The Warrior

by Nicole Jordan

  At his pronouncement, Ariane let out her breath in relief and gratitude. She understood the difficulty of Ranulf’s decision. So serious a crime against one’s liege could not be ignored or anarchy would reign. His authority would constantly be challenged. She knew to her sorrow the high cost of a weak ruler. King Stephen had been one, and for twenty bloody years his kingdom had been mired in lawlessness and strife. Any new lordmust establish his authority. The good ones walked a fine line between weakness and mercy, between compassion and justice. In this instance at least, Ranulf had shown himself to be both compassionate and just.

  She could not absolve herself from blame, either, for the role she had played in inciting her father’s loyal followers to challenge Ranulf. Her own defiance of him, at least indirectly, had brought on Edric’s punishment. Ariane bit her lip hard, her guilt flaying her as she watched the smith being hauled to his feet.

  “I thank you, my lord, for your mercy,” she said softly. “Will you also allow me to tend Edric’s wounds?”

  She was faintly surprised when Ranulf nodded brusquely, giving his permission. She had not expected him to be so forgiving. Obviously, however, he did not trust her, for he ordered Payn to accompany her while she tended the wounded man.

  Ariane felt Ranulf watching her as she bid the guards take the prisoner below to the kitchens. Edric was half carried, half dragged through the crowded hall and then down the stone steps of the tower. Ariane directed them to a small chamber off the kitchens. Then, under Payn’s surveillance, she went to the herbal to fetch her supplies.

  Upon gathering her medications, she entered the chamber before Payn, who ordered the guards to wait outside. The injured smith was lying on his stomach on a pallet, his tunic now stripped from his body. The oozing, bloody wounds of his flayed back were serious, yet a severed hand would have been more so, Ariane reflected as she knelt beside the pallet.

  Although Edric appeared in great pain, he bore her gentle touch stoically as she began to wash his injuries with an aromatic oil to soothe the ravaged flesh. It startled them both when Ranulf suddenly appeared in the doorway.

  Payn set his jaw grimly but stepped aside to allow his liege entrance.

  “Is something amiss, my lord?” Ariane asked in puzzlement.

  “No. You may proceed.”

  When she resumed her ministrations, Ranulf moved closer, forcing himself to watch. Although he had offered her no explanation, he wished to see how Ariane ministered to the wounded. If she was skilled enough, her services might be of use to his own injured men, including his gravely wounded squire. But he did not want to give Ariane the advantage of knowing she could be useful to him.

  Silently, therefore, he stared down at the man on the pallet. The smith’s back was a mass of raw flesh, yet Ranulf refused to spare himself the sight, even though it brought to mind tormenting recollections of his own terrifying youth.

  How many times had he lain just like this, his back flayed raw, suffering in agony? Except that the smith had been flogged with a bullhide lash; his own father’s whip had been a scourge made of plaited steel chainwork.

  A cold wave of nausea washed over Ranulf at the memory. He could almost feel himself kneeling naked on the cold stone floor at Vernay, petrified, trembling, desperately fighting back screams of pain as each brutal stroke flayed his back, his small heart filled with hatred for his brutish father and for the adulterous mother who had caused his torment with her betrayal of her lord.

  Devil’s spawn! Progeny of Hell!Even now his father’s castigation still reverberated in his ears.

  Ranulf clenched his teeth, struggling to breathe. His skin had broken out in a cold sweat, yet he scarcely noticed. He barely noted, either, that Edric had fainted when Ariane began to apply a poultice to his bloodied back.

  Ariane looked up just then and was startled by the sight that greeted her. Ranulf stood motionless, gathered into himself as if waiting for a blow. How vividly he reminded her of a starving hound-pup she had once saved from the cruelty of some village youths. The piteous creature had been kicked and beaten almost to death, and flinched at even a simple touch of kindness. It had nearly broken her heart—as did the look on Ranulf’s face now.

  He remained rigid, unmoving, for countless heartbeats. Then slowly he turned his head and met her troubled gaze.

