Ariane felt a sob catch in her throat. Ranulf had let it be known he was leaving his castle in her hands. He trusted her that much, at least. She could only hope he would someday come to trust her with his heart.
With a tremulous smile, she nodded solemnly, accepting the charge. “As you will, my lord.”
She thought he would leave without another word, but she was blessedly mistaken. Without warning, Ranulf muttered a curse and bent down to catch her about the waist. Lifting her up, he covered her mouth fiercely with his, startling her with his violence, his need. Yet Ariane clung to him with all her might, returning his passion, tasting regret, sorrow, despair in his kiss.
Just as abruptly as he had begun, Ranulf released her and set her on her feet. His amber eyes were enigmatic as, without another word, he turned his destrier and cantered to the head of the column of mounted knights and men-at-arms.
Through a blur of t
ears, Ariane watched as he rode away without a backward glance, his dragon’s banner snapping tauntingly in the spring breeze.
27
It was a disturbing ride for Ranulf. His thoughts hounded him the entire journey north, while his vassal’s counsel echoed in his mind with a relentless, pounding urgency:Search your heart, search your heart, search your heart. . . .
What did he feel for Ariane? What, beyond passion, lay hidden in the depths of his heart?
Her generous nature, her spirited defense of her people, her devotion to her loved ones, her passionate caring, all pointed to someone who was trustworthy. Women were not often noted for their faithfulness and high principles, but within Ariane’s shapely breast lay a heart of honor, with the courage and honesty of a valiant knight. She was a warrior’s woman, worthy of any ruler. Far more worthy than he, Ranulf concluded bleakly.
He had been so blinded by prejudices, his view so twisted by bitter experience, he had refused to see, had stubbornly refused to admit even to himself, that he was losing his heart to her. He could not arm his heart as he could don a coat of mail, he had discovered painfully. And now it was ensnared by silken chains.
God’s teeth, he hoped,prayed, Rome would not grant an annulment. If so, he would have no legal claim to Ariane.
Could he give her up then? The question was absurd. He could not face the bleak emptiness of a life without her. He could not, would not, relinquish her. Yet the price of her acceptance was his heart.
Ranulf took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut against the images that tormented him: Ariane challenging him to look beyond his bitterness and hate. Ariane laughing. Ariane making love to him . . . her soft breasts pillowed on his chest, her cool hands encircling him, stroking him. Ariane refusing his offer.
If you do not know—truly know—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. . . .
Aye, heknew. He could give her his heart. Had given it. He desperately wanted her to love him. And he loved her. His desire went beyond blood, beyond a fever of the flesh. It came from deep within him, within his soul. She had touched something in him he had not known he possessed. He loved her.
Opening his eyes to the gray day, Ranulf stared wonderingly out at the rolling English countryside, savoring the words on his tongue.I love her. The rightness of it echoed through his mind, resonated through his body, his very soul.
He threw back his head and laughed, startling his men. For the first time in his life he felt released from the burden of bitterness he had always carried. He felt like a newborn babe, helpless, innocent, marveling at the world around him.
He loved Ariane, needed her—a need as pure and strong as his need for air. If she were his, he would ask nothing more of life than to be allowed to stand between her and the world, protecting her from all sadness and harm; he could ask for no greater boon. Yet knowing the woman she was, Ariane would refuse to meekly accept his protection. She would stand with him against the world, fighting at his side, as his equal, his soul mate.
Ranulf shut his eyes, remembering. No woman had ever offered him the generous, unselfish tenderness she had shown. No woman had ever dared defy and challenge him as Ariane had, either.
A rueful smile tugged at Ranulf’s lips as he thought of their tempestuous encounters . . . a smile that swiftly faded. He had tried to crush that spark of fire in Ariane, that precious spirit, when he should have cherished it.
But no longer. He had broken the chains of his past, and he would honor her as she deserved.
Yet there was work to be done, Ranulf reminded himself, suddenly sobering. He had vowed to aid her father. For Ariane’s sake, he prayed Walter was innocent. He could not bear the thought of her grief should her father be hanged for treason.
But it would not come to that, Ranulf vowed. He was the king’s man, but he was prepared to go to great lengths for the woman he loved. If need be, he was prepared to battle even his king for her father’s life.
Henry’s camp was a familiar sight, teeming with military purpose. Tents and pavilions spread over a vast acreage, with banners waving at each entrance and great destriers tethered nearby. Everywhere there were crowds—knights and archers, squires and pages, cooks and camp followers, smiths and armorers, as well as couriers riding to and fro.
Ranulf eyed the commotion with little enthusiasm. How profoundly he had changed in the past months from the eager warrior he once had been. He had battled, feasted, reveled, and whored with the best of them, yet now all he wished was to return home to Claredon, to Ariane.
The royal tent was the largest of the lot, but even Ranulf, as high ranking and valued a knight as he was, could not gain immediate entrance. He was made to cool his heels outside for the better part of ten minutes, awaiting the king’s pleasure.
The delay, however, allowed him to learn of the events that had occurred in his absence since escorting Queen Eleanor here. It seemed Henry’s efforts to bring the rebellious barons to heel was nearing success.
“They have sued for pardon,” a fellow knight informed Ranulf jovially. “Their resources are so depleted, they would make terms with the Devil, I trow.”
Ranulf nodded in approval. Henry had been reluctant to storm Mortimer’s castle and lose valuable men by ordering the walls destroyed, and so had chosen to starve the inhabitants with a lengthy siege. But it was clear the campaign to crush the rebels was nearing the end. At this very moment, Henry was in council with his earls, who had conducted the terms of surrender.