The Warrior

by Nicole Jordan

  “Entertaining!”

  “Aye. Your temper is amusing to watch. Your sharp tongue arouses me. . . .” His gaze swept over her, coming to linger on her breasts. “As does your lovely body. I like the challenge of a saucy, comely wench.”

  “You . . . you . . .” she sputtered.

  Her ire rising to the breaking point, Ariane picked up a wooden bishop and threw it at Ranulf’s broad chest. It bounced off and clattered to the floor.

  He laughed at her outburst, the warm, rich sound filling the chamber. The knave actually had the audacity to laugh!

  Her eyes flashed sparks as she reached for another piece, but Ranulf was quicker. With a sudden lunge, he moved around the table and caught her in his grasp, pinning both her arms to her sides. In a single, easy motion, he bore her down to the furs before the hearth.

  Ariane struggled against his embrace, but Ranulf subdued her with ease. When finally she ceased squirming to glare at him, panting, he grinned down at her, his eyes bright. “You have challenged me and lost, demoiselle. Now you must pay a forfeit.”

  Before she could catch her breath or even protest, he covered her mouth with his. His kiss was hungry, lusty, and when he finally raised his head, his eyes smoldered with need. “Ah, what you do to me, wench . . .”

  He gazed down at her silently for a moment before shaking his head. An intimate, amused warmth entered his voice as he remarked, “And yet your methods of persuasion seem wanting. Why do you not try to use your womanly arts to stir my passion and sway my judgment instead of forever fighting me? A wise leman knows well how to bend a man to her whims—with honey, not vinegar.”

  “I am not like your lemans,” Ariane said stiffly, refusing to be provoked further by his teasing.

  In truth, she was like no other wench of his acquaintance, Ranulf reflected, and yet she was a woman, with a woman’s needs. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that he would do better to take the offensive, to use passion as a weapon in order to compel Ariane’s loyalty and bind her to him.

  His lips curved upward in anticipation. He had enjoyed their fight, but he would relish her surrender more.

  He bent to nibble at her lips, murmuring in a voice suddenly grown husky, “And I am not like other lords. Indeed, I am inclined to show you lenience and devise a penance you will enjoy.”

  Ariane pushed futilely against his broad shoulders, deploring the way her senses throbbed at Ranulf’s gentle, arousing kisses. “I will derive no enjoyment from being mauled, you conceited oaf! I find no pleasure in your touch.”

  “None?” His slow-growing smile was a sensual caress. “Methinks you are untruthful, wench. Shall I prove it?”

  He had no need to prove his expertise, Ariane thought with despair. Ranulf well knew he could command her body’s every response. She twisted beneath him, but with his weight holding her down, she could not break free.

  He did not bother to undress her, but merely tugged down the bodice of her tunics and shift, baring her beauty to his gaze. His golden eyes kindled. For a heartbeat, he buried his face in her breasts, drinking in the sweet warm fragrance of her skin. “Can I make you hot for me, I wonder?”

  In answer to his own question, his mouth dipped to her repeatedly, tasting and kissing her erect nipples . . . until she whimpered.

  He smiled against her skin. “That is how I want you, sweeting . . . pleading for me . . .” Reaching down, he drew up her skirts and slipped a probing hand between her thighs. “Show me where you want me to caress you.”

  She tried unsuccessfully to elude his searching fingers. “Ranulf, please. . . .”

  “Please?” His teasing grin held an intimacy that made her heart twist. “Truly I like that word on your lips.”

  “Nay, Ranulf! I don’t want you.”

  He laughed softly.

  “Your body wants me,” he murmured huskily against her throat.

  “No . . .”

  In answer, he rubbed his thumb along the wet, swollen lips of her sex, finding the tender nub that was the seat of her passion. “This bud is plump and juicy—evidence of your desire, sweeting. Can you honestly claim you dislike being stroked here?” Her muted whimper made him smile. Probingly, he slid two fingers into her sleek passage, making Ariane draw a sharp breath. “So, you feel no pleasure at my touch, at having my flesh buried within you?” His fingers thrust deeper, while his thumb caressed.

  Her choked gasp was the only answer he needed.

