The Warrior

by Nicole Jordan

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  A Note from the Author

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Nicole Jordan

  Excerpt from The Warrior

  Please read on for a sneak peak at Wicked Fantasy

  Pillow Talk

  Copyright Page

  Every lover is a warrior,

  And Cupid has his camps.

  —OVID

  A Note from the Author

  A kingdom in turmoil . . .

  When King Henry I of England died in 1135, his nephew, Stephen of Blois, usurped the throne from Henry’s daughter Matilda and plunged England into a civil conflict that lasted nearly two decades. Mighty earls and barons chose sides and waged private wars for land and power, until even King Stephen’s supporters decried the anarchy and lawlessness of his ineffective rule.

  At last defeated by superior forces, Matilda retired across the Channel to Normandy, where she continued to plot to regain the English crown for her eldest son, Henry Plantagenet of Anjou. Young Henry made several unsuccessful attempts to claim his throne, but not until 1153, when Stephen named Matilda’s son as his heir, was a peace agreement reached.

  Yet not all of England’s ruling nobility approved of the plan. Although most swore oaths to Henry (now duke of Normandy) as their future king, some rebellious barons supported Stephen’s brother, while others thought to raise Stephen’s bastard son to the throne. Thus, upon King Stephen’s death the following year, England was once more plunged into turmoil. . . .

  Prologue

  Claredon Keep, England: June 1150

  His gift of a rose bewildered her. Bloodred, perfectly formed, the fragile summer bloom seemed too delicate for the ruthless warrior’s hand, which could wield a sword to deadly effect. The Black Dragon of Vernay had plucked the bud for her as they strolled in the castle garden, and now stood offering it to her in his long, sinewed fingers.

  Startled by the tender lover’s gesture, Ariane gazed up at the powerful, harsh-visaged Norman knight who towered above her. Amber eyes as piercing as a hawk’s surveyed her intently beneath heavy black brows, a question in their golden depths.

  “Have I rendered you speechless, my lady?”

  She felt color flush her cheeks, yet she raised her chin bravely. “I . . . was merely surprised.”

  When she did not immediately accept his gift, he shook his head. “Ah, but I overlooked the thorns,” he murmured, his deep, masculine voice soothing and low.

  Ariane watched in amazement as Lord Ranulf slipped the dagger from his belt and trimmed the savage thorns from the flower’s stem in silent concentration. Scarcely daring to breathe, she studied the man who was shortly to become her betrothed.

  Sun-bronzed and starkly chiseled, his proud features were striking rather than handsome, his thick, untamed raven hair overlong and falling nearly to his shoulders. But one forgot even such notable considerations in his formidable presence. Superb in physique, awesome in his raw power, the Black Dragon possessed a commanding bearing that would alarm and intimidate his enemies and arouse respect and confidence in his allies.

  In all her fourteen years, Ariane had never met any man quite like him.

  The ladies and serving women of Claredon alternately envied her and trembled for her, although this morning envy had begun to prevail. Ariane was inclined to tremble.She was the one who would celebrate her betrothal in merely a few short hours. She was the one who would someday take this dark stranger as her lawful husband. Who would receive him into her bed and body and bear his children.

  When Ranulf looked up to meet her watchful gaze, her heart fluttered.

  “Do you fear me, demoiselle?” he asked softly, as if reading her thoughts.

  Did she fear him? Ariane wondered. Until this moment she would have said yes. Ranulf was a fully grown man, nearly ten years her senior. His great height and powerful, broad-shouldered frame towered over other mortals, while his exploits in battle and tourney were already legendary. But it was his fierce repute that alarmed her most. Spoken of in hushed tones, the Black Dragon of Vernay was the subject of fearsome tales and scandalous rumors that had followed him across the Channel from Normandy.

  She would have preferred not to leave the safety of Claredon’s great hall or the vast number of guests that were already gathered there for the betrothal celebration. But when the lord of Vernay had invited her to walk with him alone in the garden, she hadn’t dared refuse. To her dismay, she who had often been scolded by her lady mother for her bold tongue and irreverent wit could think of not a single word to say, clever or otherwise.

  He will wonder if he is to wed the village idiot if you continue to remain speechless,Ariane scolded herself as she gazed up at him.

  To her complete surprise, Ranulf lifted the rose to caress her cheek, brushing the velvet petals along her skin with a gentleness that seemed totally incongruous coming from such a man.

  “Such innocence,” he murmured almost absently, his gaze far away. “I wonder how long it will last.”

  She was not certain if he spoke of the rose or herself—but then the powerful knight seemed to collect himself. “I believe you have not answered my question, demoiselle.”

  “Q-Question, my lord?” she repeated, caught by the quiet intensity of his amber eyes.

  “Do I frighten you?”

