"I tell you, I will not lie with you," she replied with feigned bravado.

She had never seen anyone react so swiftly. In two strides Ranulf had closed the distance between them and scooped her up in his arms. In three more, he had carried her to the bed and dropped her onto the soft feather mattress, following her down to pin her with the partial weight of his body. Ruthlessly, he captured her flailing arms and locked them over her head.

Shocked, breathless, Ariane could only stare up at him.

"You will lie with me, my lady," he said with lethal softness. "You will warm my bed if I command it. You will clean my boots if I say so. And by the Virgin, you will curb your defiant tongue in my hearing, do you understand me?"

Ariane gritted her teeth, staring back at Ranulf with trepidation and seething fury. "Yes, I understand."

"Yes,what? "

"Yes, my lord."

His glittering eyes narrowed as they locked with hers. Suddenly feeling the softness of her body beneath him, Ranulf swore under his breath. That same stark, sexual awareness that he'd experienced last night when Ariane had lain beneath him struck him again with the force of a battering ram, exploding to pool thick and hot in his loins.

God's blood, he needed a woman. He had been celibate for several weeks now, having denied himself often during the five months of the recent campaign. And having such a winsome captive so near at hand without being able to touch her would prove a sore strain on his fortitude. Yet he had brought this dilemma on himself. God's teeth, but this close proximity was supposed to serve asher punishment, not his own.

Shutting his eyes, Ranulf forced himself to exhale slowly. Jesu, he was tired. Bone tired, his body stiff with weariness and need. Abruptly easing his weight off her, Ranulf reached down to pull the sheets and a fur coverlet up over them both. Rolling over to face the far wall then, he closed his eyes and forced his body to relax, willing the tension and exhaustion to drain from muscle and sinew.

Not daring to move, Ariane stared at the back of his head, a dawning sense of relief stealing over her. It seemed as if Ranulf did indeed mean what he said about not ravishing her . . . at least not this night.

Their confrontation had not gone as she expected. Ranulf had not hurt her precisely. He had tormented her with threats, yes, raising her fears with his taunts and innuendos. And yet she was still free, somewhat. He hadn't incarcerated her in the dungeon, and for that she was grateful. Being forced to sleep in Ranulf's chamber, even in his bed, was by far the lesser punishment, for imprisoned, she could be of no help to any of the inhabitants of Claredon, nor defend them against the Black Dragon. Not that she had managed to give much of an accounting of herself tonight.

Still, she hadn't surrendered to Ranulf entirely . . . and he hadn't ravished her. . . .

Shaking with rage and relief, she listened with growing resentment as Ranulf's breathing settled into a quiet rhythm. He was obviously unafraid to turn his back on her. He had not bothered to hide any of his weapons, evidently believing she would never have the courage to use them against him. Courage had little to say to the matter, though. She would not be so foolish as to attempt his life. Even if she managed to kill the lord of Vernay, his vassals would most certainly avenge his death, not only on her but on the hapless people of Claredon. No, for the moment she would have to accept his rule.

Her gaze focusing on his hair, she realized his wet, raven locks had curled into damp tendrils that shimmered softly with blue highlights. For an instant, Ariane found herself wondering if his hair was as soft, as silken, as it looked, but she quelled the urge to reach up and test it. Her gaze dropped lower. Beneath the edge of the coverlet, she could see the beginning of his broad back and the terrible scars that crisscrossed the ravaged flesh. Ruthlessly she crushed the involuntary surge of sympathy that stirred within her. The lord of Vernay was a black-hearted devil, who needed no compassion or pity from anyone, least of all his helpless prisoner.

Turning her head, Ariane stared blindly up at the canopy overhead, a dull ache constricting her chest. No, this encounter with Ranulf was nothing like what she had once expected or hoped.

This should have been her wedding night. She had dreamed of her first time with Ranulf. Countless times she had imagined lying with him, giving herself to her husband in love and honor, opening her body to him, responding to his tender caresses. . . .

Her dreams bore no resemblance to this . . . this mockery of a solemn marriage bedding. She was sharing his bed, yes, but not in love or honor.

