The Unwilling Bride

by Margaret Moore

  Before she knew what was happening, Merrick tugged her into his arms and captured her mouth with his.

  Never had she been kissed, and never, in her most lustful daydreams, had she imagined this. The taste of him. The scent of man and leather, horse and salt air. The sensation of his strong arms about her, holding her close.

  This could not be right, because no matter how good it felt, this man kissing her was Merrick, Wicked William’s son.

  She struggled to break free. “I’m an honorable woman!”

  “You’re my betrothed,” he replied. “There’s no harm in a kiss.”

  “Betrothed or not, I didn’t give you leave to kiss me!”

  “Then I humbly beg your forgiveness, my lady,” he calmly replied, bowing like the most chivalrous of knights. He looked about to smile and his eyes seemed to glitter.

  “There is nothing humble about you, my lord, and I beg you not to touch me again unless I give you leave.”

  The little half smile melted away, and his expression settled into an impassive mask. “As you wish, my lady—until you give me leave.”

  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

  “Entertaining! Excellent! Exciting! Margaret Moore has penned a five-star keeper!”

  —CataRomance Reviews on Bride of Lochbarr

  “This captivating adventure of 13th-century Scotland kept me enthralled from beginning to end. It’s a keeper!”

  —Romance Junkies on Bride of Lochbarr

  “Margaret Moore’s characters step off the pages into your heart.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Ms. Moore…will make your mind dream of knights in shining armor.”

  —Rendezvous

  “An author who consistently knows how to mix just the right amount of passion and pageantry.”

  —Old Book Barn Gazette

  “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

  “Her writing is full of humor and wit, sass and sexual tension.”

  —Heart Rate Reviews

  MARGARET MOORE

  THE UNWILLING BRIDE

  Also Available from Margaret Moore and HQN Books

  LORD OF DUNKEATHE

  BRIDE OF LOCHBARR

  And don’t forget to watch for

  HERS TO COMMAND

  With many thanks to the recappers and posters at

  TelevisionWithoutPity.com, for the entertainment and

  enjoyment. You never fail to make me smile!

  THE UNWILLING BRIDE

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  PROLOGUE

  Oxfordshire, 1228

  MORE THAN ANYTHING, THE BOY wanted to go home. There he knew every rock and path. There he could breathe the fresh salt air blowing in from the sea, feel sand and pebbles beneath his bare feet and the rivulets of water running between his toes. There he was happy. There he was safe.

  Here, riding through this strange country, he was afraid.

  He was afraid of the soldiers who surrounded him, with their terrible scars and big, calloused hands. Of their weapons. The long, heavy broadswords. The maces. The daggers they tucked in their belts and hid in their boots.

  He hated the smell of them—sweat and ale and leather. He hated the way they cursed in their foreign tongue.

  The nobleman leading the cortege was even more frightening than the soldiers. With his hawklike beak of a nose and narrow, dark, fault-seeking eyes, Sir Egbert bore no scars or other marks of battle. He didn’t smell like the soldiers, and he usually didn’t raise his voice—yet he could make the boy quiver with just a look.

  He wanted to go home!

  They came to a fork in the muddy, rutted road. One way led to a dark wood of oak and ash, elm and thick underbrush; the other veered away from the forest, although still heading north.

  Sir Egbert raised his hand, bringing the column to a halt, and gestured for the leader of the soldiers, who had a horrible red welt of a scar marring his already ugly face, to join him.

  The boy sat motionless and silent, wondering, worrying about why they had stopped. His hands trembled as he did his best to control his prancing pony. The tall grass bordering the road swayed and whispered in the breeze, sounding a little like the sea. The soldier nearest him hawked and spit, then said something under his breath that made the others sneer and laugh.

  What was wrong? Was Sir Egbert unsure of the way?

  Sir Egbert gestured down the rutted road that led toward the dark wood. The leader of the soldiers frowned, muttered something and pointed the other way.

  Please, God, not into the wood, the boy prayed. The close-standing trees, the dense bushes, the shadows…it was like something from stories told ’round the hearth, the dwelling place of ghosts and evil spirits.

  Please, God, not into the dark wood.

  Please, Jesus, let me go home!

  Sir Egbert’s voice rose to an angry, insistent shout, including what had to be curses, and he made angry gestures. The leader of the soldiers nodded and, frowning, turned his horse back toward his men.

  Sir Egbert raised his hand and pointed to the wood—the murky, scary woods full of terrible things. The scarred man barked an order, and his men drew out their swords.

  The boy prayed harder as he nudged his pony forward. Please God, keep me safe. Please, Jesus, let me go home. Mary, Mother of God, I want to go home!

  WITHIN AN HOUR THE ATTACK WAS over. All in the cortege lay dead or dying in the wood.

  Save one.

