The Warrior (57 page)

The celebration that followed lasted well into the evening. The duties of chatelaine occupied much of Ariane’s attention, giving her no opportunity to speak privately with Ranulf as she yearned to do.

Ranulf, too, chafed at the delay, watching her with possessive eyes as she sat at her father’s other side—too far from him, he thought. He ate sparingly and drank very little, caring naught for food. He wanted only to sweep Ariane up in his arms and carry her above stairs at this very moment, to lay her down and cover her with his body, to capture her mouth with his and drink from her sweetness. Yearningly he looked at that beautiful mouth, his lingering gaze hungry, wistful, as he recalled her adamant refusal to wed him.
If you know in your heart . . .
He
did
know, and he was prepared to admit it to her, to bare his soul to her if that was what she wanted, even though it would be one of the hardest things he had ever done.

Even then he could not be certain Ariane would accept him. He could perhaps force the issue of their union, Ranulf knew. Her father would give his daughter’s hand in marriage to the man who had championed his innocence and won the king’s pardon.

Yet he would never make such a demand, Ranulf vowed. He would not compel Ariane to wed him. He had treated her too harshly in the past to revert to such coercion. In truth, he never wanted to force her again. He wanted Ariane to come to him freely, of her own will, because she loved him.

He would have to woo her this time, he realized, yet even that effort might fail. Ranulf thought of the gilded coffer he had ordered delivered to her chamber shortly after the banquet had begun. A knight who sought to win the hand of a lady would bring her gifts to win her favor and sweeten her regard. He had spent a small fortune buying goods from cloth merchants and goldsmiths, praying that such riches might sway Ariane. Now all that was left was to put his most fervent hopes to the test.

The evening was well advanced, a lively entertainment by traveling minstrels underway, before Ranulf summoned the nerve to rise from the table and approach Ariane’s chair. Bending, he murmured in her ear, “Might I have a private word with you, demoiselle? In your chamber?”

“Aye, my lord, as you wish,” she said rather breathlessly, sending his hopes soaring with the quizzical smile she bestowed upon him.

Excusing herself from her father and the company, Ariane lit a taper and led the way upstairs to her chamber. Ranulf followed her, his demeanor uncharacteristically humble, his heart beginning to pound again.

His momentary optimism had plummeted by the time he closed the heavy door behind them. He did not take her in his arms as he yearned to. Instead, he stood regarding her silently in the candlelight.

“You wished to speak to me?” she asked uncertainly.

“I brought you a gift,” Ranulf said finally, lamely, pointing toward the coffer his squire had placed just within the door.

Puzzled, Ariane went to kneel before the chest and raised the lid. Her breath caught in a gasp at the treasures glittering in the candlelight. With trembling hands, she withdrew a gold-linked girdle encrusted with rubies and a gold chaplet studded with the same precious stones. Beneath lay ells of costly silks, samites, cendals, and damasks, as well as pelts of ermine and sable.

She turned questioning eyes to Ranulf. “What mean you by this, my lord?”

“I could think of naught else to give you,” he replied in a voice so low it was barely audible. “Your father’s demesne has been restored to him. Your inheritance remains intact. Your precious Claredon is safe from me.”

Ariane held her breath, waiting, yet no further explanation was forthcoming. “I need no riches from you, Ranulf.”

“I know,” he said bitterly. “You have no need of me at all.”

She could not fathom his mood, or comprehend what he was trying to tell her. But there was another crucial matter that clamored for attention.

Slowly Ariane rose and on leaden limbs went to another chest, where she withdrew the rolled parchment with the papal seal intact. “This came from Rome in your absence.”

Stark fear rippled through Ranulf as he eyed the document she held out to him; despair rose higher within him, shoving at his throat. “Know you what it says?” he asked hoarsely.

“No. I would not pry into your personal affairs.”

“It doubtless concerns you as well, demoiselle. Were you not even curious?”

“If you do not believe me—”

Ranulf shook his head abruptly. “Nay, I meant no accusation. Your word is your honor and I will not question it.”

Ariane stared at Ranulf, knowing how much it had cost him to say those words. Finally she crossed to him with her offering.

Accepting the roll reluctantly, he turned away from her intense scrutiny and moved over to the brazier that had been lit even in summer to take the chill from the tower stone. For a long moment he stood there, his back to Ariane, staring down at the smoldering coals.

“Will you not open it, my lord?”

Ranulf voiced a quiet oath. He wanted to burn the vile thing, to tear it asunder without reading it. But he needed to know what he faced.

With hands that trembled slightly Ranulf broke the seal and unrolled the missive. His heart thudded in slow, painful strokes as he tried to make sense of the Latin that blurred before his eyes. Yet there was no mistaking the import of the document. It was confirmation of his worst fears.

His shoulders slumped, his head bowed. The decision had been taken from him.

“The annulment has been granted,” he whispered.

“So . . . now you are free of me,” she said tonelessly after a while.

“No, you are wrong, Ariane.” There was an edge of bleakness in his response. “I could never be free of you.”

At her long silence, Ranulf glanced over his shoulder at her. Her face was pale, her eyes stricken with the same terrible anguish that was tearing him apart inside.

His mouth twisted with bitterness. “Are you not pleased, demoiselle? Now you will have the opportunity to make another alliance for your house. With Claredon restored, your hand will be coveted by richer, more powerful lords than I—a castoff pretender to nobility who has ill used you and claimed your virtue and stained your honor.”

She shook her head. “I want no other lord than you.”

He went still, afraid to move, afraid he had misheard.

“Are you not pleased, my lord? Was not an annulment what you devoutly wished for?”

