The Warrior

She had not wanted him to go. She had wanted him to remain with her. She had wanted his touch, his possession, wanted him to take her.

How was it possible? Ranulf was her enemy, the man she had sworn to hate. Yet she had melted instantly at his touch. His fierce kisses had turned her blood to fire; the scent and taste of him still burned in her memory.Sweet Virgin, what was she to do? He had left her aching with longing, her body trembling with need and regret.

Daunted, she touched her fingers to her aching lips, still hot and tender from his assault. She had survived his fury for the time being, yet she had lost this battle, just as she feared she would lose all the ones in the future.

Ranulf had thwarted her attempt at justice, vowing to annul their marriage and force her to serve as his slave. Yet his method of revenge was not what alarmed her. What frightened her most was how he could command her body at will.

11

Ranulf had a revolt on his hands.

It began so subtly that at first he was not even aware of it, but as frequent, inexplicable accidents and incidents of subversion occurred all over the keep, he realized the Claredon castlefolk were up in arms against him, on behalf of their lady.

The first incident befell him two days after he had relegated Ariane to the life of a castle drudge. The dishes of his midday meal were so salted as to render them inedible, the wine so foul, he suspected it of being poisoned. Gagging, Ranulf spat it out and bellowed for the castle cook.

The large-bellied man who came hurrying up from the kitchens put on a humble show and professed his abject apologies to the lord, lamenting that he had been too liberal with the salt, vowing that his hand had slipped over the wine barrel.

When, disbelieving, Ranulf tersely suggested the former lady of Claredon might have been involved in a bungled attempt to poison him, the accusation was vehemently denied. Unable to prove otherwise, Ranulf repressed the urge to clout the oaf, but as punishment, forced him to drink the flagon of wine, watching in grim satisfaction when the man raced for the garderobe to empty his stomach.

His satisfaction faded that afternoon when he discovered that a dozen saddle girths had been cut, not clear through, but enough to avoid obvious detection and cause injury if they gave way while in use. Roaring his displeasure, Ranulf had every groom and lackey in the stables dragged before him for questioning, but no one admitted to the deed.

The incidents continued during the following week, none fatal, all highly annoying and a direct challenge to his authority. First there was the foul-smelling soap that found its way into the garrison barracks, whose unfortunate use stank up the hall for two days. Next, an epidemic of skin rash broke out among his men, caused by nettles sprinkled over the sleeping pallets. Then Ranulf’s favorite tunic was ripped beyond repair while being laundered. And while the lord was away overnight securing yet another of Claredon’s distant properties, someone sneaked into the mews and freed the prize falcons and hawks from their jesses.

The petty rebellion incited Ranulf’s fury, inflaming the raw wound that festered inside him after a lifetime of repudiation. Frustratingly, he could never discover the culprits responsible. The castle servants toiled as usual, and had ready excuses for their slipshod work, but their hostile glances and sulky, accusing expressions told him clearly they were in collusion against him.

For that he placed the blame squarely on Ariane. He had no proof, yet he felt certain she was encouraging her people to insurrection and inciting them to mayhem. Almost daily Ranulf found a new problem to rouse his temper. And if ever he regretted his method of punishing Ariane, or felt the slightest sympathy for her plight, he crushed it mercilessly. He would not allow her to make a fool of him.

In truth, Ariane was not entirely innocent of the charges, though at first she was too weary from the menial duties Ranulf had devised for her to contribute to the revolt: toiling in the scullery, turning the spits over the great hearth in the kitchens, shoveling flat manchet bread loaves into the ovens to bake, sweltering over boiling tubs of laundry . . . the least pleasant chores of any castle. And Ranulf had set two guards to control her every move and to prevent her people from coming to her aid and performing those loathsome tasks for her as they initially tried to do.

When she first learned of the frequent episodes of defiance, Ariane wanted to laugh and weep at the same time. She could not help but be pleased that the servants of Claredon remained loyal to her, yet she was horrified to contemplate Ranulf’s revenge for their efforts on her behalf. She had no desire to see anyone else punished for her sake. And yet she did not truly fear Ranulf would repay her

desperate bid to become his wife by taking vengeance out on her people. She had seen his leniency, had seen him act with restraint toward his dependents, so unless they were actually caught outright, he would not penalize them unjustly. If so, she meant to take blame. Otherwise, she suspected that she would bear the brunt of his fury.

Thus she began quietly encouraging and abetting their small acts of subversion, reminding herself that Ranulf had given her no choice but to defy him covertly. And in truth, part of her was gratified to watch the Black Dragon’s frustration and helplessness, which actually were minor compared to her own.

He had kept his vow to make her life an utter misery. Each night when Ariane at last climbed the stairs to her solitary chamber, she crawled wearily into her bed, groaning at aching muscles strained by unaccustomed physical labor.

The humility of her position was harder to bear than the physical exhaustion. Her guards watched over her every moment, as if she were a common criminal. No doubt, Ariane suspected, because Ranulf had threatened their very lives if they failed in their duty.

She was not allowed to speak with any of her people and was dressed as a slave. Ranulf had ordered all of her gowns of finest linen and silk confiscated, requiring her to wear the most inferior homespun—rough wool that itched and scratched her tender skin. One of her best tunics he gave to Dena, who clearly took great enjoyment in being so favored by the new lord and in flaunting her new position.

That Dena shared Ranulf’s bed was assumed—although she was never known to spend the night in his solar. At meals, she sat beside him at the high table, occupying the place of honor, the lady’s chair. Even gowned in the richest cendal, Dena still looked like a harlot, and it hurt Ariane to see Ranulf sometimes offer the common wench one of his rare, beautiful smiles—although wild horses could not have dragged the admission from her.

She was determined to endure her servile position with fortitude. He would not defeat her, Ariane vowed. She would not break. She would bend like the willow and remain standing long after the storm passed.

Thinking it wiser, she took pains to keep out of his way. When she was unfortunate enough to attract his notice, his mask of icy coldness told her clearly that his fury at her had not abated in the least.

The worst times occurred when she was allowed to retire each night, for she had to cross the hall to reach the stairwell behind the dais, accompanied by her guards. Ranulf would level a penetrating stare at her, his face rigidly aloof, yet she could feel his golden hawk’s eyes following every step of her progress, could feel her heart racing at his scrutiny. It was always a relief to reach her chamber unscathed, her sole place of refuge, although often the echo of Dena’s grating laughter followed her there.

On one particular evening, when the serving wench’s raucous sound seemed especially coarse and unrefined, Ariane would have been gratified to know Ranulf shared her opinion. Below in the hall, Dena wet her lips and tossed her head at the lord seductively.

“That one always did think too high of herself,” the serving maid said coyly of Ariane.

Ranulf sent the girl a quelling glance. “You forget yourself, wench. It is not your place to criticize your former lady.”

She looked startled at the rebuke. “Milord, forgive me,” Dena murmured plaintively. “I meant no offense.” Leaning near to clutch his arm, she pressed her full breasts against him in lewd suggestion. “It is said the former lady of Claredon avoids the tasks you set for her at every opportunity.”

His frown deepened as he drew his arm from Dena’s possessive grasp. “I have no desire to listen to castle gossip.”