"Yes, demoiselle? Just what?"Ariane turned away, gazing out over the darkened countryside, faintly illuminated by the flickering campfires of a besieging force.

"I am unaccustomed to discussing my troubles with anyone but our own priest," she said finally."You have endured great troubles of late, it seems."It was a leading remark, she knew, probing with a gentle intensity she could not resist. "No more than most.""But this current crisis . . . Lord Ranulf's army at your gates. He is your betrothed, is he not?""Yes," she replied, her voice edged with bitterness. "Regretfully."

"Regretfully? You are not eager to wed him?"

When she remained silent, the monk added musingly, "I wonder that you agreed to the betrothal. Although many a bride has been persuaded by force, the Church does require the consent of the lady before sanctioning marriage."

"I had no objections to marriage once," Ariane said softly. Her hopes still had been very much alive . . . then. "Lord Ranulf was my father's choice for my husband, but in truth, I was pleased to wed a knight with the strength to preserve the holdings I will one day inherit. A woman needs a husband capable of maintaining authority, of protecting the land. There can be no security otherwise."

"A judicious philosophy. And your father made a wise choice in knights."

"I once thought so. The lord of Vernay is one of the most powerful barons in Normandy-by his own ruthless efforts."

"You consider him ruthless? Was he unkind to you?"

"No." Indeed, she remembered her shock that such a fierce warrior as Lord Ranulf could be kind and gentle to a nervous young maid.

"Then why do you regret your betrothal?"

Because for nearly five years he had stayed away,Ariane reflected with silent anguish. Five interminable years during which she had been left to languish in her father's household, pitied by her friends and acquaintances. She was almost twenty now. By that advanced age other women had married and borne several children. But she remained unwedded and unbedded, a maiden still, innocent of passion, of life. "Because I discovered the truth about the ignoble lord of Vernay," Ariane whispered bitterly.

"The truth?"

"He is no true knight, but a grasping, baseborn pretender to nobility . . . a usurper without principle or honor, who claimed his father's demesne at the point of a sword. I would that I had never heard his name."

Going rigid at her quiet denunciation, Ranulf missed the bitterness in her scathing tone and heard only the scorn, a scorn that stung like the cut of a hundred knives-or the scourge that had once flayed his back raw. He was accustomed to the disdain ladies of her class held for his lack of birthright, but it sliced deeper coming from this woman.

Ranulf felt his fists clench with the familiar rage. "Do you mean to deny him entrance?" he demanded grimly, forgetting his masquerade.

Ariane frowned as she suddenly recollected herself. Why would a man of the clergy concern himself with such worldly matters? And why was she speaking to him so frankly? She could tell a servant of God more than she would others, but he was still a stranger.

Uneasy about her indiscretion, she glanced over her shoulder at the shadowed figure of the monk, replying cautiously, "My father charged me with defending Claredon in his absence. I cannot give up his castle without first knowing his wishes."

"Even though Claredon is his no longer? A rebel's estates are forfeit to the crown, and it is said Walter of Claredon has partaken in the barons' revolt, an attack on his sovereign lord."

Her back stiffened perceptibly, Ranulf noted. "Fools say many foolish things, sir monk."

"Then Walter has not joined the revolt?"

"I know not what has occurred. But when he rode for Bridgenorth, it was not his intention to declare against the king."

"Mayhap he would not make you privy to his intentions."

"Because I am a mere daughter?" Her chin lifted. "I assure you, my father would inform me of any plan of such momentous consequence. And he is no traitor."

"Yet Hugh Mortimer has raised a rebellion, which makes your father, as Mortimer's vassal and supporter, guilty of treason-unless he repudiates his oath of fealty."

"I am well able to grasp the politics of the situation," Ariane replied acerbically. "Despite my frail sex, my mind is fully functioning."

Remembering with difficulty the role he had assumed, Ranulf bit back the retort that sprang to his lips. From the silver flash of anger in her gray eyes, he thought his betrothed might be preparing to voice another scathing remark, but she tucked her clenched hands within the long, sweeping sleeves of her gown, and said with admirable calm, "My first allegiance I owe to my father. I will not surrender his castle until I have proof of his guilt. Now, if you will forgive me, sir monk, I have much that requires my attention."

He had received his dismissal, Ranulf realized with unreasoning fury. He wanted badly to take his defiant bride by the shoulders and shake her, or to haul her into his arms and commit some other more passionate, less violent act upon her person, but to touch her would immediately bring the castle guard to her defense. And to tarry would only arouse suspicion. He would have to postpone their reckoning for the nonce.

