The Warrior

An unfamiliar feeling of panic rose in Ranulf, but he managed to ward it off by summoning fresh anger. “Perhaps you have forgotten an important detail, my lady,” he said tightly. “We may already be wed. Your trick with the bedsheets may have cemented our union, whether you will it or not. Rome may very well have refused to dissolve the contract.”

“There is as much likelihood the annulment has been granted,” Ariane countered softly.

“If the Pope has not acted yet, I shall withdraw my petition. I no longer mean to seek an annulment.”

She would not reply.

His jaw clenching, Ranulf grasped at another argument. “Have you considered the consequences to yourself if you refuse? If your father is found guilty, you will be stripped of rank and possessions, forced to beg for your very bread. You will become a ward of the crown—and likely be forced to wed a man of Henry’s choosing.”

“That is preferable to the alternative. King Henry will give me to a man I cannot love or perhaps even respect . . . but I would rather that than have you come to despise me.”

At her quiet declaration, Ranulf felt suddenly faint, stunned, as if he had taken a sword thrust to the gut but could not yet feel the pain.

The blow she had dealt him showed on his features. Dismayed by his reaction, Ariane moved toward him, reaching out an imploring hand. She had to make Ranulf understand that she was not rejectinghim. She was leaving him free to choose, giving him the chance to decide what he truly wanted.

Her features softened in entreaty as she gazed up at him. “You still do not understand, do you, Ranulf? Iwant to be your wife. But if you cannot admit your deepest feelings to yourself, if you do not know—trulyknow —deep in your heart that I can make you happy, that I can complete your life as you could mine, that our two hearts would be as one, then I must refuse your offer of marriage.”

He looked away, saying stiffly, “You want me to ply you with sweet words, but I am a soldier, not a poet.”

“No,” she replied earnestly. “I care not what words you use, although if you truly loved me, you would not hesitate to shout it from the castle walls. What matters only is what youfeel for me. If you cannot trust me, if you think I have trapped you into wedding me, you would come to hate me. Ranulf . . . I could not bear it if that happened.”

“I could never hate you,” he said rigidly, his voice low.

“But you do not love me.”

There was a long, pregnant silence.

Ariane gazed at him sadly. “Now, at least, y

ou desire my body. But when you grow tired of me, what then? Will you set me aside? Will you turn to another woman for comfort? Will you seek pleasure from your Saracen leman and forget me? I could not bear to lose you that way. My heart could not bear it. ’Tis better that I not wed you at all.”

Ranulf stared at her, aching to deny her accusation. She was mistaken on one score. He wanted more than Ariane’s body; he wantedher, all of her. He wanted to bind her to him unalterably in marriage. And he wanted to believe her. He wanted desperately to trust her, to know that she would not betray him. He wanted to bare his heart, to release the fear inside him. Hewanted to love her. But he could not force the words past the tightness in his throat.

The ache roughened his voice. “You have secured the offer of my hand. Must you have my soul as well?”

“Nay, Ranulf,” Ariane said softly. “Not your soul. Your heart. I want your love. Nothing else will do. If and when you can say freely that you love me, then I will proclaim my vows before God with all the love in my own heart.”

How could he admit to a love when he had no heart? Ranulf wanted to cry. How could he give what he did not possess?

When he remained silent, Ariane smiled sadly. “You are a good man, Ranulf, worthy of my love and devotion. But you cannot believe me worthy of yours. You cannot trust me. And until you can, till you can say truly that you love me, I cannot be your wife.”

She read his answer in the bleakness of his eyes.

“I thought not,” she murmured, her heart aching.

She reached up to touch her fingertips to his cheek. Ranulf flinched as if burned.

“You ask too much of me,” he said almost bitterly.

“Perhaps. I hope not.”

Gritting his teeth, Ranulf turned away and went to the door. “This issue is not settled between us,” he flung over his shoulder, before he let himself from the room, shutting the door hard in his wake.

“I devoutly pray not,” Ariane whispered to herself, wondering if she had made a terrible mistake. She would take Ranulf on any terms, if only she could believe that by marrying him she was not sentencing him to a life of misery. That one day he might come to open his heart to her without reservation, without bitter wariness or treacherous doubts. Love could not survive without trust.

Am I a fool for wanting your trust, my love?

She sighed, knowing she could not allow herself to give up hope. Someday, God willing, she would penetrate the armor around the dragon’s heart and claim her most cherished dream.