A fire burned low in the brazier, and by the faint glow of embers, she could see that his eyes were hard and bright and hungry—and so hot that she felt seared by their molten heat.
He did not reach for her at once, though, but took the brush from her and set it aside. With a gentle finger under her chin, Ranulf tilted her face up, letting his gaze caress her hauntingly lovely features and the full, gleaming mane that fell thick and gloriously unkempt over her shoulders. Her ivory skin glowed with the translucence of a pearl, her bright hair glimmered, the waving tresses threaded riotously with flaxen and gold and copper.
Eagerly Ranulf plunged his fingers into the incredible softness, letting the warm weight of it pour over his hands like molten honey as he sought her sweet mouth.
He could have had his pick of women this eve. Half the castle wenches would be tumbled by the visiting knights, while his own men would have the others, but as lord, he could have chosen first. Most would have been eager to share his bed.
But there was only one woman he wanted, needed to be with. He yearned for Ariane’s company. He could not account at all for the sense of banishment he had felt when he had been gone from her, nor could he comprehend the bewildering gentleness he felt when she was near.
Capturing her mouth in a kiss, he drank of her sweetness, thrusting his tongue deep into her inviting warmth in a bold imitation of the carnal act, stroking her bare body to urgent arousal. In only moments Ariane was arching against him, the tips of her breasts hard and aching under his curving fingers.
Yet they both craved more than mere caresses. Her own hands trembling, Ariane undressed Ranulf, not stopping until he stood before her naked, magnific
ent, looking like a dark, pagan god. When brazenly she closed her fingers around the strong root of him, she could hear his breath quicken harshly in her ear.
And still she was not satisfied. Her body was already so vibrant with yearning that she thought she might die unless he eased the ache. Refusing to release him, Ariane drew him to the bed and lay back upon the sheets in invitation, spreading her legs wide for his claiming, aching for him.
Joining her on the soft mattress, Ranulf settled between her eagerly parted thighs and thrust deep, capturing her cry of pleasure with his mouth. Without speaking, he stroked and inflamed and coaxed her body to new heights, bringing them both to a shattering peak of ecstasy.
Ranulf recovered first from the wracking pleasure, to find himself collapsed limply upon Ariane, her arms clasping him loosely. Her awareness followed more slowly, gradually growing conscious of the damp warmth of his skin, the crushing heaviness of his powerful body.
She did not mind his weight, though; somehow it gave her primal comfort. Sighing, Ariane clung to him more tightly. Ranulf had come home to her, no one else. She had given him welcome of the basest sort, but she had also provided shelter for his guarded warrior’s heart—a feat she was certain no other woman had ever accomplished.
He was gone by dawn’s light, riding escort for Queen Eleanor’s retinue. They were a dozen leagues from Claredon when the queen first deigned to speak to him. Riding alongside Ranulf on her palfrey, Eleanor broached the subject of Ariane in a manner that set his heart lurching and his mind skittering.
“I must confess I was pleasantly surprised by the Lady Ariane. I spoke to her at length last night. I could not help but be affected by her plight.”
“Her plight, your grace?” Ranulf asked guardedly.
“My Lord Ranulf, let us not mince words,” the queen said sweetly. “You have taken full use of the girl, when her rank should have protected her. An honorable knight would make reparations.”
His eyes narrowed and darkened. “Did she claim I had dishonored her?”
Eleanor’s musical peal of laughter was like the chime of crystal bells. “Nay, she would say naught against you. I had to learn of it from my ladies. It pains me to see any gentlewoman so ill used, though, so I offered her refuge at the royal court as one of my ladies-in-waiting.”
Ranulf felt a jolt of panic like a knife in his belly. “Did Ariane ask your protection?”
“No, but I offered it just the same. The lady refused.”
“She refused? . . .” Ranulf stared blankly at Eleanor.
“Yes. She claimed she had no wish to leave her home, despite the terrible difficulties she faces. Such devotion is admirable, would you not agree?”
Relief flooded Ranulf like sweet wine. He knew not why Ariane had decided to remain at Claredon; he was just happy she would not leave him.
“You have found yourself a prize in the girl, my Lord Ranulf, if you would but see it.”
Ranulf turned to stare at the queen.
“You could do worse than to wed her.”
His jaw hardened. “It seems you take uncommon interest in my affairs, my lady.”
Eleanor smiled sweetly, the expression that had brought kingdoms to her feet. “You are your own man, my lord. I would never presume to advise you. I will merely say what many gentlemen of my acquaintance have discovered to their sorrow: a sword makes a cold wife.”
With that parting arrow, Queen Eleanor tugged on her reins and turned her palfrey back toward her own knights, leaving Ranulf alone to ponder his whirling thoughts and to wonder why Ariane had refused the queen’s offer of refuge.
With faint success, Ranulf tried to push from his mind the suggestion that he marry Ariane. To himself—solely himself—he was even willing to admit the true cause of his reluctance to consider the proposition: his fear. For all his courage in battle, he was afraid . . . afraid of the pain Ariane could cause him, afraid of being hurt again, of giving his bewitching temptress even more power over him than she already wielded.