The Warrior

Ariane’s wary gaze returned to the Black Dragon where he sat on a wooden bench, allowing his squire to attend him. Ranulf had not acknowledged her presence yet, thankfully. His woolen tunic had been removed, and now his mud-spattered boots were stripped

off, his woolen chausses unlaced, leaving only linen braies covering his loins.

Seeing him thus, Ariane drew in a sharp breath at the sight of Ranulf’s powerful body. Nakedness was a common occurrence in castle life, and she had frequently seen unclothed men before. Her duties as chatelaine of the castle often required such exposure—helping the lord dress, bathing visitors of high rank, using her knowledge of medicines to dress the wounds of soldiers and serfs alike. And yet no man had ever affected her as strongly as this one did now; no physique had ever seemed as compelling as Ranulf’s masculine body . . . hard, muscular, battle-scarred.

His shoulders appeared massively wide, his chest broad and darkly furred, marked with badges of combat. His flat, taut belly tapered to narrow hips, while his thighs and calves bulged with ropes of muscle. But it was the force and energy that radiated from him, even when he was at ease, that commanded her attention. Somehow Ranulf de Vernay dominated the entire chamber.

He still had the power to awe her, Ariane realized with regret, yet he was a far more fearsome adversary now than ever. He looked supremely dangerous at present, with his jaw darkened by two days’ growth of black beard. Cold, harsh, merciless . . .

He was no longer simply her betrothed, the heartless suitor who had left her to pine and wither for so many years. He was her enemy.

The last of the servants finished their tasks and withdrew, giving her cautious, regretful glances as they passed, as if to apologize for abandoning their lady to the terrifying Black Dragon. Ariane returned faint smiles of reassurance, trying to pretend that her courage was not failing her. When they had gone, she stood unmoving by the wall, not daring to call attention to herself.

Moments later Ranulf dismissed his squire. As the door closed quietly behind the youth, Ariane’s heart rose to her throat. She had preferred to be alone with Ranulf when he meted out her punishment, but now that she was, she found herself hoping with a foolish desperation that he would forget about her.

He was toying with the dagger in his hand as he lounged on the bench, stroking the sharp steel blade with an almost absentminded caress. Ariane had the ominous feeling his silence was deliberate, a calculated attempt to shred her already raw nerves further.

Then suddenly he looked up, and she was pierced by bold, brilliant amber eyes. The impact took her breath away. His lean, hawklike features held a harsh look of simmering anger, while his gaze was like a lance pinning her against the wall. Quite clearly Ranulf had not forgotten her actions of last night—nor forgiven her.

Calling on every bit of courage she possessed, Ariane lifted her chin and coolly returned his gaze. She would not cower before him. The lady of Claredon had more pride.

His look darkened and warred with hers—until finally it dropped to her bound wrists. His hard mouth tightened.

“Come here.”

Ariane stood rooted to the floor.

“I won’t repeat myself, demoiselle,” he said in warning.

Stiffening her spine, she forced her feet to move.

She had taken but a few steps, though, when the door swung open once more. A serving wench entered the chamber, carrying a pile of linen towels and a carved wooden box that Ariane knew contained costly soaps.

Although grateful for the respite, Ariane found herself clenching her fingers in disapproval. Only she and the castle seneschal had keys to the storeroom containing soaps and spices and medicinal herbs. That a serf had been raiding the stocks of Claredon, now that no authority existed to exert control over the castle, raised her ire. And her raw nerves made her speak more sharply than usual.

“What is the meaning of this, Dena? You were taught never to enter a chamber unbidden.”

At the scolding, the girl lowered flashing brown eyes. “I beg pardon, my lady. I thought to bathe the new lord.”

“Well, knock beforehand next time—”

“What did you say to her?” Ranulf demanded, interrupting.

Ariane gave a start and glanced at him warily. She had spoken to the girl in English, the language most of Claredon’s serfs understood, instead of the Norman French of England’s ruling class. Was it possible Ranulf could not comprehend that tongue? If so, it might prove an advantage . . . Or he could simply be testing her . . .

“I advised her,” Ariane replied truthfully, “to remember her training and knock before entering a closed door.”

Ranulf’s gaze bored into her. “You would do well to remember your own precarious position. You are lady here no longer, nor do you have the right to commandmy servants. Your authority here is no greater than any serf’s.”

She flushed at the reprimand and fell silent. Dena’s sly glance at Ranulf implied that she at least understood the import of his harsh declaration, and that she was enjoying her lady’s humiliation.

“Tell her to set her burden down and leave us.”

When Ariane reluctantly complied, Dena bobbed a curtsey and hastened to obey, while at the same time letting her gaze travel over Ranulf’s nearly naked body. As she bent to leave the towels and soap beside the tub, the neck of her tunic slipped half off one shoulder, baring a good deal of a generous breast. And as she took her leave, she gave Ranulf a seductive display of swaying hips, explicitly announcing her availability to the new lord and her eagerness to share his bed.

He seemed not to notice. He kept his hard gaze trained on Ariane until the door had shut once more, leaving them alone.

“The wench seems far friendlier than my own bride,” he said dryly.