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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.
