The Warrior

by Nicole Jordan

  “All the more reason to hunt there. I should think you would consider it laudable to rid the forest of wolves.”

  “Yes . . . but . . .” Ariane faltered, knowing she was sinking deeper into a morass, yet not knowing how to extricate herself.

  “Mayhap,” Ranulf said dangerously, “you seek to shield someone else. Is that, perchance, where you go to sport with your lover?”

  She glanced up in startlement, her eyes wide. “You well know I have never had a lover until you.”

  “Castle gossip says otherwise.”

  She went rigid. “You yourself saw the proof of my innocence, my lord.”

  “There are ways to enjoy passion without breaching a maidenhead, as I have shown you.”

  “I have never had a lover,” Ariane repeated with rising indignation.

  Ranulf’s look turned grim. “Not even your father’s vassal? The prisoner you freed, Simon?”

  Ariane returned his fierce gaze steadily. “Not Simon, nor any other man.”

  “And it shall remain that way,” Ranulf said, his voice low and taut. “Henceforth, I will be your only lover. I will kill any man who touches you. Do you comprehend me?”

  Ariane watched him warily. She could not understand his jealous fury—until she recalled the experiences he had endured at the hands of other women of her class. Ranulf thought her no better than any of the adulterous noblewomen who had filled his life with pain and scandal.

  “I have no lover,” she said quietly, “in a forest or elsewhere. I only sought to advise you.”

  He could not quite believe her. He had seen the guilt in those luminous gray eyes. She was not telling the complete truth, he would swear it. That she would think to deceive him filled him with bitter anguish, but her championship of his enemies would make no difference in the end. He was well accustomed at flushing out insurgents who would foment rebellion. If she was protecting Simon Crecy or any other traitor, he would find and deal with them swiftly.

  Ranulf tore his gaze from Ariane. He did not want to hear any more lies coming from those sweet lips. “You take too much upon yourself,” he retorted stiffly, before turning toward the stairway. “You had best pray I find no trace of your traitorous cohorts.”

  As she listened to the retreat of his jingling spurs, Ariane pressed a hand to her mouth in dismay. God’s mercy, what had she done? Arousing Ranulf’s suspicions had been inexcusably stupid. Ranulf was no fool, but a seasoned knight, experienced in dealing with enemy resistance. He would search the east wood for rebels and perhaps stumble upon the secret she would give her life to keep hidden.

  Dread curled in the pit of her stomach as she thought of what he could find. Despite his past leniency, in this instance he would not be so eager to show mercy and compassion, she was certain.

  “No,” Ariane whispered to herself, trying to calm her agitation, as well as bolster her courage. All was not lost. Perhaps it was even a blessing that Ranulf’s suspicions centered on fantasy rebels. As long as he was searching for miscreants, he might overlook the dire dilemma she had spent the past four years endeavoring to conceal.

  She forced herself to release the breath she had been holding. She would not give up hope. Very soon she would have to discover the means to attend the wood’s inhabitants, before their plight grew desperate, but she had time yet to plan how to escape Ranulf’s vigilance.

  Shewould pray, as he had suggested, though. She would pray that the secret of Claredon forest would be safe for a great while longer.

  Ranulf found no trace of wolves or rebels, or any other sign of revolt in the expanse of forest some quarter league east of the castle walls, although, much to the disgust of the keepers, the hounds did seem to fear the area. They whined and snuffled and started at shadows, until finally they picked up the spoor of a wild boar which led off to the north.

  The sport was good, the hunt highly successful—the party killed two boar and five hinds—but Ranulf was more relieved to find his suspicions apparently unfounded. Had he found Simon Crecy hiding in the wood, he would have run the man through with his sword without a qualm.

  Such jealousy was wholly unreasonable, Ranulf knew, yet he could not contain it. He became irrational whenever he merely thought of Ariane with another man. In truth, his savage feeling of possessiveness toward her startled and disturbed Ranulf. No wench had ever had the power to move him to jealousy; he had never allowed one close enough. For all his enjoyment of their bodies, he purposefully kept his women at a distance, his heart hardened and detached.

