The Warrior

“I wasnot lazing about, my lord. I found it necessary towash, ” Ariane retorted with studied haughtiness. In truth, she had scrubbed her skin till it tingled, yet she had not succeeded in erasing the memory of her shameless, wanton response to Ranulf’s lovemaking, or the exquisite feel of his touch.

She felt his scrutiny now and raised her chin when his eyes narrowed at her appearance. She wore a rich bliaud of rose samite, with a deep blue chainse underneath. A square of patterned silk adorned her hair, held in place by a thin silver circlet around her forehead, while a jewelled girdle of silver links encircled her slender hips.

“You dress lavishly for a squire,” he mused, his tone deliberately provocative.

“You said you wished me to address the field serfs this morning and repeat my pledge to you. I thought this appropriate attire.”

If it was not quite the truth, Ariane felt justified in the lie. She had donned one of her better gowns, not to impress Claredon’s serfs with her consequence, but to bolster her defenses and help her maintain some semblance of poise. The Black Dragon of Vernay might have mortified her with his wicked, mind-wrenching caresses, but she was still lady of this hall, still retained a measure of pride. If he expected her to surrender meekly, he had greatly miscalculated. She refused to fall swooning at his feet as Ranulf seemed to think was his due.

Lifting the pitcher of wine, Ariane refilled his cup, pleased that she could do so without shaking overmuch. As she leaned forward over the table, though, she felt a large, sinewed hand fleetingly brush her buttocks.

With a gasp, Ariane jumped and whirled, her arm swinging instinctively. Grinning, Ranulf caught the hand that would have struck him an instant before her palm contacted his cheek.

“Do not touch me so!”

He gazed up at her with sensual challenge, his amber eyes dancing with teasing laughter. “Methinks you enjoyed my touch only moments ago.”

“Methinks your much-vaunted prowess as a lover overrated,” Ariane returned, glaring. “In truth, I found it sorely lacking.”

For a score of heartbeats, amusement warred with Ranulf’s pride . . . and won. Though wincing inwardly at the disparagement of his manhood, he could not help admiring the damsel’s courage. She dared taunt the dragon, apparently unafraid for her skin, while her gray eyes flashed sparks of fire.

He chuckled slowly, even as he gazed at Ariane in speculation. He had never seen her so angry, or so flustered. Gratified by the high flush of color on her cheeks, Ranulf wondered if he could provoke her into losing her temper altogether. Although it might be a childish desire, it would give him a small measure of satisfaction to make her feel a tenth of the frustration he’d experienced at being left unfulfilled after becoming so incredibly aroused.

Without giving himself time to debate, Ranulf scraped back his chair and drew her inexorably inside the cradle of his iron-muscled thighs.

Inhaling a sharp breath, Ariane braced her palms against his broad shoulders, feeling the chain mail links of his hauberk, which she had been required to help him don over his tunic a short while ago. She used all her might to resist, yet he refused to release her.

“You have not enough evidence to properly judge my prowess, demoiselle,” Ranulf said, laughter threading his tone. “My skill was not fully tested. Shall we return to the solar and resume the trial? I doubt not I could have you moaning in passion within moments, just as I did earlier.”

Her cheeks flooded scarlet. The lout was enjoying himself far too much at her expense. “You arrogant braggart, release me! I may be your hostage, but I am no common villein that you may insult at your leisure.”

His gaze caressed her, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous sensuality. “No, that you are not, my lady. Were you any common wench I could take you as I willed.”

When Ranulf raised her hand to kiss the tender skin on the inside of her wrist, Ariane closed her eyes in mortification at the havoc he caused her senses. He could arouse her with merely a touch.

“But you are not common,” Ranulf said. “And you are my acting squire as well. Or have you forgotten that?”

His words were slightly goading, but she bit back her reply at the reminder. “No, I have not forgotten.”

“No, what?”

“No,my lord. ”

When a boy brought a bowl of oat porridge, Ariane took it from him and set it before Ranulf with restrained force, controlling the urge to dump it over his head.

He looked up at her challengingly, as if divining her thoughts. “I would not, were I you, or you will force me to take harsher measures. You would not care to be chained in the dungeon, I think.”

“That will not be necessary, my lord,” she replied stiffly. “You have me chained by my word just as effectively.”

“Have I, demoiselle?” He gave a soft huff of laughter edged with doubt. “Then I suggest you show a proper docility. Go and eat, and then fetch your mantle. The morning air will be brisk, and I would not wish my hostage to catch a chill.”

Her jaw set, Ariane turned away at once.

Still feeling the heat from her scorching gray eyes, Ranulf picked up his spoon to apply himself to his food, but his thoughts centered on his arousing, vexing foe and his own frustrating impotence in dealing with her. Every encounter with the beauty became a battle of wills, a battle he was hard-pressed to win. He had deliberately provoked her this time, true, but her reckless retorts were a provocation that demanded a response. Her public show of defiance in daring to strike him—

A sudden commotion beside him interrupted his thoughts—a clatter followed by a small cry of pain. Ranulf looked around, as did Ariane.

She had not seen what happened, but it was simple to guess. The young page, a boy of perhaps seven, had tripped and fallen beside Ranulf’s chair, dropping a pewter pitcher and sending wine splashing over the rushes and onto his lord’s boots.