The Warrior by Nicole Jordan

betrayal?
    A muscle flexed in his jaw, while his gaze impaled her. “You have a sharp tongue, demoiselle. I advise you to curb it.”
    She fell silent, but a flicker of contempt crossed her features. Ranulf’s jaw tightened. She should have been meek and frightened, cowering before his anger and begging for mercy, not favoring him with that regal disdain.
    “I told you to come here. Do it. Now. ” His deep, impatient voice barked the word when she hesitated.
    Marshalling her courage, Ariane forced herself to obey. When she halted before Ranulf, regarding him uneasily, he ordered her to hold out her bound hands, which she did hesitantly.
    She knew an instant of alarm when Ranulf lifted his dagger—alarm that turned to shock as he sliced through her bonds, freeing her hands. Ariane stood staring down at him as feeling rushed back into her numb fingers. Absently rubbing her wrists, she searched his harsh face, wondering at his game.
    “Why . . . did you do that?”
    “Do what?”
    “Set me free.”
    “But I have not freed you, demoiselle.” His mouth twisted in a grim smile. “On the contrary. You are still very much my hostage. But I see no need to bind you. If you tried to run, you would not get far.”
    Ariane bit her lip at that unpalatable truth. She was entirely in Ranulf’s power. She stood quietly, vaguely aware of the musky scent of sweat and maleness that emanated from him. It was not unpleasant; indeed, it was strangely, disturbingly arousing.
    Summoning her failing courage, she forced herself to ask the question whose answer she dreaded. “Then . . . what do you intend to do with me?”
    His piercing gaze studied her face. “I have not yet decided.” Her relief at his reply was merely temporary, though. “I might have forgiven your defense of the castle, but helping a prisoner escape . . .”
    “Simon escaped?” She could not keep the hopeful eagerness from her voice.
    “He was not found,” Ranulf replied tersely. “The guard who failed his responsibility is now chained in Claredon’s dungeon.” At her faint look of guilt, his black eyebrow rose. “What did you plan by your betrayal, sweeting? To have your knight seek assistance? To summon reinforcements to your rescue? To raise a rebellion?”
    When she wouldn’t answer, his eyes narrowed. “You cost me a goodly ransom—and his escape will no doubt cause a great deal of trouble in the future. I shall have to carefully consider what punishment you deserve.” Raising a hand, Ranulf rubbed the bristle on his jaw thoughtfully. “If you were in my position, what would you do?”
    The question took her aback. Ariane eyed him warily, wondering at his intent. “I suppose . . . I would hold you prisoner . . . till you yielded.”
    “And would you yield, demoiselle?”
    “No,” she replied stiffly.
    “Then imprisoning you would do no good, would it? What of locking you in your chamber, starving you into submission? No? I suspect that would have no result except to reduce you to skin and bones.” His bold gaze slowly swept her slender body. “You cannot afford to lose much flesh. And I would have no use for you then.”
    She did not care in the least for the vague threat implied in his words, or the muted smile that curved his handsome mouth. His regard was thoughtful but alert, as if he were intent on toying with her, the way the stable cat eyed a captive mouse. Perhaps this was to be her punishment, to be tormented by uncertainty.
    “No,” Ranulf said slowly. “I shall have to think of a better, more fitting penance.”
    Although aware he was attempting to intimidate her, Ariane couldn’t prevent herself from glancing nervously, involuntarily, at the bed. Was his vassal’s conjecture correct? Did Ranulf mean to ravish her? To conquer her with passion?
    She took a steadying breath. “What of the others . . . my father’s men? You didn’t harm them?”
    “They are my prisoners, and no longer your concern.”
    “But . . . The man you