Hers to Desire. Margaret Moore
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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