The Warrior

“Harsh?Not half as harsh as the lout deserved. But Ranulf would never have ordered a man flogged to death. The prospect would pain him more than the cursed culprit.”

“What . . . do you mean?”

“Ranulf knows the bite of the lash. His father taught him well.”

“His father?”

“Aye, Yves, the noble lord of Vernay.” Payn’s tone was a sneer as he looked directly at her. “You have seen Ranulf’s back, have you not?”

“Those terrible scars,” Ariane whispered, her voice faint with horror.

“Aye, those scars.” Balling his fists, Payn suddenly announced that he would await her in the corridor, then left the chamber as if he didn’t trust himself to remain near her without giving way to his temper.

Her fingers trembling, Ariane finished applying the poultice, but her thoughts were centered on Ranulf.

When Edric eventually regained consciousness, she made him drink an herbal tea, which she had ordered brewed in the kitchens. She then expressed her remorse over his suffering but made him understand that he must accept Ranulf as Lord of Claredon, as she had. It was not entirely truthful, perhaps, Ariane reflected silently, but she could not permit anyone else to suffer for her sake. In future, any defiance of Ranulf would come from her alone.

When her ministrations were finished, Edric was carried to the dungeons by his guards, while Payn accompanied Ariane back to the great hall. In her absence, the entertainment had resumed, and the rafters resonated with the din of jovial song and laughter. It seemed as if the interruption had never occurred.

She could not dismiss the incident so easily, however. She had not imagined the haunted pain in Ranulf’s eyes, even though there was no trace of it now when she reached the high table. The expression on his harsh, handsome features was cool, remote. Yet he was not emotionally detached, she would swear it.

Ariane did not know whether to be relieved or affronted when Ranulf ignored her presence entirely, but her heart skipped a sharp beat when after a few moments, he rose, and with a curt gesture of his head, ordered her to accompany him. Without protest, she followed him out of the great hall, conscious of countless pairs of eyes watching them, aware that some suspected her of sharing the Black Dragon’s bed.

To her surprise, Ranulf did not go directly to the solar on the floor above, but detoured to a small chamber nearby. The room was dim, lit by a candle and warmed by glowing coals in a copper brazier. A youth lay on a pallet, swathed with wo

olen blankets. Recognizing him as Ranulf’s squire, Burc, Ariane could see the wounded young man was flushed and feverish but awake.

Ranulf went down on one knee beside his pallet and touched Burc’s uninjured shoulder. “How fare you, lad?” Ariane had never heard his tone so soft or gentle. He cared deeply for this boy, she was certain.

The youth swallowed and answered in a weak voice, “Well enough, milord.”

“I hear the arrow was removed cleanly.”

“Aye, milord . . . ’twas fortunate.”

Ranulf’s jaw tightened, but he refrained from reply as he lifted Burc’s head and held a cup to his lips. “Sleep now,” he urged. “I shall look in on you on the morrow.”

He said not another word, but his features had taken on the black scowl that she so dreaded, Ariane realized as she followed Ranulf along the stone corridor to the solar.

To her further dismay, they found the serving wench, Dena, awaiting him there, a wanton glint in her eye, a seductive smile wreathing her lips as she knelt beside the tub, obviously prepared to attend the lord at his bath—and more so if he wished.

Ariane was astonished by the fierce jealousy that surged through her. It shouldn’t matter in the least whom Ranulf chose to bestow his attentions upon. He could rut with a dozen serving wenches for all she cared. She felt an inexplicable satisfaction, though, when he dismissed the wench.

A moment later, however, when the disappointed Dena had withdrawn, Ariane realized her triumph was premature. With both his squire incapacitated and the servants gone, it fell to her to attend Ranulf at his bath.

“I am waiting, demoiselle,” he remarked in a soft tone that set her pulse skittering.

8

Comprehending that he intended for her to undress him, Ariane set down the pouch of medicines she had brought with her. Slowly she approached Ranulf, aware of the erratic thudding of her heart. Warily, silently, she unlaced his tunic and pulled it over his head, then did the same to his undertunic. The cuts on his side had ceased bleeding, she noted, and had crusted over with dried blood.

Trying unsuccessfully to ignore his bare, powerfully muscled torso, she knelt to untie his cross-garters. By the time she had unfastened the leather points that held his chausses to his braies, though, Ariane felt a shameful heat flooding her body.

“Everything, demoiselle,” Ranulf said pointedly when she hesitated. “I cannot bathe half dressed.”

She untied the drawstring and pulled the short trousers down over his hips with more force than entirely necessary.

“Must I carry you to the bath as well?” she muttered.