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“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
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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, Ranulf of Beauvieux,” the older guard said, “it’s not so simple as that. Sir Leonard chooses the boys he trains. Nobody—least of all a stripling lad—just arrives and demands to stay.”
“I am the exception.”
The younger soldier whistled under his breath. “Ain’t you the cocky one?”
The lad raised one tawny brow. “I told you, I am Ranulf, son of Lord Faulk de Beauvieux, and I must see Sir Leonard. I have walked…I have come a long way to do so.”
After the boy faltered, he fought all the harder to maintain his mask of haughty self-confidence, even though he began to despair that he might have come so far—walking alone in the dark of the night, stealing to eat and sleeping anywhere he could—for nothing.
“Walked here, eh?” the younger guard asked, his expression relaxing into a grudging respect. “Come from a long ways off, have you?”
“I will explain to Sir Leonard, not to you,” Ranulf replied.
“What will you explain to me?” a deep, gruff voice demanded.
The guards immediately straightened, stiff as planks. They continued to face the road leading into the castle and didn’t turn around to look at the man who’d spoken. Ranulf, however, could easily see the tall, gray-haired man dressed in chain mail and a black surcoat striding toward them with the easy gait of a man half his age. His long, narrow face was brown as oak from days in the saddle and marked with several small scars. Yet it was not the sun-browned skin that drew Ranulf’s attention, or the scars, or the shoulder-length iron-gray hair. It was the man’s piercing ice-blue eyes, eyes that sought the truth.
This man had to be Sir Leonard de Brissy and Ranulf knew, with absolute certainty, that if he lied or exaggerated, he would be turned away. He would never learn how to fight and use weapons with skill. He would never be a knight.
When Sir Leonard came to halt, Ranulf met that stern gaze as he bowed. “Sir Leonard, I am Ranulf, son of Lord Faulk de Beauvieux. I wish to join your household and learn to be a knight.”
“I have heard of Faulk de Beauvieux,” Sir Leonard coolly replied as he studied the son of a man known to be viciously cruel, who drank hard and fought harder. He saw Faulk’s foxlike features repeated in his offspring. The lad had also inherited his father’s slim, wiry build, broad shoulders and straight back, as well as the proud bearing of his arrogant sire.
Yet the sight of that red hair and those green-brown eyes tugged at Sir Leonard’s stern heart. They were not from Faulk; they came from the lad’s mother, a woman Sir Leonard had not seen for twenty years. Yet the eyes Sir Leonard remembered had been soft and gentle; the ones gazing back at him now had a strength and determination his mother had never possessed, or she might have been able to avoid the marriage her parents arranged for her.
And there was still more. That the boy was anxious was obvious to Sir Leonard’s seasoned eye, for he’d been training noblemen’s sons for thirty years and had seen more than his share of youthful bluster. Still, this boy stood with a self-controlled fortitude Sir Leonard had rarely seen, except in the most well-trained, seasoned knights.
This was no ordinary lad. One day, he could either be a valued ally, or an implacable enemy.
He would prefer the ally.
So Sir Leonard gave the boy one of his very rare smiles and said, “I knew your mother when she was a girl. For her sake, you are welcome here, Ranulf de Beauvieux.”
Although relief flooded through Ranulf like a river breaking its banks, he hastened to set Sir Leonard straight on one important thing. “I am not of Beauvieux, and I never will be. My father has cast me out, and I want nothing more to do with him, or my brothers.”
“Why did your father do that?”
Ranulf had known this question would be asked and, as before, he could not lie. “That I will tell you in private,” he said, sliding a glance at the sentries still standing stiffly nearby. “My family’s business is not fodder for gossip.”
Instead of taking offense or—worse—laughing, Sir Leonard gravely nodded. “Then come, Ranulf. I believe we have much to talk about.”
CHAPTER ONE
Cornwall, 1244
THE LORD OF TREGELLAS fidgeted on his carved oaken chair on the dais of his great hall. “God’s wounds, does it always take so long?” he muttered under his breath.
