Ranulf remembered the tale Ariane had once offered him of a haunted wood, a tale he had scorned as false. And yet the threat of evil spirits would be highly effective in keeping superstitious serfs away.
“And so . . .” the Lady Constance murmured, “now that you know our secret, my lord, will you banish us from your demesne?”
Slowly, Ranulf sheathed his sword, even as Ariane turned pleading eyes to him. “Ranulf,please . . . I beg you for mercy. She will die if you turn her out! I will do anything you ask, if you will only spare her.”
His mouth tightened momentarily. How could she believe he would condemn this poor soul to so cruel a fate? Life in a hellish leper village would be far worse than the miserable existence she endured now. Her husband and daughter had gone to great lengths to protect her, and he would not be the one to destroy their efforts.
“I wish you no ill, my lady,” he replied softly. “I see no reason the secret must be revealed. Or why you cannot go on as before.”
At his answer, he felt Ariane’s taut body sag against him in relief, while she buried her face in her hands. Attempting to disregard her display of emotion, he gazed at her lady mother somberly.
“Your daughter may bring you food, if she has a proper escort to the edge of the forest. I do not like the notion of her roaming freely, for she might come to harm.”
“We would be grateful, my lord. Our supplies have run low since . . . since your arrival,” Lady Constance concluded tactfully.
Since his seizing of Claredon, she had meant to say, Ranulf knew. “I regret that I can do so little for you,” he observed truthfully. He would have liked to aid this gracious lady in her valiant struggle. She was a brave woman facing a terrible fate, alone in the world but for one loyal servant and a devoted daughter.
“It will be enough that you permit my daughter to visit occasionally. We seldom receive company.”
Ariane’s expression of appreciation was far more fervent. “Ranulf . . .” she rasped, “my lord, I thank you.” Her husky voice shook with relief, but it was her accompanying gesture that startled him: she clutched at his gloved hand and drew it to her lips.
Ranulf extricated his hand uneasily. Such abject gratitude disquieted him. He was grateful himself when Lady Constance spoke.
“Ariane tells me you have assumed control of Claredon,” she said quietly. “Can you tell me, my lord . . . has there been any word of my husband?” For the first time since this disturbing interview began, she appeared less than stalwart.
Ranulf did not want to reveal the harsh truth, and yet there was no point in withholding it and raising false hopes. “I regret, my lady, that Lord Walter has been charged with treason for conspiring with Hugh Mortimer and is presently being besieged at Bridgenorth by King Henry.”
She bit her lip. “I know little of politics, I fear, but I do not believe my husband to be a traitor.”
Ariane had said precisely the same thing about the man, Ranulf reflected, feeling an unfamiliar pang of envy. Two such loyal woman were novel in his experience. “Henry is a just ruler. He will not act without reasonable proof of guilt.”
Lady Constance nodded in resignation and surprised him with her next words. “I regret that circumstances required the cancellation of your betrothal to my daughter. I would have been honored to call you my son by marriage.”
She seemed sincere, Ranulf realized with startled awareness. Would she view him so favorably if she knew how he had dealt with her daughter—forcing Ariane to serve as slave and leman?
“We should be on our way,” he said, more gruffly than he intended.
Lady Constance smiled a little. “As you will, my lord. But please accept my heartfelt gratitude. Take care, my daughter.”
Ranulf reined back the destrier and turned toward Claredon Keep. He was keenly aware that Ariane gazed back over his shoulder until they had passed through the concealing thicket and were well out of sight of her mother. Then, with a small sniff, she wiped her damp eyes on her sleeve and faced forward.
They rode in silence for a time, the horse’s hooves quietly plodding along the forest floor, while Ranulf’s thoughts whirled. He was conscious of a searing relief welling within him.
There was no band of rebels plotting his overthrow. Ariane had no secret lover. Her sin was one of devotion and loyalty, not betrayal. He understood now why she had remained silent, refusing to reveal her secret even under threat of imprisonment. She had not been truthful, yet neither had she lied to him. She had said she could not break a sacred oath.
