The Warrior by Nicole Jordan

should rightly fear him, after what she had done. And the beauty deserved far worse punishment, Ranulf well knew, than he could bring himself to award her.
    Disturbed by his lack of resolve, Ranulf let his head fall back, rolling it from side to side to ease the tight ache in his neck. A strange depression had settled heavily over him like a pall in the past hours. He had won Claredon with ease, without bloodshed, yet the victory left a bitter taste in his mouth, reminding him of his dire battles with his despised father. His mere existence had been challenged by his noble father, but he had fought back with a determination forged from torment. He had carved a destiny for himself, driven by revenge, fired by hatred, and eventually he had triumphed.
    He had thought—hoped—his acquisition of Claredon would give him the chance to start anew, to prove he deserved the overlordship of such a vast demesne on his own merits, despite his baseborn origins and the scandals that had surrounded him his life long. . . .
    Recollecting himself, Ranulf shrugged off the disconcerting reflection. He was not ordinarily given to morose wallowings in his past, nor did he have time for them at present. Reluctantly he returned his attention to Ariane. At the moment he wanted simply to get this infuriating, arousing wench off his hands, and seek ease from his exhaustion. Yet he would have to deal with her.
    “I will have your submission, demoiselle, one way or another. I suggest you consider your answer carefully. Your position as political prisoner is tenuous at best. A traitor’s daughter has fewer rights than the meanest serf.”
    Ariane regarded him with disdain. “I am no traitor’s daughter, my lord, or a serf. I am your betrothed, or perhaps you had forgotten?”
    “I beg to differ, demoiselle,” Ranulf replied with forced casualness, ignoring the sarcasm in her tone. “You no longer hold the position of my intended bride. Our betrothal is at an end. I will not be constrained to wed a traitor.”
    From the startled look on her lovely face, he knew he had taken her aback. “I hold the law on my side, I believe. No ecclesiastical court would force me to honor the contract now. As for the benefits of matrimony, I no longer need marry you to possess the lands you would have inherited at your father’s passing. They already belong to me.”
    He watched the complex play of emotions in her expressive eyes, none of which was expected. If he had to vouch a guess, he would swear she almost looked hurt.
    Her reply was a long time in coming. “After all these years . . . you intend to cast me off like a worn cloak?”
    He could not comprehend her reaction, unless she was attempting to play on his sympathies. She had claimed—most emphatically—that she regretted their betrothal. Indeed, her scathing denunciation still rang bitterly in his ears. “I have not cast you off, demoiselle. Your own actions are at fault. Had you surrendered Claredon to me willingly, I would have honored you as my wife.”
    Ariane looked away, unable to bear his challenging regard. It wounded her that he could so casually dismiss the years of anguish and uncertainty he had caused her. “I would have done so,” she said quietly, “had you come any time these past five years—even as late as a fortnight ago.”
    Ranulf’s mouth tightened. She was behaving as if she were the one wronged. Perhaps he had been delinquent in claiming her as his bride, but the revulsion and scorn she felt for him was reason enough for him to wish to end the betrothal. And she was the one who had defied a royal command and then compounded the crime by aiding her father’s vassal to escape. She had declared herself his enemy, and should expect no mercy. And yet, irrationally, to his disgust, Ranulf found himself wanting to offer her explanations he was under no obligation to give, even to apologize for repudiating their betrothal.
    “I regret that I never came for you,” he said