"Aye, those scars." Balling his fists, Payn suddenly announced that he would await her in the corridor, then left the chamber as if he didn't trust himself to remain near her without giving way to his temper.

Her fingers trembling, Ariane finished applying the poultice, but her thoughts were centered on Ranulf.

When Edric eventually regained consciousness, she made him drink an herbal tea, which she had ordered brewed in the kitchens. She then expressed her remorse over his suffering but made him understand that he must accept Ranulf as Lord of Claredon, as she had. It was not entirely truthful, perhaps, Ariane reflected silently, but she could not permit anyone else to suffer for her sake. In future, any defiance of Ranulf would come from her alone.

When her ministrations were finished, Edric was carried to the dungeons by his guards, while Payn accompanied Ariane back to the great hall. In her absence, the entertainment had resumed, and the rafters resonated with the din of jovial song and laughter. It seemed as if the interruption had never occurred.

She could not dismiss the incident so easily, however. She had not imagined the haunted pain in Ranulf's eyes, even though there was no trace of it now when she reached the high table. The expression on his harsh, handsome features was cool, remote. Yet he was not emotionally detached, she would swear it.

Ariane did not know whether to be relieved or affronted when Ranulf ignored her presence entirely, but her heart skipped a sharp beat when after a few moments, he rose, and with a curt gesture of his head, ordered her to accompany him. Without protest, she followed him out of the great hall, conscious of countless pairs of eyes watching them, aware that some suspected her of sharing the Black Dragon's bed.

To her surprise, Ranulf did not go directly to the solar on the floor above, but detoured to a small chamber nearby. The room was dim, lit by a candle and warmed by glowing coals in a copper brazier. A youth lay on a pallet, swathed with woolen blankets. Recognizing him as Ranulf's squire, Burc, Ariane could see the wounded young man was flushed and feverish but awake.

Ranulf went down on one knee beside his pallet and touched Burc's uninjured shoulder. "How fare you, lad?" Ariane had never heard his tone so soft or gentle. He cared deeply for this boy, she was certain.

The youth swallowed and answered in a weak voice, "Well enough, milord."

"I hear the arrow was removed cleanly."

"Aye, milord . . . 'twas fortunate."

Ranulf's jaw tightened, but he refrained from reply as he lifted Burc's head and held a cup to his lips. "Sleep now," he urged. "I shall look in on you on the morrow."

He said not another word, but his features had taken on the black scowl that she so dreaded, Ariane realized as she followed Ranulf along the stone corridor to the solar.

To her further dismay, they found the serving wench, Dena, awaiting him there, a wanton glint in her eye, a seductive smile wreathing her lips as she knelt beside the tub, obviously prepared to attend the lord at his bath-and more so if he wished.

Ariane was astonished by the fierce jealousy that surged through her. It shouldn't matter in the least whom Ranulf chose to bestow his attentions upon. He could rut with a dozen serving wenches for all she cared. She felt an inexplicable satisfaction, though, when he dismissed the wench.

A moment later, however, when the disappointed Dena had withdrawn, Ariane realized her triumph was premature. With both his squire incapacitated and the servants gone, it fell to her to attend Ranulf at his bath.

"I am waiting, demoiselle," he remarked in a soft tone that set her pulse skittering.

Comprehending that he intended for her to undress him, Ariane set down the pouch of medicines she had brought with her. Slowly she approached Ranulf, aware of the erratic thudding of her heart. Warily, silently, she unlaced his tunic and pulled it over his head, then did the same to his undertunic. The cuts on his side had ceased bleeding, she noted, and had crusted over with dried blood.

Trying unsuccessfully to ignore his bare, powerfully muscled torso, she knelt to untie his cross-garters. By the time she had unfastened the leather points that held his chausses to his braies, though, Ariane felt a shameful heat flooding her body.

"Everything, demoiselle," Ranulf said pointedly when she hesitated. "I cannot bathe half dressed."

She untied the drawstring and pulled the short trousers down over his hips with more force than entirely necessary.

"Must I carry you to the bath as well?" she muttered.

A wicked smile curled Ranulf's mouth. "I would not like to see you attempt it. Your slender form could not bear my weight-not standing, at least. Lying down would be another matter, mayhap. Were you beneath me in bed, I wager you would find my heaviness stimulating."

