She was certain of it when Ranulf’s mouth curved in a tantalizing half-smile, one that held a devastating appeal and set her heart to thudding. He was well aware of his power over the female sex, Ariane knew.
“Go now, and see to your wounds.”
“B-But . . . what of my duties?” she stammered, nervous at his proximity and the sudden softness of his tone, as well as suspicious of his motives.
“On the morrow you can return to working in the kitchens and serving tables, so long as you remain where I may keep an eye on you.”
Weighing the advantages, Ariane nodded slowly. If she remained near him, she would be vulnerable to his vexing tactics, yet she would have better opportunities to pursue her own plan to tame the Dragon. And she could keep a close eye on Ranulf as well, and be there to intervene should he deal harshly with any of her people.
She watched him more closely after that. Not only did Ranulf make progress on the domestic front, he also succeeded outside the castle walls. Militarily he tightened his hold on the demesne, flexing his might in countless ways. His patrols made endless forays about the countryside searching for rebels, and Ranulf himself seized the other two manor houses within a day’s ride of the castle. By the end of his second full week at Claredon, the garrison began to follow a predictable routine, alternating between patrolling the countryside and practicing arms daily in the exercise yard in the lower bailey.
It was a familiar sight for Ariane, seeing seasoned knights hacking at each other as they trained in warfare—except that these were the wrong knights. Her father, Walter, should be lord here. Seeing Ranulf settle into his role with such ease disheartened her greatly, and an ache caught at her throat whenever she remembered her father’s uncertain plight. She could only pray that his vassal, Simon, had by now reached him, and that, by some miracle, Walter would be cleared of the charge of treason. Perhaps they would even discover the means to deliver Claredon from the Black Dragon.
She prayed also for the inhabitants of the eastern forest. Guarded so closely, she had found no opportunity to slip out of the castle to visit them, and time was growing short.
Her own plight seemed just as uncertain, although her circumstances improved minimally after her encounter with Ranulf when he saw the consequence of his punishment. He lightened her workload to a degree, allowing her to perform the less physical chores, and her hands were healing. Yet he had not forgiven her in the least for her claim of ravishment. A storm was brewing between them, she could sense it. And she suspected that one day soon, it would break over her head.
When trouble next came, however, it was from a direction Ariane had not foreseen—one of Ranulf’s own high-ranking vassals.
She had just climbed the stairs from the kitchens with a wooden platter of honeyed cakes for the last course of the evening meal when she found her path blocked by a tall, dark-haired knight whom she recognized as Bertran de Ridefort, a cousin of Ivo’s and one of the knights who regularly sat at the lord’s high table. When she gave him a quizzical glance, he responded with a friendly leer.
“Well met . . . my beauteoush lady.” His words were slurred, and he swa
yed on his feet, obviously the worse for drink.
Ariane lowered her gaze to hide her scorn. “Please, my lord . . . allow me to pass.”
“What if I do not, little wi-sh . . . witch?”
“Lord Ranulf would not be pleased if I tarried.”
Bertran flashed her a charming grin that was not unappealing; he was rather handsome when he smiled, despite his drunken state. “Methinks Lord Ranulf would not care if you tarried withme. ”
Ariane grew uneasy with his lascivious scrutiny, her fingers tightening involuntarily on the wooden platter. She was not afraid for her virtue. There were twoscore men within shouting distance who would doubtless come to her rescue if needed. And yet she did not want to make an enemy of Ivo’s cousin. Next to Payn FitzOsbern, Ivo de Ridefort was Ranulf’s most trusted vassal, the knight left in charge of Claredon when the lord was away. His cousin Bertran, while not as high in station, was frequently in Ranulf’s company and obviously valued for his counsel. It would be better if she could handle this overamorous knight on her own, without appearing to spurn his advances. Indeed, her best course might be to claim Ranulf’s protection, she decided.
Ariane forced herself to smile. “I fearI would care, sir. In the eyes of God, I am Lord Ranulf’s wife, and I would remain faithful to him.”
Bertran frowned, as if having difficulty following her reasoning. “Not his wife . . . Fear Ranulf is engaged with . . . that slut, Dena. He will not missh you, schweeting. He has wearied of your charms . . . but I vow I will not.”
Ariane stiffened at the mention of that strumpet’s name, astonished at how fierce and hurtful was the pang of jealousy that coursed through her.
Giving a cheerful leer, Bertran leaned closer, his breath heavy with wine fumes. “I can ease your labor, sweeting. A beauty such as yoursshelf should not be slaving like a peasant. I have amussh more pleasant occupation in mind.”
To her startlement, he reached out and gave a tug on the drawstring at the neckline of her woolen bodice. Ariane gasped in alarm. She tried to draw back, but his hand caught her wrist, nearly causing her to drop her platter. His strong fingers dug into her flesh almost painfully, as if he was unaware of his strength.
A frisson of fear danced down her spine. A knight could take a field wench without a thought, and although an honorable man would not abuse his lord’s unwilling servants within the keep, in his befuddled state Bertran could easily have forgotten her rank—and more easily overpower her, if he wished.
With a desperate jerk of her arm, Ariane managed to free her wrist from Bertran’s grasp. Clutching her platter, she slipped past him, intending to flee—and collided directly with a broad, unyielding chest. The force knocked her platter of cakes from her grasp, and sent it spilling to the rush-covered floor with a thud.
She recognized that familiar chest, that hard, powerful body. Horrified, Ariane looked up into hard eyes of amber gold. “M-My lord . . .” she stammered. “I beg pardon. . . .”
Ranulf’s gaze went from her flushed face to his vassal’s. “It seems you have lost your way, Bertran. You sought the garderobe to relieve yourself, I believe.”
He shook his dark head. “Rather relieve myself with this wensh, Ranulf.”
Ranulf leveled an arctic stare at the knight. To Ariane’s shock, he slipped his arm around her waist and drew her hard against him. “Not yours.Mine. And I guard well what is mine.”
She sucked in her breath sharply as she felt Ranulf’s hand brazenly brush her breast. She wanted to slap his hand away, yet considered it wiser not to protest when his display of male possessiveness offered her protection.