Hers to Desire. Margaret Moore
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as your guardian—”
“No one would dare to say anything if you sent me.”
“Not to us,” Merrick replied. “But it might turn away some men who would consider marrying you.”
“If any man thinks so little of me, I wouldn’t want him anyway,” she retorted. “Besides, everyone knows Ranulf is an honorable knight, or he wouldn’t be your friend or castellan. Surely you don’t think I need fear for my honor if I go to his aid? That he’ll suddenly go mad and forget your friendship and the oath of loyalty he swore to you and attack me?”
“Beatrice,” Constance said soothingly as her son suckled at her breast. “Merrick’s only thinking of your reputation.”
“My father has already destroyed my family’s name,” Beatrice returned. “As for Ranulf’s reputation, anyone who knows him knows he would never abuse your trust, or me.”
“This isn’t a matter of trust, Beatrice,” Constance said softly. “Of course we trust him, and you.”
Calmer in the face of Constance’s placating tone and gentle eyes, Beatrice spread her hands wide. “Then why not let me go?”
Constance looked at her husband. “I agree the situation must be dire, or Ranulf wouldn’t say anything about it. And I certainly cannot go. Neither can you.”
“Who else could you send to set the household to rights?” Beatrice pressed, beginning to hope Constance was coming around to her point of view. “Demelza? Another of the servants? How much authority would they wield over the servants of Penterwell?”
“We could always send Maloren with Beatrice, along with the masons, as he asks,” Constance mused aloud. “Ranulf can tell the masons what needs to be done as well as you, my love, and God knows he’s not extravagant.
“Beatrice is also right about the servants. It will likely take a lady to get them back in order.
“As for any possible scandal, Ranulf is an honorable knight and the trusted friend of the lord of Tregellas. Any person of intelligence would realize that Ranulf would risk your enmity by taking advantage of your ward, and Ranulf is certainly no fool.” She regarded her husband gravely. “Besides, I don’t see any alternative, do you?”
Merrick shifted again and didn’t answer. Beatrice was about to state her case once more when he abruptly held up his hand to silence her. “Oh, very well. You may go with the masons—for three days, and no more. And Maloren must go with you.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” Beatrice cried, flinging her arms around the lord of Tregellas’s neck for a brief but fervent hug before she ran to the door. “I’ll go and tell Maloren. She hates traveling and she’s likely going to complain the whole time, but I don’t care. We simply must save Ranulf!”
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