Hers to Desire. Margaret Moore

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      She put her hands on her slender hips, reminding him—as if he needed it!—that she had a very shapely figure. “I’m not an infant to be taking naps. You seem to forget, Sir Ranulf, that I’m old enough to be married and have children myself.”

      “Rest assured, my lady, I’m very aware of your age,” Ranulf said before he made another bow, turned and strode out of the hall.

      “What’s that devil’s spawn been saying to you?”

      CHAPTER TWO

      SUBDUING A GRIMACE, Beatrice turned to find her former nurse behind her. There were times Beatrice found Maloren trying, even though Maloren had been like a second mother to her after her own had died when she was very young.

      For one thing, Maloren hated men, and red-haired ones most of all. Right now she was scowling as fiercely as an irate fishmonger with a basket full of spoiled salmon, and Beatrice prepared for a tirade before she answered. “He was telling me I look tired and ought to take a nap.”

      Maloren shook her finger at Beatrice. “I knew it! He was trying to get you into his bed, that rogue! Haven’t I warned you a hundred times, my lamb, my dear? Stay away from that scoundrel with his red hair and those devil eyes. He’ll ruin you if you’re not careful.”

      Beatrice subdued a mournful sigh. Little did Maloren know—for Beatrice was certainly not going to tell her—but that was exactly what Beatrice wanted: to share Ranulf’s bed.

      If her father hadn’t been a traitor, she could have hoped to become Ranulf’s wife. Unfortunately, thanks to her father’s treacherous ambition, she no longer had any chance for that. Even though her cousin and her husband had seen to it she’d kept her title and even offered to provide a dowry, she was still no bridal prize. Ranulf could—and should—aim higher when it came to taking a wife.

      That meant the best Beatrice could hope for was to be his lover. And how she did hope! With his lean, angular features, powerful warrior’s body, and intelligent hazel eyes, Ranulf was the most attractive man she’d ever met. He also moved with a graceful, athletic gait no other man possessed. Moreover, he was Lord Merrick’s trusted friend and a chivalrous, honorable knight.

      Yet therein lay the problem. Because he was such an honorable man, Ranulf would never attempt to seduce a friend’s relative, not even if she wanted him to, or if he shared her desire.

      “I’ve seen the way that Ranulf watches you sometimes,” Maloren grumbled, her features twisting as if she’d eaten something sour. “I know what’s on his mind.”

      Beatrice nearly gasped aloud. Maloren hadn’t meant to be encouraging, but Beatrice’s heart seemed to take wing. Perhaps she wasn’t wrong to hope, after all, and her dearest dream could come true.

      Although Ranulf treated her with an aloof courtesy most of the time, there had been times when Beatrice, too, thought he looked at her as if he felt the same strong longing she did and might even act upon it. Last Christmas, after they had danced a round dance together, they had somehow, by mutual unspoken consent, moved away from the other dancers until they were in a shadowed corner out of sight. She had turned to him to say something—she couldn’t remember what—and found him regarding her with a look of such…such…implication, she had immediately been struck speechless, silently thrilled beyond anything she had ever known.

      Her body had responded, too, warming beneath his gaze. Softening. Her heartbeat quickened and her lips parted, ready for his kiss. She craved his lips upon hers, as if there was nothing more important in all the world.

      But then he’d drawn back and that indifferent mask had returned, and he had offered, in a cool, offhand way, to fetch her some mulled wine.

      She feared she’d imagined his look of longing. She found it easy to imagine him raising one quizzical brow and rejecting her with cutting sarcasm or laughing at her for thinking she could ever be attractive to a man like him. Maybe, she’d feared, he was only tolerating her because she was Constance’s cousin and she was being vain to think he could ever want her.

      Yet she had also wondered if he’d withdrawn because he would never give in to his desire for a friend’s relative unless they were honorably married.

      Whatever her hopes and fears regarding Ranulf, she didn’t dare betray them to Maloren. She didn’t want everyone in the castle to hear Maloren’s cries of dismay, followed by curses, accusations and denunciations. She wanted to be able to retain some shred of dignity if Ranulf didn’t want her after all.

      Nevertheless, Beatrice couldn’t help smiling when she said, “Sir Ranulf’s mind is on his duties. He’s rightly gone about them, and so should I. I should ensure Gaston has made suitable dishes to build up Constance’s strength. Aeda says Constance should have some ale, as well. You may come with me to the kitchen or not, as you choose.”

      “That Gaston puts far too many spices in his sauces,” Maloren complained as she followed. “Does he think Lord Merrick richer than the king? I’m surprised we don’t all have bellyaches every day.”

      Since Maloren ate most of the sauces she was complaining about, Beatrice made no reply. Instead, she wondered what she should wear to the evening meal, when she would be sitting beside Ranulf.

      BEATRICE DISCOVERED it didn’t matter what she wore. Ranulf barely looked at her at all; his attention was focused mainly on the food. To be fair, Gaston, who’d been as happy as everyone in Tregellas about the birth, had outdone himself. There were cunning puddings and savory stews of leeks and mutton, rich pastries and venison roasted to perfection, along with several kinds of fish and a dish made of eggs and breadcrumbs so deliciously and delicately spiced, not even Maloren could find fault with it.

      Beatrice tried not to be hurt by Ranulf’s lack of attendance on her. After all, he never made much conversation during a meal. But surely tonight, when they had such a wonderful thing to talk about, he could make more of an effort instead of leaving her to carry on the conversation all by herself.

      Eventually, worried that she was irritating him with her chatter, she fell silent.

      Ranulf didn’t seem to notice that, either.

      A short time later, Merrick arrived in the hall, bringing with him his grandfather Peder, for whom the heir of Tregellas was to be named. Beatrice retired shortly after that and left the three men drinking toasts to the future lord. Merrick bid her a jovial good- night, and Peder told her to sleep well. Ranulf merely sipped his wine and watched her turn away, as if he didn’t care one way or another if she stayed or went.

      Perhaps she was wrong after all to think that Ranulf felt any kind of affection or desire for her. Maybe what she thought she saw didn’t exist outside her own hopeful imagination.

      No doubt she would do better to try not to want him. Surely there were other men…there must be other men who could stir her heart. Somewhere.

      Disturbed and dismayed, and although she’d been summoned to Constance’s bedchamber very early that morning, she couldn’t fall asleep.

      When Maloren, lying on the pallet near her door, began to snore, Beatrice quietly got out of bed. She drew her bed robe on over her shift and shoved her feet into her fur-lined slippers.

      What would happen if she went to Ranulf now? she wondered. Would he welcome her or regard her with horror? Take what she offered or send her away СКАЧАТЬ