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“They either had or were going to. What difference does it make?” Maloren demanded as she got to her feet and went to the small chest nearest the table.

She threw it open and began to pack the things lying on the table.

“What a despicable, dishonorable lout! Thank the saints that nice young Kiernan’s come to take us home. ”

Home? Maloren meant Tregellas. She thought they should go back to Tregellas.

She ought to want to leave here and never see Ranulf again. She should be anxious to get away from him, after everything he’d done. She was, wasn’t she?

She rubbed her aching head. She couldn’t think, couldn’t plan, with Maloren bustling about the chamber. “Maloren, please, that can wait until later. I’d like to lie down and rest. My head aches.”

Maloren instantly ceased her packing and regarded Beatrice with worry. “I’ll fetch you some wine, and something to eat.”

Beatrice shook her head. “No, no, I’m not hungry.” She couldn’t even think of food. “All I need is rest and quiet, Maloren, please.”

“You rest then, my lamb. I’ll bring you something to eat later, something that Much hasn’t managed to ruin. You lie down and leave everything to your Maloren, lambkin.”

With that, Maloren mercifully crept out of the chamber as if Beatrice were already asleep.

But there was no rest for Beatrice then, or for the rest of the day. Her mind raced frantically, returning over and over again to the things Ranulf had said, the horrible truths he had revealed, as she tried to decide what to think. And what to do.

S HE STILL HAD NO ANSWER when Maloren returned with a tray containing fresh bread and a mutton stew that smelled delicious.

Regardless of the savory aroma, however, Beatrice couldn’t eat.

Indeed, she felt as if she would never be hungry again.

Nevertheless, for Maloren’s sake, she managed to drink some wine and nibble on some bread.

That seemed to satisfy Maloren, who insisted on doing some more packing before she finally stopped fussing and prepared for bed.

When Maloren fell asleep on her pallet by the door, Beatrice rose from her bed.

She quietly drew on her bed robe and soft, doeskin slippers.

She walked slowly to the door and eased it open without disturbing Maloren.

Then she went to Ranulf’s bedchamber. The door was closed, but a dim light shone beneath.

He wasn’t asleep, either.

She had to see him, to speak to him. She couldn’t go another hour, another moment, with this weight pressing on her heart.

She opened the door and stepped into his room.

Wearing only his breeches, Ranulf stood by the window, his hands splayed on either side of the window as he looked out at the night sky, seemingly oblivious to the chilly air.

Equally motionless, she studied the broad, naked expanse of the powerful warrior’s back and shoulders, his narrow waist and slim hips, the strong, muscular legs and arms that bespoke hours in the saddle and wielding weapons.

She noted the myriad small scars from several minor wounds that crisscrossed his flesh glowing bronze in the candlelight.

At the same time, she saw another Ranulf.

The lonely, loveless boy who would fiercely avenge the death of the only creature he’d loved, even if he died to do it.

The young man who’d offered his heart to a woman who had not seen his merit and rejected him.

The spurned and angry man who’d sought some way to prove that he was worthy of desire.

Was it any wonder he’d sought revenge in a woman’s bed? That in the first flush of his rejection, he would make that wager, and do his best to win it?

Too many people who should have loved Ranulf had not. His family had abandoned him and all but cast him off even before he’d killed his brother, as if he were garbage to be ground beneath their heels. The woman who had first won his love had chosen another.

How could she, who claimed to love him, abandon him, too? And if she could, what then did that say about her love? That it was as shallow as Celeste’s, as selfish as that of his violent family?

It was not. She loved him as she always had. No, she loved him more. Before, he had been like a hero from a legendary tale, a figure of romance, of mystery and allure, forbidden and yet, oh, so seductive— but he had not been a man.

It was a man she loved now, one of flesh and blood, of sins and flaws, as well as honor and chivalry. A man who needed her love, as she needed his. A man she would never abandon, believing as she did that he loved her, too. “Ranulf?”

He whirled around. “Bea! What are you doing here? Go back to bed.”

“No,” she said as she walked toward him. “Not until you hear what I have to say.”

He crossed the room to grab his shirt from the top of the chest. “If all you want to do is berate me, consider me berated,” he said as he pulled it on and started toward the door, presumably to open it for her.

“I don’t want to berate you, Ranulf.”

He came to a dead halt. “You don’t?”

“No. I came to tell you that I still love you.”

“How can you after all the things I’ve done?” he asked warily. “You shouldn’t. You should find another, better man, Bea, one who can give you the pure and honest love you deserve.”

“There is no finer, better man, Ranulf. Your father and brothers tried to kill what was good and honorable in you, but they didn’t succeed. You have suffered and been made the stronger, better for it.

“How can I not love a man who’s earned the admiration and respect of everyone in Tregellas, who’s turned the garrison there into the envy of every lord in England, and who helped Henry fight off an army of mercenaries even though his forces were outnumbered— and who’s done all this while claiming he’s merely doing his duty or helping a friend.

