Suddenly sober, Ranulf crossed his arms over his chest. “You are not my wife. May I remind you that no vows were ever spoken between us?”
“The Church may view the matter differently!” Ariane retorted scathingly. “Your petition for annulment may not be granted.”
The corner of his mouth twisted with mockery. “Methinks your denunciation of adultery rings false, sweeting. I have never known a lady of your station to put principle above personal ambition.”
Her fury exploded. “I am nothing,nothing, like the noblewomen you have known, you blind, thick-witted ox! I value honor and loyalty and virtue as much as you—more so! I always have! And I will not countenance your hypocritical standards any longer—or your despicable treatment. If you wish to lie with your strumpet, you will no longer lie with me !”
Determined to force the issue of who between them was lord—and to drag an admission of jealousy from her if he could—Ranulf fixed her with a menacing look. “What right have you to dictate to me?” he demanded. “Perhaps you have a reason for your possessiveness?”
“You desire a reason? Because I am a stupid fool! Because Ilove you, you wretched lout!”
For a long moment afterward, utter silence reigned. Ranulf could hear the slow thud of his heart as he stared at Ariane in startled disbelief.
Sheloved him? Love, as in affection? As in tenderness and soft-hearted concern? As in witless obsession?
Ranulf shook his head dazedly, doubting her claim, refusing to believe her profession of love. His entire life he had been betrayed and manipulated by nobly born women like her. Though he had begun to hope Ariane was different, he could not help but wonder if her motive was only mercenary. She had tried to trick him into formalizing their union once before. Perhaps this was merely another attempt at forcing his hand.
Deliberately keeping his features blank, Ranulf leaned a muscular shoulder against the oaken bedpost. “Are you quite finished?”
Ariane felt as if he had slapped her. She had just bared her soul to Ranulf, declared her love for him, yet his expression remained cool, his eyes neutral. No, not neutral. There was doubt there, even suspicion.
And he seemed determined to ignore her declaration—as well as to change the subject.
“Sheath your claws, vixen,” Ranulf said abruptly. “I sent for Layla, not to act as my leman, but as a healer.”
Her dismay faltered, to be replaced by confusion. “A . . . healer?”
“Aye. I summoned her because she is skilled in the medical arts of the East. She originally comes from a family of physicians—physicians whose knowledge is far more advanced than any our leeches possess. I had hopes Layla might be able to aid your diseased mother.”
It was Ariane’s turn to stare in shock. “You brought her here . . . to cure my mother?”
“Toattempt a cure, yes. You yourself said that a successful treatment for leprosy is unknown. Layla cannot be expected to work miracles, but if she can ease your lady mother’s plight, then I will consider it worth the expense.”
When Ariane remained mute, Ranulf continued. “I ordered Layla to bring her medicine baskets from Normandy without revealing why. At the time, Burc was still ailing from his wounds, so it will be assumed that I summoned her to tend him. No one else knows the true reason. And I expect most will think Layla my leman, just as you did. It would be wise to foster that mistaken assumption if we wish to keep your mother’s secret.”
Stunned, Ariane could only gaze at him wordlessly.
“I had thought you would be pleased,” Ranulf said dryly, “but instead you rant at me like an alewife.”
“I am pl-pleased,” Ariane stammered. “And grateful . . . immensely grateful, my lord.” Mollified, greatly chastened, she bowed her head. “Forgive me, my lord . . . for my outburst. I apologize . . . most humbly.”
Uncrossing his arms, he strode over to her and put a finger under her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. His amber eyes had kindled with a heat she recognized so well . . . and something else that she could not name.
“Save your gratitude for Layla. You can repay me in services rendered. Now, I suggest we confer with her to see what is best to be done with your mother.”
“But . . . will she even minister to a leper?”
“I have no doubt the wench is greedy enough,” Ranulf said cynically. “If she can help, I intend to reward her with her freedom and fund her return passage to the Holy Land.”
“Ranulf . . .” A huge lump in her throat choked Ariane, making her voice quaver. Unable to speak, she reached for his hands and bent to kiss them, as she had seen Layla do.
Ranulf withdrew his hands abruptly, looking supremely ill at ease. “Come, assist me to wash, and then we will summon Layla.”
Layla showed no surprise at being summoned to the lord’s solar in the presence of another beautiful woman, even the previous chatelaine of the castle and a lady far above her in rank. Indeed, Layla’s sensual, catlike smile when she glanced at the huge bed expressed anticipation rather than dismay.
Evidently the Saracen woman had reached the same conclusion as Ariane regarding the reason for her presence at Claredon: that they were rivals for the lord’s carnal attentions. Ranulf, however, quickly disabused Layla of the notion, and explained his proposition.
Her response could be read in the emotions that flickered across her exotic, expressive features: disappointment, feminine pique, shrewd resignation, and finally, burgeoning delight. She seemed to regret Ranulf’s indifference to her charms, but be truly eager to win her return passage to her homeland. With scarcely a moment’s hesitation, she promised to devote her best efforts toward helping the poor, afflicted woman. Ariane felt hopeful that Layla would at least make a sincere attempt.