The Warrior

by Nicole Jordan

  “Beautiful . . .” he murmured hoarsely. “Open for me again, sweeting. Let me savor you . . . give you another taste of ecstasy. Let me fill you . . .”

  Lowering his head, his mouth pursed, he gently kissed the dewy cleft between her thighs, his tongue flicking out to stroke the hidden bud.

  Ariane had lain tense and rigid beneath his burning scrutiny, but at his scandalous action, she gave a startled yelp and clutched at his hair, gripping hard. When he lifted his head, their eyes locked, hers panicked, his hot and bright.

  “No . . . you cannot. . . .”

  “I can, demoiselle.” The raw, husky sound stroked her sensitive nerve endings.

  “No . . . please . . . I beg you. . . .”

  He smiled indulgently as she caught the bold hand that had strayed to cover her thigh. “You may beg me all you like.”

  “No!Ranulf!”

  Realizing her genuine shock, Ranulf abandoned his attempt to show Ariane another means of enjoying pleasure. His eyes smoldered as his hand turned to capture her wrist. “Then you touch me. Feel how hard, how aroused you make me.”

  Deliberately he drew her palm against his flat, hard-muscled belly, pressing her fingers against his throbbing member. She could feel him in her hand, hot and huge and pulsing. Ranulf grimaced in pure pleasure, while Ariane’s eyes widened in alarm.

  “No!” Again she tried unsuccessfully to pull from his grasp. “ ’Tis sinful!” she exclaimed, clutching at any excuse that might save her.

  His expression sobered. “You would deny me after I pleasured you?”

  “Yes!” Oh, what would make him cease? “It is unholy, against Church law.”

  When she succeeded in wrenching her hand away, Ranulf’s jaw hardened in sexual frustration. He wanted Ariane sweet and willing, not panicked and trembling like a frightened rabbit. He could not stroke himself, either, not without rousing her disgust. But his self-denial only left him aching carnally and his raw temper ready to explode—an explosion he resolved to control.

  He had won a victory of sorts, he reminded himself. Ariane had found ecstasy in his touch. But while he felt a savage gratification knowing that he could affect her so, he would not rest until she surrendered fully.

  “I doubt you fear opposing the Church as much as you fear the pleasure I make you feel,” Ranulf murmured wryly, with a casualness he did not feel.

  Ariane averted her face, realizing the truth of his accusation. She had proved an easy conquest. Ranulf had not boasted in the slightest when he warned her that women found pleasure in his arms, but his seduction had been effortless. She was mortified by her response to his wicked caresses, her wanton surrender. She had not put up the least resistance. She hadwanted him to touch her, to make love to her. She wanted him as lover and husband and lord.

  Her heart ached with the knowledge. She would not have protested even his most scandalous caresses had they been given in love, had Ranulf cared the slightest for her. But he considered her his enemy, and this was his method of punishment, of proving his power over her. Yet even more than her capitulation, her own wantonness roused her despair. Ranulf might not have taken her maidenhead, but he had ruined her for any other man—and she hadenjoyed her ruination.

  Ariane closed her eyes, wishing she could disappear.

  He had caught his fingers in her long tangled hair and was sifting it absently, as if testing a skein of silk for quality. When he raised an errant curl to his mouth, though, Ariane gasped and roughly drew it from his grasp.

  “May I have leave to dress?” she snapped, still refusing to look at him.

  “If you must. I would rather spend the next few hours teaching you a proper display of submission.” His tone was soft, self-assured, ripe with satisfaction.

  It earned him a baleful glare—which Ariane regretted immediately. He looked like a ruffian with his raven hair tousled, his hard, sculpted face darkened with a shadow of whiskers. Yet his flagrant masculinity called out to her as he lounged there on one elbow. Even at ease, he seemed so powerful, so very male, with his corded muscles and look of limitless strength.

  It was his expression, though, that set her heart to pounding. His amber eyes gleamed sensually as he deliberately caught her hair again and slowly wrapped his fingers in her tresses, holding her prisoner.

