“Ranulf . . . please,” she breathed, her voice holding a plea, for what she knew not.
“Hush, sweeting,” he murmured hoarsely in return. “Open yourself to me.”
All of his natural instincts screamed at Ranulf to take her swiftly, to ease the fierce, almost desperate ache in his loins, but he sank slowly into her, with teeth-gritting caution. Despite his care, her thighs clenched around him in a futile effort to halt the spearing, alien intrusion. When he felt the fragile barrier denying him entrance, Ranulf almost drew back, afraid he could not control himself, afraid he would cause her pain, yet he could not stop now . . . could not stop . . . could not . . .
Ariane winced in pain as her tender, virgin flesh stretched and split, and cried out when he pressed more fully within her. The pressure was almost too great to bear. His rigid length was a huge lance thrusting within her, a mighty weapon that was tearing her asunder.
She heard herself sob, felt the gentle brush of his mouth as he tenderly kissed her lips in an effort to soothe the ache.
Helpless to do more, Ranulf held himself completely still as she shuddered around him, wanting to curse and shout in triumph at the same time. A virgin! A chaste innocent untouched by any other man. She had not lied to him! He was her first lover; she was his now. They were joined together intimately, his hard flesh buried in the heated, sweet center of her body.
He clenched his teeth, holding back the raging desire he felt for her, forcing himself to wait until she could accept the pleasure of a man’s fullness stretching her and probing deep. His powerful thighs kept her slender ones parted wide, his broad chest barely touching her breasts. Her breath was coining in shallow pants, her eyes tightly closed.
“Ariane . . . look at me.”
She obeyed reluctantly, her lids fluttering open to reveal luminous gray eyes misty with tears.
His own eyes smoldered with fire. “Is it better?”
“Y-Yes . . .” she answered honestly, although her breathless reply held little confidence.
“Can you take me deeper, sweeting?”
She frowned thoughtfully, staring at him with skepticism. “There is more of you?”
His smile, slow and sensual, was as tender as it was amused. “I fear so. But I can refrain from seating my shaft fully.”
“No . . . please . . . I want you . . . fully.”
Even as she spoke, her hips moved tentatively, tilting a little to give him better access.
Ranulf drew a sharp breath. Her slightest movement made him wild to go deeper, but with a fierce effort, he forced himself to rein in his impatience. Slowly he shifted his weight above her, purposefully grazing her breasts with his furred chest.
Her sensitive nipples tightened at the arousing contact, the throbbing ache echoing between her thighs, yet he could not make her forget entirely what the rest of his body was doing as he penetrated her, submerging himself fully, imbedding himself deep inside.
Ariane tensed, holding her breath. . . . It was odd, but the hurt had faded, leaving behind a burgeoning ache that was not entirely painful. In truth, she felt a traitorous warmth stir within her, blurring the edges of her pain and apprehension.
Then Ranulf’s lips settled over hers, and she tasted her scent on his mouth—a taste that was both shocking and erotic. Ariane quivered as his warm tongue thrust into her mouth with surprising softness; of their own accord her hips rocked against his.
She almost moaned in protest when she felt his rigid length withdrawing from her body.
But Ranulf had no intention of withdrawing entirely. Instead, his hand slipped between their bodies, his fingers finding the hot, sleek bud that was the center of her desire.
Stunned by the spasm of pleasure that rippled through her, Ariane whimpered and reached for him, her arms twining tightly around his neck. Blindly she murmured his name in a plea for mercy, but he ruthlessly went on stroking her, his back arched, his eyes half shut. She felt the shudder that quivered through him moments before her body caught fire again.
The world disappeared for her, leaving only flame-hot desire. Her hands clutched at the broad, straining shoulders of the man above her, her hips writhing.
“Yes, sweeting,” Ranulf rasped in hoarse approval, encouraging her wild abandon.
She was only dimly aware of his husky voice murmuring in her ear, barely conscious of the ridges of scarred flesh beneath her fingertips as she clawed at his back. Reduced to pagan need, she clung to him, frantic for release from the incredible tension in her body. In mere moments she arched in the next convulsive climax, her gasping cry of pleasure rocking Ranulf to his very core.
