“I will not be dishonored,” Ariane replied at last, her voice shaking.
“Dishonor? Is that what it would be, demoiselle?”
“Yes, if you take me without the blessing of the Church.”
“That presumes you still have honor to lose.”
Letting his dagger drop to the floor with a clatter, Ranulf rose abruptly to his feet and stepped dripping from the tub. His nude body glistening, he strode purposefully toward her.
Ariane warily tried to retreat, but he reached out to capture her long plait and slowly wrap it around his hand. Imprisoning her thus, he moved closer, crowding her with his towering body, his amber gaze boring into her. He was so near, Ariane could feel his skin’s heat, could smell his clean masculine scent, spiced with the fragrance of rosemary, enveloping her.
“Are you still chaste, sweeting? Or have you played me false in that matter as well?”
“Of course I am chaste . . .” she retorted breathlessly.
“Your father’s vassal, the one you helped escape. You claim you were never lovers?”
“Lovers?Simon? Certainly we were never lovers—”
“You expect me to believe you have never been intimate with a man?”
“Yes . . . most assuredly I do.”
“You are far older than most maids, a spinster almost.”
Stung by the injustice of his accusation, Ariane felt fresh anger rising within her. “And whose fault is that, my lord? You left me neglected and unwed for years.”
His eyebrow rose as he searched her face. “You will forgive my skepticism if I doubt your virtue. My past experiences with noblewomen have not led me to put any faith in their protestations of innocence.”
She wondered what had occurred to incite such bitterness in his tone, even as she met Ranulf’s gaze scornfully. “I care not what you believe. I am still a maiden.”
“There is one sure way to discover if you are telling the truth.”
Her response became a gasp as his hand rose to close gently around her throat. Her hands came up to resist him, which was a mistake, she discovered as her palms encountered the granite wall of his bare chest. It was a distinct shock to feel the warm furred flesh still damp from his bath.
Desperately, Ariane tried to ward him off. “You will not . . . take me without the sanction of marriage vows.”
“I have the right,” Ranulf said softly, determined to make her understand the power he held over her, the better to appreciate the leniency he intended to show her. “I could keep you chained in my bed, forcing you to service me. I could claim you as the spoils of war, and no one would gainsay me. The king would even understand. I could take you now and no one would stop me.”
Ariane felt her heart pounding in her throat as she stared up at him. His harsh, sun-bronzed face was so close she could feel his breath soft on her lips. “You . . . would rape a gentlewoman?”
A smile flickered across his mouth as he thought seriously about her question. “I much doubt it would be rape. I have never before found it necessary to resort to such tactics. The wenches I’ve been required to subdue eventually offered no resistance. They came willingly to my bed, even eagerly.”
Her eyes widened incredulously. “You dare boast of your conquests?”
“No boast, sweeting, simple fact. Women find pleasure in my arms—as you would, I am certain.”
His arrogant implication left Ariane speechless with outrage. The idea that she might actually enjoy her ravishment affronted her. “I shallnever share your bed without benefit of marriage. I will never come to you willingly!”
“We shall see.”
His soft declaration held a threat, Ariane was certain, but it was Ranulf’s dangerous look that disturbed her more. His stormy countenance had softened, to be replaced by something heated and intense in his golden eyes. She had never been more aware of a man—of his body, of his nudity. When he leaned into her, pressing against her, she could feel his quickening desire, the hardening ridge of his manhood against her belly.
With a gasp of alarm, she tried once more to break free of his imprisoning hold, but his fingers on her throat were like velvet manacles.
“The sooner you accept me as your liege, the easier it will go for you.”
Ariane held her breath, forcing herself to stand utterly still, trying not to show her panic, yet she knew Ranulf could feel her pulse hammering wildly beneath his palm.
For an interminable moment, he stood staring down at her . . . but then his hand abruptly fell away as he smiled tauntingly. “You are fortunate that I am too weary to properly attend you tonight, demoiselle. It is a firm rule of mine—I never take a wench unless I have the energy to see to her pleasure as well as my own. But after remaining awake for two full days, I expect the exertion would tax even my stamina.”
