Ranulf, irritated that his vassal’s chivalry had prevented his own, grunted in agreement. “That gown does you credit,” he added in a softer voice.
Ariane lowered her eyes modestly. “Thank you, my lord. It was good of you to return my clothing to me.”
Her gentle barb stung, and vexed Ranulf all the more.
At least the food, while perhaps not a feast, was the best meal he had enjoyed since taking possession of Claredon. The game they had just killed would not be butchered till the morrow, but there was pheasant and roast suckling pig and smoked herring, prepared with spices and mouthwatering sauces. During the first course, Ranulf discovered from Payn’s leading questions that Ariane herself had ordered the preparations. He was not certain he liked her taking so much upon herself, and yet he could find no fault in the result.
Payn’s effusive compliments began to wear on his temper, though, especially since for the second and third courses, Ranulf scarcely tasted what he ate. The conversation flowed around him while he remained silent, acutely aware of the beautiful woman sitting so cool and regal beside him, and his own ache to possess her. He wanted the interminable meal to end so that he could have her alone, in his arms.
His plan to make Ariane share his bed was foolish, perhaps. He needed to resist the temptation of her body, if only to prove that he was not reduced to submission by the gentleness in her gray eyes, by the warmth of her touch, to prove that he cared nothing for her. But he could not have denied himself tonight had his very life been at stake.
The evening’s planned entertainment was to be a troupe of jugglers, but Ranulf had no intention of remaining to watch. And when he caught her eye, Ariane knew it as
well.
She felt her pulse quicken at the dark light in his eyes. She, too, had scarcely tasted the dishes, her mind on the night ahead. Her skin felt hot, and there was a curling sense of anticipation within her, a sensual arousal brought on by excitement and apprehension and the knowledge of what would happen between them.
“Go and order me a bath,” Ranulf murmured in her ear the moment the music began. When Ariane nodded and made to rise, he forestalled her with a hand on her arm. “You will remain there to attend me,” he added in a low voice, his intent clear. She would provide a service that entailed far more than merely washing his back.
The serfs Ariane called upon hastened to do her bidding, and in short order a steaming, perfumed bath stood in the solar, awaiting the lord. The last of the servants had just withdrawn when he arrived.
His eyes hot and lust-bright, Ranulf drew Ariane into his arms the moment the door had shut. His mouth covered hers in a fierce possession, tasting with the full measure of his need. Fire, hot and sweet, surged from him and through her, stealing both their breaths away. She could feel him thickening, swelling against her, and when at last he raised his head, she was trembling.
His smile was a trifle wolfish as his hand trespassed boldly beneath her skirts. “I have wanted to do that since this morning.”
To her surprise—and somewhat to her embarrassment—Ranulf undressed her first, showing as much deliberate care as any tirewoman. The difference was his use of mouth and hands—nuzzling the bare skin he exposed . . . stroking her body . . . smoothing her hair to a profusion of silken waves. By the time she stood naked before him, she was quivering with need.
“You tempt me unmercifully, witch,” he murmured in a rough voice as he bent to taste her budded nipple. “Your coolness makes a man burn for you, makes him hot to seek the hidden fire beneath.”
Coolness? How could she be cool with the scorching heat spiraling within her?
Choking back a whimper, Ariane nearly melted against him. It dismayed her, how little resistance she could summon against him. If she responded to Ranulf’s passion as she had all the times before, if she surrendered this easily, she would have no hope whatsoever of maintaining her defenses. Making a last desperate effort to stiffen her resolve, she pushed against his broad shoulders, trying to make him raise his head from her breast. “My lord . . . no . . .”
“Yes,” Ranulf insisted as his hand slid between her bare legs. He brushed his finger against her sweet, hot cleft, rimming the lips. “You want me. See, your honey flows for me.”
She did want him, Mary help her. He possessed the power to make her forget everything except his sensual touch. His fingers were slowly opening her, seeking entrance, finding it. Ariane’s breath caught in her throat and she shuddered as his finger thrust slowly inside her.
Ranulf’s eyes blazed in triumph as he felt her surrender. Catching her hand, he moved it beneath his tunic, covering the braies cupping his sex. “See how I want you, too? Undress me,” he commanded hoarsely.
With shaking hands, she obeyed. Ranulf aided her, too impatient to wait. In the time it took her to remove and fold both his tunics, he had stripped off his boots and chausses and braies. When she turned back to him, he stood magnificent before her, his nude, powerful body bulging with muscle.
Ariane could not take her eyes away, or keep her gaze from moving lower . . . over the thick pelt covering his wide chest, along the ebony trail that narrowed over his abdomen. His huge member thrust up from the curling black hair between his thighs, long and flushed and engorged with lust. It no longer frightened her, though, for she knew now what pleasure it could give her.
Ranulf was watching her, as well, Ariane realized dazedly. His eyes were fixed hungrily on the pale globes of her breasts.
Without a word, he stepped toward her and cupped them in his hands, whisking her nipples with the rough pads of his thumbs. She inhaled sharply as a tremulous wave of longing racked her body.
He smiled, a slow, carnal, male smile.
“Come, attend me.” Taking her hand, he led her to the bath. Alone, he stepped within the tub and sank to his knees in the steaming depths.
She would have knelt beside him, but Ranulf forestalled her by reaching out to grasp her bare hips. His amber eyes glittered as he gazed up at her, along the naked length of her body. Leaning forward, then, he pressed a hard, hot kiss to the soft mound between her thighs.
Ariane gasped in shock, her hands reaching out to grasp his shoulders for balance. “No . . . Ranulf . . . ’tis heathen . . .”
Ignoring her plea, he urged her legs to part for him, savoring the sweet scent of woman rising to his nostrils. The sight of her flushed sex drove him to the edge.
“I crave a sampling,” he muttered hoarsely as his tongue lapped her pink woman’s flesh.