“Please inform her that I shall be happy to speak with her as soon as I’ve given the night’s watchword to the guard,” he said, dismissing the maidservant.
He chose “wiser” for the word, then went to the chamber given over to Celeste’s use while she was in Penterwell. He knocked briskly on the door, reflecting that it was a good thing that Celeste had brought her own servants. After he’d sent Eseld away—staggering dizzily and calling him a host of unflattering names—there was no one to spare to tend to a sick guest.
The door was immediately opened, although not by Emma. Celeste herself stood there, dressed—if one could call it that—in a bed robe of rich scarlet brocade loosely belted about her slender hips. Beneath the robe was a very sheer white shift, probably made of silk.
There had been a time he would have nearly died of desire to see her thus, and especially looking at him with that particular hunger in her eyes.
Unfortunately for Celeste, that time had passed.
“I had not anticipated finding you here alone and in a state of dishabille, my lady,” he said coolly. “Although I understand you have some matter of urgency to discuss with me, it will have to wait until—”
She didn’t give him a chance to finish before she grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into the room with surprising force and shoved the door closed behind him.
“This is rather flagrant, isn’t it?” he asked as he raised one inquisitive brow. “In the past you would have been more subtle.”
“Don’t play the righteous, pious prude with me, Ranulf,” Celeste declared, her cheeks flushed and her eyes flashing with ire. “It doesn’t suit you. I’m not trying to seduce you.”
“I’m very glad to hear it,” he calmly replied. “Since you must then only wish to converse, allow me to begin. You’re obviously feeling better, so I think it’s time you left Penterwell.”
“What?” she gasped. “You would order a guest to go?”
Because she was a guest, and a woman, and despite her choice of garments and what she’d done in the past, he felt compelled to ease the order. “It’s for your own good, Celeste. There has been some serious trouble here, including murder, and I don’t want you to be in any danger.”
Instead of looking worried, her eyes lit up with delight. “So you do care about me?”
“Yes, as a friend,” he answered, and to make certain she understood there could never be anything more than that between them, he added, “Although there have been days I wished you dead.”
She backed away. “You…what?”
“Is it really so surprising that I would want you to suffer after what you did to me?”
“And do you think I didn’t suffer when I had to marry another? My familyforcedme to accept Lord Fontenbleu.”
He thought of the morning she’d told him they must never see each other again. “I was too poor. You said so yourself.”
She clasped her hands together, as Bea so often did. “That’s what they kept saying to me—that you were poor and I would be poor, too, if I married you.”
“I’m still poor, Celeste. I’m castellan here because of Merrick’s friendship and generosity. I have no estate of my own, and few coins to my name. Everything I own can fit into a single wooden chest.”
“But I am rich, and the man who marries me will be rich, too. I can give you everything you’ve ever wanted, Ranulf. Money, lands, power—and a wife who loves you!”
“All that, Celeste? You would give me all that?”
“Yes!” she cried, throwing her arms around him. “Whatever you want, Ranulf.”
He gently pushed her away. “What I want is Bea. And I wantyouto leave Penterwell.”
“Please don’t hate me for what I was made to do!” she pleaded. “Try to understand and forgive me. It’s so difficult for a woman!”
“I know that, and I do pity you, Celeste,” he replied, speaking not unkindly, but firmly, too. “As for forgiveness, if that is what you really seek, you have that, as well.”
As he said it, he realized that was true. He did forgive her. “What’s past is past, Celeste,” he said gently. “Now let us speak no more of those days.”
“But my husband is dead, and we’re here— together,” she said. “He never loved me, Ranulf, never. I was just a prize to him, something to decorate his hall and show off to his friends.” She bit her lip and looked up at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “He never kissed me the way you did, never made me feel—”
“Please, Celeste,” Ranulf said, turning away. “Don’t say anything more. I’m sorry for you, truly I am, but I don’t love you.”
She stiffened as if a lightning bolt had struck her, and her expression grew as hard as that of a cheated merchant. “Do you no longer want me because I’ve grown old and ugly?” she demanded. “Is that why you’d rather dally here with thatchildand ruin your reputation—and hers, such as it is—beyond repair?”
