The Warrior

“I should like time to consider your proposal, Gilbert.”

“But, my lady—”

“I shall think on it, I promise.”

Her assurances evidently did not allay the lad’s frustration, however. “If you will not challenge Lord Ranulf in the courts, then we must take some other course. At the very least, he should be made to honor the contract and wed you. It is only meet that he make restitution for casting you aside after so long, and for the dishonor he has brought you. In truth, you are already wed to him in the eyes of the church, but for the final vows and consummation. If you had proof he had violated you, then not even the wicked Dragon could repudiate the marriage.”

Ariane frowned thoughtfully. It would solve many of her immediate problems if Ranulf were somehow required to honor the betrothal. Why had she never considered such a perspective before? Because for the past few days, she had been dazed by uncertainty and wariness. She had not been thinking clearly or objectively. And in her despair at Ranulf’s easy victory, her fury over his devious means of gaining possession of Claredon, and her humiliation at his repudiation, she had beenglad to see an end to the betrothal, and thus acceded to his wishes without a fight.

But Gilbert was right on one score. Ranulfshould have to make restitution for the lost years of her youth, and for ruining her chances of marrying honorably elsewhere. Did Gilbert but know it, Ranulfhad effectively violated her. This morning he had stripped away her carnal innocence, had introduced her to passion, an intimacy which only a husband had the right to claim.

Yet her reasons for wanting to secure the marriage now went far beyond revenge. As the lord’s wife she would be in a better position to protect Claredon and its dependents, as well as to safeguard the secret she had harbored for so long—a secret she would give her life to protect. Her own legal rights as a wife would be greater than those of a mere hostage, true, but more crucially, if her status of lady were restored, she could work on behalf of her father, to try and refute the charge of treason. He was not guilty, she knew in her heart, but only if she were in a position of power could she even begin to prove his innocence. As Ranulf’s hostage, she could do naught, but as his wife . . .

For the first time since Ranulf had taken possession of Claredon four days ago, Ariane felt a fierce surge of hope. Her heart suddenly racing, she pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. Sweet Mary, she had little to lose and so much to gain. . . .

“What is it, my lady?” her brother asked anxiously.

“Hush, let me think!”

Even if she would rather be boiled in oil than take Ranulf de Vernay as her husband after all he had done to her, she had to attempt it. But attemptwhat ? The betrothal contract was not binding so long as it remained unconsummated. And there had to be proof of consummation in order for the church to sanctify the marriage. So . . . was there a way to ensure its consummation?

How? Ranulf had sworn never to touch her—or at least, she amended, remembering his wicked advances this morning, that her maidenhead was safe from him. She could try to win his affections and pretend a fondness for him, yet if she showed the slightest softening toward him, he would see through her at once. She knew nothing of the arts that came so naturally to some women—of flirtation and simpering and flattery. She would make a wretched seductress.

Yet she had to dosomething. Gilbert was right. Simply ringing her hands and bewailing her plight would gain her naught. Somehow she had to persuade Ranulf to reconsider their marriage. At the very least she had to make it impossible for him to break the betrothal contract. If she could manage that, if she could win her rights as his wife, then she could use her power to aid the people who depended on her.

“My lady?” Gilbert asked worriedly.

Summoning her resolve, Ariane lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. She had been meek and acquiescent long enough. She had obeyed Ranulf’s demands, suffered his retribution without protest. It was time he was brought to see reason.

“Calm yourself, Gilbert. All will yet be well, I swear it,” she said with a confidence that was growing each successive moment.

“But what will you do?”

“I am not yet certain.” She forced a smile as she gazed at her anxious half-brother. “But I assure you I will take your advice to heart. Somehow Lord Ranulf must be shown the injustice of repudiating our betrothal. And then . . . then he must be persuaded that he needs me for his wife.”

10

It was a subdued and thoughtful Ariane who accompanied Ranulf and his armed retinue to the fields. More than once he gave her a wary glance as she rode docilely beside him on her palfrey, until finally she bestirred herself to respond with her

usual tartness in order to allay his suspicions.

When he compelled her time and again to address the serfs they found working the land, she did so with stoicism, telling them in gentle, sincere tones to bow to the new lord and they would find him a merciful master.

Ariane prayed her counsel was true. She did not want Claredon’s serfs to suffer under the rule of the Black Dragon. Yet somehow she doubted they would. Ranulf might threaten and act the ogre with her, no doubt to frighten her into submission. And displaying her subservience was a cleverly calculated strategy to demoralize her people’s efforts at resistance. But Ranulf was clearly not the brute his terrible reputation suggested. In truth, he had shown his rebellious enemies more mercy than she could rightfully expect. Perhaps there was softness beneath that harsh exterior, after all. A softness he kept hidden from the world.

Could she possibly use that to her advantage? Ariane wondered. Could she somehow persuade him to wed her as he had promised years before?

It was imperative that she try. At this very moment, Ranulf’s retinue of knights and men-at-arms was passing the eastern forest with its thick stands of oak and birch and tangled hedges of hawthorn—passing too close for Ariane’s comfort. She was careful to keep her eyes averted, to show no special interest in this particular stretch of wood.

It had been merely four days since Ranulf had seized Claredon and taken her hostage, yet worry nagged at her conscience. How could she possibly escape the Black Dragon’s scrutiny long enough to slip from the castle and pay a brief visit to these woods? It was a mission she could entrust to no one, a secret she could never share—although if the case grew desperate enough, she might have to consider it.

Furtively, Ariane stole a glance at Ranulf as he rode beside her. How would he react should he discover her secret? How would he feel about her aiding the wretched souls God had abandoned?

He looked supremely powerful and totally ruthless just now, arrayed in full armor, mounted on his prancing black war stallion. The nose guard of his steel helmet shielded much of his face from her view, yet his strong jaw suggested relentless determination, and he stared straight ahead, as if he were ruler of all he surveyed.

She was surprised, therefore, when he spoke quietly, almost reverently. “This land has heart.”

He was gazing at the gently rolling countryside, the green pastures and planted fields and wooded groves, Ariane realized. His hushed, almost wistful tone held a possessiveness that made her stiffen. This demesne should still have belonged to her father.