  Yes,she wanted to answer. She understood why men trembled in fear of him. She would never forget her first sight of Lord Ranulf yesterday as he approached Claredon. Mounted on a massive destrier, dressed in full chain mail armor, he was a forbidding figure with his banner and shield that bore his feared device, a black dragon rampant on a scarlet field. Since his arrival, his manner had seemed distant, even unwelcoming; until this moment, she had thought him cold, hard, dangerous. But he did not seem so fierce or ruthless when he was wielding a rose instead of a sword.

  “No, my lord, you do not frighten me,” Ariane replied finally, and realized with surprise that it was true.

  “Then will you accept my humble gift of a flower?” A faint smile curved his lips as he made her a courteous bow. “You must, demoiselle, if only to protect me.”

  “Protect you?”

  “Aye. The theft of a noble’s rose is considered a crime in most parts, but if I give it to you, then I have no need to fear reprisal.”

  Her eyes widened in startlement. Was he teasing her? Yet it made her smile to think of so mighty a knight needing her protection from anyone or anything.

  “That is much better,” he said with soft satisfaction.

  She took the rose from him and buried her nose in the scented velvet petals to hide her flushed cheeks, grateful for his effort to ease her fears. “I thank you, my lord,” Ariane murmured. “These roses are my mother’s pride, but I am certain she will not begrudge you a single bloom, since we are soon to be betrothed.”

  It even seemed natural, then, for her to voice the question that had been preying
on her mind as they turned to continue their stroll along the garden path. “Was there some reason you desired my company, my lord?”

  He seemed to hesitate before casting her a brief, enigmatic glance. “Yes, demoiselle. I have a question to put to you.” Another pause. “Is a marriage between us what you wish for your future?”

  “I am not certain I understand what you mean.”

  “Are you in full agreement with the betrothal?”

  Her eyes widened slightly. “Yes, my lord. I know my duty. I am prepared to obey my lord father.” When Ranulf frowned, Ariane realized her answer was apparently not the one he sought. She hastened to add, “I understand that Claredon needs a strong lord. And now that my brother is . . . gone and my father no longer has an heir, he wishes to make provisions for when he is no longer able to rule—to leave his lands in capable hands, as well as to give me the protection of a strong husband.”

  “That is not what I asked, demoiselle. I understand Lord Walter’s reasons for promoting the union.”

  She gazed up at Ranulf, not knowing what he wished to hear from her. She had been raised to put duty and responsibility above personal consideration, and her brother Jocelin’s death earlier this year had made her the heir to Claredon, with all the solemn obligations such a vaunted position entailed. If her father wished her to make a political marriage to ensure Claredon’s future, then she would do so, and willingly. But she did not think Lord Ranulf needed any such explanation, since their union would be a political alliance for him as well.

  It was another moment before he spoke, and then his voice sounded strangely constrained, almost taut. “I have no desire to force a reluctant damsel to accept my suit. I have seen more than one marriage where the lady was unwilling end in calamity.”

  Still watching him, Ariane noticed the way his strong jaw had hardened, caught the faint note of bitterness in his tone, and wondered if he was speaking of his own experience.

  But perhaps she mistook his intention. Perhaps he was attempting to renounce the betrothal and searching for the kindest way to tell her.

  Impulsively she reached out to touch Ranulf’s sleeve, a gesture that seemed to startle him and made him halt in his tracks. “Do you wish to be released from the betrothal, my lord?”

  His amber gaze searched her face intently, and for a moment as she met those arresting golden eyes, she thought she saw a bleakness in their depths, a flicker of something almost like torment. But then it was gone. “I want to be certain you harbor no objections to wedding me.”

  Was he actually asking if she consented to their marriage? In her admittedly limited experience, no warlord would seek the approval of a mere girl but would be solely concerned with gaining land and power. Surely in Normandy as well as England, land counted for everything and the consent of the lady very little, despite the Church’s efforts to provide greater protection to unwilling brides. Lord Ranulf intended to wed her for the vast demesne she would someday bring him upon her father’s passing, she knew.

  Ariane could not read the question in his eyes. He had gone still, his expression serious, almost guarded. She trusted those eyes, she realized with a sudden conviction. They were hard, intense, but not cruel.

  “I have no objections, my lord. I consent freely to the betrothal.”

  The taut expression eased from his features, softening the grim line of his mouth, while his powerful body seemed to relax. Only then did Ariane realize he had not answered her own question. She wanted desperately to ask him if their marriage was whathe wished for—but Ranulf was a powerful landed knight who could afford his choice of bride. If he objected to the union, surely he would never have accepted her father’s proposition in the first place.

  “Is that what you wished to know?” she asked uncertainly.

  “Yes, demoiselle. I was merely interested in discovering your opinion.” He seemed suddenly discomfited by the subject, or by her, for he looked away, across the garden toward the bailey wall.

  Yearning to put him at ease as he had her, Ariane smiled wryly. “My lord father would say daughters have no right to opinions, and that I have too many for my own good. I daresay he is right.”

  Ranulf glanced back down at her sharply, as if in surprise. “And do you always agree with your father, my lady?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “No, seldom, in truth. He claims it is my greatest failing.”

