“Aye, I must. I cannot trust you out of my sight.” That maddening grin flashed again. “Not that I consider such duty a hardship. I’ve always found it a great pleasure to observe a comely wench as she leaves her bed, flushed from sleep—or more arduous activity.”
When she remained immobile, he added, “Must I dress you myself, demoiselle? I assure you, you would not wish for my services.”
Gritting her teeth, Ariane forced herself to throw off the other covers—a difficult task with Ranulf sitting on much of them—and slipped through the bed curtains on the opposite side. Her hope for privacy was short-lived, though; almost lazily Ranulf leaned over to part the bed curtains, giving him a clear vantage.
Shaking with rage and fear, Ariane gave him her back while he remained casually lounging on the bed. Never before had she been so grateful for her hip-length hair, which shielded much of her nakedness. Even so, she could feel Ranulf’s gaze boldly traveling over her as she fumbled for the clothing that her tirewoman had left folded on a chest beside the bed.
Hastily she dragged on her shift before risking a nervous glance over her shoulder. The lout was grinning at her, she realized. A bold, appreciative regard that made her blood boil. Sweet Virgin, how she wanted to box his ears!
“Your curves have filled out since last I saw you,” he murmured wickedly. “The effect is quite appealing. Highly arousing to a man.”
Her jaw clenched so hard the muscles ached. Not only was his provocative taunt inflaming for its sheer brazenness, but it reminded Ariane of the fierce resentment she’d harbored against the lord of Vernay for neglecting her for so many years. She dared not reply, though; to answer as scathingly as she wished would be to put her life at risk.
With a fervent effort at control, she reached for her woolen bliaud, not bothering with the undertunic. Drawing the gown on with a jerk, she smoothed the skirt and struggled to tie the laces under her arms. Then, shunning hose, she stepped into her shoes and turned defiantly to face Ranulf.
Her voice held the slightest quaver when she spoke. “Now what?”
“You will serve as my hostage,” Ranulf answered as he retrieved the dagger she’d tried to steal from him and rose from the bed with remarkable grace for so large a man. “As surety for the good conduct of your father’s knights.”
To her complete startlement, he fetched her mantle from a wall peg and drew it around her shoulders. “Shall we proceed, my lady?”
“Why do you bother to ask?” Ariane couldn’t help saying. “You have already informed me I have no choice. That I am your prisoner.”
“Aye, you are. A pity,” he said quietly.
For a moment he stood looking down at her, a thoughtful frown on his face. Slowly then, he lifted his hand to caress her cheekbone with the lightest of pressures, almost as if he meant to reassure her. His tone was gentle when he murmured, “When you have had time for reflection, you will agree that this is the better course.”
That soft, seductive voice—his monk’s voice—reminded her forcibly of Ranulf’s treachery, made her recall all the years of misery and uncertainty she had endured at his hands—and why she had to resist his deceitful tenderness now.
“Better for whom?” Ariane retorted bitterly.
“For you . . . for your people. For my men. There will be less bloodshed this way. And I can better serve my king if I don’t lose valuable men fighting unnecessary battles.”
“And what of my father’s men? What will be their fate?”
“We will discuss it further when I am in command of the castle. Now, where does your garrison commander sleep? The knight called Simon?”
“You . . . won’t harm him?”
“Not unless he chooses to fight me. He is the logical man to deal with to achieve a surrender. Where he leads, the others will follow. Take me to him, demoiselle—and not a sound from you. I have no wish to alert the household.”
With one hand lightly grasping her upper arm, the other holding his jeweled dagger at the ready, Ranulf guided her to the large oaken door and slowly drew it open. As they passed by the large dormitory where her women lay soundly sleeping on pallets and in curtained slumber niches built into the wall, Ariane grimaced in dismayed disgust. Not one of them had roused when Ranulf stole into her bedchamber, intent on taking her prisoner.
Her apartments were located on the fourth floor of the massive stone tower. Directly below on the third lay the lord’s solar and the large chamber which served as a workroom for the woman of Claredon, where most of the spinning and weaving and sewing was done. The second and main story was taken up almost entirely by the great hall, the center of activity of any castle, while on the ground floor, inaccessible from the bailey without, lay the kitchen and storerooms.
Torches set in wall brackets lit their way down the winding stone steps of the tower. No sentries came to her rescue, a fact Ariane greeted with mounting anger, until she remembered that the men who were awake would be guarding the castle walls in case of a siege by the Black Dragon.
She shook her head in weary disbelief. Ranulf’s plan was indeed cunning. He had made use of Claredon’s every vulnerability, taking shameful advantage of her weakness. She felt dazed, stunned, by the sudden turn of events; horrified and shamed by the ease of Ranulf’s victory. Her father had asked her to hold this place till he returned, but she had failed him sorely, losing his castle in a few short hours.
All was quiet in the great hall, Ariane saw with disappointment. After the excitement of the day, the household folk and favored serfs were sprawled on pallets arrayed alongside the walls. When a shadow separated itself from a stone arch, she almost gasped.
It was just a lad, Ariane realized, but he held a gleaming sword in his hand.
“My lord,” the youth whispered conspiratorially. “I found a weapon, as you commanded.”
Sheathing his dagger in the scabbard at his waist, Ranulf accepted the sword and tested its weight. “Excellent, Burc. You may accompany me now. I have need of you.”
“Aye, milord.” An edge of eagerness threaded the young man’s tone.