The Warrior (34 page)

“Reconcile yourself to my wishes, chérie. Henceforth you will share my bed. And I expect you to be waiting in my chamber when I return.”

With that, Ranulf strode from the room, ending the argument abruptly as he had so many times before when they had disagreed.

A curse rode Ariane’s tongue as she stared at the door. She felt incensed by her own powerlessness even more than Ranulf’s imperious commands.

He had conquered her body as easily as he had taken her father’s castle, and now he meant to continue their sinful relationship by making her share his bed without the blessing of the Church. In a matter of weeks, she had gone from betrothed to political hostage, to squire and then slave, and now to lover.

Unquestionably, returning to the role of hostage would be an improvement over the past week, yet she had no desire to become Ranulf’s lover. Notwithstanding the mortification of being considered his leman, she would go mad sitting idle the day long, awaiting her lord’s pleasure. She was accustomed to keeping busy with the duties of chatelaine. For four years she had commanded the vast household staff at Claredon, as well as overseen the domestic staff of several manor houses and minor fiefs. The menial tasks at which she had been forced to toil for the past week at least had the benefit of making her too weary to think when she fell exhausted into bed each night, too drained to dwell on her myriad troubles. Were she to laze about the entire day with naught to distract her, the boredom would drive her to despair, while her worries drove her to desperation.

Admittedly, she deserved a measure of retribution for trying to force him to honor the betrothal, and even for her outburst in the hall last night, but the new role he had planned for her was highly unpalatable, and he could not even see it. Ranulf was an unfeeling, heartless tyrant—

No, that was the trouble. Ranulf was
not
a tyrant. He had never harmed her physically or ever raised a hand to her, even if he had trampled ruthlessly on her heart. For all his savage reputation and fierce bluster, the Black Dragon of Vernay was restrained and gentle with women—even her, though she had given him ample cause for fury. Even his punishment of her had been measured. And his lovemaking . . .

Ariane closed her eyes as she remembered Ranulf’s tender assault on her senses last night. She wished he had ranted and railed at her instead, for she could rally her defenses against his anger. How could she possibly resist him when he was being tender and considerate?

She heard herself sigh. She had lied to Ranulf earlier. She did fear him. . . . She feared the cold, merciless warlord known as the Black Dragon, yet she feared even more the tender, seductive lover he had become last night.

It dismayed her to realize how vulnerable she was to him, to his potent masculinity, to his stunning passion. The danger Ranulf presented was very real. Last night he had laid claim to some secret part of her . . . and then dismissed their wondrous mating as no more than a pleasurable whim to be paid for in coin.

Disheartened, she fingered the gold collar at her throat, whose dragons branded her as Ranulf’s possession. She wanted to tear it off, yet she carefully unwound the precious metal from around her neck. She could not bear to be rid of it. Ranulf had once thought enough of her to bring her a costly gift fit for a nobleman’s bride. She would keep it, but carefully put it away, determined never to wear it unless and until Ranulf claimed her as his bride.

An event unlikely ever to happen, she admitted despondently.

She wished she could hate him, but she greatly feared it was too late. After all the years of neglect he had subjected her to, despite his current inflexibility, Ranulf was still the dazzling warrior who had captured her young heart so long ago.

He would not want her heart, Ariane knew. He considered her a traitorous hostage, nothing more—while she was more defenseless than ever.

The thought made Ariane wince. Sweet Mary, how could she possibly protect herself from his tender intimacies if she became his full-time lover? She would be safe only so long as she could keep her distance. Yet now she would be required to share Ranulf’s bed, to experience his magnificent passion, to submit to his exquisite carnal attentions.

And, God help her, she could not in all honesty deny that was what she wanted.

15

Ranulf was gone from the hall by the time Ariane went downstairs to assuage her hunger. To her surprise, the sentries who usually watched over her were nowhere in sight.

A realization struck her then that filled her with hope. Being the lord’s mistress might offer an unexpected advantage she had not considered: Ranulf might eventually lower his guard around her. If she was not watched so closely, she could perhaps slip out of the keep and perform her desperate errand.

To her further surprise, she found Payn FitzOsbern seated alone at the lord’s high table. To her complete astonishment, he hailed her at once, as if he had been watching for her.

“Will you join me at table to break your fast, demoiselle?”

Ariane eyed him warily, wondering if he meant to chastise her for her explosion last night.

The knight smiled, a friendly, persuasive greeting that strangely set her at ease. “I would be honored, lady, if you would join me. Come, I will not bite,” he added in a laughing undertone as he stood to pull out the chair next to him—the lord’s chair. “And should I be so bold as to attempt it”—he chuckled under his breath—“I am certain you would bite back.”

Ariane could not help but respond to his teasing with her own tentative smile.

“I wish to tender an apology for our lewd behavior last eve,” he said as soon as she was seated. “You had the right of it. It was inexcusable to dishonor Claredon’s hall in such a manner.”

Before she could reply, Payn raised a hand and summoned a serf. “Bring your lady some food at once.”

“Lady?” Ariane replied when they were alone. “You forget that Lord Ranulf decreed I am no longer lady here.”

“Nay, I did not forget. But this morn Ranulf informed me you are not to be considered a slave any longer. I must confess my relief. And express my gratitude to you, as well.”

“Gratitude?”