  “I crave a taste of you,” he announced softly in satisfaction.

  Shifting his weight, Ranulf moved his mouth downward over her body, to her womanhood, his strong hands spreading her naked thighs for his enjoyment. When he lowered his head to her, Ariane clenched her teeth, trying desperately not to respond to each delicately provocative thrust of his tongue, but the sweet agony was too much to bear. Her hips strained against his mouth of their own accord.

  When a moan dredged from deep within her throat, Ranulf stopped to gaze up at her in triumph. His lips, wet with her dew, curved in a tender smile.

  Without haste, he raised his tunic and tugged at his braies, freeing himself. Then he slowly lowered himself upon her, sighing with pleasure as he entered her.

  “I may not give you rest until the dawn,” he whispered as he began to move urgently within her.

  With a soft moan, Ariane closed her eyes in surrender. And when the shattering ecstasy came moments later, the pleasure was more intense than anything she had ever known, while the heartache was greater than she thought she could bear.

  Ranulf desired her only for her body, while she desperately needed and craved his love.

  When it was over, when he was holding her trembling form in the aftermath of passion, she felt the helpless tears well in her eyes. One spilled over, despite her effort to quell it and the terrible ache in her heart.

  “Ariane?” Ranulf raised himself on one elbow, his eyes dark with concern at the sight of her weeping. “Did I hurt you?”

  Yes,she wanted to cry, yet she sniffed and dashed away the moisture, determined to give him no cause to think she was employing feminine wiles. “No, it is naught.”

  With a puzzled frown, he brushed her damp cheek with his thumb, tracing downward to her trembling mouth.

  “Just hold me . . .” Ariane whispered, pressing her face against his chest.

  Uncertainly, Ranulf wrapped his arms around her and gathered her close, comforting her silently with his embrace, offering her tenderness in the only way he knew how.

  24

  Ariane sighed as she watched the display of knightly exploits in the practice yard. Even from her position at the solar window, she could distinguish Ranulf from the scores of helmeted, mailed horsemen. He was the most powerful, the most dominating, the most compelling warrior of them all. And he had vanquished her as easily as he conducted his military triumphs.

  She had fallen helplessly, hopelessly, in love with the unfeeling lout.

  It was vexing, infuriating, and entirely unjust. Whenever she remembered Ranulf’s teasing laughter, her blood simmered. He claimed to find herentertaining ! She provided sport for him, only that. He used her merely to slake his lust and to relieve his boredom.

  She could not forgive him for his insensitivity, despite his recent carnal tenderness.

  In the fortnight since his return from King Henry’s camp, Ranulf had shown her a passion that left her gasping and weak. Yet passion was no longer enough. Ariane wanted far more. No longer was she content merely to aspire to become his wife, or to await crumbs of attention tossed her way. Somehow, someway, she vowed to make Ranulf love her.

  Regrettably, she had hit upon no suitable strategy to help her achieve those ends. As May had ripened into June, she’d marked little progress in her attempts at winning his love. Ranulf remained invulnerable, invincible, while he held the power to wring her heart dry.

  At times—chiefly when she was in his arms—he seemed to soften toward her, raising her hopes that he was coming to care f
or her, even if he would not admit it. But more often he treated her with cool indifference. She could not count the minor concessions he had made regarding the running of the castle. Ranulf had turned several domestic matters over to her, placing the kitchen and tower staffs under her control, yet he had not given her back the keys to the castle or access to the household accounts. He had come no closer to honoring her as his lady, nor had he exhibited the least inclination to return her love.

  “He regards you with all the tender concern of an ox,” Ariane muttered to herself, gazing after Ranulf’s distant figure in frustration.

  Even his occasional tenderness was suspect. Three days before he had even gifted her with a costly bauble, the kind of present a lord might give his lady. The jewelled broach that pinned the front of a mantle together was carved of onyx in the shape of his device, a dragon rampant, with rubies for eyes and studded around with the same precious gems.

  When Ranulf had first presented it to her, a warm glow had swept through Ariane—until she realized the significance of the gift: it branded her as his property.

  “Is it not to your liking?” Ranulf asked.