You take no vain pride in anything you do, Ranulf, even when you could. ”

She gently took hold of his upper arms. “You make light of everything, thinking nobody sees the pain you try to hide. But I see it, Ranulf, although you struggle to keep your pain to yourself, to bear that burden alone.

“I was upset by what you’d done. What woman wouldn’t be, to think the man she’d adored for months could be so callous? But you were hurt when you made that wager and didn’t care if you hurt somebody else, so long as your own pain was eased.”

He drew in a ragged breath. “Even so—”

“You shouldn’t have done it and the remorse has tormented you ever since.

That alone tells me that you’re a good man, if one who has flaws, as I do.

As everyone does. But Ranulf, how many noblemen despoil virgins for sport without a second thought?

How many noblemen would have treated me, a virgin ripe and eager for the taking, as you have, if they had the chance?

“Don’t you see, Ranulf? Your treatment of me has shown me better than a thousand words that you are not a lascivious lout who thinks only of his own desire.

That the youth who acted as he did after being spurned by Celeste is not the man who stands here today.

If that were so, I would have been in your bed months ago. ”

“Bea,” he warned, her name almost a plea as she stood before him, close enough to touch.

“Are you going to tell me to go away? That I should leave before you have your way with me?” She smiled then, with all the love she felt.

“I know that if I asked you to keep your distance, you would. That if I told you to leave this room, you would without hesitation. That my honor is as safe as it could ever be, even here, even now.”

She clasped her hands together with all the fervor she felt.

“But oh, my darling, I love you with all my heart, with every fiber of my being, as much as I can love. I’m yours, and I always will be.

Please don’t send me away tonight, Ranulf.

Let me be with you, now and always, so that you’re never alone again, for as long as we both live. ”

As he looked at her, loving her, cherishing her, honoring her, Ranulf knew what he should do. What he ought to do. What honor demanded. What his conscience counseled. He should make her leave. She shouldn’t stay.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t cast off the love she offered. He couldn’t turn away the great gift she held out to him. He couldn’t refuse her love, and the comfort and solace that came with it. He couldn’t let her go.

He took her hands in his and gazed into her sweet face. “Do you mean it, Bea?” he asked softly, scarcely daring to hope, despite the words she’d said. “You would give your love to such an unworthy fellow?”

She shook her head. “Oh, no. I would give my love to the most worthy man in England.”

Still holding her hands, he did what he’d wanted to do since the day he’d realized that what he felt for Bea was more than mere desire, and even though he’d believed he would never love a woman well enough to wed.

He went down on bended knee and softly, fervently said, “My lovely, wise and good lady, my kind and gentle savior, my heart, my home, will you save me from a life of loneliness? Will you be my wife?”

“Oh, yes!” she cried, smiling even more gloriously than the day she’d announced little Peder’s birth. “Oh, Ranulf! Of course! Of course I’ll marry you!”

She pulled him to his feet and threw her arms around him, almost knocking the breath from his lungs in her happy excitement.

“I was so afraid you were never going to ask me and I would have no choice but to retire to a convent and try to be a nun, which would surely have been a dismal failure, because my darling, my dearest, I would have pined away and—”

He kissed her. He simply couldn’t wait another moment.

He kissed her with all the love, all the longing, all the desire and hope and happiness she inspired within him.

He kissed her as he’d wanted to do for weeks, even before Christmas when it had taken every ounce of his self-control to offer her wine instead.

He held her close, reveling in the joy flowing over them, feeling that here, now, at last, in her arms and in her love, he had found a home.

A haven. A place where he belonged, safe and secure, no matter what troubles beset him or who wished to do him harm.

She kissed him just as fervently, her passion no longer held in check by doubt. He wanted her. He loved her. He was hers, and she was his. They would be married, husband and wife. There was no need to hold back or wait anymore.

She ran her hands up under his shirt, finally touching his naked flesh.

How warm it was, how firm, how taut the muscles beneath.

The ointment he had given her had soothed the cuts and scrapes on her palms, so there was no pain when she caressed him, simply a longing to feel more of his skin.

He angled himself slightly and his knee ventured between her parted legs, while his hand moved slowly down her arched back.

Oh, this was a kiss! A kiss and an embrace of a sort she’d only ever dreamed of. No, this was better than anything her maiden mind had ever imagined.

He moved to undo the tie of her bed robe and she moved back a little to let him do it.

She knew no modesty, no shame, just pleasure and anticipation as he slipped his hands beneath the robe and around her waist, with only the slender barrier of her linen shift between his palms and her warm and willing flesh.

With a low moan, she relaxed against him, and let the robe glide from her shoulders to fall upon the floor. His arousal pressed against her, sending a host of new sensations through her already eager body.

“Make love with me, Ranulf,” she pleaded in a whisper. “We are as good as married now, for you’ll never break your pledge and neither will I.”

“My wife. My lovely, loving wife,” he whispered in return as he swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. “I will never forsake you.”

She watched with avid desire, frantic need, as he threw off his shirt and peeled away his breeches. He was magnificent, from the top of his ruddy-haired head to the soles of his feet. He was wonderful and good and hers to desire.

And never had she desired him more.