His longing had grown to a fierce need by the time dusk settled softly over the countryside and huge bonfires were lit to illuminate the night. Ranulf cared naught for what festivities remained. He wanted only Ariane, alone, in their bed.
By torchlight the wedded couple was escorted to the castle, into the tower, and up to the bridal chamber—Ariane’s former rooms that would be hers and Ranulf’s as long as they remained at Claredon. It was customary for the wedding guests to help in the disrobing for the bedding ceremony. Thus the chamber was crowded and filled with gay chatter, until everyone hushed for another solemn moment.
The wooden floor was strewn with roses; Ariane and Ranulf knelt among them as Father John blessed the nuptial bed. Then, with a last, lingering glance at his wife, Ranulf reluctantly accompanied the men below while, according to custom, the women undressed and put the bride to bed. When at last she was ready, they closed the bed curtains around her and retired.
Moments later Ariane heard his knights bearing Ranulf to his marriage bed amid much laughter and ribald comments. The jesting only grew coarser as his sword and garments were stripped from his body, but at last the door slammed shut behind the men and blessed silence reigned.
Ariane was surprised to find herself trembling. She had yearned for this moment for so long, it seemed like a sweet dream. Her dream lover had come for her, to her, at last.
“Ariane?” Ranulf murmured into the silence.
“I am here,” she replied unsteadily.
His lips curved upward in a grin when he heard the slight catch in her voice. It seemed thatshe was as nervous as he. He closed the distance to the bed. His heart pounding, he parted the drawn curtains to find his bride lying in wait for him, her pale copper hair cascading across the pillows, the covers turned down invitingly. She wore nothing but a wedding garland of roses, and Ranulf inhaled sharply to see her slender white body gleaming in the soft glow of candlelight. Arousal flared within him, insistent and urgent.
Controlling his fierce need with willpower alone, he turned away to pour a silver goblet full of wine. Returning to the bed, he sat beside her, settling a tautly muscled flank against her hip. His position reminded Ariane of the first night Ranulf had alarmed her by invading her bedchamber, and yet this time, she was not frightened of him, only of the powerful, overwhelming, helpless way he made her feel.
She drank in the sight of his beautiful, scarred body, with its rippling muscle and sinew, his broad chest with its furring of raven hair. . . . Her gaze lowered to the goblet, hesitating quizzically.
“I scarcely drank a drop the entire day,” Ranulf explained, “and I find I have a great thirst.” Yet from the smoldering flames in his eyes, she did not think his thirst had aught to do with wine.
“Perhaps you intend to ply me with wine,” Ariane suggested with a teasing glance, “in order to render me more malleable.”
He smiled that rare, tender smile that she loved so dearly. “Ah, no, never, my lady. I wish you to be in possession of all your senses tonight. I mean for you to feel every nuance of everything I do to you.” His sensual, provocative tone made her pulse skitter. He glanced down at her lips. “I thought we would begin with a lesson in wifely conduct.”
“Indeed?” She smiled uncertainly. “What sort of lesson?”
“One on how to please your husband. I am your husband now, am I not?”
“Yes . . .” Ariane answered breathlessly.
Ranulf’s hand slowly rose to touch her cheek. Holding her gaze, he began to caress her, his long fingers tracing the delicate line of her jaw, the smooth column of her throat, the ridge of her collarbone, stroking lightly, clearly intent on seduction. Ariane responded to his touch like a blossom opening to the sun; beneath his sensitive fingertips, she felt her flesh ripple with warmth.
“Will you drink, sweeting?” he asked as her passion-heavy eyelids began to drift shut. Bringing the goblet to her mouth, he let her sip for a moment. Then taking it away, Ranulf slowly bent and, covering her mouth with his, drank the wine from her lips.
Ariane gave a soft moan from deep within her throat at the delicious taste of Ranulf mingled with wine. Yet he would do no more than let her taste.
Drawing back, he slowly dipped his forefinger into the cup and brought it back to her parted lips, gliding over the moist surface till her mouth was red and wet and dewed with wine. Ariane could be acquiescent no longer. Urgently, she captured his hand and pressed a kiss against his palm.
