The Warrior (7 page)

He could see the faint pulse throbbing in her white throat as he stood drinking in Ariane’s beauty. Pale and perfect. Delicate as a rose. Innocent and vulnerable as a babe . . . Except that she was no babe, nor child either. She was a beautiful woman, who stirred his passions as no wench ever had.

He wanted to touch her.

Without thinking, he reached down to graze the soft skin of her brow with his thumb, then drew back abruptly, cursing himself for his weakness. When she awakened, the scorn in her silver-gray eyes would flay him without mercy.

And yet he could not resist the temptation. Unwillingly, he ran his thumb over the pale curve of her cheek, tracing the fragile bone and delicate hollow beneath. Her soft sigh as she stirred beneath his touch was a whisper of sound, a lover’s plea.

His body hardened as heated images flickered before his eyes. . . . Ariane shuddering and straining beneath him. . . . Ariane willing and eager, welcoming him into her bed, into her body. . . .

A bitter smile twisted Ranulf’s mouth. She would never be eager for his touch. She rued their betrothal, rued ever hearing his name. She would be glad to be free of him.

He is no true knight. A grasping, baseborn pretender to nobility.

He should have felt relief that she found their betrothal so repugnant. Should have been pleased that her own defiant actions released him from any obligation toward her. He had been prepared to honor his word, but now he need not feel remorse for delaying his arrival for so long, or for repudiating their union. In truth, it was fortunate he had discovered her true feelings—the contempt she harbored for him—in time, before he was irrevocably tied to her.

And yet . . . a hollow ache he could not explain centered in Ranulf’s chest, along with other, less precise feelings of turmoil.

The savage rage he’d felt earlier toward her had faded, leaving behind a familiar emptiness. His irrational fury, Ranulf realized in some dark corner of his mind, had not been directed at Ariane so much as at his own despised father, for making him fight for what rightfully was his.

The battle for Claredon would be similar to his long-ago struggle for Vernay, Ranulf acknowledged, yet it was not vengeance that drove him this time, but duty. He felt a measure of regret that he would be compelled to take Ariane hostage, but he had no choice in the matter. Henry’s orders were clear. A traitor’s lands were automatically forfeit, and swift retribution against Walter of Claredon would serve as a lesson to others who would defy Henry’s rule. Moreover, Ariane’s own actions had sealed her fate, Ranulf reminded himself. Refusing the king’s order to surrender the castle made her a traitor to the crown. He could perhaps understand her defense of the castle and her loyalty to her father, but he could not condone it, nor allow her defiance to continue.

I would that I had never heard his name.

“But you have heard my name, demoiselle,” Ranulf whispered bleakly.

With a muted sigh, he settled one hip on the high bed, beside his sleeping betrothed. Carefully he lifted the pale, thick tendrils of her hair away from her ear and pressed the delicate line of her jaw beneath, prepared to wake her quietly.

Her dream seemed so very real. The gentle rasp of pressure over her skin . . . the seductive warmth against her cheek . . . the lush, sensual pleasure of a caressing rhythm . . .

A lover’s stroking hand?

My beloved, have you come for me at last?

Within the drugged oblivion of slumber, Ariane arched against the unfamiliar heat, aching for some unnamed fulfillment. Her body seemed aflame with need. Her eyelids felt so heavy . . . yet she could almost see him . . . her dream lover . . . tall and powerful, godlike in countenance and bearing. His passion was just as she had always imagined it would be: fierce . . . tender . . . overwhelming. Blindly she tried to reach for him, but her arms remained frustratingly pinned at her sides.

She could almost feel his weight beside her, his voice a low murmur as his strong, caressing hand moved slowly along her jaw to gently brush her lips. . . .

The subtle pressure turned insistent. With a sense of bewilderment, Ariane forced open her eyes—and blinked in the glow of candlelight. It was yet nighttime, but the damask curtains of her bed had been pulled aside to allow in the light of the immense candle that burned the night long. Above her loomed a dark form, a shadowed face, while his fingertips pressed warningly against her lips.

“Do not cry out, demoiselle. Do you comprehend?”

Her grogginess fled with the sharp awareness of danger. Her eyes widened as she stared at the intruder. No dream lover, this. Nor was it one of her tirewomen come to awaken her. This was a flesh-and-blood man, whose broad shoulders and powerful, shadowed form seemed intimately familiar.

