The Warrior by Nicole Jordan Read Free Book Online Page B

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 welcomed him 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.

 
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    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