The Warrior

Ariane found herself staring at him in helpless admiration. There was strength and power in every hard line of his body, a masculine beauty that called to everything feminine within her. A beauty that made the savage scars on his back stand out even more incongruously. She remembered feeling those rough ridges beneath her fingertips last night as she clung to him in the throes of passion. Dismayed by the pity—as well as the hot feelings—the memory stirred in her, Ariane averted her gaze while Ranulf washed.

She was surprised that he did not require her to act as his squire when he began to dress, but when she grudgingly offered her assistance, Ranulf declined. “I told you, your menial service is ended.”

“Why would you end my service?” Ariane asked warily.

“Because the sentence was too harsh, I admit. I have a much more pleasant role for you in mind—that of lover. You will resume sleeping here in my chamber each night and bear me company here during the day.”

Ariane sat up abruptly in bed, clutching the covers to her chest. “You would have everyone think me your leman.” Leman was but a name for mistress.

“Nay, not my leman. You are merely my political hostage once more.”

“But you expect me to share your bed?”

Ranulf raised an eyebrow. “I should think you would be pleased that you no longer must toil as a slave.”

“As long as you refuse to acknowledge me as your lady wife, my place is not in your bed.”

“It is, Ariane,” he replied tersely. “We are lovers now. You cannot deny it.”

When Ranulf noticed the dismay in her eyes, his expression softened. “You will not find the role of lover so onerous. I daresay you will even come to enjoy it.”

“I would rather scrub pigsties.”

He sent her a grin—that potent, roguish male smile he gave so rarely. “Perhaps, but I am no longer angry enough to require you to do so. And it would be a waste of your beauty and talents besides.”

Ariane’s hands fisted around the covers. “Why?” she demanded. “Why must you take me as your lover when there are doubtless other woman who would be pleased to share your bed?”

Surprised by her anger, Ranulf regarded her curiously. He could not understand her resistance to sharing his bed. In truth, he had expected Ariane to be honored by his favor. He could name a dozen wenches who would eagerly take her place.

Perhaps she did not realize the pleasure he intended to shower on her. Or perhaps she simply felt continued resentment because she no longer held the position as chatelaine of Claredon. But if she was attempting to arouse his guilt for not wedding her, she would not succeed.

Nor would she learn his true reason for taking her as lover. He would not admit to Ariane that having her in his bed was the only way he knew to conquer his obsession with her. “You are a desirable woman, and I desire you. I need no other reason.”

When her jaw tightened, Ranulf turned away to pull on his undertunic, feeling oddly vexed by her response. Ariane had won a victory over him, if she only knew it. He had lost the battle with his iron will last night, surrendered at last to his obsessive desire for her. He had even changed his long-standing policies because of her. Rarely before had he allowed a woman to sleep with him. And yet he was willing to make exceptions for Ariane.

In truth, he liked the thought of her waking in his bed each morn, rosily naked, her cheeks sleep-flushed and pink, his scent on her silken skin. He would relish having her near, if simply for the pleasure of touching her, although he had never been a man to touch anyone without a reason. He certainly relished kissing her. He rarely kissed a woman on the lips, but the heat of that sweetly curved mouth bewitched him.She bewitched him.

He wanted nothing more than to return to that bed now and savor her delicious heat, to bury himself deeply within her and explore the depths of her passion. He wanted to spend the entire day with her, teaching her how to enjoy her body and showing her how to please him. But he remembered Ariane’s virginal state and crushed the notion.

A feeling of tenderness swept through him as he recalled her pain last eve. How fragile and delicate she had felt in his arms. How innocent. How hot and wild she had become, writhing in ecstasy beneath him. He would give her time to recover from his attentions, but tonight . . . The thought of the passionate lovemaking to come made Ranulf harden abruptly.

He should be furious with himself for surrendering to her, Ranulf knew. By his own actions he had sealed their betrothal contract. But it made no matter. He would not withdraw his petition from Rome. The annulment would still go forward as planned. He would somehow conquer his guilt, as well. Ariane knew she could hold only herself to blame for the consequences of her deception, even if she refused to admit it.

Meanwhile they would enjoy each other. At least until he satisfied his fierce craving for her. Until she surrendered fully to him. He intended to keep her warm and weak and pliant from his lovemaking. Ariane was stubborn and strong willed, more than a challenge for any warrior, even him. He would need every advantage at his command in order to make her yield.

Attempting to ignore her silent anger, Ranulf finished dressing in a tunic of forest green velvet. Then he slung his mantle over his shoulders and turned to her.

“Reconcile yourself to my wishes, chérie. Henceforth you will share my bed. And I expect you to be waiting in my chamber when I return.”

With that, Ranulf strode from the room, ending the argument abruptly as he had so many times before when they had disagreed.

A curse rode Ariane’s tongue as she stared at the door. She felt incensed by her own powerlessness even more than Ranulf’s imperious commands.

He had conquered her body as easily as he had taken her father’s castle, and now he meant to continue their sinful relationship by making her share his bed without the blessing of the Church. In a matter of weeks, she had gone from betrothed to political hostage, to squire and then slave, and now to lover.

Unquestionably, returning to the role of hostage would be an improvement over the past week, yet she had no desire to become Ranulf’s lover. Notwithstanding the mortification of being considered his leman, she would go mad sitting idle the day long, awaiting her lord’s pleasure. She was accustomed to keeping busy with the duties of chatelaine. For four years she had commanded the vast household staff at Claredon, as well as overseen the domestic staff of several manor houses and minor fiefs. The menial tasks at which she had been forced to toil for the past week at least had the benefit of making her too weary to think when she fell exhausted into bed each night, too drained to dwell on her myriad troubles. Were she to laze about the entire day with naught to distract her, the boredom would drive her to despair, while her worries drove her to desperation.

Admittedly, she deserved a measure of retribution for trying to force him to honor the betrothal, and even for her outburst in the hall last night, but the new role he had planned for her was highly unpalatable, and he could not even see it. Ranulf was an unfeeling, heartless tyrant—