Ariane lost pace with her breath. Blindly, her hands caught in Ranulf's hair, pulling his head down to hers. "Kiss me . . . please,please . . . "

He complied . . . but only for a tantalizing instant. His mouth brushed hers fleetingly, and then drew back . . . even as he skimmed his palm downward over her flat belly. His hand lightly cupped the rise of her silky curls, his sensitive fingers discovering the warmth below. Ariane moaned.

He barely touched her sex, barely brushed the moist flesh, and yet the effect was like a jolt of lightning, inciting a throbbing ache in her lower body, teasing the feverish flush of her skin. Her breathing deepened in quick and steady arousal, while her hips strained against his hand, seeking release from the fiery sensations streaking through her.

This time he allowed it when she dragged him back into the kiss, when she arched into him, her seeking mouth insistent and urgent. And yet he refused to give in to her demands. He maintained control, defining the pressure and rhythm.

His restraint was pure torment.

Her fingers clenched in Ranulf's hair until finally he deepened the kiss with satisfying force. The sweetly probing eroticism of his tongue elicited small involuntary whimpers from her throat. His lips stroked against hers, drinking in her desperation, feeding the fire flowing between them. Ariane shuddered helplessly. His fingers were moving on her back, sending cascades of shivers through her.

"I crave you. . . ."

When he spoke the words against her lips, she answered him thickly, her head swimming. "Yes . . . yes . . ."

Her cheeks were hotly flushed, her knees weak. When he broke from her, she was trembling so badly that he had to support her with his hands.

With unhurried grace, Ranulf led her to the bed he had made with her mantle and settled himself there, then reached his hand up to her. Shaken by the pleasure-promise in his keen golden eyes, Ariane sank to her knees beside him.

Perhaps it was the breath of spring breeze that cooled her fevered skin, perhaps it was the bright look of male triumph in Ranulf's eyes, but somehow she found the will to temper her desire, to control her fierce need.

Dragging in a shuddering breath, she pressed her palms against his naked chest, urging him backward, to lie on the mantle. She desperately wanted to please him, wanted to give to him.

The scent of spring grass and wildflowers rose up to meet them; the wash of sunlight warmed their skin. Ranulf lay back unprotesting, letting his senses feast: the soft wool beneath his scarred back, the cool cascade of her hair as she bent over him, the warmth of her lips as she scattered hot, open kisses over his chest.

Shutting his eyes, Ranulf let his head fall back. In all his experience, he had never made love like this. He had taken wenches in the fields, a quick frenzied coupling, the rutting of animals. But never had he known anything like this . . . this sweetness and warmth, this gentleness. This aching need. This melding of desire between two people. The latent tenderness he felt was a bewildering, swelling pain within his chest.

Her hair tumbled forward to spill over him, and he clutched at it, his fingers twining in the silken tresses, as a drowning man clings to a solitary rock in the midst of a crashing sea.

Ariane felt his surrender, felt the hammering of his pulse beneath her lips as they pressed against a battle scar, felt the shudder that passed through him. The scent of his skin was intoxication, his heat a drugging lure.

Some ancient primitive force controlled her hands as she drew them over his beautiful body, feeling the hard lines of bone and muscle and taut sinew beneath her palms, caressing his burning skin. When she reached his groin, her fingers closed brazenly over his rigid member.

The thick length surged in her hand, hot and pulsing and iron hard.

Hardly daring to breathe, she bent closer and touched the thick column gently with her lips.

His chest muscles contracted harshly.

Her tongue gently flicked and circled the aching flesh.

His breathing sharpened.

At his helpless response, she became the aggressor, tasting, sampling, tormenting, using her lips and tongue eagerly, willingly. Reveling in the dark flush of passion on his harsh face, she sucked at him brazenly, first the huge swollen tip, then deeper, taking him slowly, fully in her mouth, driving him mad with need.

His chest rising harshly, Ranulf clenched his fists in the wool and arched his back, his hips straining helplessly against the velvet torment of her mouth, his blood pounding through his veins. In moments the tremors that racked his body, his fierce need to have her, became too much to bear. He wanted, needed, to be joined to her.