  Ranulf chuckled faintly, a rough, rusty sound that made Ariane certain he was not a man who laughed often.

  “Indeed, I suspect Father is so eager to be rid of me, he is grateful you are here to court me.”

  “Court?” The tall knight grimaced slightly. “I am a soldier, demoiselle, not a poet.” The smile that played on his lips was self-deprecating, endearing somehow. “I know little of wooing a lady.”

  She was certain he was wrong. If this strong, charismatic man put his mind to it, he could seduce the birds from the trees, Ariane suspected.

  “Well, I know even less about courtship,” she answered boldly, “so you need not fear I will judge you harshly. You are my first suitor.”

  “Your first? I cannot credit it. Can it be that the men in England are blind?”

  Now sheknew he was teasing her and being kind. She could make little claim to beauty, with her ungainly height and freckles that accompanied her fair skin and hair. She well knew her noble birth and the rich demesne of Claredon were her prime advantages.

  “Alas,” she replied with a rueful laugh, “my appearance has little to say to the matter. My father refused to entertain the idea of suitors for me until he was certain which way the political winds blew.”

  Ranulf studied her speculatively. “You are not afraid to speak your mind, I see.”

  Wondering if his remark was a criticism, Ariane found herself flushing. Her lady mother had always warned that her wayward tongue would plunge her into trouble someday. Perhaps shehad been too bold with Lord Ranulf, but her intuition told her he would not want a meek bride. Her chin rose slightly. “No, and I am not afraid to wed you, either, my lord.”

  He smiled then. Fully. A slow, tender, sensual smile that softened his harsh features and made Ariane’s heart suddenly trip over itself. Unprepared for the intimate rush of warmth that suddenly rioted through her, she blinked at the dazzling sight, feeling as if the sun had burst from behind the clouds.

  Wasthis what her women had admired and envied earlier? This bold, masculine appeal that held all the shock of a lightning bolt? Was it possible for a single smile to win a damsel’s heart?

  Then Ranulf raised a gentle hand to brush her lower lip with the tip of a forefinger. He had barely touched her, yet her pulse skittered wildly, while a strange heat blossomed inside her, sending her emotions into a wild state of confusion.

  Ariane stared up at him in mute bewilderment, startled by the feelings that had sprung to life at his slightest caress, the strange sensations that quivered through her body. Never had she been so vitally aware of being female than at this moment. Never before had she been shaken by a man’s touch.

  “Then we are agreed, my lady? The betrothal will go forward?”

  “Yes, my lord,” she murmured breathlessly.

  When Ranulf held out his hand to her, Ariane shivered, not from apprehension, but from fascination and excitement and anticipation. Shewanted this man for her husband, she realized. She wanted to wed this powerful, magnificent knight who cared enough to concern himself with her feelings and her fears. Who could make her tremble with merely a smile and a touch. Despite the rumors of his terrible past, she desired to be part of his future.

  Hope took wing in her heart as she placed her trembling fingers in Ranulf’s hand. They would have a good marriage, Ariane vowed silently, remembering the reluctance she had sensed in him. She would endeavor to make Ranulf a good wife, strive never to give him cause to regret this day.

  With a tremulous smile, Ariane clutched the rose he had given her and allowed the Black Dragon of Vernay to lead her back to Cla
redon’s tower and the betrothal celebration within.

  1

  Vernay Keep, Normandy: November 1154

  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 two lusty wenches at once taxed even a man of his strength and stamina.

  Yet Layla continued her merciless assault with mouth and tongue, her lush, opulent curves pressing erotically against him, her nails sending delicate shivers racing along his spine, her teeth intermittently nipping his buttocks with a sharpness that was just short of pain.

  “Enough,” he muttered huskily—a command he lacked the energy to enforce.

  When she bent to offer a luscious breast to him, teasing her dusky nipple against his mouth, Ranulf patiently averted his head. When she threaded her fingers through his raven hair and tugged insistently, he merely caught her wrist and pried loose her grip. It was only when Layla scraped her nails in a deliberate path over his scarred back that he finally reacted; she knew quite well such probing of his scars was forbidden, even though he had been unable to break her of the habit.

  “Cease,wench.”

  At his sharp tone, the ripe young body at his other side flinched, and Ranulf had to murmur gently to Flore and stroke her soothingly till she curled against him once more.

  For temperament, he much preferred the petite, fair-haired Flore to the voluptuous Layla, whose ebony tresses were as dark as his own. Flore was a sweetly submissive Norman wench, always eager to do his bidding, whereas the foreign Layla had a grasping, querulous nature. Only because of her exquisite skills did he humor the beautiful Saracen.

  “I seek simply to pleasure you, lord,” she said petulantly in her thick, honeyed accents. “You know well Layla pleases you far better than any other.”

  Ranulf could not dispute her claim. Stolen from her family and enslaved in an infidel brothel, Layla had been trained in the sexual arts of the East, and knew well how to satisfy a man and bring his desire to a fever pitch.