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B EATRICE WASN’T SURPRISED to find the castellan’s bedchamber in no better condition than the hall below.

The massive curtained bed was a mess of wrinkled linen and likely hadn’t been made since the day Ranulf had arrived, if then.

It looked as if Ranulf merely crawled into a sort of nest when he wished to sleep, on a rough-looking mattress with straw poking out of several small holes and through the poorly sewn seams. The curtains themselves would probably release a cloud of dust if one so much as touched them.

Ranulf’s chain mail and helmet rested on a stand in one corner; clearly, Ranulf was not about to let that fall into neglect, although he had no squire. Perhaps he had one of the soldiers or servants tend to it. Or, more likely, he trusted that duty to no one else.

As for the rest of his clothing, it was surely in that battered wooden chest near the narrow arched window that didn’t have even a linen shutter to keep out the chill breezes or night air. Inside the chest, his clothes, such as he possessed, were probably a feast for moths.

There was also a spindly sort of small table holding a large wooden bowl that must serve as a basin for washing, and a simple clay jug for an ewer. Some small pieces of other linen for drying, none too clean, lay folded beside the bowl.

Saying nothing to Tecca, who remained near the door, Beatrice ventured farther into the room, reflecting that at least the open window meant it didn’t smell.

She hesitated when she saw something black and furry on the floor on the other side of the bed. It looked like the hind end of a large shaggy dog.

“It’s a bear pelt,” Ranulf announced from the doorway.

Beatrice wheeled around to find him leaning against the frame of the door, his arms crossed, his expression impassive.

“Is it meant to be on the floor, or has it fallen from the bed?” she asked, deciding she would act nonchalantly, too, or as much as possible, even though she was acutely aware that she was in Ranulf’s bedchamber, and memories of the last time she’d been alone with him in such a room kept pushing their way into her thoughts.

Ranulf continued to regard her dispassionately. “It’s meant to be on the bed. Last night, I grew too warm and kicked it off.”

She tried not to envision Ranulf in that bed, warm or otherwise.

“I regret I didn’t pick it up earlier,” he said, pushing off from the door frame and strolling closer, his gait easy, his shoulders relaxed.

Yet there was a tension in his body, too, and she was reminded of the times she’d seen his ease disappear, replaced with a warrior’s readiness to defend his honor, or that of his friends.

She’d often wondered if he would react that way if someone offered an insult to her. Would he fight to uphold what remained of her honor?

“I would have picked it up,” he continued, “had I known my bedchamber was going to be subject to a lady’s inspection.

I must point out, my lady, that it’s highly improper for a maiden to be in a man’s bedchamber unless it is her wedding night and he the groom.

Since I have no intention of taking you for my bride, this chamber should be exempt from your efforts, and thus your presence. ”

He truly must not remember anything about what had happened the night before he left Tregellas.

“I thought that since I was already here, I might as well do a little of what Constance charged me to do,” she replied honestly, “such as ensuring that your living quarters are as comfortable as they can be. Besides, it’s not as if we’re alone. Tecca is…”

She fell silent when she glanced at the open door. The maidservant was no longer there.

Beatrice swallowed hard and told herself to stay calm. There would not be—could not be—a repetition of what had happened the last time they were alone.

“I take it you’re referring to the wench who was standing in the corridor,” Ranulf said evenly. “I dismissed her. I didn’t think she needed to hear us arguing.”

“Arguing?” Beatrice repeated warily. “What have we to argue about? I’m only going to make sure you have fresh linens and a clean hall and some decent food. Why would you want to quarrel about that?”

“Because it isn’t your place to do such things for a man to whom you aren’t married, or betrothed.”

Bea went to the window and stood with her back to him. The last remaining light of day illuminated her as if she were an angel about to ascend.

“As for my comfort,” he continued, forcing himself to consider more mortal matters, “I’m a knight, my lady, not a pampered prince. I am comfortable enough.”

And she should not be in his bedchamber, most especially not alone. As it was, he didn’t dare so much as glance at his bed because of the impure thoughts that Bea near his bed aroused.

She slowly turned to face him, regarding him not with anger or indignation, but with a sorrow that was heart-wrenching to see.