Stepping back, he left Ariane gaping at his temerity as he turned to pick up a linen cloth and towel himself dry. To her shock, his erection was flushed and engorged, standing nearly to his belly. After a nervous glance, she dared not look further at him.
When he saw how she averted her gaze, Ranulf chuckled in wry amusement. It was sweetly satisfying to see this scornful, haughty damsel disconcerted. “You should feel honored, sweeting,” he prodded. “I don’t usually allow my women to remain with me the night through.”
“Honored!” The sheer audacity of his statement took her breath away. “It is not an honor! And I am not yourwoman !”
“Indeed, youare, demoiselle. You are mine to do with as I will.”
The urge to slap his arrogant face made Ariane’s palm tingle, but seeing the sparkle of humor in his eyes turn hot, glimmering, made her think better of it.
“You knave,” she muttered heatedly under her breath, a retort Ranulf unfortunately heard.
“Such offended pride. Such righteous indignation.”
Her chin snapped up. “You dare mock me.”
“Aye, I do,” he replied with a maddening smile. “I crave the enjoyment of seeing your temper rise.”
“You are cruel.”
“Cruel?” A slashing eyebrow rose abruptly, while his smile faded. “You think you deserve kindness? After your defiance yesterday? When your actions were tantamount to treason? You should consider yourself fortunate, demoiselle. Any other lord would have had you flogged senseless, or spread your legs and used your body without regard to your station or innocence. I have not harmed you—nor will I unless you give me further cause.”
She fell silent, her accusing gaze a flashing mixture of frustration and despair and impotent fury. Her reaction disturbed Ranulf’s conscience far more than continued argument could have done. Deciding it time to end his deliberate attempt to provoke her, he returned her regard steadily, trying to give the appearance of indifference.
“You can rest easy, sweeting. As much as I would enjoy your body, I intend to deny myself the pleasure. Taking you would cement our betrothal contract and validate our marriage, God forbid. It would take a decree from the pope to annul, and I would not care to be put to such bother.”
Her eyes widened in disbelief, and he could feel her gaze following him as he moved about the room, snuffing the candles in the wall sconces.
He had spoken the truth, though. For once he was too weary to do justice to his bed partner or his carnal nature, despite the blood that pooled thickly in his loins, hot and potent, despite the way his fiery betrothed—former betrothed, Ranulf corrected himself—aroused him. He would compel her to share his bed, although naught more physical would occur between them, not tonight at any event.
Even so, her evident aversion to the idea of accepting his attentions stung his male pride. He had never before been denied by any woman he wanted. In truth, much of his trouble had always been that wenches were overly attracted to him. His female villeins often clamored for his favor, eager to bear him sons who would raise their own status and perhaps elevate them to a better life. They knew his feelings about children. He loved the three children he had sire
d—he who allowed himself to care about nothing and no one. Children were his one weakness, and he was stubbornly resolved on providing his own a better life than he had known, one without the shame, the pain, the bleak loneliness he had endured.
Ranulf left the single large candle lit for the night and drew down the bedclothes before glancing over his shoulder at Ariane. “Why do you tarry?”
Her wariness had returned, as well as that proud defiance that stirred his anger and unwilling admiration.
“I tell you, I will not lie with you,” she replied with feigned bravado.
She had never seen anyone react so swiftly. In two strides Ranulf had closed the distance between them and scooped her up in his arms. In three more, he had carried her to the bed and dropped her onto the soft feather mattress, following her down to pin her with the partial weight of his body. Ruthlessly, he captured her flailing arms and locked them over her head.
Shocked, breathless, Ariane could only stare up at him.
“You will lie with me, my lady,” he said with lethal softness. “You will warm my bed if I command it. You will clean my boots if I say so. And by the Virgin, you will curb your defiant tongue in my hearing, do you understand me?”
Ariane gritted her teeth, staring back at Ranulf with trepidation and seething fury. “Yes, I understand.”
