The Warrior

A muscle throbbed in his clenched jaw. “If you are no longer a maiden, it was none of my doing.”

“No? Would you care to describe to the good father how you ravished me this morn?”

“Ravished? I did not—” Ranulf broke off, glancing around at the others in the hall, most of whom were pretending to be occupied with their duties. Not one of them would believe he hadn’t taken the wench as she alleged, certainly not after his public fondling of her in the hall this morning. In truth he had come close to ravishing Ariane earlier, had gone to wicked lengths in his lovemaking, arousing her to climax in a way the Church considered sinful and depraved. But he had not claimed her maidenhead.

God’s breath, he was well and truly ensnared by her outrageous deception—unless he could prove the falseness of her accusation.

Abruptly he beckoned to one of his men. “Fetch a midwife to me at once!” He shot a fierce glance at Ariane. “Naturally you will not cavil at being examined to determine your maiden status.”

Ariane raised her chin, gazing at him steadily, though her hands trembled at his threat. “As you wish, my lord . . . but if she finds my maidenhead breached, it will simply prove my case.”

For the longest moment, he stared at her, his features savage with fury. Ariane held her breath as she awaited his reply, praying that her bluff would work. Ranulf could not be certain she was not a virgin; surely he would not risk a public discovery.

“This is how you keep your oath to me?” he said at last in a deadly voice. “With deceit and betrayal?”

She swallowed. “I have not betrayed my oath, my lord. I swore to serve you, and I will continue to do so—as your wife.I will keep your household and see to your comfort and honor you in all things—”

“Christ’s holy blood!” Ranulf exclaimed viciously.

Ariane flinched. His cruel visage was almost frightening. The lord of Vernay resembled a wounded boar who had been cornered with no escape. But a cornered boar will often turn and charge. . . .

As if to underscore her thought, he took a step in her direction, his hand grasping the hilt of his sword.

It was his vassal, Payn, who came swiftly forward to lay a cautioning hand on his arm. “Have a care, my lord. You would not wish to kill the damsel.”

“Would I not?” Ranulf’s mien suggested differently. His eyes were nearly black with rage, his compressed mouth white with fury.

“You might come to regret it later,” Payn cautioned. “She should be punished, aye, but mayhap it would be wiser to allow me to deal with her.”

The quiet words penetrated his blind fury. His vassal was right, Ranulf knew. He was too angry to think clearly.

And he had sworn a sacred oath never to act like his father, to sink to that brutish level.

“She tries my vows,” Ranulf said through gritted teeth.

“Aye, but you are too astute to react with blind anger, my lord.”

He knew he was being mollified, yet he forced himself to take a calming breath. His anger was indeed blind. The wench’s lies had only justified his mistrust of her, but it was her professed lack of innocence that strangely infuriated him the most. Had some other man enjoyed that beautiful white body? Had some other lover taught her to respond with passion? Was she a virgin still? It should not matter to him if she had lain with other men, but it did, keenly. Ranulf’s hands knotted with the sudden urge to shake the truth out of her—a truth he must now discover in private if he was to avoid risking public confirmation of her scheme.

God’s teeth, but he had begun to hope she was different from the other manipulating schemers of her class, but he was wrong. He should never have trusted Ariane, never left himself vulnerable. The wench had exposed her true character, her grasping designs, her lack of honor; she was cunning, calculating, treacherous. He had let down his guard for a single moment, and this was the result. A wicked knife-thrust. A deceitful legal maneuver meant to entrap him.

“What do you hope to gain?” he demanded of Ariane.

Meeting his furious gaze, she clasped her fingers together to keep them from trembling. She had a great deal to gain, of course. She was fighting for her home, her loved ones, her father’s life. As Ranulf’s wife, she could better protect her castle and servants, but more critically, with her rights restored, she could petition the king and plead for her father. It was an additional irony that Ranulf would have to support her as a dependent. Yet she did not think the Black Dragon of Vernay would care to hear her reasoning just now.

“Justice, my lord,” she said quietly. “I will not allow you to repudiate our betrothal with impunity.”

Ranulf stared at her, rigid, nostrils flared. He understood well enough what she was attempting: to save herself from the wrath of the crown. As his wife, she would not be held accountable for her father’s acts of treason; her husband would be responsible for her. But rather than fear the king, she should be more concerned abouthis wrath. That he was livid at her treachery was too tame a description. But she would not succeed in forcing his hand.

“Your ploy will not work,” he declared, seething. “The marriage will not stand.”

“I beg to differ, my lord. As you once pointed out to me, only the Pope can dissolve our marriage now.”

“Then I will send a messenger to Rome at once to petition the Pope for an annulment.” Ranulf’s head whipped around as he searched the crowd that hovered nearby. “Father John!”

“Aye, milord?” The elderly priest stepped forward reluctantly.

“What are the grounds for dissolution of a marriage?”