The curling of his lip told her clearly how strongly he scorned the notion of love.

"Love?" he murmured softly. "The word holds no meaning for me." He had never known a woman's love, never wished to. Love was the villain in too many tales for him to suddenly wish to embrace it.

Sorrowfully, her heart aching, Ariane searched his face. After his experiences, she could understand why Ranulf would be disdainful of love. Why he would hold little belief in its power. Why he could not believe any noblewoman could be faithful to her vows. "My lord, will you condemn all of us for the sins of a few?"

He remained ominously silent.

"You have my love and loyalty," Ariane vowed softly. "As God is my witness, I give it to you freely, and with all my heart."

Searchingly, desperately wanting to believe, Ranulf returned her gaze. In the dim light of the bedside candle, the gray of her eyes looked silver and softly luminous-and utterly honest. He could almost, almost believe her.

And yet the harsh lessons of a lifetime could not be forgotten. He had spoken true. He knew nothing of love. After so many years of hate, he doubted he was capable of it.

His mouth twisted with a bitterness he could not hide. "I cannot return your love. I have no heart."

She placed her hand on his bare, muscled chest, splaying her fingers against his breastbone, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat beneath her palm. "I think you do, my lord. It wants only nurturing to be freed from its shell of armor."

Her own heart felt as if it were breaking when he gently caught her wrist and drew her hand away. And yet he did not release her completely. Instead, he regarded her bleakly, his eyes tormented.

"What am I to do with you?" he murmured almost to himself.

"Can you not simply trust me, Ranulf?"

He squeezed his eyes shut. Trusting her would be like baring his breast for a sword thrust. The depth of his mistrust for women of her kind was exceeded only by his hatred for his father.

Feeling somehow brittle, he lowered his head, pressing his face to her breast, as if seeking solace. His very uncertainty struck a tender chord in Ariane. She held him gently, her fingers stroking his dark hair, not pressing him to give assurances he could not give. She had known how difficult winning his heart would be, how deeply afraid Ranulf was to love or trust her.

Silently, tenderly, she tilted his head up and drew his lips to hers for a kiss, renewing her vow to make him love her. If only she could prove her loyalty to him, she might be able to overcome his fear of betrayal. But somehow, some way she intended to heal this man who had lived too long with demons from his past.

If only he could believe her, Ranulf thought the next morning as he sat watching Ariane speak with the serfs at the lower end of the hall. Something of his feelings for her must have shown on his face, for his vassal remarked on it.

"You are smitten by her, admit it," Payn murmured, satisfaction in his tone.

Ranulf dragged his gaze away from Ariane. Smitten, aye. The wench had tied him into knots. She had taken hold of him in a way he could no longer control, and the thought terrified him. He was bewildered by his feelings, plagued by doubts-and he knew it was futile to try to hide his turmoil from his closest friend.

"She is the lady of Claredon in all but name, my lord," Payn observed. "You may as well make her lady of it in truth."

Ranulf stared into his wine cup. Already he had made so many concessions to Ariane that she practically ran his keep. Against his better judgment, he had yielded to her ambitions, even though he knew he risked betrayal.

Betrayal, that was the rub.

"How can Iknow if I can trust her?" Frustration marked his words, while his fists clenched around his chalice.

"You cannot, Ranulf," Payn replied solemnly. "You must simply have faith that she will be true to you. I think that with the Lady Ariane the risk will not be too great."

But what if it were? Ranulf reflected. He knew himself well enough to predict his reaction. He would never countenance an unfaithful wife. He would slay her first in a jealous rage-or imprison her. Could he do that to Ariane? What kind of husband would he make her, a man with his brutal past? He knew nothing of love or tenderness; he had none to give her.

Yet what if his vassal was right? Ranulf reflected in a turmoil of agitation. Hehad changed in the past weeks. Despite his austere self-discipline, he was coming to appreciate the comforts of a settled life. Heliked having a gentlewoman at his side, looking after his needs.

Upon occasion he had even let his thoughts stray. What would it be like having Ariane as his wife? The pleasure of waking up in her arms each morning? The joy of having her beneath him each night? The possibility of having children by her?

He closed his eyes, recalling last night when he had finally made love to her. The fierce sweetness of it had possessed him totally, leaving no room to doubt her sincerity when she professed to love him.

And yet in the cold light of day, his doubts returned to torment him. Could he ever come to forget his bitter past? Would it ever be possible for him to begin again . . . fresh and clean and new . . . with Ariane at his side? Would she fight with him against the world, if need be?

And what of Ariane herself? She claimed to love him now, but what if she had mistaken her heart? Could he watch her turn from him in indifference and scorn? Was it even possible that he could make her happy?

Looking up, Ranulf sought her out with his gaze-and frowned at what he saw. The lad, Gilbert, was accompanying Ariane from the hall.

Repressing the jealous urge to follow them and discover their intent, Ranulf forced himself to attend to his meal. He would not question her loyalty. She had asked for his trust, and he would give it . . . this time. And yet it was hard, harder than riding unarmed against a legion of enemy knights.

