The Warrior (36 page)

His pride, however, demanded that he control his lusts. He had ordered Ariane to await him in the solar at the day’s end, and he would adhere to his plan if it killed him. He did not want to give the damsel any hint of how thoroughly she had bewitched him, or that her feminine arts wielded any undue power over him.

Moreover, he had promised his men an afternoon of sport on the hunting field, a well-deserved respite from the grind of military duty. And he wished to see for himself what game his forests held.

Telling himself he would have to be satisfied with a mere glimpse of her, Ranulf felt a keen disappointment when Ariane made no appearance in the hall for the noon meal.

The meal seemed interminable, and Ranulf was hardpressed to maintain a semblance of good humor, or to keep his gaze from roaming the hall in search of her. Payn, strangely, was more jovial than even his usual sunny disposition warranted. The knight agreed easily when Ranulf directed him to gather the huntsmen in the bailey and await him there. Payn even refrained from commenting about the lord’s odd excuse for delay when Ranulf said he wished to fetch his gauntlets from the solar, although any number of pages and squires would have willingly accomplished the errand.

She was not in the solar, Ranulf discovered to his growing irritation, before his search led him to the adjacent weaving room. To his surprise and misgiving, he found Ariane there, surrounded by her ladies, embroidering tapestries, while nearby, skilled craftswomen plied their trade, winding wool into long skeins, spooling thread, and weaving cloth.

The clacking looms and female chatter came to an abrupt halt when his presence was detected. At the sudden silence, Ariane looked up in startlement to find Ranulf looming in the doorway. His powerful, commanding form seemed out of place in a chamber meant solely for women.

She was dismayed that Ranulf would seek her out here, dismayed still further by his intent scrutiny. His burning eyes were bright and hot.

Flushing, Ariane set aside her embroidery and rose, then followed him from the weaving room to the antechamber. “My lord? How may I serve you?”

Her choice of words was unfortunate, for his amber eyes darkened. His hands closed over her arms, as if he might draw her against him—but then Ranulf made himself halt. It took all of his strength to pull back. His manhood had warmed and swelled at the sight of her, and the feel of her was tantalizing, and yet he refused to be distracted by her allure.

“What do you do here?” he demanded, his tone more curt than he intended.

Ariane gazed up at him warily. “Why, I was seeing to the clothmaking. The spinning and weaving and needlework have suffered neglect since your . . . seizure of Claredon.”

“I disremember granting you leave to spend your time in such pursuits.”

“You did say I no longer had to serve in the kitchens.”

“You no longer need work at all. I bade you wait for me in my chamber.”

Hot color rose to her face, but she managed to say evenly, “I am not accustomed to being idle, my lord.”

“You will not be idle,” Ranulf replied, his voice dipping to huskiness. “I intend to keep you pleasantly occupied.”

Ariane set her jaw, wanting to argue with him. Even if he kept her occupied each night and much of each day, there would still be too many empty hours to fill, as well as tasks that demanded a woman’s attention. She did not wish to see her former home fall to ruin for lack of a chatelaine. Indeed, her lady mother would be offended to see what deplorable condition the keep had fallen into so shortly after being occupied by Ranulf’s forces.

Remembering, though, her newly formed pledge to conquer Ranulf’s heart, she lowered her gaze and murmured, “As you wish, my lord.”

Her docile reply roused Ranulf’s wariness further, and yet he could find nothing in her answer or attitude to take umbrage with.

“In future you will be present at meals,” he said coolly. “Beginning tonight. I expect a large repast this evening. I always work up an appetite while hunting.”

“You mean to hunt?” she was dismayed into asking.

“Yes. You find that surprising?”

Her gaze flickered uneasily to the arrow loop in the outer wall. She had not previously noted the sounds that floated through the opening—riders, huntsmen, and hounds gathering in the yard in preparation for a hunt. The realization struck her with foreboding.

“No, not surprising,” Ariane prevaricated. “Where do you hunt, my lord?”

“What does it matter?”

“The south wood is known to be full of game.”

“Is it, indeed? I find it curious that you should think to advise me on the chase.”

