âWell, well, well, what have wehere? Bea in my bedchamber,looking very beddable.â
Ranulf leaned forward as if he was about to kiss her and gave her a sodden grin.
âIf you only knew the thoughts I have about you sometimes, my dear, youâd steer very clear of me. I may not be the devil, but Iâm certainly no saint.â
No doubt he thought he was warning Beatrice, telling her to beware his animal lust.
His lust didnât 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, âAnd if you, my lord, only knew some of the dreams Iâve had about you.â
And then she kissed himâ¦
Praise for Margaret Moore
âMs Moore transports her readers to a fascinating
time period, vividly bringing to life a Scottish |medieval castle and the inhabitants within.â âRomance Reviews Today on Lord of Dunkeathe
âThis captivating adventure of thirteenth-century
Scotland kept me enthralled from beginning to end. Itâs a keeper!â âRomance Junkies on Bride of Lochbarr
âFans of the genre will enjoy another journey
into the past with Margaret Moore.â âRomantic Times BOOKclub
âMs Mooreâ¦will make your mind dream of
knights in shining armour.â âRendezvous
âWhen it comes to excellence in historical romance
books, no one provides the audience with more than the award-winning Ms Moore.â âUnder the Covers
âMargaret Moore is a master storyteller who
has the uncanny ability to develop new twists on old themes.â âAffaire de Coeur
â[Margaret Mooreâs] writing captivates, spellbinds,
taking a reader away on a whirlwind of emotion and intrigue until you just canât wait to see how it all turns out.â âromancereaderatheart.com
âIf youâre looking for a fix for your medieval
historical romance need, then grab hold of a copy of award-winning author Margaret Mooreâs TheUnwilling Bride and do not let go!â âaromancereview.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 âThe Red Sheikhâ. 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 itâs part of their motherâs job to discuss non-existent people and their problems. When not writing, Margaret updates her blog and website at www.margaretmoore.com
With special thanks to Nicole Hulst and
Taline Jansezian for suggesting Titan for the name of Ranulfâs 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 didnât mourn as most boys would. He didnât 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 whoâd 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 journeyâmore so than heâd imaginedâyet when Ranulf finally reached the gates of Sir Leonardâs castle, he walked with his head high, his shoulders back, as if he feared nothing, his determined pride as fierce as his desire.
âTake me to Sir Leonard de Brissy,â he ordered the startled soldiers standing in front of the massive wooden portcullis.
âWho are you and what do you want with Sir Leonard?â 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 noblemenâs sons who came to be fostered and trained by Sir Leonard de Brissy in chivalry and the arts of war.
âI am Ranulf, son of Lord Faulk de Beauvieux. I have come to train with Sir Leonard,â 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.