“Yes,what? ”
“Yes, my lord.”
His glittering eyes narrowed as they locked with hers. Suddenly feeling the softness of her body beneath him, Ranulf swore under his breath. That same stark, sexual awareness that he’d experienced last night when Ariane had lain beneath him struck him again with the force of a battering ram, exploding to pool thick and hot in his loins.
God’s blood, he needed a woman. He had been celibate for several weeks now, having denied himself often during the five months of the recent campaign. And having such a winsome captive so near at hand without being able to touch her would prove a sore strain on his fortitude. Yet he had brought this dilemma on himself. God’s teeth, but this close proximity was supposed to serve asher punishment, not his own.
Shutting his eyes, Ranulf forced himself to exhale slowly. Jesu, he was tired. Bone tired, his body stiff with weariness and need. Abruptly easing his weight off her, Ranulf reached down to pull the sheets and a fur coverlet up over them both. Rolling over to face the far wall then, he closed his eyes and forced his body to relax, willing the tension and exhaustion to drain from muscle and sinew.
Not daring to move, Ariane stared at the back of his head, a dawning sense of relief stealing over her. It seemed as if Ranulf did indeed mean what he said about not ravishing her . . . at least not this night.
Their confrontation had not gone as she expected. Ranulf had not hurt her precisely. He had tormented her with threats, yes, raising her fears with his taunts and innuendos. And yet she was still free, somewhat. He hadn’t incarcerated her in the dungeon, and for that she was grateful. Being forced to sleep in Ranulf’s chamber, even in his bed, was by far the lesser punishment, for imprisoned, she could be of no help to any of the inhabitants of Claredon, nor defend them against the Black Dragon. Not that she had managed to give much of an accounting of herself tonight.
Still, she hadn’t surrendered to Ranulf entirely . . . and he hadn’t ravished her. . . .
Shaking with rage and relief, she listened with growing resentment as Ranulf’s breathing settled into a quiet rhythm. He was obviously unafraid to turn his back on her. He had not bothered to hide any of his weapons, evidently believing she would never have the courage to use them against him. Courage had little to say to the matter, though. She would not be so foolish as to attempt his life. Even if she managed to kill the lord of Vernay, his vassals would most certainly avenge his death, not only on her but on the hapless people of Claredon. No, for the moment she would have to accept his rule.
Her gaze focusing on his hair, she realized his wet, raven locks had curled into damp tendrils that shimmered softly with blue highlights. For an instant, Ariane found herself wondering if his hair was as soft, as silken, as it looked, but she quelled the urge to reach up and test it. Her gaze dropped lower. Beneath the edge of the coverlet, she could see the beginning of his broad back and the terrible scars that crisscrossed the ravaged flesh. Ruthlessly she crushed the involuntary surge of sympathy that stirred within her. The lord of Vernay was a black-hearted devil, who needed no compassion or pity from anyone, least of all his helpless prisoner.
Turning her head, Ariane stared blindly up at the canopy overhead, a dull ache constricting her chest. No, this encounter with Ranulf was nothing like what she had once expected or hoped.
This should have been her wedding night. She had dreamed of her first time with Ranulf. Countless times she had imagined lying with him, giving herself to her husband in love and honor, opening her body to him, responding to his tender caresses. . . .
Her dreams bore no resemblance to this . . . this mockery of a solemn marriage bedding. She was sharing his bed, yes, but not in love or honor.
They were enemies now. The lord of Vernay had repudiated their betrothal and refused to touch her, while she shrank from him in fear and loathing.
5
She dreamed of her lover again. A haunting, erotic fantasy that faded like wisps of smoke as dawn stole through the shuttered windows.
Ariane was startled awake from a fitful doze, conscious of an incredible feeling of sadness. Only in slow increments did she become aware of other vivid sensations: a corded arm curled possessively about her waist . . . the searing heat of a hard, male body at her back . . . a fierce yearning within her that rose hot and formless and powerful.
Ranulf.
Sweet Mary. . . .
