Page 9

“N O UNFAMILIAR SHIPS have been spotted along here, either?” Ranulf asked Myghal as they rode along the crest of a hill a short distance from the coast two days after Beatrice had begged to be sent to Penterwell.

They were near enough to see the water, but a safe distance from the edge of the cliffs.

Venturing any closer would have made it impossible for him to hide his fear.

“No, sir, not a one, not for days,” Myghal replied, his shoulders hunched against the wind blowing in from the sea. Above, scudding gray clouds foretold rain, and the gulls wheeling and screeching overhead seemed to be ordering them to take shelter.

“And still no one has said anything to you about Gawan’s death?” Ranulf asked, repeating a question he posed to the undersheriff at least once a day, while Hedyn led other patrols on the opposite side of the coast from the castle.

Myghal shook his head.

Ranulf stifled a sigh. How was he to discover who had killed Gawan, and perhaps those other two, if nobody would speak to those in authority about what they knew? Surely somebody in Penterwell had to know something .

Gawan’s widow, Wenna, had been willing to talk to him, but she’d been nearly incoherent with grief, the tears rolling down her cheeks as she told him that she was sure her husband had been murdered.

“Been a fisherman since nearly the time he could walk, my lord,” she’d sobbed through her tears.

“It would take a storm to sink him, and there wasn’t one. ”

Ranulf had gently suggested that perhaps her husband had set out to meet some evil men, assuring her that if that were so, and even if her husband was engaged in activities that broke the law, he was still determined to find the culprits who had killed her husband and bring them to justice.

“He went to meet a Frenchman, my lord,” she’d admitted as she wiped her nose with the edge of her apron, her rounded belly pressing against her skirts.

“He’s traded with the man before. My Gawan didn’t trust him, but the Frenchman paid more than most, and Gawan wanted as much as he could get because of the baby. My poor fatherless baby…”

She’d broken down completely then. He’d sent Myghal, who’d been with him, to fetch a neighbor’s wife. He’d also taken several coins from his purse and left them on the table before he slipped away.

For years and years he had believed love to be a lie, a comforting tale told to keep women in their place, for no one had ever loved him. Then he’d fallen in love—passionately so—and found out that feeling could be real, and so was the pain it brought.

Wenna’s grief was an uncomfortable but necessary reminder of that anguish. Otherwise, he might forget and allow himself to—

He heard something. Behind them. On the moor.

Pulling sharply on his reins, Ranulf held up his hand to halt the rest of the patrol, then wheeled Titan around.

“What is it?” Myghal asked nervously, twisting in his saddle to see what had drawn Ranulf’s attention.

“There,” Ranulf answered, pointing at a galloping horse heading toward them at breakneck speed, its rider bent low over its neck, the bright blue cloak of the rider streaming out behind him like a banner.

Ranulf rose in his stirrups, the better to see, and realized almost at once that it wasn’t only a cloak flapping. There were skirts, too.

That horse looked familiar. Very familiar.

God’s blood, it was Bea’s mare, Holly, so that must be Bea, riding as if fiends from hell were chasing her.

Drawing his sword, Ranulf bellowed his war cry and kicked Titan into a gallop. God help any man who sought to hurt his little Lady Bea!

T HE FIERCE CRY SOUNDED like a demon or some other supernatural creature, wounded and in pain.

Startled, Beatrice pulled sharply on the reins to halt Holly.

As her mare sat back on her haunches, Beatrice felt her grip slipping and the next thing she knew, she’d gone head over heels onto a patch of damp, grassy ground.

For one pulse-pounding moment, she lay too stunned to move as the thundering hooves came closer. Then she saw shoulder-length red-brown hair, a familiar forest-green surcoat, and the great dappled gray warhorse that belonged to Ranulf.

As she struggled to sit up, the castellan of Penterwell brought his horse to a snorting halt, threw his leg over the saddle and slipped off. He rushed toward her, his sword still clutched in his right hand as he fell on his knees beside her.

Still somewhat dizzy from her tumble, surprised by Ranulf’s sudden arrival and taken aback by the obvious and sincere concern on his features, Beatrice blurted, “I hope you don’t think I didn’t care about Merrick making you castellan.

I was delighted for you, although it’s no more than you deserve.