“Yes, Ranulf,” she whispered. “Teach me how to please you.”
“You do. . . . You please me greatly, dearling.”
The endearment warmed her heart, even as his scorching look warmed her flesh and sent the blood racing through her veins. But he would not allow her to participate in her own seduction.
“Lie still,” he urged huskily as his fingers splayed gently over her throat, his palm resting on the thickly beating pulse.
Weakly, she nodded, prepared to give Ranulf his way—at least until the ecstasy became too unbearable.
She lay completely still as once more he dipped his finger and trailed it indolently down her throat to her left breast, making the nipple tighten and contract with sensation as the cool liquid touched her heated flesh. Then, with exquisite care, he bent to lick the drop off the taut peak with the tip of his tongue.
Ariane whimpered at the spark of fire that fanned through her—and whimpered again as his mouth closed over her nipple and sucked gently. She did not want gentleness. She wanted fierceness, wanted his powerful body thrusting hard into hers, wanted Ranulf’s desire to match her own.
Her fingers twined in his thick ebony hair to draw his head closer, while her back arched, offering her aching breast to him willingly. And still Ranulf would not rush the moment. His hot mouth and rough, wet tongue pleasured her unhurriedly, almost lazily, evidently intent on driving her mad with wanting. They played passionately over her straining nipple, tugging the crest, deliberately arousing, his slow, erotic suckling bringing her to a feverish pitch.
Hot and shivering, Ariane gritted her teeth and moved her head restlessly on the pillow. Her cheeks were flushed, her breath coming in soft pants, by the time he at last drew back.
With a smile that held a wicked promise, Ranulf dipped his finger again into the wine.
She knew what pleasure came next, even before he sought the hidden recess between her thighs. At his exquisite touch, her senses went wild. Her hips arched helplessly in agitation, until Ranulf’s husky command came again, telling her to be still. His brow furrowed in concentration as he properly attended the woman’s flesh exposed to his gaze . . . stroking her tenderly . . . rubbing the wet nubbin with wine . . . boldly parting the quivering folds . . . gliding his fingers deep, deep within her . . . encouraging her soft moans of passion.
Flames shot through Ariane, radiating heat through her, heat that centered around his probing fingers in an intense pool. Gasping and shuddering, she clamped her legs around the caressing hand that tortured her so exquisitely.
Finally, as if sensing how near she was to the edge, Ranulf bent to set the goblet on the night table and then leaned over her, his hot, open lips pressing into the musky warmth beneath her breast . . . her flat, trembling belly . . . the silken curls that shielded her womanhood.
“Ranulf . . . please . . .” she begged in a gasping plea as her hips thrust wantonly against his hot mouth, craving his possession.
Parting her legs wider, he kissed her there, relishing the slick, swollen sweetness, inhaling her fragrance, letting his tongue stroke and explore and caress her to madness.
“I love your pleasure sounds,” Ranulf whispered against her moist, heated flesh. “I love the taste of you. I loveyou, Ariane . . . my own.”
She could not answer. The hurting, painful need was too fierce to be borne. Hot and feverish beneath him, nearly desperate, Ariane reached for him, her trembling fingers seeking . . . closing over his arousal . . . cherishing the tantalizing feel of his throbbing
male power . . . delighting in the feel of him pulsing and burning in her hand.
Ranulf went rigid at her touch, suddenly unwilling to continue the game of torment any longer,unable to continue. His breath growing short, his control tenuous and ragged, he stretched his long frame over her and sank slowly between her parted thighs.
Ariane gasped with pleasure as she felt the enormous heated strength of him ease within her, deep within. His hard flesh filled her, possessive and commanding. Through a sensual daze, she looked up at him.
The planes of his harsh, magnificent face were shadowed, but his hot, intense gaze was unreserved, trusting. Ariane smiled tremulously at her golden-eyed, glorious lover, and wrapped her legs tightly about his hips. Desperate to draw him closer, she let her fingers move blindly over his scarred, muscular back, murmuring soft words of love and need.
