The Warrior

A wicked smile curled Ranulf’s mouth. “I would not like to see you attempt it. Your slender form could not bear my weight—not standing, at least. Lying down would be another matter, mayhap. Were you beneath me in bed, I wager you would find my heaviness stimulating.”

His provocation was deliberate, she knew. He was determined to show her how powerless she was against him, to prove that he could command her complete submission. And it was effective, if her quickening pulse was any measure. To her chagrin, her mind filled with images of Ranulf covering a woman—coveringher. Instinctively she knew he would make a magnificent lover—Ariane fiercely bit back a curse, determined that he would gain no response from her. When he turned to step into the tub, though, she was shocked anew by those terrible scars on his back.

A maze of unwanted emotions rose within her: compassion, tenderness, sorrow. Had Ranulf’s father truly caused those savage scars on his back? How much more devastating would it be to bear marks created by one’s own father?Her father had often ignored her, rarely showing her affection—a mere daughter. But never had he raised a hand to her in violence.

She watched as Ranulf settled himself in the steaming water, wondering how he had endured such suffering, wondering if his physical scars were matched by ones held inside. Firelight from the hearth created shadows across his face, casting the harsh angles and planes into softer lines, sketching gentleness where she knew there was only relentless resolve. And yet she could see his weariness in the way he let his head fall back.

To her dismay, it aroused in her an acute compulsion to touch him, to offer comfort. She moved toward him silently, drawn against her will.

Ranulf looked up abruptly when he heard her quiet footstep beside the tub. Ariane stood there, gazing down at him, a startling expression of sorrow softening her beautiful features.

Ruthlessly he steeled himself against the compassion he saw in her eyes. He did not want her pity, refused to accept it. He needed only to use this bewitching wench to forget the past hours of death and pain, the savage memories.

“Why do you tarry, lady?” he asked softly, his velvet tone provocative as he gazed up at her.

Ariane stiffened. The all-too-revealing pain had vanished from his eyes, to be replaced by a golden glimmer of challenge.

Unwillingly she knelt beside the tub, keenly conscious of Ranulf’s nakedness. With trembling hands she took up a piece of soap in order to wash him.

She saw to his hair first, working the suds through his scalp with her fingers and then rinsing with fresh water from a ewer. Then came his magnificent body, beginning with his corded arms and powerful shoulders. No matter how she tried to pretend Ranulf was simply a well-born stranger deserving of this honor by the lady of the castle, she could not make herself believe it.

As she moved her hand reluctantly to his broad, muscular chest, she caught her lower lip with her teeth, her discomfort only made worse by the knowledge that he was watching her intently. When he raised his arm over his head to give her access to his ribs, she recollected the cuts in his side, acquired in the ambush, and gratefully latched on to them as an excuse to divert her attention.

“You should allow me to tend these wounds,” Ariane said with concern as, with a gentle finger, she probed the raw, inflamed flesh encrusted with blood. “I brought my supplies.”

Ranulf winced and drew back. “You delight overmuch in your inspection methinks.”

Perhaps she did delight too much, yet it was not his injuries that fascinated her so. It was the feel of him beneath her fingertips: the granite muscle, the soft whorls of raven hair, the heat of his skin. Hardly daring to breathe, she drew the soap along his rib cage.

Ranulf held himself rigidly, wary of the way she fretted over his wounds. She was very gentle as she washed away the dried blood and cleansed the torn flesh, and she wore a faint look of distress, almost as if she cared for his hurt.

Her concern was pretense, he was almost certain; he could not trust her enough to believe otherwise. Most likely she was feigning solicitude in order to lower his defenses.

He forced himself to remain immobile while she washed him . . . until her careful strokes moved to his back and she began tracing the welts of raised scar tissue—

It startled her, how swiftly Ranulf moved. His fingers clamped around her wrist like iron manacles, thwarting her, while his frown deepened. “Do not touch me there.”

Her eyes widened. “How can I wash your back if I am not allowed to touch you?”

Ranulf’s heavy brows drew together. “You may wash, but don’t linger.”

“As you wish, my lord,” she replied with forced meekness.

At her submissive response, he could feel his defenses swelling. He dared not accept the silent comfort she offered. If he yielded to it, he would be leaving himself too open, too vulnerable, to her. Already he could feel himself softening, weakening at her tenderness. Her very nearness was soothing. The gentle curve of her cheek made Ranulf’s hand clench as he fought the urge to reach up and touch her; it took all of his strength to resist.

“I am waiting, demoiselle,” he prodded.

She hurriedly finished his back, but when he propped one foot on the tub’s rim so she could wash his leg, she moved more slowly. And when she came to the juncture of his thighs, Ariane faltered altogether.

Ranulf gave her his slow smile. “You gave me your

oath to obey me,” he reminded her. “Do you forswear it so soon?”

“No. My word is my honor.”

“Honor?” The curve of his mouth turned dry. “I know few highborn ladies who can even conceive of the notion.”

“You do not believe a woman can remain loyal to her liege?”