The Warrior

by Nicole Jordan

  Her heart in her throat, Ariane stood trembling as the lord of Vernay strode furiously toward her. He was barking out orders to a half-dozen of his men to ride after the escaped prisoner and hunt him down.

  As they jumped to do his bidding, Ranulf came to an abrupt halt before her. Ariane stared fearfully up at him, even as she strained to hear the fading hoofbeats of Simon’s mount, praying he would get clear.

  “By the bones of the Saints—you fool! You could have been killed!”

  Ranulf’s expression was so fierce she thought he would smite her. She closed her eyes, knowing one blow from that deadly fist would be the end of her, yet he stood towering over her without touching her.

  She could feel her nails painfully scoring her palms as she waited for his judgment, yet her fear was not just for herself; dread filled her as she heard Simon’s pursuers clatter across the drawbridge.

  “Payn!” Ranulf barked suddenly, making her jump.

  “Aye, my lord?”

  “Hold her firm.”

  Ariane felt fresh terror rise in her throat as his vassal obediently stepped behind her and gripped her arms. Dear God, did Ranulf mean to beat her to death in punishment? He stood there flexing his fists, as if only by sheer force of will could he summon restraint.

  “You will take this wench to the tower and confine her to her chamber.”

  “Her chamber, Ranulf? Not the dungeon?”

  Ranulf’s jaw clenched. It would be a fitting punishment to imprison her in the castle’s dungeon for her treachery. She had aided one of his most valuable prisoners to escape in an obvious scheme to send for help. That single innocuous act could have deadly consequences, could endanger the lives of his men and the success of his mission, permitting his enemy to summon reinforcements and counter with an attack.

  And yet Ranulf would not permit himself to go so far as to incarcerate Ariane—or make any rash decision regarding her fate just yet. Her betrayal had rekindled his fury, but until he was calm enough to deal with her, he would do better to allow his knights to handle the matter.

  “She is a woman,” he said grimly, as if that explained his reasoning. “And I would prefer not to inflame her people unnecessarily. Set a guard at her door and make certain she cannot escape. She is not to be trusted for an instant.”

  Payn raised an eyebrow, but nodded at the command. Motioning for two of his men to follow, he urged Ariane forward with a gentle push, forcing her to walk before him.

  It was all she could manage not to flinch as they passed the lord of Vernay. She raised her chin proudly, although knowing he wasn’t fooled by her brave facade.

  When she spied her half-brother, Gilbert, and the Claredon priest, Father John, hovering helplessly among the crowd of watchers, she gave them a faint smile of reassurance. Yet she was shaking visibly by the time she reached the fourth floor of the keep, where her frightened women milled. She managed to say a few soothing words, telling them to remain calm and obedient to the invaders, but the tension and fear of the past hour had taken an exhausting toll. She was almost grateful to be imprisoned in her own bedchamber, even if the mailed knight called Payn required her to lie on her bed and was now binding her hands and feet with a length of cord and securing the ends to the carved bedposts.

  He was studying her thoughtfully in the candlelight as he worked, she realized after a moment.

  “I confess myself astonished at Ranulf’s leniency, demoiselle,” Payn said in a tone so enigmatic she knew not whether it held scorn or surprise.

  “Leniency?”

  “Aye. You should count yourself fortunate. If you were a man, you would be lucky to survive your mischief. Ranulf would have you flogged at the very least.”

  “If I were a man,” Ariane retorted bitterly, “Claredon would not have fallen so easily.”

  “Mayhap he wants you in his bed. You certainly would not be the first woman he has tamed with passion.”

  The unwelcome shock of the knight’s observation left Ariane struggling for breath.Ranulf wanted her? In his bed? Was that why he had refrained from striking her? He was saving her for his ravishment?

  Never! she vowed silently, clenching her hands defiantly. She would fight him with the last ounce of strength left in her body.

  Payn tied the final knot and tested his handiwork for tension, then rose to his feet. After cautioning her not to cause any more trouble, he let himself out of the chamber. Behind him, the key grated ominously in the lock.