Ranulf’s mouth twisted bitterly. If Ariane considered sacred oaths inviolate, she would be the first lady of her rank to do so. In his experience, most would think nothing of sacrificing their dearest kin for political expediency or personal gain.
It was some moments longer before he heard her say quietly, “My lord, did you truly mean it? You will not banish her?”
Ariane turned again in the saddle to gaze up at him. Ranulf had agreed to keep their terrible secret, yet she needed to hear his assurances once more, so the sick dread would leave her. So she could be rid of the gnawing fear that had shredded her nerves over the past weeks. She could bear anything if only she could be certain her mother was safe.
He drew the destrier to a halt. They had reached the edge of the wood. Beyond lay a green, sun-warmed meadow carpeted with May wildflowers and splashed with color: pale daisies, purple speedwell, jonquil celandine, and daffodils.
His golden eyes were soft and muted as he gazed down at her. “Why did you hide the truth from me? Why did you not come to me? I have shown you lenience in the past, when you asked.”
“I dared not risk it. I could not be certain. . . . You might even have wished her dead.”
Ranulf’s mouth curled faintly. “Have the tales you heard of the Black Dragon painted me so vicious?”
Ariane hung her head. “I could not chance it, my lord. And I had sworn an oath. . . .”
“You could not trust me.”
“No, my lord.” The words were a mere whisper.
Ranulf bit back a reply. It struck him as ironic to be chastising her for a lack of trust when he had shown her so little.
Her fingers clenched in her woolen tunic, twisting the fabric. “God is cruel. My mother never deserved such a terrible fate. She is the kindest, most gentle . . .” Ariane’s voice broke on a sob. Turning her face into his massive chest, she pressed her forehead against his chain mail hauberk.
Ranulf could not reply. He had long ago learned not to rail against the heartless capriciousness of fate. Ariane was weeping again, softly. His arms came around her tentatively. He felt choked with tenderness and pity and despair. Her very forlornness touched his heart as nothing had in years.
He did not understand what drove him to try and comfort her. He had thought every trace of gentleness exorcised by the years of anger and bitterness. But perhaps he was wrong. The burst of emotion that surged through him now was so strong it took his breath away.
For a long moment, he simply held her, until her shuddering breaths subsided, until her body quieted. Slowly then he drew off his left glove. His hand rose to her cheek, caressing gently, his thumb stroking softly, tantalizingly, over her trembling lower lip.
Drawing a shaky breath, Ariane raised her gaze to his.
Her luminous eyes were swollen and tearful, filled with doubt, with pain. He badly wanted, to ease that pain, to soothe her doubts, to comfort her. He had never touched a woman merely to offer comfort, without lust driving him. He did not know how. Yet he would like to try. With his head and much of his face encased in steel, though, he knew not if he could even kiss her.
Despite the confining restriction of his helm, he bent his head.
Her lips were petal soft, full and lush, trembling and warm.
“Ranulf . . .” she breathed.
Ariane closed her eyes. She was so grateful to him, so thankful. She needed to show her gratitude. She needed him to hold her, to drive the awful aching emp
tiness away. She needed to be with him.
Reaching out, she captured his hand and drew it to her breast.
Ranulf inhaled sharply at her action, a swift, hoarse intake of breath. Ariane had never initiated their lovemaking. He had always been forced to rely on his sensual skill to compel her surrender. Yet he knew now, as she met his questing gaze, that she would need no persuasion. He could feel her nipples beneath the wool of her torn tunic, peaked and pebble hard with desire, could see the heat of need in her shimmering eyes, could sense the sudden urgency quivering though her body as she reached for his helmet.
With anxious hands she tried to lift it from his head, but succeeded only in knocking it askew. Her clumsiness touched Ranulf unexpectedly, and he smiled—his beautiful, heartbreaking smile.
“Allow me, sweeting.” Tearing at the helm himself, he drew it off and then tugged back his mail coif.
At once, Ariane raised her mouth to his, eager for his kiss.