She froze, aware of his enveloping embrace, of his shaft, throbbing and hard, pressed against her buttocks, even through the layers of her clothing. For a score of heartbeats, Ariane lay there rigidly, not daring to move. She could hear Ranulf’s breathing, soft and even, feel his relaxed pose. . . .
Merciful God . . . he still slept.
Holding her breath, Ariane eased from beneath his arm and slipped from the bed. Silently, she fled to the sanctuary of the window alcove where she curled shivering on the cushioned seat. After the warmth of Ranulf’s bed, her rumpled bliaud provided little protection from the morning chill. And no garment could shield her from her shameful, traitorous thoughts. She could still feel the boldness of his body imprinting his maleness onto her, still sense the heated yearning that had swept through her at his unconscious embrace.
Mother Mary, what had come over her? Her only excuse was that her defenses had been sorely weakened. For the second straight night, she had scarcely slept, and her nerves were strained by fear and exhaustion.
Hearing a slight noise, Ariane glanced warily back at Ranulf. He had shifted his position to sprawl across the huge bed, a starkly masculine figure against the flaxen-hued sheets. Her attention caught, she studied his slumbering form, wondering how he could look so commanding and forceful even in sleep.
His face was drawn in clean, harsh angles, the features sensuously, ruthlessly chiseled. His heavy, slashing brows were black as night, his nose strong and hawkish, the chin square with a slight cleft. Long, ebony lashes closed over eyes she knew were a shade of brown that was nearly gold.
As for his body . . . Ariane bit her lip in dismay. That she found Ranulf physically appealing mortified as well as infuriated her. She was no longer the nervous, tongue-tied girl he had once awed, yet she couldn’t deny her fascination with him now. Old habits were difficult to forswear. She had dreamed of this man as her lover, the idol of all her girlhood fantasies. . . .
Abruptly she shook her head. She would crush her attraction for him if it took every ounce of strength she possessed. Ranulf was a cold, heartless devil, the man who held her hostage. She had wasted five of the best years of her life waiting and yearning for him—and he had cruelly shattered her most cherished dreams without a single measure of remorse, rep
udiating their betrothal contract as casually as he would cast aside a cloak that had outserved its purpose.
Curse you, Ranulf de Vernay.He cared nothing for her. Worse, he considered her a traitor for closing the castle to him and for helping her father’s vassal escape. The man who should have been her lord and husband was now her bitter enemy.
The only fortunate turn was that she did not have to fear his ravishment. As Ranulf had pointed out, if he were to consummate their union, they would be wedded in the eyes of the Church. And the very thought was repugnant to him.
Ariane shut her eyes, trying to swallow the bitterness that choked her, to deny the pricking warmth of threatening tears. Lamenting lost dreams would serve no useful purpose. She must focus her efforts on the future, on safeguarding the people and home she loved. They depended upon her to shield them, to fight for them.
If she tried, perhaps she could atone in some measure for her inability to defend Claredon, to somehow assuage the guilt she felt for failing her father. Walter had brought them safely through years of civil war and lawlessness, only to have his demesne fall to a warlord who should have been an ally. And to be accused of treason for taking part in a revolt against the new king. . . . Ariane could never believe her father guilty of such foolish defiance, especially not when he so wanted peace for England. Certainly he had not been contemplating treason weeks ago when he’d left Claredon for Mortimer’s keep at Bridgenorth.
Yet now her father’s life might very well be forfeit. She had lost his demesne, the one thing that might have aided his cause and given him power to bargain with. Even if by God’s mercy his life was spared, the punishment for treason was severe. The thought of her father blind or without hands or genitals caused hot tears to well up in her throat.
Ariane pressed a hand to her mouth to hold back the sob trembling inside her, yet she couldn’t prevent the tears from spilling over. Blessed Virgin, she was utterly helpless to aid him. At present she could not even find the strength to fight the desolation assaulting her. . . . Burying her face in her hands, she gave in to strain and despair and softly wept.
The Warrior Page 9