Normally Lord Merrick was the most stoic of men, and the hall of Tregellas a place of ease and comfort. Today, however, his lordship’s beloved wife was struggling to bring forth their first child in the lord’s bedchamber above, so everyone was anxious. The servants moved with silent caution, and even the hounds lay still and quiet in the rushes that covered the floor.
Only Lord Merrick’s bearded, red-haired friend seemed at ease as he sat on that same dais and took a sip of wine. “I’ve heard that two or even three days are not uncommon for a first birthing,” Sir Ranulf remarked.
Merrick’s eyes narrowed. “Is that supposed to comfort me?”
Ranulf’s full lips curved up in a slightly sardonic smile. “Actually, yes.”
As Merrick sniffed with derision, Ranulf set down his goblet. “It seems an age to us, and no doubt longer to your Constance, but I gather a lengthy labor is not unusual the first time, nor does it indicate any special danger for the mother or child.”
“I didn’t know you were an expert.”
“I’m not,” Ranulf said, refusing to let his friend’s brusque manner disturb him. Merrick had never been known for his charm. “I truly don’t think there’s any cause for worry. If your wife or the babe were at risk, the midwife would have summoned both you and the priest, and Lady Beatrice would have been sent from the chamber.”
In fact, and although he didn’t say so, Ranulf thought it rather odd that Beatrice was still in Constance’s bedchamber, regardless of what was transpiring. He didn’t think Beatrice should be witnessing the travails of childbirth, or inflicting her rather too bubbly presence on a woman at such a time. If he were in pain, the last thing he’d want would be lively Lady Bea buzzing about, telling him the latest gossip or regaling him with yet another tale of King Arthur and his knights.
“Constance wanted her,” Merrick said with a shrug. “They are more like sisters than cousins, you know.”
Ranulf was well aware of the close bond between his best friend’s wife and her cousin. That was why Beatrice had a home here in Tregellas although she had nothing to her name but her title, and that was due to Merrick’s influence with the earl of Cornwall. Otherwise, Beatrice would have lost that, too, when her father was executed for treason.
Merrick started to rise. “I cannot abide this waiting. I’m going to—”
The door to the hall banged open, aided by a gust of wind. Both men turned to see a vaguely familiar man on the threshold, his cloak damp with rain, his chest heaving as he panted.
“My lord!” the round-faced young man called out as he rushed toward the dais.
“It’s Myghal, the undersheriff of Penterwell,” Merrick said.
That was one of the smaller estates that made up Merrick’s demesne on the southern coast, and as they hurried to meet the man halfway, Ranulf was unfortunately certain this fellow’s breathless advent could herald nothing good.
“My lord!” Myghal repeated as he bowed, his Cornish accent apparent in his address. “I regret I bring bad tidings from Penterwell, my lord.” He bluntly delivered the rest of his news. “Sir Frioc is dead.”
Sir Frioc was—or had been—the castellan of Penterwell. The portly, good-tempered Frioc had also been a just man, or Merrick would have chosen another for that post when he assumed lordship of Tregellas after his late father’s demise.
“How did he die?” Merrick asked, his face its usual grim mask.
Ranulf could hear his friend’s underlying concern, although there was no trouble at Penterwell that Ranulf could recall, other than the usual smuggling to which Merrick and his castellan generally turned a blind eye.
“A fall from his horse while hunting, my lord,” Myghal answered. “Sir Frioc went chasing after a hare. We lost sight of him and when we finally found him, he was lying on the moor, his neck broken. His horse was close by, lame. Hedyn thinks it stumbled and threw him.”
Hedyn was the sheriff of Penterwell, and a man Merrick had likewise considered trustworthy enough to remain in that post. Ranulf hadn’t disagreed. He, too, had been impressed by the middle-aged man when Merrick had visited his recently inherited estates.
Myghal reached into his tunic and withdrew a leather pouch. “Hedyn wrote it all down here, my lord.”