He bowed low and gave her his blessing, then turned abruptly and made his way silently along the wall-walk to disappear among the shadows.

Ariane stood there long after he had gone, unable to shake her sense of foreboding. He had probed too many raw wounds for comfort, his bold questions only adding to the turmoil and uncertainty in her mind. Had she taken the wrong course of action? Would yielding to the Black Dragon be the wiser choice?

While she pondered, Ranulf gestured for his squire to follow him and stalked down the stone steps to the crowded yard, his jaw clenched. A cowherd scurried out of his path, but Ranulf never faltered as he strode toward the distant gate that gave access to the inner bailey. He needed to make certain he was allowed into the tower itself this night, to sleep in the great hall with the lord's vassals and household servants.

The wench had forced his hand. From her own lips he had heard Ariane declare her intentions. She meant to defy him-and her king as well. But by God's wounds, he would crush her defiance, Ranulf vowed, and exact recompense for her rebellion. He would conquer his rebel bride and take pleasure in so doing.

At the thought, Ranulf cursed silently, tasting a bitterness like bile on his tongue. Coming to a halt at the gate to the inner bailey, he stood there trembling as a dark cloud of rage dulled his vision-a black fury that was overwhelmingly familiar. He had lived this grim tale once before, when his noble sire had denied him his rightful inheritance. The pain was still raw and fresh, an unhealed wound festering inside him, unlike the welt of scars on his back.

He had fought his own father-and now he would have to fight his betrothed.

You should feel satisfaction. Your bride has presented you with sufficient reason to break your longstanding betrothal,Ranulf reminded himself savagely. Her rebellion was cause enough to repudiate the marriage. Yet instead of satisfaction, he felt an acid disappointment that Ariane of Claredon had chosen to support her treasonous father.

Such loyalty might be admirable, were it not so imprudent; she risked imprisonment and worse by such a course. But was loyalty truly her motive? Perhaps she was merely protecting herself in attempting to avoid arrest. Ariane would be well aware that as a political prisoner, she would be accorded none of the liberties and privileges she now enjoyed. A traitor's daughter would possess fewer rights than a field serf.

But her defiance seemed foolish, Ranulf reflected grimly. If she were truly clever, she would have forsaken her father and welcomedhim as the new lord of Claredon, in hopes of securing his favor and mitigating the king's retribution.

Yet she, like Walter, was guilty of treason. By rights these entire estates were forfeit, her person subject to arrest.

And he, the Black Dragon of Vernay, would insure swift justice. Ariane of Claredon was now his enemy, her castle and lands his for the claiming.

Besieging or destroying Claredon Keep and the surrounding countryside or risking the lives of his men unnecessarily, however, formed no part of his plans. Not if he could succeed by easier means. He was prepared to take the castle, but on his own terms. Claredon boasted more knights than could be easily defeated, yet he would not need to use overwhelming force if he could turn the circumstances to his own advantage. And in this case, guile would serve him in better stead than open violence.

Quelling any inclination toward lenience, Ranulf forced himself to move. Disguised as a monk, followed by his squire, he gained entrance to the inner bailey and made his way up the outer stairway of the immense stone keep, to the second story and the great hall, now a scene of chaos as serfs and armed men ran to and fro.

He smiled grimly as he melted into the crowd.

The battle was set to begin-a battle he would win in short order.

The tall night candle sputtered, its flickering glow probing beyond the parted bed curtains, sending faint shadows dancing across the pale beauty in the bed. Ranulf held his breath as he gazed down at the woman slumbering so peacefully. In the golden half-light, she was too lovely to be real.

Her fair, copper-tinged hair spilled over her naked shoulders, shimmering and glorious, caressing the gentle rise of a breast that peered beneath the edge of the woolen coverlet. His nostrils caught the subtle woman's scent of her sleep-warmed body, an alluring fragrance that stroked his primal, masculine senses and kindled a desire as intense as any he'd ever known. A muscle tensed in Ranulf's jaw at the effort to keep from reaching out to her.

He could see the faint pulse throbbing in her white throat as he stood drinking in Ariane's beauty. Pale and perfect. Delicate as a rose. Innocent and vulnerable as a babe . . . Except that she was no babe, nor child either. She was a beautiful woman, who stirred his passions as no wench ever had.

He wanted to touch her.

Without thinking, he reached down to graze the soft skin of her brow with his thumb, then drew back abruptly, cursing himself for his weakness. When she awakened, the scorn in her silver-gray eyes would flay him without mercy.