  “Do you think you can resist me for long, demoiselle?” he asked in a low, husky murmur that stroked her senses.

  No. And that was the trouble. She could not resist this devastating man, not when he was looking at her thus, his eyes heated with a flame of desire and promise.

  Summoning every ounce of willpower she possessed, Ariane raised her chin and invoked a look of scorn. “You flatter yourself, my lord, if you think I will ever submit to you willingly.”

  Ranulf’s lips twisted in a male smile that was provocative, indulgent. “Unwillingly, then, it matters not, wench. In truth, I will enjoy taming your defiance . . . and devising a penance we can both enjoy.”

  Ariane quivered with the effort to keep her defenses in position. “I shall always despise you,” she declared in a fervent, trembling voice.

  His knowing smile never wavered as he bent over her to kiss an impudent breast the way a lover might, making her flinch from the arousing warmth on her sensitive nipple. “Do not make rash statements, demoiselle, or I might be compelled to disprove them.”

  Untangling his hand from her hair, he threw off the covers and rose naked from the bed. Without another glance at Ariane, he found his braies and began to dress.

  9

  “Did you pass a good night, my lord?” Payn queried when Ranulf joined him in the great hall to break the morning fast.

  Answering with merely a grimace, Ranulf accepted a wooden cup filled with honey mead from a young page and settled into the lord’s chair.

  “I take that as a denial,” his vassal said sympathetically. “The Lady Ariane was not accommodating?”

  “If you have a care for your skin, you will refrain from mentioning that wench’s name in my hearing.” Irritably Ranulf glanced around the hall. The last of the straw pallets and blankets and hides were being rolled up to make way for the trestle tables, but the high table was bare. “Where is my cursed meal? Can a man not even be served a crust of bread in his own hall?”

  Repressing a grin, Payn sent the trembling page to the kitchens for some victuals, before saying to Ranulf in a laughing undertone, “I thought you intended to give the lady a lesson in obedience, but it appears she remains as defiant as ever.”

  “The battle has only just begun, I assure you,” Ranulf promised darkly. When Payn chuckled, Ranulf felt his vexation begin to dissipate. Against his will, he grinned ruefully. “Have you naught better to do than crow over my failure?”

  “Indeed, my lord,” Payn murmured amiably. “I know better than to linger with you in such a black mood. I shall leave you in peace to reexamine your strategy in taming the damsel.” Clapping Ranulf on the back as he rose, he left the high table to confer with two knights who had just entered the hall.

  Relieved to be alone, Ranulf stared into his tankard of mead and contemplated the unique experience he had just suffered. He was unaccustomed to being denied any wench he wanted, and unacquainted with regretting the deprivation so sorely. Never had he had a woman in his bed who did not leave it fully satisfied; never before had he permitted one to leave untilhe was fully satisfied. Yet that was precisely what had just transpired with Ariane. The ache still had not receded from his loins; his blood still simmered for her. He had never felt such desire as that lady roused in him.

  By the rood, what hold did that beautiful witch have over him, that he should crave her so?

  His planned seduction had gone awry, snaring him in his own trap. He had aroused the sensual woman beneath Ariane’s cool, haunting demeanor, true, but afterward found himself burning with an unquenchable fire.

  It had almost been worth the pain. For a few exquisite moments, he’d succeeded in compelling the defiant vixen t
o sheath her claws. The haughty maiden was not so regal, so disdainful, when she was panting and writhing with ecstasy in his arms. But the sight of her lustrous pearl-white skin flushed with passion, her glorious mane of silky hair tumbling wildly about her creamy breasts, her warm, sleep-scented form pressed fully against him, had increased his desire to a raging inferno. And then the wench had not only refused to succor him in return, she had looked at him with horror and loathing!

  Shaking his head ruefully, Ranulf chided himself for behaving like a callow youth, allowing himself to be led around by his loins. He knew better. He had seen men so besotted by scheming noblewomen that they forgot to watch their backs. And he well knew the danger of underestimating his former betrothed even for a moment. She was a foe worthy of caution.

