The Warrior

by Nicole Jordan

  “I do not recall granting you permission to leave my bed, demoiselle.”

  The husky, sleep-laden sound of Ranulf’s voice startled her. Choking back her sobs, Ariane turned abruptly to find golden eyes above a hawklike nose surveying her intently. She swallowed thickly and hastily wiped at her eyes. Her humiliation at her defeat was great enough without adding the shame of weeping before him.

  “Come here,” he commanded quietly.

  For a moment she hesitated, but the implacable look in his eyes brooked no defiance and she closed the distance to the bed. To her shock and dismay, Ranulf reached out to grasp a handful of her gown, and with a gentle tug, pulled her down to sit beside him on the bed.

  He studied her for a long moment, trying to discern if the emotion glistening in her eyes was genuine or feigned, if the soft sound of her sobbing when he’d awakened had been a calculated ploy for sympathy. He did not want to see the misery etched in her lovely face, and yet he could not completely trust it. In truth, he trusted no women and few men. And the cool, bewitching beauty of this particular damsel, with her spiky-wet lashes and trembling mouth, doubly set him on his guard.

  His urge to touch her was strong—and keenly disconcerting. He understood the desire that tugged at his loins. His customary morning arousal had made him hard and throbbing beneath the bed linens, yet he was well familiar with waking in such a painful state—and having so haunting a wench so near at hand did nothing to cool his blood. Yet the softer feelings running rampant inside him bewildered him. The urge to draw Ariane into his arms, to hold and comfort her and kiss away her sorrow, was a novel, startling experience for him. He had never embraced a woman merely to offer comfort, without lust driving him.

  Determinedly Ranulf steeled himself against the need to console her. He did not wish her to see how much he desired her, or perceive how her tears affected him. He would not give her such weapons to use over him, or allow her to think she could employ her womanly attributes to advance her position. At the moment she sat stiffly beside him, her delicate chin lifted at a defiant angle, her gaze wary.

  “Why were you weeping?”

  “I was not weeping,” she replied, the tremor in her voice belying her words.

  “No?” He raised a hand to brush a teardrop from her cheek with his forefinger. “What is this wetness on your face, then?” When she remained silent, Ranulf narrowed his gaze. “I cannot be manipulated by tears, demoiselle. Or swayed by womanly arts.”

  Vexation shot through Ariane at his callous assumption of her motives. She had too much pride ever to use such ploys, and lacked the talent besides. Never having been to court, she had little experience in flirtation or persuading a man to do her bidding. Furthermore, her mother’s teaching had always stressed honesty and principle when dealing with others.

  “I doubt a man of your stamp would understand how a woman could succumb to despair in a moment of weakness,” she muttered.

  He winced inwardly at the scorn in her tone.A man of your stamp. Ariane knew of the scandal surrounding his birth, evidently. Knew he had been forced to claw his way up to the ranks of nobility. A highborn lady like she would not consider him good enough to aspire to her hand. Only his possession of Vernay had made it possible.

  Ranulf looked at her sharply, refusing to let her see how her words cut. “I asked a question of you, lady, and I expect a truthful answer. Why did you weep?”

  Ariane averted her gaze. “My father has been condemned as a traitor . . . I bear the shame for losing his demesne . . . I am your prisoner . . . you repudiated our betrothal . . . I believe I have ample cause to weep.”

  “You have naught to be ashamed of regarding the fall of this keep. Your defeat was inevitable.”

  “That is not so! You would never have taken Claredon had you not resorted to deception and guile.”

  Willfully Ranulf ignored her accusation, quelling his resentment in favor of logic. “The fact that I averted bloodshed and the expense of a long siege by my ruse does not soothe your conscience?”

  Ariane shook her head sadly. “My father depended upon me.”

  “And my king depended on me,” Ranulf replied reasonably. “I but carried out Henry’s commands. Surely you can understand that.”

  “You will never convince me that securing your own interests was not your chief goal.”