“Aye, I am grateful to you for soothing his vile temper. As his first in command, I am the one who bears the brunt of his ill humor. His mood was far sweeter this morn than it has been in months.” Ariane stiffened, but Payn went on cheerfully as he poured her a goblet of wine. “It was only a matter of time before the explosion came, and better sooner than late.”

The servant returned with a platter of cold mutton and bread and set it before Ariane. Dismissing the man, Payn eyed her thoughtfully. “What do you know about Ranulf, demoiselle?”

She thrust her eating dagger into the mutton in answer. “I know he is a ruthless, coldhearted knight who does not honor his promises.”

Payn flashed her a sympathetic grin. “Nay, I meant, what do you know of his past?”

Ariane frowned. “Merely what my father told me. And of course, I have heard rumors. The Black Dragon is said to be invincible in battle and merciless toward his enemies. And they say . . . he fought and defeated his own father, and claimed his inheritance at the point of a sword.”

“The rumors do not exaggerate. Ranulf was forced to win back the Vernay lands lost to him when his father doubted his paternity and disinherited him.”

“Then it is true? About his mother’s . . .” She faltered, uncertain how to put the question delicately.

“Her adultery? Aye, it’s true. Before his birth, his mother indulged in an illicit affair with a lowborn freeman—the castle huntsman. To this day, it is not known whose offspring Ranulf is, although I have my opinion. Ranulf resembles Yves de Vernay too closely in appearance and character to be anyone else’s son.”

“You seem to know Ranulf well.”

“Better than most. We fostered together as boys in the same Norman lord’s household.”

Ariane nodded absently. It was common for a son born into nobility to serve his knightly apprenticeship in another lord’s household.

“From the first,” Payn remarked, “Ranulf excelled at the rigorous training given us. He regularly defeated the other squires, even me, and we all deferred to him. He was large for his age, and his bearing lent him stature, yet his success was due to more than physical advantage. It was as if he were driven to prove himself better than anyone else. Not that he acted the bully, demoiselle.” Payn smiled thoughtfully, as if in remembrance. “Indeed, Ranulf was first to defend the least powerful among us, and more than once championed weaklings against a brutal fist. But none of us knew him well. He had few friends, for he kept to himself. Years passed before he told me the story of his parentage, and then solely because he considered me his friend and too much wine had loosened his tongue. It was not a pretty tale.”

His expression pensive, Payn sipped his wine, while Ariane waited impatiently for him to continue, her sympathy aroused.

“Yves de Vernay was . . . shall we say . . . a bitter man? He slew his wife’s lover and nearly slew
her.
For her transgression, he locked her away in a tower cell for the remainder of her life. The Church, as you may know, no longer considers adultery sufficient cause to terminate a marriage. As for her babe, Lord Yves could never look upon him with other than loathing, which was doubtless a blessing for Ranulf. He escaped notice till he was a boy of four, when he had the misfortune to be brought to the lord’s attention. Yves . . . resolved to punish the despised son for the mother’s sins. His method—to flay the body in order to purify the soul.” Payn looked directly at Ariane. “Ranulf’s back bore the brunt of his rage.”

“Mother of God, those terrible scars,” Ariane whispered, her voice faint with horror. “What manner of man would do that to a child?”

“Monstrous, was it not? His noble father sought to drive the devil from him, to purge the demons from his soul.”

“Demons—but he was just a boy! A babe! Entirely innocent of his mother’s misconduct.”

“Aye, a boy—but endowed with a man-sized vengeance. For two years Ranulf endured the torment, until he was sent away to foster. He was liberated from his father’s cruelty then, but he never, never forgot. His scars run far deeper than those on his back.”

Ariane gazed at him in despair, as well as bewilderment. “Sir Payn . . . you spoke true—it is a dreadful tale. But why do you tell me?”

“I wished you to know what manner of man Ranulf is, the factors that have forged him into the man he is now.” Payn’s answer explained little, and even less when he added, “I wished you to understand why he has good reason to be wary of noblewomen.”

Frowning in puzzlement, she nodded. “I am listening.”

“It is my belief . . . Ranulf’s reluctance to wed you stems from his deep mistrust of ladies of your class. He never said it in so many words, but I felt sure he feared you.”

“Feared . . . ?
Me?
Whyever would he fear me?”

“I am coming to that, my lady.” Payn smiled faintly at her expression. “You see, Ranulf learned long ago to put no faith in women. He considers most to be without honor. First his mother’s adultery, which rendered his life a living hell. Then his later experiences . . . Well, I suppose I should elucidate. You have seen Ranulf’s charm. He can—”

“I beg to differ,” Ariane interrupted stiffly. “I have seen little evidence of
charm
in Lord Ranulf.”

“Well, perhaps he would not attempt to charm
you,
demoiselle, under the present circumstances.”

No, he would attempt it with any woman
but
her, she thought with a twinge of jealousy, remembering how Ranulf had a ready smile for the castle wenches.

“His flair with females, then. Women seem to flock to him like bees to honey, despite his harsh countenance. I have never quite understood his appeal, I admit,” Payn added with a wry, self-deprecating smile. “Ranulf does not have what you ladies would consider masculine beauty.”

Not beauty in the common way, Ariane reflected. It was his raw, magnetic masculinity that was beautiful. That virile, dynamic, charismatic personality was a potent force, impossible to ignore. That, as well as the bleakness in his eyes that until now she had never understood, prompted much of his allure. Every woman would want to be the one to tame him, to soothe the beast within him—and to offer him comfort. She had felt the primal, instinctive yearning herself, beneath her fear and fury.