The Warrior

She lifted her gaze—and her chin. “I would know your intentions, my lord. What will become of me?”

He frowned. “If your father is found guilty, you will become a ward of the crown. Your marriage will be in the king’s gift, for him to dispose of as he sees fit. For the nonce, I am to hold you as a political prisoner.” He paused. “You cannot be unaware of your value to Henry as a hostage, or that your arrest will perhaps end the rebellion sooner. . . .”

Ranulf’s explanation trailed off as he recalled the exact situation. Why was he permitting her to make him feel guilt for executing his duty, or sympathy for her plight? He should know from her recent treasonous actions that he could not allow himself to soften toward her. He could not let down his guard. “You are my prisoner, to do with as I will, demoiselle.”

At the sudden harshness of his tone, Ariane dug her nails into her palms. How could he be so gentle and reasonable one moment, so cold and heartless the next?

Yet she was naught to Ranulf but a foe. And when he was done with her, he would marry her to some grateful lackey or pack her off to a convent. By the Blessed Virgin, how could she ever have cherished such tender dreams of him? “If you mean to punish me, I wish you would do so.”

He was watching her intently, his expression enigmatic. “However I choose to exact retribution from you,” he said finally, “it will come in my own good time. As I informed you last evening, you can yet influence your fate.”

“What . . . do you mean?”

How forthcoming should he be? Ranulf wondered. Despite his justifiable mistrust of her, despite the wisdom of caution, her cooperation would prove helpful in a successful transition of power. With their former lady’s support, the castlefolk would accept him as lord more readily, perhaps even peacefully. And yet he had no wish to give Ariane the notion she could exploit his vulnerability to her advantage, or to furnish her any leverage to use over him.

“I desire your cooperation regarding the people of Claredon. I would keep their goodwill. Your father’s knights can be expected to follow a code of honor, but not the villeins and freemen. I do not want them set against me, intent on rebellion. Waging war against one’s own property is never profitable, and I have no intention of denting my coffers in unnecessary strife.”

“Claredon is not your property as yet. My father has not been convicted or even afforded a trial. You are not yet lord here.”

Calling on the control he had so mercilessly taught himself, Ranulf forced himself to temper his reply. “Iam lord here, by Henry’s orders. I hold this place, demoiselle. And what is mine, I keep.”

“Then you may keep it without my aid.”

Anger darkened his face. She would not bend easily, Ranulf was coming to realize.

Without warning, he threw off the covers. Startled, Ariane leapt to her feet, gazing at him in alarm.

“If you wish to retain your maidenly virtue,” he said sardonically, “I suggest you step back. I would dress.”

Abruptly, she fled to a far corner of the room.

His mouth curling, Ranulf rose from the bed and strode naked to the door. Opening it, he bellowed for his squire to bestir himself. Then crossing to the bench where he had disrobed the previous evening, he tugged on his braies and tied the drawstring at his waist.

“You have two days to decide your course,” he told Ariane with forced evenness. “I ride for Wyclif this morn and should remain the night at least. In my absence I shall leave my vassal, Ivo de Ridefort, in command of the keep. You will remain confined here until such time as I have your solemn oath to accept me as your liege.”

“I will not give it.”

With effort,

Ranulf held fast to his temper. The wench was sorely in need of a strong hand to curb her defiance, and he would have to provide it. He was determined to conquer her will—and he would, eventually, once he found an effective method to deal with her short of physical violence. As yet, nothing had worked. But two days should buy him time to decide.

“Meanwhile,” he continued as if he had never heard her interruption, “you may have the freedom of this chamber. I shall not order you bound, and your women will be permitted to attend you.”

“Your generosity overwhelms me, my lord.”

“Have a care, demoiselle. My patience wears thin.”

“Does it indeed? I suppose I should be quaking in my shoes?” she replied.

He pinned her with a dark look. “Were you wise, you would be. I can inflict a great deal of misery upon you.”

“I have not the least doubt on that score. I would expect nothing else from a brute.”

“Brute?”His black brows snapped together in a scowl at the unjust accusation. He had taken great care to treat her gently—indeed with far more lenience that she deserved. Yet he was a fool to let her goad him, Ranulf realized. Letting her barbed slurs provoke him into losing his temper only awarded her the upper hand in their battle.

Shaking his head, Ranulf exhaled a rough chuckle and forced himself to relax his rigid muscles. “Have I hurt you, lady?” he managed to reply evenly.

“Nay . . . but neither have you accorded me the slightest respect.”