“Sweet Jesu!” He stiffened for an instant, his eyes closing in sensual pain. Then no longer able to help himself, he began to move his hips, thrusting in and out in a hot, urgent rhythm. Striving to remain gentle, he drove into her carefully while Ariane clung to him and trembled and quaked.
The raw, primitive explosion that ripped through Ranulf held such a violent intensity that it clamped his teeth shut. And then he could no longer control even that. He cried out in his own savage release as he poured into her with pent-up wildness, his body clenching and shuddering.
For long moments afterward, they lay fused together, unmoving except for the ragged tempo of their breathing. Desperately Ranulf drew air into his heaving lungs as he tried to focus his thoughts. His skin was drenched with sweat, his body hot with need, his rage of desire dulled but not sated.
He wanted her still.
His body felt heavy and languorous, yet he was half hard already. He didn’t want to leave the hot haven between her thighs, but he knew for Ariane’s sake he must. Slowly, with effort, Ranulf eased from her body, shifting his weight to one side, and raised his head.
He had been far too rough with her when he meant to be gentle and considerate of her inexperience.
“Forgive me . . .” he murmured, looking down at her exquisite, flushed face framed by the wild tangle of her hair. Her breathing had quieted; her eyes were closed.
She made a soft sound that might have been agreement, yet Ranulf could not excuse his conduct so easily.
It stunned him that she could have made him lose control that way. He had not been so inflamed by a wench since he was a stripling lad. True, he had been celibate for some weeks now, but even that did not explain his violence, or his fierce desire for Ariane. He had experienced orgasm too frequently to dismiss the savage ferocity of his release, or the shattering satisfaction afterward. Or his continued state of arousal now. He felt the same alertness he experienced after battle, nerve endings tingling, blood pounding. There was an urgency still within him, a fierce need for this woman that could not be sated by a single possession.
Such a response was unique in his experience. Once he had possessed her body, his lust should have dimmed. And yet his attraction for Ariane was as fierce as ever. . . .
Ranulf’s lips twisted in a wry smile as he gazed down at the sleeping woman in his bed. Evidently Ariane felt none of the same urgency he felt. She had fallen into an exhausted slumber in the aftermath of passion.
His gaze traveled over her slender, sweet-breasted body, pausing when it reached her legs. Ranulf’s smile faded. Pale pink blood, mingled with his pearly seed, streaked her thighs and splotched the sheets.
His eyes darkened in triumph. His claiming of her maidenhead had been a victory for him. He had been the first man to possess her. The only one.
“You are mine,” he declared in a low, controlled whisper as he brushed a fair, tumbled lock back from her face.
Reaching down, he covered them both with the bedclothes. Then, with a tenderness that was almost foreign to him, Ranulf drew Ariane into his arms, pressing her head into his shoulder, and closed his eyes.
Roused briefly from slumber, she sighed and nuzzled her face more deeply into his warm skin. She had feared Ranulf would take her in anger, but instead of forcing her, he had turned seducer . . . a sensual, considerate lover. The change in him had be
wildered her. . . .
Suddenly awake, Ariane felt the prick of tears behind her eyes. Ranulf’s tenderness moments ago, when he had taken her body and taught her the wonder of being a woman, made her want to weep. If events had not intervened, this forceful, charismatic man would have been her husband. This would have been her marriage bed, her wedding night.
Instead, he had claimed her body as he would any serf’s, merely to prove his dominance. He had treated her as a possession, an object upon which to slake his lust. He had given her devastating pleasure, true, but only as a means to force her surrender.
Their coupling had meant far, far more to her, though. Their consummation had been more than a passionate union of the flesh. In her heart, they had truly mated. Ranulf had adamantly refused to acknowledge her as his wife, but she felt joined to him now. She belonged solely to him.
Swallowing the ache in her throat, Ariane closed her eyes, breathing his clean, musky scent. And as she willed herself to sleep, she clung to the hope that someday Ranulf would come to feel more for her than simply carnal desire.
14
“Greetings, my sweet.”