  “Indeed it was. But only consider my position. I could not have allowed you to challenge my authority. I would have appeared a fool could I not even manage to control my own betrothed.”

  It stung her that he would put forth so rational an argument in so reasonable a tone, but before she could think of a proper rebuttal, he quizzed her on another point she had introduced.

  “You said you would gladly dissolve our betrothal. Did you speak true?”

  Her chin rose regally. “I do not lie, my lord.”

  “Then why do you weep over it?”

  “Merely because I no longer desire to marryyou does not mean I have no wish to marry at all.”

  Ranulf eyed her thoughtfully, wondering what troubled her. She was still young and beautiful enough—incredibly so—to easily attract another suitor. “I see no reason you cannot still wed. Even a maid of your”—his gaze raked her while his tone turned dry—“advanced years should still be able to garner a husband.”

  “After your rejection? Without a marriage portion to bring to my new lord? I suspect you have made a future marriage for me impossible.”

  He’d had little to do with the loss of her inheritance, actually; her father’s treason was to blame. “Not impossible, demoiselle. Perhaps it is unfair that your father’s castle was awarded to me . . . but your lack of dowry should not be an insurmountable impediment to marriage. You are not ill favored. For a noble maiden still intact, there are always men seeking a bride. Mayhap some of my own vassals might be interested.”

  “They would be willing to take your leavings?”

  “Leavings?”

  “Who would credit my maiden status after you forced me to sleep in your bed?”

  His brow clearing, he laughed—confounding her completely. “Who would credit that I allowed a wench to pass the whole night with me? Especially one of your class. No one who knows me well would accuse me of defiling you. My aversion to noblewomen is well known—and so is my ability to find wenches willing to share my bed. I have no need to resort to ravishment, I assure you. No, they will consider you my hostage, nothing more. Do not fret overmuch on that score.”

  She looked skeptical and faintly puzzled. “How easy it is for you to mock my pain.”

  His gaze softened. “I do not mock you, lady.” He paused, searching her face. “Is marriage so important to you, then?”

  “It is to any woman. A man may fight and compete in tourneys and travel the land. A woman has only her home and family to care for.” Biting her lip, she looked away. “I no longer have either.”

  Ranulf shifted uncomfortably. He was not accustomed to feeling guilt, yet he felt a flash of it now. He had never considered her perspective. He’d thought a girl so young would be content to remain in her father’s castle, rather than be hauled off to Normandy as the bride of the Black Dragon—but perhaps he’d merely persuaded himself of her reticence to justify his delay, to ease his conscience for not proceeding with the marriage. He should have come for her sooner, certainly. Then again, Ariane professed to loathe him. She had less desire to wed him than he did her.

  “You could always enter a nunnery,” he suggested lamely when she remained silent.

  Ariane shook her head. “I am not fitted for the church. My lady mother always said . . .” She faltered, realizing she had strayed to dangerous ground.

  “Yes? What said your mother?”

  “That my tongue was too barbed for the peace of a convent.”

  Ranulf’s hard mouth curved in a sudden grin. “A wise woman, your mother. I have had a taste of that barbed tongue.” He noted the flash of fire in Ariane’s eyes with satisfaction, strang
ely preferring that show of spirit to her despair. “The Lady Constance . . . I met her but once at the betrothal ceremony, she was all that was gracious. She died some years past?”

  Ariane stiffened at the reminder. “We lost her four springs ago,” she said carefully, reluctant to discuss her beloved mother’s passing. What the world knew was not the truth, but it would have to suffice.

  “You mourn her loss?”

  “Aye . . . keenly.” That much was certainly true.

  He heard the sadness in her voice, saw the grief in her eyes. Involuntarily, Ranulf raised his hand to stroke the elegant hollow beneath her cheekbone, but she flinched at his touch and pulled back.

  Shifting his weight, he pushed the pillows behind his back and sat up, drawing Ariane’s gaze to his powerful bare torso, to the soft mat of curling hair on his chest. Seeing it, she recalled the feel of him last night when she had tried to ward Ranulf off, and felt a quickening in her body that was totally unexpected.

