She should learn that hard lesson, and who better than he to teach it—he, who knew how selfish and heartless men could be?
“I may be an honorable knight, Beatrice,” he crooned as he gave her a decidedly wolfish grin and began to approach her, “but I’m not a saint. And you are very beautiful.”
She stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief as he backed her against the wall and trapped her there.
“Go, my lady,” he whispered huskily, “out of this chamber and away from Penterwell, before you discover that even honorable men have their limits. I mean it, Beatrice. Go now, before I carry you to that bed and do what my lust demands.”
Despite his harsh words, he saw not fear in her eyes but wonder, followed swiftly by delight.
“Other men have told me I’m pretty,” she whispered, the corners of her delectable lips curving upward in a smile, “but you never have.”
He wished all other men to the devil.
“I’m not afraid to be alone with you, Ranulf,” she said, reaching out to caress his cheek. “I’m not afraid of anything you might do.”
This was not going the way he’d intended.
And then she smiled. Gloriously. Joyously. As if she wanted nothing more than for him to carry her to his bed and make love with her.
He forgot this was supposed to be a lesson. He saw only the desire that mirrored his own in her trusting, lovely eyes, and he could no longer refrain from acting on it.
“Bea,” he murmured, her name a sigh, a hope, a plea, as his arm went around her waist and he tugged her to him, capturing her mouth in a fierce and passionate kiss.
“Ranulf,” she whispered, and she returned his kiss as if she had been waiting years for just that moment. Her arms locked around his body, holding him so tightly he could feel her breasts pressing against him. She parted her lips and touched her tongue to his, eagerly deepening the kiss.
The desire he had long tried to contain with his iron-willed resolve broke free. Need, affection, passion and longing bloomed like seeds, long dormant in winter, that leapt into life with the warmth and light of spring.
Overpowered by emotion, Ranulf forgot honor and duty and chivalry. In his arms, she was all he knew or cared about—her beauty, her spirit, her friendly kindness bringing light where there was darkness, joy where there was desolation, affection where there had been only pain.
With burgeoning need, with increasing desire, he held her close, kissing and caressing her. He felt her respond to his lips and his touch, and the realization fueled his ardor.
“I’m glad you’re not a saint,” she murmured breathlessly just as he was about to sweep her up into his arms with the half-formed intention of carrying her to his bed, “although I wish you’d cut off your beard. It scratches.”
Reality hit him like a blow. He had grown his beard to make her see that he was too old for her. She was more than ten years younger than he, and barely out of girlhood.
He was a landless knight, without wealth, or power or family. She was a young, beautiful lady, beloved of his friend and overlord, cousin to his best friend’s wife, entrusted to his care because she was a visitor here.
He was tainted by his sinful past; she was sweet and pure.
He flushed with mortification for his lustful weakness. Kissing her was a mistake. Being alone with her was a mistake. Anything except dispassionate reason was a mistake when he was near Bea.
He had erred and he must correct his error. He must destroy whatever was developing between them while he still had the strength and the will, or her honor, and what remained of his, would be lost forever.
“You’re the first woman to complain about it,” he replied, struggling to sound coolly calm as he stepped away from her. “I would ascribe that to your lack of experience, except that kiss would seem to indicate I must be wrong to think you’ve never been kissed before. Might I inquire, as a friend of the family and thus one who cares about your fate, who has been so fortunate as to be the object of your affections? Young Kiernan perhaps?”
For the first time in his experience, Bea’s lip curled with scorn. “There is no need to bring Sir Jowan’s son into this. He’s a friend and nothing more.”
Ranulf ignored the brief spasm of relief that answer brought him and focused on the fact that she hadnotsaid Kiernan had never kissed her. “It could be you’re not as naive as I think. After that kiss, perhaps I should reconsider. Maybe you have more experience than I assumed.”
“You’re the first man who’s ever kissed me like that, and the first man I ever wanted to,” she retorted. “Nor is this the first time we’ve kissed.”
As he stared at her in stunned surprise, she put her hands on her narrow hips and glared at him with suspicion. “Do you truly not remember what passed between us the night before you left Tregellas?”
Snippets of Ranulf’s incredibly arousing, vivid dream came back to him, of kissing Bea and being kissed. Had that really happened? And if so, he thought with sudden shame and horror, was there more he had forgotten? Had he, in his inebriated state, totally lost all self-control and taken advantage of his best friend’s ward?
“You needn’t look so stricken, Ranulf. We kissed just as we did here, and nothing more. Then you sent me away—and made me feel like the worst, most sinful woman in Christendom because I had dared to kiss you. Nevertheless, I should thinkthat would tell you who is the object of my affection, and it most certainly isn’t Kiernan.”
His eyes narrowed as he clutched at one reason not to be completely ashamed. “Youkissedme?”
