The Warrior by Nicole Jordan Page B

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.”
    “Stolen, you mean!” Impotence made her lash out unwisely. “Exacted by guile. You crept into Claredon like a thief, disguised as a servant of God, no less. ’Tis blasphemous!”
    Her furious accusation was met with a cool smile. “Mayhap. But I do not take by force what I can take by wit.”
    “Or treachery. ”
    “Had you surrendered to my vassal, FitzOsbern, I would not have been obliged to employ such a ruse.”
    “You are despicable.”
    His dark countenance turned suddenly ruthless in the glow of candlelight, making Ariane abruptly recall how completely vulnerable her position was.
    “You dare accuse me of treachery, demoiselle, of despicable acts, when you seek to keep from me what is mine by right?”
    Desperately she thought back to their discussion on the castle