And yet Ariane’s mother had demonstrated by example that such unselfish love did exist among women of her rank. Lady Constance had risked her very life to nurse her only son. And she had also taken in her lord’s bastard, Gilbert, to provide him a better life.
Would Ariane be willing to do the same withhis bastards? Ranulf wondered. Would she raise his children at Claredon if he asked it of her?
Not that he would ask. He would not take his children from their mothers and bring them to a foreign country, exposing them to loneliness and scorn, simply to gratify his own need for their company. They were well provided for now, their futures assured. They would be better off where they lived—
“How fared your day, my lord?” Ariane asked softly, interrupting his thoughts as she rose to aid him out of his armor.
Missing his children, reminded of the need to resist the warmth in her gray eyes, Ranulf answered tersely, his tone almost harsh. “Well enough.” When he saw the searching look Ariane gave him, he renewed his vow to close his heart and mind against any soft intrusions.
Ariane was forgiving of his foul mood, though. Since her release from fear over her mother’s plight, she had been too overwhelmed with gratitude to take umbrage at Ranulf’s occasional brusque manner or his usual detachment. And with the freedom from fear came hope. Hope that in time Ranulf would cease regarding her as a bitter adversary and come to look upon her as someone meaningful, even vital, to his happiness.
That day in the meadow, she had been given a glimpse beyond the impregnable barrier he had erected between himself and everyone else. She had touched the vulnerable core of him, the tender center he always kept guarded and remote. He had shown her a gentler side to his nature, baring his mail-armored heart for the fleetest of moments, and she would not rest until she had rent the whole shield. She wanted passionately to free him from his unyielding defenses, to divest him of his protective armor. She wanted Ranulf to reach for her again in tenderness, in trust. To ease this constant ache in her own heart.
It was the following morning, though, when Ariane realized how very far she was from earning Ranulf’s trust.
The day began badly, for she had to hear from Payn that Ranulf was being sent on the king’s business, and that no less a personage than the new queen of England, Eleanor of Aquitaine, might pay a visit to Claredon.
Disgruntled by Ranulf’s lack of consideration, Ariane hastened to inspect the keep—both the tower and the castle grounds, making mental lists of the countless tasks that required attention. She had a thousand and one details to see to, even if Ranulf had forbidden her to take a hand in the running of the castle. Under no circumstances short of imprisonment would she allow the queen of England to see Claredon at less than its very best.
When Ranulf came in for the midday meal, the keep was ahum with activity as the castlefolk prepared for his departure and Lady Eleanor’s possible arrival. Ranulf scowled at all the bustle as he ran up the steps to the solar, regretting the nuisance of preparing for royalty, as well as wary of the enormous expense. Royal visits had been known to beggar many a hapless host.
When he entered the solar antechamber, though, he came to an abrupt halt, feeling as if he had taken a blow to his midsection with a lance. Ariane and Payn stood with their heads together before the solar door, both laughing.
The sight of Ariane gazing up so sweetly at his vassal sent a sick stab of jealousy streaking through Ranulf. Her gray eyes were alight with amusement and more: admiration for the tall, handsome knight.
“What find you so humorous?” Ranulf demanded, making them both jump with his harshness.
Sobering, Payn and Ariane glanced briefly at each other.
“It was naught, Ranulf,” Payn said evenly. “The Lady Ariane was telling me of the time King Stephen paid a visit to Claredon—”
“Can you not find a more worthwhile occupation than dallying here and listening to tales?”
Stiffening, Payn looked as if he might refute the remark, but he merely gave a brief bow. “As you wish, my lord.”
When he had gone, Ranulf turned his attention to Ariane, a muscle in his jaw flexing. “Do not seek to win Payn over with your artifices. You will not succeed.”
Her eyes widened at his grim tone and at his implication. Apparently Ranulf had mistaken her growing friendship with Payn FitzOsbern for a flirtation and had reacted with unreasoning jealousy. “We engaged in merely a harmless conversation, my lord, only that—”
Ranulf’s regard never wavered. His heart thrummed against his ribs, his chest rioting with the devastating emotions that threatened him. “You belong to me, Ariane,” he stated brusquely. “You would do well to accept it.”
“I do accept it, Ranulf,” she replied with quiet conviction, needing to assuage his doubts, his suspicions. “I want no other man . . . lover or husband.”
He gazed at her warily for a long moment, before turning away. For the remainder of the day and afternoon, the unreasonable anger seemed to have left him, but the coldness remained on his features.
It was a strained leave-taking at dawn the following morning, with silence reigning between Ariane and Ranulf. He made love to her once more before calling his squire in to help him dress, and then he spoke to her only to give her his parting orders. He responded with merely a brief nod to her wishes for a safe journey, not entirely trusting that she meant it.
And yet at the last moment he turned back to her, unable to leave without tasting her sweetness once more, without having one final kiss to sustain him on the journey ahead.
Ariane saw the desire in Ranulf’s amber eyes as he drew her into his arms, felt the heated need in his powerful body, in his fervent lips. Yet his mask of coolness had descended again when he released her. And he had no kind word of farewell for her, no kind word at all.
Thus it was with a heavy heart that Ariane let him go. She watched from the solar window as Ranulf, clad in full armor, mounted his mighty steed and clattered across the drawbridge at the head of his retinue. Behind him streamed a pennon of crimson silk emblazoned with his feared device, the black dragon rampant.
When they were long out of sight, Ariane let her breath out in a sigh. Infuriatingly, she already missed Ranulf. Illogically, she worried for him. There were countless dangers awaiting unwary travelers—brigands and miscreants, mercenaries and other powerful knights greedy enough to challenge all comers—but it was absurd to worry. Ranulf was a seasoned warrior who had survived nearly two decades of war and strife without her assistance. And it was the time-honored lot of women to await their men when they rode away.
Ariane sighed again. She knew she would count the days till Ranulf returned safely to her. Despite the cold indifference he continued to show her, she still had hopes of someday gentling him to her touch, of somehow overcoming the haunting vulnerability she had seen in his eyes.
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