"Ride me," he whispered thickly as his grip tightened in her hair.

Urgently, with barely controlled passion, he drew her upward, till she half lay upon him, her lush breasts pillowed on his chest. Settling one leg over his hips, Ariane mounted him, lowering herself onto his pulsing arousal.

At the sudden penetrating sensation, she drew a sharp, shuddering gasp of pleasure that disturbed the quiet of the lengthening day. Astride his thighs, his powerful erection deep within her, she felt fulfilled, complete, infused with a great inner joy at the pleasure she knew she was giving him, at the pleasure he was giving her.

When his hands covered her aching breasts, her passion-hazed glance locked with his. He was so hard inside her, so fiery hot, an exquisite shaft of fire spearing through her. Her back arching gracefully, she rode him as he had taught her, rocking against him, trying desperately to ease the throbbing, fevered ache he had kindled deep within her.

His teeth bared, Ranulf lost his masterful control. Blindly, his hands moved from her breasts to grip her buttocks, working her up and down in rhythm with his thrusts, his hips pumping, his manhood surging deep into her sleek, hot sheath.

"Ranullllf . . ." Her exhalation was a jarring series of broken gasps as he thrust himself to the hilt, impaling her.

In only moments the rapturous shudders began. He convulsed first; his body contracted like a bow, catching Ariane in the wrenching release. His hoarse groan mingled with her rasping sob as searing ecstasy erupted between them.

When the storm at last subsided, Ranulf caught her as she fell weakly into his arms, holding her shaking body. Yet he scarcely had the power to breathe. His own body limp, drained, his chest heaving, he lay there with his eyes closed as the fierce explosions slowly faded.

His hand cradled her throat, soothing her thundering pulsebeat, while he attempted to make sense of the foreign emotions rioting through him. He felt a tranquility, a sense of utter peacefulness, that was completely alien to him. He had never known peace. Yet here, in the soft-dying day, with this woman in his arms, he could almost forget his cruel past, could almost believe his future held more than harsh reality.

Gently, reverently, Ranulf brushed away a sweat-dewed tress that clung to the curve of her jaw, his lips pressing against her temple. He heard her soft sigh, and his chest constricted.

It was the gentleness that startled him most. She made him want to shower her with gentleness. Tenderness ran through him, hot, honeyed, unfamiliar, loosening something inside him, melting the edges of the ice that had encased his heart for so long. He had comforted Ariane, driven away her tears with his passion, but her ardent, needy response had affected him in ways he could not begin to understand.

Pulling her close, his hand gentle on her back, Ranulf stroked her silken skin, drifting slowly up and down. What was it about this woman that turned his vitals inside out? That made him long to hold and comfort her? That aroused this strange yearning within him, a sense of wonder about what might be, a hope for what the future might embrace? What made him hunger to draw out the blissful, soothing peace enveloping him now?

Ranulf exhaled quietly, in a deep sigh. Perhaps he was dreaming impossibilities, indulging in whimsical fantasy, but for now he wanted to believe that the peace of this moment could last.

20.

The peace lingered as the day waned. Her body cradled by his, Ariane and Ranulf lay entwined, loath to disturb the enchanted moment.

"I would that we could stay here always," she murmured on a sigh, voicing Ranulf's own bemused thoughts.

She wanted nothing to spoil the languor that had stolen over her, the cocoon of numbing warmth. Nestled in his embrace, his heat at her back, his muscle-corded arms wrapped around her, she could almost pretend they were not enemies. That he was not her vengeful overlord, she his powerless hostage.

His hand on her breast, absently caressing, was soothing rather than arousing as it drifted over her skin, a mere reminder of the quivering heights of ecstasy to which he had carried her a short while ago. How strange to think she had once feared those strong warrior's hands, when all they had done was give such pleasure. His hands could be relentless when they drove her to the peak of passion, yet they could be gentle, too.

She could not comprehend his current gentleness, though, could not fathom Ranulf in this present mood. He held her like a cherished loved one, as if she were something infinitely lovely, infinitely precious. As if his sole thought was to offer comfort.