Adjacent to the hall, in a dark alcove, Ariane was eying her half-brother quizzically. Though surprised, she had been relieved that Gilbert had sought her out. She had seen little of him in the past weeks since his challenge of Ranulf; in truth, he seemed to be avoiding her, as if afraid to face her after betraying her mother's secret to the new lord of Claredon, even though she had given her forgiveness.

Gilbert looked at her now grimly, sparing a brief, stealthy glance at the shadows that surrounded them. "My lady, I have a missive for you. A serf brought this onto the castle grounds, and entrusted me to give it directly into your hands, none other."

He withdrew a scrap of parchment that he had tucked in his belt, and offered it to her with a bow.

Curious, and with a growing sense of unease, Ariane accepted the note and quickly scanned the two brief lines.

"Mother Mary in heaven," she whispered, her heart suddenly pounding.

"What is it, my lady?" Gilbert asked anxiously, with a show of his former impassioned concern.

"Simon Crecy has returned." Looking up, she gazed at her brother with dismay. "He desires me to meet him in the forest."

25.

For much of the day Ariane agonized over torn loyalties, divided between her allegiance to her father and Claredon and her pledge to Ranulf.

She desperately wanted to prove her loyalty to Ranulf. Were she truly devoted to the new lord, she would turn over Simon's missive to him and allow Ranulf to deal with it. What better proof than to deliver his enemy into his hands? Yet by betraying Simon, she might be sending a good man to his death. Ranulf had been furious at Simon's escape and the subsequent ambush all those weeks ago, and would be more so to discover his foe skulking in the forest. More damning, if she were caught harboring a fugitive, Ranulf would see her action as a betrayal-more treachery on her part.

And yet Simon might have word of her father. Or he might have returned to Claredon to seek aid for Walter's cause. And Ranulf would put a swift end to any hopes she had for her father's deliverance.

But no, Ranulf was a fair and merciful lord. Surely he would not condemn Simon without a hearing? Surely he would permit her the opportunity to learn of her father's fate and assist him if she could?

Mother of Christ, what course should she take?

Anguish showed in Ariane's eyes when she at last approached Ranulf as he came into the hall from the tiltyard.

"What is amiss?" he demanded, concerned by her obvious agitation.

She forced herself to cease twisting the cords of her girdle between her fingers and found the courage to answer. "I would speak with you, my lord . . . on a matter most urgent."

"Yes?"

"In private, if I might."

Nodding briefly, Ranulf led the way to the solar. When they were alone with the door firmly closed, he turned to Ariane with a probing look and was startled to see the tears that shone in her eyes.

"There is something I would tell you," she murmured, her voice quivering. "It may concern my father. But first . . ." A tear rolled down her cheek. "I wish you to know, Ranulf . . . my allegiance belongs to you now . . . even if it means my father's death for treason. I place his fate in your hands."

Confounded by her declaration, Ranulf regarded her intently, waiting.

Ariane swallowed against the ache in her throat. "My father's vassal, Simon Crecy, has returned to Claredon and . . . and asked to meet with me."

She could see Ranulf's expression darkening and exclaimed, "Ranulf, I beseech you! Hear me out."

For a long moment he stared at her, not speaking as he willed himself to calm. Taking a slow breath, he searched Ariane's upturned face, gauging her look of entreaty. The gray depths of her eyes held no secrets, no deception, only a quiet anguish. "Very well. You have my undivided attention, demoiselle. What passes? Tell me, does this Simon plan an assault on Claredon Keep?"

She shook her head. "I have no knowledge of his intentions." At Ranulf's skeptical look, Ariane handed him the scrap of parchment she had received from her brother. "I tell you true, Ranulf . . . I have had no communication with Simon, other than this message."

He scanned the note quickly, before again favoring her with his penetrating regard. Ariane thought that he looked as if he wanted to believe her, to give her the benefit of the doubt. Certainly, he would know she had taken a grave risk by coming to him. He could order Simon captured and imprisoned without thought to justice or compassion.

"What is it you wish of me?" asked Ranulf finally.

Hope welled within her at his rational tone. "If you would accompany me to meet Simon . . . I could discover what news he has of my father."

"Why should I do so, demoiselle? How can I know your vassal does not lie in ambush to slay me?"

Ariane shook her head again, her tears spilling over. "Simon is a brave and loyal knight, my lord, qualities you value highly. When he escaped Claredon, he planned to ride north to Mortimer's castle, his only intent to work for my father's good. I cannot believe he played any part in the raid on your troops."

"Has he other men with him?"

"I know not. This message is all I was given."

"Given by your sibling, Gilbert?"

She nodded reluctantly, not liking to implicate her brother in a conspiracy, yet unsurprised by Ranulf's discernment. His sharp eyes missed little, doubtless because he was prepared for betrayal from every quarter.