Merrick took the pouch and pulled open the drawstring. “Go to the kitchen and get some food and drink.” he said to Myghal. “One of my servants will see that you have bedding for the night and a place at table.”
After Myghal bowed and headed toward the kitchen, Merrick’s gaze flicked once more to the steps leading up to his bedchamber, and his wife, before he walked back to his chair, drew out the letter, broke the heavy wax seal and began to read.
Trying not to betray any impatience, Ranulf finished his wine and waited for Merrick to speak. Yet after Merrick had finished reading and had folded the letter, he remained silent and stared, unseeing, at the tapestry behind Ranulf, tapping the parchment against his chin.
“I’m sorry to hear about Sir Frioc,” Ranulf ventured. “I liked him.”
Merrick nodded and again he glanced toward the stairs, telling Ranulf that whatever else occupied his friend’s mind, he was still worried about his wife.
“At least there’s no widow to consider,” Ranulf noted, “since Frioc’s wife died years ago—or daughters, either, for that matter. Nor are there sons who might expect to inherit a father’s position, although that privilege is yours to bestow or withhold.”
Merrick put the letter into the pouch and shoved it into his tunic.
“You’ll need a new castellan, though.”
“Yes,” Merrick replied.
“Who do you have in mind?”
His dark-eyed friend regarded Ranulf steadily. “You.”
Ranulf nearly gasped aloud. He wanted no such responsibility—no ties, no duty beyond that of the oath of loyalty he’d sworn to his friends, and Sir Leonard, and the king.
He quickly covered his dismay, however, and managed a laugh. “Me? I thank you for the compliment, my friend, but I have no wish to be a castellan on the coast of Cornwall. Even my position here as garrison commander was to be temporary, remember?”
“You deserve to be in charge of a castle.”
Ranulf couldn’t help being pleased and flattered by his friend’s answer, but this was still a gift, and a gift could be taken away. He would have no man— or woman—know that he mourned the loss of anything, or anyone.
He inclined his head in a polite bow. “Again, my friend, I thank you. However, a castle so near the coast would be far too damp for me. I already feel it in my right elbow when it’s about to rain.”
Merrick’s dark brows rose as he scrutinized Ranulf in a way that would have done credit to Sir Leonard himself. “You would have me believe you’re too old and decrepit to command one of my castles?”
“I am still fit to fight, thank God,” Ranulf immediately replied, “but truly, I have no desire to spend my days collecting tithes and taxes.”
Merrick frowned. “The castellan of Penterwell will have much more to do than that, and I would have someone I trust overseeing that part of the coast. There has been some trouble and I—”
A woman’s piercing cry rent the air. His face pale, his eyes wide with horror, Merrick jumped to his feet as a serving woman came flying down the steps from the bedchamber.
Merrick was in front of the plump, normally cheerful Demelza in an instant, with Ranulf right behind him. “What’s wrong?” the lord of Tregellas demanded.
“Nothing, my lord, nothing,” the maidservant hastened to assure him as she chewed her lip and smoothed down her homespun skirt. “It’s just the end, i’n’t? The babe’s coming fast now. If you please, my lord, the midwife sent me to fetch more hot water.”
When Merrick looked about to ask another question, Ranulf put his hand on her friend’s arm. “Let her go.”
Merrick nodded like one half-dead, and Ranulf’s heart, even walled off as it was, felt pity for him. He knew what Merrick feared, just as he knew all too well what it was to lose a woman you loved.
“Tell me what’s going on at Penterwell,” he prompted as he led his friend back to the dais and thought about Merrick’s offer.
Merrick was one of his best and oldest friends. Together with their other trusted comrade, Henry, they had pledged their loyalty to each other and to be brothers-in-arms for life.
What was Merrick really asking of him except his help? Did he not owe it to Merrick to respond to that request when Merrick was in need, as he’d implied?
Besides, if he went to Penterwell, he would be well away from Beatrice. “I should know everything you can tell me if I’m to be castellan.”
“You’ll do it?” Merrick asked as he sank onto his cushioned chair.
