Hers to Desire

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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?”