“Well, well, well, what have we here? Bea in my bedchamber, looking very beddable.”

Ranulf leaned forward as if he was about to kiss her and gave her a sodden grin.

“If you only knew the thoughts I have about you sometimes, my dear, you’d steer very clear of me. I may not be the devil, but I’m certainly no saint.”

No doubt he thought he was warning Beatrice, telling her to beware his animal lust.

His lust didn’t frighten her. Indeed, she wished they could be this close, in this chamber, when he was sober.

Why not show him how she felt now?

Determined, excited, yet hardly believing that she was about to be so bold, Beatrice rose on her toes and whispered, “And if you, my lord, only knew some of the dreams I’ve had about you.”

And then she kissed him…

Praise for Margaret Moore

“Ms Moore transports her readers to a fascinating

time period, vividly bringing to life a Scottish

|medieval castle and the inhabitants within.”

—Romance Reviews Today on Lord of Dunkeathe

“This captivating adventure of thirteenth-century

Scotland kept me enthralled from beginning to end.

It’s a keeper!”

—Romance Junkies on Bride of Lochbarr

“Fans of the genre will enjoy another journey

into the past with Margaret Moore.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

“Ms Moore…will make your mind dream of

knights in shining armour.”

—Rendezvous

“When it comes to excellence in historical romance

books, no one provides the audience

with more than the award-winning Ms Moore.”

—Under the Covers

“Margaret Moore is a master storyteller who

has the uncanny ability to develop new

twists on old themes.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“[Margaret Moore’s] writing captivates, spellbinds,

taking a reader away on a whirlwind of emotion

and intrigue until you just can’t wait to see

how it all turns out.”

—romancereaderatheart.com

“If you’re looking for a fix for your medieval

historical romance need, then grab hold of a copy

of award-winning author Margaret Moore’s The Unwilling Bride and do not let go!” —aromancereview.com

Award-winning author Margaret Moore began her career at the age of eight, when she and a friend concocted stories featuring a lovely damsel and a handsome, misunderstood thief nicknamed “The Red Sheikh”. Unknowingly pursuing her destiny, Margaret graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto, Canada. She has been a Leading Wren in the Royal Canadian Naval Reserve, an award- winning public speaker, a member of an archery team, and a student of fencing and ballroom dancing. She has also worked for every major department store chain in Canada.

Margaret lives in Toronto, Ontario, with her husband of over twenty-five years. Her two children have grown up understanding that it’s part of their mother’s job to discuss non-existent people and their problems. When not writing, Margaret updates her blog and website at www.margaretmoore.com

Hers to Desire
Margaret Moore

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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With special thanks to Nicole Hulst and

Taline Jansezian for suggesting Titan

for the name of Ranulf’s horse

HERS TO DESIRE

PROLOGUE

The Midlands, 1228

IT WAS A MISTAKE to show fear.

If the boy had learned anything from the harsh, mocking tongue of his father and the fists of his older brothers, it was that. It was also a mistake to show joy. Or pity. Or indeed, any emotion at all. His home, if it could be called such, had been a cold brutal place after his mother had died.

So when Ranulf was forced to leave it, the twelve-year-old didn’t mourn as most boys would. He didn’t shed a single tear as his father chased him away with a whip, cursing and swearing and calling him terrible names. Nor did he run to avoid the blows. He ran because he was free. Free of the father who’d never cared for him. Free of his older brothers who beat and teased and tormented him. Free to go where he would, and do what he liked.

He knew exactly what that would be. No matter how difficult or long the journey, he was going to the castle of Sir Leonard de Brissy. He was going to learn to fight and eventually become a knight.

It was indeed a long and difficult journey—more so than he’d imagined—yet when Ranulf finally reached the gates of Sir Leonard’s castle, he walked with his head high, his shoulders back, as if he feared nothing, his determined pride as fierce as his desire.

“Take me to Sir Leonard de Brissy,” he ordered the startled soldiers standing in front of the massive wooden portcullis.

“Who are you and what do you want with Sir Leonard?” the older of the two men asked, his heavy dark brows furrowing as he studied the boy with the mop of matted red hair and torn, dirty clothing. The lad looked like a penniless urchin, but he carried himself as if he were a prince of the blood and spoke like one of the many noblemen’s sons who came to be fostered and trained by Sir Leonard de Brissy in chivalry and the arts of war.

“I am Ranulf, son of Lord Faulk de Beauvieux. I have come to train with Sir Leonard,” the boy declared, his slender hands balled into fists at his sides. Beneath the dirt, his sharp-featured face was pale and there were dark circles of fatigue under his hazel eyes.

“Well, Ranulf of Beauvieux,” the older guard said, “it’s not so simple as that. Sir Leonard chooses the boys he trains. Nobody—least of all a stripling lad—just arrives and demands to stay.”

“I am the exception.”

The younger soldier whistled under his breath. “Ain’t you the cocky one?”

The lad raised one tawny brow. “I told you, I am Ranulf, son of Lord Faulk de Beauvieux, and I must see Sir Leonard. I have walked…I have come a long way to do so.”

After the boy faltered, he fought all the harder to maintain his mask of haughty self-confidence, even though he began to despair that he might have come so far—walking alone in the dark of the night, stealing to eat and sleeping anywhere he could—for nothing.

“Walked here, eh?” the younger guard asked, his expression relaxing into a grudging respect. “Come from a long ways off, have you?”

“I will explain to Sir Leonard, not to you,” Ranulf replied.

“What will you explain to me?” a deep, gruff voice demanded.

The guards immediately straightened, stiff as planks. They continued to face the road leading into the castle and didn’t turn around to look at the man who’d spoken. Ranulf, however, could easily see the tall, gray-haired man dressed in chain mail and a black surcoat striding toward them with the easy gait of a man half his age. His long, narrow face was brown as oak from days in the saddle and marked with several small scars. Yet it was not the sun-browned skin that drew Ranulf’s attention, or the scars, or the shoulder-length iron-gray hair. It was the man’s piercing ice-blue eyes, eyes that sought the truth.

This man had to be Sir Leonard de Brissy and Ranulf knew, with absolute certainty, that if he lied or exaggerated, he would be turned away. He would never learn how to fight and use weapons with skill. He would never be a knight.

When Sir Leonard came to halt, Ranulf met that stern gaze as he bowed. “Sir Leonard, I am Ranulf, son of Lord Faulk de Beauvieux. I wish to join your household and learn to be a knight.”

“I have heard of Faulk de Beauvieux,” Sir Leonard coolly replied as he studied the son of a man known to be viciously cruel, who drank hard and fought harder. He saw Faulk’s foxlike features repeated in his offspring. The lad had also inherited his father’s slim, wiry build, broad shoulders and straight back, as well as the proud bearing of his arrogant sire.

Yet the sight of that red hair and those green-brown eyes tugged at Sir Leonard’s stern heart. They were not from Faulk; they came from the lad’s mother, a woman Sir Leonard had not seen for twenty years. Yet the eyes Sir Leonard remembered had been soft and gentle; the ones gazing back at him now had a strength and determination his mother had never possessed, or she might have been able to avoid the marriage her parents arranged for her.

And there was still more. That the boy was anxious was obvious to Sir Leonard’s seasoned eye, for he’d been training noblemen’s sons for thirty years and had seen more than his share of youthful bluster. Still, this boy stood with a self-controlled fortitude Sir Leonard had rarely seen, except in the most well-trained, seasoned knights.

This was no ordinary lad. One day, he could either be a valued ally, or an implacable enemy.

He would prefer the ally.

So Sir Leonard gave the boy one of his very rare smiles and said, “I knew your mother when she was a girl. For her sake, you are welcome here, Ranulf de Beauvieux.”

Although relief flooded through Ranulf like a river breaking its banks, he hastened to set Sir Leonard straight on one important thing. “I am not of Beauvieux, and I never will be. My father has cast me out, and I want nothing more to do with him, or my brothers.”

“Why did your father do that?”

Ranulf had known this question would be asked and, as before, he could not lie. “That I will tell you in private,” he said, sliding a glance at the sentries still standing stiffly nearby. “My family’s business is not fodder for gossip.”

Instead of taking offense or—worse—laughing, Sir Leonard gravely nodded. “Then come, Ranulf. I believe we have much to talk about.”

CHAPTER ONE

Cornwall, 1244

THE LORD OF TREGELLAS fidgeted on his carved oaken chair on the dais of his great hall. “God’s wounds, does it always take so long?” he muttered under his breath.

Normally Lord Merrick was the most stoic of men, and the hall of Tregellas a place of ease and comfort. Today, however, his lordship’s beloved wife was struggling to bring forth their first child in the lord’s bedchamber above, so everyone was anxious. The servants moved with silent caution, and even the hounds lay still and quiet in the rushes that covered the floor.

