It was all Ariane could do to nod civilly in acknowledgment of the imparted command. The thought of Ranulf rousing any other woman to passion scalded her with sick jealousy, but the realization that he had summoned his leman the vast distance from Normandy to takeher place made her feel as if her heart were slowly being ripped from her breast.
She did as she was bid without speaking, not trusting herself to say a word without losing any semblance of dignity or control. She led Layla to an alcove off the women’s dormitory, a small chamber with a bed built directly into the wall, curtained with rich hangings, all the while enduring sly looks from the Saracen beauty. When Layla expressed her thanks in heavily accented French that was both sultry and musical, Ariane nodded, still reeling from the blow. In a haze of pain, she returned to the solar to nurse her bleeding heart.
When, sometime later, Ranulf came in with his squire, Burc, directly from the training field, Ariane stood at thewindow, her back to him, her stance rigid as glass. She felt brittle, fragile, perilously unstable: if he touched her, she would shatter, if he spoke, she would explode.
“Did you welcome Layla?” Ranulf asked as he unbuckled his sword belt, blithely unaware of the tension emanating from Ariane in waves.
“I did as you ordered, my lord,” she replied quietly, carefully, straining to keep any emotion from her voice. “She is your leman, is she not?”
“Shewas. Her story is a wretched one. My lord father bought her from a brothel in Acre. She had been torn from a good family and sold there by slavers. My sire rescued her”—Ranulf’s tone turned sardonic—“in order to save her heathen soul, and brought her to Vernay, where I inherited her upon his . . . abdication.”
Ariane felt her heart whither a little further at Ranulf’s explanation. She no longer harbored any doubts that he had brought his beautiful Saracen concubine here to service him. Any wench will satisfy my carnal needs, he had claimed only recently, yet he had been dissatisfied enough with her to desire a foreign beauty in his bed instead, even at the expense of summoning the wench from another country.
If Ranulf thought she would meekly accede to his plans, though, Ariane vowed, he could think again.
Her fingers suddenly clenching into fists, she turned to confront him. Her face was set like flint, but the pain shimmering in her eyes was unmistakable.
Noticing, Ranulf paused in the act of pulling off his tunic, then cast a dismissive glance at his squire. “I desire a moment alone.”
When Burc had gone, Ranulf raised a concerned eyebrow at her. “What is amiss, sweeting?”
“Sweeting? You bring your whore into my home to replace me in your bed and then shower me with endearments?” Ariane’s voice trembled with scorn and fury, while she looked as if she might again throw something at him.
Glancing at the chessboard, Ranulf took a precautionary step backward. “You are mistaken. I have no intention of replacing you with Layla.”
“You intend to enjoy both of us together, is that it?” Hervoice lost its careful control. “You plan to practice your wicked perversions ontwo of us at once?”
Offering her a rueful smile, Ranulf shook his head. In the past he had been known to enjoy such sport, but asking Ariane to participate in such licentiousness was the farthest thing from his mind. He had no desire to bed Layla—or any wench other than Ariane, for that matter.
Hoping to calm her, he raised his hands, palms out, but she was too heated and hurt to notice.
Her eyes kindling, she pointed at the door. “I will not share you, do you mark me? Certainly not with that . . . that heathen creature!”
Ranulf’s conciliatory smile faded, while his eyes narrowed. It was one thing for him to overlook her sharp tongue because he enjoyed the spice of their spirited exchanges. It was another to let her rule him with ultimatums.
She ignored his look of warning entirely. “I will not endure such despicable treatment from you!” Ariane declared. “I will not share you!”
Ranulf stared in amazement as she stamped her slippered foot. With her stormy eyes both flashing sparks and sparkling with tears, she was the picture of defiance and wounded outrage. He had never seen such an outburst from her.
“What is this, sweeting?” he said slowly. “From your shrewishness, I could almost suppose you jealous.”
“Jealous!” She skewered him with her eyes. “I care not how many women you have! You can take your lust elsewhere—anywhere—it matters not to me. But I will not be subjected to the ridicule of everyone in this keep.”
“This keep and everything in it is mine,
including you. Think you to tell me whom I will and will not bed?”
“I would notdream of depriving you of your pleasure, my lord,” she retorted witheringly. “In truth, I would be delighted to be relieved of your lascivious attentions.”
He stared at her a long moment, seeing the hurt shimmering in her eyes, hearing the echo of tears underlying the hysterical note in her voice. Some of the heat left Ranulf’s expression. Ariane possessed pride aplenty, he had always known that, but her outburst had been due to more than wounded pride, he would stake his life on it. Despite herdenial, he could not help but believe she lied. Shewas jealous. She was jealous of a wench who meant nothing to him.
A slow smile of male triumph stretched Ranulf’s lips at this twist of events. Ariane was at fault this time.She had been the one to erupt in a foolish, unwarranted fit of jealousy, while he had kept his calm. She was jealous! His self-satisfied smile broadened into a grin. He rather liked the idea of Ariane’s possessiveness.
His good humor, haplessly, had the same effect as pouring oil on flames. “You dare laugh?” With a shriek, Ariane clenched her fists in impotent fury, wishing she could strike him. “Oooh, you . . . you cur!” Trembling with rage, she wielded the only weapon at her command. “Must you be reminded that the Church considers adultery a sin?”
“Adultery!” The smirk faded from Ranulf’s face.
“Yes, adultery! When a man fornicates with someone not his wife, it is deemed a sin!”