The Warrior (55 page)

Ranulf stared at her, aching to deny her accusation. She was mistaken on one score. He wanted more than Ariane’s body; he wanted
her,
all of her. He wanted to bind her to him unalterably in marriage. And he wanted to believe her. He wanted desperately to trust her, to know that she would not betray him. He wanted to bare his heart, to release the fear inside him. He
wanted
to love her. But he could not force the words past the tightness in his throat.

The ache roughened his voice. “You have secured the offer of my hand. Must you have my soul as well?”

“Nay, Ranulf,” Ariane said softly. “Not your soul. Your heart. I want your love. Nothing else will do. If and when you can say freely that you love me, then I will proclaim my vows before God with all the love in my own heart.”

How could he admit to a love when he had no heart? Ranulf wanted to cry. How could he give what he did not possess?

When he remained silent, Ariane smiled sadly. “You are a good man, Ranulf, worthy of my love and devotion. But you cannot believe me worthy of yours. You cannot trust me. And until you can, till you can say truly that you love me, I cannot be your wife.”

She read his answer in the bleakness of his eyes.

“I thought not,” she murmured, her heart aching.

She reached up to touch her fingertips to his cheek. Ranulf flinched as if burned.

“You ask too much of me,” he said almost bitterly.

“Perhaps. I hope not.”

Gritting his teeth, Ranulf turned away and went to the door. “This issue is not settled between us,” he flung over his shoulder, before he let himself from the room, shutting the door hard in his wake.

“I devoutly pray not,” Ariane whispered to herself, wondering if she had made a terrible mistake. She would take Ranulf on any terms, if only she could believe that by marrying him she was not sentencing him to a life of misery. That one day he might come to open his heart to her without reservation, without bitter wariness or treacherous doubts. Love could not survive without trust.

Am I a fool for wanting your trust, my love?

She sighed, knowing she could not allow herself to give up hope. Someday, God willing, she would penetrate the armor around the dragon’s heart and claim her most cherished dream.

Dazed, feeling as if he had taken a lance blow directly to the chest, Ranulf descended to the hall and called for wine as he took his rightful place at the high table.

“Is something amiss?” Payn asked, taking one look at his liege’s troubled features.

“She refused my offer of marriage,” he said numbly.

Payn looked startled. “She refused?”

“Aye, she will not wed me, can you credit it? She says I do not trust her enough.”

His vassal watched him in silence, saying finally, “
Do
you trust her, my lord?”

“Enough to marry her. What more can she ask of me?”

Payn was a long time in answering. “I suppose I can comprehend her position.”

“
Can
you?” Ranulf shook his head bitterly, trying to deny the emotion warring within his soul. He should be pleased Ariane had refused him. For weeks now—years—he had tried to elude a marriage to her. Why then did he feel this pain in his gut, in his chest? Why did he feel this gnawing fear? It
was
fear, not of committing himself to Ariane, but of losing her.

“Then perhaps you can explain her answer to me,” he retorted grimly. “Never will I understand the workings of a woman’s mind.”

“I fear that is the dilemma, my lord. The Lady Ariane is not like others of her kind—and you will not see it.”

“She said much the same,” Ranulf replied, his tone suddenly bleak.

Payn’s expression turned grave. “Can you not give her the trust she asks for, Ranulf?”

He stared down at the table. “What matters it if I do or not?”

“I think it matters a great deal . . . to her. Several times recently you have suspected the Lady Ariane of wrongdoing—yet each time you doubted her, she has proven your suspicions false. But you will not absolve her of treachery and deceit. She has ample cause to be wary of placing her fate in your hands.”

It was true, Ranulf admitted; he had wronged her unforgivably. And yet when he had tried to make amends, she had thrown his gesture back in face. He had laid himself open to her, had bared himself to this pain, for naught.

“Do you love her?”

Ranulf gave a start at the question. He could not answer that with any certainty. He could not put a name to the madness he felt for Ariane, the nameless emotion that flooded his heart whenever she was near, whenever he simply thought of her. “Truthfully . . . I do not know.”

Payn nodded in sympathy. “Then I advise you to consider carefully what you feel for her, my lord. Search your heart, your conscience. If you feel anything for her besides passion, then tell her. A woman likes to hear these things—”

Priest John came hurrying up to the dais just then, his aging features showing concern. “You summoned me, milord?”

Ranulf’s reply was almost a growl. “I was in error. Go back to your flock,” he ordered bitterly. “It seems I have no need of your services after all.”

No wedding ceremony was held that night.

Unforgiving, steeped in his own dark reflections, Ranulf scarcely said two words to Ariane throughout the evening meal, and then he remained in the hall with his men until well past midnight, delaying the moment when he would have to confront her again.

When at last he came to her, disturbing her warm body from slumber, he made no mention of the turmoil that was in his heart. But he made love to her with a fierce urgency that bordered on desperation. For no matter what else stood between them, his desire for her had not diminished. His passion was unquenchable.

She accompanied him to the bailey the next morning as Ranulf prepared to leave for Henry’s camp. His war stallion pawed the ground impatiently while he gave final instructions to his vassals who would remain behind, including Payn.

He saved his farewell to Ariane for last. When finally Ranulf turned to her, he could not utter the fateful words she yearned to hear.

