Читать книгу Hers to Desire - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 10

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 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.”

When had he been “left”? She longed to ask him, but his words were coming more slowly and were harder to make out. If she didn’t get him to bed soon, she might have no choice but to leave him in the 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 to her mistress. “Forgive me, my lamb. I’m only worried for Lord Merrick’s sake.”

“Lord Merrick is more than capable of managing his estate without your assistance and if he sees fit to make Ranulf a castellan, that should be more than enough for you—or anyone.”

Maloren suddenly looked every one of her years. “Don’t be angry with me, my lamb, my own,” she pleaded, wringing her work-worn hands. “You can’t see it, I suppose, but he’s just like your father when he was young. Handsome as the devil, and witty and clever. Slick as lamp oil in a puddle.”

She took Beatrice’s hands in her callused ones and regarded her charge with loving concern. “He had your mother in love with him in a week and made her his wife in a fortnight.” Maloren’s hands squeezed tighter as her voice grew full of sorrow. “But oh, the pain he brought her! First he killed her joy, and finally her spirit, till even her love for her baby couldn’t give her strength against illness.”

Maloren let go of Beatrice as a fiercely protective gleam came into her eyes. “I won’t let any man hurt you as your father did your mother.”

This was the first time Maloren had ever spoken of her mother’s fate, and it hurt Beatrice to hear how her mother had suffered. Yet she had always supposed her mother’s life hadn’t been a happy one. Her father had loved no one but himself. He cared only about wealth and power. He’d been pleased his daughter was pretty, because that made her a more valuable prize to offer. She had been a thing to be traded, sold or bartered.

How much worse her life would have been if she’d not had Maloren to love and comfort her in her poor mother’s place!

Overwhelmed with gratitude, she hugged Maloren tightly. “I’m sorry I lost my temper with you, Maloren. I love you as if you were my own mother.” She drew back and looked up into the beloved, wrinkled face and pale gray eyes. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Bless you, my lamb, I do, and I love you as if you were my own daughter.”

Beatrice once again embraced her former nurse, feeling as she had when she was a little girl and her father had shooed her away as if she were nothing more to him than one of his hounds. Maloren’s arms had brought comfort and security then, while her father had brought her only sorrow, heartache and, eventually, disgrace.

What honorable knight would want such a man’s daughter? No wonder Ranulf had left without even saying goodbye.