Читать книгу Hers to Desire - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 12

CHAPTER FOUR

“NO UNFAMILIAR SHIPS have been spotted along here, either?” Ranulf asked Myghal as they rode along the crest of a hill a short distance from the coast two days after Beatrice had begged to be sent to Penterwell. They were near enough to see the water, but a safe distance from the edge of the cliffs. Venturing any closer would have made it impossible for him to hide his fear.

“No, sir, not a one, not for days,” Myghal replied, his shoulders hunched against the wind blowing in from the sea. Above, scudding gray clouds foretold rain, and the gulls wheeling and screeching overhead seemed to be ordering them to take shelter.

“And still no one has said anything to you about Gawan’s death?” Ranulf asked, repeating a question he posed to the undersheriff at least once a day, while Hedyn led other patrols on the opposite side of the coast from the castle.

Myghal shook his head.

Ranulf stifled a sigh. How was he to discover who had killed Gawan, and perhaps those other two, if nobody would speak to those in authority about what they knew? Surely somebody in Penterwell had to know something.

Gawan’s widow, Wenna, had been willing to talk to him, but she’d been nearly incoherent with grief, the tears rolling down her cheeks as she told him that she was sure her husband had been murdered. “Been a fisherman since nearly the time he could walk, my lord,” she’d sobbed through her tears. “It would take a storm to sink him, and there wasn’t one.”

Ranulf had gently suggested that perhaps her husband had set out to meet some evil men, assuring her that if that were so, and even if her husband was engaged in activities that broke the law, he was still determined to find the culprits who had killed her husband and bring them to justice.

“He went to meet a Frenchman, my lord,” she’d admitted as she wiped her nose with the edge of her apron, her rounded belly pressing against her skirts. “He’s traded with the man before. My Gawan didn’t trust him, but the Frenchman paid more than most, and Gawan wanted as much as he could get because of the baby. My poor fatherless baby…”

She’d broken down completely then. He’d sent Myghal, who’d been with him, to fetch a neighbor’s wife. He’d also taken several coins from his purse and left them on the table before he slipped away.

For years and years he had believed love to be a lie, a comforting tale told to keep women in their place, for no one had ever loved him. Then he’d fallen in love—passionately so—and found out that feeling could be real, and so was the pain it brought.

Wenna’s grief was an uncomfortable but necessary reminder of that anguish. Otherwise, he might forget and allow himself to—

He heard something. Behind them. On the moor.

Pulling sharply on his reins, Ranulf held up his hand to halt the rest of the patrol, then wheeled Titan around.

“What is it?” Myghal asked nervously, twisting in his saddle to see what had drawn Ranulf’s attention.

“There,” Ranulf answered, pointing at a galloping horse heading toward them at breakneck speed, its rider bent low over its neck, the bright blue cloak of the rider streaming out behind him like a banner.

Ranulf rose in his stirrups, the better to see, and realized almost at once that it wasn’t only a cloak flapping. There were skirts, too.

That horse looked familiar. Very familiar.

God’s blood, it was Bea’s mare, Holly, so that must be Bea, riding as if fiends from hell were chasing her.

Drawing his sword, Ranulf bellowed his war cry and kicked Titan into a gallop. God help any man who sought to hurt his little Lady Bea!

THE FIERCE CRY SOUNDED like a demon or some other supernatural creature, wounded and in pain. Startled, Beatrice pulled sharply on the reins to halt Holly. As her mare sat back on her haunches, Beatrice felt her grip slipping and the next thing she knew, she’d gone head over heels onto a patch of damp, grassy ground.

For one pulse-pounding moment, she lay too stunned to move as the thundering hooves came closer. Then she saw shoulder-length red-brown hair, a familiar forest-green surcoat, and the great dappled gray warhorse that belonged to Ranulf.

As she struggled to sit up, the castellan of Penterwell brought his horse to a snorting halt, threw his leg over the saddle and slipped off. He rushed toward her, his sword still clutched in his right hand as he fell on his knees beside her.

Still somewhat dizzy from her tumble, surprised by Ranulf’s sudden arrival and taken aback by the obvious and sincere concern on his features, Beatrice blurted, “I hope you don’t think I didn’t care about Merrick making you castellan. I was delighted for you, although it’s no more than you deserve. But nobody told me before the evening meal. I suppose all the servants thought I already knew, and Constance and Merrick probably expected you to tell me. You didn’t, so I didn’t know you were going until you were already gone.”

