Surely Bea wouldn’t try to return through that thick gray mist. She was no fool, after all, and there was no reason for herto 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 doneto 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.
CHAPTER NINE
THE MIST WAS SO THICK, Ranulf couldn’t see the gate until he was nearly there. As he marched forward, droplets of moisture clung to his face, his hair, his beard. The torch spluttered but mercifully stayed alight as he passed the startled sentries and continued along the road toward the village.
As he neared the cottages and shops, the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise, just as Bea had described. His discomfort could be because of the fog, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that the thick mist was hiding something more sinister than buildings and the sea. His steps slowed and he drew his sword, every sense alert for anything that seemed unusual or out of place.
The sound of clucking penetrated the gloom and, through the fog, he spied a woman feeding her chickens scratching in the rocky soil. She stared at him as he approached, and no wonder. The castellan hurrying through the village carrying a drawn sword wouldn’t be a reassuring sight.
He made no explanation as he strode swiftly onward toward the widow’s cottage. If there was trouble here, it would be better for that woman to wonder and worry, and go back inside.
He heard another sound and paused to listen. And then relief, as strong as his dread had been, washed over him. He knew that happy sound as well as he knew his own voice. Somewhere close by, Bea was laughing.
He started forward again and soon reached Wenna’s small stone cottage. He doused the torch in a trough near the door andtook a moment to catch his breath. He smoothed down his tunic and ran a hand through his damp hair.
God’s blood, he hadn’t even put on a cloak, he thought as he knocked on the wooden door before settling his expression into its usual mask of calm detachment.
Maloren opened the door, and the smile on her face died when she saw who was standing there. “Oh, it’s you.”
Obviously, and no matter how she’d been acting toward him lately, she still didn’t like him.
“Ranulf!” he heard Bea cry with genuine delight, making him smile in spite of Maloren’s unfriendly greeting.
“Wenna, may he come in and see the baby?” she asked.
It was like Bea to ask a peasant if the castellan could enter her cottage. By right, he didn’t even have to knock.
