“Well, well, well, what have we here? Bea in my bedchamber, looking very beddable.”
Ranulf 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 Beatrice, 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.
Why not show him how she felt now?
Determined, excited, yet hardly believing that she was about to be so bold, Beatrice rose 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…
Praise for Margaret 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 award-winning author Margaret Moore’s The Unwilling Bride and do not let go!” —aromancereview.com
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
Hers to Desire
Margaret Moore
With special thanks to Nicole Hulst and
Taline Jansezian for suggesting Titan
for the name of Ranulf’s horse
PROLOGUE
The Midlands, 1228
IT WAS A MISTAKE to show fear.
If the boy had learned anything from the harsh, mocking tongue of his father and the fists of his older brothers, it was that. It was also a mistake to show joy. Or pity. Or indeed, any emotion at all. His home, if it could be called such, had been a cold brutal place after his mother had died.
So when Ranulf was forced to leave it, the twelve-year-old didn’t mourn as most boys would. He didn’t shed a single tear as his father chased him away with a whip, cursing and swearing and calling him terrible names. Nor did he run to avoid the blows. He ran because he was free. Free of the father who’d never cared for him. Free of his older brothers who beat and teased and tormented him. Free to go where he would, and do what he liked.
He knew exactly what that would be. No matter how difficult or long the journey, he was going to the castle of Sir Leonard de Brissy. He was going to learn to fight and eventually become a knight.
It was indeed a long and difficult journey—more so than he’d imagined—yet when Ranulf finally reached the gates of Sir Leonard’s castle, he walked with his head high, his shoulders back, as if he feared nothing, his determined pride as fierce as his desire.
“Take me to Sir Leonard de Brissy,” he ordered the startled soldiers standing in front of the massive wooden portcullis.
“Who are you and what do you want with Sir Leonard?” the older of the two men asked, his heavy dark brows furrowing as he studied the boy with the mop of matted red hair and torn, dirty clothing. The lad looked like a penniless urchin, but he carried himself as if he were a prince of the blood and spoke like one of the many noblemen’s sons who came to be fostered and trained by Sir Leonard de Brissy in chivalry and the arts of war.
“I am Ranulf, son of Lord Faulk de Beauvieux. I have come to train with Sir Leonard,” the boy declared, his slender hands balled into fists at his sides. Beneath the dirt, his sharp-featured face was pale and there were dark circles of fatigue under his hazel eyes.
“Well,
