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She flushed and found she couldn’t quite meet his steady gaze. “I don’t need any silk.”

“You shall have it nonetheless, with my thanks, and the piece for Constance, too.”

By now, several of the people shopping in the market had noticed them by the stall and ventured closer.

Unless she wanted to argue with Ranulf, Beatrice realized, she would do better to say nothing except thank you, so she did. “Thank you, Sir Ranulf. That’s most generous of you.”

“It is little enough for all you’ve done at Penterwell.”

The merchant handed her the other folded piece of silk and swiftly pocketed the coins Ranulf gave him, as if he thought he had best get the money out of sight before Ranulf changed his mind.

“Are you finished with your purchases for today?” Ranulf solemnly inquired.

“No. I want to get some fish. The cook’s been complaining that fish is his specialty and he never gets to cook it anymore.” When she saw Ranulf’s expression, she said, “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to. There’ll be plenty of other things.”

“I’m sure,” he said. He looked over his shoulder to address the two soldiers behind them. “You can return to the castle. I’ll escort Lady Beatrice back when she’s finished.”

The soldiers nodded and departed.

“I don’t think they were happy with that order,” Ranulf noted as he walked beside her toward the fishwives with their baskets of gleaming pilchard and salmon, trout and the flat, spotted plaice.

He sounded almost like his old self, the way he had in Tregellas, making her remember the first time she’d ever seen him, when he’d ridden through the gate beside Merrick and Henry.

Merrick had been grave and stern, dressed in black.

The merry, handsome Henry, dressed in brilliant scarlet, had been smiling as if delighted with everything.

Attired in a more subdued forest-green, Ranulf had not smiled, but he certainly wasn’t as grim as Merrick.

After all three had dismounted, Ranulf had looked about him as if contemplating defensive strategies or perhaps the cost of the stone.

He had intrigued her far more than Henry with his smiles, or Merrick with his silence.

Later, during that terrible time when Constance and Merrick had been at odds, it had been to Ranulf she’d appealed for help.

She thought he, rather than Henry, would be sympathetic.

And so he had been, showing her that he wasn’t nearly as cold and cynical as he pretended to be.

“No doubt it’s more pleasant for the soldiers to come to the market than stand guard by the gates or on the wall, even if they have to trail after me,” she said, giving him a bright and cheerful smile.

“Attending a pretty young woman as she goes about her errands is definitely much more interesting and entertaining than standing guard,” he agreed.

He spoke as if he’d had that duty, once upon a time. “Did you have to trail after a lady as she shopped?”

“No.”

She would try to ignore the feeling of relief his answer gave her.

“The merchants were certainly delighted to see you,” he observed, “but that’s not surprising. Everybody likes you.”

“I try to be friendly and pleasant, that’s all.”

“And I do not.” It was not a question.

What was she supposed to say to that? she wondered as they drew near the beach and the fishwives crying their wares.

A very odd expression came to his face. “What is it?” she asked, for it was obvious something was wrong.

“The smell,” he replied. “Fish may be fine on a platter, but their odor is not one I appreciate.”

His expression hadn’t been one of revulsion. It had been something else entirely.

She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Do you sometimes get the feeling you’re being watched, too?”

He regarded her as if she’d just said something incredible. “What?”

She suddenly felt ridiculous. This was Penterwell, after all, not a den of thieves. “It’s nothing,” she said, starting forward and wishing she’d kept quiet.

Instead of following her, he held her back. “You think somebody’s watching you?”

“Once or twice I’ve wondered. I’ve had that feeling you get sometimes, when the hairs on the back of your neck stand up,” she admitted.

Certain he would dismiss her worries as another foolish product of her imagination, she gave a little laugh.

“Well, perhaps you don’t know what I mean, being a knight.

Or maybe you have felt that sort of dread, before a battle or when you’re about to ride into a melee—”

“Bea,” he said firmly, cupping her shoulders. “Do you truly think somebody’s been watching you?”

Conscious of how intimate this must look, she glanced at the people near them. “You’re going to cause quite a bit of gossip if you don’t let go of me.”

He immediately did, as if her touch were like encountering an open flame.

“I’m sure it’s nothing, my lord,” she said.

Then, as if not the least concerned with anything, including the way he’d just been holding her, she strolled toward a woman with baskets of pilchard, the fishes’ backs bluish black, their bellies silver.

He didn’t say anything, nor did he come after her. Did he intend to leave her there and without a guard, despite his own order?

Even if he did, it was of no consequence. Nothing bad could happen to her while she was in the village. Nevertheless, she had to admit—at least to herself—that she did feel safer when Ranulf was nearby. Or perhaps she was simply happier then.

Trying to keep her attention on her task, she decided against the pilchard and went farther along the beach to choose something else.

Much really was good with fish. It was too bad he was so terrible with everything else.

Maloren complained day and night about his bread, his porridge, his stews, the way he burned the meat…

Ranulf hadn’t gone away, but he wasn’t coming any closer, either. He stood where she had left him, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

Well, why should he trot after her like a dog? Unless somebody decided to shove her into the water, she was perfectly safe. Still, it was disturbing having him standing there and watching her so grimly.

Perhaps the fish could wait until Friday.

Thinking that might be best, Beatrice made her way back to the castellan of Penterwell. “I think we’ll not have fish until Friday.”

“As you wish,” he answered, turning back to the castle.

