The Warrior

A cool smile touched his lips. “You forget, it is my right as lord to take any serf in my demesne.”

Their gazes locked, warred. Ariane felt her temper rise, along with her resentment. In her shock at Ranulf’s abrupt reversal, she had momentarily forgotten her goal to consummate their betrothal. Now that Ranulf seemed willing, however, she was no longer quite so eager for the union. She had dreamed of this man making her his own, yearned for it, but not in anger, not in vengeance or as punishment for minor misdeeds. She wanted Ranulf to take her in love.

There was no sign of love or even tenderness in his expression now. Only a dangerous, seductive male arrogance that clearly said he intended to have his way, whatever her desires.

Her chin lifted. “I forget nothing, my lord. Indeed, I recall clearly your promise to wed me. I also remember that the Church considers me yourwife, not your serf.”

Ranulf did not rise to the bait. “The marriage will soon be annulled.”

“Perhaps. Then again, perhaps not. There is a chance the Church will side with me.”

He smiled, almost lazily. “The issue is in the hands of the Pope now.”

“So it seems.”

“However . . .” He reached out to finger a lock of her silken hair. “As long as you have falsely declared yourself my wife, I see no reason I should not enjoy the entitlements of a husband. No one will gainsay me.”

“What . . . do you mean?”

“You are my possession. Why should I not avail myself of your lovely body?”

His voice had dropped to a sensual caress, making the insult sound like a promise of pleasure. Ariane felt herself go rigid as she tried to repress the thrill that quivered through her. “You would make me your whore?”

Unperturbed, Ranulf shook his head. “You speak in contradictions, demoiselle. You cannot be both whore and wife.”

“I can, if you refuse to acknowledge me as your wife.”

“I will never acknowledge you as such,” he replied.

“I will not whore for you!”

“And yet you will for other men.”

“What are you saying?”

“You lied about my ravishing you, so it is not unreasonable to assume you lied about other circumstances. For all I know, you may have shared your charms with half the men of your father’s garrison.”

She struck him then, drew her arm back and slapped his face with her open palm.

Ariane stared in horror at the livid imprint of her hand on his cheek. To her astonishment, Ranulf’s mouth curved in a slow grin as he rubbed the offended flesh. “I like you better fighting me. A spirited wench provides far better sport than a docile one.”

“Sport!” Her eyes flashed with fury. “Oh, you . . . you . . . arrogant oaf! If you want sport, you should go back to your leman!”

His arm shot out to wrap around Ariane’s waist. With inexorable insistence, Ranulf drew her to him, making her feel the desire that was so compellingly clear in the bulging contours beneath his tunic. “I want no other wench,” he murmured. “I want you.”

She started to struggle, but his hold was unbreakable. “You mean to rape me?” she demanded breathlessly.

“Rape or seduction . . . you may choose.” The light in his eyes clearly said he knew which one she would eventually choose.

He bent his head then. With unwavering determination, Ranulf captured her mouth, intent on sensual mastery.

He had waited long enough for her surrender. For too long he had tolerated her defiance, had maintained his rigid self-control, when there was no need. She should be sharing his bed instead of driving him to madness. The marriage would be annulled or not, regardless of whether he had her now, whether he satisfied his fierce craving for her, and he could contain his need no longer.

He was a fool to have denied himself all this time. Why should he not enjoy what was his until the annulment was granted? He had resisted the moment of surrender for fear of exposing his weakness, his vulnerability to her, defying the power she had to bewitch his mind and control his body. But he was done fighting himself.

At her soft sound of protest, Ranulf gentled his mouth the slightest measure, but he refused to release her. He could feel his loins tighten in a fiery ache of anticipation. In moments he would have her beneath him, mounted and penetrated. If she was not a virgin, if she had played him false with other lovers, there would be no question as to whom she now belonged.

Then, God willing, his feverish desire for her would end. Once he had her, he would at last be delivered from the insane yearning that had tormented him for days. He could be rid of his wild obsession for her.