And yet he could not resist the temptation. Unwillingly, he ran his thumb over the pale curve of her cheek, tracing the fragile bone and delicate hollow beneath. Her soft sigh as she stirred beneath his touch was a whisper of sound, a lover's plea.

His body hardened as heated images flickered before his eyes. . . . Ariane shuddering and straining beneath him. . . . Ariane willing and eager, welcoming him into her bed, into her body. . . .

A bitter smile twisted Ranulf's mouth. She would never be eager for his touch. She rued their betrothal, rued ever hearing his name. She would be glad to be free of him.

He is no true knight. A grasping, baseborn pretender to nobility.

He should have felt relief that she found their betrothal so repugnant. Should have been pleased that her own defiant actions released him from any obligation toward her. He had been prepared to honor his word, but now he need not feel remorse for delaying his arrival for so long, or for repudiating their union. In truth, it was fortunate he had discovered her true feelings-the contempt she harbored for him -in time, before he was irrevocably tied to her.

And yet . . . a hollow ache he could not explain centered in Ranulf's chest, along with other, less precise feelings of turmoil.

The savage rage he'd felt earlier toward her had faded, leaving behind a familiar emptiness. His irrational fury, Ranulf realized in some dark corner of his mind, had not been directed at Ariane so much as at his own despised father, for making him fight for what rightfully was his.

The battle for Claredon would be similar to his long-ago struggle for Vernay, Ranulf acknowledged, yet it was not vengeance that drove him this time, but duty. He felt a measure of regret that he would be compelled to take Ariane hostage, but he had no choice in the matter. Henry's orders were clear. A traitor's lands were automatically forfeit, and swift retribution against Walter of Claredon would serve as a lesson to others who would defy Henry's rule. Moreover, Ariane's own actions had sealed her fate, Ranulf reminded himself. Refusing the king's order to surrender the castle made her a traitor to the crown. He could perhaps understand her defense of the castle and her loyalty to her father, but he could not condone it, nor allow her defiance to continue.

I would that I had never heard his name.

"But you have heard my name, demoiselle," Ranulf whispered bleakly.

With a muted sigh, he settled one hip on the high bed, beside his sleeping betrothed. Carefully he lifted the pale, thick tendrils of her hair away from her ear and pressed the delicate line of her jaw beneath, prepared to wake her quietly.

Her dream seemed so very real. The gentle rasp of pressure over her skin . . . the seductive warmth against her cheek . . . the lush, sensual pleasure of a caressing rhythm . . .

A lover's stroking hand?

My beloved, have you come for me at last?

Within the drugged oblivion of slumber, Ariane arched against the unfamiliar heat, aching for some unnamed fulfillment. Her body seemed aflame with need. Her eyelids felt so heavy . . . yet she could almost see him . . . her dream lover . . . tall and powerful, godlike in countenance and bearing. His passion was just as she had always imagined it would be: fierce . . . tender . . . overwhelming. Blindly she tried to reach for him, but her arms remained frustratingly pinned at her sides.

She could almost feel his weight beside her, his voice a low murmur as his strong, caressing hand moved slowly along her jaw to gently brush her lips. . . .

The subtle pressure turned insistent. With a sense of bewilderment, Ariane forced open her eyes-and blinked in the glow of candlelight. It was yet nighttime, but the damask curtains of her bed had been pulled aside to allow in the light of the immense candle that burned the night long. Above her loomed a dark form, a shadowed face, while his fingertips pressed warningly against her lips.

"Do not cry out, demoiselle. Do you comprehend?"

Her grogginess fled with the sharp awareness of danger. Her eyes widened as she stared at the intruder. No dream lover, this. Nor was it one of her tirewomen come to awaken her. This was a flesh-and-blood man, whose broad shoulders and powerful, shadowed form seemed intimately familiar.

"Do you comprehend?" he repeated more urgently, his thumb moving caressingly over her lower lip.

The deep, husky voice was familiar as well. She wondered if she had heard those harsh tones recently. A dark, cowled figure came to mind-and yet he lacked the tonsured baldness of a cleric. His hair was black as midnight, with an apparent tendency to curl, but she could not make out his shadowed features. His scent held a disturbing appeal-horses and leather and determined male, overlaid with a hint of spice.

Not answering his question, she dared to lower her gaze, trying to see more of him. He no longer wore the hooded robe, but a dark-colored tunic of fine, embroidered wool, with a jewel-handled dagger sheathed at his waist. His girth had shrunk mightily as well, although the shoulders were as broad as they had been earlier this evening.

"Sir monk?" she whispered, her voice fracturing with uncertainty.