Ariane stirred beneath the covers at the husky masculine voice murmuring in her ear. When she felt warm lips nuzzling her neck, accompanied by the sensual rasp of a stubbled jaw against her skin, she forced her eyes open and blinked to find Ranulf leaning over her, his weight braced on one elbow. He was smiling, the transformation of his dark visage startling. In the dawn light, he looked endearingly boyish and incredibly seductive, with his hair tousled and his jaw roughened by a night’s growth of black bristle.
“Have you no proper greeting for your lover?”
Still befuddled with sleep, she dragged her gaze from him and tried to focus her thoughts. The rays of sunlight filtering through the shutters made her realize the lateness of the hour. “Why did you not wake me earlier?”
“You were weary from your exertions last night.”
Ariane flushed as sensual memories of those exertions suddenly flooded her: the hot image of this man straining between her thighs, his lean, thrusting body shuddering as he moved over her, within her, his power immense, yet restrained. He had shown her an ecstasy she had never dreamed possible.
Unaware of the tumult of emotions rioting through her, Ranulf bent to cover her passion-bruised mouth with a fleeting kiss. “You pleased me well last night.”
His sunny mood grated on Ariane’s raw sensibilities. Not only did it shock her to be awakened by a naked man’s brazen, carnal attentions, it stung to be reminded so vividly of her surrender—and of her wanton conduct.
“Should I be honored by your praise, my lord?” she responded sourly in a voice still raspy with sleep.
To her surprise, Ranulf laughed, a sound that stunned her with its richness and warmth. “Verily, you should. I do not bestow such praise lightly.” He gazed down at her with heated eyes. “I wonder if the pleasure will be as great, now that the novelty of your virginal state has passed.” With one finger, he traced her lower lip. “I wonder how much greateryour pleasure will be. . . . I vow you tempt me sorely to examine the question, but you will doubtless be tender after having your body used so roughly.”
Her eyes had widened in dismay at his suggestion that they repeat their wicked coupling in broad daylight, but at Ranulf’s consideration, she relaxed to a degree. Testing his theory, Ariane moved her hips gingerly and winced at the twinge she felt between her thighs.
“Does it pain you?”
Grudgingly she shook her head. Her physical symptoms pained her far less than her conscience did. “Not much.”
“Good.” Ranulf smiled indulgently. “You may sleep for the remainder of the morning, but I had best rise. My men will not wonder to find me still abed with a winsome wench, yet I have matters that need my attention.”
Ariane shut her eyes in mortification. After the scene she had made last eve in the hall, his men would know precisely what had passed between them during the night. She had lain with Ranulf, if not eagerly, then without protesting overmuch. “I have no desire to be found here in your chamber,” she muttered, “much less in your bed. Nor do I intend to laze about all day.”
“Suit yourself. But I intend to amend your sentence. You will no longer be required to labor in the scullery.”
“Your generosity is overwhelming.”
Ignoring her dry retort, Ranulf reached for an object he had tucked among the pillows and held it up for her inspection.
“Perhaps you will find this more to your liking.”
He was holding a gold necklace of some sort, Ariane realized with a warm jolt of surprise. A collar torque whose ornamented ends bore Norse figures of dragons with jeweled eyes. The length of heavy gold tubing twisted on and off and opened in front.
Slipping his hand beneath her neck, Ranulf carefully wound it around her throat, while Ariane stared at him in shock.
“F-For me, my lord?”
“It was meant to be my wedding gift to you,” he murmured, “but although there is to be no marriage, I see no reason you may not have it. Consider it payment for the gift you gave me last night.”
Her maidenhead, Ariane thought with a savage pang of dismay, feeling the cool metal press against her skin like ice. She could have loved Ranulf, but she meant no more to him than any of the castle strumpets; he slaked his lust on her and paid for the pleasure with pretty baubles, and considered it a fair exchange.
“Forgive me if I fail to express proper gratitude, my lord,” she declared with asperity.
Her stinging reply took Ranulf aback, as did the sudden flash of hurt in her eyes. He had never bestowed such an expensive gift on a wench, but he had thought she would be pleased by his costly gesture. The ladies he knew at court all craved expensive presents, but Ariane’s eyes had first lit with suspicion rather than greed, and now she was staring at him with haughty disdain, as if he had committed a grave offense.