  His eyes . . . She had to stifle a gasp at the tortured look in his amber eyes. She could see his raw pain. She was witness to a profoundly vulnerable moment, Ariane knew, feeling as if she could see into Ranulf’s soul. This proud, strong, vital man carried some kind of deep, deep hurt. . . .

  He stared at her a moment longer, the haunted torment in his eyes a mute testimony to his suffering.

  She did not know what to say to him. Instinctively, she knew he would not want her comfort, would never wish her to observe his defenselessness.

  Her assumption proved true. Abruptly Ranulf’s shoulders squared, and his haunted look faded, to be replaced by a dark, expressionless mask.

  “The responsibility for his crime lies on your head, demoiselle,” he charged in a wooden tone.

  Unable to refute the charge honestly, she did not reply to it.

  Suddenly, Ranulf spun on his heel and left the chamber. When he was gone, his chief vassel stepped forward. “I trust you are satisfied, lady,” Payn said darkly, “exposing Ranulf’s weakness before all to see.”

  “No,” she murmured. “In truth, I never wished Edric to defy Ranulf—or to suffer so harsh a sentence in my defense.”

  “Harsh?Not half as harsh as the lout deserved. But Ranulf would never have ordered a man flogged to death. The prospect would pain him more than the cursed culprit.”

  “What . . . do you mean?”

  “Ranulf knows the bite of the lash. His father taught him well.”

  “His father?”

  “Aye, Yves, the noble lord of Vernay.” Payn’s tone was a sneer as he looked directly at her. “You have seen Ranulf’s back, have you not?”

  “Those terrible scars,” Ariane whispered, her voice faint with horror.

  “Aye, those scars.” Balling his fists, Payn suddenly announced that he would await her in the corridor, then left the chamber as if he didn’t trust himself to remain near her without giving way to his temper.

  Her fingers trembling, Ariane finished applying the poultice, but her thoughts were centered on Ranulf.

  When Edric eventually regained consciousness, she made him drink an herbal tea, which she had ordered brewed in the kitchens. She then expressed her remorse over his suffering but made him understand that he must accept Ranulf as Lord of Claredon, as she had. It was not entirely truthful, perhaps, Ariane reflected silently, but she could not permit anyone else to suffer for her sake. In future, any defiance of Ranulf would come from her alone.

  When her ministrations were finished, Edric was carried to the dungeons by his guards, while Payn accompanied Ariane back to the great hall. In her absence, the entertainment had resumed, and the rafters resonated with the din of jovial song and laughter. It seemed as if the interruption had never occurred.

  She could not dismiss the incident so easily, however. She had not imagined the haunted pain in Ranulf’s eyes, even though there was no trace of it now when she reached the high table. The expression on his harsh, handsome features was cool, remote. Yet he was not emotionally detached, she would swear it.

  Ariane did not know whether to be relieved or affronted when Ranulf ignored her presence entirely, but her heart skipped a sharp beat when after a few moments, he rose, and with a curt gesture of his head, ordered her to accompany him. Without protest, she followed him out of the great hall, conscious of countless pairs of eyes watching them, aware that some suspected her of sharing the Black Dragon’s bed.

  To her surprise, Ranulf did not go directly to the solar on the floor above, but detoured to a small chamber nearby. The room was dim, lit by a candle and warmed by glowing coals in a copper brazier. A youth lay on a pallet, swathed with wo
olen blankets. Recognizing him as Ranulf’s squire, Burc, Ariane could see the wounded young man was flushed and feverish but awake.

  Ranulf went down on one knee beside his pallet and touched Burc’s uninjured shoulder. “How fare you, lad?” Ariane had never heard his tone so soft or gentle. He cared deeply for this boy, she was certain.

  The youth swallowed and answered in a weak voice, “Well enough, milord.”

  “I hear the arrow was removed cleanly.”

  “Aye, milord . . . ’twas fortunate.”

  Ranulf’s jaw tightened, but he refrained from reply as he lifted Burc’s head and held a cup to his lips. “Sleep now,” he urged. “I shall look in on you on the morrow.”

  He said not another word, but his features had taken on the black scowl that she so dreaded, Ariane realized as she followed Ranulf along the stone corridor to the solar.