His provocation was deliberate, she knew. He was determined to show her how powerless she was against him, to prove that he could command her complete submission. And it was effective, if her quickening pulse was any measure. To her chagrin, her mind filled with images of Ranulf covering a woman-coveringher. Instinctively she knew he would make a magnificent lover-Ariane fiercely bit back a curse, determined that he would gain no response from her. When he turned to step into the tub, though, she was shocked anew by those terrible scars on his back.

A maze of unwanted emotions rose within her: compassion, tenderness, sorrow. Had Ranulf's father truly caused those savage scars on his back? How much more devastating would it be to bear marks created by one's own father?Her father had often ignored her, rarely showing her affection-a mere daughter. But never had he raised a hand to her in violence.

She watched as Ranulf settled himself in the steaming water, wondering how he had endured such suffering, wondering if his physical scars were matched by ones held inside. Firelight from the hearth created shadows across his face, casting the harsh angles and planes into softer lines, sketching gentleness where she knew there was only relentless resolve. And yet she could see his weariness in the way he let his head fall back.

To her dismay, it aroused in her an acute compulsion to touch him, to offer comfort. She moved toward him silently, drawn against her will.

Ranulf looked up abruptly when he heard her quiet footstep beside the tub. Ariane stood there, gazing down at him, a startling expression of sorrow softening her beautiful features.

Ruthlessly he steeled himself against the compassion he saw in her eyes. He did not want her pity, refused to accept it. He needed only to use this bewitching wench to forget the past hours of death and pain, the savage memories.

"Why do you tarry, lady?" he asked softly, his velvet tone provocative as he gazed up at her.

Ariane stiffened. The all-too-revealing pain had vanished from his eyes, to be replaced by a golden glimmer of challenge.

Unwillingly she knelt beside the tub, keenly conscious of Ranulf's nakedness. With trembling hands she took up a piece of soap in order to wash him.

She saw to his hair first, working the suds through his scalp with her fingers and then rinsing with fresh water from a ewer. Then came his magnificent body, beginning with his corded arms and powerful shoulders. No matter how she tried to pretend Ranulf was simply a well-born stranger deserving of this honor by the lady of the castle, she could not make herself believe it.

As she moved her hand reluctantly to his broad, muscular chest, she caught her lower lip with her teeth, her discomfort only made worse by the knowledge that he was watching her intently. When he raised his arm over his head to give her access to his ribs, she recollected the cuts in his side, acquired in the ambush, and gratefully latched on to them as an excuse to divert her attention.

"You should allow me to tend these wounds," Ariane said with concern as, with a gentle finger, she probed the raw, inflamed flesh encrusted with blood. "I brought my supplies."

Ranulf winced and drew back. "You delight overmuch in your inspection methinks."

Perhaps she did delight too much, yet it was not his injuries that fascinated her so. It was the feel of him beneath her fingertips: the granite muscle, the soft whorls of raven hair, the heat of his skin. Hardly daring to breathe, she drew the soap along his rib cage.

Ranulf held himself rigidly, wary of the way she fretted over his wounds. She was very gentle as she washed away the dried blood and cleansed the torn flesh, and she wore a faint look of distress, almost as if she cared for his hurt.

Her concern was pretense, he was almost certain; he could not trust her enough to believe otherwise.

Most likely she was feigning solicitude in order to lower his defenses.

He forced himself to remain immobile while she washed him . . . until her careful strokes moved to his back and she began tracing the welts of raised scar tissue-

It startled her, how swiftly Ranulf moved. His fingers clamped around her wrist like iron manacles, thwarting her, while his frown deepened. "Do not touch me there."Her eyes widened. "How can I wash your back if I am not allowed to touch you?"Ranulf's heavy brows drew together. "You may wash, but don't linger."

"As you wish, my lord," she replied with forced meekness.At her submissive response, he could feel his defenses swelling. He dared not accept the silent comfort she offered. If he yielded to it, he would be leaving himself too open, too vulnerable, to her. Already he could feel himself softening, weakening at her tenderness. Her very nearness was soothing. The gentle curve of her cheek made Ranulf's hand clench as he fought the urge to reach up and touch her; it took all of his strength to resist.

"I am waiting, demoiselle," he prodded.