Ariane accepted his solace thankfully. She had never dreamed it could be so wonderful to lean against someone else's strength. Her gratitude to Ranulf for his leniency was profound; her heart felt unburdened, now that she knew her mother would be safe from his reprisals. And yet it was his unspoken compassion that fortified her, that bolstered her courage and her will to endure, that renewed her resolve to prevail after the past tumultuous weeks of adversity.

"Have you attempted to find a cure?" he asked quietly after a time.

Ariane sighed again, knowing he was thinking of her mother's affliction. "We tried countless herbs and remedies over the years. My mother is skilled in the healing arts, and she taught me some of what she knows, but this disease is far beyond our skills. I fear it is hopeless."

Wearily she closed her eyes. There was no known cure for leprosy. Sometimes the malady improved on its own or by God's grace. More often, the victim's flesh rotted away, eventually ending in death.

"We had hoped . . . prayed . . . that here in this wood, protected from worldly concerns, she might recover, but as yet there has been no improvement. The only promising sign is that her condition has not worsened. Yet my lord father . . ."

"What of your father?"

"He lost faith long ago. He became so . . . bitter after losing both his son and wife. And as the years passed, he seemed no longer to care." Ariane hesitated, biting her lip. "How I wish that I had been born a son instead of a disappointing daughter."

"Disappointing?"

She nodded mutely, her cheek rubbing softly against Ranulf's arm, which pillowed her head. She had never signified much to her father, not a tithe of what his only son had meant to him. She doubted Walter was even aware of making her feel inferior for having been born female, and yet it had affected her every endeavor her life long. She had tried desperately to be a good daughter in all things, including her betrothal to Ranulf.

"I failed my father," she said in a low voice. "Since I was not a son, I could not think to assume his demesne, not without a husband to rule for me." Ariane gave a shallow laugh. "I could not hold his castle in his absence as he charged me to. I could not even preserve the betrothal he arranged."

Ranulf felt a swift stab of guilt at her quiet lament, yet he did not wish to dwell on his seizure of Claredon or his repudiation of their betrothal. "It seems to me you have done well by him, within the constraints of your gender."

"Aye, I suppose. I have striven to do my best. Yet it is a man's world, ruled by men. I would that I were one."

He heard the quiver of hurt and regret in her voice, a hurt that echoed keenly the feelings locked deep in his own heart. He could hear what she had not said; how she had tried to be the perfect daughter, holding herself to impossibly high standards in hopes of attracting her father's notice.

Raising himself on one elbow, Ranulf cupped her chin and turned her face up to his. "I am glad you are not a man,cherie. "

His smile, soft and poignant, failed to hearten her. Seeing the look of bleakness in her eyes, Ranulf stroked the delicate line of her jaw, wishing he could ease her despair. He felt a primal, almost savage protectiveness toward her, an emotion he had never felt for any woman but her.

Just then the sinking sun descended behind the gnarled oaks that arched high over the verge of the meadow. Ariane shivered as the lengthening shadows probed the bed where they lay. Solicitously Ranulf drew an edge of the mantle over her and wrapped his arms more tightly about her.

Resting his chin lightly on her hair, he gazed unseeingly out across their quiet haven. Ariane had confided her fears for her mother, confessed to her strained relationship with her father, arousing painful memories of his own past. Like she, he knew the futility of yearning for something he could never have. As a boy, he had desperately wanted the man who was his father to look at him once, just once, without hatred, without cursing him as "devil's spawn." It was not even affection he coveted, just simple acknowledgment of his existence.

"I once wished," Ranulf murmured tonelessly, "that I could be anyone but who I was . . . the adulterine whelp of a faithless wanton . . ."

His voice was low, remote, devoid of feeling, and yet Ariane could hear the quiet ache of things left unsaid. She sensed in him a loneliness even greater than her own, a bleak despair that had festered within his soul. She went still, wondering if he would say more.

The silence stretched out between them. When he did not speak, she said softly, "Tell me."

Disengaging himself from their embrace, Ranulf drew away, rolling onto his back. Ariane felt the absence of his warmth keenly.