Seeing the penetrating interest in Ranulf’s hard eyes, Ariane carefully schooled her features to show no expression. “I merely wish your sport to be successful. We all would enjoy fresh game for supper—and your mood is sweeter when your desires are not thwarted,” she could not resist adding tartly.

His mouth curved up at the corner, yet his countenance held only faint amusement. “I have never noted your particular eagerness to satisfy my desires before now, demoiselle. Could there be another cause for your concern?” he said slowly, searching her face. “Rebels you wish to aid, perchance? Your supporters could easily set up a base from which to conduct their assaults on my patrols, like the one that killed my archer and wounded my squire. Perhaps they hide in the north wood, which is why you seek to direct me south.”

She tried to remain calm as she replied airily, “If there are rebels on Claredon land, I know naught of them.”

“The eastern forest, then?” Ranulf persisted, watching her closely. He saw the flicker of alarm in her eyes, but could not determine the cause.
Was
she seeking to conceal the presence of rebel forces?

A chill swept Ariane at the mention of that section. Hastily she lowered her lashes over the secrets she knew must lie in her eyes. She should never have mentioned any of the forests, but now that she had, there was nothing to do but brazen it out.

“The eastern wood is said to be haunted by evil spirits, my lord. The serfs and villagers avoid it resolutely, and the hounds will not hunt there willingly.”

“Evil spirits?” The hard voice turned softly menacing. “It is fortunate then that I hold no belief in such superstition.”

Sensing Ranulf’s growing suspicion, Ariane retreated from that obviously false explanation. “Of course I put no faith in those old wives’ tales,” she assured him, keeping her eyes downcast, “but it is true that vicious wolves roam those woods.”

“All the more reason to hunt there. I should think you would consider it laudable to rid the forest of wolves.”

“Yes . . . but . . .” Ariane faltered, knowing she was sinking deeper into a morass, yet not knowing how to extricate herself.

“Mayhap,” Ranulf said dangerously, “you seek to shield someone else. Is that, perchance, where you go to sport with your lover?”

She glanced up in startlement, her eyes wide. “You well know I have never had a lover until you.”

“Castle gossip says otherwise.”

She went rigid. “You yourself saw the proof of my innocence, my lord.”

“There are ways to enjoy passion without breaching a maidenhead, as I have shown you.”

“I have never had a lover,” Ariane repeated with rising indignation.

Ranulf’s look turned grim. “Not even your father’s vassal? The prisoner you freed, Simon?”

Ariane returned his fierce gaze steadily. “Not Simon, nor any other man.”

“And it shall remain that way,” Ranulf said, his voice low and taut. “Henceforth, I will be your only lover. I will kill any man who touches you. Do you comprehend me?”

Ariane watched him warily. She could not understand his jealous fury—until she recalled the experiences he had endured at the hands of other women of her class. Ranulf thought her no better than any of the adulterous noblewomen who had filled his life with pain and scandal.

“I have no lover,” she said quietly, “in a forest or elsewhere. I only sought to advise you.”

He could not quite believe her. He had seen the guilt in those luminous gray eyes. She was not telling the complete truth, he would swear it. That she would think to deceive him filled him with bitter anguish, but her championship of his enemies would make no difference in the end. He was well accustomed at flushing out insurgents who would foment rebellion. If she was protecting Simon Crecy or any other traitor, he would find and deal with them swiftly.

Ranulf tore his gaze from Ariane. He did not want to hear any more lies coming from those sweet lips. “You take too much upon yourself,” he retorted stiffly, before turning toward the stairway. “You had best pray I find no trace of your traitorous cohorts.”

As she listened to the retreat of his jingling spurs, Ariane pressed a hand to her mouth in dismay. God’s mercy, what had she done? Arousing Ranulf’s suspicions had been inexcusably stupid. Ranulf was no fool, but a seasoned knight, experienced in dealing with enemy resistance. He would search the east wood for rebels and perhaps stumble upon the secret she would give her life to keep hidden.

Dread curled in the pit of her stomach as she thought of what he could find. Despite his past leniency, in this instance he would not be so eager to show mercy and compassion, she was certain.

