The Warrior

With a soft moan, Ariane closed her eyes in surrender. And when the shattering ecstasy came moments later, the pleasure was more intense than anything she had ever known, while the heartache was greater than she thought she could bear.

Ranulf desired her only for her body, while she desperately needed and craved his love.

When it was over, when he was holding her trembling form in the aftermath of passion, she felt the helpless tears well in her eyes. One spilled over, despite her effort to quell it and the terrible ache in her heart.

“Ariane?” Ranulf raised himself on one elbow, his eyes dark with concern at the sight of her weeping. “Did I hurt you?”

Yes,she wanted to cry, yet she sniffed and dashed away the moisture, determined to give him no cause to think she was employing feminine wiles. “No, it is naught.”

With a puzzled frown, he brushed her damp cheek with his thumb, tracing downward to her trembling mouth.

“Just hold me . . .” Ariane whispered, pressing her face against his chest.

Uncertainly, Ranulf wrapped his arms around her and gathered her close, comforting her silently with his embrace, offering her tenderness in the only way he knew how.

24

Ariane sighed as she watched the display of knightly exploits in the practice yard. Even from her position at the solar window, she could distinguish Ranulf from the scores of helmeted, mailed horsemen. He was the most powerful, the most dominating, the most compelling warrior of them all. And he had vanquished her as easily as he conducted his military triumphs.

She had fallen helplessly, hopelessly, in love with the unfeeling lout.

It was vexing, infuriating, and entirely unjust. Whenever she remembered Ranulf’s teasing laughter, her blood simmered. He claimed to find herentertaining ! She provided sport for him, only that. He used her merely to slake his lust and to relieve his boredom.

She could not forgive him for his insensitivity, despite his recent carnal tenderness.

In the fortnight since his return from King Henry’s camp, Ranulf had shown her a passion that left her gasping and weak. Yet passion was no longer enough. Ariane wanted far more. No longer was she content merely to aspire to become his wife, or to await crumbs of attention tossed her way. Somehow, someway, she vowed to make Ranulf love her.

Regrettably, she had hit upon no suitable strategy to help her achieve those ends. As May had ripened into June, she’d marked little progress in her attempts at winning his love. Ranulf remained invulnerable, invincible, while he held the power to wring her heart dry.

At times—chiefly when she was in his arms—he seemed to soften toward her, raising her hopes that he was coming to care f

or her, even if he would not admit it. But more often he treated her with cool indifference. She could not count the minor concessions he had made regarding the running of the castle. Ranulf had turned several domestic matters over to her, placing the kitchen and tower staffs under her control, yet he had not given her back the keys to the castle or access to the household accounts. He had come no closer to honoring her as his lady, nor had he exhibited the least inclination to return her love.

“He regards you with all the tender concern of an ox,” Ariane muttered to herself, gazing after Ranulf’s distant figure in frustration.

Even his occasional tenderness was suspect. Three days before he had even gifted her with a costly bauble, the kind of present a lord might give his lady. The jewelled broach that pinned the front of a mantle together was carved of onyx in the shape of his device, a dragon rampant, with rubies for eyes and studded around with the same precious gems.

When Ranulf had first presented it to her, a warm glow had swept through Ariane—until she realized the significance of the gift: it branded her as his property.

“Is it not to your liking?” Ranulf asked.

“Nay . . . I mean . . . it is lovely. I am well pleased, my lord.” But she had been untruthful. She would rather have an avowal of affection from him than all the jewels in the kingdom.

She was preparing to turn away from the window when the watchman’s horn announced new arrivals at the castle gates. Ariane waited as a small party rode across the drawbridge and through the outer bailey. A strange sense of foreboding curled in her stomach when she realized one of the newcomers was a woman.

Veiled and cloaked, the woman urged her palfrey toward the practicing knights. When Ranulf saw her, he broke away from his men and rode toward her at an eager gallop. Coming to a plunging halt at her side, he apparently offered greetings. Ariane would have given a year off her life to hear the exchange between them—until the veiled woman bowed low and kissed his gloved hands.

A shaft of pain streaked through Ariane, so fierce it took her breath away, yet she forced herself to move away from the window. She would not allow herself to jump to foolish conclusions. Doubtless there were reasonable explanations for such a fawning display. Many people kissed the lord’s hand—supplicants for his favor, for example.

Trying unsuccessfully to repress the knot of apprehension inside her, Ariane made her way below to the great hall, where the new arrivals were just entering.

One of Ranulf’s younger knights, Richard of Lorne, approached Ariane at once, escorting the woman. “May I present Layla of Acre, milady, summoned from Vernay upon the lord’s orders. Lord Ranulf bids you find her private accommodations.”

Acre in the Holy Land? Vernay in Normandy?Private? Such disjointed thoughts flashed through Ariane’s mind, but she could only focus on the last. It was unusual for any but the highest-ranking guests to be afforded privacy, since a castle had few chambers and hundreds of people to shelter.

Just then, Layla raised her veil and Ariane caught her breath at the woman’s stunning beauty. Obviously from the East, Layla was sloe-eyed, with heavy black brows and lashes, full ruby-red lips, and darkly golden skin that seemed to glow with vitality. Lush and sultry, she possessed a figure that would entice any male . . . especially a lusty, sensual, physical male like Ranulf.

Was the beauty Ranulf’s leman? A Saracen from the East? Brought here from Vernay for what purpose?