“It has occurred to me, my friend, that as castellan I shall also have control over the kitchen,” Ranulf replied with his usual cool composure. “I can have my meat cooked however I like, and all the bread I want. That’s not an entitlement to be taken lightly, I assure you.”
Because he knew his friend wasn’t serious when he named culinary benefits as his primary reason for accepting the post, a genuine, if very small, smile appeared on Merrick’s face. “I didn’t realize you considered yourself ill-fed here.”
“Oh, I don’t. It’s the power that appeals to me.”
Merrick’s smile grew a little more. “Whatever reason you give me, I am glad you’ve agreed.”
“So, my friend, what exactly is going on in Penterwell?”
Becoming serious, Merrick leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs, his hands clasped. “There’s something amiss among the villagers. Frioc didn’t know exactly what. He thought it might be rivalry over a woman, or perhaps an accusation of cheating in a game of chance. Either way, he didn’t consider it serious enough to merit a visit from me.”
Merrick stared at his boots and shook his head. “I should have gone there myself anyway.”
“You had other things on your mind.”
Merrick raised his eyes to regard his friend. “That’s no excuse, and if Frioc is dead because I was remiss…”
“You’re worrying like an old woman,” Ranulf chided. “It could well be that Frioc was right, and he was simply noticing some minor enmity among the villagers. We both know there can be a hundred causes for that, none of them worthy of investigation. As to his death, I wouldn’t be surprised if the man simply fell. He was no great rider, if memory serves.”
Another clatter of footsteps came from the stairwell and again, Ranulf and Merrick leapt to their feet.
“It’s a boy!” Lady Beatrice cried as she appeared at the bottom of the steps. Her bright blue eyes were shining with happiness, her beautiful features were full of delight, and with her blond hair unbound about her slender shoulders, she looked like an angel bringing glory. “Merrick has a son! A beautiful baby boy!”
Merrick nearly tripped over his chair as he rushed to her. Then the normally restrained and dignified lord of Tregellas grabbed his wife’s cousin around the waist and spun her, giggling like a child, in a circle.
Ranulf stood rooted to the spot while envy—sharp as a dagger, bitter as poison—stabbed his heart.
Merrick set the laughing Beatrice down and worry returned to his features. “Constance? How is—?”
“Very well indeed,” Beatrice answered, smiling and excitedly clutching Merrick’s forearm. “Oh, Merrick, she was wonderful! The midwife said she’d never seen a braver lady. You should be so proud. She hardly cried out at all, and only right at the end. She did everything just as the midwife said—and that’s a very good midwife, too, I must say. Aeda was very competent and encouraging, and never once gave Constance any cause to fear. She assured her all would be well—as, indeed, it was.
“And oh, Merrick! You should see your boy! He has dark hair like you, and he started to cry right away and kicked so strongly! Aeda says he would have come faster except for his broad shoulders. It seems ridiculous to think of a baby with broad shoulders, doesn’t it, but I suppose she ought to know, having seen so many. She says he’s going to break hearts when he’s older, too, because he’s so handsome.”
Beatrice finally let go of Merrick’s arm. “I mustn’t keep you here. Constance is very anxious to see you and show you your little boy.”
Once released, Merrick ran to the steps and took them three at a time. Meanwhile, Ranulf decided he had no more reason to remain in the hall. He was beginning to turn away when Beatrice suddenly enveloped him in a crushing embrace.
“Oh, this is a joyous day, is it not?” she cried, her breath warm on his neck as she held him close.
Ranulf stood absolutely still. His arms stayed stiffly at his sides and he made no effort at all to return her embrace, although she fit against him perfectly.
Too perfectly.
He ordered himself to feel nothing, even when her lips were so close to his skin. He would pay no heed to the softness of her womanly curves against him. He would not think about her bright eyes and lovely features, or the way her mouth opened when she smiled, or notice the delicate scent of lavender that lingered about her. He would remember that she was sweet and innocent and pure—and he was not.