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
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
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