His fingers closing over her slender hand, he brought her palm to rest on his breast, directly over his heart. “As if I would die if you left me. ’Tis you who lights the fire in my loins. You who commands my heart. I need you as I need air, sunlight, fire in winter.”
Her eyes blurring with tears, Ariane smiled at him. “I will never leave you, my love. I swear by God to keep faith with you against all others, forever and always.”
“And in return I give you my life, yours to keep till the day I die.”
They sealed their pledges tenderly with yet another kiss that began to evolve into something more passionate . . . until to Ariane’s surprise and dismay, Ranulf suddenly ended the embrace.
“One moment, sweeting.”
Drawing back, he reached to retrieve the wine cup from the night table. To Ariane’s further surprise, he spilled a measure of wine on the sheets in the middle of the bed, watching with satisfaction as the dark red stain spread and was absorbed.
“There,” Ranulf said with satisfaction. “That should allow us to display the requisite bleeding on our sheets on the morrow.”
“I fear it does not look much like blood,” Ariane mused, eying the splotch skeptically.
“What matters it?” he said with a wicked grin. “Twice before you have stained the sheets with your ‘virgin’ blood. And if I say our marriage was consummated tonight, who is to prove otherwise?”
When her cheeks pinkened with chagrin at his reminder, Ranulf laughed softly, at her, with her, delighting in the flush that suffused her skin.
“Will you never allow me to forget that incident, my lord?” Ariane asked ruefully.
“No, never, my lady.” His laughter turned husky as his amber eyes darkened. “And I intend to demand penance from you regularly, for the rest of our mortal lives. You may begin appeasing me now. Kiss me, wench, before I lose patience.”
“As you wish, my lord,” she replied with false meekness. Her eyes shining with love, Ariane obediently reached up to twine her arms around his neck and embrace her lord husband.
Epilogue
&nb
sp; Marsden Keep, England: May 1158
The warm lips nuzzling his bare skin no longer had the power to arouse him, nor did the cool, silken hair trailing provocatively over his naked back. Ranulf lay sprawled on his stomach upon the musky linen sheets, sated and spent, his body glistening with sweat after his exertions. Pleasing his lusty young wife taxed even a man of his strength and stamina.
In a benumbed state of repletion, he had no energy left to respond to Ariane’s erotic caresses. He did not move a muscle, even when she pressed her lips tenderly against the savage scars on his back, for her soft, loving kisses held the power to heal his wounds, both without and within.
Only the sudden plaintive wail from the cradle near the hearth had the ability to make Ranulf stir immediately from his delicious lethargy. If it was not one wench demanding his attention, it was another, he thought with laughter warming him inside.
“No, wife, permit me,” he said when Ariane started to rise.
Easing from the bed, he went to the hearth to attend to the latest fruit of their love. The new keep at Marsden had been completed in time for the birthing of their daughter, Blanche, although their two-year-old son had been born at Claredon. Having grown too large for his cradle, Alain slept in the adjacent antechamber in the company of his nurse.
Ranulf murmured soothing endearments as he picked up his fretful daughter. With infinite tenderness he rocked her against his chest, silencing her cries.
Watching from her reclining position on the bed, Ariane smiled to see the broadest pair of shoulders in all Christendom sheltering such a fragile bundle. Never in her fondest dreams had she pictured Ranulf thus—cooing over his tiny daughter and reverently stroking her silken head with its curling thatch of raven hair, the strong hands that could wield a battle sword with deadly power and precision caressing with incredible gentleness. Ranulf was devoted to his son and proud as any father could be, but, as sometimes happened with strong men, he positively doted on his baby daughter.
Eventually he caught Ariane watching him and lifted a dark eyebrow. “What find you so amusing, dearling?”
“You, my lord. I was merely remembering the fearsome dragon who took possession of Claredon. You scarcely resemble that fierce warrior any longer.”
Ranulf’s mouth curved in a grin as he recalled the bitter man he had been. He could scarcely believe how profoundly his life had changed in a few short years. He had a family now, a home. He was surrounded by people he loved, who loved him—a wife and children as well as loyal retainers and vassals. He no longer needed war and conflict to feel fulfilled. Instead he knew a fierce contentment—a contentment that Ariane vowed he would always retain.
Just then Blanche let out a wail lusty enough to bring the rafters down. Wisely, Ranulf carried her at once to her mother so that Ariane might nurse her. Joining them on the bed, he watched appreciatively as she settled their hungry daughter at her breast. Noblewomen usually called up wet nurses from among the serfs, but Ariane had chosen otherwise. She was devoted to their children, just as he was.
His marriage had proved the end of his wenching. To the dismay of many a female heart, the lord of Vernay and Marsden was too attached to his beautiful lady wife to take any interest in the castle wenches—or any other woman.
Ranulf’s gaze lifted momentarily to survey the solar, which had become the center of his life. Ariane had made their new castle a true home, decorating this chamber for their comfort, adorning the stone walls and wooden floor with colorful silken tapestries and fur coverlets and woven rugs.
The past years had been bountiful. As a reward for a knight’s loyal soldiering, King Henry had given Ranulf the handsome fief of Marsden to hold, with orders to build a castle there to provide a base loyal to the crown.