“Do you comprehend?” he repeated more urgently, his thumb moving caressingly over her lower lip.

The deep, husky voice was familiar as well. She wondered if she had heard those harsh tones recently. A dark, cowled figure came to mind—and yet he lacked the tonsured baldness of a cleric. His hair was black as midnight, with an apparent tendency to curl, but she could not make out his shadowed features. His scent held a disturbing appeal—horses and leather and determined male, overlaid with a hint of spice.

Not answering his question, she dared to lower her gaze, trying to see more of him. He no longer wore the hooded robe, but a dark-colored tunic of fine, embroidered wool, with a jewel-handled dagger sheathed at his waist. His girth had shrunk mightily as well, although the shoulders were as broad as they had been earlier this evening.

“Sir monk?” she whispered, her voice fracturing with uncertainty.

“No monk, lady. The Black Dragon of Vernay at your service.”

“Nay. . . .” Her heart, which already thudded erratically in her breast, leapt in alarm. She lay naked beneath the covers, vulnerable and unarmed, while her vengeful betrothed sat brazenly at her side, on her very bed.

Hardly aware of her actions, Ariane made a frantic lunge toward the other side of the bed, desperate to escape him, but found herself impeded by the covers and Ranulf’s lightning-swift reflexes as he caught her bare shoulder and held her fast. When she screamed to alert her women, he pushed her back down among the pillows and covered her mouth with a calloused palm.

“Do not act the fool,” he ordered softly. “I shall not harm you. Not unless you resist. Do you understand me?”

When she nodded once, rigidly, he eased his palm from her mouth. Trying to calm her panic, Ariane dragged a ragged breath of air into her constricted lungs.

His searching gaze was wary. “Will you yield to me, demoiselle?”

“Do . . . do I have a choice?”

The harsh lines of his features softened in the dim light as Ranulf smiled briefly. “None whatsoever.”

His assumption of superiority was as mortifying as it was valid. He could overpower her with ease, she knew quite well—a dragon striking down a kitten. If she chose to fight, she would only suffer for it. And yet she could not simply surrender meekly. . . .

Her right arm had come free in the struggle, Ariane realized dimly. Not giving herself time to think, she groped blindly for the dagger at his waist and miraculously made contact. Her fingers curling around the handle, she drew back her arm in order to strike.

The gleam of polished steel flashed in the dim light inches from his face, but he was a knight trained in warfare, with instincts honed to a razor’s edge. His hand shot out to catch her wrist, halting her blow. With ease, he wrested the deadly blade from her grasp and flung it across the bed.

Cursing softly, Ranulf shoved both of Ariane’s hands up over her head and pressed her down with his body, pinning her helplessly beneath him. Her gasp of shock was loud in the quiet chamber as she took his weight.

Her heart was racing, more in fury than fear, but she could not struggle, could not move a muscle. His angry face was so close she could feel the soft rush of his breath against her lips, could sense the tension in his clenched jaw. Then his smoldering gaze met hers.

Their eyes locked, while a strange awareness passed between them. For the space of a dozen heartbeats, time seemed to stand still . . . a long sensually charged spell, tremulous, quivering. A moment fraught with tension, with danger . . . and something more.

Ariane found herself drowning in the shadowed glimmer of Ranulf’s eyes. They were enemies, not lovers. He would not kiss her . . . would he?

His gaze had dropped to her lips, and he hesitated, as if considering. His eyes narrowing, his gaze moved lower still, raking her slowly, along the column of her throat, her collarbone, her bare chest. . . . She froze, her breath arrested, as his expression shifted subtly.

Never before had she questioned the custom of sleeping unclothed, a practice shared by nobles and serfs alike, but she wished fervently now that she had at least her shift to cover her bareness. Ranulf was staring at her right breast showing beneath the wool coverlet, the rose-tipped mound pale and naked in the candle’s glow. Masculine speculation shone in his amber eyes, a glitter of admiration that she had often seen upon the faces of her father’s men when they hungered for a willing castle wench.

Nervously Ariane tried to ease her body lower beneath the covers in a fruitless effort to hide her nakedness, but Ranulf prevented her, pressing her down with his body, subduing her movement.

