook her head.

Urging his powerful warhorse closer, Ranulf caught a snatch of their conversation: “. . . that devil-lord.”

Ranulf concluded that
he was the subject under discussion, but he could barely make out Ariane’ s reply: “If you continue to fight him, you will only suffer for it.”

“Were I to challenge him—“

“Nay, you cannot. You would be killed—“

She must have heard his horse’s hooves, for she broke off suddenly and turned, with a start. There were secrets in her eyes, he noted with a tightness squeezing his chest. Secrets that only strengthened the suspicion they were intriguing against him.

“Where are your guards?” Ranulf demanded as he reined the destrier to a halt.

Ariane eyed him warily. “In the ch-chapel, my lord,” she stammered in reply.

But Ranulf was no longer listening. His attention was fixed entirely on Gilbert, his expression hard and unsmiling. He kept his voice soft in an attempt to hide from himself how fierce was the jealousy he felt. “Do I know you, boy?”

“I am called Gilbert, milord,” the youth replied sullenly. “I serve as clerk to Baldwin, the castle steward.”

“Ah, the steward who thought to cheat me with the erroneous accounts.”

Gilbert flushed, looking uncomfortable, but remained silent, the set of his jaw belligerent.

“Have you no duties to attend to?”

“My duty is to serve my lady, sire.”

Ariane gasped at her brother’s insolent reply, while Ranulf reached for the hilt of his sword. He no longer desired merely to flog the impudent whelp; he wanted to skewer him to a wall. He’d had his fill of such defiance—this continual contempt for his authority and his right to rule.

Alarmed, Ariane stepped between them, in the path of the massive destrier. “My lord, he did not mean it!”

“Did he not? Obviously he forgets your changed status.”

“Yes, I am certain he forgot.” She gazed at Ranulf in consternation, while holding her hands up as if to ward off a blow.

Ranulf gritted his teeth, furious that Ariane would defend the boy so urgently, and that he himself would care so keenly. He had never before been struck by such an irrational jealousy over a female; it amazed and disturbed him, the violent urge that bored into him like the point of a lance. But then he had never before been plagued by such a vexing, defiant wench as his former betrothed, or her ardent supporters.

Ranulf clenched his jaw to control the unreasoning suspicions welling inside him. His anger was directed not only at the two conspirators staring up at him, though; he felt a surge of anger at himself for not mastering the violence that lived within him.

“I beg you, my lord . . . do not pay him any heed. He is but a boy. A
foolish
boy,” Ariane added with a repressive glance at Gilbert.

Ranulf’s eyes coldly swept the lad, who fairly bristled. “Apparently he is old enough to hide behind a woman’s skirts. At his age I had nearly earned my spurs.”

Gilbert stiffened and stepped forward, squaring his shoulders. “I hide behind no one, sire. If you wish me to prove my mettle, I will gladly oblige.”

His jealousy goading him, Ranulf flashed a dubious smile. “You look soft, boy. Methinks you would need some training before challenging a knight to combat.”

“Gilbert is not a soldier, my lord,” Ariane intervened hastily. “He is a scholar.”

“Then I suggest he go about his scholarly duties,” Ranulf advised, his voice dangerously soft.

With a frustrated glance at Ariane, Gilbert tugged belligerently on his forelock and bowed to the lord with a pretense of respect, although he looked as if he would have preferred to swallow poison.

When the lad had left them to enter the chapel, Ranulf sat staring down at Ariane. He looked supremely powerful, mounted on his huge warhorse, despite his lack of armor or helmet. His waving raven hair gleamed with blue highlights in the sun, while his eyes glittered chill gold.

“I beg forgiveness for his impertinence, my lord,” she said quickly, knowing Gilbert had gone too far. No lord would tolerate such insolence from a serf, or such a flagrant challenge to his authority.

“I have flogged men for lesser offenses.”

“Please . . . let him be. He only thought to protect me.”

“You have too many protectors, to my mind,” Ranulf muttered in reply.

“Please . . .” she repeated.

“You ask again for leniency?”

“Yes, I ask it.”

“What have you left to bargain with?”

Ariane lowered her gaze at the challenge in his amber eyes, remembering her plan to win Ranulf through cooperation. “I have nothing to offer you.”

“So meek. So humble.” His tone was skeptical. “I vow your humility is as false as your claim of ravishment.”

Ariane bit her tongue hard. Her humility
was
false, but she would not allow herself to respond to Ranulf’s provocation, or let him know how much it stung.

“What? No rejoinder, wench? Have you suddenly gone dumb?” He made a scoffing sound. “You would be wiser to change your tactics. Docility does not become you.”

He watched as her head snapped up, and felt a sense of satisfaction. She was not cowed as he had thought, but had been trying to hide her fury. Ranulf smiled in grim triumph. He had wanted to provoke Ariane, in truth, but he wanted her to fight back with the same spirit she had shown in their earlier confrontations. He found he enjoyed her anger far more than her apprehension or humility.

Just now her beautiful eyes were flashing sparks as she retorted through clenched teeth, “I understood you to say that you desired docility in your hostages, my lord.”

His smile widened sardonically. “I did not know you were so eager to fulfill my desires.”

Before she could reply to that provocation, he went on the offensive. “I thought you had been given ample work to occupy you and keep you out of mischief. Yet you seem to find time to conduct trysts with my rebellious retainers.”

“Trysts?” Ariane’s wary gaze narrowed. “Just what do you accuse me of this time, my lord?”

“Judging from the discussion I interrupted, the two of you were plotting my overthrow. Do you deny you were conspiring against me with your lover?”

Her gray eyes widened at that last word. “
Lover?
Are you jesting?”

“Do you deny it?” Ranulf persisted.

“Of course I deny it!” Ariane defended hotly. “Gilbert is my brother!”

Ranulf stared at her.
“Brother?”

“Half-brother, actually. The baseborn son of my father’s leman. I told you of him. . . . Oh, you . . . you . . .” She sputtered in outrage at his insinuation. “Incest is a mortal sin!”

Ranulf stared down into her flashing silver eyes with a vast, overwhelming sense of relief. The lad was her
sibling.
A close kinsman. Which explained the slight resemblance he bore to Ariane, as well as the obvious warmth between them. It also explained his bristling hostility. Gilbert had good reason to resent the lord who had taken his sister prisoner, claimed her inheritance for the crown, and repudiated their betrothal. Ranulf threw back his head and laughed aloud at his mistake.

Ariane gave him a startled glance, as if wondering if he had lost his wits, but Ranulf merely shook his head. He was still angered by the boy’s foolish defiance, but at least it was now understandable. He could even feel a measure of kinship to the lad, a bastard who doubtless had been made to pay throughout his life for the circumstances of his birth.

He would not countenance the boy’s flagrant disrespect, or allow his conspiracies to continue, but in truth, he could admire the lad for showing such loyalty to his sister. He prized loyalty in a man—just as he prized spirit in a woman.

He much preferred the tart-tongued, hot-eyed damsel standing before him now to the retiring, spineless maid Ariane had played for the past week and more after earning his wrath by falsely staining the bedsheets and declaring herself his wife. Her tempestuous defense of her brother just now made Ranulf realize how much her recent meekness had worn on his nerves. He would rather have her spitting at him honestly than pretending to be a mouse.