But nobody told me before the evening meal.

I suppose all the servants thought I already knew, and Constance and Merrick probably expected you to tell me.

You didn’t, so I didn’t know you were going until you were already gone. ”

Ranulf sat back on his ankles, looking as dazed as if he’d tumbled from his horse, too.

Her heart thudding with a combination of excitement and dread, Beatrice decided that, since she had started, she might as well try to find out where she stood with Ranulf.

She wondered if she should begin with their kiss, but couldn’t bring herself to mention it.

“I was afraid you were upset with me when you didn’t say goodbye. ”

“I expected to see you in the morning,” he replied with no hint of embarrassment or shame as he rose.

“Unfortunately, you were still asleep and I thought you needed your rest. I would have said a better farewell when you retired from the hall if I had known it was the last time I would see you before leaving Tregellas.”

The last time…? It suddenly dawned on her that he might have been too drunk to remember their embrace or the words they’d said. If that was so, she should be both glad and relieved. But she wasn’t. She was dismayed and disappointed.

His expression inscrutable, Ranulf surveyed her from head to toe. “Are you hurt?”

She was, although not in the way he meant.

It pained her to realize that what had been such a momentous occasion for her was not even a memory to him.

“I fear I’m going to have a terrible bruise, and this cloak may never be free of stains, but I’m otherwise unharmed,” she replied, managing not to sound as upset as she felt.

He reached down to help her to her feet, his strong, gloved hand grasping hers. Even that touch was enough to warm her blood and make her remember the heated passion of his kiss.

She must deal with the present and ignore the painful past.

Looking toward the group of soldiers drawing near, she said, “I trust those are men from your castle.”

He followed her gaze and nodded. “Yes, and the undersheriff.”

“Surely it isn’t safe for you to get so far away from them if men of Penterwell are being murdered.”

Ranulf’s ruddy brows contracted. “Your own safety is something you should have considered, my lady, when you decided to ride about this unfamiliar countryside all by yourself.”

“I’m not all by myself,” she protested. “Two soldiers rode ahead with me.”

“Unless they’ve become invisible, my lady,” he said, still frowning, “you are most certainly alone.”

Taken aback, she looked over her shoulder, expecting to see her escorts from Tregellas riding toward them.

“I wasn’t alone,” she amended apologetically. “Holly must be faster than their horses. I didn’t realize she was so swift.”

As she spoke, Ranulf’s men and the undersheriff arrived and drew their horses to a halt.

Suddenly aware of how disheveled she must look, and worried that they might think she often rode about like some heedless hoyden, Beatrice blushed and stared at the grassy ground.

She had so much wanted to arrive the way Constance would, as a lady of dignity and worthy of respect, the better to impress Ranulf.

Instead, she’d shocked and angered him. It was obvious he was annoyed by the way he pressed his full lips together, and by the appearance of that deep, vertical furrow between his brows.

“I was mistaken. The lady wasn’t being chased,” he announced to his men, and if she’d had any doubts that he was angry, the tone of his voice would have dispelled them.

He turned back to her. “Lady Beatrice, these are some of the men in the garrison of Penterwell. I believe you’ve met Myghal, the undersheriff of Penterwell.”

Her pride demanded that she act as composed as Constance, or Ranulf himself, so she forced herself to smile at the slightly plump man she guessed was in his early twenties. “Yes, I have. Good day, Myghal.”

The undersheriff nodded and mumbled a greeting.

“Myghal, Lady Beatrice is apparently going to be visiting Penterwell, along with Lord Merrick.”

Beatrice shifted uneasily, wondering if she should tell Ranulf here and now that Merrick had not come with her party—except that would surely only upset him more.

She was spared mentioning Merrick when Ranulf went on before she could speak. “Continue the patrol. You should check that cove again.”

Myghal nodded, but his eyes were not on his overlord. They were on Beatrice. All the other men in the patrol were watching her, too.

This was not the first time men had looked at her, and while she told herself it must be because of her unkempt appearance, in her heart Beatrice knew their attention had another cause, even though she wasn’t as beautiful and graceful as Constance.

That sort of masculine scrutiny always made her uncomfortable, and so she did what she always did in such circumstances. She started to talk.