He had caught his fingers in her long tangled hair and was sifting it absently, as if testing a skein of silk for quality. When he raised an errant curl to his mouth, though, Ariane gasped and roughly drew it from his grasp.

“May I have leave to dress?” she snapped, still refusing to look at him.

“If you must. I would rather spend the next few hours teaching you a proper display of submission.” His tone was soft, self-assured, ripe with satisfaction.

It earned him a baleful glare—which Ariane regretted immediately. He looked like a ruffian with his raven hair tousled, his hard, sculpted face darkened with a shadow of whiskers. Yet his flagrant masculinity called out to her as he lounged there on one elbow. Even at ease, he seemed so powerful, so very male, with his corded muscles and look of limitless strength.

It was his expression, though, that set her heart to pounding. His amber eyes gleamed sensually as he deliberately caught her hair again and slowly wrapped his fingers in her tresses, holding her prisoner.

“Do you think you can resist me for long, demoiselle?” he asked in a low, husky murmur that stroked her senses.

No. And that was the trouble. She could not resist this devastating man, not when he was looking at her thus, his eyes heated with a flame of desire and promise.

Summoning every ounce of willpower she possessed, Ariane raised her chin and invoked a look of scorn. “You flatter yourself, my lord, if you think I will ever submit to you willingly.”

Ranulf’s lips twisted in a male smile that was provocative, indulgent. “Unwillingly, then, it matters not, wench. In truth, I will enjoy taming your defiance . . . and devising a penance we can both enjoy.”

Ariane quivered with the effort to keep her defenses in position. “I shall always despise you,” she declared in a fervent, trembling voice.

His knowing smile never wavered as he bent over her to kiss an impudent breast the way a lover might, making her flinch from the arousing warmth on her sensitive nipple. “Do not make rash statements, demoiselle, or I might be compelled to disprove them.”

Untangling his hand from her hair, he threw off the covers and rose naked from the bed. Without another glance at Ariane, he found his braies and began to dress.

9

“Did you pass a good night, my lord?” Payn queried when Ranulf joined him in the great hall to break the morning fast.

Answering with merely a grimace, Ranulf accepted a wooden cup filled with honey mead from a young page and settled into the lord’s chair.

“I take that as a denial,” his vassal said sympathetically. “The Lady Ariane was not accommodating?”

“If you have a care for your skin, you will refrain from mentioning that wench’s name in my hearing.” Irritably Ranulf glanced around the hall. The last of the straw pallets and blankets and hides were being rolled up to make way for the trestle tables, but the high table was bare. “Where is my cursed meal? Can a man not even be served a crust of bread in his own hall?”

Repressing a grin, Payn sent the trembling page to the kitchens for some victuals, before saying to Ranulf in a laughing undertone, “I thought you intended to give the lady a lesson in obedience, but it appears she remains as defiant as ever.”

“The battle has only just begun, I assure you,” Ranulf promised darkly. When Payn chuckled, Ranulf felt his vexation begin to dissipate. Against his will, he grinned ruefully. “Have you naught better to do than crow over my failure?”

“Indeed, my lord,” Payn murmured amiably. “I know better than to linger with you in such a black mood. I shall leave you in peace to reexamine your strategy in taming the damsel.” Clapping Ranulf on the back as he rose, he left the high table to confer with two knights who had just entered the hall.

Relieved to be alone, Ranulf stared into his tankard of mead and contemplated the unique experience he had just suffered. He was unaccustomed to being denied any wench he wanted, and unacquainted with regretting the deprivation so sorely. Never had he had a woman in his bed who did not leave it fully satisfied; never before had he permitted one to leave untilhe was fully satisfied. Yet that was precisely what had just transpired with Ariane. The ache still had not receded from his loins; his blood still simmered for her. He had never felt such desire as that lady roused in him.

By the rood, what hold did that beautiful witch have over him, that he should crave her so?

His planned seduction had gone awry, snaring him in his own trap. He had aroused the sensual woman beneath Ariane’s cool, haunting demeanor, true, but afterward found himself burning with an unquenchable fire.

It had almost been worth the pain. For a few exquisite moments, he’d succeeded in compelling the defiant vixen t

o sheath her claws. The haughty maiden was not so regal, so disdainful, when she was panting and writhing with ecstasy in his arms. But the sight of her lustrous pearl-white skin flushed with passion, her glorious mane of silky hair tumbling wildly about her creamy breasts, her warm, sleep-scented form pressed fully against him, had increased his desire to a raging inferno. And then the wench had not only refused to succor him in return, she had looked at him with horror and loathing!

Shaking his head ruefully, Ranulf chided himself for behaving like a callow youth, allowing himself to be led around by his loins. He knew better. He had seen men so besotted by scheming noblewomen that they forgot to watch their backs. And he well knew the danger of underestimating his former betrothed even for a moment. She was a foe worthy of caution.

Yet he was more determined than ever to make Ariane yield. If he used his skills wisely, he could ultimately compel her cooperation, if not her loyalty. By employing passion as a weapon, by letting her experience ecstasy at his hands, he could conquer her will. . . .

A dangerous smile curved Ranulf’s lips as he thought of the battles to come. They would see who was the victor.

With that mollifying thought, he drained the last of his wine and called for more—at the same moment Ariane stepped up onto the dais on which the lord’s table was erected.

“You come late to your work,” Ranulf remarked mildly, vexed by the way his body responded merely to the sight of her. His loins throbbed nearly as much as the ribs that had been wounded in yesterday’s ambush. “I did not give you leave to laze in bed the day long.”

Tags: Nicole Jordan Historical
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