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. “Didyouhave 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…