They were enemies now. The lord of Vernay had repudiated their betrothal and refused to touch her, while she shrank from him in fear and loathing.

She dreamed of her lover again. A haunting, erotic fantasy that faded like wisps of smoke as dawn stole through the shuttered windows.

Ariane was startled awake from a fitful doze, conscious of an incredible feeling of sadness. Only in slow increments did she become aware of other vivid sensations: a corded arm curled possessively about her waist . . . the searing heat of a hard, male body at her back . . . a fierce yearning within her that rose hot and formless and powerful.

Ranulf.

Sweet Mary. . . .

She froze, aware of his enveloping embrace, of his shaft, throbbing and hard, pressed against her buttocks, even through the layers of her clothing. For a score of heartbeats, Ariane lay there rigidly, not daring to move. She could hear Ranulf's breathing, soft and even, feel his relaxed pose. . . .

Merciful God . . . he still slept.

Holding her breath, Ariane eased from beneath his arm and slipped from the bed. Silently, she fled to the sanctuary of the window alcove where she curled shivering on the cushioned seat. After the warmth of Ranulf's bed, her rumpled bliaud provided little protection from the morning chill. And no garment could shield her from her shameful, traitorous thoughts. She could still feel the boldness of his body imprinting his maleness onto her, still sense the heated yearning that had swept through her at his unconscious embrace.

Mother Mary, what had come over her? Her only excuse was that her defenses had been sorely weakened. For the second straight night, she had scarcely slept, and her nerves were strained by fear and exhaustion.

Hearing a slight noise, Ariane glanced warily back at Ranulf. He had shifted his position to sprawl across the huge bed, a starkly masculine figure against the flaxen-hued sheets. Her attention caught, she studied his slumbering form, wondering how he could look so commanding and forceful even in sleep.

His face was drawn in clean, harsh angles, the features sensuously, ruthlessly chiseled. His heavy, slashing brows were black as night, his nose strong and hawkish, the chin square with a slight cleft. Long, ebony lashes closed over eyes she knew were a shade of brown that was nearly gold.

As for his body . . . Ariane bit her lip in dismay. That she found Ranulf physically appealing mortified as well as infuriated her. She was no longer the nervous, tongue-tied girl he had once awed, yet she couldn't deny her fascination with him now. Old habits were difficult to forswear. She had dreamed of this man as her lover, the idol of all her girlhood fantasies. . . .

Abruptly she shook her head. She would crush her attraction for him if it took every ounce of strength she possessed. Ranulf was a cold, heartless devil, the man who held her hostage. She had wasted five of the best years of her life waiting and yearning for him-and he had cruelly shattered her most cherished dreams without a single measure of remorse, repudiating their betrothal contract as casually as he would cast aside a cloak that had outserved its purpose.

Curse you, Ranulf de Vernay.He cared nothing for her. Worse, he considered her a traitor for closing the castle to him and for helping her father's vassal escape. The man who should have been her lord and husband was now her bitter enemy.

The only fortunate turn was that she did not have to fear his ravishment. As Ranulf had pointed out, if he were to consummate their union, they would be wedded in the eyes of the Church. And the very thought was repugnant to him.

Ariane shut her eyes, trying to swallow the bitterness that choked her, to deny the pricking warmth of threatening tears. Lamenting lost dreams would serve no useful purpose. She must focus her efforts on the future, on safeguarding the people and home she loved. They depended upon her to shield them, to fight for them.

If she tried, perhaps she could atone in some measure for her inability to defend Claredon, to somehow assuage the guilt she felt for failing her father. Walter had brought them safely through years of civil war and lawlessness, only to have his demesne fall to a warlord who should have been an ally. And to be accused of treason for taking part in a revolt against the new king. . . . Ariane could never believe her father guilty of such foolish defiance, especially not when he so wanted peace for England. Certainly he had not been contemplating treason weeks ago when he'd left Claredon for Mortimer's keep at Bridgenorth.

