Hers to Desire

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.”