Picking up a linen towel, Ariane approached him warily, trying to maintain her composure. Ranulf was well over six feet of sheer power, all hard muscle and intensity, and he looked supremely dangerous with his raven hair wet and tousled, his golden, hawkish gaze focused solely on her, a light dancing in their striking depths. Her acknowledged fascination for the man only added to her vexation, and she used more force than necessary as she dried his beautiful, scarred body.
“Have a care, demoiselle. I would keep my skin.”
With effort, Ariane slowed her movements. Then she caught sight of the fresh blood seeping from the cuts on his side and sucked in her breath in dismay. She had opened Ranulf’s wounds with her harshness.
Immediately contrite, she gazed up at him. “You are bleeding anew.”
“It is nothing.”
Ariane shook her head, beset by guilt. She owed Ranulf at least a minimum of gratitude for his earlier restraint in sparing the lives of his attackers and burying the dead. Certainly Ranulf did not deserve to bemauled by her. “I must tend these gashes.”
“I said it is nothing, demoiselle.”
Her chin rose stubbornly. “I am acting in place of your squire, my lord—an assignment you yourself set for me. You will allow me to carry out my oath and serve you.”
She spoke in a voice of authority, the regal command of a chatelaine accustomed to ruling a vast household staff. Ranulf stared at her a long moment, his look wary, as if he feared she might inflict him with bodily harm. “Very well,” he said finally.
Ariane understood his wariness. She had given him little reason to trust her, she reminded herself as she went to fetch her supplies.
Ranulf reluctantly allowed her to apply a poultice and bind his ribs with strips of linen, but he watched her closely. He told himself Ariane could do him no harm, and yet her ministrations seemed far too intimate for the simple task she performed. Or perhaps he simply felt too vulnerable. His former betrothed saw too much with those luminous gray eyes, making him feel as if his soul were stripped naked.
When Ariane paused momentarily to gaze up at him, some softer, gentler emotion slipped through him so surreptitiously that he could not quell it.
Ranulf cursed silently. The bewitching wench was weaving an irresistible spell over him. Despite his best efforts, he felt his blood begin to heat uncontrollably.
Against his will, he raised a hand to touch her cheek. When Ariane drew a sharp breath and tried unsuccessfully to draw away, Ranulf stilled. He did not want her flinching from him.
With a finger under her chin, he forced her to meet his gaze. “You need not fear me. I am not so harsh a master. I am gentle with horses, hawks . . . women.”
“I am not afraid,” Ariane lied, feeling her pulse race at the dark flame that lit his golden eyes. “But neither will I listen to you boast of your conquests.”
That smile returned to flicker across his lips. “I would not be so churlish,” he replied innocently.
His utter calm was unnerving. When she tried to draw back, he caught her wrist. “Methinks I could win you, should I attempt it.”
His audacity knew no bounds. She drew her wrist from his grasp—yet she could not escape him. With deceptive speed, his arm wrapped around her waist and he pulled her upright, into the hot strength of his groin. Her body came instantly alive with tremors of excitement. Dismayed, Ariane pressed her palms against his broad chest, braced to fight, but it was like shoving against a wall of stone.
“Release me!” she exclaimed to no avail.
“Why should I?” His tone was husky, sensual. “Earlier you were willing to exchange your body for the lives of your men.”
“Not my body,” Ariane replied. “Only my services.”
“Then service me.”
The hot, hungry look in his golden eyes alarmed her. “You were the one,” she said too breathlessly, “
who refused to consummate the betrothal contract.”
His voice dropped to a seductive murmur. “There are ways to enjoy carnal pleasure that do not involve losing your maidenhead, sweeting.”
Her eyes went wide as she stared up at him. When slowly he raised his hand, barely brushing the full aching globe of her breast with his palm, she gasped.
Noting her body’s unwilling response, he smiled tenderly. “You want me, demoiselle, it is obvious. Your nipples are peaked . . . your heart is beating too rapidly . . . your breath has quickened . . . your skin is flushed . . .”
“I do not want you!”
“Your body wants me. It is clear you are a maiden languishing for a man.”