  CHAPTER ONE

  April, 1243

  THE BOAR’S HEAD TAVERN boasted the prettiest, cleanest serving wenches for miles around. The young women were all eager to please their customers in a variety of ways, too, especially the boisterous knights and squires currently making merry in the taproom. Carrying pitchers of wine and mugs of ale, the wenches moved deftly between the tables, laughing and joking with the men, and sizing them up as to their worth. They could easily earn a month’s worth of income in a single night from drunken revelers like these.

  Only one man sitting silently at a table in the corner seemed uninterested in the women, or celebrating. He had his back to the wall and stared down into his goblet, completely oblivious to the merry mayhem around him.

  Two other knights, equally young and muscular, shared his table. The handsomest of the pair, brown haired and with a smile that held a host of promises, delighted in having the women compete for his attention and hurry to fetch his wine. The second knight, more sober, with shrewd hazel eyes, a straight, narrow nose and reddish brown hair, seemed more inclined to view the women and listen to their banter with a jaundiced eye, well aware that they were calculating how much they could charge for their services between the sheets.

  “Here, m’dear, where do you think you’re going with that jug of wine?” the
comely Sir Henry demanded as he reached out and drew the most buxom of the wenches onto his lap.

  She set the jug of wine on the scarred table beside him and, laughing, wound her arms around his neck. It was a miracle her bodice didn’t slip farther down and reveal more of her breasts, but then, she wouldn’t have cared if it had. “Over to that table there, where they pay,” she said pertly, and with unmistakable significance.

  “Egad, wench, will you besmirch our honor?” Henry cried with mock indignation. “Of course we’ll pay. Didn’t my friends and I win several ransoms at the tournament? Aren’t there many young men who had to pay us for their horses and armor after we triumphed on the field and forced them to cry mercy? Why, we’re rich, I tell you. Rich!”

  The silent knight in the corner glanced up a moment, then returned to staring into his goblet as if he was expecting it to speak.

  Henry turned to the cynical knight beside him while his hand wandered toward the wench’s fulsome breasts. “Pay the girl, Ranulf.”

  Sir Ranulf raised a sardonic brow as he reached into his woolen tunic and drew out a leather pouch. “I don’t suppose there’s any point suggesting you be quiet about our winnings? You’re making us the bait of every cutpurse between here and Cornwall.”

  “Fie, man, you fret like an old woman! No man would be fool enough to try to rob the three of us!”

  With a shrug, Ranulf pulled out a silver penny. The wench’s eyes widened and she reached out to snatch it from his grasp, but Ranulf’s hand closed over it before she could. “You can have this if you bring us some good wine instead of this vinegar.”

  She nodded eagerly.

  Sir Ranulf’s eyes danced with amusement. “And if you’ll share my bed tonight.”

  The wench immediately jumped up from Henry’s lap.

  “Hey, now!” Henry protested.

  Ranulf ignored him. “Off you go,” he said to the wench, holding out the coin again.

  “What about him? Does he want any company?” the young woman asked, nodding at their companion.

  The dark-haired man raised his head to look at her. He was undeniably good-looking, but there was something so stern and forbidding in his expression, the wench’s smile died and she immediately took a step back. “I didn’t mean no offense.”

  “Don’t mind Merrick,” Henry said with a soothing smile. “He’s in mourning for his father, you see. Now fetch the wine like a good girl.”

  The wench cast another wary look at Merrick, smiled at Henry and Ranulf, then hurried to do Henry’s bidding.

  Henry smacked the table in front of their grimly silent friend. “For God’s sake, Merrick, this isn’t a wake.”

  Ranulf frowned. “He’s got a lot on his mind, Henry. Let him alone.”

  Henry paid Ranulf no heed. “It’s not as if you cared for your father that you should be upset over his death. You haven’t even been home in fifteen years.”

  Merrick leaned back against the wall and crossed his strong arms that could wield a sword, lance or mace for hours without tiring. “Ruining your entertainment, am I?” he asked, his voice deep and gruff.

  “As a matter of fact, you are. Granted, it would give any man pause to think he’s not just inherited an estate but also has to get married to some girl he hasn’t seen in years, but if you ask me, that’s all the more reason you should enjoy tonight. Given how many knights you defeated, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of these wenches would do it for nothing. Come, Merrick, why not have a little sport? I know you, and once you’re married you won’t stray, so all the more reason to—”

  “No.”

  “You’re going to save yourself for a girl you haven’t seen since you were ten years old?” Henry demanded.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I hope what we’ve heard is true, and she’s a beauty.”

  “Her looks don’t matter.”

  “But supposing you don’t suit each other?” Henry asked with exasperation. “What if you find you don’t even like her? What will you do then?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “It’s a question of honor, Henry,” Ranulf interjected, giving Henry another warning look. “The betrothal agreement means they’re as good as married already, so it’s no easy contract to break. Now for God’s sake, let it alone.”

  “If there’s honor involved, it’s his late, unlamented father’s, not his,” Henry replied. “Merrick didn’t make the betrothal agreement.”