She hurriedly finished his back, but when he propped one foot on the tub's rim so she could wash his leg, she moved more slowly. And when she came to the juncture of his thighs, Ariane faltered altogether.Ranulf gave her his slow smile. "You gave me your oath to obey me," he reminded her. "Do you forswear it so soon?""No. My word is my honor.""Honor?" The curve of his mouth turned dry. "I know few highborn ladies who can even conceive of the notion.""You do not believe a woman can remain loyal to her liege?""I have witnessed more treachery in noblewomen than loyalty."Ariane studied his face, wondering what had happened to make him so bitter against women of her class.

"You are harsh to condemn us all," she said quietly.

He made a sound much like a grunt. "I have ample reason." Shaking himself then, he reminded her of her duty. "My loins, demoiselle. Your task is not finished."

She had hoped he had forgotten. Biting her lip, averting her gaze from his knowing expression, Ariane forced herself to attend to that masculine part of him that was so unlike herself.

Ranulf stiffened when she ran the soap over his swelling loins, suddenly recognizing the danger in his tactics. Not only had the damsel aroused more painful memories of his past, but her innocent ministrations were arousing him physically, a state likely to remain painfully unfulfilled. He was fiercely aware of her nearness . . . her flushed skin, her white teeth catching her pink lower lip, her sweet scent . . . His nostrils flared with primal masculine arousal. He could almost feel her soft woman's body beneath him. . . .

Bewitched, aye, that was what Ariane had done to him. If he were wise, he would seriously attempt the seduction Payn had counseled. To try and bewitchher in order to win her surrender.

Ranulf's gaze arrested as he stared at Ariane's beautiful mouth. If he applied his powers of persuasion, he would wager a year's tourney winnings she would not respond with the cool indifference and scorn that vexed him so. He would break down those haughty barriers and have her gasping and pleading for his touch. She would be eager enough to please him then. . . .

Ariane had finished her task with inordinate haste, he realized, feeling his loins throb. Schooling himself to patience, he took the soap from her nervous fingers and began making a lather in his own hands.

"Hand me my knife," he said, softening his tone to a husky murmur. When her eyes widened with apprehension, Ranulf added with a slow smile to reassure her, "I merely mean to shave. I would not wish to chafe your pretty skin."

He saw her quizzical frown with satisfaction. Let her wonder at his meaning.

When she had fetched his knife, she stood looking down at him uncertainly. Ranulf held her gaze as casually, almost lazily, he soaped his jaw.

"Take down your hair," he ordered mildly.

"Why?"

"Because it pleases me for you to do so."

Ariane felt her stubbornness rising, and yet she could not refuse him. Her hair was fashioned in a braided coronet, and it took a few moments to remove the pins and unplait it. When finally she did, a cloud of pale copper tresses whirled around her shoulders and breasts.

Ranulf drew a sharp breath at the sight. The thought of having that bright, silken hair spread over his pillow as he plunged his male sword within her warm sheath made blood rush to swell him to his full, throbbing length.

"And now your clothing, demoiselle."

"You want me to disrobe?" Her voice was a breathless whisper.

"Yes. It is time to retire." When she hesitated, he added softly, "Demoiselle, you will not elude your pledge of obedience so easily. Your gown . . . or must I remove it for you?"

With a silent oath of frustration, Ariane turned away to undress, removing her bliaud and chainse and hose, until she wore naught but her shift. The thin linen offered little protection; it had long sleeves and fell below the knees, yet the fine material showed her nipples and the triangle of curls at her womanhood -and did little to shield her from Ranulf's scrutiny when he ordered her to turn around. His gaze glided slowly over her body, as if measuring her breasts for the way they would fit in his hands, her legs for how they would wrap around his hips.

Blushing and furious, Ariane crossed her arms belligerently over her chest. "Must you ogle me like a prize ewe at market?"

"You are more comely than any ewe. I confess I see much that I like."

More than liked,Ranulf amended to himself. She was a raving beauty who brought his keenly honed senses primitively alive. Her lissome young body was tall and long of limb, her bones fine and fragile, her lovely features haunting. Add to that breasts that were full and lush, a waist he could span with his hand, and hips made to succor a man, and he wanted her more than he could ever recall wanting a wench. He desired nothing more than to toss her on the bed and seat the burning shaft of him deep, deep inside her. . . .

God's teeth, but she provided a temptation that threatened his good judgment. He was mad to put himself through this. He had wanted to compel her submission, to seduce her into yielding, but he had forgotten that his games would leave him unsated and sexually frustrated and gnashing his teeth with lust. He had tied his own hands in that regard. He couldn't touch Ariane without paying the consequences, even if he overcame her resistance.