“I will do my utmost for your father,” he said stiffly as he tugged on his leather gauntlets.

She searched Ranulf’s harsh, impassive face, aching to be in his arms, wishing she could put things right between them. His remoteness made her sick with longing. “I thank you, my lord.”

He did not touch her, did not hold her or embrace her or kiss her as Ariane yearned for him to do. She stood there unmoving, her heart hurting, as he mounted his destrier without speaking.

But even as he gathered the reins, Ranulf made another concession to her. In a voice strong enough for all to hear, he addressed her clearly. “My lady, I charge you to keep this castle safe for me. Hold it well until my return.”

Ariane felt a sob catch in her throat. Ranulf had let it be known he was leaving his castle in her hands. He trusted her that much, at least. She could only hope he would someday come to trust her with his heart.

With a tremulous smile, she nodded solemnly, accepting the charge. “As you will, my lord.”

She thought he would leave without another word, but she was blessedly mistaken. Without warning, Ranulf muttered a curse and bent down to catch her about the waist. Lifting her up, he covered her mouth fiercely with his, startling her with his violence, his need. Yet Ariane clung to him with all her might, returning his passion, tasting regret, sorrow, despair in his kiss.

Just as abruptly as he had begun, Ranulf released her and set her on her feet. His amber eyes were enigmatic as, without another word, he turned his destrier and cantered to the head of the column of mounted knights and men-at-arms.

Through a blur of tears, Ariane watched as he rode away without a backward glance, his dragon’s banner snapping tauntingly in the spring breeze.

27

It was a disturbing ride for Ranulf. His thoughts hounded him the entire journey north, while his vassal’s counsel echoed in his mind with a relentless, pounding urgency:
Search your heart, search your heart, search your heart. . . .

What did he feel for Ariane? What, beyond passion, lay hidden in the depths of his heart?

Her generous nature, her spirited defense of her people, her devotion to her loved ones, her passionate caring, all pointed to someone who was trustworthy. Women were not often noted for their faithfulness and high principles, but within Ariane’s shapely breast lay a heart of honor, with the courage and honesty of a valiant knight. She was a warrior’s woman, worthy of any ruler. Far more worthy than he, Ranulf concluded bleakly.

He had been so blinded by prejudices, his view so twisted by bitter experience, he had refused to see, had stubbornly refused to admit even to himself, that he was losing his heart to her. He could not arm his heart as he could don a coat of mail, he had discovered painfully. And now it was ensnared by silken chains.

God’s teeth, he hoped,
prayed,
Rome would not grant an annulment. If so, he would have no legal claim to Ariane.

Could he give her up then? The question was absurd. He could not face the bleak emptiness of a life without her. He could not, would not, relinquish her. Yet the price of her acceptance was his heart.

Ranulf took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut against the images that tormented him: Ariane challenging him to look beyond his bitterness and hate. Ariane laughing. Ariane making love to him . . . her soft breasts pillowed on his chest, her cool hands encircling him, stroking him. Ariane refusing his offer.

If you do not know—truly know—deep in your heart that I can make you happy, that I can complete your life as you could mine, that our two hearts would be as one. . . .

Aye, he
knew.
He could give her his heart. Had given it. He desperately wanted her to love him. And he loved her. His desire went beyond blood, beyond a fever of the flesh. It came from deep within him, within his soul. She had touched something in him he had not known he possessed. He loved her.

Opening his eyes to the gray day, Ranulf stared wonderingly out at the rolling English countryside, savoring the words on his tongue.
I love her.
The rightness of it echoed through his mind, resonated through his body, his very soul.

He threw back his head and laughed, startling his men. For the first time in his life he felt released from the burden of bitterness he had always carried. He felt like a newborn babe, helpless, innocent, marveling at the world around him.

He loved Ariane, needed her—a need as pure and strong as his need for air. If she were his, he would ask nothing more of life than to be allowed to stand between her and the world, protecting her from all sadness and harm; he could ask for no greater boon. Yet knowing the woman she was, Ariane would refuse to meekly accept his protection. She would stand with him against the world, fighting at his side, as his equal, his soul mate.

Ranulf shut his eyes, remembering. No woman had ever offered him the generous, unselfish tenderness she had shown. No woman had ever dared defy and challenge him as Ariane had, either.

A rueful smile tugged at Ranulf’s lips as he thought of their tempestuous encounters . . . a smile that swiftly faded. He had tried to crush that spark of fire in Ariane, that precious spirit, when he should have cherished it.

But no longer. He had broken the chains of his past, and he would honor her as she deserved.

Yet there was work to be done, Ranulf reminded himself, suddenly sobering. He had vowed to aid her father. For Ariane’s sake, he prayed Walter was innocent. He could not bear the thought of her grief should her father be hanged for treason.

But it would not come to that, Ranulf vowed. He was the king’s man, but he was prepared to go to great lengths for the woman he loved. If need be, he was prepared to battle even his king for her father’s life.

Henry’s camp was a familiar sight, teeming with military purpose. Tents and pavilions spread over a vast acreage, with banners waving at each entrance and great destriers tethered nearby. Everywhere there were crowds—knights and archers, squires and pages, cooks and camp followers, smiths and armorers, as well as couriers riding to and fro.