  “I would rather not be doomed to maidenhood,” she murmured in an attempt to return the conversation to the subject at hand.

  “Doomed? Strong words for the unwedded state.” His scrutiny turned considering, gleaming with a brightness that bespoke mischief. “One would think you regret never being bedded.”

  Uncontrollably a blush rose to Ariane’s cheeks. “You twist my words, my lord. I want children. If I must suffer the physical attentions of a husband to gain them, then I am willing to do my duty.”

  “Suffer? Duty?” An amused light flickered in his eyes. “Your notion of the marriage bed is a cold one, methinks. Doubtless it is your innocence speaking. If you had more experience, you would know what pleasure can be found even in duty.”

  “If you hadless experience, my lord,” Ariane said tartly, “you might properly value the solemn commitment of the flesh.”

  “Ah, but I do value it,” he replied, his warmth fading. “Too much so to risk an irrevocable union. While I might desire to sample your lovely charms, I have no intention of solemnizing our contract.”

  “You will never sample my charms!” she retorted stiffly. “I will not play the whore for you!”

  A provocative smile curved his mouth. “I would not ask you to, demoiselle. I like my wenches with more honey and less vinegar. I would have a meek maid in my bed, not a virago.”

  His soft taunt did more than sting; it wounded her. Ariane’s indignation abruptly faded, swamped by familiar insecurities, but she took refuge in sarcasm. “Since you find me so unappealing, I wonder that you agreed to the betrothal in the first place.”

  Ranulf shrugged his broad shoulders. “I agreed for the usual reasons. I found an alliance with Claredon politically advantageous. And your father sweetened the arrangement with a grant of land in the south.”

  Intellectually, Ariane understood those reasons. And Ranulf had been bribed to wed her. He had been given, not a fiefdom for which he would have had to swear fealty and provide knight’s fees, but an outright grant.

  “I never desired a bride, only your lands,” he added with chilling honesty.

  Ariane clasped her fingers together to keep them from trembling. It shouldn’t hurt to hear the truth so bluntly stated, yet it did. She looked down at her hands. “Is that why you never came for me? Because my father still lives, I never inherited his demesne?”

  Guilt pricked Ranulf’s conscience. He could not admit to her the true reason for his reticence: that he feared betrayal by any bride, dreaded risking a repeat of his mother’s faithlessness or his father’s violent retribution.

  “Aye,” he prevaricated. “I could not gain control of the chief prize of your inheritance—Claredon—until your father’s passing, which appeared to be many years in the future. And there seemed no reason for haste. Both sides enjoyed the advantages of the alliance, without the encumbrances. And Walter saw no urgency in completing the contract.”

  “But now that you have possession of Claredon, you need be encumbered by me no longer.”

  Ranulf clenched his jaw, wondering how she managed to twist the truth to makehim the villain when she had brought about this predicament herself, by defying the king, by freeing a prisoner of the crown, and by supporting her father’s rebellion. “I am under no obligation to honor a traitor with my allegiance,” he replied in his own defense.

  She lifted her gaze—and her chin. “I would know your intentions, my lord. What will become of me?”

  He frowned. “If your father is found guilty, you will become a ward of the crown. Your marriage will be in the king’s gift, for him to dispose of as he sees fit. For the nonce, I am to hold you as a political prisoner.” He paused. “You cannot be unaware of your value to Henry as a hostage, or that your arrest will perhaps end the rebellion sooner. . . .”

  Ranulf’s explanation trailed off as he recalled the exact situation. Why was he permitting her to make him feel guilt for executing his duty, or sympathy for her plight? He should know from her recent treasonous actions that he could not allow himself to soften toward her. He could not let down his guard. “You are my prisoner, to do with as I will, demoiselle.”

  At the sudden harshness of his tone, Ariane dug her nails into her palms. How could he be so gentle and reasonable one moment, so cold and heartless the next?

