The Warrior

It was her relationship with Ranulf that still frightened Ariane. Would she ever have a future with him? Would he ever come to love her? To trust her? She had trusted Ranulf to save her father if he could; she did not trust him to know his own heart. More damning, in his absence a messenger had arrived from Rome with an official document bearing the Pope’s seal. Whatever that scroll contained would decide her fate, Ariane knew, struggling against the urge to open a missive meant for Ranulf.

When one fine summer’s afternoon in July, the watchman’s horn announcing visitors at last sounded, Ariane fairly flew to the window of the ladies’ bower. She could see two banners flying over the party, and even though she could not make out the devices, judging from the colors of the two fields, she was certain one boasted her father’s hawk, the other a fearsome dragon.

Joy filled her at the sight. Joy and apprehension. Her father was safe. And Ranulf had returned. She had greatly feared he might stay away forever; he was no longer lord here now that Claredon had been restored to her father.

My beloved, have you come for me at last?

Summoning her ladies to her at once, Ariane hurried to change into a gown of forest green samite so that she might present the best possible appearance.

Her heart was pounding by the time she raced down the stairs and took her place beside Payn in the bailey. She scarcely had time to regain her breath or her composure before the party of horsemen rode through the inner gates. Trembling with nerves, Ariane clasped her hands before her in an effort to hide her trepidation.

She could not take her eyes from the two lead knights. They appeared so tall and formidable as they sat their powerful destriers, although Ranulf was the larger of the two. Her gaze shifting anxiously between them, she fervently wished she could tell what Ranulf was thinking, and found herself cursing the helm that shielded his expression.

Only with effort did she tear her gaze from him as Lord Walter was aided from his horse by his squire and his helm removed.

“Father,” she murmured, tears filling her eyes as she offered him her hands. He seemed to have aged ten years in the months he was away, and his face was far thinner and drawn with fatigue. “Welcome home.”

To her surprise, her father embraced her tightly, nearly crushing her against his mailed form, as if desperate to hold her. “I thought I might not see you again,” he whispered hoarsely.

He held her thus for a long moment, and when at last he stood back, Walter smiled down at her. “You did well, daughter. My lord Ranulf tells me you defended Claredon bravely and championed me when all the world spoke against me.”

Her father’s unfamiliar praise stunned Ariane, making tears of pride and happiness slip unheeded down her cheeks. Ranulf, waiting quietly to one side for her attention, felt a stab of envy at the obvious closeness father and daughter enjoyed at this poignant moment. He longed to share that closeness.He wanted the right to hold Ariane, to be the one she greeted with love and devotion shining softly from her gray eyes.

In truth, he could not take his own eyes off her. She was a breathtaking vision with her long, pale copper hair hanging loose under a gold circlet, her carriage as regal and graceful as a queen’s.

He yearned to take her in his arms, to ease the pounding of his heart that was like a huge drum of fear inside him. Without Claredon in his possession, he no longer held any power over Ariane. With both her father and her inheritance safe, she could easily forswear him. When at last Ariane glanced at him, their eyes met and locked in a question.

Her expression held uncertainty as she searched his face. “Ranulf . . . my lord. How can I ever repay you for aiding my father?”

His smile held a bleakness he could not hide. “I do not seek your gratitude, demoiselle.” What he wanted, what he needed was her love.

Payn took the opportunity to break the tension by slapping Ranulf on the back and bowing to Walter. “My lords, come inside the tower and celebrate this glad day with wine. The Lady Ariane has been preparing for days for your arrival, and plans a feast tonight to honor your homecoming.”

Walter nodded approvingly and patted the chain mail covering his stomach. “A splendid notion, daughter. I could do with a good meal to put some flesh on this bony form. I trow a green babe could unhorse me with a feather.”

With a flush of pleasure at his approval and concern at his condition after his long imprisonment, Ariane accepted her father’s raised hand and led the way up the stairs and into the great hall, where many of the castle retainers waited eagerly to greet the returning lord.

The celebration that followed lasted well into the evening. The duties of chatelaine occupied much of Ariane’s attention, giving her no opportunity to speak privately with Ranulf as she yearned to do.

Ranulf, too, chafed at the delay, watching her with possessive eyes as she sat at her father’s other side—too far from him, he thought. He ate sparingly and drank very little, caring naught for food. He wanted only to sweep Ariane up in his arms and carry her above stairs at this very moment, to lay her down and cover her with his body, to capture her mouth with his and drink from her sweetness. Yearningly he looked at that beautiful mouth, his lingering gaze hungry, wistful, as he recalled her adamant refusal to wed him.If you know in your heart . . . Hedid know, and he was prepared to admit it to her, to bare his soul to her if that was what she wanted, even though it would be one of the hardest things he had ever done.

Even then he could not be certain Ariane would accept him. He could perhaps force the issue of their union, Ranulf knew. Her father would give his daughter’s hand in marriage to the man who had championed his innocence and won the king’s pardon.

Yet he would never make such a demand, Ranulf vowed. He would not compel Ariane to wed him. He had treated her too harshly in the past to revert to such coercion. In truth, he never wanted to force her again. He wanted Ariane to come to him freely, of her own will, because she loved him.

He would have to woo her this time, he realized, yet even that effort might fail. Ranulf thought of the gilded coffer he had ordered delivered to her chamber shortly after the banquet had begun. A knight who sought to win the hand of a lady would bring her gifts to win her favor and sweeten her regard. He had spent a small fortune buying goods from cloth merchants and goldsmiths, praying that such riches might sway Ariane. Now all t

hat was left was to put his most fervent hopes to the test.

The evening was well advanced, a lively entertainment by traveling minstrels underway, before Ranulf summoned the nerve to rise from the table and approach Ariane’s chair. Bending, he murmured in her ear, “Might I have a private word with you, demoiselle? In your chamber?”

“Aye, my lord, as you wish,” she said rather breathlessly, sending his hopes soaring with the quizzical smile she bestowed upon him.

Excusing herself from her father and the company, Ariane lit a taper and led the way upstairs to her chamber. Ranulf followed her, his demeanor uncharacteristically humble, his heart beginning to pound again.

His momentary optimism had plummeted by the time he closed the heavy door behind them. He did not take her in his arms as he yearned to. Instead, he stood regarding her silently in the candlelight.

“You wished to speak to me?” she asked uncertainly.