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“B UT IT WASN’T fourteen virgins. It was four,” Ranulf confessed as Bea stared at him with shock. “And as if that shame were not enough, I took the evidence of my success to the man with whom I’d made the wager.”

His guilt and remorse increased even more as her expression changed to one of revulsion.

He rushed on, desperately trying—hoping—to regain what little might remain of her affection.

“The moment Ollie put the winnings in my hands, I knew how Judas felt. I made him swear never to tell anyone. There were some who’d been in the tavern who’d witnessed the wager and—worse—the winning of it.

I searched them out and threatened them with death if they breathed a word.

I gave the money to the church, thinking the taint might be washed away if it was used for good.

When I returned to Sir Leonard’s castle, I told no one what I’d done.

I still pray every day for God’s forgiveness.

” He hung his head. “Now, Bea, I humbly ask for yours.”

Her face a pale mask of disappointment and dismay, Bea answered like one in a daze. “But I’ve been championing you, proclaiming your innocence. Saying that story had to be a lie, that you were too good, too honorable to do anything so lewd and disgusting.”

He held out his hands in supplication. “Bea, I’m sorry for what I did.

I’ve been sorry ever since. I’ve cursed myself a hundred—nay, a thousand times, and felt sick with remorse.

And never have I felt worse than when I met you.

Never have I felt more soiled, more stained, than when you smiled at me in your youthful innocence and looked at me with love. ”

She raised her hands as if to hold him off and began to back away from him, her silence more upsetting than curses or a harsh denunciation would be.

He followed her and desperately tried to explain, to win back her good opinion, or at least a tiny portion of it. “When I made that wager, I was drunk, and half-mad with rage and jealousy.”

She stared at him as if she’d never seen him before. Perhaps, in her determination to see him for a man worthy of her love, she never really had.

“Oh, Ranulf,” she whispered, “what of those poor women you seduced? Whether it was four or fourteen or forty, you weren’t drunk when you did that. You gave no thought to them at all, did you? You were cruel and selfish, more so than I would ever have believed you could be.”

If he thought he’d seen her heart break before, it was nothing compared to the recrimination in her eyes as she regarded him now. “Bea, I—”

“No, Ranulf, say no more!” she cried, turning away as if she couldn’t even bear to look at him.

“Your brother’s death, done in the heat of anger and sorrow when you were so young—your rage, the need for vengeance—that I could understand and excuse.

But the way you used those women…You cold-bloodedly sought them out and seduced them only to win a wager to assuage your wounded pride.

” She shook her head. “You are not the man I thought you were.”

Celeste’s rejection had been painful, but it was nothing compared to this. The terrible despair. The awful sorrow. The horrible finality. The knowledge that in Bea’s lovely eyes, he was despicable, not worthy of her regard, or her respect.

In spite of that bitter realization, he was still a man of pride, for his pride was strong—strong enough to sustain a boy as he walked toward his goal and enable him to stand tall when he reached it. What was left of Ranulf’s shattered self-respect rose and came to his aid now.

“No, I’m not the man you thought I was,” he said with cold deliberation. “I tried to warn you, but you would not listen.”

She looked at him then, with sorrow and grief etched on her sweet face. Her eyes shone with unshed tears, the sight ripping into his wretched heart and making a mockery of that manly pride.

“Perhaps I am ignorant and naive,” she said quietly. “I thought Celeste was trying to poison my mind against you. I thought everyone else was repeating the same baseless rumors. I wouldn’t let myself believe you were anything but good and noble.”

He had hoped and asked too much of her. He had killed his brother. He had callously seduced women. He had dishonored them, and himself. No woman of virtue and honor would—or should— welcome his love.

It had been a mistake to believe otherwise.

Never again. He would be alone, as he must and always would be.

“I was wrong to hope,” he said at last. “I’ve been living in a dream, wishing that some of your goodness, your purity, would help to cleanse me. But I was wrong. I’m not fit to be near you, let alone to love you, and God knows I shouldn’t ask to marry you.”

Bea nearly groaned aloud. She had waited weeks to hear him say that he loved her and had lived in hope he would ask for her hand in marriage. Now her optimistic dreams seemed a cruel jest. Ranulf was not the man she’d fallen in love with. He was…something else.