Only Lord Merrick’s bearded, red-haired friend seemed at ease as he sat on that same dais and took a sip of wine. “I’ve heard that two or even three days are not uncommon for a first birthing,” Sir Ranulf remarked.

Merrick’s eyes narrowed. “Is that supposed to comfort me?”

Ranulf’s full lips curved up in a slightly sardonic smile. “Actually, yes.”

As Merrick sniffed with derision, Ranulf set down his goblet. “It seems an age to us, and no doubt longer to your Constance, but I gather a lengthy labor is not unusual the first time, nor does it indicate any special danger for the mother or child.”

“I didn’t know you were an expert.”

“I’m not,” Ranulf said, refusing to let his friend’s brusque manner disturb him. Merrick had never been known for his charm. “I truly don’t think there’s any cause for worry. If your wife or the babe were at risk, the midwife would have summoned both you and the priest, and Lady Beatrice would have been sent from the chamber.”

In fact, and although he didn’t say so, Ranulf thought it rather odd that Beatrice was still in Constance’s bedchamber, regardless of what was transpiring. He didn’t think Beatrice should be witnessing the travails of childbirth, or inflicting her rather too bubbly presence on a woman at such a time. If he were in pain, the last thing he’d want would be lively Lady Bea buzzing about, telling him the latest gossip or regaling him with yet another tale of King Arthur and his knights.

“Constance wanted her,” Merrick said with a shrug. “They are more like sisters than cousins, you know.”

Ranulf was well aware of the close bond between his best friend’s wife and her cousin. That was why Beatrice had a home here in Tregellas although she had nothing to her name but her title, and that was due to Merrick’s influence with the earl of Cornwall. Otherwise, Beatrice would have lost that, too, when her father was executed for treason.

Merrick started to rise. “I cannot abide this waiting. I’m going to—”

The door to the hall banged open, aided by a gust of wind. Both men turned to see a vaguely familiar man on the threshold, his cloak damp with rain, his chest heaving as he panted.

“My lord!” the round-faced young man called out as he rushed toward the dais.

“It’s Myghal, the undersheriff of Penterwell,” Merrick said.

That was one of the smaller estates that made up Merrick’s demesne on the southern coast, and as they hurried to meet the man halfway, Ranulf was unfortunately certain this fellow’s breathless advent could herald nothing good.

“My lord!” Myghal repeated as he bowed, his Cornish accent apparent in his address. “I regret I bring bad tidings from Penterwell, my lord.” He bluntly delivered the rest of his news. “Sir Frioc is dead.”

Sir Frioc was—or had been—the castellan of Penterwell. The portly, good-tempered Frioc had also been a just man, or Merrick would have chosen another for that post when he assumed lordship of Tregellas after his late father’s demise.

“How did he die?” Merrick asked, his face its usual grim mask.

Ranulf could hear his friend’s underlying concern, although there was no trouble at Penterwell that Ranulf could recall, other than the usual smuggling to which Merrick and his castellan generally turned a blind eye.

“A fall from his horse while hunting, my lord,” Myghal answered. “Sir Frioc went chasing after a hare. We lost sight of him and when we finally found him, he was lying on the moor, his neck broken. His horse was close by, lame. Hedyn thinks it stumbled and threw him.”

Hedyn was the sheriff of Penterwell, and a man Merrick had likewise considered trustworthy enough to remain in that post. Ranulf hadn’t disagreed. He, too, had been impressed by the middle-aged man when Merrick had visited his recently inherited estates.

Myghal reached into his tunic and withdrew a leather pouch. “Hedyn wrote it all down here, my lord.”

Merrick took the pouch and pulled open the drawstring. “Go to the kitchen and get some food and drink.” he said to Myghal. “One of my servants will see that you have bedding for the night and a place at table.”

After Myghal bowed and headed toward the kitchen, Merrick’s gaze flicked once more to the steps leading up to his bedchamber, and his wife, before he walked back to his chair, drew out the letter, broke the heavy wax seal and began to read.

Trying not to betray any impatience, Ranulf finished his wine and waited for Merrick to speak. Yet after Merrick had finished reading and had folded the letter, he remained silent and stared, unseeing, at the tapestry behind Ranulf, tapping the parchment against his chin.

“I’m sorry to hear about Sir Frioc,” Ranulf ventured. “I liked him.”

Merrick nodded and again he glanced toward the stairs, telling Ranulf that whatever else occupied his friend’s mind, he was still worried about his wife.

“At least there’s no widow to consider,” Ranulf noted, “since Frioc’s wife died years ago—or daughters, either, for that matter. Nor are there sons who might expect to inherit a father’s position, although that privilege is yours to bestow or withhold.”

Merrick put the letter into the pouch and shoved it into his tunic.

“You’ll need a new castellan, though.”

“Yes,” Merrick replied.

“Who do you have in mind?”

His dark-eyed friend regarded Ranulf steadily. “You.”

Ranulf nearly gasped aloud. He wanted no such responsibility—no ties, no duty beyond that of the oath of loyalty he’d sworn to his friends, and Sir Leonard, and the king.

He quickly covered his dismay, however, and managed a laugh. “Me? I thank you for the compliment, my friend, but I have no wish to be a castellan on the coast of Cornwall. Even my position here as garrison commander was to be temporary, remember?”

“You deserve to be in charge of a castle.”

Ranulf couldn’t help being pleased and flattered by his friend’s answer, but this was still a gift, and a gift could be taken away. He would have no man— or woman—know that he mourned the loss of anything, or anyone.

He inclined his head in a polite bow. “Again, my friend, I thank you. However, a castle so near the coast would be far too damp for me. I already feel it in my right elbow when it’s about to rain.”

Merrick’s dark brows rose as he scrutinized Ranulf in a way that would have done credit to Sir Leonard himself. “You would have me believe you’re too old and decrepit to command one of my castles?”

“I am still fit to fight, thank God,” Ranulf immediately replied, “but truly, I have no desire to spend my days collecting tithes and taxes.”

Merrick frowned. “The castellan of Penterwell will have much more to do than that, and I would have someone I trust overseeing that part of the coast. There has been some trouble and I—”

A woman’s piercing cry rent the air. His face pale, his eyes wide with horror, Merrick jumped to his feet as a serving woman came flying down the steps from the bedchamber.

Merrick was in front of the plump, normally cheerful Demelza in an instant, with Ranulf right behind him. “What’s wrong?” the lord of Tregellas demanded.

“Nothing, my lord, nothing,” the maidservant hastened to assure him as she chewed her lip and smoothed down her homespun skirt. “It’s just the end, i’n’t? The babe’s coming fast now. If you please, my lord, the midwife sent me to fetch more hot water.”

When Merrick looked about to ask another question, Ranulf put his hand on her friend’s arm. “Let her go.”

Merrick nodded like one half-dead, and Ranulf’s heart, even walled off as it was, felt pity for him. He knew what Merrick feared, just as he knew all too well what it was to lose a woman you loved.

“Tell me what’s going on at Penterwell,” he prompted as he led his friend back to the dais and thought about Merrick’s offer.

Merrick was one of his best and oldest friends. Together with their other trusted comrade, Henry, they had pledged their loyalty to each other and to be brothers-in-arms for life.

What was Merrick really asking of him except his help? Did he not owe it to Merrick to respond to that request when Merrick was in need, as he’d implied?

Besides, if he went to Penterwell, he would be well away from Beatrice. “I should know everything you can tell me if I’m to be castellan.”

“You’ll do it?” Merrick asked as he sank onto his cushioned chair.

“It has occurred to me, my friend, that as castellan I shall also have control over the kitchen,” Ranulf replied with his usual cool composure. “I can have my meat cooked however I like, and all the bread I want. That’s not an entitlement to be taken lightly, I assure you.”

Because he knew his friend wasn’t serious when he named culinary benefits as his primary reason for accepting the post, a genuine, if very small, smile appeared on Merrick’s face. “I didn’t realize you considered yourself ill-fed here.”

“Oh, I don’t. It’s the power that appeals to me.”

Merrick’s smile grew a little more. “Whatever reason you give me, I am glad you’ve agreed.”

“So, my friend, what exactly is going on in Penterwell?”

Becoming serious, Merrick leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs, his hands clasped. “There’s something amiss among the villagers. Frioc didn’t know exactly what. He thought it might be rivalry over a woman, or perhaps an accusation of cheating in a game of chance. Either way, he didn’t consider it serious enough to merit a visit from me.”

Merrick stared at his boots and shook his head. “I should have gone there myself anyway.”

“You had other things on your mind.”

Merrick raised his eyes to regard his friend. “That’s no excuse, and if Frioc is dead because I was remiss…”

“You’re worrying like an old woman,” Ranulf chided. “It could well be that Frioc was right, and he was simply noticing some minor enmity among the villagers. We both know there can be a hundred causes for that, none of them worthy of investigation. As to his death, I wouldn’t be surprised if the man simply fell. He was no great rider, if memory serves.”