And yet . . . Why should he deny himself the pleasure of her flesh simply because he could not take her in the accepted fashion? The thought of having her ripe and eager, hot and writhing beneath him, made his loins ache and strengthened his resolve.

Finishing his task of shaving, Ranulf rinsed his face and then rose to his feet. When he had stepped dripping from the tub, he stood waiting with his legs spread, his arms held out.

"The towel, lady," he said blandly, flashing a careless, very male smile. "I am growing chilled."

Ariane's jaw snapped shut at that obvious falsehood. She had woken next to him this morning, and could honestly say she had never known a man with skin so hot as Ranulf's. It would take a winter's storm to chill his overheated blood-or reduce his swelling erection. His nude body was clearly aroused, she saw with a fierce blush.

"I see no harm in your growing chilled," she retorted in a dampening tone. "Mayhap it will cool your lust."

His smile widened provocatively, but she could tell by the glimmer in his amber eyes he would not relent. He intended her to dry him.

Picking up a linen towel, Ariane approached him warily, trying to maintain her composure. Ranulf was well over six feet of sheer power, all hard muscle and intensity, and he looked supremely dangerous with his raven hair wet and tousled, his golden, hawkish gaze focused solely on her, a light dancing in their striking depths. Her acknowledged fascination for the man only added to her vexation, and she used more force than necessary as she dried his beautiful, scarred body.

"Have a care, demoiselle. I would keep my skin."

With effort, Ariane slowed her movements. Then she caught sight of the fresh blood seeping from the cuts on his side and sucked in her breath in dismay. She had opened Ranulf's wounds with her harshness.

Immediately contrite, she gazed up at him. "You are bleeding anew."

"It is nothing."

Ariane shook her head, beset by guilt. She owed Ranulf at least a minimum of gratitude for his earlier restraint in sparing the lives of his attackers and burying the dead. Certainly Ranulf did not deserve to bemauled by her. "I must tend these gashes."

"I said it is nothing, demoiselle."

Her chin rose stubbornly. "I am acting in place of your squire, my lord-an assignment you yourself set for me. You will allow me to carry out my oath and serve you."

She spoke in a voice of authority, the regal command of a chatelaine accustomed to ruling a vast household staff. Ranulf stared at her a long moment, his look wary, as if he feared she might inflict him with bodily harm. "Very well," he said finally.

Ariane understood his wariness. She had given him little reason to trust her, she reminded herself as she went to fetch her supplies.

Ranulf reluctantly allowed her to apply a poultice and bind his ribs with strips of linen, but he watched her closely. He told himself Ariane could do him no harm, and yet her ministrations seemed far too intimate for the simple task she performed. Or perhaps he simply felt too vulnerable. His former betrothed saw too much with those luminous gray eyes, making him feel as if his soul were stripped naked.

When Ariane paused momentarily to gaze up at him, some softer, gentler emotion slipped through him so surreptitiously that he could not quell it.

Ranulf cursed silently. The bewitching wench was weaving an irresistible spell over him. Despite his best efforts, he felt his blood begin to heat uncontrollably.

Against his will, he raised a hand to touch her cheek. When Ariane drew a sharp breath and tried unsuccessfully to draw away, Ranulf stilled. He did not want her flinching from him.

With a finger under her chin, he forced her to meet his gaze. "You need not fear me. I am not so harsh a master. I am gentle with horses, hawks . . . women."

"I am not afraid," Ariane lied, feeling her pulse race at the dark flame that lit his golden eyes. "But neither will I listen to you boast of your conquests."

That smile returned to flicker across his lips. "I would not be so churlish," he replied innocently.

His utter calm was unnerving. When she tried to draw back, he caught her wrist. "Methinks I could win you, should I attempt it."

His audacity knew no bounds. She drew her wrist from his grasp-yet she could not escape him. With deceptive speed, his arm wrapped around her waist and he pulled her upright, into the hot strength of his groin. Her body came instantly alive with tremors of excitement. Dismayed, Ariane pressed her palms against his broad chest, braced to fight, but it was like shoving against a wall of stone.

"Release me!" she exclaimed to no avail.

"Why should I?" His tone was husky, sensual. "Earlier you were willing to exchange your body for the lives of your men."

"Not my body," Ariane replied. "Only my services."