He was not the noble knight, the chivalrous friend, the handsome, desired lover. He was a man capable of cold-blooded seduction, of heartless cruelty to women who’d done him no harm.

“There is one thing more I must tell you,” he said, his face like a statue, his expression resolute.

“I don’t want to hear any more,” she protested, half commanding, half pleading, as she ran to the door.

He crossed the room and stood in front of it, blocking her way. “No, Bea, I want you to know everything, so you’ll hear this, too, from my own lips.”

Those lips that had kissed her with such passion and tenderness. Those lips that had uttered lies to woo women into his bed.

“Today I was in Celeste’s chamber,” he continued inexorably. “I was summoned there by her maid. Celeste embraced me and Maloren saw us together.”

Beatrice closed her eyes, fighting her despair, summoning her strength. She should not care about this, not after the other things he’d confessed. But she did. God help her, she did, and it was like a dagger through her heart.

His voice softened, more like the loving Ranulf she’d wanted him to be. “No matter what else you believe of me, Bea, no matter what Maloren or anyone says to you, I’m innocent of any wrongdoing with Celeste.”

Opening her eyes, Beatrice looked up at him, this man she’d thought she’d love until the day she died. The first man to arouse her passionate desires.

This stranger.

“Let me pass, Ranulf,” she said as she forced her feet to move toward the door. “I can’t bear to be near you now.”

He stood aside and when she fumbled for the door latch, he opened it for her. She wrapped her arms around her body as if touching him would kill her, then slipped past him and away.

W HEN SHE WAS GONE , Ranulf went to the window and stared out at the sky, then the castle he commanded.

He’d thought he had come a long way since he’d left Beauvieux. He had dared to hope that he might yet find happiness and contentment.

Obviously Bea had not been the only one to harbor impossible dreams that were doomed to fail.

He had been a fool and, unlike Bea, he didn’t have the excuse of youthful innocence.

There was only one thing left to do: his duty as castellan of Penterwell. He must and would find out who had murdered Hedyn, Gwenbritha, Gawan and the others, and bring them to justice.

W ITHOUT CONSCIOUS THOUGHT , knowing only that she wanted—needed—to be alone, Bea stumbled toward her bedchamber. She closed the door behind her and staggered to the bed. She sat heavily and stared at the wall opposite as she tried to comprehend the full import of Ranulf’s confession.

Such terrible things, and especially the heartless seduction of those innocent young women. How could he? She had thought him the most noble and chivalrous of men.

She’d been wrong. So very wrong. She couldn’t love him now. Over and over, this rang through her mind. His reasons simply did not excuse his actions.

How could she have been so wrong? How could Constance and Merrick? And Henry?

As those tumultuous thoughts and questions whirled around her distraught mind, the door to the chamber burst open and Maloren appeared on the threshold.

“There you are, my lamb!” she cried as she hurried inside. She paused and regarded her mistress with both triumph and concern on her familiar features. “You’ve heard already, then?”

Beatrice raised her eyes, yet before she could speak, Maloren heaved a sigh full of motherly dismay and hurried to sit beside her. She put her arm around Beatrice and gently pressed her charge’s head against her shoulder in a comforting embrace.

“There, there, my lambkin,” she crooned. “He’s not worth it. There’ll be other men—better men. Don’t cry now.”

“I’m not crying,” Beatrice said dully.

“No? Well, that’s good. He’s not worth a single tear.

Didn’t I warn you about that devil’s spawn, my lambkin, and her, too, with her silks and velvets?

I knew no good could come from that redheaded demon, and now he’s hurt you, just as I feared.

And then to see him with my own eyes with that woman!

I just about fell into a fit when I saw them together.

He knew he’d been caught, too, sending me off to the kitchen with barely a word except I was to stay there until sent for.

Wanted to try to smooth it over with you, I don’t doubt, and tell some pretty lies.

But I can see you’re too clever to believe them, whatever he said. ”

“What exactly did you see, Maloren?” she asked, wondering if Ranulf had lied to her about Celeste and determined to learn the truth, no matter how much it hurt.

“I don’t think you need to hear—”

“Please, Maloren. I want to know.”

Maloren didn’t dare refuse, not when her darling used that tone, and even if she might upset her more. “They were together, close together, just about to kiss.”

“But not yet kissing?”