Startling tenderness assailed him, a sweet balm after the wealth of raw anger, of bitter fury, of agonizing doubt. He would not deny her need, or his. He wanted her, more than he had ever wanted any woman. He wanted to feel her warm and soft in his hands, wanted to make her respond to him with passion. He ached to touch her, to have her touch him. And yet he wanted to draw out the moment. She was offering herself to him fully, and he wanted to savor his victory.
He held back, meeting her questioning gaze, relishing her beauty, treasuring the way the sunlight filtered through the arch of trees above them to kiss her lovely face.
“Ranulf . . .” she murmured more urgently.
His hand cradled her cheek as he bent his head again. The quiver of her mouth beneath his sent little shocks of pleasure rippling through him. Her body, soft and yielding in his arms, filled him with desire. Yet still he held back. Gentling his kiss, he slanted his lips over hers, gliding his tongue into her warmth, stroking the soft openness.
Ariane gave a faint moan of frustration, impatient with his delaying tactics. She pressed against him, straining toward his seeking mouth, blindly searching. It was only when she fumbled beneath the split skirt of his hauberk that he broke the embrace.
“Ranulf . . . please . . . take me . . . here . . . now . . .”
“Aye, sweeting . . . presently.”
Urging his horse forward, he found a patch of grassy meadow partially surrounded by a wooded copse, sheltered from prying eyes. It seemed an idyllic setting for a lovers’ tryst—fresh and sweet and tranquil. Above in a gentle blue sky, fleecy clouds floated by, while the melody of a thrush serenaded them sweetly.
Dismounting, Ranulf set his helmet on the ground, then turning to Ariane, reached up for her.
She came willingly, eagerly, into his embrace, her mouth finding his unerringly as her arms encircled his neck.
Her naked urgency made Ranulf shake his head as he whispered against her lips, “Go slowly, sweeting . . . We have time . . . all the time we need.”
Ariane took a deep, steadying breath as she allowed him to set her on her feet. She did not think she could wait or find the discipline to go slowly with this fierce craving burning inside her, but she would try.
Quelling her need, her turbulent emotions, with supreme effort, she forced herself to concentrate on the difficult task of undressing Ranulf . . . helping him to remove his heavy mail armor, and then his clothing beneath. Yet when his undertunic had been tossed aside, she couldn’t deny herself the pleasure of pressing her lips against his chest, relishing the powerful expanse of naked flesh. Beneath the soft whorls of hair, she could feel his hot skin, the tightly curving muscles.
She felt his body tighten, and gazed up at him longingly. His thick raven hair glinted with blue highlights in the sun, while the harsh angles of his face had softened with tenderness. His amber eyes seemed warm as melted honey, deep enough to drown in.
Her trembling fingers loosened his braies and drew them down over his narrow hips and strong thighs. Finally, at last, he stood naked before her, detailed by the probing sunlight. Beautiful, powerful. All rippling muscle and sinew. His erection swollen thick and thrusting. Ariane drew a sharp breath at the sight.
He reached for her then.
“ ’Tis my turn now,” he murmured, his voice a husky, erotic whisper.
And yet to her frustration and dismay, Ranulf seemed content to draw out the process. First he unclasped her mantle and laid it on the grass to make a pallet. Then he slowly, sensually, attended to her clothing. It was long, long moments later before he had partially completed his task and she stood clad only in her filmy chemise.
He turned his attention to her hair next, taking down the coiled braids. His eyes uncharacteristically soft, he combed his fingers slowly through the luxuriant tresses, till it gleamed a glorious, shimmering mass of pale copper, falling around her shoulders in lovely, wanton disorder.
How can a man so harsh, so ruthless, be so gentle?Ariane wondered dazedly.
For a moment Ranulf gathered her close and simply breathed in the fragrance of her hair, his fingers continuing their stroking. Presently, finally, he bent to catch the hem of her chemise and drew the garment over her head, leaving her completely naked.
He began touching her elsewhere then, everywhere, caressing her skin . . . the fine-boned curves and hollows of her face . . . the thickly beating pulse in her throat . . . the delicate lines of her body . . . the gently trembling limbs . . . rising again to her breasts.
