Hers to Desire. Margaret Moore
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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Yet she had also wondered if he’d withdrawn because he would never give in to his desire for a friend’s relative unless they were honorably married.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 and, in the morning, tell Merrick that his ward was a wanton who ought to be sent to a convent?
A thud, followed by a muffled curse, interrupted her turbulent thoughts. She immediately glanced at Maloren, who was mercifully still asleep, in part because she had always slept soundly and also because she was lying on her good ear.
There was another muttered curse, followed by a low groan. Beatrice was sure she recognized that voice, and that Ranulf was in some pain. She hurried to the door and eased it open, holding her breath as Maloren shifted and began to snore louder.
Moonlight streamed in through the narrow arched windows, lighting the corridor and Ranulf, sitting with his back against the wall, his legs outstretched and a rather baffled look on his face. At the evening meal he’d been wearing a black woolen tunic over a white linen shirt, black breeches and boots. After she’d retired, he’d obviously taken off the black tunic and loosened the ties at the neck of his shirt. Now it gaped open to reveal his muscular chest and the reddish-brown hairs growing there.
“Can you help me to my feet, my angel?” he asked with a decidedly drunken grin, his words slurred as he slackly held out his hand.
Beatrice had never seen Ranulf in his cups before, and she didn’t doubt celebrating with Merrick explained his state now. Even so, if he didn’t get into his chamber soon, he might wake Maloren, and her annoyed reaction would surely rouse the household.
Beatrice hurried to put her shoulder beneath his arm to help him rise. Unfortunately, he made no effort to move except to shake his head and say, “I don’t think this’s quite right. You ought to be in bed.”
“I’m not going to leave you here in the corridor. And please be quiet, or Maloren might hear you.”
“That old witch,” Ranulf muttered with a frown. “Keeps calling me the devil’s spawn. As if I could help who my father was.” He began to get to his feet, leaning heavily on her. “But no, we don’t want to wake her, Bea, my beauty.”
He had called her an angel and “his” beauty, and Bea. Not even Constance used that diminutive of her name. Perhaps he really did like her, after all.
As they started toward his chamber, which was at the far end of the corridor, he mumbled, “D’you suppose she’s met my father? Or my brothers? They used to beat me to see who could make me cry first, you know. Sort of a contest.”
Beatrice knew almost nothing about Ranulf’s past, except that he had trained with Merrick under the tutelage of Sir Leonard de Brissy, and that he, Merrick and their other friend, Henry, had sworn to be brothers-in-arms for life. That was why Ranulf had come with Merrick to Tregellas, why he’d accepted the post of garrison commander at his friend’s request, and why he was still there.
“No pity, my little Lady Bea,” he warned as he waggled a finger at her. “I won’t have it. Don’t need it. They made me strong, you see.”
What was there to say to that, especially when she had to get him to his chamber undetected? Although she didn’t have to support his full weight, he was no light burden.
Ranulf suddenly came to a halt and tried to push her away. “You should be in bed. Sleeping.”
“I’ll sleep later.”
He leaned dizzily against the wall. “All by yourself.”
“Yes. Now come, Ranulf, and let me help you to your chamber.”
She tried to take his arm, but he slid away. “My bed. Where I’ll be all by myself, too. Where I’m always by myself. No mistresses for me. No lovers. Just the occasional whore in town, because a man has needs, my lady.”
“I really have no wish to stand here in the middle of the night and hear about your women,” Beatrice said with a hint of frustration. “Now come along, or I may be forced to leave you.”
He lurched forward and threw his arm around her shoulder, making her stagger. “In that case, lead on, my lovely lady. Don’t want to be left again. No, never again.”
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