  Alone, Ariane shut her eyes in dismay, a fresh worry occupying her tormented thoughts. Her dreams of a tender lover had been shattered with a vengeance. In addition to losing her father’s demesne, over and above fearing for her people’s and her vassals’ safety, beyond being Ranulf’s prisoner, she might very well have to endure his physical assault.

  4

  Not until the following evening was Ariane summoned by the new lord of Claredon. She spent the entire day incarcerated in her apartments, with but one woman to attend her and to bring her meals. Through her window she could hear the activity below in the bailey. The usual domestic din was replaced by the sounds of marching troops and whinnying horses as the Black Dragon took full possession of the keep and the surrounding countryside.

  Ariane’s spirits sank with every passing hour. Failure weighed like stone upon her heart, as did fear for Claredon’s people. She could only pray that Lord Ranulf would not deal too harshly with them because of her own defiant action.

  When the summons finally came, her despair had grown to such magnitude that she scarcely flinched. In truth, she would almost be glad to get the ordeal over with. Even the severest punishment would be better than this agony of uncertainty.

  As she was ushered within by her stern-faced guards Ariane realized Ranulf had appropriated the lord’s solar as his new chambers. That he would take her father’s place as lord of Claredon stung like a salted wound and filled her with renewed fury, but she dared not show her feelings. Edging to one side of the oaken door, she stood quietly near the cold stone wall, waiting for his notice, yet wishing she could make herself invisible.

  The chamber was crowded. Several of Ranulf’s vassals milled around him still, dressed in chain mail armor, munching on capon legs and quaffing wine, while a half-dozen of Claredon’s household serfs filled a huge wooden tub for his bath. His squire, the young man called Burc, was engaged in removing Ranulf’s hauberk, a long mail tunic so heavy the lad nearly staggered under its weight. Ranulf had obviously been engaged in physical exertion, for his raven hair was damp with sweat and matted from the weight of his mail coif and steel helmet.

  He paid her no attention, though, a slight which Ariane greeted with relief. If he was to pronounce her sentence, she would prefer he not do so before an audience.

  Light-headed with fatigue and strain, she raised her bound hands to awkwardly rub her throbbing temple, trying to ease the ache. She had only her wits to rely upon, and she would need every ounce of energy and strength she possessed if she were to hold her own against the Black Dragon of Vernay.

  It was not until his knights began taking leave of their lord that Ariane’s nervousness rose again to a fever pitch.

  “And Payn,” Ranulf concluded as his vassal turned to go, “pray don’t deal too harshly with the castle wenches. They have other duties to perform besides servicing you.”

  “Have no fear, lord. I shall show them merely the hardness of my blade, not the harshness.”

  Male laughter followed the ribald jest as the men filed passed Ariane. Their glances at her were solemn and perhaps a bit leering. Payn FitzOsbern’s amusement faded abruptly when he spied her, his expression turning grim. He left the door open behind him for the serfs that still scurried to and fro carrying warm bath water.

  Ariane’s wary gaze returned to the Black Dragon where he sat on a wooden bench, allowing his squire to attend him. Ranulf had not acknowledged her presence yet, thankfully. His woolen tunic had been removed, and now his mud-spattered boots were stripped
off, his woolen chausses unlaced, leaving only linen braies covering his loins.

  Seeing him thus, Ariane drew in a sharp breath at the sight of Ranulf’s powerful body. Nakedness was a common occurrence in castle life, and she had frequently seen unclothed men before. Her duties as chatelaine of the castle often required such exposure—helping the lord dress, bathing visitors of high rank, using her knowledge of medicines to dress the wounds of soldiers and serfs alike. And yet no man had ever affected her as strongly as this one did now; no physique had ever seemed as compelling as Ranulf’s masculine body . . . hard, muscular, battle-scarred.

  His shoulders appeared massively wide, his chest broad and darkly furred, marked with badges of combat. His flat, taut belly tapered to narrow hips, while his thighs and calves bulged with ropes of muscle. But it was the force and energy that radiated from him, even when he was at ease, that commanded her attention. Somehow Ranulf de Vernay dominated the entire chamber.