  Ariane would be no different, Ranulf tried to tell himself. She was just like the scores of others he had possessed. No, not just like the others. Her cool, haunting beauty and feminine softness, combined with a sharp tongue and defiant wit, gave her a bewitching allure that he had never before encountered—and made the pleasure far more gratifying than any he had experienced before now.

  It was that allure that made him ride eagerly back to the keep at the day’s end. That allure that caused the singing in his blood as he turned his destrier over to a page and bounded up the tower stairs. His pulse was racing when he spied Ariane in the hall, supervising the serfs who were lighting the torches along the walls and arranging the trestle tables in the center.

  She wore a flowing bliaud of jonquil silk over a long-sleeved crimson chainse. The golden band that encircled her forehead caught the gleam of torchlight, as did her pale, unbound hair, which rippled with copper and gold and flaxen highlights.

  She was not wearing his gift, he noted with a sharp sense of disappointment, and yet she was beautiful enough without it. The sight of her took Ranulf’s breath away.

  He crushed the urge to sweep her up in his arms right then, and merely acknowledged her with a lordly nod. Yet like a callow youth eager to impress a lass, Ranulf hastened upstairs to wash the worst of the dirt and blood of the hunt away, and then hastened back down again.

  Ariane stood hesitantly beside the dais, awaiting his arrival. Payn, who had been laughing jovially with some of their men, strode to the table just then, and reached her first. The knight bowed over her hand and gave her a smile of masculine approval that made Ranulf set his teeth.

  “You grace us with your presence, lady,” Payn said admiringly as he held out the chatelaine’s chair. “Does she not, Ranulf?”

  Ranulf, irritated that his vassal’s chivalry had prevented his own, grunted in agreement. “That gown does you credit,” he added in a softer voice.

  Ariane lowered her eyes modestly. “Thank you, my lord. It was good of you to return my clothing to me.”

  Her gentle barb stung, and vexed Ranulf all the more.

  At least the food, while perhaps not a feast, was the best meal he had enjoyed since taking possession of Claredon. The game they had just killed would not be butchered till the morrow, but there was pheasant and roast suckling pig and smoked herring, prepared with spices and mouthwatering sauces. During the first course, Ranulf discovered from Payn’s leading questions that Ariane herself had ordered the preparations. He was not certain he liked her taking so much upon herself, and yet he could find no fault in the result.

  Payn’s effusive compliments began to wear on his temper, though, especially since for the second and third courses, Ranulf scarcely tasted what he ate. The conversation flowed around him while he remained silent, acutely aware of the beautiful woman sitting so cool and regal beside him, and his own ache to possess her. He wanted the interminable meal to end so that he could have her alone, in his arms.

  His plan to make Ariane share his bed was foolish, perhaps. He needed to resist the temptation of her body, if only to prove that he was not reduced to submission by the gentleness in her gray eyes, by the warmth of her touch, to prove that he cared nothing for her. But he could not have denied himself tonight had his very life been at stake.

  The evening’s planned entertainment was to be a troupe of jugglers, but Ranulf had no intention of remaining to watch. And when he caught her eye, Ariane knew it as
well.

  She felt her pulse quicken at the dark light in his eyes. She, too, had scarcely tasted the dishes, her mind on the night ahead. Her skin felt hot, and there was a curling sense of anticipation within her, a sensual arousal brought on by excitement and apprehension and the knowledge of what would happen between them.

  “Go and order me a bath,” Ranulf murmured in her ear the moment the music began. When Ariane nodded and made to rise, he forestalled her with a hand on her arm. “You will remain there to attend me,” he added in a low voice, his intent clear. She would provide a service that entailed far more than merely washing his back.

  The serfs Ariane called upon hastened to do her bidding, and in short order a steaming, perfumed bath stood in the solar, awaiting the lord. The last of the servants had just withdrawn when he arrived.

  His eyes hot and lust-bright, Ranulf drew Ariane into his arms the moment the door had shut. His mouth covered hers in a fierce possession, tasting with the full measure of his need. Fire, hot and sweet, surged from him and through her, stealing both their breaths away. She could feel him thickening, swelling against her, and when at last he raised his head, she was trembling.

