Margaret Moore - Hers to Desire

“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 Moorebegan 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

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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With special thanks to Nicole Hulst and

Taline Jansezian for suggesting Titan

for the name of Ranulf’s horse

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.