  To her further dismay, they found the serving wench, Dena, awaiting him there, a wanton glint in her eye, a seductive smile wreathing her lips as she knelt beside the tub, obviously prepared to attend the lord at his bath—and more so if he wished.

  Ariane was astonished by the fierce jealousy that surged through her. It shouldn’t matter in the least whom Ranulf chose to bestow his attentions upon. He could rut with a dozen serving wenches for all she cared. She felt an inexplicable satisfaction, though, when he dismissed the wench.

  A moment later, however, when the disappointed Dena had withdrawn, Ariane realized her triumph was premature. With both his squire incapacitated and the servants gone, it fell to her to attend Ranulf at his bath.

  “I am waiting, demoiselle,” he remarked in a soft tone that set her pulse skittering.

  8

  Comprehending that he intended for her to undress him, Ariane set down the pouch of medicines she had brought with her. Slowly she approached Ranulf, aware of the erratic thudding of her heart. Warily, silently, she unlaced his tunic and pulled it over his head, then did the same to his undertunic. The cuts on his side had ceased bleeding, she noted, and had crusted over with dried blood.

  Trying unsuccessfully to ignore his bare, powerfully muscled torso, she knelt to untie his cross-garters. By the time she had unfastened the leather points that held his chausses to his braies, though, Ariane felt a shameful heat flooding her body.

  “Everything, demoiselle,” Ranulf said pointedly when she hesitated. “I cannot bathe half dressed.”

  She untied the drawstring and pulled the short trousers down over his hips with more force than entirely necessary.

  “Must I carry you to the bath as well?” she muttered.

  A wicked smile curled Ranulf’s mouth. “I would not like to see you attempt it. Your slender form could not bear my weight—not standing, at least. Lying down would be another matter, mayhap. Were you beneath me in bed, I wager you would find my heaviness stimulating.”

  His provocation was deliberate, she knew. He was determined to show her how powerless she was against him, to prove that he could command her complete submission. And it was effective, if her quickening pulse was any measure. To her chagrin, her mind filled with images of Ranulf covering a woman—coveringher. Instinctively she knew he would make a magnificent lover—Ariane fiercely bit back a curse, determined that he would gain no response from her. When he turned to step into the tub, though, she was shocked anew by those terrible scars on his back.

  A maze of unwanted emotions rose within her: compassion, tenderness, sorrow. Had Ranulf’s father truly caused those savage scars on his back? How much more devastating would it be to bear marks created by one’s own father?Her father had often ignored her, rarely showing her affection—a mere daughter. But never had he raised a hand to her in violence.

  She watched as Ranulf settled himself in the steaming water, wondering how he had endured such suffering, wondering if his physical scars were matched by ones held inside. Firelight from the hearth created shadows across his face, casting the harsh angles and planes into softer lines, sketching gentleness where she knew there was only relentless resolve. And yet she could see his weariness in the way he let his head fall back.

  To her dismay, it aroused in her an acute compulsion to touch him, to offer comfort. She moved toward him silently, drawn against her will.

  Ranulf looked up abruptly when he heard her quiet footstep beside the tub. Ariane stood there, gazing down at him, a startling expression of sorrow softening her beautiful features.

  Ruthlessly he steeled himself against the compassion he saw in her eyes. He did not want her pity, refused to accept it. He needed only to use this bewitching wench to forget the past hours of death and pain, the savage memories.

  “Why do you tarry, lady?” he asked softly, his velvet tone provocative as he gazed up at her.

  Ariane stiffened. The all-too-revealing pain had vanished from his eyes, to be replaced by a golden glimmer of challenge.

  Unwillingly she knelt beside the tub, keenly conscious of Ranulf’s nakedness. With trembling hands she took up a piece of soap in order to wash him.

  She saw to his hair first, working the suds through his scalp with her fingers and then rinsing with fresh water from a ewer. Then came his magnificent body, beginning with his corded arms and powerful shoulders. No matter how she tried to pretend Ranulf was simply a well-born stranger deserving of this honor by the lady of the castle, she could not make herself believe it.

