You should feel satisfaction. Your bride has presented you with sufficient reason to break your longstanding betrothal,Ranulf reminded himself savagely. Her rebellion was cause enough to repudiate the marriage. Yet instead of satisfaction, he felt an acid disappointment that Ariane of Claredon had chosen to support her treasonous father.
Such loyalty might be admirable, were it not so imprudent; she risked imprisonment and worse by such a course. But was loyalty truly her motive? Perhaps she was merely protecting herself in attempting to avoid arrest. Ariane would be well aware that as a political prisoner, she would be accorded none of the liberties and privileges she now enjoyed. A traitor’s daughter would possess fewer rights than a field serf.
But her defiance seemed foolish, Ranulf reflected grimly. If she were truly clever, she would have forsaken her father and welcomedhim as the new lord of Claredon, in hopes of securing his favor and mitigating the king’s retribution.
Yet she, like Walter, was guilty of treason. By rights these entire estates were forfeit, her person subject to arrest.
And he, the Black Dragon of Vernay, would insure swift justice. Ariane of Claredon was now his enemy, her castle and lands his for the claiming.
Besieging or destroying Claredon Keep and the surrounding countryside or risking the lives of his men unnecessarily, however, formed no part of his plans. Not if he could succeed by easier means. He was prepared to take the castle, but on his own terms. Claredon boasted more knights than could be easily defeated, yet he would not need to use overwhelming force if he could turn the circumstances to his own advantage. And in this case, guile would serve him in better stead than open violence.
Quelling any inclination toward lenience, Ranulf forced himself to move. Disguised as a monk, followed by his squire, he gained entrance to the inner bailey and made his way up the outer stairway of the immense stone keep, to the second story and the great hall, now a scene of chaos as serfs and armed men ran to and fro.
He smiled grimly as he melted into the crowd.
The battle was set to begin—a battle he would win in short order.
3
The tall night candle sputtered, its flickering glow probing beyond the parted bed curtains, sending faint shadows dancing across the pale beauty in the bed. Ranulf held his breath as he gazed down at the woman slumbering so peacefully. In the golden half-light, she was too lovely to be real.
Her fair, copper-tinged hair spilled over her naked shoulders, shimmering and glorious, caressing the gentle rise of a breast that peered beneath the edge of the woolen coverlet. His nostrils caught the subtle woman’s scent of her sleep-warmed body, an alluring fragrance that stroked his primal, masculine senses and kindled a desire as intense as any he’d ever known. A muscle tensed in Ranulf’s jaw at the effort to keep from reaching out to her.
He could see the faint pulse throbbing in her white throat as he stood drinking in Ariane’s beauty. Pale and perfect. Delicate as a rose. Innocent and vulnerable as a babe . . . Except that she was no babe, nor child either. She was a beautiful woman, who stirred his passions as no wench ever had.
He wanted to touch her.
Without thinking, he reached down to graze the soft skin of her brow with his thumb, then drew back abruptly, cursing himself for his weakness. When she awakened, the scorn in her silver-gray eyes would flay him without mercy.
And yet he could not resist the temptation. Unwillingly, he ran his thumb over the pale curve of her cheek, tracing the fragile bone and delicate hollow beneath. Her soft sigh as she stirred beneath his touch was a whisper of sound, a lover’s plea.
His body hardened as heated images flickered before his eyes. . . . Ariane shuddering and straining beneath him. . . . Ariane willing and eager, welcoming him into her bed, into her body. . . .
A bitter smile twisted Ranulf’s mouth. She would never be eager for his touch. She rued their betrothal, rued ever hearing his name. She would be glad to be free of him.
He is no true knight. A grasping, baseborn pretender to nobility.
He should have felt relief that she found their betrothal so repugnant. Should have been pleased that her own defiant actions released him from any obligation toward her. He had been prepared to honor his word, but now he need not feel remorse for delaying his arrival for so long, or for repudiating their union. In truth, it was fortunate he had discovered her true feelings—the contempt she harbored for him—in time, before he was irrevocably tied to her.
And yet . . . a hollow ache he could not explain centered in Ranulf’s chest, along with other, less precise feelings of turmoil.
The savage rage he’d felt earlier toward her had faded, leaving behind a familiar emptiness. His irrational fury, Ranulf realized in some dark corner of his mind, had not been directed at Ariane so much as at his own despised father, for making him fight for what rightfully was his.
The battle for Claredon would be similar to his long-ago struggle for Vernay, Ranulf acknowledged, yet it was not vengeance that drove him this time, but duty. He felt a measure of regret that he would be compelled to take Ariane hostage, but he had no choice in the matter. Henry’s orders were clear. A traitor’s lands were automatically forfeit, and swift retribution against Walter of Claredon would serve as a lesson to others who would defy Henry’s rule. Moreover, Ariane’s own actions had sealed her fate, Ranulf reminded himself. Refusing the king’s order to surrender the castle made her a traitor to the crown. He could perhaps understand her defense of the castle and her loyalty to her father, but he could not condone it, nor allow her defiance to continue.
I would that I had never heard his name.
“But you have heard my name, demoiselle,” Ranulf whispered bleakly.
With a muted sigh, he settled one hip on the high bed, beside his sleeping betrothed. Carefully he lifted the pale, thick tendrils of her hair away from her ear and pressed the delicate line of her jaw beneath, prepared to wake her quietly.
Her dream seemed so very real. The gentle rasp of pressure over her skin . . . the seductive warmth against her cheek . . . the lush, sensual pleasure of a caressing rhythm . . .
A lover’s stroking hand?
My beloved, have you come for me at last?
Within the drugged oblivion of slumber, Ariane arched against the unfamiliar heat, aching for some unnamed fulfillment. Her body seemed aflame with need. Her eyelids felt so heavy . . . yet she could almost see him . . . her dream lover . . . tall and powerful, godlike in countenance and bearing. His passion was just as she had always imagined it would be: fierce . . . tender . . . overwhelming. Blindly she tried to reach for him, but her arms remained frustratingly pinned at her sides.