The Warrior (60 page)

Just then Blanche let out a wail lusty enough to bring the rafters down. Wisely, Ranulf carried her at once to her mother so that Ariane might nurse her. Joining them on the bed, he watched appreciatively as she settled their hungry daughter at her breast. Noblewomen usually called up wet nurses from among the serfs, but Ariane had chosen otherwise. She was devoted to their children, just as he was.

His marriage had proved the end of his wenching. To the dismay of many a female heart, the lord of Vernay and Marsden was too attached to his beautiful lady wife to take any interest in the castle wenches—or any other woman.

Ranulf’s gaze lifted momentarily to survey the solar, which had become the center of his life. Ariane had made their new castle a true home, decorating this chamber for their comfort, adorning the stone walls and wooden floor with colorful silken tapestries and fur coverlets and woven rugs.

The past years had been bountiful. As a reward for a knight’s loyal soldiering, King Henry had given Ranulf the handsome fief of Marsden to hold, with orders to build a castle there to provide a base loyal to the crown.

He was never in residence at Vernay, which held such bitter memories for him. Indeed, he had returned to Normandy only once, for a short while, and then only to oversee his lands and to give Payn FitzOsbern the castellanship of Vernay for his years of devoted service—a prize any knight would covet. Ariane had embraced the plan with as much fervor as Ranulf. She had stood by him with the courage and loyalty of a warrior’s woman, executing her duties as lady with grace and gentleness, making no complaint when he was called away for feudal service. With reluctance, Ranulf had participated in the king’s campaigns in Wales, but he had returned home eagerly, barely in time for his daughter’s birth.

His features softened as he gazed down at his nursing daughter, a fierce love swelling in his chest. She was tiny and perfect and beautiful, so beautiful he did not even wish to consider the countless hearts she would break when she was older.

Aye, he had mellowed, Ranulf thought contentedly. Payn would tease him unmercifully could his vassal see how thoroughly he was ruled by the women in his life—although by all reports, Payn had recently found a lady of his own who was leading him on a merry chase.

When Blanche had finished nursing and fallen into a doze, Ranulf returned his daughter to her cradle and called for her nurse, who changed the babe’s napkin and dressed her in a fresh tunic. Even after the woman had gone, though, he loitered, tucking Blanche warmly beneath the coverlets and watching her sleep.

“Ranulf,” Ariane called finally, “do you mean to return to bed before the fall harvest? I am cold.”

She could not possibly be complaining about the temperature of the chamber, he knew; not with the fire in the hearth and the mildness of the fine spring weather.

His eyes were warm and teasing when he joined her in the bed and gathered her naked body in his arms. “You command, beloved, and I obey. I am but a humble knight wishing to please his lady.”

Ariane muffled a spurt of laughter against the heated skin of his furred chest. “You are the
least
humble knight I know, my arrogant lord.”

With feigned pain, Ranulf clutched at his heart and sighed heavily. “I am sorely afflicted.”

“Are you indeed?”

He bent to kiss her lips, her throat, her bare breast. “Aye, afflicted with desire and love. Every part of you is so dear to me. . . .”

Those were the last words he spoke for a long while. With eagerness and joy, Ariane closed her eyes and lay back, giving herself over to the lazy worship of his lovemaking.

Her cup of happiness was filled to overflowing. Within the week, her parents would arrive at Marsden to pay their first visit to their grandchildren. Lady Constance, though somewhat scarred and no longer in possession of her former beauty, had been cured of her terrible disease, a feat for which Layla had been lavishly rewarded with her freedom. Ariane would always be grateful to Ranulf for the service he had done both her mother and father.

Indeed, she would always love him, deeply and irrevocably. She could not have chosen a better lord and husband had she searched the whole of England and Normandy. Ranulf had gentled under her touch, becoming as tender, as passionate, as any woman could wish.

Breathlessly arching against him in response to his erotic caresses, Ariane smiled up at Ranulf through a shimmering haze of pleasure and pure joy. She had tamed her fiery, golden-eyed dragon, turning him into the lover of her dreams.

