The Warrior

by Nicole Jordan

  “True,” Payn said thoughtfully. “But whoring is not the same as having a wife. Of late I find myself yearning for . . . something more . . . for the softness of a warm and loving woman at my side.”

  Softness. A warm and loving woman.Uncontrollably Ranulf thought of Ariane and flinched inwardly. There had never been any softness, any luxury or ease in his life. He wanted none. Ease led to weakness, weakness to defeat. His days were filled with fighting, just as he liked it. If sometimes he yearned for a settled life, for something more than conflict and combat to fill the long hours of each day, to ease the bleak solitude of the longer nights, he ruthlessly crushed the urge. He needed no woman’s softness. He needed no woman.

  “I know what it is,” he observed cynically. “You are going soft in the head. Or mayhap the swordplay this morning addled your wits.”

  Payn raised a penetrating gaze to his lord. “Have you never had a yearning for one special woman to share your dreams and sorrows?”

  Unable to repress a sudden surge of bitterness, Ranulf looked away. He had too few dreams to offer a woman, and too much sorrow.

  Payn’s quiet voice continued relentlessly. “Have you never felt the press of loneliness deep in your soul?”

  Ranulf scowled into his ale. He had felt the ache of loneliness all his life, even if he never allowed himself to acknowledge it. The darkness that had claimed his soul had left him empty, hollow, cold as ice inside. No woman could warm him, or erase the bleakness from his soul. Especially not a grasping wench of noble blood.

  He gave a short, hollow laugh. “You talk like a ballad singer.”

  “Have you?” Payn repeated insistently.

  “I learned long ago never to dream of anything but vengeance.”

  “Vengeance is a cold bedfellow, my good friend. And once you achieve it, what is left?”

  What indeed?he wondered. Perhaps he was getting old. Too often of late he had felt an aching weariness deep in his soul, his spirit drained by the constant struggle to prove himself. Too often he found himself questioning whether the fight held any meaning. There were times he even envied the peasants, whose sole ambition was to own a pig or a cow. They seemed satisfied with their lot. Somehow they found happiness in their simple existence. . . .

  Realizing how morose his thoughts had grown, Ranulf made a soft, frustrated sound. “God’s bones, if I wanted to bare my soul, I would have called for the priest!”

  The intensity slowly left Payn’s features, and he nodded, exhaling a soft sigh. “Well, then . . . if you refuse to wed the Lady Ariane, the honorable course would be to set her free—permit her to wed elsewhere.”

  No, Ranulf thought with a fierce surge of jealousy. Ariane belonged to him. He had claimed her as his, and what was his he kept.

  “She is your hostage, and a beauty. She could bring you a tidy sum, even if slightly tarnished by your usage.”

  Ranulf frowned, not liking to consider what his usage had done to her future. Yet her lack of virginity would not decrease her worth so much that she could never find a husband. She still possessed pride and grace and a haunting loveliness that would do any lord credit, and an allure that made a man burn. A discerning man might take her to wife, even without wealth and lands.

  Ariane appeared just then in the hall, and Ranulf caught his breath at the sight. Her blue silk bliaud molded her tall body, defining and praising every feminine curve and emphasizing her firm, lush breasts, while the golden girdle, worn loose about the waist, draped the slender hips that had succored him so delightfully for the past several days. Her glorious hair, plaited and wound around the crown of her head, made him yearn to free it and bury his hands and face in the silken mass.

  Then she turned her head, and their eyes met in a long silent moment. The seething pulse of desire that leapt between them made Ranulf’s entire body clench.

  It vexed him that she could make him want her so powerfully, that she could seduce him merely by being. He had thought that once he slaked his lust, he would have no trouble dismissing Ariane from his mind, and yet his damnable craving had increased tenfold. He had claimed her body as his due, without consideration for her pride or feelings, simply to prove to her and to himself that she meant naught to him. But his plan was failing wretchedly.