He was silent for a long moment, saying finally, "Very well, I will accompany you. But I shall take along a troop of knights to be equipped for any eventuality."

"I thank you, my lord," Ariane said with fervent gratitude. "Yet . . . Simon might flee if he sees so many of you."

"Then he will be pursued and captured," Ranulf replied coolly. "You must needs be satisfied with that, demoiselle." His voice was courtesy itself, but she had learned to recognize the commanding note of finality in that tone. Nodding, Ariane swallowed her tears and fetched a mantle to shield her against the damp of the blustery day.

Ranulf followed her belowstairs uneasily. In truth, he was wary of her motives, knowing Ariane could have devised a trap to lure him into his enemy's clutches. It went against every painful lesson experience had ever taught him, every cautious instinct, to accept her tale on faith.

Then again, she could indeed be telling the truth; he had wronged her before by accusing her falsely. If so, then it presented him with a troubling dilemma. She had entrusted him with the lives of those dear to her, and counted on him to deal with them mercifully. What if he were forced to act otherwise? He could not let a traitor remain free. What if he were compelled to slay Simon? Could he bring himself to cause Ariane grief? Could he betray the trust she had placed in him?

The gray day was waning by the time he rounded up enough of his knights and men-at-arms to form a rear guard. The lengthening shadows would aid in an enemy ambush, Ranulf noted grimly.

Ariane, riding beside him on her own palfrey, was keenly aware of Ranulf's silence. Armored in chain mail tunic and steel helm, he seemed the embodiment of an invincible, relentless warrior, and she knew he would not hesitate to lash out with all his formidable might should he be threatened.

They rode toward the east, to the forest where her mother's hut lay hidden.

"'Tis not much further, my lord," she murmured as they reached the meadow where she and Ranulf had made love so tenderly that one enchanted spring day.

With a long, level look at her, Ranulf raised his hand and commanded his troops to await him there. Alone, he and Ariane entered the gloom of the forest. After a long moment, near a dense copse of oaks, she drew her horse to a halt.

"Simon?" she called softly. "I have come as you requested."

The unmistakable sound of steel whispering against a scabbard greeted her words and sent panic leaping through her veins. In an instant, Ranulf had his sword battle-ready in hand, prepared to fight, even as Ariane cried out, "Nay, Simon! Hold! We mean you no harm!"

In the resulting silence, she could hear her heart pounding. "I have vouched for your innocence to the new lord of Claredon. If you draw sword against him, you declare yourself his enemy."

When no response was forthcoming, Ranulf added gruffly, "Show yourself, Simon Crecy. No man of honor skulks in the shadows."

Grim-faced, his hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword, the tall knight stepped from behind the thick trunk of an oak tree. Every measure of his stance bespoke wariness, mistrust, and yet he faced the powerful Norman warlord without flinching.

Shifting his gaze from Ranulf, Simon shot Ariane a reproachful glance. "My lady, I expected more discretion from you."

"I have no secrets from my lord Ranulf," she replied quietly. "He has agreed to hear you out. How fare you, Simon?"

The knight eyed Ranulf once more. "Well enough, my lady."

"You can speak freely," Ariane assured him. "Have you any word of my father?"

"Word? Aye. But no success to report. I failed to gain access to Bridgenorth Castle, and so can recount only rumors."

"What did you learn?"

"I have no proof, my lady. Merely suspicions."

"Tell us," she urged.

"The siege of Bridgenorth is taking a toll on the defenders," Simon replied, keeping his attention on Ranulf. "King Henry was preparing to move war machines against the walls when Hugh Mortimer commissioned his envoy to sue for terms. When Mortimer's agents met with the king, I was able to question a page briefly. The boy said that Lord Walter is being held prisoner in the tower dungeon by his liege for refusing to declare against King Henry."

"Prisoner? Herefused ?" A fierce surge of hope welled within Ariane. If true, it meant that her father was no traitor!

Overjoyed by the possibility, she started to question Simon further, but he held up a cautioning hand. "Walter is said to be ill, my lady. If he opposed Mortimer, there is every likelihood he is being punished for his defiance . . . starvation, even torture. Mortimer is known to be ruthless in his anger."

She turned to gaze beseechingly at Ranulf. "Ranulf . . .please, you must allow me to go to him. His condition could be grave."

Ranulf's amber eyes showed no sign of weakening resolve. "Your father has been charged with high treason. You expect me to believe in his innocence without proof?"

"I swear to you," Ariane vowed in anguish, "when he rode for Bridgenorth, he was not contemplating treason. You heard Simon. My father is Henry's man."

"'Tis true," Simon added solemnly. "Walter once considered declaring for Stephen's bastard son, William. But he realized his error the more he learned of the young man. He knew England needed a strong ruler and was prepared to support the new king fully."

"Yes," Ariane said earnestly, remembering the late King Stephen's reign-a time of greed and anarchy in a land rife with lawlessness. "My father was sickened by the strife that had torn England apart, and welcomed a ruler who could give us peace."