By Nicole Jordan
Published by Ballantine Books

Paradise Series:

MASTER OF TEMPTATION

LORD OF SEDUCTION

WICKED FANTASY

Notorious Series:

THE SEDUCTION

THE PASSION

DESIRE

ECSTACY

THE PRINCE OF PLEASURE

Other Novels:

THE LOVER

THE WARRIOR

“It is clear you are a maiden languishing for a man. Permit me to show you,” Ranulf murmured, his voice stroking Ariane’s senses like dark velvet. “Let us see if we can make your lovely body turn traitor.”

He cradled her against him with a gentleness that belied the dangerous determination in his eyes. Then, to her complete startlement and dismay, he bent and kissed her, his lips warm and incredibly soft. The shock sent a wave of heat streaking through Ariane, a shock so powerful it paralyzed her. It seemed she had waited nearly half her life for this, to know the taste of his kiss. Long moments later Ranulf drew back, but only to whisper against her lips, “Let me show you pleasure, Ariane. Let me please you as I would have you please me. . . .”

Please read on for a sneak peak at
Wicked Fantasy
the next breathtaking volume in
Nicole Jordan’s Paradise series.
Available August 2005.

London
April 1811

Her first sight of the wicked, dashing adventurer Trey Deverill startled Antonia Maitland immensely, for he was unmistakably, breathtakingly nude.

Seeing his unclothed body was purely accidental, of course.

Glad to be home from her select boarding academy for a spring holiday, Antonia handed her bonnet and gloves over to the waiting butler and turned toward the map room, where her father oversaw his vast shipping empire. She was eager to see him for the first time in over a month.

“I believe you will find Mr. Maitland upstairs, Miss Maitland,” the butler intoned. “Possibly in the gallery.”

“Thank you,” she replied, knowing her father must be communing with the portrait of his beloved late wife.

Antonia ran up the wide, sweeping staircase and hurried along the elegant east wing of the mansion. Ten years ago, shortly before her mother’s unexpected death in childbirth, Samuel Maitland had spared no expense to build the grand residence in a newly fashionable district of London just south of Mayfair. But his favorite room was the portrait gallery, where he kept his wife’s memory alive.

Antonia’s current favorite room was the luxurious, newfangled bathing chamber, located at the far end of the corridor. When she saw her father’s valet exit the room and disappear around the corner, she almost sighed in anticipation of a hot bath. Upon reaching the corridor’s end, she saw that the door had been left partway open. But when absently she glanced inside, she stopped short.

A man had just stepped from the large oval copper tub.

A sleek muscular, powerfully built man.

A shockingly nude man.

She could see the side of his tall form—his bronzed back and taut buttocks, his lean hips and long sinewed legs, all streaming with water. Suddenly breathless, she stood riveted at the sight of his body: hard muscled, vital, beautiful, except for the disfiguring scars on his torso. . . .

As if sensing her presence, he lifted his head alertly and swung toward her, giving her a fuller view of his loins.

“Oh, my . . .” Antonia murmured, startled and fascinated at the same time.

Swiftly she jerked her eyes away from that forbidden masculine territory, only to have her gaze roam helplessly back up his body. In all of her sixteen years she had never seen anything so stunning as this man. Or magnificent. Nor had she experienced such a purely primal feminine reaction.

Heat flooded her skin, and she felt a sudden, shocking warmth between her thighs.

When she managed to drag her gaze higher, she realized that his face was as sinfully handsome as the rest of him. But it was more his striking, sea-green eyes beneath slashing brows that gave him such a bold and wicked appeal.

When those clear green eyes locked with hers, Antonia felt fresh heat sear along all her nerve endings.

He reached for a towel to cover himself and draped the linen around his lean hips. “I beg your pardon.”

Realizing she had been staring witlessly, she blushed to the roots of her dark red hair and stammered a reply. “No— It was entirely my fault— I should not be here. . . .”

“Miss Maitland, I presume?”

“Yes. . . . Who are you?”

At her bluntness, a crooked smile flashed across his mouth. “Trey Deverill,” he replied to her question, watching her expression for a reaction.