Almost reverently Ranulf cupped the soft, graceful swells beneath his palms. They were high, firm, made as though to fit in a man’s hand. His fingers spread, fanning over her breasts in deepening strokes, his thumbs passing in scorching circles over her nipples.
Ariane lost pace with her breath. Blindly, her hands caught in Ranulf’s hair, pulling his head down to hers. “Kiss me . . . please,please . . . ”
He complied . . . but only for a tantalizing instant. His mouth brushed hers fleetingly, and then drew back . . . even as he skimmed his palm downward over her flat belly. His hand lightly cupped the rise of her silky curls, his sensitive fingers discovering the warmth below. Ariane moaned.
He barely touched her sex, barely brushed the moist flesh, and yet the effect was like a jolt of lightning, inciting a throbbing ache in her lower body, teasing the feverish flush of her skin. Her breathing deepened in quick and steady arousal, while her hips strained against his hand, seeking release from the fiery sensations streaking through her.
This time he allowed it when she dragged him back into the kiss, when she arched into him, her seeking mouth insistent and urgent. And yet he refused to give in to her demands. He maintained control, defining the pressure and rhythm.
His restraint was pure torment.
Her fingers clenched in Ranulf’s hair until finally he deepened the kiss with satisfying force. The sweetly probing eroticism of his tongue elicited small involuntary whimpers from her throat. His lips stroked against hers, drinking in her desperation, feeding the fire flowing between them. Ariane shuddered helplessly. His fingers were moving on her back, sending cascades of shivers through her.
“I crave you. . . .”
When he spoke the words against her lips, she answered him thickly, her head swimming. “Yes . . . yes . . .”
Her cheeks were hotly flushed, her knees weak. When he broke from her, she was trembling so badly that he had to support her with his hands.
With unhurried grace, Ranulf led her to the bed he had made with her mantle and settled himself there, then reached his hand up to her. Shaken by the pleasure-promise in his keen golden eyes, Ariane sank to her knees beside him.
Perhaps it was the breath of spring breeze that cooled her fevered skin, perhaps it was the bright look of male triumph in Ranulf’s eyes, but somehow she found the will to temper her desire, to control her fierce need.
Dragging in a shuddering breath, she pressed her palms against his naked chest, urging him backward, to lie on the mantle. She desperately wanted to plea
se him, wanted to give to him.
The scent of spring grass and wildflowers rose up to meet them; the wash of sunlight warmed their skin. Ranulf lay back unprotesting, letting his senses feast: the soft wool beneath his scarred back, the cool cascade of her hair as she bent over him, the warmth of her lips as she scattered hot, open kisses over his chest.
Shutting his eyes, Ranulf let his head fall back. In all his experience, he had never made love like this. He had taken wenches in the fields, a quick frenzied coupling, the rutting of animals. But never had he known anything like this . . . this sweetness and warmth, this gentleness. This aching need. This melding of desire between two people. The latent tenderness he felt was a bewildering, swelling pain within his chest.
Her hair tumbled forward to spill over him, and he clutched at it, his fingers twining in the silken tresses, as a drowning man clings to a solitary rock in the midst of a crashing sea.
Ariane felt his surrender, felt the hammering of his pulse beneath her lips as they pressed against a battle scar, felt the shudder that passed through him. The scent of his skin was intoxication, his heat a drugging lure.
Some ancient primitive force controlled her hands as she drew them over his beautiful body, feeling the hard lines of bone and muscle and taut sinew beneath her palms, caressing his burning skin. When she reached his groin, her fingers closed brazenly over his rigid member.
The thick length surged in her hand, hot and pulsing and iron hard.
Hardly daring to breathe, she bent closer and touched the thick column gently with her lips.
His chest muscles contracted harshly.
Her tongue gently flicked and circled the aching flesh.
His breathing sharpened.
At his helpless response, she became the aggressor, tasting, sampling, tormenting, using her lips and tongue eagerly, willingly. Reveling in the dark flush of passion on his harsh face, she sucked at him brazenly, first the huge swollen tip, then deeper, taking him slowly, fully in her mouth, driving him mad with need.
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