Yet now her father's life might very well be forfeit. She had lost his demesne, the one thing that might have aided his cause and given him power to bargain with. Even if by God's mercy his life was spared, the punishment for treason was severe. The thought of her father blind or without hands or genitals caused hot tears to well up in her throat.

Ariane pressed a hand to her mouth to hold back the sob trembling inside her, yet she couldn't prevent the tears from spilling over. Blessed Virgin, she was utterly helpless to aid him. At present she could not even find the strength to fight the desolation assaulting her. . . . Burying her face in her hands, she gave in to strain and despair and softly wept.

"I do not recall granting you permission to leave my bed, demoiselle."

The husky, sleep-laden sound of Ranulf's voice startled her. Choking back her sobs, Ariane turned abruptly to find golden eyes above a hawklike nose surveying her intently. She swallowed thickly and hastily wiped at her eyes. Her humiliation at her defeat was great enough without adding the shame of weeping before him.

"Come here," he commanded quietly.

For a moment she hesitated, but the implacable look in his eyes brooked no defiance and she closed the distance to the bed. To her shock and dismay, Ranulf reached out to grasp a handful of her gown, and with a gentle tug, pulled her down to sit beside him on the bed.

He studied her for a long moment, trying to discern if the emotion glistening in her eyes was genuine or feigned, if the soft sound of her sobbing when he'd awakened had been a calculated ploy for sympathy. He did not want to see the misery etched in her lovely face, and yet he could not completely trust it. In truth, he trusted no women and few men. And the cool, bewitching beauty of this particular damsel, with her spiky-wet lashes and trembling mouth, doubly set him on his guard.

His urge to touch her was strong-and keenly disconcerting. He understood the desire that tugged at his loins. His customary morning arousal had made him hard and throbbing beneath the bed linens, yet he was well familiar with waking in such a painful state-and having so haunting a wench so near at hand did nothing to cool his blood. Yet the softer feelings running rampant inside him bewildered him. The urge to draw Ariane into his arms, to hold and comfort her and kiss away her sorrow, was a novel, startling experience for him. He had never embraced a woman merely to offer comfort, without lust driving him.

Determinedly Ranulf steeled himself against the need to console her. He did not wish her to see how much he desired her, or perceive how her tears affected him. He would not give her such weapons to use over him, or allow her to think she could employ her womanly attributes to advance her position. At the moment she sat stiffly beside him, her delicate chin lifted at a defiant angle, her gaze wary.

"Why were you weeping?"

"I was not weeping," she replied, the tremor in her voice belying her words.

"No?" He raised a hand to brush a teardrop from her cheek with his forefinger. "What is this wetness on your face, then?" When she remained silent, Ranulf narrowed his gaze. "I cannot be manipulated by tears, demoiselle. Or swayed by womanly arts."

Vexation shot through Ariane at his callous assumption of her motives. She had too much pride ever to use such ploys, and lacked the talent besides. Never having been to court, she had little experience in flirtation or persuading a man to do her bidding. Furthermore, her mother's teaching had always stressed honesty and principle when dealing with others."I doubt a man of your stamp would understand how a woman could succumb to despair in a moment of weakness," she muttered.

He winced inwardly at the scorn in her tone.A man of your stamp. Ariane knew of the scandal surrounding his birth, evidently. Knew he had been forced to claw his way up to the ranks of nobility. A highborn lady like she would not consider him good enough to aspire to her hand. Only his possession of Vernay had made it possible.

Ranulf looked at her sharply, refusing to let her see how her words cut. "I asked a question of you, lady, and I expect a truthful answer. Why did you weep?"Ariane averted her gaze. "My father has been condemned as a traitor . . . I bear the shame for losing his demesne . . . I am your prisoner . . . you repudiated our betrothal . . . I believe I have ample cause to weep."

"You have naught to be ashamed of regarding the fall of this keep. Your defeat was inevitable.""That is not so! You would never have taken Claredon had you not resorted to deception and guile."Willfully Ranulf ignored her accusation, quelling his resentment in favor of logic. "The fact that I averted bloodshed and the expense of a long siege by my ruse does not soothe your conscience?"Ariane shook her head sadly. "My father depended upon me.""And my king depended on me," Ranulf replied reasonably. "I but carried out Henry's commands.

