The Warrior by Nicole Jordan Page B

further. He could not touch Ariane, could not consummate their relationship at least, while the legal documents existed, or he would be as good as married to her. No, he would have to find another way to punish her, much to his regret.
    But what? He had no desire to keep her imprisoned, and yet he dared not let her have the run of the keep, for she could too easily aid her father’s men to freedom. Even if she gave him her solemn word, he could not trust her to keep it. Nobly born females, in his experience, had an inbred instinct for betrayal. His own mother . . . the wife of his foster lord . . . the ladies of the Norman court . . . all had shown how duplicitous they could be. And Ariane of Claredon had proven the danger in trusting her. He would constantly have to remain on his guard.
    His gaze narrowing, Ranulf eyed the bed speculatively. ’Twas a pity he would have to keep his hands off her. One night in his bed and he might manage to compel her submission without any resort to violence. His skill as a lover had rarely been questioned. He knew well how to pleasure a wench and make her respond to his physical persuasions. If this damsel was like the other females of his acquaintance, he could soon have her trembling at his merest touch.
    Yet Ariane, he was beginning to suspect, was perhaps a woman of a different stamp. Her regal air, her cool disdain, was as vexing as it was novel. ’Twould be intriguing to see if he could make her yield, if he could melt that haughty manner and turn her scorn to gasping surrender. . . .
    Testing the smoothness of his shaven jaw with his palm, Ranulf returned his attention to her, considering her with a measuring gaze. “The hour grows late. It is time to retire.”
    She stared at him a long moment, before warily, wordlessly turning toward the door.
    “Where do you go, my lady?” Ranulf asked silkily. “I did not give you leave to withdraw.”
    “But you said . . . you wanted to retire.”
    “So I did. I suggest you prepare for bed.”
    “W-What?”
    “You can begin by disrobing.”
    “You wish for me to undress ?”
    A smile curved his lips. “A clever observation, sweeting. You may make use of my bathwater if you choose. I will be done with it in a moment.”
    Ariane stood frozen, staring at him as if he had taken leave of his senses.
    “You will remain here for the night,” Ranulf explained vaguely. “I intend to keep you close, since I cannot trust you out of my sight. Doubtless you will find it preferable to being locked below in the dungeon.”
    “I would infinitely prefer the dungeon,” she said with more heat than was wise.
    “I do not mean to give you the choice. You will remain here where I can keep an eye on you. You will sleep in this chamber, in that bed, willing or no.”
    Their gazes warred, but Ranulf refused to relent. He wanted her to worry about his intentions. No doubt she would much prefer to be locked chastely in her own apartments instead of being compelled to bear his company. It should prove a humbling experience, being forced to share a bed with him, the grasping knight she scorned as a dishonorable pretender to nobility.
    She had not yet moved, Ranulf noted as he forced away the erotic reflection. “It will go easier for you if you submit to me willingly,” he warned, his tone casual.
    “I will not be dishonored,” Ariane replied at last, her voice shaking.
    “Dishonor? Is that what it would be, demoiselle?”
    “Yes, if you take me without the blessing of the Church.”
    “That presumes you still have honor to lose.”
    Letting his dagger drop to the floor with a clatter, Ranulf rose abruptly to his feet and stepped dripping from the tub. His nude body glistening, he strode purposefully toward her.
    Ariane warily tried to retreat, but he reached out to capture her long plait and slowly wrap it around his hand. Imprisoning her thus, he moved closer, crowding her with his towering body, his amber gaze boring into her. He was so near,