“No.”

“Then . . .” She searched his face. “What
do you want?”

Ranulf averted his gaze, unable to meet her eyes. “I want you, Ariane. . . . I want you to be my wife in truth. I want a future with you at my side. I want to settle on my estates and raise fine sons to manhood. To watch my daughters grow to be beauties like their mother.”

Her breath caught; her head whirled. Ariane raised a trembling hand to her temple, not daring to believe he truly meant it. “You wish to settle down? I thought . . . you preferred soldiering.”

Ranulf exhaled a deep sigh. “Once I did. But I am tired of fighting. I grow weary of constant war. I’ve had a bellyful of blood. My lands are barely known to me, and I would change that.”

“Will you return to Vernay?”

“No,” he replied sharply. “I despise Vernay. I intend to remain in England.”

“Here, at Claredon?”

“Not here. I do not belong here.”

“Then . . . where?”

“Henry has given me new lands in the west, with orders to build a castle to defend the marshes. I could make a fresh start there. I want an end to the loneliness, the hatred, the battles. I want my life with you. . . . If you will have me.”

“What of trust, Ranulf? I could not bear to watch our marriage destroyed by mistrust and suspicion. I want a husband who can believe in me.”

“I trust you, Ariane . . . as much as I can trust anyone.”

She realized the risk Ranulf had taken with his heartfelt admission. “And love?”

Turning his head, he glanced over his shoulder at her, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “My love is yours, such as I have to give. If what I feel can be called love, then, aye, I love you.”

“What
do
you feel, my lord?”

He thought of the powerful, poignant emotions welling inside him. “I feel helpless,” he whispered hoarsely. “Afraid. Afraid that I have lost you through my own blindness.”

The pain in his eyes sent a wave of tenderness surging through her; it hurt her to see her fierce dragon suffering.

Her throat aching, Ariane moved toward him. From behind him, she wrapped her arms around Ranulf’s powerful form, pressing her cheek against his back, against the scars she knew were hidden beneath his tunic. “You have not lost me, Ranulf.”

Slowly, he turned in her arms, gazing doubtfully down at her. She searched his proudly sculpted features, seeing the vulnerability, the uncertainty, in the golden depths of his eyes.

“I will not press my suit if you refuse me,” he added bleakly. “The choice is yours.”

“No, my lord. The choice was taken from me long ago.” She watched as a spark of hope flared in his eyes.

“From me, as well, my lady,” Ranulf whispered. “You bewitched me from the first.”

“I too am bewitched,” she said softly.

Taking her hands in his, he stared down at their interlaced fingers. “I know not how to love, Ariane. Will you teach me?”

“Yes . . . willingly, gladly.” An immeasurable joy flowed over her when his tentative smile reflected hers. “But are you certain, Ranulf? Truly certain?”

“More certain than anything in the whole of my life. You are my life. You are in my blood.”

“I am not the wife you wished for.”

He shook his head. “What I ask for in a wife is courage and honesty and loyalty. You have proven those in ample measure.”

Her smile struck him with the force of a lightning bolt. Ranulf felt suddenly breathless, as if his heart might burst from his rib cage.

Yet Ariane seemed intent on teasing him. “Do you not wish for obedience and docility, my lord?”

His mouth twisted into a bold grin. “What I crave is a saucy wench who will challenge me and nag me and force me to love.”

“I do not nag!” Ariane exclaimed indignantly.

With a husky laugh, he drew her close. “I care not if you do. I want you just as you are.”

Unmollified, she pressed her palms against his broad chest. “Not so quickly, my fine lord. Ask me for my heart.”

“Very well.” His expression suddenly sobered. “My lady . . . my love . . . Ariane . . . could you, would you, give your heart to this humble, battered warrior?”

Her gaze softened. “It is yours, Ranulf. I pledge you my love, for always.”

A smile blazed across his face, bright and dazzling like hot sunshine, while a flame of joy spread through him. “And your hand? Will you wed me and be my lady?”

“Aye, my love. I will wed you eagerly.”

He glanced at the parchment he still held. “This grant of annulment . . . I have no need for it, have you?” To her shock, he tossed the document in the brazier, watching as the flames slowly licked at the parchment.

“What will Rome say?” she wondered.

“I care not what Rome says.” He threw back his head and laughed, a full-bodied guffaw of delight.

It was that laughter, ringing with happiness, that convinced her. Ranulf truly wanted her as his wife. She had waited nearly half a lifetime for this moment. For her dream lover to come for her in tenderness and love.

Yet Ranulf was too overjoyed to remain still. Impulsively he caught Ariane up in his arms and whirled her around, till she was laughing and breathless.

“Ranulf, stop! You make me dizzy!”

“Not as dizzy as I feel!” But he ceased his exuberant motion and set her on her feet, although he kept her imprisoned within the circle of his arms. “I feel like shouting from the battlements.” Suddenly he stared down at her, his heavy brows drawing together in mock warning. “I shall have a petition of marriage drawn up at once, so that you cannot withdraw your acceptance.”

Her eyebrow rose in amused protest. “
I am not the one who delayed the marriage for five years, my lord. I
am not the one who repudiated our betrothal.”

His smile faded. “No, I am. Because of my stupidity, my blindness, my compulsion to believe the worst. Can you ever forgive me?”

She could see the uncertainty in his eyes, the sweet vulnerability that reflected his newly acknowledged feelings.

In answer, Ariane reached up and joined her lips tenderly with his. He had doubted and mistrusted her for too long. But never again, Ariane vowed solemnly. As long as there remained a breath in her body, Ranulf would never have cause to doubt her love.

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