Despite the confining restriction of his helm, he bent his head.
Her lips were petal soft, full and lush, trembling and warm.
“Ranulf . . .” she breathed.
Ariane closed her eyes. She was so grateful to him, so thankful. She needed to show her gratitude. She needed him to hold her, to drive the awful aching emp
tiness away. She needed to be with him.
Reaching out, she captured his hand and drew it to her breast.
Ranulf inhaled sharply at her action, a swift, hoarse intake of breath. Ariane had never initiated their lovemaking. He had always been forced to rely on his sensual skill to compel her surrender. Yet he knew now, as she met his questing gaze, that she would need no persuasion. He could feel her nipples beneath the wool of her torn tunic, peaked and pebble hard with desire, could see the heat of need in her shimmering eyes, could sense the sudden urgency quivering though her body as she reached for his helmet.
With anxious hands she tried to lift it from his head, but succeeded only in knocking it askew. Her clumsiness touched Ranulf unexpectedly, and he smiled—his beautiful, heartbreaking smile.
“Allow me, sweeting.” Tearing at the helm himself, he drew it off and then tugged back his mail coif.
At once, Ariane raised her mouth to his, eager for his kiss.
Startling tenderness assailed him, a sweet balm after the wealth of raw anger, of bitter fury, of agonizing doubt. He would not deny her need, or his. He wanted her, more than he had ever wanted any woman. He wanted to feel her warm and soft in his hands, wanted to make her respond to him with passion. He ached to touch her, to have her touch him. And yet he wanted to draw out the moment. She was offering herself to him fully, and he wanted to savor his victory.
He held back, meeting her questioning gaze, relishing her beauty, treasuring the way the sunlight filtered through the arch of trees above them to kiss her lovely face.
“Ranulf . . .” she murmured more urgently.
His hand cradled her cheek as he bent his head again. The quiver of her mouth beneath his sent little shocks of pleasure rippling through him. Her body, soft and yielding in his arms, filled him with desire. Yet still he held back. Gentling his kiss, he slanted his lips over hers, gliding his tongue into her warmth, stroking the soft openness.
Ariane gave a faint moan of frustration, impatient with his delaying tactics. She pressed against him, straining toward his seeking mouth, blindly searching. It was only when she fumbled beneath the split skirt of his hauberk that he broke the embrace.
“Ranulf . . . please . . . take me . . . here . . . now . . .”
“Aye, sweeting . . . presently.”
Urging his horse forward, he found a patch of grassy meadow partially surrounded by a wooded copse, sheltered from prying eyes. It seemed an idyllic setting for a lovers’ tryst—fresh and sweet and tranquil. Above in a gentle blue sky, fleecy clouds floated by, while the melody of a thrush serenaded them sweetly.
Dismounting, Ranulf set his helmet on the ground, then turning to Ariane, reached up for her.
She came willingly, eagerly, into his embrace, her mouth finding his unerringly as her arms encircled his neck.
Her naked urgency made Ranulf shake his head as he whispered against her lips, “Go slowly, sweeting . . . We have time . . . all the time we need.”
Ariane took a deep, steadying breath as she allowed him to set her on her feet. She did not think she could wait or find the discipline to go slowly with this fierce craving burning inside her, but she would try.
Quelling her need, her turbulent emotions, with supreme effort, she forced herself to concentrate on the difficult task of undressing Ranulf . . . helping him to remove his heavy mail armor, and then his clothing beneath. Yet when his undertunic had been tossed aside, she couldn’t deny herself the pleasure of pressing her lips against his chest, relishing the powerful expanse of naked flesh. Beneath the soft whorls of hair, she could feel his hot skin, the tightly curving muscles.
She felt his body tighten, and gazed up at him longingly. His thick raven hair glinted with blue highlights in the sun, while the harsh angles of his face had softened with tenderness. His amber eyes seemed warm as melted honey, deep enough to drown in.
Her trembling fingers loosened his braies and drew them down over his narrow hips and strong thighs. Finally, at last, he stood naked before her, detailed by the probing sunlight. Beautiful, powerful. All rippling muscle and sinew. His erection swollen thick and thrusting. Ariane drew a sharp breath at the sight.
He reached for her then.
“ ’Tis my turn now,” he murmured, his voice a husky, erotic whisper.
And yet to her frustration and dismay, Ranulf seemed content to draw out the process. First he unclasped her mantle and laid it on the grass to make a pallet. Then he slowly, sensually, attended to her clothing. It was long, long moments later before he had partially completed his task and she stood clad only in her filmy chemise.
He turned his attention to her hair next, taking down the coiled braids. His eyes uncharacteristically soft, he combed his fingers slowly through the luxuriant tresses, till it gleamed a glorious, shimmering mass of pale copper, falling around her shoulders in lovely, wanton disorder.
How can a man so harsh, so ruthless, be so gentle?Ariane wondered dazedly.