The Warrior

Was he actually asking if she consented to their marriage? In her admittedly limited experience, no warlord would seek the approval of a mere girl but would be solely concerned with gaining land and power. Surely in Normandy as well as England, land counted for everything and the consent of the lady very little, despite the Church’s efforts to provide greater protection to unwilling brides. Lord Ranulf intended to wed her for the vast demesne she would someday bring him upon her father’s passing, she knew.

Ariane could not read the question in his eyes. He had gone still, his expression serious, almost guarded. She trusted those eyes, she realized with a sudden conviction. They were hard, intense, but not cruel.

“I have no objections, my lord. I consent freely to the betrothal.”

The taut expression eased from his features, softening the grim line of his mouth, while his powerful body seemed to relax. Only then did Ariane realize he had not answered her own question. She wanted desperately to ask him if their marriage was whathe wished for—but Ranulf was a powerful landed knight who could afford his choice of bride. If he objected to the union, surely he would never have accepted her father’s proposition in the first place.

“Is that what you wished to know?” she asked uncertainly.

“Yes, demoiselle. I was merely interested in discovering your opinion.” He seemed suddenly discomfited by the subject, or by her, for he looked away, across the garden toward the bailey wall.

Yearning to put him at ease as he had her, Ariane smiled wryly. “My lord father would say daughters have no right to opinions, and that I have too many for my own good. I daresay he is right.”

Ranulf glanced back down at her sharply, as if in surprise. “And do you always agree with your father, my lady?”

She wrinkled her nose. “No, seldom, in truth. He claims it is my greatest failing.”

Ranulf chuckled faintly, a rough, rusty sound that made Ariane certain he was not a man who laughed often.

“Indeed, I suspect Father is so eager to be rid of me, he is grateful you are here to court me.”

“Court?” The tall knight grimaced slightly. “I am a soldier, demoiselle, not a poet.” The smile that played on his lips was self-deprecating, endearing somehow. “I know little of wooing a lady.”

She was certain he was wrong. If this strong, charismatic man put his mind to it, he could seduce the birds from the trees, Ariane suspected.

“Well, I know even less about courtship,” she answered boldly, “so you need not fear I will judge you harshly. You are my first suitor.”

“Your first? I cannot credit it. Can it be that the men in England are blind?”

Now sheknew he was teasing her and being kind. She could make little claim to beauty, with her ungainly height and freckles that accompanied her fair skin and hair. She well knew her noble birth and the rich demesne of Claredon were her prime advantages.

“Alas,” she replied with a rueful laugh, “my appearance has little to say to the matter. My father refused to entertain the idea of suitors for me until he was certain which way the political winds blew.”

Ranulf studied her speculatively. “You are not afraid to speak your mind, I see.”

Wondering if his remark was a criticism, Ariane found herself flushing. Her lady mother had always warned that her wayward tongue would plunge her into trouble someday. Perhaps shehad been too bold with Lord Ranulf, but her intuition told her he would not want a meek bride. Her chin rose slightly. “No, and I am not afraid to wed you, either, my lord.”

He smiled then. Fully. A slow, tender, sensual smile that softened his harsh features and made Ariane’s heart suddenly trip over itself. Unprepared for the intimate rush of warmth that suddenly rioted through her, she blinked at the dazzling sight, feeling as if the sun had burst from behind the clouds.

Wasthis what her women had admired and envied earlier? This bold, masculine appeal that held all the shock of a lightning bolt? Was it possible for a single smile to win a damsel’s heart?

Then Ranulf raised a gentle hand to brush her lower lip with the tip of a forefinger. He had barely touched her, yet her pulse skittered wildly, while a strange heat blossomed inside her, sending her emotions into a wild state of confusion.

Ariane stared up at him in mute bewilderment, startled by the feelings that had sprung to life at his slightest caress, the strange sensations that quivered through her body. Never had she been so vitally aware of being female than at this moment. Never before had she been shaken by a man’s touch.

“Then we are agreed, my lady? The betrothal will go forward?”

“Yes, my lord,” she murmured breathlessly.

When Ranulf held out his hand to her, Ariane shivered, not from apprehension, but from fascination and excitement and anticipation. Shewanted this man for her husband, she realized. She wanted to wed this powerful, magnificent knight who cared enough to concern himself with her feelings and her fears. Who could make her tremble with merely a smile and a touch. Despite the rumors of his terrible past, she desired to be part of his future.

Hope took wing in her heart as she placed her trembling fingers in Ranulf’s hand. They would have a good marriage, Ariane vowed silently, remembering the reluctance she had sensed in him. She would endeavor to make Ranulf a good wife, strive never to give him cause to regret this day.

With a tremulous smile, Ariane clutched the rose he had given her and allowed the Black Dragon of Vernay to lead her back to Cla

redon’s tower and the betrothal celebration within.

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