The Warrior

“Aye,” he agreed, his tone husky. Already he could feel his groin stirring, his organ stiffening, throbbing. “So why do you delay? Appease me now.”

His hand on her shoulder, he drew Layla to his pulsing arousal. She knew what he wanted, what he needed from her. Her mouth curving in a feline smile, she closed her caressing fingers around the base of his burgeoning rod, now huge and thick, and took him in her hot mouth.

With a grimace of pleasure, Ranulf shut his eyes, his buttocks tightening rigidly as he thrust with slow, shuddering restraint into her slick heat. This was his last night at Vernay and he would make good use of it, of the exquisite skills the exotic Saracen possessed.

His hand rode her dark head as he tried to lose himself in the sensual pleasure she provided, as he tried unsuccessfully to forget his laughable dilemma. He, a powerful Norman warlord and one of Duke Henry’s most able vassals, had turned craven.

Yet it was not his mighty enemies and their armies who were to blame, but a young noblewoman. A mere girl.

Absurdly, beyond all reason, despite all rational arguments with himself, he feared his own bride.

A bride he could not avoid facing very much longer.

2

Claredon Keep, England: April 1155

His first response when Ranulf spied his winsome bride on the battlements was supreme wariness, followed swiftly by unwelcome surprise. The plain, skinny child he remembered from five years before bore little resemblance to the tall, regal beauty he was looking at now.

God’s wounds! The recent reports of Ariane’s striking loveliness had been exaggerated perhaps, but not overmuch, Ranulf admitted grudgingly. The setting sun turned her fair, plaited hair to palest flame, while her fine-boned profile could have been carved from alabaster.

His loins tightened instinctively—a stirring he abruptly quelled. He was never invulnerable to a comely woman, but this was no time to be lusting after his bride, certainly not if she was contemplating treason against the crown.

Ranulf voiced a quiet oath under his breath as he stood watching Ariane from the shadows. He had spent the past months quelling resistance to the new king throughout the length and breadth of England, but rebellion from this quarter was entirely unexpected. King Henry had counted Walter of Claredon one of his firm supporters, which made his betrayal all the more treacherous. Walter had joined Hugh Mortimer’s revolt at Bridgenorth, thus earning Henry’s legendary rage. Ranulf had been sent here to Claredon to seize the traitor’s estates—and to apprehend Walter’s daughter.

At present, she stood, cool and defiant, on the wall-walk overlooking the entrance gates, directing the preparations for the castle’s defense. Everything below was chaos, the milling crowds and herds emitting a clamor of sound—shouts, thudding hooves, the squawks and squeals and brays of farm animals—as they poured across the drawbridge into the outer bailey. No fools, the serfs and villagers of Claredon sought refuge behind the thick stone curtain walls of the keep, all fleeing the wrath of the Black Dragon.

All were unaware that the Black Dragon himself had entered the gates with the first wave of refugees hours before and now stood in the shadow of a stone alcove on the battlements, a mere pebble’s toss from their lady.

“My lord?” his squire, Burc, whispered at his shoulder. “Do we arrest the demoiselle now or do we wait?”

“We wait.”

He would allow his betrothed to prove her intentions. Her father was in open rebellion against King Henry, which warranted her detention as a political prisoner, but it would go easier with her if she denounced Lord Walter’s treason and voluntarily surrendered his castle. It was still possible she would yield, although her current actions suggested otherwise. Judging from appearances, the Claredon heiress was girding for war.

Ranulf would have preferred to question her at once, but he would not risk approaching his bride yet, not until dusk fell to aid his disguise. The cowled monk’s robe he wore concealed his face and untonsured hair, but his great height and powerful frame were difficult to mask. He had stooped his shoulders and broadened his girth with a cushion tied over his belly, but he preferred to avoid recognition. Having to fight his way through such a motley crowd would not suit his purpose.

Already the armored knights and archers arrayed along the battlements made the vulnerable flesh between his shoulder blades itch. He had left off his chain mail and sword when he’d donned his coarse brown monk’s garb, and carried only a dagger as a weapon. His best squire, a lad chosen for his quick mind, would scarcely provide much support should the Claredon forces discover an enemy in their midst. Yet he’d elected religious garb as the least likely to arouse suspicion, while affording him the best opportunity to observe his betrothed—and put him in a better position to act should she defy the king’s command and close the gates against him.

A development that seemed imminent, judging by the frantic preparations going forth.

Ranulf’s jaw clenched. If his bride forced him to lay siege to the castle and risk his men’s lives, she would feel the vengeance of his sword.

Narrowing his eyes, Ranulf studied Ariane with unwilling admiration. Her tall, graceful frame gowned in rust-red bliaud and gold-linked girdle appeared as slender as a willow, too delicate to lead a retinue of knights and men-at-arms in defiance of her new liege, King Henry. She would not be the first of Henry’s subjects to attempt it, though, nor the last. Henry had been confronting unruly English barons since his first moment of arriving from Normandy four months ago. After being crowned king, he had moved swiftly to restore order in England, demolishing unlawful castles built during the late Stephen’s reign, crushing revolts, and defeating any of Stephen’s supporters who refused to swear fealty to their new ruler.

The current uprising was led by Hugh of Mortimer, who wished to set Stephen’s bastard son William on the throne in Henry’s stead. At this moment King Henry was besieging Mortimer’s castles in Shropshire. And Ranulf had been sent to Berkshire to take possession of Walter of Claredon’s demesne and to deal with his daughter.

At the moment she appeared deep in contemplation, a pose that only increased Ranulf’s wariness and mistrust. In his experience, females of her noble class who thought overmuch were intent on mischief and scheming.

He watched as Ariane raised a hand to her brow and bowed her head. Was she weeping? Praying?

No matter. He could not be swayed by tears. And God could not save her from his wrath if she was intent on treason. If she chose to support the rebellion against England’s lawful king, she would pay dearly for her betrayal.

The choice was hers to make.

“Shall we raise the drawbridge, my lady?” Simon Crecy asked quietly of his mistress. “Most of the villeins are accounted for.”

“