Hers to Desire

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—?”