The Warrior

Ranulf’s eyes brightened at the sight, then turned doubtful. “Do you play?”

“I am credited with a measure of skill. I played regularly with my father.”

And so they began a new sport in the evenings after the dinner entertainment concluded. Ranulf trounced her four out of every five matches, but Ariane defeated him often enough to make the competition challenging. In truth, the mental battles lent spice to their already spirited physical relationship.

And yet she wanted so much more. It was not simply physical desire she felt for him. Absurdly she wanted to please Ranulf, to become the instrument of his happiness. She craved his respect and trust more than anything else. She desperately wanted him to regard her with tenderness, for his eyes to soften with love.

She wanted to comfort him, wanted to prove she could be a good wife to him. She had been trained from childhood to run a vast, noble household and knew how to make his life more comfortable, if only he would permit it.

Yet Ranulf resisted her attempts to serve him willingly and see to his needs. She had to struggle for every hard-won victory, much as she’d always had to fight to gain her father’s regard. Yet Ranulf was worse even than Lord Walter. He viewed her motives with suspicion when she simply asked permission to have the great hall cleaned.

“Why?” he demanded warily.

“Why?” Ariane repeated in amazement. She swept her gaze over the smokey hall, remembering how it had looked when her mother had ruled. Lady Constance would never have tolerated such filth for an instant. “Because it needs cleaning. The rushes have not been changed since before your arrival. And the rain has dampened them enough to make them smell.”

“Someone else can see to it.”

“No one else will be as particular as I. Serfs often carry out their duties in a haphazard fashion, and neglect the worst dirt.”

“Ah, a crime indeed,” Ranulf observed, his amber eyes warm and teasing as he pulled her against him.

Ariane felt her temper rising at his flippant mood. It vexed her sorely that he was trying to avoid acknowledging her competence, just as her father had always done.

Hands pressed against Ranulf’s chest, she presented him an ultimatum. “If you wish me to share your bed, my lord, you will allow me to put the hall in proper order. I will not tolerate filth.”

The gleam in his eye told her clearly he saw her threat as a challenge, and his lips claimed victory for the nonce.

And yet later, Ranulf yielded the skirmish. With his permission, Ariane organized the castle serfs to carry the soiled rushes out to the bailey to be burned and to gather new ones. The wooden floor was swept and scrubbed with vinegar, then sprinkled with pennyroyal to eradicate fleas and chamomile and lavender to sweeten the air and quell odors.

When she had seen to the cleaning of the floors, she ventured to suggest a more ambitious proposal—to whitewash the walls of the great hall to mask the soot and smoke stains of the past winter.

“I fail to see the need,” Ranulf replied, scrutinizing the darkened walls.

“Men rarely do,” Ariane retorted. “But it will freshen and brighten the hall. You will appreciate the results, I promise you.”

“Had I any faith in your promises,” Ranulf murmured cynically, “I would not be required to remain at Claredon to ensure its submission.”

“Mypromises? You are the one who disavowed our longstanding betrothal.”

“And you were the one who turned traitor and closed the gates against me in defiance of the king’s orders, and then refused to swear allegiance to me.”

It raised Ariane’s hackles to be held solely at fault when Ranulf bore the greater blame. “What have you done to earn my allegiance, my lord, besides claim my father’s demesne and turn me into your leman?”

Ranulf scowled at the term. “You are not my leman.”

“Your lover, then, which is the same thing.”

They broke off the discussion, both of them smoldering, with Ranulf digging in his heels and refusing to consider her request to paint the walls.

When the following day Ariane hinted she be allowed to run his household, their dispute evolved into a major argument.

“It would be less burdensome if I held the keys to the castle,” she asserted that morning when Ranulf grumbled that she was overly concerned with castle affairs. “I could put the place to rights without having to ask your permission for every little task.”

Ranulf’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “You think for one moment that I would turn over the keys toyou? My hostage?”

“Mayhap you intend to play chatelaine, my lord?” Ariane responded dryly. “Somehow I cannot envision you in the role.”

His lips twitched, yet he strove to keep his expression cool. “I need no one to run my household. For that I have a seneschal.”