The Warrior

by Nicole Jordan

  He would not beat or maim or torture her, he vowed as he bent her to his will. He would merely frighten her into admitting the truth, force her to give up her scheme. He would merely punish her with his embrace and let her imagine the worst. . . .

  The damning truth was, though, he had no desire to threaten her with physical violence. He wanted to punish her with pleasure instead. He wanted her mindless and gasping beneath him. He wanted to appease this relentless desire he had for her, to satisfy his fierce need to plunge hot and deep inside her, and perhaps to ease at last the raging ardor she awoke in him. God’s breath, how he wanted her! Anger and arousal made his blood surge hot, his body harden and throb; he was driven by a force more powerful than his fury. Holding her hard against him, he anchored her head and devoured her mouth, a low, guttural noise sounding deep in his throat.

  Unable to escape, Ariane opened helplessly to his plundering invasion. She tried to recall the countless reasons she should resist him, tried to remember the shaming memories of her recent surrender, and yet reason fled.

  A strange warmth began to grow in the depths of her body, setting her pulse racing. Weak, dazed, Ariane found herself clasping Ranulf to her as she yielded to his flaming kisses, even as dismay licked at the edges of her consciousness. She would have to fight herself as much as him if this continued. She felt as if she were drowning in his possession. . . .

  She heard Ranulf give a growl, raw and primitive, and almost cried out loud when he broke off his heated kiss. Her knees would have buckled had his large hands not been cupping her buttocks, but he supported her fully as his mouth moved hotly over her throat. Helplessly Ariane moaned, clutching at his powerful shoulders. “Ranulf . . .”

  Ranulf froze at her hoarse plea for fulfillment. Suddenly he cursed, squeezing his eyes shut as desperately he fought for control, as he strove for sanity. How had he become so carried away when he had not even wanted to touch her? His rod was stiff and aching beneath his tunic, his body throbbing with forbidden need. He had been so hot to have her that he had forgotten his purpose in embracing her, forgotten this deceitful wench was his enemy. This was precisely what she wanted—for him to consummate their union.

  “No, by the Saints! As God is my witness, you will not win. . . .”

  His hands came up to grasp her shoulders as firmly he set her away from him. He would not allow her to work her wiles to gain his surrender.

  He stood staring down at her, breathing hard as he fought the urge to drag her back into his embrace. In the contest of wills, he had lost this skirmish. His threat of physical violence had not been enough to frighten her. “You will pay fully for your treachery, wench. I will make your life a misery—I swear it! Henceforth all the meanest tasks in the castle will be yours. If you thought serving as my squire was humbling, you will find your new duties thrice as onerous.”

  No longer believing in his own self-discipline, Ranulf released her and forced himself to take a step back. His eyes swept her. “I will leave you as untouched as I found you. If you have a care for your skin, you will keep out of my sight until an annulment is granted and I can be rid of you for good.”

  His amber eyes fierce, Ranulf turned on his heel and stalked from the chamber, the door he had slammed reverberating in his wake.

  Staring after him in dismay, Ariane raised a hand to her bruised lips, her thoughts a welter of confusion.

  She had not wanted him to go. She had wanted him to remain with her. She had wanted his touch, his possession, wanted him to take her.

  How was it possible? Ranulf was her enemy, the man she had sworn to hate. Yet she had melted instantly at his touch. His fierce kisses had turned her blood to fire; the scent and taste of him still burned in her memory.Sweet Virgin, what was she to do? He had left her aching with longing, her body trembling with need and regret.

  Daunted, she touched her fingers to her aching lips, still hot and tender from his assault. She had survived his fury for the time being, yet she had lost this battle, just as she feared she would lose all the ones in the future.

  Ranulf had thwarted her attempt at justice, vowing to annul their marriage and force her to serve as his slave. Yet his method of revenge was not what alarmed her. What frightened her most was how he could command her body at will.

  11

  Ranulf had a revolt on his hands.

  It began so subtly that at first he was not even aware of it, but as frequent, inexplicable accidents and incidents of subversion occurred all over the keep, he realized the Claredon castlefolk were up in arms against him, on behalf of their lady.

