Hers to Desire. Margaret Moore
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corridor.
Fortunately, they made it to his chamber without further interruptions. She shoved open the door with her shoulder and together they staggered into the room.
He tilted backward and she grabbed him about the waist to keep him upright. As he regained his balance, she was acutely aware that if anybody saw them, it would look as if they were in a lover’s embrace. Unfortunately, she couldn’t reach the door, not even to kick it shut with her foot.
Ranulf looked down at her, his eyes not quite focused. “Well, well, well,” he murmured, and she could smell the wine on his breath, “what have we here? Bea in my bedchamber, looking very bedable.”
He leaned forward as if he was about to kiss her and gave her a sodden grin. “If you only knew the thoughts I have about you sometimes, my dear, you’d steer very clear of me. I may not be the devil, but I’m certainly no saint.”
No doubt he thought he was warning her, telling her to beware his animal lust.
His lust didn’t frighten her. Indeed, she wished they could be this close, in this chamber, when he was sober.
Who could say when she would ever be alone with him again, when there would be no irate Maloren watching, or other servants wandering by? Why not show him how she felt now?
Determined, excited, yet hardly believing that she was about to be so bold, Beatrice raised herself on her toes and whispered, “And if you, my lord, only knew some of the dreams I’ve had about you.”
And then she kissed him, brushing her lips against his as she had dreamed of doing so many times. For an instant, he stiffened and then, with a low moan that seemed to come from the depths of his soul, he gathered her into his arms. Holding her close, his lips moved over hers with a yearning, passionate hunger, while his hands pressed her closer. They were like two lovers alone at last, and she eagerly surrendered to the burning desire coursing through her body.
This was what she’d hoped for, dreamed of—this touch, this taste, this kiss, these caresses. This was the embrace, the imagined feelings, that had haunted her dreams, both sleeping and waking. This was what she’d imagined since even before Christmas, when she wanted Ranulf to take her in his strong arms and kiss her until morning.
Very much in the present, the tip of his tongue pushed against her lips. She willingly parted them to allow him to deepen the kiss in a way that made her passion flare.
She moaned with sheer pleasure. She had never been happier, or more excited.
He suddenly reared as if she’d struck him. “Stop it,” he cried as he reeled toward the bed. “Leave me alone!”
He was so angry, when before he’d been so passionate. Why had he changed? Had he suddenly remembered who she was? Was he appalled because she was Constance’s cousin and his friend’s ward—or because she was Beatrice? “Ranulf, please! What is it?”
He sat heavily on the bed and put his head in his hands. “Just go!”
Tears starting in her eyes, Beatrice turned and fled without another word.
“I KNEW THERE’D BE trouble, the three of them drinking like farmhands at a feast day,” Maloren said as she came bustling into Beatrice’s chamber the next morning, a bucket of steaming water in her hands.
“Trouble? What sort of trouble?” Beatrice demanded, instantly wide-awake and worried that Maloren had somehow learned about her disastrous, humiliating encounter with Ranulf.
After leaving his chamber, she’d run back to her own and climbed into her bed, where she’d silently cried herself to sleep, all her lovely dreams like ashes in a dust heap and the memory of that incredible kiss ruined forever by her shame.
As Maloren set down the bucket and proceeded to straighten the combs and ribbons lying on her dressing table, Beatrice relaxed a little. Maloren couldn’t have found out that she’d been with Ranulf, or she’d be berating her.
“Lord Merrick took a tumble getting his grandfather home last night—the two of them drunk and singing songs at the top of their lungs, or so I hear,” Maloren announced. “Lady Constance had to send for the apothecary.”
Sending for the apothecary meant that Merrick’s injury might be serious. Her own troubles momentarily forgotten, Beatrice threw back the covers and got out of bed. “I hope he’s not badly hurt.”
“It’s a clean break, the apothecary says, and should mend nicely if Lord Merrick keeps off his leg. Maybe now old Peder will come to live here as he should, instead of in that cottage of his. Many’s the time I’ve said—”
“The apothecary’s been and gone?” Beatrice interrupted as she went to the chest holding her gowns.
Maloren gave her an indulgent smile. “Lord love you, my lamb, it’s nearly the noon. You needed your rest, so I let you sleep.”
Perhaps that was just as well. She wasn’t sure what she would have said or done if she’d met Ranulf at mass, Beatrice thought as she lifted the chest’s lid. “Constance must have been upset. I should go to her at once.”
“She’ll be glad of your company, I’m sure, and she’s going to have her hands full keeping Lord Merrick still, I don’t doubt. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s grumbling already. That’s menfolk for you—big babies the lot of them when they get hurt or take sick. If they had to bear children, they’d be whining forever. But first you ought to get something to eat, my lamb. Gaston should have a nice porridge waiting. I told him to keep it warm.”
“At least Ranulf is here to command the garrison,” Beatrice noted as she pulled out the uppermost gown made of a soft, leaf-green wool. “We need have no fear that anyone would dare attack, even if they hear Merrick’s injured.”
Maloren sniffed. “That devil of a Sir Ranulf rode out at first light, and good riddance.”
Beatrice couldn’t hide her shock as she turned to stare at Maloren. Fear and shame shot through her, combining with her guilt. She didn’t think anyone had seen her, but she’d been distraught when she’d left Ranulf’s chamber. Perhaps a wakeful servant or a guard on the wall walk had noticed her and told Constance or Merrick.
If that was so and they had sent Ranulf away because of what had happened last night, she must explain that Ranulf was innocent of any immoral intentions and ask them to summon him home. Anything improper that had happened between her and Ranulf had been all her doing, and she would tell them so, no matter how humiliating that would be. “Why did he go?”
“Didn’t you hear? Lord Merrick’s made him the castellan of Penterwell,” Maloren answered as she helped Beatrice into her gown.
Beatrice nearly sank to the floor with relief. That wasn’t a punishment. That was a reward. So why hadn’t he told her during the evening meal, instead of sitting so silently beside her?
Perhaps Ranulf thought she already knew. Demelza and the other servants had probably assumed the same.
What must Ranulf have thought as she babbled away about Constance and the baby without ever once mentioning his well-deserved reward and subsequent departure? That she didn’t care?
“Although why Lord Merrick did that, I don’t know,” Maloren muttered as she tied the laces of Beatrice’s gown. “That fall must have addled his wits. Everybody knows you can’t trust people with red hair. And him with those sly, foxy eyes, too. Next thing you know, that Ranulf’ll be stealing this castle out from under Lord Merrick’s very nose.”
Beatrice whirled around to face Maloren. Whether Maloren was her treasured almost-mother or not, Beatrice couldn’t allow such an accusation, unfounded as it was, to pass unremarked. “You know Ranulf would never do such a thing, or even think it. He’s a good and loyal friend to Merrick.”
Maloren flushed. It wasn’t often Beatrice spoke or acted like the titled lady and daughter of an imperious father she was, but when she did, Maloren dutifully deferred