When his gaze lifted once more to meet hers, his mouth was curved faintly. “ ’Tis a first, demoiselle, I admit. Never before have I had a damsel beneath me in bed who sought to stab me . . . or one who managed to relieve me of my own dagger. Usually a wench is interested solely in the pleasure I give her.”

Her heartbeat quickening at the seductive promise in his tone, Ariane shivered uncontrollably. If Ranulf wished to have her, if he wished to deal violently with her, she could do little to prevent him.

Not daring to breathe, Ariane stared up at his shadowed face, searching the harsh features above her. His raven hair, thick and shining, fell forward to brush his prominent cheekbones and the muscular grooves that bracketed his square jaw.

“Will you yield?” he repeated, his voice holding a new huskiness.

“Aye.” Her whisper was a bare rasp of sound in the taut silence.

Thankfully, to her surprise and utter relief, he released his hold and sat up.

“W-Why have you come?” she demanded shakily, snatching up the covers to shield her body from his gaze. “What . . . do you want of me?”

The heated gleam in his eyes only darkened, while his lips curved again in that infuriating half-smile. “Your demesne, demoiselle, simply that. I’ve come to claim your father’s holdings, which are now mine.”

“Yours?”

“Aye, mine. Given to me by Henry’s decree.”

“Stolen, you mean!” Impotence made her lash out unwisely. “Exacted by guile. You crept into Claredon like a thief, disguised as a servant of God, no less. ’Tis blasphemous!”

Her furious accusation was met with a cool smile. “Mayhap. But I do not take by force what I can take by wit.”

“Or
treachery.
”

“Had you surrendered to my vassal, FitzOsbern, I would not have been obliged to employ such a ruse.”

“You are despicable.”

His dark countenance turned suddenly ruthless in the glow of candlelight, making Ariane abruptly recall how completely vulnerable her position was.

“You dare accuse me of treachery, demoiselle, of despicable acts, when you seek to keep from me what is mine by right?”

Desperately she thought back to their discussion on the castle walls. What precisely had she said to him? “My father charged me with holding Claredon—”

“So you contend. But you failed abominably in your aim, did you not? You are now my prisoner.”

Fury and despair warred in her eyes. “What do you intend?”

“At the onset, to gain the surrender of the castle garrison. I doubt your men will wish to risk your life. Once they realize I have their lady in my grasp, they will quickly lay down their arms.”

“Are you such a coward that you would make war on women?”

“Have a care, demoiselle.” The hard voice had turned softly menacing. “You stand guilty of treason. I could have you hanged and no one would gainsay me.”

When she remained silent, he reached for her again, his hand closing gently over her throat, forcing her chin up. Those long, battle-roughened fingers had the power to crush the life from her, Ariane realized with renewed fear. She could feel her heart hammering wildly as Ranulf’s golden gaze bored into hers. “Do not defy me, lady. You will not win.”

Ariane bit her lip so fiercely that it stung. She knew his warning was no idle boast. Within his corded, muscular frame lay the might of two normal men.

He released his grip on her throat and leaned back, bracing his weight on one hand. “Dress yourself.”

“Why?” she managed to ask in a shaky voice.

“Because I command it. And because you doubtless have no wish to be paraded naked before your household for all to gawk at.” He cocked one dark eyebrow at her. “Such treatment is only befitting a traitor, but I will spare you the indignity if you accept your defeat with proper meekness.”

Meekness!
It was all Ariane could do to clamp down on the retort that sprang to her tongue.

“Why do you tarry? I gave you a command.”
And I expect immediate obedience,
his tone said clearly.

Not daring to delay any longer, she attempted to take the woolen coverlet with her to cover her nakedness, but Ranulf’s hand came up to close over hers. Holding her apprehensive gaze, he deliberately tugged the fabric from her grasp. “There is no need for such modesty between us.”

Her eyes widened. “Do you mean to watch?” she asked incredulously.

“Aye, I must. I cannot trust you out of my sight.” That maddening grin flashed again. “Not that I consider such duty a hardship. I’ve always found it a great pleasure to observe a comely wench as she leaves her bed, flushed from sleep—or more arduous activity.”

When she remained immobile, he added, “Must I dress you myself, demoiselle? I assure you, you would not wish for my services.”