  He still had the power to awe her, Ariane realized with regret, yet he was a far more fearsome adversary now than ever. He looked supremely dangerous at present, with his jaw darkened by two days’ growth of black beard. Cold, harsh, merciless . . .

  He was no longer simply her betrothed, the heartless suitor who had left her to pine and wither for so many years. He was her enemy.

  The last of the servants finished their tasks and withdrew, giving her cautious, regretful glances as they passed, as if to apologize for abandoning their lady to the terrifying Black Dragon. Ariane returned faint smiles of reassurance, trying to pretend that her courage was not failing her. When they had gone, she stood unmoving by the wall, not daring to call attention to herself.

  Moments later Ranulf dismissed his squire. As the door closed quietly behind the youth, Ariane’s heart rose to her throat. She had preferred to be alone with Ranulf when he meted out her punishment, but now that she was, she found herself hoping with a foolish desperation that he would forget about her.

  He was toying with the dagger in his hand as he lounged on the bench, stroking the sharp steel blade with an almost absentminded caress. Ariane had the ominous feeling his silence was deliberate, a calculated attempt to shred her already raw nerves further.

  Then suddenly he looked up, and she was pierced by bold, brilliant amber eyes. The impact took her breath away. His lean, hawklike features held a harsh look of simmering anger, while his gaze was like a lance pinning her against the wall. Quite clearly Ranulf had not forgotten her actions of last night—nor forgiven her.

  Calling on every bit of courage she possessed, Ariane lifted her chin and coolly returned his gaze. She would not cower before him. The lady of Claredon had more pride.

  His look darkened and warred with hers—until finally it dropped to her bound wrists. His hard mouth tightened.

  “Come here.”

  Ariane stood rooted to the floor.

  “I won’t repeat myself, demoiselle,” he said in warning.

  Stiffening her spine, she forced her feet to move.

  She had taken but a few steps, though, when the door swung open once more. A serving wench entered the chamber, carrying a pile of linen towels and a carved wooden box that Ariane knew contained costly soaps.

  Although grateful for the respite, Ariane found herself clenching her fingers in disapproval. Only she and the castle seneschal had keys to the storeroom containing soaps and spices and medicinal herbs. That a serf had been raiding the stocks of Claredon, now that no authority existed to exert control over the castle, raised her ire. And her raw nerves made her speak more sharply than usual.

  “What is the meaning of this, Dena? You were taught never to enter a chamber unbidden.”

  At the scolding, the girl lowered flashing brown eyes. “I beg pardon, my lady. I thought to bathe the new lord.”

  “Well, knock beforehand next time—”

  “What did you say to her?” Ranulf demanded, interrupting.

  Ariane gave a start and glanced at him warily. She had spoken to the girl in English, the language most of Claredon’s serfs understood, instead of the Norman French of England’s ruling class. Was it possible Ranulf could not comprehend that tongue? If so, it might prove an advantage . . . Or he could simply be testing her . . .

  “I advised her,” Ariane replied truthfully, “to remember her training and knock before entering a closed door.”

  Ranulf’s gaze bored into her. “You would do well to remember your own precarious position. You are lady here no longer, nor do you have the right to commandmy servants. Your authority here is no greater than any serf’s.”

  She flushed at the reprimand and fell silent. Dena’s sly glance at Ranulf implied that she at least understood the import of his harsh declaration, and that she was enjoying her lady’s humiliation.

  “Tell her to set her burden down and leave us.”

  When Ariane reluctantly complied, Dena bobbed a curtsey and hastened to obey, while at the same time letting her gaze travel over Ranulf’s nearly naked body. As she bent to leave the towels and soap beside the tub, the neck of her tunic slipped half off one shoulder, baring a good deal of a generous breast. And as she took her leave, she gave Ranulf a seductive display of swaying hips, explicitly announcing her availability to the new lord and her eagerness to share his bed.

  He seemed not to notice. He kept his hard gaze trained on Ariane until the door had shut once more, leaving them alone.

  “The wench seems far friendlier than my own bride,” he said dryly.