Surely you can understand that.""You will never convince me that securing your own interests was not your chief goal.""Indeed it was. But only consider my position. I could not have allowed you to challenge my authority. I would have appeared a fool could I not even manage to control my own betrothed."

It stung her that he would put forth so rational an argument in so reasonable a tone, but before she could think of a proper rebuttal, he quizzed her on another point she had introduced."You said you would gladly dissolve our betrothal. Did you speak true?"Her chin rose regally. "I do not lie, my lord."

"Then why do you weep over it?"

"Merely because I no longer desire to marryyou does not mean I have no wish to marry at all."

Ranulf eyed her thoughtfully, wondering what troubled her. She was still young and beautiful enough-incredibly so-to easily attract another suitor. "I see no reason you cannot still wed. Even a maid of your"-his gaze raked her while his tone turned dry-"advanced years should still be able to garner a husband."

"After your rejection? Without a marriage portion to bring to my new lord? I suspect you have made a future marriage for me impossible."

He'd had little to do with the loss of her inheritance, actually; her father's treason was to blame. "Not impossible, demoiselle. Perhaps it is unfair that your father's castle was awarded to me . . . but your lack of dowry should not be an insurmountable impediment to marriage. You are not ill favored. For a noble maiden still intact, there are always men seeking a bride. Mayhap some of my own vassals might be interested."

"They would be willing to take your leavings?"

"Leavings?"

"Who would credit my maiden status after you forced me to sleep in your bed?"

His brow clearing, he laughed-confounding her completely. "Who would credit that I allowed a wench to pass the whole night with me? Especially one of your class. No one who knows me well would accuse me of defiling you. My aversion to noblewomen is well known-and so is my ability to find wenches willing to share my bed. I have no need to resort to ravishment, I assure you. No, they will consider you my hostage, nothing more. Do not fret overmuch on that score."

She looked skeptical and faintly puzzled. "How easy it is for you to mock my pain."

His gaze softened. "I do not mock you, lady." He paused, searching her face. "Is marriage so important to you, then?"

"It is to any woman. A man may fight and compete in tourneys and travel the land. A woman has only her home and family to care for." Biting her lip, she looked away. "I no longer have either."

Ranulf shifted uncomfortably. He was not accustomed to feeling guilt, yet he felt a flash of it now. He had never considered her perspective. He'd thought a girl so young would be content to remain in her father's castle, rather than be hauled off to Normandy as the bride of the Black Dragon-but perhaps he'd merely persuaded himself of her reticence to justify his delay, to ease his conscience for not proceeding with the marriage. He should have come for her sooner, certainly. Then again, Ariane professed to loathe him. She had less desire to wed him than he did her.

"You could always enter a nunnery," he suggested lamely when she remained silent.

Ariane shook her head. "I am not fitted for the church. My lady mother always said . . ." She faltered, realizing she had strayed to dangerous ground.

"Yes? What said your mother?"

"That my tongue was too barbed for the peace of a convent."

Ranulf's hard mouth curved in a sudden grin. "A wise woman, your mother. I have had a taste of that barbed tongue." He noted the flash of fire in Ariane's eyes with satisfaction, strangely preferring that show of spirit to her despair. "The Lady Constance . . . I met her but once at the betrothal ceremony, she was all that was gracious. She died some years past?"

Ariane stiffened at the reminder. "We lost her four springs ago," she said carefully, reluctant to discuss her beloved mother's passing. What the world knew was not the truth, but it would have to suffice.

"You mourn her loss?"

"Aye . . . keenly." That much was certainly true.

He heard the sadness in her voice, saw the grief in her eyes. Involuntarily, Ranulf raised his hand to stroke the elegant hollow beneath her cheekbone, but she flinched at his touch and pulled back.

Shifting his weight, he pushed the pillows behind his back and sat up, drawing Ariane's gaze to his powerful bare torso, to the soft mat of curling hair on his chest. Seeing it, she recalled the feel of him last night when she had tried to ward Ranulf off, and felt a quickening in her body that was totally unexpected.