Another clatter of footsteps came from the stairwell and again, Ranulf and Merrick leapt to their feet.

“It’s a boy!” Lady Beatrice cried as she appeared at the bottom of the steps. Her bright blue eyes were shining with happiness, her beautiful features were full of delight, and with her blond hair unbound about her slender shoulders, she looked like an angel bringing glory. “Merrick has a son! A beautiful baby boy!”

Merrick nearly tripped over his chair as he rushed to her. Then the normally restrained and dignified lord of Tregellas grabbed his wife’s cousin around the waist and spun her, giggling like a child, in a circle.

Ranulf stood rooted to the spot while envy—sharp as a dagger, bitter as poison—stabbed his heart.

Merrick set the laughing Beatrice down and worry returned to his features. “Constance? How is—?”

“Very well indeed,” Beatrice answered, smiling and excitedly clutching Merrick’s forearm. “Oh, Merrick, she was wonderful! The midwife said she’d never seen a braver lady. You should be so proud. She hardly cried out at all, and only right at the end. She did everything just as the midwife said—and that’s a very good midwife, too, I must say. Aeda was very competent and encouraging, and never once gave Constance any cause to fear. She assured her all would be well—as, indeed, it was.

“And oh, Merrick! You should see your boy! He has dark hair like you, and he started to cry right away and kicked so strongly! Aeda says he would have come faster except for his broad shoulders. It seems ridiculous to think of a baby with broad shoulders, doesn’t it, but I suppose she ought to know, having seen so many. She says he’s going to break hearts when he’s older, too, because he’s so handsome.”

Beatrice finally let go of Merrick’s arm. “I mustn’t keep you here. Constance is very anxious to see you and show you your little boy.”

Once released, Merrick ran to the steps and took them three at a time. Meanwhile, Ranulf decided he had no more reason to remain in the hall. He was beginning to turn away when Beatrice suddenly enveloped him in a crushing embrace.

“Oh, this is a joyous day, is it not?” she cried, her breath warm on his neck as she held him close.

Ranulf stood absolutely still. His arms stayed stiffly at his sides and he made no effort at all to return her embrace, although she fit against him perfectly.

Too perfectly.

He ordered himself to feel nothing, even when her lips were so close to his skin. He would pay no heed to the softness of her womanly curves against him. He would not think about her bright eyes and lovely features, or the way her mouth opened when she smiled, or notice the delicate scent of lavender that lingered about her. He would remember that she was sweet and innocent and pure—and he was not.

“Yes, it is a momentous occasion,” he replied evenly. He gently disengaged her arms. She was surely too naive to realize the effect that sort of physical act could have on a man. “But alas, my duties remain. If you’ll excuse me, my lady, I should give the men the watchword for tonight. I think it will be ‘son and heir.’”

“That’s wonderful!” she cried, apparently not at all nonplused by his lack of response to her embrace. “And you’re quite right. We mustn’t let everything come to a complete halt.”

She turned to the equally pleased servants, some of whom had been in the hall, and others who had heard the news and hurried there. “Back to work, all of you,” she ordered, the force of her command somewhat diminished by her merry eyes and dimpled cheeks.

Then she put her slender hands on Ranulf’s forearm and smiled up into his face. “Oh, Ranulf,” she said with the same happy enthusiasm, “he has the sweetest blue eyes, just like his mother’s. Aeda says all babies have blue eyes, but I think they’ll always be blue. And the way they crinkle when he cries! It’s so adorable!”

Ranulf was tempted to lift her slender hands from his arm to stop the torment of her touch, but he didn’t want to draw any attention to his discomfort. “I daresay the crying will become less adorable in the next few weeks.”

“It means his lungs are strong and healthy,” Beatrice replied, her tone cheerfully chastising. “He started to whimper right away and then he let out such a cry, the midwife said, ‘There’s nothing wrong with this boy’s lungs, that’s for certain.’”

Beatrice leaned against Ranulf, bringing her breasts into contact with his arm. “That’s how we learned it was a boy. You should have seen Constance’s face!”

Beatrice gripped him a little harder and he was uncomfortably reminded of the sort of force a woman sometimes exerted in the throes of passion.

Sweet heaven, how long was this torture going to last?

“Constance started to cry and then she laughed and said Merrick claimed he didn’t care if it was a boy or a girl, but she had prayed and prayed for a boy. I think it would have been too mean of God to deny her prayers after all she went through with Merrick’s father, don’t you?”

“I think God moves in mysterious ways,” Ranulf replied as he finally pulled away and reached for Merrick’s goblet and offered it to the breathless Beatrice. It was one way to part from her, and he was very careful to ensure that his hand did not touch hers when she gratefully accepted it.

As she drank, he noticed the dark circles of fatigue beneath her eyes, and that she was far too pale. “You should rest,” he said with a displeased frown.

“Oh, I’m not at all tired!” she exclaimed. “And it’s such a wonderful day—although now I confess I was very worried and afraid some of the time, not like Constance, who didn’t seem frightened at all. She asked me quite calmly to tell her all the gossip and when I’d told her everything I could think of, she suggested I tell her the stories of King Arthur she likes best.” Beatrice beamed proudly. “She told me I was a great help—and Aeda only asked me to be quiet once!”

The midwife must be a model of patience, and Constance was kind. If he was lying in pain, he wouldn’t want Beatrice hovering near the bed, bathing his heated brow, or offering him food and drink, perhaps whispering a few soothing words in his ear…

He mentally shook his head. He must be fatigued himself if he was envisioning Beatrice nursing him and thinking it might be pleasant. For one thing, she’d never be able to sit still.

“If you’ll excuse me, Lady Beatrice,” he said, “I really must go. I’ve wasted enough of the day already.”

“I wouldn’t call sitting with your friend at such a time a waste. I’m sure Merrick was very grateful for your company.”

“Be that as it may,” Ranulf replied, “I really must be about my duties. Until this evening, my lady,” he finished with another bow. “After you’ve had a nap, I hope.”

She put her hands on her slender hips, reminding him—as if he needed it!—that she had a very shapely figure. “I’m not an infant to be taking naps. You seem to forget, Sir Ranulf, that I’m old enough to be married and have children myself.”

“Rest assured, my lady, I’m very aware of your age,” Ranulf said before he made another bow, turned and strode out of the hall.

“What’s that devil’s spawn been saying to you?”

CHAPTER TWO

SUBDUING A GRIMACE, Beatrice turned to find her former nurse behind her. There were times Beatrice found Maloren trying, even though Maloren had been like a second mother to her after her own had died when she was very young.

For one thing, Maloren hated men, and red-haired ones most of all. Right now she was scowling as fiercely as an irate fishmonger with a basket full of spoiled salmon, and Beatrice prepared for a tirade before she answered. “He was telling me I look tired and ought to take a nap.”

Maloren shook her finger at Beatrice. “I knew it! He was trying to get you into his bed, that rogue! Haven’t I warned you a hundred times, my lamb, my dear? Stay away from that scoundrel with his red hair and those devil eyes. He’ll ruin you if you’re not careful.”

Beatrice subdued a mournful sigh. Little did Maloren know—for Beatrice was certainly not going to tell her—but that was exactly what Beatrice wanted: to share Ranulf’s bed.

If her father hadn’t been a traitor, she could have hoped to become Ranulf’s wife. Unfortunately, thanks to her father’s treacherous ambition, she no longer had any chance for that. Even though her cousin and her husband had seen to it she’d kept her title and even offered to provide a dowry, she was still no bridal prize. Ranulf could—and should—aim higher when it came to taking a wife.

That meant the best Beatrice could hope for was to be his lover. And how she did hope! With his lean, angular features, powerful warrior’s body, and intelligent hazel eyes, Ranulf was the most attractive man she’d ever met. He also moved with a graceful, athletic gait no other man possessed. Moreover, he was Lord Merrick’s trusted friend and a chivalrous, honorable knight.

Yet therein lay the problem. Because he was such an honorable man, Ranulf would never attempt to seduce a friend’s relative, not even if she wanted him to, or if he shared her desire.

“I’ve seen the way that Ranulf watches you sometimes,” Maloren grumbled, her features twisting as if she’d eaten something sour. “I know what’s on his mind.”

Beatrice nearly gasped aloud. Maloren hadn’t meant to be encouraging, but Beatrice’s heart seemed to take wing. Perhaps she wasn’t wrong to hope, after all, and her dearest dream could come true.

Although Ranulf treated her with an aloof courtesy most of the time, there had been times when Beatrice, too, thought he looked at her as if he felt the same strong longing she did and might even act upon it. Last Christmas, after they had danced a round dance together, they had somehow, by mutual unspoken consent, moved away from the other dancers until they were in a shadowed corner out of sight. She had turned to him to say something—she couldn’t remember what—and found him regarding her with a look of such…such…implication, she had immediately been struck speechless, silently thrilled beyond anything she had ever known.