Her own woes forgotten, she turned toward him, gazing at his harsh, handsome face. His eyes were closed, one corded forearm resting on his forehead.

"I was no man's son," he said finally.

The quiet anguish in his voice made her yearn to thread her fingers through his hair and draw his head protectively to her breast. Yet she was far from certain he would accept comfort from her. Tentatively she reached up, her fingers stroking his face, tracing its harsh angles and planes. She felt him tense for an instant, but he did not reject her touch.

"You were born at Vernay?" she prompted gently.

"Aye. I never knew my lady mother. She has been dead these twenty years. I was taken from her and given into a nurse's care at my birth."

"That was when your father imprisoned her?"

The corners of his mouth twisted. "Who told you such?"

"Sir Payn. He said . . . your father abused you sorely when you were a child, in retribution for your mother's sins. And . . . I have seen the scars . . . touched them."

"Ah, yes, my scars. The sign of my purification." His chest moved with quiet laughter, bleak and bitter. He could still recall the terror as he knelt trembling before his father, as he fought back screams of pain. "My earliest memories are of my father's beatings. They were intended to punish my mother for her adultery, to drive the devil from me, her son."

Beatings, Ariane thought with silent anguish, which had left cruel scars on Ranulf's soul as well as his body.

"I thought him right to wish the devil from me."

"No!" Ariane cried softly. "You were but a child, a defenseless innocent. A helpless pawn at the mercy of a cruel monster!"

"Aye, I was defenseless. My lordly sire was bitter and hate filled and maddened with rage."

He stared into the fading light above her head, his eyes dry and burning, his chest and throat tight with a familiar pain. "I was sent to foster with another lord when I was six. God's blood, how glad I was to escape my father! I hated him. I cannot count the times I wished him dead."

"But . . . you did not kill him when the chance came."

Ranulf's jaw hardened reflexively as he remembered the years when he had lived and breathed for revenge, the deprivation that had fired his determination to become more powerful than his despised father.

"No, though I craved to. He refused to give me my due, casting me off like so much offal. So I pledged my sword to Henry and gained sanction to recoup what was taken from me. I fought for what should have been mine by right, and defeated my own father in combat."

Ranulf laughed softly, humorlessly. "I pretended to feel no guilt for my revenge, but I could not escape it. I could not kill him.I stayed my hand. After all he had done to me, I still could not bring myself to strike the final blow."

Ariane's throat tightened with a fierce ache. "My father always said . . . it takes a valiant man to show mercy to his bitter enemies."

"Valiant? Is it valiant to wish your sire dead?"

"You had good cause!"

Ariane watched Ranulf with sorrow and helpless despair, knowing that with every word he bound himself more firmly in her heart. She could only imagine what he had endured, the terrible guilt he had been made to feel for his mother's sins, the desperate loneliness of his life as a despised outcast. Yet he had no need to tell her of the pain inside him, the helplessness, the fear; she felt them.

She was filled suddenly with such tenderness for him that she ached with it. She buried her face in his neck, her arms holding him tightly because she thought she might weep. He was a man in pain, and she only wanted to help him heal.

"You were not to blame for your mother's sins," she whispered hoarsely, "or your father's madness."

Extricating himself from her embrace, Ranulf sat up abruptly, turning his back to her. His chest felt tight and full, welling with too much emotion.

Why had he confessed his most private anguish?

Because you wanted her to understand,a mocking voice whispered in his mind.You wanted her to know the demons that shaped you and made you into the man you are now, hard, ruthless, devoid of softness.

He felt her slim arms encircle him, felt her cheek press softly against the naked scars of his back. He hated being touched there. He would have cast off the embrace, but he could not bring himself to refuse her warmth, her tenderness, the comfort she offered. His body rigid, he held his breath, feeling as if he might break if he moved a single muscle.

"You are not to blame!" Ariane repeated fiercely, her voice catching on a sob.

He felt the tender brush of her lips against his bare back, felt the dampness, the trickle of moisture from her eyes.Tears. His chest tightened unbearably. She was weeping . . . weeping for him.

He turned in her arms.