Beneath her caresses, Ranulf trembled with a leashed desire that shook his powerful frame. And when Ariane whispered, “Ranulf . . . my love,” against his lips, a new, more violent flame seared his heart. He groaned in tender anguish as he increased the rhythm of his taking, his thrusts fiery and urgent, till she was writhing and shuddering beneath him.
She gave a sob of joy as she strained against him in frenzied abandon. And then the relentless climax began. He felt her shattering release burgeon an instant before his own body exploded savagely into hers. In a frenzy of need, Ranulf cried out her name, surging with the passionate strength coiled within him, forced to surrender as she was surrendering.
Long, long moments later, he came to his dazed senses to find his sweat-dampened body still shaking in the aftermath. Laboring for breath, he tried to ease his weight from Ariane, but she murmured in protest and tightened her arms around him. For another moment, he remained where he was, listening as his thudding heart slowed to something resembling normalcy.
“Ariane, my love,” he whispered into her hair. “I will crush you.”
“Mmmmm . . .” Her mouth curved in a dreamy smile. “Am I truly your love?”
“Aye, always.”
“Tell me again.”
“My love . . . my beloved . . . my heart . . .”
In reply, she raised her lips to his for a kiss that spoke eloquently of her own love.
The exertion expended her remaining energy, however, draining Ariane of strength. When finally her grip loosened and she allowed him to move, Ranulf shifted his weight onto his side and tenderly gathered her limp, unresisting body in his arms. The wild longing he felt for her was still urgent and raw, yet he reminded himself there was time enough to appease his desperate need. They had the entire night ahead of them, an entire lifetime of wedded bliss.
Bliss.With a grateful humbleness he had never before felt, Ranulf nuzzled his face into her rose-scented hair. The passion he shared with Ariane was far more fulfilling than mere coupling, the desire more than bodies straining together or the slaking of lust. It was pure rapture. Before Ariane he had not known what rapture was. Never had he experienced this profound, incredible feeling of completeness, of oneness.
Wife,he thought dazedly.My ladylove.
He held and cherished her, unwilling to relinquish her. Tenderness ran through him, hot, honeyed, filling him with wonder and something akin to awe. He felt strong, unassailable, kindled with new purpose. With her at his side, life would hold a richness and fulfillment he had never before known. No longer would he battle alone. The bleak loneliness had been vanquished. His bitter hatred, his need for vengeance, washed away, his soul purified.
Ranulf’s gaze drifted lower, over their entwined legs. This was their marriage bed. He hoped Ariane would conceive here. He wanted a son—or a daughter—any child of her loins. And yet if she somehow proved barren, he would be disappointed but not distraught. Ariane meant more to him than just a breeder of sons. He wanted her,needed her, with a desperation he had never felt.
Somewhere in the darkest recesses of his soul, he had always known it. She was made for him, his heartmate. She belonged to him, just as he belonged to her.
Ranulf shut his eyes, frightened by the depth of the love he felt for this woman. He would lay down his life for her without regret or scruple. He would give up all his worldly possessions—in truth, whatever she asked of him. And in return, she would give him her heart. She would teach him to love, would teach him gentleness.
Already she had influenced him profoundly. Ranulf’s mouth curved ruefully as he realized how easily even a powerful warrior could be brought to his knees by love. He had surrendered in love to her. And in attempting to win Ariane’s loyalty, he had given his own. In truth, he was grateful for the profound sense of tranquility Ariane had given him, for freeing him of his demons.
He was done with fighting, at least for the moment. This time of peace in England would not last, he knew. And he would always owe his overlord, Henry, the requisite forty days knight’s service, as well as innumerable other fees for the fiefs he had been given. But never again would he purposely go seeking battles to win, victories to achieve, challenges to overcome. He would be satisfied to build a dynasty here, in this new country, with Ariane as his lady, his wife, his love.
His arms tightened around her. She was so dear to him. And for the first time in his life he could say he knew what happiness was. Their past had been stormy and troubled, their battles tempestuous, but the hope he felt for the future was burgeoning in his breast, like a clamoring drum.
