Hers to Desire

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.”