Her body had responded, too, warming beneath his gaze. Softening. Her heartbeat quickened and her lips parted, ready for his kiss. She craved his lips upon hers, as if there was nothing more important in all the world.

But then he’d drawn back and that indifferent mask had returned, and he had offered, in a cool, offhand way, to fetch her some mulled wine.

She feared she’d imagined his look of longing. She found it easy to imagine him raising one quizzical brow and rejecting her with cutting sarcasm or laughing at her for thinking she could ever be attractive to a man like him. Maybe, she’d feared, he was only tolerating her because she was Constance’s cousin and she was being vain to think he could ever want her.

Yet she had also wondered if he’d withdrawn because he would never give in to his desire for a friend’s relative unless they were honorably married.

Whatever her hopes and fears regarding Ranulf, she didn’t dare betray them to Maloren. She didn’t want everyone in the castle to hear Maloren’s cries of dismay, followed by curses, accusations and denunciations. She wanted to be able to retain some shred of dignity if Ranulf didn’t want her after all.

Nevertheless, Beatrice couldn’t help smiling when she said, “Sir Ranulf’s mind is on his duties. He’s rightly gone about them, and so should I. I should ensure Gaston has made suitable dishes to build up Constance’s strength. Aeda says Constance should have some ale, as well. You may come with me to the kitchen or not, as you choose.”

“That Gaston puts far too many spices in his sauces,” Maloren complained as she followed. “Does he think Lord Merrick richer than the king? I’m surprised we don’t all have bellyaches every day.”

Since Maloren ate most of the sauces she was complaining about, Beatrice made no reply. Instead, she wondered what she should wear to the evening meal, when she would be sitting beside Ranulf.

BEATRICE DISCOVERED it didn’t matter what she wore. Ranulf barely looked at her at all; his attention was focused mainly on the food. To be fair, Gaston, who’d been as happy as everyone in Tregellas about the birth, had outdone himself. There were cunning puddings and savory stews of leeks and mutton, rich pastries and venison roasted to perfection, along with several kinds of fish and a dish made of eggs and breadcrumbs so deliciously and delicately spiced, not even Maloren could find fault with it.

Beatrice tried not to be hurt by Ranulf’s lack of attendance on her. After all, he never made much conversation during a meal. But surely tonight, when they had such a wonderful thing to talk about, he could make more of an effort instead of leaving her to carry on the conversation all by herself.

Eventually, worried that she was irritating him with her chatter, she fell silent.

Ranulf didn’t seem to notice that, either.

A short time later, Merrick arrived in the hall, bringing with him his grandfather Peder, for whom the heir of Tregellas was to be named. Beatrice retired shortly after that and left the three men drinking toasts to the future lord. Merrick bid her a jovial good- night, and Peder told her to sleep well. Ranulf merely sipped his wine and watched her turn away, as if he didn’t care one way or another if she stayed or went.

Perhaps she was wrong after all to think that Ranulf felt any kind of affection or desire for her. Maybe what she thought she saw didn’t exist outside her own hopeful imagination.

No doubt she would do better to try not to want him. Surely there were other men…there must be other men who could stir her heart. Somewhere.

Disturbed and dismayed, and although she’d been summoned to Constance’s bedchamber very early that morning, she couldn’t fall asleep.

When Maloren, lying on the pallet near her door, began to snore, Beatrice quietly got out of bed. She drew her bed robe on over her shift and shoved her feet into her fur-lined slippers.

What would happen if she went to Ranulf now? she wondered. Would he welcome her or regard her with horror? Take what she offered or send her away and, in the morning, tell Merrick that his ward was a wanton who ought to be sent to a convent?

A thud, followed by a muffled curse, interrupted her turbulent thoughts. She immediately glanced at Maloren, who was mercifully still asleep, in part because she had always slept soundly and also because she was lying on her good ear.

There was another muttered curse, followed by a low groan. Beatrice was sure she recognized that voice, and that Ranulf was in some pain. She hurried to the door and eased it open, holding her breath as Maloren shifted and began to snore louder.

Moonlight streamed in through the narrow arched windows, lighting the corridor and Ranulf, sitting with his back against the wall, his legs outstretched and a rather baffled look on his face. At the evening meal he’d been wearing a black woolen tunic over a white linen shirt, black breeches and boots. After she’d retired, he’d obviously taken off the black tunic and loosened the ties at the neck of his shirt. Now it gaped open to reveal his muscular chest and the reddish-brown hairs growing there.

“Can you help me to my feet, my angel?” he asked with a decidedly drunken grin, his words slurred as he slackly held out his hand.

Beatrice had never seen Ranulf in his cups before, and she didn’t doubt celebrating with Merrick explained his state now. Even so, if he didn’t get into his chamber soon, he might wake Maloren, and her annoyed reaction would surely rouse the household.

Beatrice hurried to put her shoulder beneath his arm to help him rise. Unfortunately, he made no effort to move except to shake his head and say, “I don’t think this’s quite right. You ought to be in bed.”

“I’m not going to leave you here in the corridor. And please be quiet, or Maloren might hear you.”

“That old witch,” Ranulf muttered with a frown. “Keeps calling me the devil’s spawn. As if I could help who my father was.” He began to get to his feet, leaning heavily on her. “But no, we don’t want to wake her, Bea, my beauty.”

He had called her an angel and “his” beauty, and Bea. Not even Constance used that diminutive of her name. Perhaps he really did like her, after all.

As they started toward his chamber, which was at the far end of the corridor, he mumbled, “D’you suppose she’s met my father? Or my brothers? They used to beat me to see who could make me cry first, you know. Sort of a contest.”

Beatrice knew almost nothing about Ranulf’s past, except that he had trained with Merrick under the tutelage of Sir Leonard de Brissy, and that he, Merrick and their other friend, Henry, had sworn to be brothers-in-arms for life. That was why Ranulf had come with Merrick to Tregellas, why he’d accepted the post of garrison commander at his friend’s request, and why he was still there.

“No pity, my little Lady Bea,” he warned as he waggled a finger at her. “I won’t have it. Don’t need it. They made me strong, you see.”

What was there to say to that, especially when she had to get him to his chamber undetected? Although she didn’t have to support his full weight, he was no light burden.

Ranulf suddenly came to a halt and tried to push her away. “You should be in bed. Sleeping.”

“I’ll sleep later.”

He leaned dizzily against the wall. “All by yourself.”

“Yes. Now come, Ranulf, and let me help you to your chamber.”

She tried to take his arm, but he slid away. “My bed. Where I’ll be all by myself, too. Where I’m always by myself. No mistresses for me. No lovers. Just the occasional whore in town, because a man has needs, my lady.”

“I really have no wish to stand here in the middle of the night and hear about your women,” Beatrice said with a hint of frustration. “Now come along, or I may be forced to leave you.”

He lurched forward and threw his arm around her shoulder, making her stagger. “In that case, lead on, my lovely lady. Don’t want to be left again. No, never again.”

When had he been “left”? She longed to ask him, but his words were coming more slowly and were harder to make out. If she didn’t get him to bed soon, she might have no choice but to leave him in the corridor.

Fortunately, they made it to his chamber without further interruptions. She shoved open the door with her shoulder and together they staggered into the room.

He tilted backward and she grabbed him about the waist to keep him upright. As he regained his balance, she was acutely aware that if anybody saw them, it would look as if they were in a lover’s embrace. Unfortunately, she couldn’t reach the door, not even to kick it shut with her foot.

Ranulf looked down at her, his eyes not quite focused. “Well, well, well,” he murmured, and she could smell the wine on his breath, “what have we here? Bea in my bedchamber, looking very bedable.”

He leaned forward as if he was about to kiss her and gave her a sodden grin. “If you only knew the thoughts I have about you sometimes, my dear, you’d steer very clear of me. I may not be the devil, but I’m certainly no saint.”

No doubt he thought he was warning her, telling her to beware his animal lust.

His lust didn’t frighten her. Indeed, she wished they could be this close, in this chamber, when he was sober.

Who could say when she would ever be alone with him again, when there would be no irate Maloren watching, or other servants wandering by? Why not show him how she felt now?

Determined, excited, yet hardly believing that she was about to be so bold, Beatrice raised herself on her toes and whispered, “And if you, my lord, only knew some of the dreams I’ve had about you.”

And then she kissed him, brushing her lips against his as she had dreamed of doing so many times. For an instant, he stiffened and then, with a low moan that seemed to come from the depths of his soul, he gathered her into his arms. Holding her close, his lips moved over hers with a yearning, passionate hunger, while his hands pressed her closer. They were like two lovers alone at last, and she eagerly surrendered to the burning desire coursing through her body.

This was what she’d hoped for, dreamed of—this touch, this taste, this kiss, these caresses. This was the embrace, the imagined feelings, that had haunted her dreams, both sleeping and waking. This was what she’d imagined since even before Christmas, when she wanted Ranulf to take her in his strong arms and kiss her until morning.