Ranulf sat back on his ankles, looking as dazed as if he’d tumbled from his horse, too.

Her heart thudding with a combination of excitement and dread, Beatrice decided that, since she had started, she might as well try to find out where she stood with Ranulf. She wondered if she should begin with their kiss, but couldn’t bring herself to mention it. “I was afraid you were upset with me when you didn’t say goodbye.”

“I expected to see you in the morning,” he replied with no hint of embarrassment or shame as he rose. “Unfortunately, you were still asleep and I thought you needed your rest. I would have said a better farewell when you retired from the hall if I had known it was the last time I would see you before leaving Tregellas.”

The last time…? It suddenly dawned on her that he might have been too drunk to remember their embrace or the words they’d said. If that was so, she should be both glad and relieved. But she wasn’t. She was dismayed and disappointed.

His expression inscrutable, Ranulf surveyed her from head to toe. “Are you hurt?”

She was, although not in the way he meant. It pained her to realize that what had been such a momentous occasion for her was not even a memory to him. “I fear I’m going to have a terrible bruise, and this cloak may never be free of stains, but I’m otherwise unharmed,” she replied, managing not to sound as upset as she felt.

He reached down to help her to her feet, his strong, gloved hand grasping hers. Even that touch was enough to warm her blood and make her remember the heated passion of his kiss.

She must deal with the present and ignore the painful past.

Looking toward the group of soldiers drawing near, she said, “I trust those are men from your castle.”

He followed her gaze and nodded. “Yes, and the undersheriff.”

“Surely it isn’t safe for you to get so far away from them if men of Penterwell are being murdered.”

Ranulf’s ruddy brows contracted. “Your own safety is something you should have considered, my lady, when you decided to ride about this unfamiliar countryside all by yourself.”

“I’m not all by myself,” she protested. “Two soldiers rode ahead with me.”

“Unless they’ve become invisible, my lady,” he said, still frowning, “you are most certainly alone.”

Taken aback, she looked over her shoulder, expecting to see her escorts from Tregellas riding toward them.

“I wasn’t alone,” she amended apologetically. “Holly must be faster than their horses. I didn’t realize she was so swift.”

As she spoke, Ranulf’s men and the undersheriff arrived and drew their horses to a halt.

Suddenly aware of how disheveled she must look, and worried that they might think she often rode about like some heedless hoyden, Beatrice blushed and stared at the grassy ground. She had so much wanted to arrive the way Constance would, as a lady of dignity and worthy of respect, the better to impress Ranulf. Instead, she’d shocked and angered him. It was obvious he was annoyed by the way he pressed his full lips together, and by the appearance of that deep, vertical furrow between his brows.

“I was mistaken. The lady wasn’t being chased,” he announced to his men, and if she’d had any doubts that he was angry, the tone of his voice would have dispelled them.

He turned back to her. “Lady Beatrice, these are some of the men in the garrison of Penterwell. I believe you’ve met Myghal, the undersheriff of Penterwell.”

Her pride demanded that she act as composed as Constance, or Ranulf himself, so she forced herself to smile at the slightly plump man she guessed was in his early twenties. “Yes, I have. Good day, Myghal.”

The undersheriff nodded and mumbled a greeting.

“Myghal, Lady Beatrice is apparently going to be visiting Penterwell, along with Lord Merrick.”

Beatrice shifted uneasily, wondering if she should tell Ranulf here and now that Merrick had not come with her party—except that would surely only upset him more.

She was spared mentioning Merrick when Ranulf went on before she could speak. “Continue the patrol. You should check that cove again.”

Myghal nodded, but his eyes were not on his overlord. They were on Beatrice. All the other men in the patrol were watching her, too.

This was not the first time men had looked at her, and while she told herself it must be because of her unkempt appearance, in her heart Beatrice knew their attention had another cause, even though she wasn’t as beautiful and graceful as Constance. That sort of masculine scrutiny always made her uncomfortable, and so she did what she always did in such circumstances. She started to talk.

