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He had erred and he must correct his error. He must destroy whatever was developing between them while he still had the strength and the will, or her honor, and what remained of his, would be lost forever.

“You’re the first woman to complain about it,” he replied, struggling to sound coolly calm as he stepped away from her.

“I would ascribe that to your lack of experience, except that kiss would seem to indicate I must be wrong to think you’ve never been kissed before.

Might I inquire, as a friend of the family and thus one who cares about your fate, who has been so fortunate as to be the object of your affections? Young Kiernan perhaps?”

For the first time in his experience, Bea’s lip curled with scorn. “There is no need to bring Sir Jowan’s son into this. He’s a friend and nothing more.”

Ranulf ignored the brief spasm of relief that answer brought him and focused on the fact that she had not said Kiernan had never kissed her. “It could be you’re not as naive as I think. After that kiss, perhaps I should reconsider. Maybe you have more experience than I assumed.”

“You’re the first man who’s ever kissed me like that, and the first man I ever wanted to,” she retorted. “Nor is this the first time we’ve kissed.”

As he stared at her in stunned surprise, she put her hands on her narrow hips and glared at him with suspicion. “Do you truly not remember what passed between us the night before you left Tregellas?”

Snippets of Ranulf’s incredibly arousing, vivid dream came back to him, of kissing Bea and being kissed.

Had that really happened? And if so, he thought with sudden shame and horror, was there more he had forgotten?

Had he, in his inebriated state, totally lost all self-control and taken advantage of his best friend’s ward?

“You needn’t look so stricken, Ranulf. We kissed just as we did here, and nothing more.

Then you sent me away—and made me feel like the worst, most sinful woman in Christendom because I had dared to kiss you.

Nevertheless, I should think that would tell you who is the object of my affection, and it most certainly isn’t Kiernan. ”

His eyes narrowed as he clutched at one reason not to be completely ashamed. “ You kissed me? ”

“That night I did. But here and now, and with all memory of our previous embrace apparently absent from your mind, you kissed me .”

Relieved that they had only shared a kiss, yet dismayed that he had done that much, he forced himself to laugh.

“God save you, Lady Beatrice, you make far too much of a kiss, which tells me just how ignorant a maiden you are. Now go home to Tregellas and take your romantic fancies with you. Love is not a tale told by troubadours or minstrels.”

Instead of fleeing the chamber as he’d hoped, her brows lowered and her eyes flashed.

“Do you think I don’t understand the difference between minstrels’ songs and real life?

Of course I do—because the love they sing about so often leads to disaster, for one thing, and that doesn’t always happen in real life.

Look at Constance and Merrick if you wish an example.

Would you say their love is doomed to fail? ”

“I will grant that, in some instances, love does last,” he replied, “but that sort of true love is more rare than minstrels would have us believe. In any case, this overheated affection you apparently have for me isn’t love. It’s nothing more than a maiden’s moonstruck fancy.”

Her sharp, bright eyes held his. “That only tells me how little you know of my heart, Ranulf,” she said as she walked toward him. “And if you believe what I feel for you is ridiculous, why then did you kiss me?”

He began to back away. “I was attempting to show you what can happen when an innocent, ignorant young woman allows herself to be alone with a man.”

She regarded him with blatant skepticism. “You chose an interesting method of instruction. Did it never cross your mind, sir knight, that your embrace might have the opposite effect, and rather serve to make me crave your kisses more?”

Oh, God, he was caught in a trap, and one of his own making.

“Fortunately,” she said, coming to a halt at last, “I know full well you’re not a fiendish rogue. You’re an honorable knight, the trusted friend of my cousin’s husband. No woman need ever be afraid of you.”

God help him! She shouldn’t be making him feel proud, trusted and valued. She was supposed to be shocked, horrified and appalled.

“That kiss we shared in Tregellas was not the first time I realized you felt more than mere friendly affection for me. What about Christmas, Ranulf, when we very nearly kissed? Will you tell me now you didn’t want me then?”

He flushed, cursed his weakness and planted his feet, crossing his arms as he tried to act nonchalant. “I suppose I might have been momentarily addled by the mulled wine that night.”

“You weren’t drunk, Ranulf. You’d barely had any wine at all.”

Oh, Lord.

He steeled himself to answer as he must, although the lies fairly curdled on his tongue.

“I admit I contemplated a kiss that night to see how you’d react.

However, any kisses we’ve shared since, as well as your willingness to put yourself at the mercy of a man’s desire, have only shown me that I was right to think you’re much too young and inexperienced to be trusted around men.

As for any unfortunate fantasies my actions have caused you to entertain, let me assure you that my taste doesn’t run toward moonstruck maidens. I will not kiss you again.”

She tilted her head and searched his face, as if she would see into his very heart and expose the secrets he sought to hide. “What’s the matter, Ranulf? Why are you saying such things? Why are you so afraid to admit that you want me? Is it because another woman once broke your heart?”

Shocked, he stiffened and had to fight not to betray his dismay. “I’ve never spoken of such a woman.”

“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t exist,” Bea returned. “That’s why you’re pushing me away, isn’t it? You don’t want to be hurt again. You’d rather reject what I offer without giving me—giving us —a chance.”

She had no idea of the pain she was causing, the long-buried memories she was summoning to the surface of his mind—memories that only served to remind him more strongly why he must not take what Bea, in her youthful inexperience and purity, offered him.

He glared at her and answered harshly, determined to push her away, for her own good. “Have you been stricken deaf, or are you being wilfully stupid?” he demanded. “How many times and in how many ways must I tell you that I don’t want to be the object of your silly, girlish fantasies?”

Still she didn’t look away, but continued to regard him steadily. “Is it because I’m the daughter of a traitor then?”

He flinched, for his reaction had nothing at all to do with her father. “Your father’s crime is his shame, not yours.”