  The first incident befell him two days after he had relegated Ariane to the life of a castle drudge. The dishes of his midday meal were so salted as to render them inedible, the wine so foul, he suspected it of being poisoned. Gagging, Ranulf spat it out and bellowed for the castle cook.

  The large-bellied man who came hurrying up from the kitchens put on a humble show and professed his abject apologies to the lord, lamenting that he had been too liberal with the salt, vowing that his hand had slipped over the wine barrel.

  When, disbelieving, Ranulf tersely suggested the former lady of Claredon might have been involved in a bungled attempt to poison him, the accusation was vehemently denied. Unable to prove otherwise, Ranulf repressed the urge to clout the oaf, but as punishment, forced him to drink the flagon of wine, watching in grim satisfaction when the man raced for the garderobe to empty his stomach.

  His satisfaction faded that afternoon when he discovered that a dozen saddle girths had been cut, not clear through, but enough to avoid obvious detection and cause injury if they gave way while in use. Roaring his displeasure, Ranulf had every groom and lackey in the stables dragged before him for questioning, but no one admitted to the deed.

  The incidents continued during the following week, none fatal, all highly annoying and a direct challenge to his authority. First there was the foul-smelling soap that found its way into the garrison barracks, whose unfortunate use stank up the hall for two days. Next, an epidemic of skin rash broke out among his men, caused by nettles sprinkled over the sleeping pallets. Then Ranulf’s favorite tunic was ripped beyond repair while being laundered. And while the lord was away overnight securing yet another of Claredon’s distant properties, someone sneaked into the mews and freed the prize falcons and hawks from their jesses.

  The petty rebellion incited Ranulf’s fury, inflaming the raw wound that festered inside him after a lifetime of repudiation. Frustratingly, he could never discover the culprits responsible. The castle servants toiled as usual, and had ready excuses for their slipshod work, but their hostile glances and sulky, accusing expressions told him clearly they were in collusion against him.

  For that he placed the blame squarely on Ariane. He had no proof, yet he felt certain she was encouraging her people to insurrection and inciting them to mayhem. Almost daily Ranulf found a new problem to rouse his temper. And if ever he regretted his method of punishing Ariane, or felt the slightest sympathy for her plight, he crushed it mercilessly. He would not allow her to make a fool of him.

  In truth, Ariane was not entirely innocent of the charges, though at first she was too weary from the menial duties Ranulf had devised for her to contribute to the revolt: toiling in the scullery, turning the spits over the great hearth in the kitchens, shoveling flat manchet bread loaves into the ovens to bake, sweltering over boiling tubs of laundry . . . the least pleasant chores of any castle. And Ranulf had set two guards to control her every move and to prevent her people from coming to her aid and performing those loathsome tasks for her as they initially tried to do.

  When she first learned of the frequent episodes of defiance, Ariane wanted to laugh and weep at the same time. She could not help but be pleased that the servants of Claredon remained loyal to her, yet she was horrified to contemplate Ranulf’s revenge for their efforts on her behalf. She had no desire to see anyone else punished for her sake. And yet she did not truly fear Ranulf would repay her
desperate bid to become his wife by taking vengeance out on her people. She had seen his leniency, had seen him act with restraint toward his dependents, so unless they were actually caught outright, he would not penalize them unjustly. If so, she meant to take blame. Otherwise, she suspected that she would bear the brunt of his fury.

  Thus she began quietly encouraging and abetting their small acts of subversion, reminding herself that Ranulf had given her no choice but to defy him covertly. And in truth, part of her was gratified to watch the Black Dragon’s frustration and helplessness, which actually were minor compared to her own.

  He had kept his vow to make her life an utter misery. Each night when Ariane at last climbed the stairs to her solitary chamber, she crawled wearily into her bed, groaning at aching muscles strained by unaccustomed physical labor.

  The humility of her position was harder to bear than the physical exhaustion. Her guards watched over her every moment, as if she were a common criminal. No doubt, Ariane suspected, because Ranulf had threatened their very lives if they failed in their duty.

