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lifted slowly and she half turned, her troubled gaze searching the shadows where he stood.
    Ranulf froze—and drew in his breath sharply at the vision of loveliness Ariane made in the glow of torchlight. Nay, the reports had not exaggerated, he thought as a shaft of desire shot through him with startling intensity. Where once she had been all bones and eyes, now she was slender curves and eyes, with gleaming tresses of pale copper that shimmered and rippled with life. An enchanting, beguiling combination.
    The change disturbed Ranulf greatly. He might have forgiven a child her faulty judgment, for being misled by her advisors, but Ariane of Claredon was no longer a child. She was fully a woman. A noble lady quite capable of aiding a rebellion and supporting her father’s treason.
    And she was his to deal with.
    He could not control his body’s hard response at the thought of having such a defiant beauty in his power, yet before the stirring in his groin could swell to uncomfortable proportions, Ranulf set his jaw and tucked the cowl of his clerical garb more tightly around his face. Then he stepped forward, taking care to remain away from the circle of torchlight, keeping his gaze trained on his bride and her armored protector.
     

     
    “A monk seeks audience with you, my lady,” Simon advised her.
    Ariane gave a start when the vassal’s voice interrupted her brooding. With a sigh, she turned to greet the intruder—and halted abruptly. A dark shape had condensed out of the shadows . . . tall, powerful . . . ominous.
    Her hand went to her throat. For the space of a dozen heartbeats she remained frozen, while the night sounds of the castle faded. The presence of her own soldiers, the plight of the refugees, the threat of an enemy army, were forgotten. She was only aware of the towering, motionless form shrouded in a blanket of darkness.
    A frisson of fear ran down her spine at the obscure figure looming so threateningly near. The shadows thrown by the torchlight cast such a strange spell she could almost imagine the giant silhouette to be a menacing dragon.
    It was simply fancy, she told herself with desperate calm. A deceptive trick of the light. Willing herself to show no fear, Ariane took a faltering step closer—and the fearsome image thankfully vanished. The light barely licked at the foot of his robes, but Ariane let out her breath in relief as she recognized his garb. It was only a monk. No danger here.
    Her paralysis faded, yet her uneasiness remained. A man of such height and bulk would be powerful, strong; such a giant could easily be a warrior. Even across the distance that separated them, she could feel his towering masculine presence.
    Wondering at her strange awareness, at her sense of foreboding, she reminded herself that she had her own men to protect her.
    “Greetings, demoiselle,” the shadow said softly.
    Something within her stirred at that deep, muted voice. She felt the oddest sense of . . . intimacy? Familiarity?
    She went still, while strange sensations shivered through her. “Do I know you, sir monk?”
    “I think not, my lady.”
    She hesitated, divided between wariness and curiosity. He was a compelling figure, for his sheer mystery if nothing else. His hands, only partially hidden by the wide sleeves of his robe, were large, strong, long-fingered . . . capable of great violence or tender compassion?
    With effort Ariane shook off her fanciful imaginings. Taking another step closer, she peered at the hooded face still in shadow, wondering why he was here and what he wanted of her.
    Ranulf, imagining uncomfortably that she could penetrate his disguise, bowed his head with feigned respect, and raised the pitch of his voice to a soft tenor. “I wished to express my gratitude for giving refuge to a poor monk. I was making my way to the monastery at Frotham when my journey was interrupted by the fleeing villeins. I thought it wiser to follow them to the safety of your keep.”
    “You are