The Warrior by Nicole Jordan Page B

throat. She had preferred to be alone with Ranulf when he meted out her punishment, but now that she was, she found herself hoping with a foolish desperation that he would forget about her.
    He was toying with the dagger in his hand as he lounged on the bench, stroking the sharp steel blade with an almost absentminded caress. Ariane had the ominous feeling his silence was deliberate, a calculated attempt to shred her already raw nerves further.
    Then suddenly he looked up, and she was pierced by bold, brilliant amber eyes. The impact took her breath away. His lean, hawklike features held a harsh look of simmering anger, while his gaze was like a lance pinning her against the wall. Quite clearly Ranulf had not forgotten her actions of last night—nor forgiven her.
    Calling on every bit of courage she possessed, Ariane lifted her chin and coolly returned his gaze. She would not cower before him. The lady of Claredon had more pride.
    His look darkened and warred with hers—until finally it dropped to her bound wrists. His hard mouth tightened.
    “Come here.”
    Ariane stood rooted to the floor.
    “I won’t repeat myself, demoiselle,” he said in warning.
    Stiffening her spine, she forced her feet to move.
    She had taken but a few steps, though, when the door swung open once more. A serving wench entered the chamber, carrying a pile of linen towels and a carved wooden box that Ariane knew contained costly soaps.
    Although grateful for the respite, Ariane found herself clenching her fingers in disapproval. Only she and the castle seneschal had keys to the storeroom containing soaps and spices and medicinal herbs. That a serf had been raiding the stocks of Claredon, now that no authority existed to exert control over the castle, raised her ire. And her raw nerves made her speak more sharply than usual.
    “What is the meaning of this, Dena? You were taught never to enter a chamber unbidden.”
    At the scolding, the girl lowered flashing brown eyes. “I beg pardon, my lady. I thought to bathe the new lord.”
    “Well, knock beforehand next time—”
    “What did you say to her?” Ranulf demanded, interrupting.
    Ariane gave a start and glanced at him warily. She had spoken to the girl in English, the language most of Claredon’s serfs understood, instead of the Norman French of England’s ruling class. Was it possible Ranulf could not comprehend that tongue? If so, it might prove an advantage . . . Or he could simply be testing her . . .
    “I advised her,” Ariane replied truthfully, “to remember her training and knock before entering a closed door.”
    Ranulf’s gaze bored into her. “You would do well to remember your own precarious position. You are lady here no longer, nor do you have the right to command my servants. Your authority here is no greater than any serf’s.”
    She flushed at the reprimand and fell silent. Dena’s sly glance at Ranulf implied that she at least understood the import of his harsh declaration, and that she was enjoying her lady’s humiliation.
    “Tell her to set her burden down and leave us.”
    When Ariane reluctantly complied, Dena bobbed a curtsey and hastened to obey, while at the same time letting her gaze travel over Ranulf’s nearly naked body. As she bent to leave the towels and soap beside the tub, the neck of her tunic slipped half off one shoulder, baring a good deal of a generous breast. And as she took her leave, she gave Ranulf a seductive display of swaying hips, explicitly announcing her availability to the new lord and her eagerness to share his bed.
    He seemed not to notice. He kept his hard gaze trained on Ariane until the door had shut once more, leaving them alone.
    “The wench seems far friendlier than my own bride,” he said dryly.
    “Perhaps she does not know you as well as I do,” Ariane retorted. “Or perhaps she does not object to the stench of treachery as keenly.”
    Her charge cut Ranulf in the raw. She dared speak of his treachery after her own