  “Nay . . . I mean . . . it is lovely. I am well pleased, my lord.” But she had been untruthful. She would rather have an avowal of affection from him than all the jewels in the kingdom.

  She was preparing to turn away from the window when the watchman’s horn announced new arrivals at the castle gates. Ariane waited as a small party rode across the drawbridge and through the outer bailey. A strange sense of foreboding curled in her stomach when she realized one of the newcomers was a woman.

  Veiled and cloaked, the woman urged her palfrey toward the practicing knights. When Ranulf saw her, he broke away from his men and rode toward her at an eager gallop. Coming to a plunging halt at her side, he apparently offered greetings. Ariane would have given a year off her life to hear the exchange between them—until the veiled woman bowed low and kissed his gloved hands.

  A shaft of pain streaked through Ariane, so fierce it took her breath away, yet she forced herself to move away from the window. She would not allow herself to jump to foolish conclusions. Doubtless there were reasonable explanations for such a fawning display. Many people kissed the lord’s hand—supplicants for his favor, for example.

  Trying unsuccessfully to repress the knot of apprehension inside her, Ariane made her way below to the great hall, where the new arrivals were just entering.

  One of Ranulf’s younger knights, Richard of Lorne, approached Ariane at once, escorting the woman. “May I present Layla of Acre, milady, summoned from Vernay upon the lord’s orders. Lord Ranulf bids you find her private accommodations.”

  Acre in the Holy Land? Vernay in Normandy?Private? Such disjointed thoughts flashed through Ariane’s mind, but she could only focus on the last. It was unusual for any but the highest-ranking guests to be afforded privacy, since a castle had few chambers and hundreds of people to shelter.

  Just then, Layla raised her veil and Ariane caught her breath at the woman’s stunning beauty. Obviously from the East, Layla was sloe-eyed, with heavy black brows and lashes, full ruby-red lips, and darkly golden skin that seemed to glow with vitality. Lush and sultry, she possessed a figure that would entice any male . . . especially a lusty, sensual, physical male like Ranulf.

  Was the beauty Ranulf’s leman? A Saracen from the East? Brought here from Vernay for what purpose?

  It was all Ariane could do to nod civilly in acknowledgment of the imparted command. The thought of Ranulf rousing any other woman to passion scalded her with sick jealousy, but the realization that he had summoned his leman the vast distance from Normandy to takeher place made her feel as if her heart were slowly being ripped from her breast.

  She did as she was bid without speaking, not trusting herself to say a word without losing any semblance of dignity or control. She led Layla to an alcove off the women’s dormitory, a small chamber with a bed built directly into the wall, curtained with rich hangings, all the while enduring sly looks from the Saracen beauty. When Layla expressed her thanks in heavily accented French that was both sultry and musical, Ariane nodded, still reeling from the blow. In a haze of pain, she returned to the solar to nurse her bleeding heart.

  When, sometime later, Ranulf came in with his squire, Burc, directly from the training field, Ariane stood at thewindow, her back to him, her stance rigid as glass. She felt brittle, fragile, perilously unstable: if he touched her, she would shatter, if he spoke, she would explode.

  “Did you welcome Layla?” Ranulf asked as he unbuckled his sword belt, blithely unaware of the tension emanating from Ariane in waves.

  “I did as you ordered, my lord,” she replied quietly, carefully, straining to keep any emotion from her voice. “She is your leman, is she not?”

  “Shewas. Her story is a wretched one. My lord father bought her from a brothel in Acre. She had been torn from a good family and sold there by slavers. My sire rescued her”—Ranulf’s tone turned sardonic—“in order to save her heathen soul, and brought her to Vernay, where I inherited her upon his . . . abdication.”

  Ariane felt her heart whither a little further at Ranulf’s explanation. She no longer harbored any doubts that he had brought his beautiful Saracen concubine here to service him. Any wench will satisfy my carnal needs, he had claimed only recently, yet he had been dissatisfied enough with her to desire a foreign beauty in his bed instead, even at the expense of summoning the wench from another country.

  If Ranulf thought she would meekly accede to his plans, though, Ariane vowed, he could think again.

  Her fingers suddenly clenching into fists, she turned to confront him. Her face was set like flint, but the pain shimmering in her eyes was unmistakable.

