Читать книгу Hers to Desire - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 9

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?”