  Yet he was more determined than ever to make Ariane yield. If he used his skills wisely, he could ultimately compel her cooperation, if not her loyalty. By employing passion as a weapon, by letting her experience ecstasy at his hands, he could conquer her will. . . .

  A dangerous smile curved Ranulf’s lips as he thought of the battles to come. They would see who was the victor.

  With that mollifying thought, he drained the last of his wine and called for more—at the same moment Ariane stepped up onto the dais on which the lord’s table was erected.

  “You come late to your work,” Ranulf remarked mildly, vexed by the way his body responded merely to the sight of her. His loins throbbed nearly as much as the ribs that had been wounded in yesterday’s ambush. “I did not give you leave to laze in bed the day long.”

  “I wasnot lazing about, my lord. I found it necessary towash, ” Ariane retorted with studied haughtiness. In truth, she had scrubbed her skin till it tingled, yet she had not succeeded in erasing the memory of her shameless, wanton response to Ranulf’s lovemaking, or the exquisite feel of his touch.

  She felt his scrutiny now and raised her chin when his eyes narrowed at her appearance. She wore a rich bliaud of rose samite, with a deep blue chainse underneath. A square of patterned silk adorned her hair, held in place by a thin silver circlet around her forehead, while a jewelled girdle of silver links encircled her slender hips.

  “You dress lavishly for a squire,” he mused, his tone deliberately provocative.

  “You said you wished me to address the field serfs this morning and repeat my pledge to you. I thought this appropriate attire.”

  If it was not quite the truth, Ariane felt justified in the lie. She had donned one of her better gowns, not to impress Claredon’s serfs with her consequence, but to bolster her defenses and help her maintain some semblance of poise. The Black Dragon of Vernay might have mortified her with his wicked, mind-wrenching caresses, but she was still lady of this hall, still retained a measure of pride. If he expected her to surrender meekly, he had greatly miscalculated. She refused to fall swooning at his feet as Ranulf seemed to think was his due.

  Lifting the pitcher of wine, Ariane refilled his cup, pleased that she could do so without shaking overmuch. As she leaned forward over the table, though, she felt a large, sinewed hand fleetingly brush her buttocks.

  With a gasp, Ariane jumped and whirled, her arm swinging instinctively. Grinning, Ranulf caught the hand that would have struck him an instant before her palm contacted his cheek.

  “Do not touch me so!”

  He gazed up at her with sensual challenge, his amber eyes dancing with teasing laughter. “Methinks you enjoyed my touch only moments ago.”

  “Methinks your much-vaunted prowess as a lover overrated,” Ariane returned, glaring. “In truth, I found it sorely lacking.”

  For a score of heartbeats, amusement warred with Ranulf’s pride . . . and won. Though wincing inwardly at the disparagement of his manhood, he could not help admiring the damsel’s courage. She dared taunt the dragon, apparently unafraid for her skin, while her gray eyes flashed sparks of fire.

  He chuckled slowly, even as he gazed at Ariane in speculation. He had never seen her so angry, or so flustered. Gratified by the high flush of color on her cheeks, Ranulf wondered if he could provoke her into losing her temper altogether. Although it might be a childish desire, it would give him a small measure of satisfaction to make her feel a tenth of the frustration he’d experienced at being left unfulfilled after becoming so incredibly aroused.

  Without giving himself time to debate, Ranulf scraped back his chair and drew her inexorably inside the cradle of his iron-muscled thighs.

  Inhaling a sharp breath, Ariane braced her palms against his broad shoulders, feeling the chain mail links of his hauberk, which she had been required to help him don over his tunic a short while ago. She used all her might to resist, yet he refused to release her.

  “You have not enough evidence to properly judge my prowess, demoiselle,” Ranulf said, laughter threading his tone. “My skill was not fully tested. Shall we return to the solar and resume the trial? I doubt not I could have you moaning in passion within moments, just as I did earlier.”

  Her cheeks flooded scarlet. The lout was enjoying himself far too much at her expense. “You arrogant braggart, release me! I may be your hostage, but I am no common villein that you may insult at your leisure.”