  Yet she was naught to Ranulf but a foe. And when he was done with her, he would marry her to some grateful lackey or pack her off to a convent. By the Blessed Virgin, how could she ever have cherished such tender dreams of him? “If you mean to punish me, I wish you would do so.”

  He was watching her intently, his expression enigmatic. “However I choose to exact retribution from you,” he said finally, “it will come in my own good time. As I informed you last evening, you can yet influence your fate.”

  “What . . . do you mean?”

  How forthcoming should he be? Ranulf wondered. Despite his justifiable mistrust of her, despite the wisdom of caution, her cooperation would prove helpful in a successful transition of power. With their former lady’s support, the castlefolk would accept him as lord more readily, perhaps even peacefully. And yet he had no wish to give Ariane the notion she could exploit his vulnerability to her advantage, or to furnish her any leverage to use over him.

  “I desire your cooperation regarding the people of Claredon. I would keep their goodwill. Your father’s knights can be expected to follow a code of honor, but not the villeins and freemen. I do not want them set against me, intent on rebellion. Waging war against one’s own property is never profitable, and I have no intention of denting my coffers in unnecessary strife.”

  “Claredon is not your property as yet. My father has not been convicted or even afforded a trial. You are not yet lord here.”

  Calling on the control he had so mercilessly taught himself, Ranulf forced himself to temper his reply. “Iam lord here, by Henry’s orders. I hold this place, demoiselle. And what is mine, I keep.”

  “Then you may keep it without my aid.”

  Anger darkened his face. She would not bend easily, Ranulf was coming to realize.

  Without warning, he threw off the covers. Startled, Ariane leapt to her feet, gazing at him in alarm.

  “If you wish to retain your maidenly virtue,” he said sardonically, “I suggest you step back. I would dress.”

  Abruptly, she fled to a far corner of the room.

  His mouth curling, Ranulf rose from the bed and strode naked to the door. Opening it, he bellowed for his squire to bestir himself. Then crossing to the bench where he had disrobed the previous evening, he tugged on his braies and tied the drawstring at his waist.

  “You have two days to decide your course,” he told Ariane with forced evenness. “I ride for Wyclif this morn and should remain the night at least. In my absence I shall leave my vassal, Ivo de Ridefort, in command of the keep. You will remain confined here until such time as I have your solemn oath to accept me as your liege.”

  “I will not give it.”

  With effort,
Ranulf held fast to his temper. The wench was sorely in need of a strong hand to curb her defiance, and he would have to provide it. He was determined to conquer her will—and he would, eventually, once he found an effective method to deal with her short of physical violence. As yet, nothing had worked. But two days should buy him time to decide.

  “Meanwhile,” he continued as if he had never heard her interruption, “you may have the freedom of this chamber. I shall not order you bound, and your women will be permitted to attend you.”

  “Your generosity overwhelms me, my lord.”

  “Have a care, demoiselle. My patience wears thin.”

  “Does it indeed? I suppose I should be quaking in my shoes?” she replied.

  He pinned her with a dark look. “Were you wise, you would be. I can inflict a great deal of misery upon you.”

  “I have not the least doubt on that score. I would expect nothing else from a brute.”

  “Brute?”His black brows snapped together in a scowl at the unjust accusation. He had taken great care to treat her gently—indeed with far more lenience that she deserved. Yet he was a fool to let her goad him, Ranulf realized. Letting her barbed slurs provoke him into losing his temper only awarded her the upper hand in their battle.

  Shaking his head, Ranulf exhaled a rough chuckle and forced himself to relax his rigid muscles. “Have I hurt you, lady?” he managed to reply evenly.

  “Nay . . . but neither have you accorded me the slightest respect.”

  “You forfeited that right by your defiance. Your status now is no higher than a serf’s.”

  Ariane glared back at him; if he hoped to see her cower, he had much to learn.

  It took all her willpower, though, to resist flinching when Ranulf turned and casually strolled over to her. He stared down at her, his amber hawk’s eyes unsettling with their intentness.

  “You will submit to me, demoiselle,” he promised softly. “You will call me lord and master.”