  She was not allowed to speak with any of her people and was dressed as a slave. Ranulf had ordered all of her gowns of finest linen and silk confiscated, requiring her to wear the most inferior homespun—rough wool that itched and scratched her tender skin. One of her best tunics he gave to Dena, who clearly took great enjoyment in being so favored by the new lord and in flaunting her new position.

  That Dena shared Ranulf’s bed was assumed—although she was never known to spend the night in his solar. At meals, she sat beside him at the high table, occupying the place of honor, the lady’s chair. Even gowned in the richest cendal, Dena still looked like a harlot, and it hurt Ariane to see Ranulf sometimes offer the common wench one of his rare, beautiful smiles—although wild horses could not have dragged the admission from her.

  She was determined to endure her servile position with fortitude. He would not defeat her, Ariane vowed. She would not break. She would bend like the willow and remain standing long after the storm passed.

  Thinking it wiser, she took pains to keep out of his way. When she was unfortunate enough to attract his notice, his mask of icy coldness told her clearly that his fury at her had not abated in the least.

  The worst times occurred when she was allowed to retire each night, for she had to cross the hall to reach the stairwell behind the dais, accompanied by her guards. Ranulf would level a penetrating stare at her, his face rigidly aloof, yet she could feel his golden hawk’s eyes following every step of her progress, could feel her heart racing at his scrutiny. It was always a relief to reach her chamber unscathed, her sole place of refuge, although often the echo of Dena’s grating laughter followed her there.

  On one particular evening, when the serving wench’s raucous sound seemed especially coarse and unrefined, Ariane would have been gratified to know Ranulf shared her opinion. Below in the hall, Dena wet her lips and tossed her head at the lord seductively.

  “That one always did think too high of herself,” the serving maid said coyly of Ariane.

  Ranulf sent the girl a quelling glance. “You forget yourself, wench. It is not your place to criticize your former lady.”

  She looked startled at the rebuke. “Milord, forgive me,” Dena murmured plaintively. “I meant no offense.” Leaning near to clutch his arm, she pressed her full breasts against him in lewd suggestion. “It is said the former lady of Claredon avoids the tasks you set for her at every opportunity.”

  His frown deepened as he drew his arm from Dena’s possessive grasp. “I have no desire to listen to castle gossip.”

  Apparently unconvinced, Dena trilled another strident laugh. “ ’Tis not only gossip, milord. Why, I could tell you things I’ve seen. . . . My Lady Ariane is not so pure. Know you that in the past she oftentimes left the castle unattended and went to the wood to meet her lover?”

  The maid’s malicious tale struck Ranulf like a blow to his vitals, arousing savage memories and sending his thoughts spinning backward in time. In his mind’s eye, he saw not Ariane, but the noblewoman who had borne him, the mother he had never known, slipping from the castle to consort with her peasant lover, to carry on her adulterous affair. With vivid intensity he remembered the pain and fear her betrayal had caused him his life long, how she had destroyed any possibility of hopes or dreams. . . .

  Reacting blindly, Ranulf struck his fist on the table. “Enough!”

  The sharp command silenced Dena’s coarse chatter.

  Scarcely seeing her, Ranulf turned a dark look on the serving maid. “I give you leave to go. I no longer require your presence this evening. And in future, I suggest you refrain from discussing matters that are not your concern.”

  Alarm glinting in her eyes, Dena hastily rose from the table and bobbed a fearful curtsey. When she had gone, Ranulf sat toying moodily with his eating dagger, carving patterns in the remnants of a meat pie.

  At his other side, Payn watched him with a barely concealed frown. The two of them sat alone, as most of Ranulf’s men were playing at dice near the great hearth, while the serfs cleared the trestle tables.

  “That lazy wench doubtless knows sloth intimately,” Payn observed quietly, “but she lies when she suggests her former lady has been slack in her duties.”

  Ranulf grunted in agreement. The reports he had been given concerning Ariane’s toils suggested that she had obeyed his every command without complaint. And to his knowledge, she had not repeated her outrageous claim of being his wife. He had nothing to rebuke her for—which perversely only served to increase his fury. The uncertainty Dena had just raised in his mind did naught to calm him, either. Had the wench spoken the truth? Did the Lady Ariane often leave the castle unattended to sojourn in the wood with a lover?

