“Nay, do not,” he interrupted, still smiling. “I like your spirit, lady. ’Tis a trait needful in dealing with my son, as disagreeable and intimidating as he can be. A woman with less mettle would likely be overwhelmed by him.”
Again Reina wondered how he could know that when he had himself had so few dealings with Ranulf. But she would not ask. Nay, just now the best thing she could do would be to exit right quickly, ere she proved more ungracious than she had thus far. But the man’s remark deserved a comment first.
“Ranulf is not as fearsome as he appears, once you become accustomed to his roar. But you must know that for yourself—” She stopped, appalled that she was doing it again, but hopefully he had not detected that last bit of sarcasm. “Do you make yourself comfortable, my lord.” She indicated a bench by the hearth, away from the bustle of servants still setting up the tables. “We will have dinner soon, as you can see, and you are welcome to join.” She hoped that was the truth, but could not really predict how Ranulf would receive him. “Do you excuse me now while I locate my husband for you.”
She gave him no chance to reply one way or the other but hurried off, stopping only long enough to send a servant to fetch wine for him. She felt flustered, and anxious, and contrarily, still annoyed by the man’s behavior. The way he acted, you would think Ranulf a beloved son, when the truth was he was a son barely acknowledged. Or did the man think to share in and make use of Ranulf’s good fortune? Aye, that would explain his delight that Ranulf was Lord of Clydon—but not the pride in Ranulf as a man that she had detected ere he learned he was not merely a mercenary she had hired.
In truth, she knew not what to think. She had to acknowledge that Ranulf might not have told her all the facts. Yet she had not mistaken his bitterness when he told her what he did. That was real and what had stirred her own dislike of this uncaring father. If Ranulf bore no love for the man, there had to be good reason, whether she knew all the facts or not.
Recalling that bitterness, Reina became even more anxious. In her shame over her own behavior, she had made the man welcome. She should not have done that. If Ranulf refused to receive him, worse, demanded he leave, she would be even more shamed, regardless that she had herself tried to insult him into leaving. Once hospitality was extended, it was tantamount to an offering of peace. ’Twas not rescinded except by deeds done after the fact which might destroy that peace.
But all of these thoughts went right out of Reina’s mind when she found Ranulf still abed, though quite awake and watching her rush toward him. She immediately checked for pallor or brightness in his complexion, indications of sickness. There were none, yet he had to be ill and seriously so, to keep him abed this long when he was not sleeping as she had assumed, especially since he had spoken of sending one of his men to Warhurst to question the townspeople, also of further interrogating the prisoners. She berated herself now for not checking on him sooner.
“You should have sent for me.” The terseness of her tone was at odds with the gentle touch of her hand on his brow, then his neck. “You are not hot,” she added with a worried frown. “What ailment do you feel?”
Ranulf stared at her blankly for a moment, then replied, “’Tis lower.”
Her eyes moved down him, settling on his stomach, bare above the bed sheet gathered loosely around his hips. Her hand followed, but only to hover over the area. She saw his muscles tighten in anticipation of her touch, a sure indication he was in pain. Dread washed over her, for this was more serious than she thought.
Her throat was suddenly dry with fear for him, making her squeak, “Here?”
His own voice was not steady when he rasped, “Lower.”
Her eyes shot lower, then as quickly filled with suspicion and came slowly back to meet his. “There, eh? And what could possibly ail you there?”
“A most painful swelling—”
“Ohh!”
“What?” He grinned at her outrage.
“Curse and rot you, Ranulf, I thought you were grievously ill! Do you ever scare me like that again—” The urge to hit him was too strong, and as he continued to grin at her, she gave into it.
“Ow!”
“Serves you right,” she grouched. “Now I have something to treat.”
He rubbed his shoulder as if she had actually hurt him, complaining, “You had something to treat, lady.”
“Aye, your sense of humor could use a good purge. Now do you tell me the real reason you are still abed. Did you only just wake?”
He shook his head at her. “I have been practicing patience, little general. I have been lying here waiting for you to come and chastise me for laziness.”
“Will you be serious!”
“But I am. Would you rather I came below, just to drag you back up here? Think you your ladies would not have raised a collective brow at that?”
Her own sable brows came together. “You would not be so—so—” He would, and his arch look was proof of that if past experience was not. And ’twas too late to pretend she did not know what that collective brow raising would have been about.
“Should I thank you?”
“It never fails.” He chuckled. “If you are not snapping my head off, you resort to sarcasm. But in this case mayhap you should thank me, little general. I will not always be so considerate. There will be times I am rushed and—”
“And any dark corner will do?”
That sneer got her pulled down onto the bed. “Aye, anywhere, though I do prefer this soft bed.”
“Better than the woods?”
