“I don’t think you got much sleep last night.”AndI like having you in my arms.
“No,” she confessed. “It wasn’t an easy birth, and more than once I feared we were going to lose the baby. I had to turn him.” She clung to Ranulf more tightly. “Oh, Ranulf, I was so afraid I was doing it wrong, although I was fairly certain I was rightly remembering what Aeda said when I asked her about such things. But I’ve never even witnessed a breech birth.”
Neither had he, and it sounded complicated and painful.
“Of course I couldn’t let Wenna or the others know how frightened I was, so I simply had to pretend that I knew what I was doing and hope for the best. Fortunately, once he turned, everything went quite quickly—or at least it seemed to—and there weren’t any more problems.”
With a weary sigh, she laid her head against his broad shoulder.
“It was a good thing you were here to help,” he said, thinking it would be a wonderful thing if she could always be there to help.
“Yes. Thank you for letting me stay.” She raised her head. “I must be heavy. Perhaps I had better walk.”
“It’s all right, Bea. I don’t mind.”
She nestled wordlessly against him, close and soft and warm, and in another few moments, she was asleep.
As he looked down at her, he saw her for the beautiful, competent and—yes—talkative woman she was, and felt a warmth, a tenderness, a joy and fierce protectiveness wash over him.
His Bea. His little Lady Bea. How much he liked her “buzzing.” He enjoyed hearing her describe things that other men might find mundane, or unimportant, but that spoke of simple domestic joys and security to him—things he had never really known. He loved the way her voice rose and fell with her enthusiasm, like a song. He liked to watch her mobile features, which could tell a story all their own, even when she didn’t speak—although silence was rare with her. When Bea was quiet, he always feared she was ill and, usually, she was.
How worried he’d been on those few occasions! How thankful and relieved he’d been to learn her illness was nothing serious.
He didn’t want her to leave Penterwell. He didn’t want her to leavehim. He wanted to be with her always, to have her for his wife, the mother of his children. He wanted to make Bea happy and keep her safe for the rest of his life, if she would give him that honor. If she would let him love her.
He’d tried to turn her away. He’d tried to make her hate him. Yet in spite of all his efforts, she still seemed to like him. Perhaps she really did love him.
It could be that God was truly merciful, allowing him to find happiness and contentment and love at last. It might be that God had forgiven him, despite what he’d done. Perhaps hecouldhave lasting happiness with a wife he loved. With Bea.
If so, perhaps Bea would not despise him if she found out what he’d done. Maybe her respect, admiration and affection were strong enough to see beyond his past to his remorse and regret.
Maybe, he thought with a sudden flash of hope as well as self-recrimination, he was belittling her by thinking that she would see him for a monster, and not a man who had sinned and suffered and earned a chance for redemption.
One thing seemed certain as he held her in his arms: he could no longer continue this way, trapped between desire and dread. He had to find out, one way or the other, if Bea could forgive him his past. He must tell her everything and let her decide whether he was worthy of her, or not.
And if she reacted as he feared and turned away in horror? If she said she could never love him now?
He must, of course, accept her judgment. It would be no more than he deserved, because of what he’d done.
Having reached the gates of the castle, he ordered one of the guards to go ahead and open the door to the hall for him. Carrying Bea inside, he assured the servants who rushed forward that she was merely tired and asleep.
He continued to carry her up the steps to her bedchamber. Once there, he gently set her on the bed. She should probably be disrobed, but not by him. Not now. Not today. One day, perhaps, if he was blessed to call her wife.
Or never, if she came to hate him.
He did give in to one temptation. He leaned down and brushed his lips over hers in a gentle kiss. “Tomorrow, Bea,” he vowed in a whisper. “Tomorrow I will tell you all about Ranulf of Beauvieux.”
DAMN THE DRIFTING FOG, Myghal thought as his horse trotted down the rutted road leading away from Penterwell. And damn Pierre. Damn Wenna, too, for refusing him and making him do terrible things.
No, it wasn’t Wenna’s fault. She was innocent of any wrongdoing. He was the sinner. A cowardly sinner, fleeing the mess he’d made.
“Where are you going, Myghal?” a French-accented voice called out, as if a ghost were on his trail.
A ghost who sounded like Pierre.
Myghal punched his spurred heels into his horse’s sides, sending his mount into a gallop.
He didn’t realize men from the smuggler’s crew had him trapped until he was surrounded. His horse shied and snorted, but there was no escape unless Myghal wanted to try to run them down.