  His smile was a trifle wolfish as his hand trespassed boldly beneath her skirts. “I have wanted to do that since this morning.”

  To her surprise—and somewhat to her embarrassment—Ranulf undressed her first, showing as much deliberate care as any tirewoman. The difference was his use of mouth and hands—nuzzling the bare skin he exposed . . . stroking her body . . . smoothing her hair to a profusion of silken waves. By the time she stood naked before him, she was quivering with need.

  “You tempt me unmercifully, witch,” he murmured in a rough voice as he bent to taste her budded nipple. “Your coolness makes a man burn for you, makes him hot to seek the hidden fire beneath.”

  Coolness? How could she be cool with the scorching heat spiraling within her?

  Choking back a whimper, Ariane nearly melted against him. It dismayed her, how little resistance she could summon against him. If she responded to Ranulf’s passion as she had all the times before, if she surrendered this easily, she would have no hope whatsoever of maintaining her defenses. Making a last desperate effort to stiffen her resolve, she pushed against his broad shoulders, trying to make him raise his head from her breast. “My lord . . . no . . .”

  “Yes,” Ranulf insisted as his hand slid between her bare legs. He brushed his finger against her sweet, hot cleft, rimming the lips. “You want me. See, your honey flows for me.”

  She did want him, Mary help her. He possessed the power to make her forget everything except his sensual touch. His fingers were slowly opening her, seeking entrance, finding it. Ariane’s breath caught in her throat and she shuddered as his finger thrust slowly inside her.

  Ranulf’s eyes blazed in triumph as he felt her surrender. Catching her hand, he moved it beneath his tunic, covering the braies cupping his sex. “See how I want you, too? Undress me,” he commanded hoarsely.

  With shaking hands, she obeyed. Ranulf aided her, too impatient to wait. In the time it took her to remove and fold both his tunics, he had stripped off his boots and chausses and braies. When she turned back to him, he stood magnificent before her, his nude, powerful body bulging with muscle.

  Ariane could not take her eyes away, or keep her gaze from moving lower . . . over the thick pelt covering his wide chest, along the ebony trail that narrowed over his abdomen. His huge member thrust up from the curling black hair between his thighs, long and flushed and engorged with lust. It no longer frightened her, though, for she knew now what pleasure it could give her.

  Ranulf was watching her, as well, Ariane realized dazedly. His eyes were fixed hungrily on the pale globes of her breasts.

  Without a word, he stepped toward her and cupped them in his hands, whisking her nipples with the rough pads of his thumbs. She inhaled sharply as a tremulous wave of longing racked her body.

  He smiled, a slow, carnal, male smile.

  “Come, attend me.” Taking her hand, he led her to the bath. Alone, he stepped within the tub and sank to his knees in the steaming depths.

  She would have knelt beside him, but Ranulf forestalled her by reaching out to grasp her bare hips. His amber eyes glittered as he gazed up at her, along the naked length of her body. Leaning forward, then, he pressed a hard, hot kiss to the soft mound between her thighs.

  Ariane gasped in shock, her hands reaching out to grasp his shoulders for balance. “No . . . Ranulf . . . ’tis heathen . . .”

  Ignoring her plea, he urged her legs to part for him, savoring the sweet scent of woman rising to his nostrils. The sight of her flushed sex drove him to the edge.

  “I crave a sampling,” he muttered hoarsely as his tongue lapped her pink woman’s flesh.

  She drew back with a jerk yet could not escape completely; Ranulf caught her wrist in a grasp of velvet and drew her down beside the tub. Weak-limbed and dazed, she sank to her knees.

  “Show me how you can please me, vixen,” he ordered, pressing her palm to his breast so that she could feel his thundering heart.

  He compelled her to wash him. Lathering her palm with soap, he guided it over his body, until her own primitive need to touch him took over. Her trembling fingers slid down over his hair-roughened chest, stroking lower, dipping below the warm water, gliding over the hard ridges of his stomach.

  When she hesitated at his flat, hard-muscled belly, Ranulf leaned forward to brush his lips against her flushed face, her jutting breasts.