Very much in the present, the tip of his tongue pushed against her lips. She willingly parted them to allow him to deepen the kiss in a way that made her passion flare.

She moaned with sheer pleasure. She had never been happier, or more excited.

He suddenly reared as if she’d struck him. “Stop it,” he cried as he reeled toward the bed. “Leave me alone!”

He was so angry, when before he’d been so passionate. Why had he changed? Had he suddenly remembered who she was? Was he appalled because she was Constance’s cousin and his friend’s ward—or because she was Beatrice? “Ranulf, please! What is it?”

He sat heavily on the bed and put his head in his hands. “Just go!”

Tears starting in her eyes, Beatrice turned and fled without another word.

“I KNEW THERE’D BE trouble, the three of them drinking like farmhands at a feast day,” Maloren said as she came bustling into Beatrice’s chamber the next morning, a bucket of steaming water in her hands.

“Trouble? What sort of trouble?” Beatrice demanded, instantly wide-awake and worried that Maloren had somehow learned about her disastrous, humiliating encounter with Ranulf.

After leaving his chamber, she’d run back to her own and climbed into her bed, where she’d silently cried herself to sleep, all her lovely dreams like ashes in a dust heap and the memory of that incredible kiss ruined forever by her shame.

As Maloren set down the bucket and proceeded to straighten the combs and ribbons lying on her dressing table, Beatrice relaxed a little. Maloren couldn’t have found out that she’d been with Ranulf, or she’d be berating her.

“Lord Merrick took a tumble getting his grandfather home last night—the two of them drunk and singing songs at the top of their lungs, or so I hear,” Maloren announced. “Lady Constance had to send for the apothecary.”

Sending for the apothecary meant that Merrick’s injury might be serious. Her own troubles momentarily forgotten, Beatrice threw back the covers and got out of bed. “I hope he’s not badly hurt.”

“It’s a clean break, the apothecary says, and should mend nicely if Lord Merrick keeps off his leg. Maybe now old Peder will come to live here as he should, instead of in that cottage of his. Many’s the time I’ve said—”

“The apothecary’s been and gone?” Beatrice interrupted as she went to the chest holding her gowns.

Maloren gave her an indulgent smile. “Lord love you, my lamb, it’s nearly the noon. You needed your rest, so I let you sleep.”

Perhaps that was just as well. She wasn’t sure what she would have said or done if she’d met Ranulf at mass, Beatrice thought as she lifted the chest’s lid. “Constance must have been upset. I should go to her at once.”

“She’ll be glad of your company, I’m sure, and she’s going to have her hands full keeping Lord Merrick still, I don’t doubt. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s grumbling already. That’s menfolk for you—big babies the lot of them when they get hurt or take sick. If they had to bear children, they’d be whining forever. But first you ought to get something to eat, my lamb. Gaston should have a nice porridge waiting. I told him to keep it warm.”

“At least Ranulf is here to command the garrison,” Beatrice noted as she pulled out the uppermost gown made of a soft, leaf-green wool. “We need have no fear that anyone would dare attack, even if they hear Merrick’s injured.”

Maloren sniffed. “That devil of a Sir Ranulf rode out at first light, and good riddance.”

Beatrice couldn’t hide her shock as she turned to stare at Maloren. Fear and shame shot through her, combining with her guilt. She didn’t think anyone had seen her, but she’d been distraught when she’d left Ranulf’s chamber. Perhaps a wakeful servant or a guard on the wall walk had noticed her and told Constance or Merrick.

If that was so and they had sent Ranulf away because of what had happened last night, she must explain that Ranulf was innocent of any immoral intentions and ask them to summon him home. Anything improper that had happened between her and Ranulf had been all her doing, and she would tell them so, no matter how humiliating that would be. “Why did he go?”

“Didn’t you hear? Lord Merrick’s made him the castellan of Penterwell,” Maloren answered as she helped Beatrice into her gown.

Beatrice nearly sank to the floor with relief. That wasn’t a punishment. That was a reward. So why hadn’t he told her during the evening meal, instead of sitting so silently beside her?

Perhaps Ranulf thought she already knew. Demelza and the other servants had probably assumed the same.

What must Ranulf have thought as she babbled away about Constance and the baby without ever once mentioning his well-deserved reward and subsequent departure? That she didn’t care?

“Although why Lord Merrick did that, I don’t know,” Maloren muttered as she tied the laces of Beatrice’s gown. “That fall must have addled his wits. Everybody knows you can’t trust people with red hair. And him with those sly, foxy eyes, too. Next thing you know, that Ranulf’ll be stealing this castle out from under Lord Merrick’s very nose.”

Beatrice whirled around to face Maloren. Whether Maloren was her treasured almost-mother or not, Beatrice couldn’t allow such an accusation, unfounded as it was, to pass unremarked. “You know Ranulf would never do such a thing, or even think it. He’s a good and loyal friend to Merrick.”

Maloren flushed. It wasn’t often Beatrice spoke or acted like the titled lady and daughter of an imperious father she was, but when she did, Maloren dutifully deferred to her mistress. “Forgive me, my lamb. I’m only worried for Lord Merrick’s sake.”

“Lord Merrick is more than capable of managing his estate without your assistance and if he sees fit to make Ranulf a castellan, that should be more than enough for you—or anyone.”

Maloren suddenly looked every one of her years. “Don’t be angry with me, my lamb, my own,” she pleaded, wringing her work-worn hands. “You can’t see it, I suppose, but he’s just like your father when he was young. Handsome as the devil, and witty and clever. Slick as lamp oil in a puddle.”

She took Beatrice’s hands in her callused ones and regarded her charge with loving concern. “He had your mother in love with him in a week and made her his wife in a fortnight.” Maloren’s hands squeezed tighter as her voice grew full of sorrow. “But oh, the pain he brought her! First he killed her joy, and finally her spirit, till even her love for her baby couldn’t give her strength against illness.”

Maloren let go of Beatrice as a fiercely protective gleam came into her eyes. “I won’t let any man hurt you as your father did your mother.”

This was the first time Maloren had ever spoken of her mother’s fate, and it hurt Beatrice to hear how her mother had suffered. Yet she had always supposed her mother’s life hadn’t been a happy one. Her father had loved no one but himself. He cared only about wealth and power. He’d been pleased his daughter was pretty, because that made her a more valuable prize to offer. She had been a thing to be traded, sold or bartered.

How much worse her life would have been if she’d not had Maloren to love and comfort her in her poor mother’s place!

Overwhelmed with gratitude, she hugged Maloren tightly. “I’m sorry I lost my temper with you, Maloren. I love you as if you were my own mother.” She drew back and looked up into the beloved, wrinkled face and pale gray eyes. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Bless you, my lamb, I do, and I love you as if you were my own daughter.”

Beatrice once again embraced her former nurse, feeling as she had when she was a little girl and her father had shooed her away as if she were nothing more to him than one of his hounds. Maloren’s arms had brought comfort and security then, while her father had brought her only sorrow, heartache and, eventually, disgrace.

What honorable knight would want such a man’s daughter? No wonder Ranulf had left without even saying goodbye.

CHAPTER THREE

HIS ACHING HEAD WAS a just punishment for too much celebrating, Ranulf thought as he rode wearily along the coast of Cornwall over a very rocky road, doing his best to keep his destrier firmly in check. Titan was a lively beast, which usually suited Ranulf. Not for him a stolid warhorse, although there were those who preferred a calmer animal. Ranulf wanted a horse with spirit, one that was ready to fight and willing to attack with the lightest touch of his master’s heels.

Today, however, a less frisky mount would have been welcome.

Ranulf knew he should have retired long before he did, even if Merrick had been in a rare and boisterous mood last night. Henry would never believe the way their usually grim and silent friend had laughed and joked, especially once his grandfather—a fine old fellow—began to toast his great-grandson, the future lord of Tregellas, as well as his namesake. Peder had been justly proud and insisted they salute everyone from the king down to the maid who kept their goblets full, until they’d finally parted, Merrick helping his grandfather back to his cottage while Ranulf staggered up to his spartan bedchamber.

Not that he could remember actually getting to his bedchamber.

Once asleep, he’d had the most devilishly disturbing dreams, too, all featuring Bea. Sometimes she was making merry with him, toasting and eating and dancing, and it was Christmas. Sometimes she was undressed and in his bed, and they were making love. The most vivid dream of all, however, had taken place in his bedchamber. She’d been dressed as she’d been at the evening meal, in a lovely blue gown that clung to her shapely body, and she’d been kissing him. He’d returned her kiss with all the passion she aroused in him.

