The Warrior

Yet it was a dilemma, how to punish her without being overly cruel. He dared not risk any sign of weakness, and yet he had tied his own hands in dealing with Ariane. Not only would he find physically harming someone so delicate and lovely supremely distasteful, but he had vowed never to subject a woman to the abuse his despised father had displayed toward his mother—or the torment he himself had endured. He refused to sink to such depths of depravity, or take out his violent wrath on creatures frailer and weaker than he.

His gaze swept around the solar, seeking an answer. Having been fully occupied with securing the castle, he’d had no time earlier to inspect his new living quarters. The sight was pleasing. Norman society was enormously more sophisticated than England’s, but the appointments in this chamber compared favorably with the wealthier keeps in Normandy. Far more welcoming than his own solar at Vernay, with none of the disturbing associations, it provided richness without ostentation, comfort without being overly soft for a man of war accustomed to living in army camps.

A huge curtained bed dominated the chamber, while intricately carved chests and thickly padded benches stood in the corners and before the bronze-hooded hearth where embers glowed warmly. The two tall, shuttered embrasures would allow in ample light during the day, and the cushioned seats arranged in the deep-set window alcoves would afford a restful place for ladies engaged in needlework or conversation. There were also several gilt screens for privacy and to reduce drafts, finely woven carpets on the woodplank floor, tapestry hangings to accent the whitewashed walls, and even a brightly painted floral mural deco-rating the stone at the head of the bed.

Slowly Ranulf’s gaze returned to that bed with its rich quilt of brocade and additional coverlets of marten fur. Seeing it reminded him of the current circumstances and his dilemma. He was alone with a beautiful woman who was his prisoner, with no satisfactory notion of what to do with her.

He knew what he would like to do. He wanted her sprawled willingly in that bed, her legs wrapped hard around his hips as he appeased his carnal hunger—

Ranulf muttered an oath beneath his breath. The image of Ariane lying beneath him, her slim, silky body open for his pleasure, made his loins tighten painfully and caused his body to tauten like a bowstring. Yet she was no ill-bred leman to be taken at his pleasure. And the existence of the betrothal contracts constrained him further. He could not touch Ariane, could not consummate their relationship at least, while the legal documents existed, or he would be as good as married to her. No, he would have to find another way to punish her, much to his regret.

But what? He had no desire to keep her imprisoned, and yet he dared not let her have the run of the keep, for she could too easily aid her father’s men to freedom. Even if she gave him her solemn word, he could not trust her to keep it. Nobly born females, in his experience, had an inbred instinct for betrayal. His own mother . . . the wife of his foster lord . . . the ladies of the Norman court . . . all had shown how duplicitous they could be. And Ariane of Claredon had proven the danger in trusting her. He would constantly have to remain on his guard.

His gaze narrowing, Ranulf eyed the bed speculatively. ’Twas a pity he would have to keep his hands off her. One night in his bed and he might manage to compel her submission without any resort to violence. His skill as a lover had rarely been questioned. He knew well how to pleasure a wench and make her respond to his physical persuasions. If thi

s damsel was like the other females of his acquaintance, he could soon have her trembling at his merest touch.

Yet Ariane, he was beginning to suspect, was perhaps a woman of a different stamp. Her regal air, her cool disdain, was as vexing as it was novel. ’Twould be intriguing to see if he could make her yield, if he could melt that haughty manner and turn her scorn to gasping surrender. . . .

Testing the smoothness of his shaven jaw with his palm, Ranulf returned his attention to her, considering her with a measuring gaze. “The hour grows late. It is time to retire.”

She stared at him a long moment, before warily, wordlessly turning toward the door.

“Where do you go, my lady?” Ranulf asked silkily. “I did not give you leave to withdraw.”

“But you said . . . you wanted to retire.”

“So I did. I suggest you prepare for bed.”

“W-What?”

“You can begin by disrobing.”

“You wish for me toundress ?”

A smile curved his lips. “A clever observation, sweeting. You may make use of my bathwater if you choose. I will be done with it in a moment.”

Ariane stood frozen, staring at him as if he had taken leave of his senses.

“You will remain here for the night,” Ranulf explained vaguely. “I intend to keep you close, since I cannot trust you out of my sight. Doubtless you will find it preferable to being locked below in the dungeon.”

“I would infinitely prefer the dungeon,” she said with more heat than was wise.

“I do not mean to give you the choice. You will remain here where I can keep an eye on you. You will sleep in this chamber, in that bed, willing or no.”

Their gazes warred, but Ranulf refused to relent. Hewanted her to worry about his intentions. No doubt she would much prefer to be locked chastely in her own apartments instead of being compelled to bear his company. It should prove a humbling experience, being forced to share a bed with him, the grasping knight she scorned as a dishonorable pretender to nobility.

She had not yet moved, Ranulf noted as he forced away the erotic reflection. “It will go easier for you if you submit to me willingly,” he warned, his tone casual.

“I will not be dishonored,” Ariane replied at last, her voice shaking.

“Dishonor? Is that what it would be, demoiselle?”

“Yes, if you take me without the blessing of the Church.”

“That presumes you still have honor to lose.”

Letting his dagger drop to the floor with a clatter, Ranulf rose abruptly to his feet and stepped dripping from the tub. His nude body glistening, he strode purposefully toward her.