The Warrior

“I know of but one woman who could be preying on your mind so relentlessly that you forget your companions at arms. You have spoken nary a word this past hour and more. Your betrothed, of course.”

“I never touched her,” Ranulf said grimly.

“I thought not. Your temper has been too wretched.”

Few people could taunt the Black Dragon even good-naturedly without fear of retribution. But Ranulf and Payn had fostered together as boys in the same noble household in Normandy. Payn knew his deepest secrets, understood the demons that drove him.

“It is not merely my loins that pain me,” Ranulf retorted dryly. “It is her manner. The wench continues to thwart me.”

“If you want her, then take her. You would not be the first knight to claim a noble hostage as the rewards of war.”

Ranulf’s mouth curled. “You are obviously not versed in Church law, else you would know that were I to ‘take her’ as you advise, she would be my wife in truth. And having that traitorous lady to wife is my remotest desire.”

“She is comely, you must admit.”

Ranulf grunted. “The blossom of the hemlock plant holds a deceptive beauty, but its poison is deadly.” He grimaced. “I thought I was pledged to a sweet, malleable girl, yet the wench has a tongue as tart as a lemon and a will as stubborn as a mule’s. She will not yield. And she is dangerous, besides—not to be trusted.”

“Then toss her in the dungeon and be done with it.”

“She is alady, ” Ranulf replied in frustration.

Giving a low laugh, Payn shook his head. “Some dragon you are. I have seen you deal ruthlessly with your enemies, but with a wench you have no more willpower than the veriest kitten. I advise you to harden your heart, my lord, lest the Lady Ariane take your compassion for weakness.”

“Aye,” Ranulf agreed, his mouth twisting ruefully at his failing. “I must needs show her who is the lord and who is the hostage.”

“You cou

ld always summon your Saracen leman from Normandy to ease your ache and keep your mind off your former bride.”

Ranulf laughed outright at that provocative suggestion, his good mood restored by Payn’s banter. Although not his only leman, Layla was by far the best, yet not even she was worth the price he would have to pay for her exquisite services. He had no desire to show such a grasping, greedy wench such favor, for she would take merciless advantage of his weakness. For that reason, he had not brought Layla with him during the extended military campaign—that and his refusal to indulge in too much softness.

“I could not afford the expense of summoning her,” Ranulf replied dryly.

“Howwill you deal with your former bride, then?” Payn asked.

“I know not.” He fell silent, contemplating his dilemma. Unless he hit upon an effective solution, Ariane could prove a savage thorn in his side.

Possessively Ranulf gazed at the stone fortress rising tall and regal in the distance. Perhaps he had been mistaken by not coming to England before now . . . although even had he married Ariane, he could not have claimed Claredon, not as long as her father Walter lived. But the castle was his now, by king’s decree.His. His overlordship of Claredon meant more to him than he wanted to admit. For the first time in his life, his future held a promise of peace. He had the chance to start anew here. This was not Vernay, with its legacy of hatred and torment. Claredon was a rich demesne, worthy of a great lord—and he wanted to be worthy of it.

Ranulf felt a burgeoning hope flare within him as he surveyed the rich countryside. He had never allowed himself to yearn for such providence, except perhaps in the secret recesses of his soul. Even now his good fortune could prove ephemeral. King Henry favored him now because he’d fought well and hard in support of the crown, but Henry could always strip him of honors or return him to bastard status on a royal whim.

Until then, however, he intended to take up residence at Claredon. For the nonce, he would treasure the prize he had been awarded.

He wanted to be a just lord, Ranulf thought with an unfamiliar wistfulness. Yet the Lady Ariane could greatly influence his ability to rule. Without her cooperation, he might be forced to deal harshly with the people of Claredon. His former betrothed could cause him untold trouble.

“I shall have to contrive something,” Ranulf murmured almost to himself. “I will not lose this place.”

“Perhaps you should consider a different strategy,” Payn observed. “As you said, your hostage is a lady—a member of the fair sex—and thus susceptible to persuasion. Why do you not put your legendary talents to good use?”

“Talents?”

“If anyone can seduce the lady into yielding, ’twould be you, Ranulf. You need not actually consummate the betrothal. And you would doubtless find the challenge of taming her pleasurable.”

Seduction? Of Ariane? Ranulf fell silent at the suggestion. In truth, he had already considered such a course, although not seriously.

But perhaps heshould change his strategy in order to win her cooperation. He knew how to persuade a wench to do his bidding. Typical ones, at any event, Ranulf thought with a rueful grin. The lady of Claredon might prove to be a far bigger challenge than he could manage. Ariane responded to him with icy indifference and/or scathing derision. In truth, if her contempt were not so cutting, he might even have found it humorous. At Vernay the serving wenches usually tripped over themselves trying to get into his bed, but not Ariane.

Ranulf laughed silently at himself. If he had any pretensions to vanity over his success with women, she would quickly suppress them.