  “Dena grows overbold, methinks,” Payn murmured, “since you granted her respite from her duties. She considers herself your favorite, but I wonder that you permit her presumption. Her buxom charms are notthat spectacular.”

  Ranulf nodded absently. From the start he’d regretted the rash impulse that had led him to raise Dena to her lady’s place, but he stubbornly refused to countermand the order. He had acted irrationally, out of rage at Ariane’s maneuver with the bedsheets, but he could not back down now, not and hold a shred of hope for respect from the people of Claredon. In this instance particularly, it was imperative he prove that he meant what he said, and that his wrath was not to be taken lightly. Soon enough he would have to consider how to make a tactical retreat. King Henry would doubtless raise objections to one of his noble subjects—even a traitor’s daughter—being forced into servitude as a slave.

  Meanwhile, Dena grew overly bold, Ranulf admitted. In truth, Payn would have been astounded to learn he had not availed himself of Dena’s obviously eager desire to share his bed. But the coarse, lushly endowed wench held little appeal for him. He had wearied of her company within a day.

  All too often he found himself remembering the infuriating, defiant, highborn lady who had once been his betrothed. No peasant, however winsome, could compare favorably to Ariane. Her elegance, her regal grace, her sweet woman’s scent, even her tart tongue, held an allure for him that, absurdly, he could not shake. The Saints knew he had tried. Yet he could not dismiss her from his mind . . . or his body. Every time he saw her, he felt a stirring in his groin. Merely looking at her made him hungry.

  And his masculine instincts made him keenly aware that others of his men felt as he did, harboring the same desire to bed her. She possessed a cool sensuality that any warm-blooded male would find challenging.

  Her own men no doubt felt it as well. Especially that fair-haired lad called Gilbert who followed her around like a drooling pup. Even now Gilbert was glaring daggers at him from the length of the hall.Was this one of the lovers Dena had spoken of? The lover Ariane met in the forest?

  Beside the young clerk sat the elderly priest and the Claredon steward—which reminded Ranulf of another incident that had inflamed his temper.<
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  “Did you know,” he demanded resentfully, “that cursed steward tried to pass off a dozen miscalculations in the accounts as my own error this morning?”

  “No doubt he thought you could not tally,” Payn said sympathetically. “You will have to appoint your own steward, my lord.”

  Ranulf nodded and drank deeply of his wine, which had the benefit of being unsalted. He could cipher and read well enough to know when he was being deceived. “Do all the folk here think me a lackwit?”

  Not answering at once, Payn picked up a lute and lazily began plucking a tune. The knight was an adequate musician, and possessed a clear, melodious voice. “I fancy they consider you to have ill used their lady,” he said finally, at the end of a verse.

  “Ill used?”Ranulf’s expression darkened as he muttered, “I have not used her half as ill as I should have. She is fortunate I did not clap her in chains for her treachery.”

  “We have all suffered a woman’s deceit at one time or another. At least the Lady Ariane felt she had sufficient claim to declare herself your wife.”

  Ranulf narrowed his gaze dangerously. “Do you defend the wench?”

  “Not I, my lord,” Payn asserted blandly. “But I fear you are not winning the battle. Perhaps you would be wise to change your strategy.”

  “Beseech me not on her behalf,” Ranulf snapped.

  “Not onher behalf, my lord, but your own. You know I serve only your interests. The Lady Ariane claims an uncommon support among her people, wherein lies her strength—”

  “Lady?I told you not to call her that.”

  Payn shrugged. “I fear the title of ‘lady’ is not something you can take from her merely by decree.”

  Morosely, Ranulf stared into his wine, aware his vassal was right. The woman he had unlawfully deemed a slave was every inch a noble lady. Despite the rags she now wore, her blood and breeding showed. Ariane held herself as regally as a queen . . . proud, indomitable, beautiful. With all his show of might, he had been unable to cower her.