Hers to Desire. Margaret MooreЧитать онлайн книгу.
and it was not from the breeze.
“But the weather was clear and there’s no sign of his boat. It’s strange to find his body but not so much as a board or rope from his boat.”
“Are you saying you think his death was the result of foul play?”
Hedyn rubbed his grizzled chin. “Aye, sir. Two other men have gone missing, as well.”
Perhaps this was the “trouble” Frioc had alluded to, but if so, Frioc should certainly have informed Merrick.
“Nobody thought too much about that at the time, sir,” Hedyn said as if in answer to Ranulf’s unspoken question. “Rob and Sam weren’t from Penterwell, you see, and only came to stay in the winter months.”
He gave Ranulf a look, as one worldly-wise man to another. “They weren’t the kind to stay close to hearth and home, or their wives, if you follow me. And there’d been some trouble between them and some of the other fishermen. Most of the villagers thought they’d just sailed off before they were forced to go—and good riddance to ’em. Their wives were as relieved as anybody.”
That might explain why Frioc had not considered their absence important, but taken with this new death… “Gawan was not of that sort?”
“Lord bless you, no,” Hedyn replied, shaking his head. “He loved his wife dear, and she him. They’ve been sweethearts since they were little, and he was looking forward to the child.”
Which didn’t mean he couldn’t have left her, no matter how he acted in public, or what vows of love he swore.
“It may be Gawan took a risk because he thought they’d need more money with a babe on the way.” The sheriff sighed. “Poor lad. It wouldn’t be the first time one of those French pirates has done murder for a man’s tin.”
“I suppose we should be grateful his body washed ashore,” Ranulf mused as they started back toward the men. “Otherwise, we might never have known what happened to him.”
“It’s damned odd,” Hedyn retorted.
Ranulf halted and regarded Hedyn quizzically, taken aback by the force of the sheriff’s words. “How so?”
“Well, sir, when a man drowns in the sea, his body sinks like a stone. It can take days for it to bloat and come up again, and when it’s in the sea…well, it can drift for miles before it washes up, if there’s anything left to wash up by then. This is more like he was killed first and then thrown over the side. But there’s not a mark on him. Come see for yourself.”
Ranulf’s stomach twisted. He’d seen men killed, their faces ruined, limbs torn and bloody. He could deal with that. But to look at a drowned man’s corpse…
Ranulf would not show any weakness. He would give no sign that he would rather face fifty mounted knights while armed with only a dagger than follow the sheriff to the body that lay upon the shore.
A SENNIGHT LATER, Beatrice watched Gaston sprinkle thyme over meat, gravy and leeks in an open pastry shell.
“The secret, my lady, is in the spices,” Gaston explained as he added a pinch of rosemary. “Too much, and you lose the taste of the pheasant, too little and it’s too much pheasant, if you understand me.”
Beatrice nodded as she studied Gaston’s technique. The slim middle-aged man had been the cook for Lord Merrick’s father, too, and had the worry lines in his face to prove it. These days, though, Gaston smiled far more than he frowned. Lord Merrick was a generous master who appreciated good food, and he never once accused the cook of trying to poison him.
As for a lady’s presence in the castle kitchen, Beatrice enjoyed being in the warm room, with its bustling servants and pleasant aromas. In the days since Ranulf had gone, she’d spent plenty of time with Gaston and the servants there. She had also whiled away several hours sitting with Constance, making clothes for the baby and retelling the stories of King Arthur and his knights that she loved, even though they made her think of the absent Ranulf. He claimed he didn’t enjoy those tales one bit. He called Lancelot an immoral, disloyal dolt whose battle prowess had gone to his head, and he thought Arthur much too generous to his traitorous son.
Ranulf had no sympathy for traitors. As for a traitor’s daughter…
Demelza, middle-aged and amiable, and a servant who could always be counted on to have the latest gossip, appeared at the door to the courtyard. She grinned when she spotted Beatrice.
She also noticed Maloren, slumbering in the warm corner near the hearth. Like everyone in Tregellas, Demelza knew that the very mention of Ranulf’s name could cause Maloren to launch into one of her tirades against men, so she approached Beatrice as stealthily as a spy and addressed her in a hushed whisper. “A messenger’s arrived, my lady. From Penterwell. I come the moment I heard, my lady, just like you asked.”
“Thank you,” Beatrice said, trying not to sound overly excited or wake Maloren as she wiped her floury hands on a cloth. “It’s so difficult for Lord Merrick to have to sit all day. Tidings from Penterwell should cheer him up. And I daresay Constance will want to hear the news. I’ll look after little Peder for her, and then they can have some time alone, too.”
She gave Demelza and the other servants a knowing smile. “I’m sure they’ll like that.”
The servants shared a quiet, companionable chuckle. Rarely had anyone seen a couple more in love than the lord and lady of Tregellas.
Beatrice, meanwhile, hurried on her way, glad that Maloren was still sleeping and hadn’t awakened and offered to go with her.
Merrick and Constance would indeed be glad to have news of Penterwell and Ranulf, but not so much as she. In the days since Ranulf had departed, Beatrice had had plenty of time to mull over what had happened the night they’d kissed, and her hopes had started to revive. In spite of what had happened just before they parted, Ranulf had certainly been passionate when they began. He’d surrendered to his desire just as she had. Unfortunately for her, as the yearning flared and the need grew, he must have remembered that honorable men didn’t make love with ladies to whom they weren’t at least betrothed. It could be that, as she’d felt ashamed and humiliated afterward, so had he when he broke the kiss.
If he were still here, she would be able to tell him that he had no need to condemn himself for what she had initiated. She could say she was sorry if he’d been upset, but she couldn’t regret their kiss, not when she cared about him as she did. She would finally be able to tell him how she felt.
But he wasn’t here, and until she could speak to him again, she must keep her desire and her hopes to herself as she had before.
When Beatrice arrived at the lord’s bedchamber, Merrick was seated with his left leg propped on a stool as he perused a scroll in his hand. Constance sat on a cushioned chair beside him, holding their son in her arms. There was concern on her features, and Merrick was scowling.
But then, he’d been scowling nearly continuously since he’d broken his leg.
Beatrice put a smile on her face and tried to act as if she’d just happened to come by because she hadn’t confided her greatest hope to Constance yet, either. Although Ranulf was Merrick’s trusted friend, Constance might not entirely welcome a marriage between her cousin and her husband’s brother-in-arms. Ranulf was more than ten years older than she, for one thing, and, worse, landless. Constance might think she should aim for a richer or more powerful husband, unwilling to accept that her cousin was not the matrimonial prize Constance, with her sisterly love, believed her to be.
“Good morning, Constance. Merrick,” Beatrice said brightly after knocking on the frame of the door to announce her arrival. “A fine day, isn’t it? Spring is surely on its way. I believe I could find some early blooms if I went out walking today, and the air smells so fresh and lovely—well, except if you wander too close to the pigsty.” She held out her hands for little Peder. “May I hold him?”
Constance nodded and Beatrice