“I promise you, Ranulf, that although my father betrayed his king, I would never betray you.”

He believed her, and that was another reason to drive her away. He didn’t deserve such loyalty from a woman, not after what he’d done.

Determined to make her see that her cause was hopeless, for so it must be, he took hold of her shoulders and stared into her eyes, which were sparkling like blue diamonds.

“Listen to me, Beatrice, and get this through your head. You’re nothing but a foolish girl with a head full of romantic fancies.

Granted, you’re a pretty little thing, and your kiss was not without some merit, but pretty women who kiss as well as you are easy enough to find.

If and when I take a wife, I want a woman of maturity and experience in my bed, not some green girl. I don’t want you and I never will.”

The truth, or such as he wanted her to believe, finally hit home, and it was like watching an innocent, wild creature perish.

He had seen death before. God forgive him, he had killed men himself.

But that was different from watching Bea’s heart break before his very eyes—to see the light and spirit in her shining eyes dim, and pain bloom where before there had been trust, affection, happiness and hope.

Had he looked like that when Celeste had told him she was marrying Lord Fontenbleu? Had Celeste felt the same shame and remorse? Did she silently curse herself and wish herself dead for what she’d done?

He steeled himself for Bea’s tears, which did not come.

She straightened, tall and slender, as poised as a princess, while regarding him with haughty dignity.

It was as if a changeling had swooped in and taken his little Lady Bea, replacing her with a woman of power and majesty who took his breath away.

“I’m seeing to your comfort at the behest of Constance and your overlord,” she said with calm composure.

“It’s my duty to do what they sent me to do, the same way you do your duty to Merrick and the king.

Whether I’m welcome or not, and whether you want me to or not, I shall fulfill that duty for as long as I’m able until you force me to leave. ”

Then she swept out of the chamber and left him.

W HEN SHE WAS GONE and the door had closed behind her, Ranulf leaned back against the nearest wall and hung his head.

He felt like a murderer, a cruel and merciless villain.

He hadn’t wanted to hurt her, yet this was the way it must be.

Bea deserved a finer, better man than he could ever be.

He knew it and, one day, so would she. Then, hopefully, she would realize the folly of her youthful affection and be grateful he had rejected her.

She could be glad she hadn’t thrown herself away on a poor and landless knight, and might even find it in her heart to forgive him the things he’d said and done today.

Meanwhile, he would live without her love, finding contentment where he could.

Ranulf drew in a deep, ragged breath as he pushed himself off the wall.

Not for him the joys of marital bliss such as Merrick and Henry had found in the arms of their beloved wives.

He would never know that deep happiness, or have his children gathered ’round him, with a wife he cherished and adored looking on beside him.

He would be alone, as he must and always would be.

A S R ANULF SLUMPED against the wall, Beatrice ran into the first empty chamber she could find. She shoved the door closed and fastened the latch, then splayed her hands upon the door and laid her forehead on the rough wood, breathing hard.

How could she have been so wrong? How could she have believed he was a good, kind man?

He was a cad, a scoundrel, a lustful beast, just as Maloren had always said.

He was an ungrateful wretch, too, making sport of her duty and her wish to help him.

He’d acted as if she carried the plague and was trying to sicken him with it.

It would serve him right if she let him wallow in filth and misery, eating moldy bread and rotten meat, sleeping in musty sheets in a room thick with dust, finally dying loveless and alone.

She must have been mad to think she loved him! She didn’t. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. His kisses were lies…

She took a deep breath, then shook her head. No, if there was one thing that had been truthful between them, it had been the kisses they had shared. He could claim he didn’t want her and give her a score of excuses, but his kisses had told her the truth.

Whatever he said about not wanting her—that was the lie.

Why would he reject the love she offered?

Her age should be no barrier. People with far greater differences in ages married all the time. Indeed, her youth should be to her advantage, although he was right that she had no experience in loving a man. But that, too, would be considered a good thing by most men.

And he could teach her what she needed to know.

She warmed as her mind strayed to sharing Ranulf’s bed, but she quickly returned to the obstacles he seemed determined to put between them. Until she understood why he claimed not to want her, she couldn’t hope to become his lover.

She recalled the look in his eyes when she spoke of another woman and there, she felt sure, was the answer. Some foolish, stupid woman had spurned him and made him feel unworthy, and the blow still stung.

How could she make him see that whatever had happened before, the woman had been at fault, not him? He was more than worthy of a woman’s love. She had to make him understand that—and to do that, she must find a way to stay. She couldn’t leave here tomorrow.

She turned into the room and looked at the open, unshuttered window and the rain still falling.

If it were raining like that in the morning, they wouldn’t be able to depart.

Ranulf wouldn’t dare make them set out for Tregellas in a deluge, lest they get stuck in the mud, or otherwise have difficulties.

She was, as he had said, the cousin of his best friend’s wife.

As she silently prayed for the rain to continue, she sneezed. Like every other chamber in Penterwell Castle, this one was dusty and dirty and full of cobwebs. It was also empty, save for an upright bed frame leaning against the wall.

She walked farther into the chamber. Yes, this would do for her and Maloren, with a little cleaning.

They’d brought their own bedding and linen, and a small, portable table and two stools.

She’d also brought her little box of medicines, including one the apothecary had shown her how to make after he’d tended to Merrick’s leg and she’d wondered aloud how Constance might ensure that her husband got some sleep despite the pain.

An idea popped into her head like a gift from heaven or the answer to a prayer. There was one way to ensure that she wouldn’t be leaving first thing in the morning whether it was raining or not, and all it would take was a potion made of poppy seeds slipped into some wine.

Beatrice smiled as her usual good humor returned. The proud and mighty Sir Ranulf was about to discover she wasn’t simply going to surrender without a fight.