The Warrior

Gray eyes

clashed with amber. She was still trembling with rage, but when he caught her wrist and gently pried the knife from her clenched fingers, she made no protest.

“I could not countenance such a disgusting display,” she said defensively, justifying her rash temper.

“It was in poor taste,” Ranulf agreed mildly, to her bewilderment. She had never expected him to support her against his men.

“Such obscene affairs should be conducted in private,” Ariane insisted stubbornly.

He startled her with a rueful smile. “In future I shall see they are.”

Still holding her wrist, he rose slowly to his feet. He had been fascinated by her explosion, yet he could not permit her outburst to go unchallenged.

“Sleep well, Payn,” Ranulf threw carelessly over his shoulder as he drew the suddenly resisting Ariane toward the stairwell.

Payn chuckled. “I would wish you the same, my lord, but I much doubt sleep will be on your mind tonight.”

Ariane’s heart began hammering at the knight’s supposition. Ranulf’s hard features were set in an enigmatic mask that was impossible to read. His amber eyes glittered—but not with anger, she thought hopefully. The light of battle was in his eyes, but the heat seemed due more to determination than fury.

To her dismay, Ranulf dismissed her guards and led her directly to his solar. When he had ushered her inside, he shut the door with studied care. Ariane watched him warily as he turned to face her. A fire burned low in the hearth, and the bedside taper had been lit for the night, faintly illuminating the chamber. In the golden light, his eyes gleamed dangerously.

Ranulf leaned his broad shoulders against the iron-banded door and crossed his arms over his powerful chest, yet even his relaxed stance unsettled her.

“What . . . do you intend, my lord?”

His slow smile made her heartbeat quicken. “You agree you have earned a punishment for your willfulness, vixen?”

Ariane stiffened. “Nay, I do not. I could not stand by while you engaged in such licentious deportment with your leman.”

“Indignation is misplaced in a slave.”

She could feel her temper rising again, though she sought to control it. “Sweet Mary, you were preparing to fornicate on the lord’s table with that . . . that slattern!”

Ranulf’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Could it be that you are jealous, sweeting?”

“Jealous?You flatter yourself, my lord. I simply do not care to have Claredon’s hall disgraced with such shameless debauchery.”

“Come here,” he said.

“Do you . . . mean to beat me?”

“I do not beat women. Besides, I like your skin just as it is. Why would I wish to mar it? Now come here.”

Knowing he would force her compliance if she refused to obey, Ariane moved slowly to stand before him. The gold glitter in his eyes seemed to soften.

“I never had the wench.”

Ariane eyed Ranulf skeptically, unwilling to believe his claim. “You would have if not for my intervention.”

“But you did intervene. Thus . . .”—he smiled down at her blandly—“it is up to you to make amends.”

When she stared up at him in puzzlement, Ranulf’s eyebrow lifted. “I wanted a wench tonight, yet you drove her away. But you will serve as well as Dena.”

“Serve,my lord?” Her breath seemed too shallow.

“If you do not wish the castle wenches pleasuring and entertaining me, then you must needs provide such service yourself.”

Ariane took a step back, her nails digging into her palms. “You have no right to require I serve you that way.”