“This way, my lady,” Myghal said, turning down another lane.
Beatrice halted in confusion. “Why this way? This doesn’t lead to the castle. This leads to the road that goes to the shore.”
“Aye, the main road. At a fork we turn left to the castle, instead of right to the shore.”
“Why don’t we go left now and make directly for the castle?”
“Because there’s a stream that way we’d have to cross, and it’s a bit far for you to leap, I think.”
Because she’d seen the stream on her visits to the village, Beatrice couldn’t dispute its existence; even so, she was reluctant to follow him.
She told herself she was being ridiculous. Ranulf trusted Myghal; so had Hedyn and Sir Frioc. Nevertheless, she couldn’t ignore her qualms.
“We could turn back,” she suggested, “and go another way.”
“Trust me, my lady, this way is faster.”
“I think you underestimate me, Myghal,” Beatrice said as she headed in the direction of the castle. “I’m sure I can jump the stream and I’m too hungry to take the longer way.”
Myghal jogged after her and, as he neared, she quickened her pace, even as she silently chastised herself for letting her imagination worry her when surely there was no need.
“My lady, please,” he called out. “What’s wrong?
She tripped and fell, landing hard on her ungloved hands, her knees somewhat cushioned by her skirt and shift. Biting back a curse, she scrambled to her feet as Myghal arrived beside her.
“There’s no need to run, my lady,” he said. “No rush to get where you’re going.”
His voice and his words made her blood run cold.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BEFOREBEATRICE COULDanswer Myghal, a soldier carrying a banner, with more men behind him, came around a bend in the road.
Beatrice let out a sigh of relief. That familiar banner belonged to Sir Jowan, whose estate bordered Tregellas.
Her relief diminished somewhat when she realized it wasn’t the jovial Sir Jowan leading the armed party. It was his fair-haired son, Kiernan, the man she was sure had wanted to marry Constance before Merrick had returned to Tregellas after his fifteen-year absence. Constance, however, had once told Beatrice that whatever Kiernan wanted, she didn’t wanthim.
Beatrice had been glad. Kiernan was a nice enough fellow, but he was no Merrick or Ranulf.
For one thing, he was vain. At present he was wearing a heavily embroidered surcoat of rich deep blue and silver. His mail gleamed in the sunlight, as did his spurs and helmet. His horse, a fine black beast, was likewise attired in blue and silver, from its bridle to its britchens.
Kiernan had some right to his vanity, she supposed, for he was a good-looking fellow. However, he wasn’t as handsome as Henry, or as darkly attractive as Merrick, and he certainly didn’t make her heart race like Ranulf.
Having reached them, Kiernan ordered his men to halt. He sprang down from his prancing gelding, its trappings jingling, and hurried toward her. “Lady Beatrice, what’s happened?”he asked as he surveyed her muddy garments. He darted a suspicious glance at Myghal. “What are you doing on the road with this fellow?”
“This is Myghal, the sheriff of Penterwell,” she answered, quite calm now that her imagination was once again under her control and determined to ensure Kiernan didn’t get the wrong idea. “He’s escorting me back to the castle.”
“You have no other soldiers with you?”
“I need no more,” she said, not at all pleased by Kiernan’s arrogant tone. “I’m quite safe with Myghal.”
Kiernan’s expression as he looked again at Myghal told her he didn’t agree. “Sir Ranulf should take better care of his guests.”
“I did have more guards with me, until Myghal offered to go with me.”
Kiernan reached out to take her scraped right hand, bringing it to his lips. “Even so, Sir Ranulf should take better care of you. I would.”
Sweet Mother of God! She’d always been pleasant to Kiernan, but she’d never encouraged him to think there was anything more between them, and she never would.