“I was so sorry to hear about Sir Frioc. I never met him, but he sounds a most genial sort of fellow, and the fact that Lord Merrick approved of him says much about his character. And I’m very sorry if I caused Sir Ranulf, or you, Myghal, or you other men any alarm. I assure you, I didn’t mean to. I rode away from my party because I simply couldn’t bear my maidservant’s complaints another moment. You’d think I was dragging her on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. She ought to be quite comfortable in the cart on the veritable mound of cushions I prepared for her, and warm with all the blankets and shawls, as cozy as Cleopatra on her barge. But no, Maloren must moan and groan until I thought I’d go mad. So I said to Aeden, the sergeant-at-arms, that I was going to let Holly have a good gallop over the open moor. You haven’t met Maloren or I dare say you’d understand. I love her dearly, but she can be most exasperating.”

In spite of her heartfelt explanation, Ranulf looked more than a little exasperated himself. “My lady, I regret I must interrupt this charming justification for your astonishing behavior. However, these men have work to do.”

Beatrice blushed and smiled again. “Of course they do. Please, don’t let me detain you.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, my lady,” Myghal murmured as he tugged his forelock before he turned his horse and led the patrol toward the shore.

Ranulf watched his men leave, and as he did, he tried not to grind his teeth or otherwise betray his annoyance. But what the devil was Merrick thinking, bringing Beatrice along with him and then letting her get so far from their cortege?

Likely that was as she said: she’d ridden ahead of the guards Merrick had assigned to her—although why wasn’t Merrick himself watching her? Surely as her guardian, he should be taking more care…unless he was as tired of her cheerful chatter as she’d been of Maloren’s complaints.

Even so, that wouldn’t explain why Merrick had brought her to Penterwell in the first place, especially when there was the mystery of Gawan’s murder to solve. She could be of no help there, and they certainly didn’t need the distraction of Bea’s bubbly, inquisitive presence when they were trying to find answers from the recalcitrant villagers.

Perhaps she was bothering Constance too much. The lady of Tregellas must still be weak from the effort of childbirth, and he could understand that she might find Bea wearying.

As for the reaction of Myghal and his men, he shouldn’t be the least surprised by the attention Bea attracted. She was a beautiful young woman, even more beautiful and graceful and charming than her cousin, and certainly more vivacious. Myghal was a young, unmarried man—a young, unmarried commoner who should harbor no hopes of anything from Bea save a polite smile, no matter how friendly she was. She was friendly to everyone, rich and poor alike. A smile from her didn’t necessarily mean anything significant—

“I really am sorry for causing any distress to you or your men,” Bea said. “You know Maloren, though. I thought I’d go mad if I had to listen to her for the rest of the journey.”

She smiled apologetically, looking up at Ranulf with the innocence of a novice while he, jaded reprobate as he was, tried not to notice that her buttercup- yellow woolen gown seemed molded to her body beneath her wode-blue cloak.

Or to feel like a heartless rogue for leaving Tregellas without bidding her farewell, even though he’d been the worse for overimbibing.

He’d also been afraid he might slip and say something that would reveal his foolish longing.

“You came riding to my rescue just like Lancelot,” she said with another glowing smile.

God help him, why did she have to look at him like that? Why couldn’t he stay angry with her? Then he might be able to ignore his wayward desire.

“I saw a woman riding as if her life was in danger, so naturally I came to her aid,” he replied, doing his best to control his tumultuous emotions as he marched to her mare and grabbed the dangling reins.

“Naturally,” she said, following him like an eager puppy. “You are a most chivalrous knight.”

“Whether these lands are safe or not, it wasn’t wise to get so far ahead of your party. I’m surprised Merrick was so remiss.”

“Oh, but he wasn’t,” Beatrice hastened to reply. “Merrick had nothing to do with it.”

Ranulf made no secret of his confusion. “What do you mean? As leader of your party and your guardian—”

“He’s not. Well, he’s still my guardian,” she amended, “but Merrick isn’t with the cortege. He can’t leave Tregellas. Indeed, he can’t ride at all, or even walk because of what happened the night little Peder was born.”

Ranulf stared at her as if she’d just spoken in tongues. “What are you talking about?” he demanded. “Merrick merely sprained his ankle.”