That one had seemed particularly vivid…

He wouldn’t think about Bea, or what she might have said if he’d gone to bid her farewell that morning, just as he must not think of her as anything other than his friend’s wife’s lively and pretty cousin. To believe otherwise, despite what he thought he saw in her eyes sometimes, was surely only vanity and pride. He was a knight, but a poor one, with no estate and little money. Anything he had he owed to his prowess with a sword and his friends’ generosity. What had he to offer a vibrant, beautiful woman like Bea, who could hope to win the heart of many a better, richer man?

With such disgruntled thoughts to plague him, Ranulf surveyed the windswept moor around him. Over a low ridge, the sea was just out of sight, if not quite beyond smell. In the distance, gulls whirled slowly, white and gray against the blue sky, telling him where the frothy, roiling water surged and beat against the helpless shore.

His thoughts fled from the awful open water back to Tregellas. He hoped Merrick’s injury wasn’t serious. Merrick had assured him before he’d departed that it was just a bad sprain and Constance, being a woman, had overreacted when she sent for the apothecary. No doubt the apothecary would agree when he arrived and examined Merrick’s swollen limb.

Since all the men trained by Sir Leonard had learned something about wounds, sprains and breaks, Ranulf accepted his friend’s opinion and, instead of worrying about Merrick’s leg, envisioned Bea telling everyone about the accident and pestering the apothecary with questions.

Scowling and determined to stop thinking about Bea, Ranulf drew Titan to a halt and twisted in the saddle, gesturing for Myghal to come beside him. Maybe talking about the situation at his new command would help him concentrate on what lay ahead and not what he’d left behind.

“Tell me about Sir Frioc’s accident,” he said as he nudged Titan into a walk after the undersheriff arrived beside him.

“It’s like I told Lord Merrick,” Myghal replied with obvious reluctance. “He was out hunting—”

“With whom?”

Myghal’s brow furrowed. “There was Hedyn, and me, and Yestin and Terithien—men of his household. We often went hunting with him, my lord. Penterwell’s a peaceful sort of place, so there wasn’t a lot for us to do otherwise.’ Twas no different that day— except for Sir Frioc dying, of course.”

Ranulf heard the sorrow and dismay in the younger man’s voice. “It’s never easy to lose a friend, or someone we respect. We all need time to mourn such a loss, but at least we have our memories of better days to sustain us.”

With a heavy sigh, Myghal nodded.

“Sir Frioc must have liked and trusted you, to have you in his hunting party.”

That brought a smile to Myghal’s face. “Aye, sir, he did. He was a kind man, and after my father died, he treated me…well, not like a son, exactly, but very well indeed.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t know him better myself,” Ranulf answered honestly, thinking of his own youth and the man who’d been a better, second father to him.

Myghal’s face resumed its grim expression. “And all because of a rabbit.”

“That does seem a small beast for such a chase.”

“Aye, sir,’ twas. But we’d had no luck that day finding anything bigger, and we were on our way home when the dogs started fussing and Sir Frioc spotted this big rabbit. And he was big! So my lord laughed and said he’d be damned if he’d have fish again for his dinner and spurred his horse to give chase. The rabbit took off like a shot from a bow. By the time the dogs were loosed, we’d lost sight of Sir Frioc. His tracks were easy enough to follow, though, and we come to a dip in the hill, and there he was.” Myghal swallowed hard. “He was just lying there on the ground, his eyes wide open and he looked so surprised….”

Ranulf took pity on the man and changed the subject. “It’s been a while since I’ve been to Penterwell. I assume little else has changed in the past few months.”

Rather unexpectedly, Myghal flushed. “Some things have, my lord.”

“Such as?”

“Well, sir, Gwenbritha went home to her mother.”

Myghal seemed to think Ranulf would know who this was, but no one came immediately to mind.

“Sir Frioc’s leman, sir,” Myghal clarified. “They quarreled and she left him.”

Ranulf didn’t want gossip. On the other hand, a lover scorned could mean trouble. He knew full well that honor and wisdom could be subverted by the need to regain one’s wounded pride. “What did they argue about?”

“I heard she wanted him to marry her, and he wouldn’t, so she left him. She said she wasn’t never coming back, neither.”

“Has she been seen around the village since?”

“No, sir, she’s been true to that. Sir Frioc, well, he, um, didn’t take it too well. He tried to pretend he wasn’t upset, but he spent a lot of time hunting, or sitting in the hall…thinking.”

“Thinking, or drinking?” Ranulf asked. A man in sorrow often imbibed more than he should, as he also knew from personal experience.

“Well, sir, drinking,” Myghal admitted.

“The day he died—had he been drinking then?”

Myghal shook his head. “No, sir, not so’s you’d notice. He’d had some ale when he broke the fast and a few tugs at the wineskin while we tried to find some game, but he wasn’t drunk, if that’s what you mean. He could hold his drink, too. Why, many’s the night I saw him…well, sir, he could hold his drink.”

Which didn’t mean Frioc wasn’t the worse for wine or ale when he died, Ranulf thought. But he would say no more about Frioc now. He would ask the sheriff later.

They rode over a small rise, and there in the distance, close to the turbulent sea, was the castle of Penterwell. Its gray stone walls rose up from the cliff upon which it sat as if they’d grown there, and gulls wheeled in the sky above like pale vultures. Ranulf knew that there was a village on the other side of the castle, where its great walls afforded some protection from the winds that blew off the sea and churned the white-capped waves. Even from here he could hear those waves crashing on the rocks at the foot of the cliff.

Of all the places he could have been given as castellan! This must be God’s idea of a jest—or perhaps a punishment—to have Penterwell so close to the sea.

Realizing Myghal was eyeing him curiously, Ranulf gave the fellow a genial smile. “I’m in need of a warm fire and a good meal.”

A flicker of dread flashed across Myghal’s face.

“You think I’ll not be welcome in Penterwell?” Ranulf asked, his tone deceptively mild, “or do you fear someone might try to prevent my arrival?”

“Oh, no, sir, no, it’s nothing like that,” Myghal hastened to reply. “It’s just that, like I said, after Gwenbritha left, things aren’t what they were. Penterwell might not be as comfortable as you’re used to.”

Myghal could have no idea of some of the places Ranulf had laid his head in days gone by.

“I daresay I’ll manage,” the new castellan of Penterwell replied, and as he did, something on the shore at the bottom of the cliff caught his eye.

“What are those men doing?” he asked, nodding at the group.

His expression puzzled, Myghal half rose in his stirrups. “I don’t know, sir.”

“Can you tell who they are?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I suppose we had better find out,” Ranulf said.

He kicked Titan into a gallop and headed toward the shore.

And the cruel, unforgiving sea.

THE SHERIFF spotted Ranulf, Myghal and the rest of the castellan’s escort as they drew near, recognizing Lord Merrick’s friend at once. Like their overlord, Sir Ranulf was very well trained and a fierce fighter, and his ruddy hair made him easy to distinguish. Hedyn also knew that Sir Ranulf had been made garrison commander of Tregellas and, in the few months he’d been in that position, had wrought an amazing change in the men under his command. They were now said to be the equal of any army in England, and if the lord of Tregellas had any enemies, they would surely think twice before attacking his fortress.

Even so, the sheriff had expected Lord Merrick himself to come in answer to his laboriously written letter, not his garrison commander, so it was with a mixture of respect, disappointment and curiosity that Hedyn approached Sir Ranulf and his party.

“Greetings, Sir Ranulf,” he said, his black cloak fluttering about him in the wind as he bowed. “As pleased as I am to see you again, I wish we were meeting under happier circumstances.”

“As do I,” Ranulf returned as he swung down from his horse.

“Begging your pardon and meaning no offense, I expected Lord Merrick to come.”

“If I were in your place, I would expect him, too,” Ranulf replied. “Unfortunately, Lord Merrick was a little overzealous celebrating the birth of his son and injured his leg. Since I’m to be the new castellan, I’ve come in his place.”

Hedyn’s eyes widened. “Well, it’s a pity he hurt his leg, but it’s good news about a son.” He bowed again. “Welcome to Penterwell, my lord. It’s too bad you’ve got to take command when we’re having some trouble. How’s Lady Constance?”

“I’m happy to report that Lady Constance came through the experience very well indeed.” As Bea had made vivaciously clear before, during and after the evening meal when she made no mention of his imminent departure. Either she hadn’t known— which he didn’t think likely—or she hadn’t cared as much as he thought she might. God help him, it would be vanity of the most deluded kind to hope such a woman would ever consider him for a husband!

Turning his attention to more important matters than his own foolish dreams, Ranulf nodded at the group of men now facing him, their bodies shielding something on the ground. “What have you been looking at?”

All trace of good humor left the sheriff’s face. “It’s Gawan, my lord, a fisherman from Penterwell. One of the lads found him this morning. He’s drowned.”

Drowned.