“After all,” she said, and only a little pertly, “it’s difficult to make a choice when your escort is standing like a statue, staring at you as if the whole exercise is a waste of time. Honestly, one would think you were afraid of the fish, even though they’re all dead.”

“It’s not the fish,” he muttered.

She suddenly realized he’d led her back a different way to the castle, one that skirted the market and all the people there. They were in a back lane, and it was quite deserted.

Her heart started to beat rapidly, and not with dismay.

“It’s the water.”

“I—I beg your pardon?” she stammered, the warmth of her excitement doused by his grim statement.

“I don’t like to get too close to open water. I nearly drowned when I was a child.”

She was taken aback by his revelation, but also thrilled beyond measure that he would confide in her.

“When Merrick and Henry tipped the boat and you fell into the millpond?”

Henry had told her that Sir Leonard had insisted all his charges learn to swim.

However, he’d said with a laugh, Ranulf seemed to spend most of his time in Sir Leonard’s boat, rowing.

One day, he and Merrick had decided to have a little revenge and before Sir Leonard embarked, tipped Ranulf into the pond.

“No, not then. The water was shallow where they did that, although I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised if Henry exaggerated. I’m talking about something that happened long before that, before I was… Before I left my father’s castle. Only Sir Leonard knew about it, until now.”

“I’m shocked you’d tell me and not your closest friends,” she admitted.

He flushed and made a wry, self-deprecating smile. “Is it so surprising I’d keep such a fear to myself?” he asked.

No, she realised, when she thought of the pride he, like most men, possessed.

“But it would be worse to have you think I’m afraid of dead fish.”

She reached out to touch his arm, wanting, needing, to have some physical contact with him. “I shall guard your secret with my life.”

Suddenly even more ashamed of his fear than usual, cursing himself for a weak-willed fool overpowered by the need to have her sympathy, Ranulf forced himself to laugh.

“My dear Bea, there’s no need for such dramatics.

Indeed, I should probably just admit my fear to the garrison and be done instead of trying to think of excuses for why I won’t go closer to the shore than I absolutely have to. ”

“If it wasn’t when you fell into the millpond,” she asked, ignoring his attempt to be flippant, “how did you nearly drown?”

That was something he definitely didn’t want to talk about.

Fortunately, the sight of a boy running toward them spared him.

“Come quick, my lady, please!” the lad called out breathlessly. “It’s Wenna! Her water’s broke!”

M UCH LATER , Ranulf rose after a fitful night’s sleep and climbed out of the clean, comfortable bed that was now made every day.

Bea must still be at Wenna’s cottage. He’d ordered his guards to inform him when she returned, and he had made it very clear there would be a severe penalty if they didn’t.

There was nothing to be worried about if she hadn’t yet come back, he told himself as he went to the window. This was Wenna’s first child and he remembered well what he’d told Merrick as they waited for his son to be born: first births could take a long time.

He threw open the shutter to see that a heavy fog had rolled in during the night. It was so thick, he couldn’t even see the wall of the castle.

Surely Bea wouldn’t try to return through that thick gray mist. She was no fool, after all, and there was no reason for her to rush back. Surely she’d be wise enough to wait until the fog lifted.

In spite of such optimistic reassurances, he wasted no time washing and dressing. Wearing a tunic, shirt, breeches and boots, he left his chamber and hurried to the hall, checking his steps when he drew abreast of the chamber Bea shared with Maloren.

He took a moment to breathe in the light, lingering scent of lavender.

Through the open door, he noted the dressing table set up in one corner and the little jar of perfume, the ribbons and combs resting there.

A stool sat in front of it, and he could easily imagine Bea at her toilette, chattering away as Maloren combed her hair.

How he wished he could do that simple thing for her.

He’d stand behind her and listen to her musical voice as she talked about the domestic activities of the castle.

She could make even the most mundane task entertaining, and many a time he’d smiled to hear her talk about the problems with the laundry or the kitchen.

As he went on his way it struck him that her chamber was much less comfortably furnished than his own.

Bea had probably put items intended for her own use—cushions, pillows, linens and bedding—in his chamber.

Bless her, but she shouldn’t have done that, and he’d insist she take everything that belonged to her, or Tregellas, back with her. He could live with less. He had before.

Not for the first time, he wondered what might have happened had Sir Leonard refused to let him stay. If he’d been told he had to leave. If he’d been forced away.

As he was making Bea go away.

It was for her own good, he reminded himself, because he did care about her—far, far too much.

He recalled all the reasons he didn’t deserve her.

His poverty. His lack of land. What he’d done to his brother, as well as that wager he’d won in London after Celeste had told him she was marrying another, richer man.

When he entered the hall, he found the soldiers who slept there stirring and some of the male servants setting up the tables in preparation for the morning meal.

“Lady Beatrice has not yet returned?” he inquired of Gareth, the garrison commander.

The short, stocky soldier, who wore his dark hair cropped close, shook his head. “Not yet, my lord.”

“Where’s Maloren?”

“Myghal came to fetch her,” Gareth replied.

Although there was no reason to find that a cause for concern, Ranulf’s blood chilled nonetheless. “When was this?”

“A little while ago, my lord. Myghal said she needed Maloren’s help.”

Although all could be just as Gareth said, and Bea and Maloren perfectly safe, Ranulf grabbed a torch from one of the sconces and started for the door.

“I’m going to Wenna’s,” he declared as he plunged into the fog-enshrouded courtyard.