“I had thought it might serve to sweeten your temper,” he said uncertainly.
“There is naught wrong with my temper, save perhaps a surfeit of your lascivious attention.”
Not understanding, Ranulf chose to fight her incomprehensible anger with persuasion. Lazily he drew down the covers to expose a rosy-nippled breast, then dismayed her further by reaching his hand up to cup the pale globe. Despite her sudden squirming, he bent and pressed his lips against her abraded collarbone. “You may have your own garments back as well, sweeting. I will not have those rough peasant gowns marring your tender skin.”
Trying to repress the surge of tension and excitement his mere touch awakened in her, Ariane raised a scornful eyebrow. “Do I detect a pang of guilt, my lord, for your despicable treatment of me?”
He grinned. “Guilt is not what I feel for you, wench. As for treatment . . .” Some of his amusement faded. “After your deception, you deserve much worse than a simple rash.”
“I do not call it deception to claim what is my legal due.”
Ranulf shook his head, refusing to be drawn into an argument. “I will not debate the point with you again, my sweet.” His hand slowly, deliberately, swept down her body to delve beneath the covers.
Ariane drew a sharp breath when his fingers tangled in the warm thatch between her thighs. “Nay . . . do not! ’Tis indecent!”
“Is it?”
“You know it is,” she gasped as she tried to evade his probing fingers, though knowing she would use almost any excuse that might keep her from repeating last night’s wanton surrender. “The Church has proscribed such heathen acts.”
Ranulf grunted, although he removed his hand from her thigh and let it rest possessively on her stomach. “I doubt one more sin will render my soul any blacker. I have it on good authority that I am possessed by demons.”
Ariane was too genuinely shocked by his blasphemy to probe the bitterness that edged his tone. “Your soul may be beyond redemption, but what of mine?”
His gaze searched her face intently. “A
re you so pure and innocent then, demoiselle?” When she had no answer for that, Ranulf shrugged. “The debauchery of the Church is well known. Half the clergy break their own laws regularly, holding orgies that make our revelry in the hall last night seem tame.”
“Even so . . . I do not wish you to . . . touch me like that . . .”
“You mean to pretend I do not arouse you?” he asked with a smile of amusement.
It vexed Ariane sorely that he should comprehend the real source of her discomfiture: his ability to stir her passions so effortlessly and turn her into a wanton. “You do not arouse me half so much as your impossible conceit would lead you to believe,” she retorted.
“Conceit?”His eyebrow shot up. “No wench has yet had cause to complain of my prowess.”
Ariane raised her eyes to the beamed ceiling, praying for patience. Ranulf de Vernay was an arrogant, coddled male, so secure in his practiced power with women that she yearned to box his ears. “Mayhap you never heard a complaint because you neverwished to hear one.”
His teeth flashed in a slow grin that was both intimate and sexual—and totally infuriating in its brazen disregard for her calculated insult. In lazy response, his hand swept slowly up her body to her breast again. With thumb and forefinger, he gently pinched the sensitive nipple, making it tighten instantly, and causing Ariane to draw another sharp breath. “Mayhap you protest because you fear what I make you feel.”
“I donot fear you,” Ariane gritted, wishing she could wipe that superior grin off his handsome face. “I simply have no desire to listen to you boast of your conquests.”
Before she could say anything further, though, Ranulf suddenly suspended his teasing and rose to dress. Unconcerned by his nudity, he strode across the chamber and bent to retrieve his clothing from a leather-covered coffer, giving her a view of his taut buttocks and long bare flanks, sleek and thickly muscled.
Ariane found herself staring at him in helpless admiration. There was strength and power in every hard line of his body, a masculine beauty that called to everything feminine within her. A beauty that made the savage scars on his back stand out even more incongruously. She remembered feeling those rough ridges beneath her fingertips last night as she clung to him in the throes of passion. Dismayed by the pity—as well as the hot feelings—the memory stirred in her, Ariane averted her gaze while Ranulf washed.
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