stiffly, “but I cannot undo the past—or countermand Henry’s wishes. My orders are to hold you as hostage.” When still she remained silent, gazing at him with that wounded look of accusation, Ranulf felt a defensive anger seize him. “You should have no complaint about the dissolution of our betrothal, sweeting. Ours was an arranged marriage. Indeed, you clearly told me of your regret just yesterday. A ‘grasping, baseborn pretender to nobility’ is the phrase you used, I believe. You claimed to rue my very name.”
The reminder that she had been tricked into making such a statement filled Ariane with impotent fury and despair. She wanted to strike him, to mar Ranulf’s harsh, handsome face with her nails; she wanted to rail at him, to wound him as he had her. And yet she dared not attempt any outright defiance, not when he held the power of life and death over her and her people.
“I will not protest your decision, my lord.” Her chin lifted proudly, while her voice took on an edge of icy disdain. “I will gladly release you from the contract. Indeed, I could not be persuaded otherwise. After your treachery, I would refuse to wed you under any circumstances.”
Any relief Ranulf felt at her easy acquiescence was countered by the contempt in her proud tone. With effort he clamped down on the ire her declaration aroused in him. He would not be manipulated into a response by this woman—or defied by her, either.
Yet it was a dilemma, how to punish her without being overly cruel. He dared not risk any sign of weakness, and yet he had tied his own hands in dealing with Ariane. Not only would he find physically harming someone so delicate and lovely supremely distasteful, but he had vowed never to subject a woman to the abuse his despised father had displayed toward his mother—or the torment he himself had endured. He refused to sink to such depths of depravity, or take out his violent wrath on creatures frailer and weaker than he.
His gaze swept around the solar, seeking an answer. Having been fully occupied with securing the castle, he’d had no time earlier to inspect his new living quarters. The sight was pleasing. Norman society was enormously more sophisticated than England’s, but the appointments in this chamber compared favorably with the wealthier keeps in Normandy. Far more welcoming than his own solar at Vernay, with none of the disturbing associations, it provided richness without ostentation, comfort without being overly soft for a man of war accustomed to living in army camps.
A huge curtained bed dominated the chamber, while intricately carved chests and thickly padded benches stood in the corners and before the bronze-hooded hearth where embers glowed warmly. The two tall, shuttered embrasures would allow in ample light during the day, and the cushioned seats arranged in the deep-set window alcoves would afford a restful place for ladies engaged in needlework or conversation. There were also several gilt screens for privacy and to reduce drafts, finely woven carpets on the woodplank floor, tapestry hangings to accent the whitewashed walls, and even a brightly painted floral mural deco-rating the stone at the head of the bed.
Slowly Ranulf’s gaze returned to that bed with its rich quilt of brocade and additional coverlets of marten fur. Seeing it reminded him of the current circumstances and his dilemma. He was alone with a beautiful woman who was his prisoner, with no satisfactory notion of what to do with her.
He knew what he would like to do. He wanted her sprawled willingly in that bed, her legs wrapped hard around his hips as he appeased his carnal hunger—
Ranulf muttered an oath beneath his breath. The image of Ariane lying beneath him, her slim, silky body open for his pleasure, made his loins tighten painfully and caused his body to tauten like a bowstring. Yet she was no ill-bred leman to be taken at his pleasure. And the existence of the betrothal contracts constrained him
The reminder that she had been tricked into making such a statement filled Ariane with impotent fury and despair. She wanted to strike him, to mar Ranulf’s harsh, handsome face with her nails; she wanted to rail at him, to wound him as he had her. And yet she dared not attempt any outright defiance, not when he held the power of life and death over her and her people.
“I will not protest your decision, my lord.” Her chin lifted proudly, while her voice took on an edge of icy disdain. “I will gladly release you from the contract. Indeed, I could not be persuaded otherwise. After your treachery, I would refuse to wed you under any circumstances.”
Any relief Ranulf felt at her easy acquiescence was countered by the contempt in her proud tone. With effort he clamped down on the ire her declaration aroused in him. He would not be manipulated into a response by this woman—or defied by her, either.
Yet it was a dilemma, how to punish her without being overly cruel. He dared not risk any sign of weakness, and yet he had tied his own hands in dealing with Ariane. Not only would he find physically harming someone so delicate and lovely supremely distasteful, but he had vowed never to subject a woman to the abuse his despised father had displayed toward his mother—or the torment he himself had endured. He refused to sink to such depths of depravity, or take out his violent wrath on creatures frailer and weaker than he.
His gaze swept around the solar, seeking an answer. Having been fully occupied with securing the castle, he’d had no time earlier to inspect his new living quarters. The sight was pleasing. Norman society was enormously more sophisticated than England’s, but the appointments in this chamber compared favorably with the wealthier keeps in Normandy. Far more welcoming than his own solar at Vernay, with none of the disturbing associations, it provided richness without ostentation, comfort without being overly soft for a man of war accustomed to living in army camps.
A huge curtained bed dominated the chamber, while intricately carved chests and thickly padded benches stood in the corners and before the bronze-hooded hearth where embers glowed warmly. The two tall, shuttered embrasures would allow in ample light during the day, and the cushioned seats arranged in the deep-set window alcoves would afford a restful place for ladies engaged in needlework or conversation. There were also several gilt screens for privacy and to reduce drafts, finely woven carpets on the woodplank floor, tapestry hangings to accent the whitewashed walls, and even a brightly painted floral mural deco-rating the stone at the head of the bed.
Slowly Ranulf’s gaze returned to that bed with its rich quilt of brocade and additional coverlets of marten fur. Seeing it reminded him of the current circumstances and his dilemma. He was alone with a beautiful woman who was his prisoner, with no satisfactory notion of what to do with her.
He knew what he would like to do. He wanted her sprawled willingly in that bed, her legs wrapped hard around his hips as he appeased his carnal hunger—
Ranulf muttered an oath beneath his breath. The image of Ariane lying beneath him, her slim, silky body open for his pleasure, made his loins tighten painfully and caused his body to tauten like a bowstring. Yet she was no ill-bred leman to be taken at his pleasure. And the existence of the betrothal contracts constrained him
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