Ranulf closed his eyes as he fought the pure terror that word invoked. He pushed away the memory of strong hands holding him down while salt water filled his nostrils, his mouth, his throat. The panic, the struggle, the sudden surge of strength as he fought to get away…

Hedyn continued matter-of-factly, not realizing he was addressing a man with the sweat of fear chilling upon his back. “Two days ago he put out like always and when he didn’t come back, nobody ’cept his wife was too worried. And then a boy found his body washed up here this morning.”

“Why didn’t anybody else wonder about his wellbeing?”

The sheriff hesitated, glancing first at Myghal, who was still sitting on his horse, then toward the silent group of men in simple fisherman’s smocks and breeches.

Ranulf could guess why Hedyn didn’t have a ready answer. The man had probably been a smuggler as well as a fisherman. Smuggling tin out of Cornwall had a long history here on the coast.

Ranulf clapped a hand on Hedyn’s shoulder and led him away from the group of men, the corpse and the sea. “I’m well aware that most of the fishermen are also smugglers,” he said quietly. “Lord Merrick is aware of it, too, as was Frioc. So if you’re reluctant to tell me you think this Gawan was meeting someone to exchange tin for money or other goods, you need not be.”

The sheriff nodded. “Aye, sir, that’s what we thought—that he’d gone to make an exchange and been delayed. Like I said, one night didn’t trouble anyone except his wife, who’s heavy with their first child and prone to worry like all women in such a state. In truth, I was more concerned about Sir Frioc’s death and my letter to Lord Merrick. But when Gawan didn’t return after another night, we all began to wonder if something’d gone amiss. He was out alone, too.”

Alone in a boat at sea. Ranulf subdued a shiver, and it was not from the breeze.

“But the weather was clear and there’s no sign of his boat. It’s strange to find his body but not so much as a board or rope from his boat.”

“Are you saying you think his death was the result of foul play?”

Hedyn rubbed his grizzled chin. “Aye, sir. Two other men have gone missing, as well.”

Perhaps this was the “trouble” Frioc had alluded to, but if so, Frioc should certainly have informed Merrick.

“Nobody thought too much about that at the time, sir,” Hedyn said as if in answer to Ranulf’s unspoken question. “Rob and Sam weren’t from Penterwell, you see, and only came to stay in the winter months.”

He gave Ranulf a look, as one worldly-wise man to another. “They weren’t the kind to stay close to hearth and home, or their wives, if you follow me. And there’d been some trouble between them and some of the other fishermen. Most of the villagers thought they’d just sailed off before they were forced to go—and good riddance to ’em. Their wives were as relieved as anybody.”

That might explain why Frioc had not considered their absence important, but taken with this new death… “Gawan was not of that sort?”

“Lord bless you, no,” Hedyn replied, shaking his head. “He loved his wife dear, and she him. They’ve been sweethearts since they were little, and he was looking forward to the child.”

Which didn’t mean he couldn’t have left her, no matter how he acted in public, or what vows of love he swore.

“It may be Gawan took a risk because he thought they’d need more money with a babe on the way.” The sheriff sighed. “Poor lad. It wouldn’t be the first time one of those French pirates has done murder for a man’s tin.”

“I suppose we should be grateful his body washed ashore,” Ranulf mused as they started back toward the men. “Otherwise, we might never have known what happened to him.”

“It’s damned odd,” Hedyn retorted.

Ranulf halted and regarded Hedyn quizzically, taken aback by the force of the sheriff’s words. “How so?”

“Well, sir, when a man drowns in the sea, his body sinks like a stone. It can take days for it to bloat and come up again, and when it’s in the sea…well, it can drift for miles before it washes up, if there’s anything left to wash up by then. This is more like he was killed first and then thrown over the side. But there’s not a mark on him. Come see for yourself.”

Ranulf’s stomach twisted. He’d seen men killed, their faces ruined, limbs torn and bloody. He could deal with that. But to look at a drowned man’s corpse…

Ranulf would not show any weakness. He would give no sign that he would rather face fifty mounted knights while armed with only a dagger than follow the sheriff to the body that lay upon the shore.

A SENNIGHT LATER, Beatrice watched Gaston sprinkle thyme over meat, gravy and leeks in an open pastry shell.

“The secret, my lady, is in the spices,” Gaston explained as he added a pinch of rosemary. “Too much, and you lose the taste of the pheasant, too little and it’s too much pheasant, if you understand me.”

Beatrice nodded as she studied Gaston’s technique. The slim middle-aged man had been the cook for Lord Merrick’s father, too, and had the worry lines in his face to prove it. These days, though, Gaston smiled far more than he frowned. Lord Merrick was a generous master who appreciated good food, and he never once accused the cook of trying to poison him.

As for a lady’s presence in the castle kitchen, Beatrice enjoyed being in the warm room, with its bustling servants and pleasant aromas. In the days since Ranulf had gone, she’d spent plenty of time with Gaston and the servants there. She had also whiled away several hours sitting with Constance, making clothes for the baby and retelling the stories of King Arthur and his knights that she loved, even though they made her think of the absent Ranulf. He claimed he didn’t enjoy those tales one bit. He called Lancelot an immoral, disloyal dolt whose battle prowess had gone to his head, and he thought Arthur much too generous to his traitorous son.

Ranulf had no sympathy for traitors. As for a traitor’s daughter…

Demelza, middle-aged and amiable, and a servant who could always be counted on to have the latest gossip, appeared at the door to the courtyard. She grinned when she spotted Beatrice.

She also noticed Maloren, slumbering in the warm corner near the hearth. Like everyone in Tregellas, Demelza knew that the very mention of Ranulf’s name could cause Maloren to launch into one of her tirades against men, so she approached Beatrice as stealthily as a spy and addressed her in a hushed whisper. “A messenger’s arrived, my lady. From Penterwell. I come the moment I heard, my lady, just like you asked.”

“Thank you,” Beatrice said, trying not to sound overly excited or wake Maloren as she wiped her floury hands on a cloth. “It’s so difficult for Lord Merrick to have to sit all day. Tidings from Penterwell should cheer him up. And I daresay Constance will want to hear the news. I’ll look after little Peder for her, and then they can have some time alone, too.”

She gave Demelza and the other servants a knowing smile. “I’m sure they’ll like that.”

The servants shared a quiet, companionable chuckle. Rarely had anyone seen a couple more in love than the lord and lady of Tregellas.

Beatrice, meanwhile, hurried on her way, glad that Maloren was still sleeping and hadn’t awakened and offered to go with her.

Merrick and Constance would indeed be glad to have news of Penterwell and Ranulf, but not so much as she. In the days since Ranulf had departed, Beatrice had had plenty of time to mull over what had happened the night they’d kissed, and her hopes had started to revive. In spite of what had happened just before they parted, Ranulf had certainly been passionate when they began. He’d surrendered to his desire just as she had. Unfortunately for her, as the yearning flared and the need grew, he must have remembered that honorable men didn’t make love with ladies to whom they weren’t at least betrothed. It could be that, as she’d felt ashamed and humiliated afterward, so had he when he broke the kiss.

If he were still here, she would be able to tell him that he had no need to condemn himself for what she had initiated. She could say she was sorry if he’d been upset, but she couldn’t regret their kiss, not when she cared about him as she did. She would finally be able to tell him how she felt.

But he wasn’t here, and until she could speak to him again, she must keep her desire and her hopes to herself as she had before.

When Beatrice arrived at the lord’s bedchamber, Merrick was seated with his left leg propped on a stool as he perused a scroll in his hand. Constance sat on a cushioned chair beside him, holding their son in her arms. There was concern on her features, and Merrick was scowling.

But then, he’d been scowling nearly continuously since he’d broken his leg.

Beatrice put a smile on her face and tried to act as if she’d just happened to come by because she hadn’t confided her greatest hope to Constance yet, either. Although Ranulf was Merrick’s trusted friend, Constance might not entirely welcome a marriage between her cousin and her husband’s brother-in-arms. Ranulf was more than ten years older than she, for one thing, and, worse, landless. Constance might think she should aim for a richer or more powerful husband, unwilling to accept that her cousin was not the matrimonial prize Constance, with her sisterly love, believed her to be.

“Good morning, Constance. Merrick,” Beatrice said brightly after knocking on the frame of the door to announce her arrival. “A fine day, isn’t it? Spring is surely on its way. I believe I could find some early blooms if I went out walking today, and the air smells so fresh and lovely—well, except if you wander too close to the pigsty.” She held out her hands for little Peder. “May I hold him?”

Constance nodded and Beatrice took the infant in her arms. “And good morning to you, little man,” she murmured as she tickled the baby under his dimpled chin.

“We’ve had another letter from Ranulf,” Constance said, nodding at her husband, who was still reading and still scowling.

“Oh, indeed?” Beatrice replied as if this was news to her, loosening her hold when Peder squirmed in protest. “I trust all is well.”

Merrick shifted, easing his foot into a slightly different position. “There’s nothing Ranulf cannot deal with,” the lord of Tregellas replied, and in such a tone, Beatrice surmised it would be useless to press him further. Perhaps later she could speak to Constance alone, and her cousin would be more forthcoming.