“I know Merrick didn’t think he’d done anything serious, but the apothecary discovered that he’d broken his leg, so it’s a good thing Constance insisted on sending for someone more learned, isn’t it? Fortunately, it’s a clean break, so it shouldn’t leave Merrick crippled, provided he stays off it for several more days, or so the apothecary says, and he seems a wise fellow, so I think we can take comfort in his opinion.”

Ranulf felt the need to sit, but as there was no chair, bench or stool nearby, he didn’t. “Who is in charge of your party, then?”

She beamed a smile. “Well, I suppose I am, although Aeden’s in command of the soldiers, and I can hardly tell the masons what to do. That’s for you to decide.”

“I don’t believe it,” Ranulf muttered.

Bea’s smile died. “I wouldn’t lie about a thing like that. In fact, I don’t generally lie about anything, unless it’s how a gown looks or something equally unimportant.” She crossed her arms beneath her perfect breasts. “I must say I’m offended you would accuse me of making up a story like that.”

She certainly sounded offended, so what she’d said was almost certainly true. Merrick had broken his leg and wasn’t coming. But she had, and without a proper chaperone or escort, just some soldiers and two masons, all of considerably lower rank.

Had Merrick lost his mind? What, in the name of the saints, was Bea supposed to do at Penterwell, except aggravate and distract him?

And tempt you, too, a lustful little voice prompted in the back of his mind.

“That doesn’t explain why Merrick sent you here,” Ranulf said brusquely, his anger now partly directed at himself.

“Well, naturally when Merrick received your letter, he was concerned—and Constance, too— about the conditions at Penterwell. So was I, so I’ve come to oversee your household the way the masons will oversee the repairs to the walls. It sounds as if you could use some assistance with the servants, at the very least. And I’ve brought food and wine, too.”

Ranulf drew his broadsword and took a moment to calm himself by swinging it from side to side, as if decapitating the grass.

“I know the news about Merrick must come as a shock,” Bea went on, “but I thought you might be a little glad to see me.”

God save him from apologetic young women with the eyes of an angel and a body to tempt even saints to sin!

“Coming here without Merrick or any other relative was not wise and I’m surprised Merrick and Constance allowed it,” he said as he sheathed his sword.

Bea’s bright blue eyes sparkled with what looked remarkably like defiance. “Surely you’re not telling me I need to be protected from you?” she asked. “Are you implying you would forswear your oath of loyalty and friendship to my cousin’s husband and ravish me?” She cocked her head to study him. “Or are you suggesting I’ll throw myself into your arms because you’re irresistible?”

He tried to ignore the wondrous vision of Bea rushing into his open arms, then pressing her soft, shapely body against his as she lifted her sweet face for his kiss. “No, of course not,” he growled.

“Then why should I not come here when you need help, and the sort a woman can best provide?”

Had she no idea how that sounded? The notions it gave a man, especially a lonely one, and even if he didn’t think her the most beautiful, tempting woman he’d ever met? “Because other people will talk and make assumptions that could call your honor into question.”

She drew herself up to her full height, which was about even with his nose. “I appreciate your concern for my reputation, Sir Ranulf, but I point out, I have little honor to lose. My father was a traitor, and executed.” Her eyes flashed with a stern determination that surprised him, for Bea was usually the most gentle and softhearted of women. “If other people wish to see a sin where none exists, they are not worthy of my acquaintance.”

“How do you intend to get a husband if—?”

“If a man thinks me a loose woman, why would I care if he wants to marry me or not?” she demanded. “And surely if neither Constance or Merrick object to my coming here, you shouldn’t. They are legally obligated to protect me, not you.”

Exactly. “Which is why they never should have let you come here as you have.”

Her eyes grew cold, like blue ice, and her tone just as frosty. “Very well, Sir Ranulf,” she snapped, “as you see fit to question my guardians’ decision and wish to decline my assistance, I shall gladly return to Tregellas at once.”

He told himself he ought to be relieved.

And then a drop of rain fell upon his nose. Another fell on her cheek.

She glanced up at the cloudy sky before regarding him with grim triumph. “It seems, my lord, that the rain is not going to hold off. Given that we are closer to Penterwell than Tregellas, we shall be forced to spend this night at the castle you command. Otherwise, I might take a chill and die. Then Merrick and Constance will hate you and Maloren will no doubt attempt to assassinate you in revenge.”

