Ariane’s expression of appreciation was far more fervent. “Ranulf . . .” she rasped, “my lord, I thank you.” Her husky voice shook with relief, but it was her accompanying gesture that startled him: she clutched at his gloved hand and drew it to her lips.
Ranulf extricated his hand uneasily. Such abject gratitude disquieted him. He was grateful himself when Lady Constance spoke.
“Ariane tells me you have assumed control of Claredon,” she said quietly. “Can you tell me, my lord . . . has there been any word of my husband?” For the first time since this disturbing interview began, she appeared less than stalwart.
Ranulf did not want to reveal the harsh truth, and yet there was no point in withholding it and raising false hopes. “I regret, my lady, that Lord Walter has been charged with treason for conspiring with Hugh Mortimer and is presently being besieged at Bridgenorth by King Henry.”
She bit her lip. “I know little of politics, I fear, but I do not believe my husband to be a traitor.”
Ariane had said precisely the same thing about the man, Ranulf reflected, feeling an unfamiliar pang of envy. Two such loyal woman were novel in his experience. “Henry is a just ruler. He will not act without reasonable proof of guilt.”
Lady Constance nodded in resignation and surprised him with her next words. “I regret that circumstances required the cancellation of your betrothal to my daughter. I would have been honored to call you my son by marriage.”
She seemed sincere, Ranulf realized with startled awareness. Would she view him so favorably if she knew how he had dealt with her daughter—forcing Ariane to serve as slave and leman?
“We should be on our way,” he said, more gruffly than he intended.
Lady Constance smiled a little. “As you will, my lord. But please accept my heartfelt gratitude. Take care, my daughter.”
Ranulf reined back the destrier and turned toward Claredon Keep. He was keenly aware that Ariane gazed back over his shoulder until they had passed through the concealing thicket and were well out of sight of her mother. Then, with a small sniff, she wiped her damp eyes on her sleeve and faced forward.
They rode in silence for a time, the horse’s hooves quietly plodding along the forest floor, while Ranulf’s thoughts whirled. He was conscious of a searing relief welling within him.
There was no band of rebels plotting his overthrow. Ariane had no secret lover. Her sin was one of devotion and loyalty, not betrayal. He understood now why she had remained silent, refusing to reveal her secret even under threat of imprisonment. She had not been truthful, yet neither had she lied to him. She had said she could not break a sacred oath.
Ranulf’s mouth twisted bitterly. If Ariane considered sacred oaths inviolate, she would be the first lady of her rank to do so. In his experience, most would think nothing of sacrificing their dearest kin for political expediency or personal gain.
It was some moments longer before he heard her say quietly, “My lord, did you truly mean it? You will not banish her?”
Ariane turned again in the saddle to gaze up at him. Ranulf had agreed to keep their terrible secret, yet she needed to hear his assurances once more, so the sick dread would leave her. So she could be rid of the gnawing fear that had shredded her nerves over the past weeks. She could bear anything if only she could be certain her mother was safe.
He drew the destrier to a halt. They had reached the edge of the wood. Beyond lay a green, sun-warmed meadow carpeted with May wildflowers and splashed with color: pale daisies, purple speedwell, jonquil celandine, and daffodils.
His golden eyes were soft and muted as he gazed down at her. “Why did you hide the truth from me? Why did you not come to me? I have shown you lenience in the past, when you asked.”
“I dared not risk it. I could not be certain. . . . You might even have wished her dead.”
Ranulf’s mouth curled faintly. “Have the tales you heard of the Black Dragon painted me so vicious?”
Ariane hung her head. “I could not chance it, my lord. And I had sworn an oath. . . .”
“You could not trust me.”
“No, my lord.” The words were a mere whisper.
Ranulf bit back a reply. It struck him as ironic to be chastising her for a lack of trust when he had shown her so little.
Her fingers clenched in her woolen tunic, twisting the fabric. “God is cruel. My mother never deserved such a terrible fate. She is the kindest, most gentle . . .” Ariane’s voice broke on a sob. Turning her face into his massive chest, she pressed her forehead against his chain mail hauberk.
Ranulf could not reply. He had long ago learned not to rail against the heartless capriciousness of fate. Ariane was weeping again, softly. His arms came around her tentatively. He felt choked with tenderness and pity and despair. Her very forlornness touched his heart as nothing had in years.
He did not understand what drove him to try and comfort her. He had thought every trace of gentleness exorcised by the years of anger and bitterness. But perhaps he was wrong. The burst of emotion that surged through him now was so strong it took his breath away.
For a long moment, he simply held her, until her shuddering breaths subsided, until her body quieted. Slowly then he drew off his left glove. His hand rose to her cheek, caressing gently, his thumb stroking softly, tantalizingly, over her trembling lower lip.
Drawing a shaky breath, Ariane raised her gaze to his.
Her luminous eyes were swollen and tearful, filled with doubt, with pain. He badly wanted, to ease that pain, to soothe her doubts, to comfort her. He had never touched a woman merely to offer comfort, without lust driving him. He did not know how. Yet he would like to try. With his head and much of his face encased in steel, though, he knew not if he could even kiss her.