  Ranulf cursed beneath his breath, scorning himself for his weakness. It was madness to feel as hungry and obsessed as he did. He could not allow himself to need her like this. Surrendering himself to her power could prove as perilous as turning his back on an enemy on a battlefield.

  Forcing his gaze away, he took a long draught of ale, remarking to his vassal, “She is my hostage, nothing more.”

  And she would remain nothing more to him, Ranulf swore fiercely to himself. He might cherish her delicious body, but he would not wed her. He might desire her, but he would not permit himself to fall deeper under her spell than he already had. He dared not risk the consequences. Never would he give any woman the power to destroy him, the way his despised father had been destroyed.

  His manner bewildered Ariane. By night Ranulf played the sensual, passionate lover of her dreams; by day a near stranger.

  She watched him at every opportunity, trying desperately to understand the bent of his mind, and more crucially, the hidden secrets of his heart. Toward his men and dependents, Ranulf was good natured and mild tempered, often exhibiting evidence of the formidable charm Payn had spoken of. She could see clearly why his leadership commanded their obedience and esteem, and why his magnetism drew the attention of so many eager women, unwed or wed. He was a proud, dynamic warrior, vital and charismatic, with the ability to inspire admiration and awe. His just rule and skilled administration had begun to sway even his harshest detractors. William, the young page Ranulf had promised to train, frankly adored him, but one by one, others followed suit.

  Her half-brother Gilbert continued to rail against Ranulf for the shaming role he had forced upon her, and still spoke of suing him in civil court, but Claredon’s villeins had accepted the new lord’s authority fully, while her father’s vassals had come to offer Ranulf a grudging sort of respect and even deference.

  Toward her, however, his manner remained cool and detached, except when she shared his bed. That he still did not trust her was abundantly clear. Ranulf gave of himself physically, but he seemed determined to guard against any deeper form of intimacy.

  His aloofness seemed calculated to keep an emotional distance between them. Was it an attempt to keep his heart safe from her? To defend that wounded organ from further hurt? She thought Payn’s supposition might be accurate: Ranulf had shielded his heart with impregnable armor to keep it invulnerable. And as yet she had discovered no way to pierce it.

  Observing him at arms practice with his men or at ease in the great hall, Ariane found herself envying the camaraderie they shared. When Ranulf laughed aloud, the deep, rich tones resonated with congeniality and made her hurt inside, for she realized how huge a gulf existed between them. They were enemies still, despite their physical closeness. She cherished those moments of intimacy, of reluctant tenderness, when they were alone together.

  Not that she objected to the physical aspect of their relationship. Far from it. Of late it seemed all she could think about was having Ranulf between her thighs. And heknew it, the devil smite his arrogance.

  The first time he caught her in a blatant scrutiny of him, Ariane blushed bright red. She had been admiring the way his tunic pulled tight across his broad back and shoulders, but when his bold gaze met hers, a heated memory instantly assaulted her—of Ranulf taking her last night, of his hips thrusting hard and rhythmically as he ground against her. From the scorching look he gave her, she could tell he was recalling that same moment.

  Histhoughts were frequently occupied in that manner, she was certain. When Ariane tried to draw him out in conversation, Ranulf avoided giving direct answers and somehow managed to turn the subject, most often distracting her with pure carnal desire. His remoteness shattered then,
to their mutual satisfaction.

  And then there were the times he deliberately tried to provoke her into losing her temper. She suspected he took pleasure in testing the limit of her control, for then he could use his formidable powers of persuasion to subdue her. He had merely to touch her and her body turned to flame. His caresses left her moaning and pleading with him to take her.

  It frightened Ariane, how powerless she had become, to know she had been reduced to a helpless, wanton creature, craving naught but the touch of her lord. Her hunger frightened her. This need to be with him was a strange and constant ache within her. Her own vulnerability disturbed her almost as much as Ranulf’s determined aloofness. She had vowed to bring him to his knees; but she was no closer to that goal now than she had ever been. And lamentably, she had few defenses against his relentless assault on her own heart; she could summon but a feeble resistance.

