The Warrior

At the sudden penetrating sensation, she drew a sharp, shuddering gasp of pleasure that disturbed the quiet of the lengthening day. Astride his thighs, his powerful erection deep within her, she felt fulfilled, complete, infused with a great inner joy at the pleasure she knew she was giving him, at the pleasure he was giving her.

When his hands covered her aching breasts, her passion-hazed glance locked with his. He was so hard inside her, so fiery hot, an exquisite shaft of fire spearing through her. Her back arching gracefully, she rode him as he had taught her, rocking against him, trying desperately to ease the throbbing, fevered ache he had kindled deep within her.

His teeth bared, Ranulf lost his masterful control. Blindly, his hands moved from her breasts to grip her buttocks, working her up and down in rhythm with his thrusts, his hips pumping, his manhood surging deep into her sleek, hot sheath.

“Ranullllf . . .” Her exhalation was a jarring series of broken gasps as he thrust himself to the hilt, impaling her.

In only moments the rapturous shudders began. He convulsed first; his body contracted like a bow, catching Ariane in the wrenching release. His hoarse groan mingled with her rasping sob as searing ecstasy erupted between them.

When the storm at last subsided, Ranulf caught her as she fell weakly into his arms, holding her shaking body. Yet he scarcely had the power to breathe. His own body limp, drained, his chest heaving, he lay there with his eyes closed as the fierce explosions slowly faded.

His hand cradled her throat, soothing her thundering pulsebeat, while he attempted to make sense of the foreign emotions rioting through him. He felt a tranquility, a sense of utter peacefulness, that was completely alien to him. He had never known peace. Yet here, in the soft-dying day, with this woman in his arms, he could almost forget his cruel past, could almost believe his future held more than harsh reality.

Gently, reverently, Ranulf brushed away a sweat-dewed tress that clung to the curve of her jaw, his lips pressing against her temple. He heard her soft sigh, and his chest constricted.

It was the gentleness that startled him most. She made him want to shower her with gentleness. Tenderness ran through him, hot, honeyed, unfamiliar, loosening something inside him, melting the edges of the ice that had encased his heart for so long. He had comforted Ariane, driven away her tears with his passion, but her ardent, needy response had affected him in ways he could not begin to understand.

Pulling her close, his hand gentle on her back, Ranulf stroked her silken skin, drifting slowly up and down. What was it about this woman that turned his vitals inside out? That made him long to hold and comfort her? That aroused this strange yearning within him, a sense of wonder about what might be, a hope for what the future might embrace? What made him hunger to draw out the blissful, soothing peace enveloping him now?

Ranulf exhaled quietly, in a deep sigh. Perhaps he was dreaming impossibilities, indulging in whimsical fantasy, but for now he wanted to believe that the peace of this moment could last.

20

The peace lingered as the day waned. Her body cradled by his, Ariane and Ranulf lay entwined, loath to disturb the enchanted moment.

“I would that we could stay here always,” she murmured on a sigh, voicing Ranulf’s own bemused thoughts.

She wanted nothing to spoil the languor that had stolen over her, the cocoon of numbing warmth. Nestled in his embrace, his heat at her back, his muscle-corded arms wrapped around her, she could almost pretend they were not enemies. That he was not her vengeful overlord, she his powerless hostage.

His hand on her breast, absently caressing, was soothing rather than arousing as it drifted over her skin, a mere reminder of the quivering heights of ecstasy to which he had carried her a short while ago. How strange to think she had once feared those strong warrior’s hands, when all they had done was give such pleasure. His hands could be relentless when they drove her to the peak of passion, yet they could be gentle, too.

She could not comprehend his current gentleness, though, could not fathom Ranulf in this present mood. He held her like a cherished loved one, as if she were something infinitely lovely, infinitely precious. As if his sole thought was to offer comfort.

Ariane accepted his solace thankfully. She had never dreamed it could be so wonderful to lean against someone else’s strength. Her gratitude to Ranulf for his leniency was profound; her heart felt unburdened, now that she knew her mother would be safe from his reprisals. And yet it was his unspoken compassion that fortified her, that bolstered her courage and her will to endure, that renewed her resolve to prevail after the past tumultuous weeks of adversity.

“Have you attempted to find a cure?” he asked quietly after a time.

Ariane sighed again, knowing he was thinking of her mother’s affliction. “We tried countless herbs and remedies over the years. My mother is skilled in the healing arts, and she taught me some of what she knows, but this disease is far beyond our skills. I fear it is hopeless.”

Wearily she closed her eyes. There was no known cure for leprosy. Sometimes the malady improved on its own or by God’s grace. More often, the victim’s flesh rotted away, eventually ending in death.

“We had hoped . . . prayed . . . that here in this wood, protected from worldly concerns, she might recover, but as yet there has been no improvement. The only promising sign is that her condition has not worsened. Yet my lord father . . .”

“What of your father?”

“He lost faith long ago. He became so . . . bitter after losing both his son and wife. And as the years passed, he seemed no longer to care.” Ariane hesitated, biting her lip. “How I wish that I had been born a son instead of a disappointing daughter.”

“Disappointing?”

She nodded mutely, her cheek rubbing softly against Ranulf’s arm, which pillowed her head. She had never signified much to her father, not a tithe of what his only son had meant to him. She doubted Walter was even aware of making her feel inferior for having been born female, and yet it had affected her every endeavor her life long. She had tried desperately to be a good daughter in all things, including her betrothal to Ranulf.

“I failed my father,” she said in a low voice. “Since I was not a son, I could not think to assume his demesne, not without a husband to rule for me.” Ariane gave a shallow laugh. “I could not hold his castle in his absence as he charged me to. I could not even preserve the betrothal he arranged.”

Ranulf felt a swift stab of guilt at her quiet lament, yet he did not wish to dwell on his seizure of Claredon or his repudiation of their betrothal. “It seems to me you have done well by him, within the constraints of your gender.”

“Aye, I suppose. I have striven to do my best. Yet it is a man’s world, ruled by men. I would that I were one.”

He heard the quiver of hurt and regret in her voice, a hurt that echoed keenly the feelings locked deep in his own heart. He could hear what she had not said; how she had tried to be the perfect daughter, holding herself to impossibly high standards in hopes of attracting her father’s notice.