It was hours later, after they had journeyed to the eastern wood so that Layla might examine the Lady Constance, when Ariane allowed her hope full rein. Layla seemed confident she could concoct a treatment that would at least slow the ravaging effects of the disease. In addition to potions and perfumed lotions for the skin, she claimed to possess a certain green mold made from stale bread and the juice of pomegranates that multiplied when left in moist, warm darkness. At present she had too little of the mold to prepare more than a few applications of a poultice, but in time, she thought she could grow enough for Lady Constance’s needs.
Ariane tried not to let her hopes swell too high. She wanted too desperately to believe a cure for her beloved mother was possible. Yet for the first time in a long, long while, she felt a spark of true joy at the promise Layla’s remedy held.
She was genuinely grateful for the Saracen’s presence, and surprised herself by actually feeling sympathy for a beautiful woman who was in truth a potential rival. Layla had doubtless led a wretched life; it must have been terrible, being sold into slavery in a strange land.
Yet when Ariane was lying in Ranulf’s bed that night, her worries regarding the beautiful concubine returned full force. Ranulf claimed he did not mean to replace her with his former leman, Ariane knew, yet he had scarcely spoken a word to her throughout the evening meal. And when they retired to the solar, he had not made love to her, nor even touched her. Instead, he had turned away, lying on his side, giving her his scarred back.
Ariane sensed that his withdrawal was not mere indifference; in truth, he seemed almost ill at ease with her. If she did not know better, she would have thought himnervous. Perhaps her avowal of love earlier had disturbed him. She regretted now blurting out the truth in so rash a fashion. She had wanted to tell him, to admit her feelings, but not in such a manner—not shouted in anger.
“Would you rather your Saracen leman share your bed in my place?” Ariane asked Ranulf quietly, and then held her breath, awaiting his answer.
“I told you, she holds no interest for me.”
“She is very beautiful,” Ariane murmured almost inaudibly.
“Layla’s bounteous charms cannot compare to your attractions, if that is what you ask.”
“Then why do you turn away from me? Have I done something to displease you?”
With a sigh, Ranulf rolled over and gathered Ariane in his arms. She nestled against his naked heat gratefully, and yet even this comforting closeness was unsatisfying. Ranulf was absently stroking her hair, yet he remained silent, uncommunicative. He seemed distracted, deep in thought, hardly aware of her presence.
In truth, Ranulf was brooding over her earlier profession of love. Ariane’s admission had terrified him. Could it be true? Could she believe herself in love with him? Or was this merely another scheme of hers to win his surrender? Hewanted to believe her.
A pale copper lock of her hair curled around his fingers, sleek and vibrant, with a life of its own. Ranulf stared at it a moment, then raised it to his lips.
“Ranulf?”
she murmured in the silence. “I meant what I said earlier. . . . I love you.” Abruptly she felt him stiffen against her.
“Do you?” The cynicism in his tone clearly conveyed his doubt.
Ariane drew back, trying to see his face. “Why can you not believe me?” she asked softly. “Because of your mother’s betrayal so long ago?”
Reflecting reluctantly on his bitter past, Ranulf raised his gaze, his mouth drawn in a rigid line, his eyes bleak. “Aye . . . I suppose . . . in part. I hated her . . . the noblewoman who gave me birth. She lay with her peasant lover in sin, and defiled the honor of Vernay. Because of her, my life became a living hell.”
“Perhaps she allowed her heart to rule her head. It happens, sometimes, when feelings become so strong that naught else matters. Love makes fools of us at times.”
The curling of his lip told her clearly how strongly he scorned the notion of love.
“Love?” he murmured softly. “The word holds no meaning for me.” He had never known a woman’s love, never wished to. Love was the villain in too many tales for him to suddenly wish to embrace it.
Sorrowfully, her heart aching, Ariane searched his face. After his experiences, she could understand why Ranulf would be disdainful of love. Why he would hold little belief in its power. Why he could not believe any noblewoman could be faithful to her vows. “My lord, will you condemn all of us for the sins of a few?”
He remained ominously silent.
“You have my love and loyalty,” Ariane vowed softly. “As God is my witness, I give it to you freely, and with all my heart.”
Searchingly, desperately wanting to believe, Ranulf returned her gaze. In the dim light of the bedside candle, the gray of her eyes looked silver and softly luminous—and utterly honest. He could almost, almost believe her.
And yet the harsh lessons of a lifetime could not be forgotten. He had spoken true. He knew nothing of love. After so many years of hate, he doubted he was capable of it.
His mouth twisted with a bitterness he could not hide. “I cannot return your love. I have no heart.”
She placed her hand on his bare, muscled chest, splaying her fingers against his breastbone, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat beneath her palm. “I think you do, my lord. It wants only nurturing to be freed from its shell of armor.”
Her own heart felt as if it were breaking when he gently caught her wrist and drew her hand away. And yet he did not release her completely. Instead, he regarded her bleakly, his eyes tormented.
“What am I to do with you?” he murmured almost to himself.