She was, unfortunately, right, at least about staying the night in Penterwell. “As you say, my lady, given the weather we have little choice,” he agreed, determined to sound as stern and commanding as he could. “You may come with me to Penterwell, but in the cart with Maloren. Now that you’re under my care, I won’t risk another fall.”

Bea frowned as she wrapped her cloak more tightly about herself, her brow wrinkling and her lips turning down at the corners. “Maloren won’t like sharing.”

“I point out, my lady, that this is not a request. I am your host and responsible for your welfare while you’re at Penterwell.”

As he spoke, it suddenly dawned on Ranulf that Bea would be his first noble guest. Just as suddenly, he recalled the state of his hall, and the kitchen, and got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had no idea at all what sort of chamber might be available for a noble female guest and her maidservant, either. He’d spent most of his days out on patrol, or in the village with Hedyn, meeting the villagers and trying to find out what had happened to Gawan and those other two missing men. When he returned to the hall, he ate whatever the cook had prepared—which was always fish of some sort—and climbed into his messy bed too tired to care if the linen was clean as long as he didn’t wake up flea bitten in the morning.

Had his first guest been Merrick, he wouldn’t have worried about creature comforts. Like him, Merrick would be more concerned about possible enemies, not what was served at the evening meal or where he’d be sleeping. But this wasn’t Merrick. This was Bea.

As if that realization were not bad enough, the cart bearing Maloren crested the rise in the distance. The old woman was already half standing, her hands on the driver’s shoulders as if she were some sort of Amazon, urging him to hurry, while the beleaguered driver flicked his switch with a desperation Ranulf could well appreciate.

“Oh, my poor lamb!” Maloren cried when she spied Bea. “What’s happened? I could kill those two soldiers who came back without you. Winded horses, indeed! What’s that blackguard doing here? Why is your cloak muddy? Has that Satan’s spawn laid a hand on you? I warned you not to ride off!”

God help him, Bea and Maloren. He’d rather have the plague.

Bea slid him a reproachful look, as if she’d somehow guessed what he was thinking. “At least you won’t have to ride in the cart with her,” she said under her breath. “She’ll be chiding me all the way to Penterwell.”

For a moment, Ranulf was tempted to rescind his order.

But only for a moment. Otherwise, Bea would be riding beside him all the way to the castle, and that was surely something best avoided.

AS MALOREN STOOD beside Beatrice in the entrance to the hall of Penterwell, she threw up her hands in disgust. “By the holy Mother and all the angels, I wouldn’t keep pigs in this place!”

Beatrice silently agreed with her servant’s assessment. This was much worse that she’d expected, and her expectations had not been high. Indeed, she’d never seen such an ill-kept hall, with torn and smoke- darkened tapestries and scarred, battered tables bearing evidence of past meals. If the tables had been wiped at all, she doubted the rag had been clean, or even wet. The lord’s chair on the dais, a massive thing, had no cushion and looked more like an instrument of torture. The fire in the central hearth smoked and smoldered as if the wood used to make it had been left in the rain for a week.

She shuddered to imagine what the kitchen and bedchambers must be like. Mice in the pantry, no doubt, and bugs in the beds. No wonder Ranulf had written that letter to Merrick, and no wonder he’d muttered something about seeing to the horses and baggage instead of coming with them to the hall. Yet there was no need for him to be ashamed. He was the castellan, not the chatelaine, and a man couldn’t be expected to run a household.

She’d also seen why he’d asked Merrick to send masons. The outer wall, and there was only one, was crumbling at one corner, and parts of the wall walk had already fallen away. Planks had been put in the gaps, but wood could catch fire if attackers used flaming arrows, and wet wood was as slick as ice in the rain.

The castle itself wasn’t overly large, and the inner buildings consisted of the hall, where most of the soldiers and male servants must sleep, with family apartments and quarters for female servants above; the stables; the kitchen; a keep with a dungeon below, no doubt; and various storage buildings made of wood or stone. The yard itself was cobbled and relatively free of clutter or anything that might cause overcrowding or other danger.

“Gah! Just look at this rubbish,” Maloren muttered, kicking at the rushes on the floor. “Been here for months, these have, or I was born yesterday. No fleabane either, by the smell of it. We’ll be scratching bites within a day. And there’s bones in it. Rats, too, no doubt. We can’t stay here. We should turn around and go back to Tregellas. It’s only raining a little, nothing to speak of.”