  His gaze caressed her, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous sensuality. “No, that you are not, my lady. Were you any common wench I could take you as I willed.”

  When Ranulf raised her hand to kiss the tender skin on the inside of her wrist, Ariane closed her eyes in mortification at the havoc he caused her senses. He could arouse her with merely a touch.

  “But you are not common,” Ranulf said. “And you are my acting squire as well. Or have you forgotten that?”

  His words were slightly goading, but she bit back her reply at the reminder. “No, I have not forgotten.”

  “No, what?”

  “No,my lord. ”

  When a boy brought a bowl of oat porridge, Ariane took it from him and set it before Ranulf with restrained force, controlling the urge to dump it over his head.

  He looked up at her challengingly, as if divining her thoughts. “I would not, were I you, or you will force me to take harsher measures. You would not care to be chained in the dungeon, I think.”

  “That will not be necessary, my lord,” she replied stiffly. “You have me chained by my word just as effectively.”

  “Have I, demoiselle?” He gave a soft huff of laughter edged with doubt. “Then I suggest you show a proper docility. Go and eat, and then fetch your mantle. The morning air will be brisk, and I would not wish my hostage to catch a chill.”

  Her jaw set, Ariane turned away at once.

  Still feeling the heat from her scorching gray eyes, Ranulf picked up his spoon to apply himself to his food, but his thoughts centered on his arousing, vexing foe and his own frustrating impotence in dealing with her. Every encounter with the beauty became a battle of wills, a battle he was hard-pressed to win. He had deliberately provoked her this time, true, but her reckless retorts were a provocation that demanded a response. Her public show of defiance in daring to strike him—

  A sudden commotion beside him interrupted his thoughts—a clatter followed by a small cry of pain. Ranulf looked around, as did Ariane.

  She had not seen what happened, but it was simple to guess. The young page, a boy of perhaps seven, had tripped and fallen beside Ranulf’s chair, dropping a pewter pitcher and sending wine splashing over the rushes and onto his lord’s boots.

  Swiftly retracing her steps, Ariane bent to help the child rise. He scarcely seemed to notice her assistance. Trembling, the boy eyed Ranulf with terror, shrinking back as if fearful the lord might strike him with his powerful fist.

  Instinctively Ariane stepped in front of the boy, sheltering him behind her skirts. “My lord . . . it was only a spill.”

  Ranulf went very still as he watched the child’s white-faced expression. “Come here, lad,” he said quietly. When the boy stood rooted to the floor, Ranulf added even more softly, “I will not
harm you. I do not strike small boys.”

  Slowly the young page inched out from behind Ariane and approached Ranulf. “I b-beg pardon, m-my l-lord,” he stammered in a high, frightened voice, while tears filled his eyes.

  “What are you called, lad?”

  “W-William.”

  “Your fall was an accident, was it not, William? You did not purposely drench me with wine.”

  “Aye, my l-lord. I m-mean, n-nay.”

  “Then I see no reason for punishment.”

  “B-But I was cl-clumsy, my l-lord.”

  “If you endeavor to serve me well in future, then I will think no more of this incident.”

  “Aye, my l-lord.”

  Ranulf’s startling gentleness did not shock Ariane as it once might have, although his kindness was sorely at odds with his renown as the feared Black Dragon.

  “He is the son of Lord Aubert, a friend of my father’s,” she offered in explanation. “William fosters here as a page.”

  Ranulf smiled, that rare, dazzling smile that made it seem as if the sun had suddenly burst through a mass of storm clouds. The effect nearly took Ariane’s breath away. “So you wish to be a knight?”

  William’s small face brightened, and he lost that petrified look. “Oh, aye, milord! My Lord Walter pledged to train me. . . .” The boy came to a faltering stop, as if remembering his lord was no longer in power.

  “I see no reason your training cannot continue,” Ranulf said mildly. “If you are diligent in learning your duties as page, then I will promote you to squire and teach you how to wield a sword.”

  “You will teach me? Oh, my lord . . .” The boy’s tone held excitement and reverence, as if being trained by the Black Dragon was the height of his every ambition.