“To some, it does—to me, yes. I find myself intrigued by matters of the heart, so I pay closer attention than most. When you look at him, your face holds a softness, a yearning. . . .”
Ariane knew it was true—that what she felt for Ranulf was strong enough to show on her features.
“I think I can understand the attraction. I knew Ranulf at court, and several of my ladies were wild for him, though he would have naught to do with them. Despite his atrocious manners, he always acquitted himself skillfully in tourney and battle. A renowned knight who has served my lord husband admirably . . . powerful and well-landed . . . It is a pity that he will not wed you.”
In complete accord with the queen’s thoughts, Ariane made an absentminded murmur of agreement.
“But I think I can provide a way out of your difficulties . . . by offering you a position in my service as one of my ladies. If you join my court, I can extend you my protection, which is no small matter.”
The brush stilled in Ariane’s hand, while her eyes widened at the generous offer of refuge. As lady-in-waiting to the queen, Ariane knew she would be safe from whatever repercussions her father’s actions generated.
Eleanor expanded on the compelling argument. “Henry is yet besieging Mortimer’s castle at Bridgenorth. When the siege is successfully concluded, your father will be tried for treason for supporting the rebellion.”
Ariane bit her lip, thinking that Eleanor would make a cunning political adversary—or benefactor. If she accepted the queen’s protection . . . But then she shook her head slowly. She could never abandon her father, or her mother, or Claredon’s people, merely to save herself. And then there was Ranulf. . . .
“You are all that is kind, your grace. Please accept my sincere gratitude, but I must decline. Claredon is my home, and I have some hope . . .”
When she hesitated, Eleanor prodded, “Yes, you have hope . . .”
“That one day Ranulf will come to view me as . . . someone he can trust. Perhaps you know he does not give his trust lightly.”
“You have fallen in love with him.” It was not a question.
“Yes,” Ariane admitted to herself for the first time. Against her will, against all reason and judgment, she had fallen in love with Ranulf.
She was suffering a lovesick passion worthy of some languishing maid. Ranulf possessed her heart. In truth, he had ensnared it years ago with his tender smile, when she was but a nervous, tongue-tied girl. She did not often see that smile now—an expression so rare as to be almost priceless—and yet she had fallen deeper into Ranulf’s snare, perhaps for the very reason that made her crave to ease the suffering of other wounded, helpless creatures; because she had glimpsed the bleak vulnerability beneath the warrior’s hard exterior. She had seen his pain.
“I fought against loving him,” Ariane murmured, “but I found it hopeless.”
She had tried valiantly, futilely, to stop herself, but she could not love by half-measures, holding back in self-protection. In that respect she was like her parents, who loved deeply.
It was mad, though, her yearning for Ranulf. He treated her no better than a serf, his personal possession. He was unlikely ever to acknowledge her as his wife, let alone his love. Yet she cherished the hope of one day overcoming his blind, pigheaded mistrust, of penetrating his impregnable mail-armored heart.
“So be it,” Eleanor said brusquely, her tone somewhat curt. “But do not think to apply to me should your troubles deepen.”
Their eyes met in the hazy surface of the hand mirror, and Ariane knew that the discussion had ended.
“Aye, your grace.”
She had refused the queen’s offer of support, and now she must live with the consequences.
Ariane deeply regretted her confession to the queen regarding her feelings for Ranulf, for she could not absolve Eleanor of possibly trying to stir up mischief. But there was no use lamenting what was done.
After her dismissal from the queen’s chamber, Ariane returned to the great hall to find many of the guests already in their cups. The lord, however, appeared sober enough to be almost grim.
“What wanted the Lady Eleanor with you?” Ranulf demanded as she slipped into her seat.
She met his brooding look with a forced smile. “She required me to brush her hair.” Ranulf stared at her for a long moment, but fortunately did not press her to expound on her conversation with the queen.
“By your leave, my lord, I would like to retire.”
“Retire, aye,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky baritone, “but not to sleep. I expect a sweet welcome, wench.”
A fierce surge of heat and excitement swept through Ariane at the promise of passion in his gaze. “As you wish, my lord. I shall await you in your bed.”
She was rewarded by a flare of heat in his amber eyes as bright as a torch flame.
He came to her shortly, as if unable to contain his impatience. Ariane scarcely had time to undress before Ranulf was there, standing before her, as she sat brushing her own hair.