She gave him one; her eyebrows shot up as she recognized the name. She’d heard tales of the notorious Trey Deverill over the years—from various shipping merchants and sea captains, and from her father as well. Deverill was an adventurer and explorer, renowned in particular for battling pirates on the high seas.

She had often imagined what he was like, but given his celebrated reputation, he was younger than she’d expected. And in the flesh, he was far more . . .
vital than her fantasies.

Deploring the direction her mind was taking, Antonia cleared her throat to compose herself and spoke, hoping to sound more mature than a green schoolgirl. “Forgive me for my rudeness, Mr. Deverill. It was merely a shock to find you . . . like this. I am not normally so easily flustered.”

“Understandable under the circumstances,” he observed, amusement glinting in his remarkable eyes.

He, on the other hand, seemed not the least embarrassed, she noted. Or inhibited. No doubt he was fully aware of the effect he had on females. On
her
. He stood at his ease, his head cocked to one side, contemplating her.

Or perhaps he was merely waiting politely for her to cease gawking and leave.

“Would you oblige me by shutting the door?” he finally said.

“Yes . . . certainly.” Coming to her senses at last, Antonia reached forward for the door handle.

“Oh, and Miss Maitland?”

She tensed, wondering what he meant to say. “Yes?”

“I don’t think we should mention this unfortunate encounter to your father. He would skin me alive for compromising you.”

Her blush only heightened, if that was possible. “Believe me, sir, I have no intention of mentioning this to anyone, most especially my father.”

Firmly shutting the door, Antonia hurried away to resume her interrupted search for her father, determined to try to forget the decidedly scandalous encounter with the exciting adventurer.

Yet as she fled, Antonia knew without a doubt that the wicked, breathtaking image of Trey Deverill’s body would be indelibly etched in her memory forever.

With a start, Antonia awakened from a dream, her skin burning, her body shivering with longing. In the dim light of early morning, she lay in bed, tangled in her sheets, aching for the elusive fulfillment that had once again drifted just out of reach.

Giving a sigh of frustration, Antonia rolled onto her back to stare up at the canopy overhead. The dream always ended the same way—with a disappointing emptiness that left her aching and unfulfilled.

As a girl she’d had lovely dreams of a dashing pirate who carried her off on a glorious adventure. Then she’d met Deverill and tasted his stunning kiss. From that point on, he had become the sole focus of her dreams. For four years now she’d imagined him making love to her, sweeping her to a world of dark desire and searing pleasure.

Yet she was only tormenting herself by dwelling on him this way. And now that Deverill had returned to London in the flesh, it was imperative that she quell her wanton imaginings, or she would never be able to again look him in the eye.

With another sigh, this one of self-disgust, Antonia threw off the covers and rose to dress for her usual morning ride.

She was still feeling restless and out of sorts by the time she left the house, although the bright, sunny summer morning raised her spirits a little as she descended the front steps of the elegant mansion. Her horse and groom awaited her in the drive, but her thoughts were distracted enough that she noticed nothing else until she came face-to-face with the very object of her wicked fantasies.

Antonia halted abruptly, her eyes widening. With complete nonchalance, Trey Deverill leaned against the stone-and-ironwork livery post, watching her, his arms folded over his broad chest, one highly polished boot crossed over the other. He was dressed for riding in a tailored, bottle-green coat that reflected the green in his eyes, and he wore a tall beaver hat over his thick, unruly hair that seemed to tame his rakish good looks the slightest degree.

For a moment, Antonia simply stared at his strong, rugged features. It was disconcerting to find him on her doorstep, and even more disconcerting to remember how thoroughly he had occupied her thoughts only a short time ago. Could he tell that she’d been entertaining erotic visions of him all morning long? That vivid dreams of him had haunted her sleep last night and so many other nights?

Closing the final distance between them, she forced herself to offer him a calm greeting. “Were you waiting for me, Mr. Deverill?”

“No, I thought I would call on the milkmaid,” he replied, a lazy, amused charm in his sea-green eyes. “Of course I was waiting for you, sweeting.”

Beyond him, Antonia saw her groom stood holding the bridles of her skittish bay mare along with his own hack, while a strapping chestnut stood patiently nearby, chewing the bit—evidently Deverill’s mount, she deduced.