  As she moved her hand reluctantly to his broad, muscular chest, she caught her lower lip with her teeth, her discomfort only made worse by the knowledge that he was watching her intently. When he raised his arm over his head to give her access to his ribs, she recollected the cuts in his side, acquired in the ambush, and gratefully latched on to them as an excuse to divert her attention.

  “You should allow me to tend these wounds,” Ariane said with concern as, with a gentle finger, she probed the raw, inflamed flesh encrusted with blood. “I brought my supplies.”

  Ranulf winced and drew back. “You delight overmuch in your inspection methinks.”

  Perhaps she did delight too much, yet it was not his injuries that fascinated her so. It was the feel of him beneath her fingertips: the granite muscle, the soft whorls of raven hair, the heat of his skin. Hardly daring to breathe, she drew the soap along his rib cage.

  Ranulf held himself rigidly, wary of the way she fretted over his wounds. She was very gentle as she washed away the dried blood and cleansed the torn flesh, and she wore a faint look of distress, almost as if she cared for his hurt.

  Her concern was pretense, he was almost certain; he could not trust her enough to believe otherwise. Most likely she was feigning solicitude in order to lower his defenses.

  He forced himself to remain immobile while she washed him . . . until her careful strokes moved to his back and she began tracing the welts of raised scar tissue—

  It startled her, how swiftly Ranulf moved. His fingers clamped around her wrist like iron manacles, thwarting her, while his frown deepened. “Do not touch me there.”

  Her eyes widened. “How can I wash your back if I am not allowed to touch you?”

  Ranulf’s heavy brows drew together. “You may wash, but don’t linger.”

  “As you wish, my lord,” she replied with forced meekness.

  At her submissive response, he could feel his defenses swelling. He dared not accept the silent comfort she offered. If he yielded to it, he would be leaving himself too open, too vulnerable, to her. Already he could feel himself softening, weakening at her tenderness. Her very nearness was soothing. The gentle curve of her cheek made Ranulf’s hand clench as he fought the urge to reach up and touch her; it took all of his strength to resist.

  “I am waiting, demoiselle,” he prodded.

  She hurriedly finished his back, but when he propped one foot on the tub’s rim so she could wash his leg, she moved more slowly. And when she came to the juncture of his thighs, Ariane faltered altogether.

  Ranulf gave her his slow smile. “You gave me your
oath to obey me,” he reminded her. “Do you forswear it so soon?”

  “No. My word is my honor.”

  “Honor?” The curve of his mouth turned dry. “I know few highborn ladies who can even conceive of the notion.”

  “You do not believe a woman can remain loyal to her liege?”

  “I have witnessed more treachery in noblewomen than loyalty.”

  Ariane studied his face, wondering what had happened to make him so bitter against women of her class. “You are harsh to condemn us all,” she said quietly.

  He made a sound much like a grunt. “I have ample reason.” Shaking himself then, he reminded her of her duty. “My loins, demoiselle. Your task is not finished.”

  She had hoped he had forgotten. Biting her lip, averting her gaze from his knowing expression, Ariane forced herself to attend to that masculine part of him that was so unlike herself.

  Ranulf stiffened when she ran the soap over his swelling loins, suddenly recognizing the danger in his tactics. Not only had the damsel aroused more painful memories of his past, but her innocent ministrations were arousing him physically, a state likely to remain painfully unfulfilled. He was fiercely aware of her nearness . . . her flushed skin, her white teeth catching her pink lower lip, her sweet scent . . . His nostrils flared with primal masculine arousal. He could almost feel her soft woman’s body beneath him. . . .

  Bewitched, aye, that was what Ariane had done to him. If he were wise, he would seriously attempt the seduction Payn had counseled. To try and bewitchher in order to win her surrender.

  Ranulf’s gaze arrested as he stared at Ariane’s beautiful mouth. If he applied his powers of persuasion, he would wager a year’s tourney winnings she would not respond with the cool indifference and scorn that vexed him so. He would break down those haughty barriers and have her gasping and pleading for his touch. She would be eager enough to please him then. . . .

  Ariane had finished her task with inordinate haste, he realized, feeling his loins throb. Schooling himself to patience, he took the soap from her nervous fingers and began making a lather in his own hands.