  “All of me. My rod is stiff and aching. Hold me in your hand.”

  Ariane obliged, finding his granite member slick and throbbing with heat that had nothing to do with the temperature of the water.

  “Harder, tighter . . . you cannot hurt me.”

  She squeezed gently, and the passion that blazed in his eyes shook her to the core.

  “Ah . . . yes . . . please me . . .” With a low groan, Ranulf closed his eyes and let the male ache wash over him in ripples of pleasure-pain. His hips thrust upward into her hand, once, twice . . . and then suddenly he drew back, refusing to seek his ecstasy alone.

  Rising half out of the water, Ranulf slid his powerful arms around her and lifted her into the tub to sit astride him, her knees on either side of his hips, her thighs open wide.

  Ariane gasped in protest and struggled in his grasp, but Ranulf’s arms closed around her to hold her still. “Hush,” he rasped. “You have never ridden a man.”

  “ ’Tis not natural . . .”

  “Oh . . . but it is, sweeting.” His eyes smoldered with gold flame. “The most natural thing in the world.”

  His hands closed over her buttocks and lifted her slightly, only to lower her deliberately onto his shaft. The rigid length of him filled her with tantalizing slowness, impaling her. Whimpering at the shocking fullness of him, Ariane arched her back and rocked against him, her ripe, wet breasts pressing against the hardness of his chest.

  His response was a guttural sound and a deeper thrust. He could scarcely bear the delicious thrill such deep penetration sent through him. He shuddered convulsively, grinding his teeth to hold back the primal sound rumbling in his chest. The slow, instinctive undulation of her hips was driving him mad, as was the spasmic clasping of her inner muscles around him.

  His neck corded with the force of his denial, Ranulf pressed deeper, burying his shaft to the hilt.

  She gave an incoherent cry of pleasure, even as her slender body clenched, and then she startled him by sinking her teeth into his shoulder.

  He laughed, a low, male sound of triumph, and gripped her buttocks harder, working her up and down in rhythm with his thrusts, until Ariane’s body caught fire, blazing out of control. Her gasping breaths sounded loud in his ears as she pumped her hips wildly and sent bathwater splashing over the tub’s edge. A dozen heartbeats later, she erupted, arching against him, her head thrown back in helpless surrender, her nails digging into his flesh.


  At her low, keening, helpless cry, Ranulf abandoned his own rigid control and hauled her closer, his rough excitement matching her own frenzy as he surged deep inside her.

  “Sweet God! . . .”

  Through a heated haze of awareness, Ariane felt his lean, powerful body clench, heard the hoarse unintelligible groan Ranulf gave as the convulsions of passion claimed his control and he began the shuddering fall into ecstasy after her.

  They clung to each other when it was over, breathing hard as the waves of savage, unrestrained pleasure washed over them and receded.

  At last recovering her dazed senses, Ariane realized she was lying limply in Ranulf’s arms, her face buried in the wet curve of his shoulder. He was stroking her naked back, stroking her hair, his hands gentle and soothing. With a soft sigh of repletion, she nestled against him, never wanting to move again.

  Thus it startled her when she felt Ranulf swelling and growing rigid inside her. Her sleepy eyes opened wide as he gathered her in his arms and stood up, water cascading from their bodies.

  “The bath can wait,” he murmured. “I cannot.”

  Stepping from the tub, he carried her to the bed and laid her upon the mattress in a single, sure motion, never breaking contact. Sinking deeper between her legs, he covered her wet, naked body, pressing her thighs wide apart with his. His urgent need to have her was like an unquenchable fever. His rod was engorged and aching again, even though it had only been moments since he had experienced the most exquisite pleasure of his life.

  He gritted his teeth as he thrust upward into her hot, silky sweetness. She shuddered and arched her back in sensual response.

  “No, open your eyes, sweeting,” Ranulf commanded. “Watch me when I take you.”

  Ariane opened her eyes to stare at him. His own eyes were hot, his damp raven hair falling over his broad forehead, his dark-complected skin stretched taut over prominent cheekbones.