Beatrice silently sent up another prayer for patience. Maloren had complained only moments ago that she was going to be soaked to the skin walking from the cart to the hall. “It’s raining too hard, and it’s too late in the day to start back. You wouldn’t want to be benighted on the moor or in a wood, would you?”

Maloren’s immediate response was a sniff, and then to point at the water dripping through a hole in the slate roof. “We’ll be drowned in our beds—if we’re not too busy slapping at fleas and Lord knows what else.”

Beatrice spied some women huddling in what appeared to be the corridor to the kitchen. Because of their simple homespun attire, she guessed they must be servants. They were less slovenly than the state of the hall would have led her to expect, so perhaps it was merely lack of leadership that explained the mess here, not an unwillingness to work. If she were staying here, she wouldn’t accuse the servants of being lazy. She would simply assume they wanted to do their work and tell them…

She was here for at least this one night. Why not do what Constance and Merrick had sent her to do, even for that short time? She could surely make a bit of difference, and what did it matter if Ranulf wasn’t cooperative? She had a duty to fulfill, and she could try to achieve as much as possible before she was sent away.

Determined to do just that, she started toward the wary women. It would be better if Ranulf introduced her to the household, but since he wasn’t here, she would simply introduce herself.

And she would not feel grateful that not one of these women was pretty.

She smiled kindly and spoke gently, as if they were a group of nervous horses. “Good day. I am Lady Beatrice, the cousin of Lady Constance, the lady of Tregellas. I’ve come to visit Sir Ranulf and help set his household to rights since he has no wife or female relative to do it for him.”

The women exchanged guarded looks. None of them ventured a word or smiled in return.

Beatrice gestured for the one who looked the youngest and least frightened to come forward. “What’s your name?”

“Tecca, my lady,” she murmured in reply.

“Thank you, Tecca. Who is the most senior of the maidservants here?”

“Eseld, my lady.”

She looked over the women. “And which one of you is Eseld?”

“She isn’t here, my lady,” Tecca said quietly.

“Where is she?”

“Don’t know, my lady.”

Beatrice was quite certain Tecca did know, and so did the other servants who were likewise avoiding looking directly at her. However, this wasn’t the time to press the point. What mattered now was what had brought her here in the first place. “Well, when you do see her, tell her to come to me. Lady Constance has charged me with ensuring that Sir Ranulf is as comfortably accommodated as a man of his rank deserves to be, and I intend to see that happens. First, though, I would like one of you to take my servant, Maloren, to the kitchen. She will be in charge of the evening meal today.”

Behind her, Maloren muttered, “I don’t know how I’m expected to have anything decent on the table. The food’s probably full of maggots.”

“Maggots?” a rough male voice cried from behind the serving women. “Who accuses me of having maggots in my food?”

A man nearly as wide as he was tall pushed his way through the serving women. He wore an apron liberally spattered with grease and his sleeves were rolled up to display fleshy arms. One eye squinted and he was missing a front tooth. His plump fingers were covered with tiny scars; he was also completely bald.

In spite of his unappealing appearance and rude manner, Beatrice gave him a smile, too. “Am I to assume that you’re the cook?”

“Aye, and the best one in Cornwall,” the man boasted. “Sir Ranulf can have no cause to complain about the food.”

Beatrice decided this was not the time to discuss that, so she gave him a rather empty smile. “When will the evening meal be served?”

“When it’s ready.”

No wonder this place was in such a condition, if this servant thought he could speak to her like that.

Beatrice drew herself up and straightened her shoulders, then regarded him with the contempt his insolence deserved. “You are the cook in Sir Ranulf’s household. I am the cousin of his overlord’s wife. When I ask you a question, you will give me a proper answer, or you will no longer be the cook here. Do you understand me?”

The man glanced about him uncertainly while all the other servants stared at their feet.

The cook seemed to appreciate that he’d made a serious error in thinking this young beauty lacked any authority, or the will to use it. He colored, cleared his throat and wiped his hands on his apron. “Sir Ranulf wants me to wait until all the patrols have come back.”

Beatrice inclined her head in a gracious nod. “I see. Then so it shall be. What is your name?”