  “Perhaps she does not know you as well as I do,” Ariane retorted. “Or perhaps she does not object to the stench of treachery as keenly.”

  Her charge cut Ranulf in the raw. She dared speak of his treachery after her own betrayal?

  A muscle flexed in his jaw, while his gaze impaled her. “You have a sharp tongue, demoiselle. I advise you to curb it.”

  She fell silent, but a flicker of contempt crossed her features. Ranulf’s jaw tightened. She should have been meek and frightened, cowering before his anger and begging for mercy, not favoring him with that regal disdain.

  “I told you to come here. Do it.Now. ” His deep, impatient voice barked the word when she hesitated.

  Marshalling her courage, Ariane forced herself to obey. When she halted before Ranulf, regarding him uneasily, he ordered her to hold out her bound hands, which she did hesitantly.

  She knew an instant of alarm when Ranulf lifted his dagger—alarm that turned to shock as he sliced through her bonds, freeing her hands. Ariane stood staring down at him as feeling rushed back into her numb fingers. Absently rubbing her wrists, she searched his harsh face, wondering at his game.

  “Why . . . did you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Set me free.”

  “But I have not freed you, demoiselle.” His mouth twisted in a grim smile. “On the contrary. You are still very much my hostage. But I see no need to bind you. If you tried to run, you would not get far.”

  Ariane bit her lip at that unpalatable truth. She was entirely in Ranulf’s power. She stood quietly, vaguely aware of the musky scent of sweat and maleness that emanated from him. It was not unpleasant; indeed, it was strangely, disturbingly arousing.

  Summoning her failing courage, she forced herself to ask the question whose answer she dreaded. “Then . . . what do you intend to do with me?”

  His piercing gaze studied her face. “I have not yet decided.” Her relief at his reply was merely temporary, though. “I might have forgiven your defense of the castle, but helping a prisoner escape . . .”

  “Simon escaped?” She could not keep the hopeful eagerness from her voice.

  “He was not found,” Ranulf replied tersely. “The guard who failed his responsibility is now chained in Claredon’s dungeon.” At her faint look of guilt, his black eyebrow rose. “What did you plan by your betrayal, sweeting? To have your knight seek assistance? To summon reinforcements to your rescue? To raise a rebellion?”

  When
she wouldn’t answer, his eyes narrowed. “You cost me a goodly ransom—and his escape will no doubt cause a great deal of trouble in the future. I shall have to carefully consider what punishment you deserve.” Raising a hand, Ranulf rubbed the bristle on his jaw thoughtfully. “If you were in my position, what would you do?”

  The question took her aback. Ariane eyed him warily, wondering at his intent. “I suppose . . . I would hold you prisoner . . . till you yielded.”

  “And would you yield, demoiselle?”

  “No,” she replied stiffly.

  “Then imprisoning you would do no good, would it? What of locking you in your chamber, starving you into submission? No? I suspect that would have no result except to reduce you to skin and bones.” His bold gaze slowly swept her slender body. “You cannot afford to lose much flesh. And I would have no use for you then.”

  She did not care in the least for the vague threat implied in his words, or the muted smile that curved his handsome mouth. His regard was thoughtful but alert, as if he were intent on toying with her, the way the stable cat eyed a captive mouse. Perhaps this was to be her punishment, to be tormented by uncertainty.

  “No,” Ranulf said slowly. “I shall have to think of a better, more fitting penance.”

  Although aware he was attempting to intimidate her, Ariane couldn’t prevent herself from glancing nervously, involuntarily, at the bed. Was his vassal’s conjecture correct? Did Ranulf mean to ravish her? To conquer her with passion?

  She took a steadying breath. “What of the others . . . my father’s men? You didn’t harm them?”

  “They are my prisoners, and no longer your concern.”

  “But . . . The man you wounded last night? Might I not at least see to his injuries?”

  “No.”

  His abrupt reply brooked no argument, yet she couldn’t accept defeat so easily. She tried once more, striving to keep the anger from her tone. “My lord Ranulf . . . Please, will you not reconsider? As lady, it is my duty to see to the sick and injured.”