“There you are, my lamb!” she cried as she hurried inside. She paused and regarded her mistress with both triumph and concern on her familiar features. “You’ve heard already, then?”
Beatrice raised her eyes, yet before she could speak, Maloren heaved a sigh full of motherly dismay and hurried to sit beside her. She put her arm around Beatrice and gently pressed her charge’s head against her shoulder in a comforting embrace.
“There, there, my lambkin,” she crooned. “He’s not worth it. There’ll be other men—better men. Don’t cry now.”
“I’m not crying,” Beatrice said dully.
“No? Well, that’s good. He’s not worth a single tear. Didn’t I warn you about that devil’s spawn, my lambkin, and her, too, with her silks and velvets? I knew no good could come from that redheaded demon, and now he’s hurt you, just as I feared. And then to see him with my own eyes with that woman! I just about fell into a fit when I saw them together. He knew he’d been caught, too, sending me off to the kitchen with barely a word except I was to stay there until sent for. Wanted to try to smooth it over with you, I don’t doubt, and tell some pretty lies. But I can see you’re too clever to believe them, whatever he said.”
“What exactly did you see, Maloren?” she asked, wondering if Ranulf had lied to her about Celeste and determined to learn the truth, no matter how much it hurt.
“I don’t think you need to hear—”
“Please, Maloren. I want to know.”
Maloren didn’t dare refuse, not when her darling used that tone, and even if she might upset her more. “They were together, close together, just about to kiss.”
“But not yet kissing?”
“They either had or were going to. What difference does it make?” Maloren demanded as she got to her feet and went to the small chest nearest the table. She threw it open and began to pack the things lying on the table. “What a despicable,dishonorable lout! Thank the saints that nice young Kiernan’s come to take us home.”
Home? Maloren meant Tregellas. She thought they should go back to Tregellas.
She ought to want to leave here and never see Ranulf again. She should be anxious to get away from him, after everything he’d done. She was, wasn’t she?
She rubbed her aching head. She couldn’t think, couldn’t plan, with Maloren bustling about the chamber. “Maloren, please, that can wait until later. I’d like to lie down and rest. My head aches.”
Maloren instantly ceased her packing and regarded Beatrice with worry. “I’ll fetch you some wine, and something to eat.”
Beatrice shook her head. “No, no, I’m not hungry.” She couldn’t even think of food. “All I need is rest and quiet, Maloren, please.”
“You rest then, my lamb. I’ll bring you something to eat later, something that Much hasn’t managed to ruin. You lie down and leave everything to your Maloren, lambkin.”
With that, Maloren mercifully crept out of the chamber as if Beatrice were already asleep.
But there was no rest for Beatrice then, or for the rest of the day. Her mind raced frantically, returning over and over again to the things Ranulf had said, the horrible truths he had revealed, as she tried to decide what to think. And what to do.
SHE STILL HAD NO ANSWERwhen Maloren returned with a tray containing fresh bread and a mutton stew that smelled delicious. Regardless of the savory aroma, however, Beatrice couldn’t eat. Indeed, she felt as if she would never be hungry again. Nevertheless, for Maloren’s sake, she managed to drink some wine and nibble on some bread.
That seemed to satisfy Maloren, who insisted on doing some more packing before she finally stopped fussing and prepared for bed. When Maloren fell asleep on her pallet by the door, Beatrice rose from her bed. She quietly drew on her bed robe and soft, doeskin slippers. She walked slowly to the door and eased it open without disturbing Maloren. Then she went to Ranulf’s bedchamber. The door was closed, but a dim light shone beneath.
He wasn’t asleep, either.
She had to see him, to speak to him. She couldn’t go another hour, another moment, with this weight pressing on her heart.
She opened the door and stepped into his room.
Wearing only his breeches, Ranulf stood by the window, his hands splayed on either side of the window as he looked out at the night sky, seemingly oblivious to the chilly air. Equally motionless, she studied the broad, naked expanse of the powerful warrior’s back and shoulders, his narrow waist and slim hips, the strong, muscular legs and arms that bespoke hours in the saddle and wielding weapons. She noted the myriad small scars from several minor wounds that crisscrossed his flesh glowing bronze in the candlelight.
At the same time, she saw another Ranulf. The lonely, loveless boy who would fiercely avenge the death of the only creature he’d loved, even if he died to do it. The young man who’d offered his heart to a woman who had not seen his merit and rejected him. The spurned and angry man who’d sought some way to prove that he was worthy of desire.
Was it any wonder he’d sought revenge in a woman’s bed? That in the first flush of his rejection, he would make that wager, and do his best to win it?
Too many people who should have loved Ranulf had not. His family had abandoned him and all but cast him off even before he’d killed his brother, as if he were garbage to be groundbeneath their heels. The woman who had first won his love had chosen another.
How could she, who claimed to love him, abandon him, too? And if she could, what then did that say about her love? That it was as shallow as Celeste’s, as selfish as that of his violent family?
It was not. She loved him as she always had. No, she loved him more. Before, he had been like a hero from a legendary tale, a figure of romance, of mystery and allure, forbidden and yet, oh, so seductive— but he had not been a man.
