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Praise forMargaret Moore
“Ms Moore transports her readers to a fascinating time period, vividly bringing to life a Scottish medieval castle and the inhabitants within.”
—Romance Reviews Today on Lord of Dunkeathe
“This captivating adventure of thirteenth-century Scotland kept me enthralled from beginning to end. It’s a keeper!”
—Romance Junkies on Bride of Lochbarr
“Fans of the genre will enjoy another journey into the past with Margaret Moore.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub
“Ms Moore…will make your mind dream of knights in shining armour.”
—Rendezvous
“When it comes to excellence in historical romance books, no one provides the audience with more than the award-winning Ms Moore.”
—Under the Covers
“Margaret Moore is a master storyteller who has the uncanny ability to develop new twists on old themes.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“[Margaret Moore’s] writing captivates, spellbinds, taking a reader away on a whirlwind of emotion and intrigue until you just can’t wait to see how it all turns out.”
—romancereaderatheart.com
“If you’re looking for a fix for your medieval historical romance need, then grab hold of a copy of awardwinning author Margaret Moore’s The Unwilling Bride and do not let go!”
—aromancereview.com
Lord Armand was close, much too close.
She could hear his breathing and feel the heat from his body as he stood behind her. She could sense his powerful muscles held in check. She could discern the scent of his warrior’s body, of the soap he used before he shaved, of his woollen clothes and leather belt and boots.
The closest she had ever been to a man before was during a meal, when touch was by accident or conscious design. She could imagine all too well what the king would do if he found himself in Lord Armand’s place. He, however, continued to stand perfectly still and made no attempt to touch her.
Her ears strained to hear anything from outside; all was silent. Perhaps it was safe to go out. Adelaide slowly put her hand on the latch, determined to leave, until he covered it with his own.
“Not yet,” he whispered in her ear. “They may come back.”
She couldn’t disagree, even though it was a torment having Armand so close behind her, his hand slipping over hers like a caress…
Award-winning author Margaret Moore began her career at the age of eight, when she and a friend concocted stories featuring a lovely damsel and a handsome, misunderstood thief nicknamed “The Red Sheikh”. Unknowingly pursuing her destiny, Margaret graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto, Canada. She has been a Leading Wren in the Royal Canadian Naval Reserve, an award-winning public speaker, a member of an archery team, and a student of fencing and ballroom dancing. She has also worked for every major department store chain in Canada.
Margaret lives in Toronto, Ontario, with her husband of over twenty-five years. Her two children have grown up understanding that it’s part of their mother’s job to discuss non-existent people and their problems. When not writing, Margaret updates her blog and website at www.margaretmoore.com
My Lord’s Desire
Margaret Moore
With many thanks to the veterinarians and staff of the Guildcrest Cat Hospital for their gentle kindness during Tommy’s final days, for their continuing excellent care of Eeky and “the boys” and for the opportunity to add Luis and The Count to our family.
CHAPTER ONE
Wiltshire, 1204
“KEEP YOUR EYES open, Bert,” the burly foot soldier ordered his younger comrade-in-arms at the gate of Ludgershall Castle. “I don’t like the looks o’this fellow.”
Bert, skinny and with spots on his youthful face, stopped watching the approaching rider to regard Godwin with surprise. “He’s all by himself, ain’t he? He can’t be thinking o’ attacking this castle single-handed. He’d have to be mad when we’re up to our arses in soldiers with the king stayin’ here.”
“Fools and madmen have caused trouble before this,” Godwin warned, “and this knight looks like he could finish off a dozen men before he fell.”
“How d’you know he’s a knight?” Bert asked. “Where’s his men? His squire? His page? He’s got no servants or baggage. He’s probably another one of them routiers the king’s hired.”
Bert spat in disgust. Like most soldiers bound to his lord by land and loyalty, he detested mercenaries, and those King John employed were the worst of the lot.
Godwin shook his head. “Not him. Look at the way he’s sittin’ that horse. The nag ain’t much, but only a well-trained knight rides like that, as if he’s as comfortable in the saddle as a lady at her sewing. And he’s got mail on, ain’t he? And a sword, and unless I’m going blind, that’s a mace tied to his saddle.”
“Plenty of men carry maces,” Bert replied, “and sit up straight when they ride. Besides, what kind of horse is that for a knight? It ought to be pullin’ a hayrick. His surcoat’s seen better days, too. And look at his hair—what knight has hair down to his shoulders? Fella looks more like a Viking or one of them Scots from the north.”
“Trust me, that man’s a knight or I’m a nun.”
“Well, supposin’ he is,” Bert allowed, “what’s the worry? We’ve had plenty o’knights coming and going.”
“Not like this one,” Godwin replied, stepping out of the overhang of the massive barbican to call out a challenge.
As the stranger obediently drew his sway-backed nag to a stop, Godwin studied the man’s stern, angular visage and the grim line of his full lips. No, this was no ordinary man, whether mercenary, knight or lord.
“It’s Godwin, isn’t it?” the stranger asked, his voice deep and husky.
At the sound of the familiar voice and a closer look at the man’s lean face, Godwin gasped with recognition. He immediately lowered his spear and a wide grin split his face, making the scar on his chin curve, too.
“Forgive me, my lord!” he cried with both joy and relief. “What a surprise—a good one, mind. I was right happy to hear you wasn’t dead.”
“I