  Even so, even though she had only her intuition to rely upon, her instincts warned her not to refuse whatever Ranulf wanted of her.

  What he wanted washer, in his bed, willing and eager. The one time he gave her respite was during her monthly flux, which came the following week.

  His lust was insatiable, it seemed; his powers of endurance remarkable. Ariane found it nearly impossible to turn his mind to other pastimes. And unless she could manage to distract him, she knew she had no hope of controlling her own wantonness. In desperation one evening, she brought out her father’s intricately carved chess pieces and polished wooden board.

  Ranulf’s eyes brightened at the sight, then turned doubtful. “Do you play?”

  “I am credited with a measure of skill. I played regularly with my father.”

  And so they began a new sport in the evenings after the dinner entertainment concluded. Ranulf trounced her four out of every five matches, but Ariane defeated him often enough to make the competition challenging. In truth, the mental battles lent spice to their already spirited physical relationship.

  And yet she wanted so much more. It was not simply physical desire she felt for him. Absurdly she wanted to please Ranulf, to become the instrument of his happiness. She craved his respect and trust more than anything else. She desperately wanted him to regard her with tenderness, for his eyes to soften with love.

  She wanted to comfort him, wanted to prove she could be a good wife to him. She had been trained from childhood to run a vast, noble household and knew how to make his life more comfortable, if only he would permit it.

  Yet Ranulf resisted her attempts to serve him willingly and see to his needs. She had to struggle for every hard-won victory, much as she’d always had to fight to gain her father’s regard. Yet Ranulf was worse even than Lord Walter. He viewed her motives with suspicion when she simply asked permission to have the great hall cleaned.

  “Why?” he demanded warily.

  “Why?” Ariane repeated in amazement. She swept her gaze over the smokey hall, remembering how it had looked when her mother had ruled. Lady Constance would never have tolerated such filth for an instant. “Because it needs cleaning. The rushes have not been changed since before your arrival. And the rain has dampened them enough to make them smell.”

  “Someone else can see to it.”

  “No one else will be as particular as I. Serfs often carry out their duties in a haphazard fashion, and neglect the worst dirt.”

  “Ah, a crime indeed,” Ranulf observed, his amber eyes warm and teasing as he pulled her against him.

  Ariane felt her temper rising at his flippant mood. It vexed her sorely that he was trying to avoid acknowledging her competence, just as her father had always done.

  Hands pressed against Ranulf’s chest, she presented him an ultimatum. “If you wish me to share your bed, my lord, you will allow me to put the hall in proper order. I will not tolerate filth.”

  The gleam in his eye told her clearly he saw her threat as a challenge, and his lips claimed victory for the nonce.

  And yet later, Ranulf yielded the skirmish. With his permission, Ariane organized the castle serfs to carry the soiled rushes out to the bailey to be burned and to gather new ones. The wooden floor was swept and scrubbed with vinegar, then sprinkled with pennyroyal to eradicate fleas and chamomile and lavender to sweeten the air and quell odors.

  When she had seen to the cleaning of the floors, she ventured to suggest a more ambitious proposal—to whitewash the walls of the great hall to mask the soot and smoke stains of the past winter.

  “I fail to see the need,” Ranulf replied, scrutinizing the darkened walls.

  “Men rarely do,” Ariane retorted. “But it will freshen and brighten the hall. You will appreciate the results, I promise you.”

  “Had I any faith in your promises,” Ranulf murmured cynically, “I would not be required to remain at Claredon to ensure its submission.”

  “Mypromises? You are the one who disavowed our longstanding betrothal.”

  “And you were the one who turned traitor and closed the gates against me in defiance of the king’s orders, and then refused to swear allegiance to me.”

  It raised Ariane’s hackles to be held solely at fault when Ranulf bore the greater blame. “What have you done to earn my allegiance, my lord, besides claim my father’s demesne and turn me into your leman?”

  Ranulf scowled at the term. “You are not my leman.”

  “Your lover, then, which is the same thing.”

  They broke off the discussion, both of them smoldering, with Ranulf digging in his heels and refusing to consider her request to paint the walls.