“I hope your leg isn’t bothering you too much, my lord,” she said.

He made a sour face and grunted as he shifted again. “No.”

His wife frowned. “There’s no need to be rude to Beatrice,” she said. Her expression changed to one of sympathy. “You’ll be up and about eventually, my love, but until then, you should perhaps consider this a just punishment for overindulgence in wine.”

Her husband’s only answer was another muted grunt as he set the letter on the table beside his chair.

“Your leg’s healing very nicely, the apothecary says, so it would be a shame if you were to injure it again,” his wife noted.

The baby started to whimper and Merrick held out his hands. “Let me hold my son while you two gossip.”

In spite of the glower that accompanied his words, his tone was more conciliatory than annoyed.

Beatrice gave him the baby, which he took in his powerful hands as gently as if Peder were made of crystal. Meanwhile, Constance rose and gestured for Beatrice to follow her. “We two can gossip better over here by the window, where our talk won’t disturb the menfolk.”

She paused a moment and looked back at her husband. “May Beatrice read Ranulf’s letter herself? Her reading’s come along very well these past few months, but a little practice wouldn’t hurt.”

Merrick shrugged. “I see no reason to keep the contents secret.”

Beatrice couldn’t keep the joy from her features as she retrieved the scroll from the table, and she silently blessed Constance for teaching her to read and write. Her father had considered it a waste of time to teach noblewomen anything except the words and simple arithmetic necessary to keep tally on the household expenses.

“If there’s a word you don’t understand, please ask. I shall sit here by the window in the sun and enjoy doing nothing,” Constance said as Beatrice sank down into another chair by the window, where the light fell upon the parchment and the writing that was like Ranulf himself—upright and firm.

“Greetings to my lord Merrick and his most gracious lady,” she read, hearing his deep, smooth voice as clearly as if he were speaking in her ear. “I have nothing new to report since my first letter. I continue to attempt to make some progress with the villagers with the help of Hedyn, who justifies his position daily. Unfortunately, despite my obvious charm and friendly…

“What is this word?” she asked, pointing it out to Constance.

“Overtures.”

“Ah,” Beatrice sighed as she returned to reading.

“Despite my obvious charm and friendly overtures, the villagers appear reluctant to discuss much beyond the measure of the daily catch with their new castellan. Nevertheless, I shall continue to investigate the matter of Gawan’s death until I am either satisfied it was an accident, or convinced it was not, and if it was not, bring the guilty to justice.”

Puzzled, Beatrice looked up at Constance. “Who’s Gawan? How did he die? Why does Ranulf suspect he was murdered?”

“Gawan was a fisherman,” Constance explained. “He was found dead on the shore the day Ranulf arrived, apparently drowned. The sheriff has some doubts about whether it was an accident, since nothing of the poor man’s boat has been recovered.”

“It may have been an accident, though, as the man had set sail alone two days before,” Merrick interposed. “Ranulf will find out the truth.”

“Yes, yes, he will,” Beatrice said, returning to the letter, now held in hands no longer quite steady. Things were not nearly as peaceful at Penterwell as she’d believed although, she told herself, the castellan had the protection of his garrison, so he would surely not be in any danger.

“In the meantime, I must petition you for some funds and, if you can spare them, a mason or two. Due to some personal concerns, Frioc has let several portions of the castle defenses fall into disrepair. They should be fixed as soon as possible, or I fear the place may collapse about me. I suggest, my lord, that you journey here for a day or so to confer on what should be done, and what first.

“And perhaps, my most gracious and generous lord, as well as oldest friend—and thus I trust I have duly appealed to both your loyalty and such vanity as you possess—you could bring some provisions with you when you come, such as a few loaves of bread, some smoked meat, a wheel of cheese, and a cask or two of ale. I regret to say the food here is rather lacking, unless one likes fish, and until I can devote more time to hunting game, likely to remain so. Also, you might consider bringing your own bedding. What is here is adequate, but not as comfortable as Tregellas affords.”

Beatrice had a sudden vision of Ranulf huddled in a crumbling castle, wrapped in a moth-eaten blanket and lying on a pallet of fetid straw after a meal of watery stew made of rotten fish heads.

She jumped to her feet, the parchment falling to her feet unheeded. “You can’t let him live in squalor!”

Merrick raised a brow as little Peder, surprised and confused by her abrupt motion, burst into tears. “Squalor?” he repeated loudly enough to be heard above the baby’s cries. “I hardly think—”

“The household must have gone to rack and ruin after Sir Frioc’s leman left him,” Beatrice said, wringing her hands in dismay. “Especially if Ranulf’s busy trying to find out what happened to that Gawan.”

“How do you know about Sir Frioc’s leman?” Constance asked incredulously as she rose and went to take the baby from her husband.

“Demelza told me,” Beatrice replied, following her. “Her sister’s brother-in-law lives in Penterwell and she knows all about it. Apparently they quarreled because Sir Frioc wouldn’t offer her marriage. That must be why Ranulf comes home to terrible meals and filthy bedding—there’s no chatelaine to organize things.

“Oh, Constance, you must let me go to Penterwell,” she pleaded, equal parts appalled and determined to see that Ranulf didn’t suffer a moment longer than necessary. “I can take Ranulf some decent food and linen and you know I can ensure the servants mend their ways and the cook does better. Oh, please say you’ll let me go!”

Sitting beside Merrick, Constance lifted her baby from her husband’s arms and loosened her bodice in preparation to nurse him. “Beatrice, as much as I’d like—”

“You’ve been telling me what a fine job I’ve been doing helping you,” Beatrice persisted, going down on her knees beside Constance’s chair and gripping the arm.

Her vivid imagination had already gone from picturing Ranulf cold and hungry to Ranulf lying on his deathbed if she didn’t get to him, and soon. “I can make the servants listen to me—you know I can. And I can organize his household so that it can run smoothly for a time before anyone need return.”

She clasped her hands together, quite prepared to beg, for Ranulf’s sake, as her gaze flew from Constance to Merrick and back again. “Please, let me do this!”

A grim-faced Merrick shook his head. “No.”

Constance had once said her husband found it difficult to refuse a woman’s pleas, but he seemed to be finding it very easy at the moment. “That’s a fine way to repay your friend, letting him suffer when there’s someone at hand who can help him,” Beatrice declared as she scrambled to her feet.

Despite both her petitions and defiance, the expression on the face of the lord of Tregellas remained unchanged. “You cannot go to Penterwell. You’re neither married nor betrothed. It wouldn’t be proper, and as your guardian—”

“No one would dare to say anything if you sent me.”

“Not to us,” Merrick replied. “But it might turn away some men who would consider marrying you.”

“If any man thinks so little of me, I wouldn’t want him anyway,” she retorted. “Besides, everyone knows Ranulf is an honorable knight, or he wouldn’t be your friend or castellan. Surely you don’t think I need fear for my honor if I go to his aid? That he’ll suddenly go mad and forget your friendship and the oath of loyalty he swore to you and attack me?”

“Beatrice,” Constance said soothingly as her son suckled at her breast. “Merrick’s only thinking of your reputation.”

“My father has already destroyed my family’s name,” Beatrice returned. “As for Ranulf’s reputation, anyone who knows him knows he would never abuse your trust, or me.”

“This isn’t a matter of trust, Beatrice,” Constance said softly. “Of course we trust him, and you.”

Calmer in the face of Constance’s placating tone and gentle eyes, Beatrice spread her hands wide. “Then why not let me go?”

Constance looked at her husband. “I agree the situation must be dire, or Ranulf wouldn’t say anything about it. And I certainly cannot go. Neither can you.”

“Who else could you send to set the household to rights?” Beatrice pressed, beginning to hope Constance was coming around to her point of view. “Demelza? Another of the servants? How much authority would they wield over the servants of Penterwell?”

“We could always send Maloren with Beatrice, along with the masons, as he asks,” Constance mused aloud. “Ranulf can tell the masons what needs to be done as well as you, my love, and God knows he’s not extravagant.

“Beatrice is also right about the servants. It will likely take a lady to get them back in order.

“As for any possible scandal, Ranulf is an honorable knight and the trusted friend of the lord of Tregellas. Any person of intelligence would realize that Ranulf would risk your enmity by taking advantage of your ward, and Ranulf is certainly no fool.” She regarded her husband gravely. “Besides, I don’t see any alternative, do you?”

Merrick shifted again and didn’t answer. Beatrice was about to state her case once more when he abruptly held up his hand to silence her. “Oh, very well. You may go with the masons—for three days, and no more. And Maloren must go with you.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” Beatrice cried, flinging her arms around the lord of Tregellas’s neck for a brief but fervent hug before she ran to the door. “I’ll go and tell Maloren. She hates traveling and she’s likely going to complain the whole time, but I don’t care. We simply must save Ranulf!”

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