"No monk, lady. The Black Dragon of Vernay at your service."

"Nay. . . ." Her heart, which already thudded erratically in her breast, leapt in alarm. She lay naked beneath the covers, vulnerable and unarmed, while her vengeful betrothed sat brazenly at her side, on her very bed.

Hardly aware of her actions, Ariane made a frantic lunge toward the other side of the bed, desperate to escape him, but found herself impeded by the covers and Ranulf's lightning-swift reflexes as he caught her bare shoulder and held her fast. When she screamed to alert her women, he pushed her back down among the pillows and covered her mouth with a calloused palm.

"Do not act the fool," he ordered softly. "I shall not harm you. Not unless you resist. Do you understand me?"

When she nodded once, rigidly, he eased his palm from her mouth. Trying to calm her panic, Ariane dragged a ragged breath of air into her constricted lungs.

His searching gaze was wary. "Will you yield to me, demoiselle?"

"Do . . . do I have a choice?"

The harsh lines of his features softened in the dim light as Ranulf smiled briefly. "None whatsoever."

His assumption of superiority was as mortifying as it was valid. He could overpower her with ease, she knew quite well-a dragon striking down a kitten. If she chose to fight, she would only suffer for it. And yet she could not simply surrender meekly. . . .

Her right arm had come free in the struggle, Ariane realized dimly. Not giving herself time to think, she groped blindly for the dagger at his waist and miraculously made contact. Her fingers curling around the handle, she drew back her arm in order to strike.

The gleam of polished steel flashed in the dim light inches from his face, but he was a knight trained in warfare, with instincts honed to a razor's edge. His hand shot out to catch her wrist, halting her blow. With ease, he wrested the deadly blade from her grasp and flung it across the bed.

Cursing softly, Ranulf shoved both of Ariane's hands up over her head and pressed her down with his body, pinning her helplessly beneath him. Her gasp of shock was loud in the quiet chamber as she took his weight.

Her heart was racing, more in fury than fear, but she could not struggle, could not move a muscle. His angry face was so close she could feel the soft rush of his breath against her lips, could sense the tension in his clenched jaw. Then his smoldering gaze met hers.

Their eyes locked, while a strange awareness passed between them. For the space of a dozen heartbeats, time seemed to stand still . . . a long sensually charged spell, tremulous, quivering. A moment fraught with tension, with danger . . . and something more.

Ariane found herself drowning in the shadowed glimmer of Ranulf's eyes. They were enemies, not lovers. He would not kiss her . . . would he?

His gaze had dropped to her lips, and he hesitated, as if considering. His eyes narrowing, his gaze moved lower still, raking her slowly, along the column of her throat, her collarbone, her bare chest. . . . She froze, her breath arrested, as his expression shifted subtly.

Never before had she questioned the custom of sleeping unclothed, a practice shared by nobles and serfs alike, but she wished fervently now that she had at least her shift to cover her bareness. Ranulf was staring at her right breast showing beneath the wool coverlet, the rose-tipped mound pale and naked in the candle's glow. Masculine speculation shone in his amber eyes, a glitter of admiration that she had often seen upon the faces of her father's men when they hungered for a willing castle wench.

Nervously Ariane tried to ease her body lower beneath the covers in a fruitless effort to hide her nakedness, but Ranulf prevented her, pressing her down with his body, subduing her movement.

When his gaze lifted once more to meet hers, his mouth was curved faintly. "'Tis a first, demoiselle, I admit. Never before have I had a damsel beneath me in bed who sought to stab me . . . or one who managed to relieve me of my own dagger. Usually a wench is interested solely in the pleasure I give her."

Her heartbeat quickening at the seductive promise in his tone, Ariane shivered uncontrollably. If Ranulf wished to have her, if he wished to deal violently with her, she could do little to prevent him.

Not daring to breathe, Ariane stared up at his shadowed face, searching the harsh features above her. His raven hair, thick and shining, fell forward to brush his prominent cheekbones and the muscular grooves that bracketed his square jaw.

"Will you yield?" he repeated, his voice holding a new huskiness.

"Aye." Her whisper was a bare rasp of sound in the taut silence.

Thankfully, to her surprise and utter relief, he released his hold and sat up.

"W-Why have you come?" she demanded shakily, snatching up the covers to shield her body from his gaze. "What . . . do you want of me?"

The heated gleam in his eyes only darkened, while his lips curved again in that infuriating half-smile. "Your demesne, demoiselle, simply that. I've come to claim your father's holdings, which are now mine."

"Yours?"

"Aye, mine. Given to me by Henry's decree."