The Warrior by Nicole Jordan Page A

stone wall, waiting for his notice, yet wishing she could make herself invisible.
    The chamber was crowded. Several of Ranulf’s vassals milled around him still, dressed in chain mail armor, munching on capon legs and quaffing wine, while a half-dozen of Claredon’s household serfs filled a huge wooden tub for his bath. His squire, the young man called Burc, was engaged in removing Ranulf’s hauberk, a long mail tunic so heavy the lad nearly staggered under its weight. Ranulf had obviously been engaged in physical exertion, for his raven hair was damp with sweat and matted from the weight of his mail coif and steel helmet.
    He paid her no attention, though, a slight which Ariane greeted with relief. If he was to pronounce her sentence, she would prefer he not do so before an audience.
    Light-headed with fatigue and strain, she raised her bound hands to awkwardly rub her throbbing temple, trying to ease the ache. She had only her wits to rely upon, and she would need every ounce of energy and strength she possessed if she were to hold her own against the Black Dragon of Vernay.
    It was not until his knights began taking leave of their lord that Ariane’s nervousness rose again to a fever pitch.
    “And Payn,” Ranulf concluded as his vassal turned to go, “pray don’t deal too harshly with the castle wenches. They have other duties to perform besides servicing you.”
    “Have no fear, lord. I shall show them merely the hardness of my blade, not the harshness.”
    Male laughter followed the ribald jest as the men filed passed Ariane. Their glances at her were solemn and perhaps a bit leering. Payn FitzOsbern’s amusement faded abruptly when he spied her, his expression turning grim. He left the door open behind him for the serfs that still scurried to and fro carrying warm bath water.
    Ariane’s wary gaze returned to the Black Dragon where he sat on a wooden bench, allowing his squire to attend him. Ranulf had not acknowledged her presence yet, thankfully. His woolen tunic had been removed, and now his mud-spattered boots were stripped off, his woolen chausses unlaced, leaving only linen braies covering his loins.
    Seeing him thus, Ariane drew in a sharp breath at the sight of Ranulf’s powerful body. Nakedness was a common occurrence in castle life, and she had frequently seen unclothed men before. Her duties as chatelaine of the castle often required such exposure—helping the lord dress, bathing visitors of high rank, using her knowledge of medicines to dress the wounds of soldiers and serfs alike. And yet no man had ever affected her as strongly as this one did now; no physique had ever seemed as compelling as Ranulf’s masculine body . . . hard, muscular, battle-scarred.
    His shoulders appeared massively wide, his chest broad and darkly furred, marked with badges of combat. His flat, taut belly tapered to narrow hips, while his thighs and calves bulged with ropes of muscle. But it was the force and energy that radiated from him, even when he was at ease, that commanded her attention. Somehow Ranulf de Vernay dominated the entire chamber.
    He still had the power to awe her, Ariane realized with regret, yet he was a far more fearsome adversary now than ever. He looked supremely dangerous at present, with his jaw darkened by two days’ growth of black beard. Cold, harsh, merciless . . .
    He was no longer simply her betrothed, the heartless suitor who had left her to pine and wither for so many years. He was her enemy.
    The last of the servants finished their tasks and withdrew, giving her cautious, regretful glances as they passed, as if to apologize for abandoning their lady to the terrifying Black Dragon. Ariane returned faint smiles of reassurance, trying to pretend that her courage was not failing her. When they had gone, she stood unmoving by the wall, not daring to call attention to herself.
    Moments later Ranulf dismissed his squire. As the door closed quietly behind the youth, Ariane’s heart rose to her