Hers to Desire. Margaret MooreЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.
“Yes, it is a momentous occasion,” he replied evenly. He gently disengaged her arms. She was surely too naive to realize the effect that sort of physical act could have on a man. “But alas, my duties remain. If you’ll excuse me, my lady, I should give the men the watchword for tonight. I think it will be ‘son and heir.’”
“That’s wonderful!” she cried, apparently not at all nonplused by his lack of response to her embrace. “And you’re quite right. We mustn’t let everything come to a complete halt.”
She turned to the equally pleased servants, some of whom had been in the hall, and others who had heard the news and hurried there. “Back to work, all of you,” she ordered, the force of her command somewhat diminished by her merry eyes and dimpled cheeks.
Then she put her slender hands on Ranulf’s forearm and smiled up into his face. “Oh, Ranulf,” she said with the same happy enthusiasm, “he has the sweetest blue eyes, just like his mother’s. Aeda says all babies have blue eyes, but I think they’ll always be blue. And the way they crinkle when he cries! It’s so adorable!”
Ranulf was tempted to lift her slender hands from his arm to stop the torment of her touch, but he didn’t want to draw any attention to his discomfort. “I daresay the crying will become less adorable in the next few weeks.”
“It means his lungs are strong and healthy,” Beatrice replied, her tone cheerfully chastising. “He started to whimper right away and then he let out such a cry, the midwife said, ‘There’s nothing wrong with this boy’s lungs, that’s for certain.’”
Beatrice leaned against Ranulf, bringing her breasts into contact with his arm. “That’s how we learned it was a boy. You should have seen Constance’s face!”
Beatrice gripped him a little harder and he was uncomfortably reminded of the sort of force a woman sometimes exerted in the throes of passion.
Sweet heaven, how long was this torture going to last?
“Constance started to cry and then she laughed and said Merrick claimed he didn’t care if it was a boy or a girl, but she had prayed and prayed for a boy. I think it would have been too mean of God to deny her prayers after all she went through with Merrick’s father, don’t you?”
“I think God moves in mysterious ways,” Ranulf replied as he finally pulled away and reached for Merrick’s goblet and offered it to the breathless Beatrice. It was one way to part from her, and he was very careful to ensure that his hand did not touch hers when she gratefully accepted it.
As she drank, he noticed the dark circles of fatigue beneath her eyes, and that she was far too pale. “You should rest,” he said with a displeased frown.
“Oh, I’m not at all tired!” she exclaimed. “And it’s such a wonderful day—although now I confess I was very worried and afraid some of the time, not like Constance, who didn’t seem frightened at all. She asked me quite calmly to tell her all the gossip and when I’d told her everything I could think of, she suggested I tell her the stories of King Arthur she likes best.” Beatrice beamed proudly. “She told me I was a great help—and Aeda only asked me to be quiet once!”
The midwife must be a model of patience, and Constance was kind. If he was lying in pain, he wouldn’t want Beatrice hovering near the bed, bathing his heated brow, or offering him food and drink, perhaps whispering a few soothing words in his ear…
He mentally shook his head. He must be fatigued himself if he was envisioning Beatrice nursing him and thinking it might be pleasant. For one thing, she’d never be able to sit still.
“If you’ll excuse me, Lady Beatrice,” he said, “I really must go. I’ve wasted enough of the day already.”
“I wouldn’t call sitting with your friend at such a time a waste. I’m sure Merrick was very grateful for your company.”
“Be that as it may,” Ranulf replied, “I really must be about my duties. Until this evening, my lady,” he finished with another bow. “After you’ve had a nap, I hope.”
She put her hands on her slender hips, reminding him—as if he needed it!—that she had a very shapely figure. “I’m not an infant to be taking naps. You seem to forget, Sir Ranulf, that I’m old enough to be married and have children myself.”
“Rest assured, my lady, I’m very aware of your age,” Ranulf said before he made another bow, turned and strode out of the hall.
“What’s that devil’s spawn been saying to you?”
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