  “His bride’s lived in Tregellas since they were betrothed, so she’ll know the household, the villagers and the tenants,” Ranulf pointed out. “That’ll be a help to Merrick when he arrives to take possession. Plus, she’s got a sizable dowry…” He glanced at Merrick. “There is a sizable dowry?”

  The knight inclined his head.

  “So he’ll be even richer. He’ll also be wanting heirs as well as a chatelaine, so he needs a wife.”

  Henry frowned. “I don’t know what it is about men once they get an estate. Suddenly it’s all about finding a woman who’s a good manager, like a steward.”

  “You’ll be the same, should you ever get an estate,” Ranulf replied. “Responsibility changes a man.”

  “God help me, I hope not!” Henry cried, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling as he grinned. “When I marry, I’m going to find the most beautiful woman I can and to hell with anything else.”

  “Even if she’s poor?” Ranulf skeptically inquired.

  “My brother claims his wife has enriched his life in a hundred ways although she brought barely a ha’penny to the marriage. So, yes, even if she’s poor.”

  “And if she’s silly and insipid, and can’t run your household?”

  “I’ll make sure I have excellent servants.”

  Ranulf raised a brow. “How do you plan to pay these servants?”

  That gave Henry a moment’s pause. Then he brightened. “I’ll win more tournament prizes, or find a lord who needs a knight in his service.”

  “Surely you’ll want a woman you can talk to, who doesn’t drive you mad with foolish babble?”

  Henry waved his hand dismissively. “I won’t listen and I’ll keep her too busy to talk.” He grinned at Merrick. “Is that your plan, too? Keep Lady Constance too occupied to talk? You do intend to actually have some conversation with your wife? Otherwise, she’s liable to think you’re mute.”

  Merrick shoved back his stool and got to his feet. “I speak when I have something worthwhile to say. Now I’m going to bed.”

  Henry shrugged his shoulders. “Well, if you want to leave so soon, Merrick, farewell. All the better for us, since we won’t have to compete with the new lord of Tregellas and tournament champion for a woman’s favor.” He shook his head with bogus dismay. “For a man who barely says ten words at a time, I don’t know how you manage to attract the attention you do.”

  “Perhaps because I barely say ten words at a time.”

  “Since he doesn’t usually go lacking, there must be some truth to that,” Ranulf dryly affirmed.

  Henry looked indignant. “I’ll have you know many women consider me charmingly well-spoken.” Then he raised his voice so that those around him could hear. “Merrick may outshine me on the tournament field, but I believe I carry the honors in the bedchamber.”

  The rest of the merrymakers in the tavern fell silent, while the women eyed him with speculation.

  “If it pleases you to think so,” Merrick said, and there was a look in his eyes that told Ranulf that Merrick’s temper, slow to rouse, was rising.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” he cried, likewise getting to his feet. “Since the lord of Tregellas and champion of today’s tournament wishes to leave us, let’s allow him to retire from the field with honor intact and declare a draw in matters of the bedchamber.”

  Henry stood and bowed to Merrick. “I’m willing to agree that we’re evenly matched.”

  The buxom serving wench sauntered toward them, a carafe of wine balanced on her hip. “I could try yo
u both,” she offered, “and choose a winner.”

  “No need. My friend is just leaving,” Henry said as he grabbed the carafe out of her hands. Tipping it back, he let the wine pour into his open mouth, while with his free hand he reached out to embrace her.

  She wasn’t there.

  She was in Merrick’s arms, and being quite thoroughly kissed. His friend’s mouth moved over hers with sure and certain purpose, one hand sliding slowly down her back to caress her rounded buttocks.

  The wench not only responded willingly to Merrick’s kiss, she ground her hips against him as if she wanted him to take her then and there.

  Finally Merrick broke the kiss and removed the panting woman’s clinging arms from around his body. As she staggered over to the nearest bench and sat heavily, fanning herself with her hand, he turned on his heel and marched out of the tavern without another word.

  The moment he was gone, the Boar’s Head taproom erupted with the noise of amused, drunken noblemen and laughing women.

  “I don’t think you should have implied that Merrick is second best when it comes to the bedchamber,” Ranulf noted as he and Henry returned to their seats.

  “Obviously not,” Henry said with a good-natured smile. “But at least I got him to quit brooding for a bit, didn’t I?”

  “HOW CAN YOU BE SO CALM? I’d be beside myself with excitement if I was going to see the man I was to marry, and after fifteen years!” sixteen-year-old Beatrice cried, her face aglow, her hands rapturously clasped, as she sat on the bed in Constance’s bedchamber.

  “I’ve been betrothed since I was five years old, so I’ve had plenty of time to get used to the idea of marriage,” Constance replied without turning away from the polished silver plate that served as her mirror. She raised a gold necklace to drape it around her neck, then set it down before her cousin noticed that her hands were trembling. “Perhaps if my betrothed had come home once or twice in those fifteen years, I might be more excited. As it is, I hardly know what to expect. He may hate me on sight.”