“Dear one,” he murmured as he sought her lips once more.
His kiss was filled with incredible tenderness, startling in its wonder.
Rousing herself to wakefulness, Ariane gazed up at him adoringly. His golden eyes were melting into honey, full of love, of softness. “I love you,” she whispered with heartfelt joy.
“And I you,” Ranulf replied reverently. “I never thought to feel this way.”
“What way is that, my lord?”
His fingers closing over her slender hand, he brought her palm to rest on his breast, directly over his heart. “As if I would die if you left me. ’Tis you who lights the fire in my loins. You who commands my heart. I need you as I need air, sunlight, fire in winter.”
Her eyes blurring with tears, Ariane smiled at him. “I will never leave you, my love. I swear by God to keep faith with you against all others, forever and always.”
“And in return I give you my life, yours to keep till the day I die.”
They sealed their pledges tenderly with yet another kiss that began to evolve into something more passionate . . . until to Ariane’s surprise and dismay, Ranulf suddenly ended the embrace.
“One moment, sweeting.”
Drawing back, he reached to retrieve the wine cup from the night table. To Ariane’s further surprise, he spilled a measure of wine on the sheets in the middle of the bed, watching with satisfaction as the dark red stain spread and was absorbed.
“There,” Ranulf said with satisfaction. “That should allow us to display the requisite bleeding on our sheets on the morrow.”
“I fear it does not look much like blood,” Ariane mused, eying the splotch skeptically.
“What matters it?” he said with a wicked grin. “Twice before you have stained the sheets with your ‘virgin’ blood. And if I say our marriage was consummated tonight, who is to prove otherwise?”
When her cheeks pinkened with chagrin at his reminder, Ranulf laughed softly, at her, with her, delighting in the flush that suffused her skin.
“Will you never allow me to forget that incident, my lord?” Ariane asked ruefully.
“No, never, my lady.” His laughter turned husky as his amber eyes darkened. “And I intend to demand penance from you regularly, for the rest of our mortal lives. You may begin appeasing me now. Kiss me, wench, before I lose patience.”
“As you wish, my lord,” she replied with false meekness. Her eyes shining with love, Ariane obediently reached up to twine her arms around his neck and embrace her lord husband.
Epilogue
&nb
sp; Marsden Keep, England: May 1158
The warm lips nuzzling his bare skin no longer had the power to arouse him, nor did the cool, silken hair trailing provocatively over his naked back. Ranulf lay sprawled on his stomach upon the musky linen sheets, sated and spent, his body glistening with sweat after his exertions. Pleasing his lusty young wife taxed even a man of his strength and stamina.
In a benumbed state of repletion, he had no energy left to respond to Ariane’s erotic caresses. He did not move a muscle, even when she pressed her lips tenderly against the savage scars on his back, for her soft, loving kisses held the power to heal his wounds, both without and within.
Only the sudden plaintive wail from the cradle near the hearth had the ability to make Ranulf stir immediately from his delicious lethargy. If it was not one wench demanding his attention, it was another, he thought with laughter warming him inside.
“No, wife, permit me,” he said when Ariane started to rise.
Easing from the bed, he went to the hearth to attend to the latest fruit of their love. The new keep at Marsden had been completed in time for the birthing of their daughter, Blanche, although their two-year-old son had been born at Claredon. Having grown too large for his cradle, Alain slept in the adjacent antechamber in the company of his nurse.
Ranulf murmured soothing endearments as he picked up his fretful daughter. With infinite tenderness he rocked her against his chest, silencing her cries.
Watching from her reclining position on the bed, Ariane smiled to see the broadest pair of shoulders in all Christendom sheltering such a fragile bundle. Never in her fondest dreams had she pictured Ranulf thus—cooing over his tiny daughter and reverently stroking her silken head with its curling thatch of raven hair, the strong hands that could wield a battle sword with deadly power and precision caressing with incredible gentleness. Ranulf was devoted to his son and proud as any father could be, but, as sometimes happened with strong men, he positively doted on his baby daughter.
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