“Constance has done so much for me, and since she couldn’t come herself because of the baby and Merrick’s leg, I was happy to take her place.

Now you command me to go back and tell her I’m unable to do even this one simple thing for her husband’s dearest friend. ”

He felt like the most callous brute in Christendom, but he was right, nonetheless. She simply couldn’t stay. “Leave my chamber, Beatrice.”

Before I do something I will regret .

Her expression questioning, she slowly walked toward him. “Is Maloren right to say you’re an immoral scoundrel? Is that why you’re so upset I’ve come? Am I not safe with you, Ranulf?”

He nearly groaned aloud. Could she truly have no idea how appealing she was, to him or any man? Was that why she saw no danger in her actions? She was safe with him because he willed it so, but his restraint was fraying fast.

Perhaps, that small voice prompted in his desperate mind, it was time she learned to take more care around men, even those she could trust. Maybe she should be made to realize that even those most determined to be honorable could be tempted beyond their strength.

And many men wouldn’t care that she was innocent and naive, more girl than woman.

They would see only the beauty of her face and form, and have no care for the tender heart within.

They would think her seduction a test of their manhood, a battle to be won, a prize to be gained, or a way to restore lost or wounded pride.

As he had with other women, once upon a time.

She should learn that hard lesson, and who better than he to teach it—he, who knew how selfish and heartless men could be?

“I may be an honorable knight, Beatrice,” he crooned as he gave her a decidedly wolfish grin and began to approach her, “but I’m not a saint. And you are very beautiful.”

She stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief as he backed her against the wall and trapped her there.

“Go, my lady,” he whispered huskily, “out of this chamber and away from Penterwell, before you discover that even honorable men have their limits. I mean it, Beatrice. Go now, before I carry you to that bed and do what my lust demands.”

Despite his harsh words, he saw not fear in her eyes but wonder, followed swiftly by delight.

“Other men have told me I’m pretty,” she whispered, the corners of her delectable lips curving upward in a smile, “but you never have.”

He wished all other men to the devil.

“I’m not afraid to be alone with you, Ranulf,” she said, reaching out to caress his cheek. “I’m not afraid of anything you might do.”

This was not going the way he’d intended.

And then she smiled. Gloriously. Joyously. As if she wanted nothing more than for him to carry her to his bed and make love with her.

He forgot this was supposed to be a lesson. He saw only the desire that mirrored his own in her trusting, lovely eyes, and he could no longer refrain from acting on it.

“Bea,” he murmured, her name a sigh, a hope, a plea, as his arm went around her waist and he tugged her to him, capturing her mouth in a fierce and passionate kiss.

“Ranulf,” she whispered, and she returned his kiss as if she had been waiting years for just that moment. Her arms locked around his body, holding him so tightly he could feel her breasts pressing against him. She parted her lips and touched her tongue to his, eagerly deepening the kiss.

The desire he had long tried to contain with his iron-willed resolve broke free. Need, affection, passion and longing bloomed like seeds, long dormant in winter, that leapt into life with the warmth and light of spring.

Overpowered by emotion, Ranulf forgot honor and duty and chivalry. In his arms, she was all he knew or cared about—her beauty, her spirit, her friendly kindness bringing light where there was darkness, joy where there was desolation, affection where there had been only pain.

With burgeoning need, with increasing desire, he held her close, kissing and caressing her. He felt her respond to his lips and his touch, and the realization fueled his ardor.

“I’m glad you’re not a saint,” she murmured breathlessly just as he was about to sweep her up into his arms with the half-formed intention of carrying her to his bed, “although I wish you’d cut off your beard. It scratches.”

Reality hit him like a blow. He had grown his beard to make her see that he was too old for her. She was more than ten years younger than he, and barely out of girlhood.

He was a landless knight, without wealth, or power or family. She was a young, beautiful lady, beloved of his friend and overlord, cousin to his best friend’s wife, entrusted to his care because she was a visitor here.

He was tainted by his sinful past; she was sweet and pure.

He flushed with mortification for his lustful weakness. Kissing her was a mistake. Being alone with her was a mistake. Anything except dispassionate reason was a mistake when he was near Bea.