“No,” Ariane whispered to herself, trying to calm her agitation, as well as bolster her courage. All was not lost. Perhaps it was even a blessing that Ranulf’s suspicions centered on fantasy rebels. As long as he was searching for miscreants, he might overlook the dire dilemma she had spent the past four years endeavoring to conceal.

She forced herself to release the breath she had been holding. She would not give up hope. Very soon she would have to discover the means to attend the wood’s inhabitants, before their plight grew desperate, but she had time yet to plan how to escape Ranulf’s vigilance.

She
would pray, as he had suggested, though. She would pray that the secret of Claredon forest would be safe for a great while longer.

Ranulf found no trace of wolves or rebels, or any other sign of revolt in the expanse of forest some quarter league east of the castle walls, although, much to the disgust of the keepers, the hounds did seem to fear the area. They whined and snuffled and started at shadows, until finally they picked up the spoor of a wild boar which led off to the north.

The sport was good, the hunt highly successful—the party killed two boar and five hinds—but Ranulf was more relieved to find his suspicions apparently unfounded. Had he found Simon Crecy hiding in the wood, he would have run the man through with his sword without a qualm.

Such jealousy was wholly unreasonable, Ranulf knew, yet he could not contain it. He became irrational whenever he merely thought of Ariane with another man. In truth, his savage feeling of possessiveness toward her startled and disturbed Ranulf. No wench had ever had the power to move him to jealousy; he had never allowed one close enough. For all his enjoyment of their bodies, he purposefully kept his women at a distance, his heart hardened and detached.

Ariane would be no different, Ranulf tried to tell himself. She was just like the scores of others he had possessed. No, not just like the others. Her cool, haunting beauty and feminine softness, combined with a sharp tongue and defiant wit, gave her a bewitching allure that he had never before encountered—and made the pleasure far more gratifying than any he had experienced before now.

It was that allure that made him ride eagerly back to the keep at the day’s end. That allure that caused the singing in his blood as he turned his destrier over to a page and bounded up the tower stairs. His pulse was racing when he spied Ariane in the hall, supervising the serfs who were lighting the torches along the walls and arranging the trestle tables in the center.

She wore a flowing bliaud of jonquil silk over a long-sleeved crimson chainse. The golden band that encircled her forehead caught the gleam of torchlight, as did her pale, unbound hair, which rippled with copper and gold and flaxen highlights.

She was not wearing his gift, he noted with a sharp sense of disappointment, and yet she was beautiful enough without it. The sight of her took Ranulf’s breath away.

He crushed the urge to sweep her up in his arms right then, and merely acknowledged her with a lordly nod. Yet like a callow youth eager to impress a lass, Ranulf hastened upstairs to wash the worst of the dirt and blood of the hunt away, and then hastened back down again.

Ariane stood hesitantly beside the dais, awaiting his arrival. Payn, who had been laughing jovially with some of their men, strode to the table just then, and reached her first. The knight bowed over her hand and gave her a smile of masculine approval that made Ranulf set his teeth.

“You grace us with your presence, lady,” Payn said admiringly as he held out the chatelaine’s chair. “Does she not, Ranulf?”

Ranulf, irritated that his vassal’s chivalry had prevented his own, grunted in agreement. “That gown does you credit,” he added in a softer voice.

Ariane lowered her eyes modestly. “Thank you, my lord. It was good of you to return my clothing to me.”

Her gentle barb stung, and vexed Ranulf all the more.

At least the food, while perhaps not a feast, was the best meal he had enjoyed since taking possession of Claredon. The game they had just killed would not be butchered till the morrow, but there was pheasant and roast suckling pig and smoked herring, prepared with spices and mouthwatering sauces. During the first course, Ranulf discovered from Payn’s leading questions that Ariane herself had ordered the preparations. He was not certain he liked her taking so much upon herself, and yet he could find no fault in the result.

Payn’s effusive compliments began to wear on his temper, though, especially since for the second and third courses, Ranulf scarcely tasted what he ate. The conversation flowed around him while he remained silent, acutely aware of the beautiful woman sitting so cool and regal beside him, and his own ache to possess her. He wanted the interminable meal to end so that he could have her alone, in his arms.