  Noticing, Ranulf paused in the act of pulling off his tunic, then cast a dismissive glance at his squire. “I desire a moment alone.”

  When Burc had gone, Ranulf raised a concerned eyebrow at her. “What is amiss, sweeting?”

  “Sweeting? You bring your whore into my home to replace me in your bed and then shower me with endearments?” Ariane’s voice trembled with scorn and fury, while she looked as if she might again throw something at him.

  Glancing at the chessboard, Ranulf took a precautionary step backward. “You are mistaken. I have no intention of replacing you with Layla.”

  “You intend to enjoy both of us together, is that it?” Hervoice lost its careful control. “You plan to practice your wicked perversions ontwo of us at once?”

  Offering her a rueful smile, Ranulf shook his head. In the past he had been known to enjoy such sport, but asking Ariane to participate in such licentiousness was the farthest thing from his mind. He had no desire to bed Layla—or any wench other than Ariane, for that matter.

  Hoping to calm her, he raised his hands, palms out, but she was too heated and hurt to notice.

  Her eyes kindling, she pointed at the door. “I will not share you, do you mark me? Certainly not with that . . . that heathen creature!”

  Ranulf’s conciliatory smile faded, while his eyes narrowed. It was one thing for him to overlook her sharp tongue because he enjoyed the spice of their spirited exchanges. It was another to let her rule him with ultimatums.

  She ignored his look of warning entirely. “I will not endure such despicable treatment from you!” Ariane declared. “I will not share you!”

  Ranulf stared in amazement as she stamped her slippered foot. With her stormy eyes both flashing sparks and sparkling with tears, she was the picture of defiance and wounded outrage. He had never seen such an outburst from her.

  “What is this, sweeting?” he said slowly. “From your shrewishness, I could almost suppose you jealous.”

  “Jealous!” She skewered him with her eyes. “I care not how many women you have! You can take your lust elsewhere—anywhere—it matters not to me. But I will not be subjected to the ridicule of everyone in this keep.”

  “This keep and everything in it is mine,
including you. Think you to tell me whom I will and will not bed?”

  “I would notdream of depriving you of your pleasure, my lord,” she retorted witheringly. “In truth, I would be delighted to be relieved of your lascivious attentions.”

  He stared at her a long moment, seeing the hurt shimmering in her eyes, hearing the echo of tears underlying the hysterical note in her voice. Some of the heat left Ranulf’s expression. Ariane possessed pride aplenty, he had always known that, but her outburst had been due to more than wounded pride, he would stake his life on it. Despite herdenial, he could not help but believe she lied. Shewas jealous. She was jealous of a wench who meant nothing to him.

  A slow smile of male triumph stretched Ranulf’s lips at this twist of events. Ariane was at fault this time.She had been the one to erupt in a foolish, unwarranted fit of jealousy, while he had kept his calm. She was jealous! His self-satisfied smile broadened into a grin. He rather liked the idea of Ariane’s possessiveness.

  His good humor, haplessly, had the same effect as pouring oil on flames. “You dare laugh?” With a shriek, Ariane clenched her fists in impotent fury, wishing she could strike him. “Oooh, you . . . you cur!” Trembling with rage, she wielded the only weapon at her command. “Must you be reminded that the Church considers adultery a sin?”

  “Adultery!” The smirk faded from Ranulf’s face.

  “Yes, adultery! When a man fornicates with someone not his wife, it is deemed a sin!”

  Suddenly sober, Ranulf crossed his arms over his chest. “You are not my wife. May I remind you that no vows were ever spoken between us?”

  “The Church may view the matter differently!” Ariane retorted scathingly. “Your petition for annulment may not be granted.”

  The corner of his mouth twisted with mockery. “Methinks your denunciation of adultery rings false, sweeting. I have never known a lady of your station to put principle above personal ambition.”

  Her fury exploded. “I am nothing,nothing, like the noblewomen you have known, you blind, thick-witted ox! I value honor and loyalty and virtue as much as you—more so! I always have! And I will not countenance your hypocritical standards any longer—or your despicable treatment. If you wish to lie with your strumpet, you will no longer lie with me !”