The Warrior

Turning her head, Ariane stared blindly up at the canopy overhead, a dull ache constricting her chest. No, this encounter with Ranulf was nothing like what she had once expected or hoped.

This should have been her wedding night. She had dreamed of her first time with Ranulf. Countless times she had imagined lying with him, giving herself to her husband in love and honor, opening her body to him, responding to his tender caresses. . . .

Her dreams bore no resemblance to this . . . this mockery of a solemn marriage bedding. She was sharing his bed, yes, but not in love or honor.

They were enemies now. The lord of Vernay had repudiated their betrothal and refused to touch her, while she shrank from him in fear and loathing.

5

She dreamed of her lover again. A haunting, erotic fantasy that faded like wisps of smoke as dawn stole through the shuttered windows.

Ariane was startled awake from a fitful doze, conscious of an incredible feeling of sadness. Only in slow increments did she become aware of other vivid sensations: a corded arm curled possessively about her waist . . . the searing heat of a hard, male body at her back . . . a fierce yearning within her that rose hot and formless and powerful.

Ranulf.

Sweet Mary. . . .

She froze, aware of his enveloping embrace, of his shaft, throbbing and hard, pressed against her buttocks, even through the layers of her clothing. For a score of heartbeats, Ariane lay there rigidly, not daring to move. She could hear Ranulf’s breathing, soft and even, feel his relaxed pose. . . .

Merciful God . . . he still slept.

Holding her breath, Ariane eased from beneath his arm and slipped from the bed. Silently, she fled to the sanctuary of the window alcove where she curled shivering on the cushioned seat. After the warmth of Ranulf’s bed, her rumpled bliaud provided little protection from the morning chill. And no garment could shield her from her shameful, traitorous thoughts. She could still feel the boldness of his body imprinting his maleness onto her, still sense the heated yearning that had swept through her at his unconscious embrace.

Mother Mary, what had come over her? Her only excuse was that her defenses had been sorely weakened. For the second straight night, she had scarcely slept, and her nerves were strained by fear and exhaustion.

Hearing a slight noise, Ariane glanced warily back at Ranulf. He had shifted his position to sprawl across the huge bed, a starkly masculine figure against the flaxen-hued sheets. Her attention caught, she studied his slumbering form, wondering how he could look so commanding and forceful even in sleep.

His face was drawn in clean, harsh angles, the features sensuously, ruthlessly chiseled. His heavy, slashing brows were black as night, his nose strong and hawkish, the chin square with a slight cleft. Long, ebony lashes closed over eyes she knew were a shade of brown that was nearly gold.

As for his body . . . Ariane bit her lip in dismay. That she found Ranulf physically appealing mortified as well as infuriated her. She was no longer the nervous, tongue-tied girl he had once awed, yet she couldn’t deny her fascination with him now. Old habits were difficult to forswear. She had dreamed of this man as her lover, the idol of all her girlhood fantasies. . . .

Abruptly she shook her head. She would crush her attraction for him if it took every ounce of strength she possessed. Ranulf was a cold, heartless devil, the man who held her hostage. She had wasted five of the best years of her life waiting and yearning for him—and he had cruelly shattered her most cherished dreams without a single measure of remorse, rep

udiating their betrothal contract as casually as he would cast aside a cloak that had outserved its purpose.

Curse you, Ranulf de Vernay.He cared nothing for her. Worse, he considered her a traitor for closing the castle to him and for helping her father’s vassal escape. The man who should have been her lord and husband was now her bitter enemy.

The only fortunate turn was that she did not have to fear his ravishment. As Ranulf had pointed out, if he were to consummate their union, they would be wedded in the eyes of the Church. And the very thought was repugnant to him.

Ariane shut her eyes, trying to swallow the bitterness that choked her, to deny the pricking warmth of threatening tears. Lamenting lost dreams would serve no useful purpose. She must focus her efforts on the future, on safeguarding the people and home she loved. They depended upon her to shield them, to fight for them.

If she tried, perhaps she could atone in some measure for her inability to defend Claredon, to somehow assuage the guilt she felt for failing her father. Walter had brought them safely through years of civil war and lawlessness, only to have his demesne fall to a warlord who should have been an ally. And to be accused of treason for taking part in a revolt against the new king. . . . Ariane could never believe her father guilty of such foolish defiance, especially not when he so wanted peace for England. Certainly he had not been contemplating treason weeks ago when he’d left Claredon for Mortimer’s keep at Bridgenorth.

Yet now her father’s life might very well be forfeit. She had lost his demesne, the one thing that might have aided his cause and given him power to bargain with. Even if by God’s mercy his life was spared, the punishment for treason was severe. The thought of her father blind or without hands or genitals caused hot tears to well up in her throat.

Ariane pressed a hand to her mouth to hold back the sob trembling inside her, yet she couldn’t prevent the tears from spilling over. Blessed Virgin, she was utterly helpless to aid him. At present she could not even find the strength to fight the desolation assaulting her. . . . Burying her face in her hands, she gave in to strain and despair and softly wept.

“I do not recall granting you permission to leave my bed, demoiselle.”

The husky, sleep-laden sound of Ranulf’s voice startled her. Choking back her sobs, Ariane turned abruptly to find golden eyes above a hawklike nose surveying her intently. She swallowed thickly and hastily wiped at her eyes. Her humiliation at her defeat was great enough without adding the shame of weeping before him.

“Come here,” he commanded quietly.

For a moment she hesitated, but the implacable look in his eyes brooked no defiance and she closed the distance to the bed. To her shock and dismay, Ranulf reached out to grasp a handful of her gown, and with a gentle tug, pulled her down to sit beside him on the bed.

He studied her for a long moment, trying to discern if the emotion glistening in her eyes was genuine or feigned, if the soft sound of her sobbing when he’d awakened had been a calculated ploy for sympathy. He did not want to see the misery etched in her lovely face, and yet he could not completely trust it. In truth, he trusted no women and few men. And the cool, bewitching beauty of this particular damsel, with her spiky-wet lashes and trembling mouth, doubly set him on his guard.

His urge to touch her was strong—and keenly disconcerting. He understood the desire that tugged at his loins. His customary morning arousal had made him hard and throbbing beneath the bed linens, yet he was well familiar with waking in such a painful state—and having so haunting a wench so near at hand did nothing to cool his blood. Yet the softer feelings running rampant inside him bewildered him. The urge to draw Ariane into his arms, to hold and comfort her and kiss away her sorrow, was a novel, startling experience for him. He had never embraced a woman merely to offer comfort, without lust driving him.