The Warrior

Ranulf nodded, but scarcely noticed when his vassal departed. His thoughts were too wrapped up in the fate that awaited him across the Channel. While he anticipated the forthcoming military campaign with relish, he was not at all anxious to set foot in England.

More than four years had passed since the betrothal contracts had been signed, time which he’d spent fighting and serving his liege. He had permitted the seasons to slip past one by one, too occupied with his duties and obligations here to fetch his young bride; convinced that she would prefer to remain with her family in England rather than be dragged off to Normandy as his wife, to the fearsome lair of the Black Dragon. Even when an opportunity had arisen, though, he’d made no move to claim her, but instead found reason to tarry in Normandy. He had not even accompanied Henry to England last year when the duke met with King Stephen to secure the succession.

Absently, Ranulf moved to stand before the crackling fire in the hearth, his gaze engrossed by the flames.

At the time, his betrothal to Ariane of Claredon had seemed a sound idea—a politically expedient maneuver that would provide him land and heirs and cement an alliance with a powerful family who held fiefs throughout England. And after living much of his life without land or even a name, he had leapt at the chance to increase his wealth and extend his power base to England, where he possessed only minor holdings. He’d been eager for the connection offered him, driven by a fierce determination to become more powerful than his despised father, to forge for himself a dynasty that would rival any lord’s in the land. That a noble wife came with the transaction had not seemed too great a price to pay . . . at the time.

Her father Walter’s reasons for wanting the marriage were just as mercenary and perhaps more political. Walter supported King Stephen yet knew Empress Matilda and her son Henry might one day prevail. Shrewdly the lord of Claredon had betrothed his fourteen-year-old daughter to a Norman warlord who supported Henry, with the intent of leaving her well protected by a powerful husband should the English crown change hands.

At the time, Ranulf reflected, the scandal of his birth and his doubtful lineage was no longer much of an impediment, for he had just been reinstated to his inheritance and the honor of Vernay, which, added to bounty already gained from tourneys and wars, made him one of the wealthier knights in Normandy.

It had seemed a good match on both sides.

Except that the ink was scarcely dry on the parchment before he had longed to be free.

In these uncertain times, a betrothal pact could always be broken, for who would enforce the law? Civil rule in England was in shambles, while King Stephen had virtually lost the power to control his subjects or dispense justice. Yet as the years passed Ranulf had found no good reason to dissolve the contract. What could he say? That he feared such an advantageous marriage? His enemies would delight in his faintheartedness and he would appear a fool. Her brother’s death had made Ariane of Claredon a great heiress, a prize any nobleman would fight to possess.

Idly Ranulf rubbed his bare chest as he stared at the leaping flames, vaguely aware of the heat warming his naked loins.

He had met his intended bride only once—for the betrothal celebrations. Ariane had been a mere girl then, but he remembered her still: a long, thin body that held a coltish grace; pale hair a hue between flaxen and copper; plain, sharp-boned features dusted with freckles; and huge gray eyes that seemed to see more than he wanted to reveal.

Ranulf considered her youth an advantage. He had wanted a meek bride, someone young and malleable whom he could train to do his bidding, who could be taught obedience if not loyalty. He’d taken great care to ascertain her willingness for the marriage, desiring no repetition of his mother’s faithlessness to his father.

Ariane had seemed innocent enough, even possessing a virginal sort of charm that had surprised and enchanted him. Time would have changed her, though, Ranulf suspected regretfully. By now she would have had ample opportunity to learn the talents that were so prevalent in her sex—the arts of cruelty and lies and betrayal.

Her birth and station alone gave him cause to

be wary. From the cradle, his ordeals with noblewomen had marked his soul, just as his father’s scourge had scarred his back. His own adulterous mother had condemned him to a life of torment, sentenced him to the hell of his father’s rage. Because of her infidelity, he had been forced to fight for his birthright, his identity, his very existence.

In truth, he had little use for women, other than the pleasure their bodies afforded. He was a man with strong appetites, but he preferred a simple peasant instead of a highborn lady. A lusty wench whose base and modest needs were easily fulfilled, who made no pretense of understanding such principles as honor and constancy and faithfulness. Who would not scorn him for his ignoble origins.

Give him someone other than his betrothed, Ariane of Claredon.

Ranulf exhaled a reluctant sigh, reminding himself it was far too late for him to withdraw his suit. He would honor his word regarding the contract. When England was won and Henry’s rule secure, then he would journey to Claredon and submit to the nuptials he had delayed for too long. Even if he would prefer to fight an entire enemy army rather than face his betrothed.

Realizing the absurdity of that thought, Ranulf laughed softly at himself. How had he been caught in this dilemma? His courage held hostage by a mere girl half his weight and a tenth his strength? What could she do to him, after all?

Deliberately, he shook his head, forcing himself to clear his mind. What need had he to concern himself with his bride—or with any female, for that matter? All he knew was fighting. All he wanted was a good battle or three. And yet . . . And yet his future was at stake. The moment he set foot in England, he would seal his fate. The only delay he could hope for would be revolts against the new king that needed quelling—

Ranulf was brought out of his unpleasant reverie by silken arms that entwined his waist from behind, by a lush, familiar, feminine body that pressed suggestively against his. Her delicate, stroking hands felt cool on his fire-warmed skin. Ranulf felt his tense muscles relax.

“She will not pleasure you as I do,” Layla purred, nipping the corded muscle of his upper arm with her teeth.

“She?”

“Your English bride.”

Ranulf grimaced. He had no desire to dwell on his bride, or discuss the subject of his marriage with his leman. “She is not English, but Norman, as are all the ruling families there.”

“Norman, English . . . she will not delight you as Layla will.”

“Enough.” His hands came up to unclasp the concubine’s arms from around his waist. “I have no wish to speak of her.”

Moving sinuously to stand before him, Layla pouted up at Ranulf. “Forgive me, lord. Layla had no desire to anger you.”

His mouth curled in knowing amusement. “No? You delight in rousing my temper, wench, as you well know.”

Unabashed, she leaned closer to press her lips against his breast, swirling her wicked tongue over his nipple . . . lower, through the mat of curling ebony hair covering his chest . . . and lower still, along his flaccid member . . . arousing him deftly as she knelt on the stone floor at his feet. “Only because I also know how to appease you afterward, my magnificent stallion,” she throatily whispered against his swelling flesh.