The Warrior

Her breath caught; her head whirled. Ariane raised a trembling hand to her temple, not daring to believe he truly meant it. “You wish to settle down? I thought . . . you preferred soldiering.”

Ranulf exhaled a deep sigh. “Once I did. But I am tired of fighting. I grow weary of constant war. I’ve had a bellyful of blood. My lands are barely known to me, and I would change that.”

“Will you return to Vernay?”

“No,” he replied sharply. “I despise Vernay. I intend to remain in England.”

“Here, at Claredon?”

“Not here. I do not belong here.”

“Then . . . where?”

“Henry has given me new lands in the west, with orders to build a castle to defend the marshes. I could make a fresh start there. I want an end to the loneliness, the hatred, the battles. I want my life with you. . . . If you will have me.”

“What of trust, Ranulf? I could not bear to watch our marriage destroyed by mistrust and suspicion. I want a husband who can believe in me.”

“I trust you, Ariane . . . as much as I can trust anyone.”

She realized the risk Ranulf had taken with his heartfelt admission. “And love?”

Turning his head, he glanced over his shoulder at her, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “My love is yours, such as I have to give. If what I feel can be called love, then, aye, I love you.”

“Whatdo you feel, my lord?”

He thought of the powerful, poignant emotions welling inside him. “I feel helpless,” he whispered hoarsely. “Afraid. Afraid that I have lost you through my own blindness.”

The pain in his eyes sent a wave of tenderness surging through her; it hurt her to see her fierce dragon suffering.

Her throat aching, Ariane moved toward him. From behind him, she wrapped her arms around Ranulf’s powerful form, pressing her cheek against his back, against the scars she knew were hidden beneath his tunic. “You have not lost me, Ranulf.”

Slowly, he turned in her arms, gazing doubtfully down at her. She searched his proudly sculpted features, seeing the vulnerability, the uncertainty, in the golden depths of his eyes.

“I will not press my suit if you refuse me,” he added bleakly. “The choice is yours.”

“No, my lord. The choice was taken from me long ago.” She watched as a spark of hope flared in his eyes.

“From me, as well, my lady,” Ranulf whispered. “You bewitched me from the first.”

“I too am bewitched,” she said softly.

Taking her hands in his, he stared down at their interlaced fingers. “I know not how to love, Ariane. Will you teach me?”

“Yes . . . willingly, gladly.” An immeasurable joy flowed over her when his tentative smile reflected hers. “But are you certain, Ranulf? Truly certain?”

“More certain than anything in the whole of my life. You are my life. You are in my blood.”

“I am not the wife you wished for.”

He shook his head. “What I ask for in a wife is courage and honesty and loyalty. You have proven those in ample measure.”

Her smile struck him with the force of a lightning bolt. Ranulf felt suddenly breathless, as if his heart might burst from his rib cage.

Yet Ariane seemed intent on teasing him. “Do you not wish for obedience and docility, my lord?”

His mouth twisted into a bold grin. “What I crave is a saucy wench who will challenge me and nag me and force me to love.”

“I do not nag!” Ariane exclaimed indignantly.