  When the following day Ariane hinted she be allowed to run his household, their dispute evolved into a major argument.

  “It would be less burdensome if I held the keys to the castle,” she asserted that morning when Ranulf grumbled that she was overly concerned with castle affairs. “I could put the place to rights without having to ask your permission for every little task.”

  Ranulf’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “You think for one moment that I would turn over the keys toyou? My hostage?”

  “Mayhap you intend to play chatelaine, my lord?” Ariane responded dryly. “Somehow I cannot envision you in the role.”

  His lips twitched, yet he strove to keep his expression cool. “I need no one to run my household. For that I have a seneschal.”

  “Who needs supervision. A woman’s supervision.”

  Ranulf frowned suspiciously. “Would you, perchance, be trying to weasel your way into my good graces, vixen? Is this an attempt to persuade me to wed you?”

  He had hit too close to the truth, but Ariane managed a casual shrug. “Claredon has been my home all my life, my lord. I do not care to see it fall to ruin. Besides, I need employment. I am bored to tears during the hours you are away from the keep.”

  His mouth curved slowly, suggestively. “Then I shall have to lessen the hours I am away—and see that you remain occupied.”

  “ ’Tis not what I meant, as well you know!”

  When he bent to nuzzle her neck, Ariane drew away sharply. Ranulf’s expression turned cool. “Denying me is hardly the way to persuade me, demoiselle. Perhaps you will be done sulking when I return.”

  Ariane had been trying to comb her wild hair after a particularly passionate bout of lovemaking, and the ivory teeth snagged in a tangle with such force that it brought tears to her eyes. She very much wanted to throw the comb at his stubborn head, but she refrained, schooling herself to patience. She had known Ranulf would not relent easily.

  And yet that very afternoon, he sent a cloth merchant to her so that she could choose silk threads for her ladies’ embroidery, and provided the coin to pay for it.

  She was moved by the gesture, and thought perhaps she might eventually succeed in wearing down his formidable defenses, if only she kept at it long enough.

  She still had not determined how to solve her most crucial dilemma, however. Her twice-monthly visits to the forest had been curbed entirely and she was now weeks late. There had b
een time, before Ranulf’s capture of Claredon, to make only a brief foray into the eastern wood to aid the inhabitants there. By now their situation would be growing grim, and they would be desperate for food.

  There was no one she could entrust with such a mission, either, save for perhaps Gilbert, and she could not be certain about him. Only she and two others were privy to the secret of the haunted Claredon forest—her father and her father’s chief vassal, Simon Crecy, and both men were gone. It was left to her to see to the task—and she could wait no longer.

  The solution came to her one afternoon, toward the end of Ranulf’s first month at Claredon, when she visited his injured squire to satisfy herself that Burc’s shoulder wound was healing. The lad was still bedridden and feverish, and still in pain. The wound showed signs of putrefying, the surrounding flesh streaked with red, with yellow pus draining from beneath the scabs.

  Ariane spent the afternoon in the herbal, pounding and steeping herbs to make a tea to reduce the fever and mixing a poultice to draw out the poison from the wound. But then she had to seek Ranulf’s permission to administer them.

  A frown darkened his features when he discovered she had visited his squire, and his tone turned intimidating. “What meant you by defying my express orders?”

  “I merely wished to see how Burc’s wound fared. I feel somewhat responsible for his injury—”

  “You should. Youare responsible.”

  Setting her jaw, Ariane meekly lowered her gaze. “My sole wish was to help him.”

  “My leech can see to the boy.”

  “Your leech already had his chance,” Ariane retorted scornfully. “Burc desperately needs a cure. His arm will rot off, if he does not die first!” Her hands went to her hips. “And I have no intention of letting him die and giving you one more mark to hold against me.”

  Seeing Ranulf visibly wavering, she softened her tone. “Can you not trust me this once, Ranulf? He is suffering needlessly. I do not intend him any harm, I swear it.”

  “Very well,” Ranulf muttered gruffly.