"I would rather not be doomed to maidenhood," she murmured in an attempt to return the conversation to the subject at hand.

"Doomed? Strong words for the unwedded state." His scrutiny turned considering, gleaming with a brightness that bespoke mischief. "One would think you regret never being bedded."

Uncontrollably a blush rose to Ariane's cheeks. "You twist my words, my lord. I want children. If I must suffer the physical attentions of a husband to gain them, then I am willing to do my duty."

"Suffer? Duty?" An amused light flickered in his eyes. "Your notion of the marriage bed is a cold one, methinks. Doubtless it is your innocence speaking. If you had more experience, you would know what pleasure can be found even in duty."

"If you hadless experience, my lord," Ariane said tartly, "you might properly value the solemn commitment of the flesh."

"Ah, but I do value it," he replied, his warmth fading. "Too much so to risk an irrevocable union. While I might desire to sample your lovely charms, I have no intention of solemnizing our contract."

"You will never sample my charms!" she retorted stiffly. "I will not play the whore for you!"

A provocative smile curved his mouth. "I would not ask you to, demoiselle. I like my wenches with more honey and less vinegar. I would have a meek maid in my bed, not a virago."

His soft taunt did more than sting; it wounded her. Ariane's indignation abruptly faded, swamped by familiar insecurities, but she took refuge in sarcasm. "Since you find me so unappealing, I wonder that you agreed to the betrothal in the first place."

Ranulf shrugged his broad shoulders. "I agreed for the usual reasons. I found an alliance with Claredon politically advantageous. And your father sweetened the arrangement with a grant of land in the south."

Intellectually, Ariane understood those reasons. And Ranulf had been bribed to wed her. He had been given, not a fiefdom for which he would have had to swear fealty and provide knight's fees, but an outright grant.

"I never desired a bride, only your lands," he added with chilling honesty.

Ariane clasped her fingers together to keep them from trembling. It shouldn't hurt to hear the truth so bluntly stated, yet it did. She looked down at her hands. "Is that why you never came for me? Because my father still lives, I never inherited his demesne?"

Guilt pricked Ranulf's conscience. He could not admit to her the true reason for his reticence: that he feared betrayal by any bride, dreaded risking a repeat of his mother's faithlessness or his father's violent retribution.

"Aye," he prevaricated. "I could not gain control of the chief prize of your inheritance-Claredon-until your father's passing, which appeared to be many years in the future. And there seemed no reason for haste. Both sides enjoyed the advantages of the alliance, without the encumbrances. And Walter saw no urgency in completing the contract."

"But now that you have possession of Claredon, you need be encumbered by me no longer."

Ranulf clenched his jaw, wondering how she managed to twist the truth to makehim the villain when she had brought about this predicament herself, by defying the king, by freeing a prisoner of the crown, and by supporting her father's rebellion. "I am under no obligation to honor a traitor with my allegiance," he replied in his own defense.

She lifted her gaze-and her chin. "I would know your intentions, my lord. What will become of me?"

He frowned. "If your father is found guilty, you will become a ward of the crown. Your marriage will be in the king's gift, for him to dispose of as he sees fit. For the nonce, I am to hold you as a political prisoner." He paused. "You cannot be unaware of your value to Henry as a hostage, or that your arrest will perhaps end the rebellion sooner. . . ."

Ranulf's explanation trailed off as he recalled the exact situation. Why was he permitting her to make him feel guilt for executing his duty, or sympathy for her plight? He should know from her recent treasonous actions that he could not allow himself to soften toward her. He could not let down his guard. "You are my prisoner, to do with as I will, demoiselle."

At the sudden harshness of his tone, Ariane dug her nails into her palms. How could he be so gentle and reasonable one moment, so cold and heartless the next?

Yet she was naught to Ranulf but a foe. And when he was done with her, he would marry her to some grateful lackey or pack her off to a convent. By the Blessed Virgin, how could she ever have cherished such tender dreams of him? "If you mean to punish me, I wish you would do so."