“Well?” Merrick prompted.
“I think they will give your men a battle—which is just what I’m afraid of. This ‘sport’ could turn into a riot.”
“I won’t allow that to happen.”
If ever there was a man capable of holding off a riot single-handedly, she was looking at him. But she wouldn’t grant him that concession. “If you’re able.”
Merrick gave her the closest thing to a genuine smile she had yet seen. “I think between Henry, Ranulf and myself, we can control my men, especially if they’re tired from running after a ball. That’s another reason I would have the game. It will weary my men and prevent them from expending their energy in more harmful ways during the festivities.”
She hadn’t considered that. But she wasn’t willing to yield. “And it’ll make them thirsty, too. We could have a gang of drunken soldiers wreaking havoc in the village.”
“If that happens, they’ll be severely punished. I also intend to provide meat for the villagers’ feast, as well as ale. And I shall give my assurance that if any of my men cause serious harm or injury, or damage any property, the injured or aggrieved parties will be amply compensated.”
This was more generous than most lords, and far, far more generous than his father had ever been.
Perhaps he was trying to buy the villagers’ approval. If so, he was going to fail. The folk of the Cornish coast were far too independent to be purchased.
“I have another reason,” he said, taking a sip of wine before setting the goblet on the table behind him. “Such competitions also keep the soldiers fit for battle or long marches.”
She still wasn’t willing to concede. “Whatever your reasons, my lord, this may create more trouble than you can foresee, and whoever wins, I doubt the villagers are going to be any more inclined to look on your soldiers favorably.”
“If my people are honest, they’ll never have anything to fear from my soldiers. If one of my men commits a crime, during May Day or any other time, he will be punished to the full extent of the law,” Merrick said as he walked around the table.
As before, he sounded sincere…or else he was very good at pretending to be.
He made no move to sit. He stood tall and imposing, like a judge. Or a king.
“Although I hope to be merciful,” Merrick continued, his expression stern and his voice grim, “I won’t allow my people to flout the king’s laws. Smuggling, for instance. I’ll punish any smugglers I capture and confiscate their contraband for the king.”
How like his father he sounded then! Except for the part about mercy. And the contraband. Wicked William had never made any pretense to be merciful, and he would have kept any contraband for himself.
“If they smuggle, my lord, it’s because they feel justified in avoiding a harsh and unfair tax,” she explained, taking the people’s part as she had so many times before. “Cornish tinners are taxed at twice the rate of those from Devonshire, for the foolish reason that Cornishmen speak a different language. Therefore, according to the clever minds in Westminster, Cornwall must be a foreign country. But if it were a foreign country, the king would have no right to collect taxes at all. I ask you, is that fair? Is that just? Is it any wonder the men who dig the tin from the ground believe they have every right to hide some of their profits from the crown?”
Merrick was obviously unmoved. “The tinners pay no tithes, they are exempt from serving in my army, they have their own courts—far more rights than most. Would they agree to give up those rights, and cease smuggling, if the king reduced their taxes?”
She fidgeted on the stool. He had, unfortunately, hit upon a truth she couldn’t deny. Smuggling had a long history in Cornwall, and unless taxes were abolished completely, it would likely continue forever. “You seem very well versed in the rights and privileges of the tinners.”
“I did spend the first ten years of my life here. But as I’m also a knight sworn to the king’s service, I’ll enforce the king’s laws.”
She heard the implacable tone, saw the determination in his eyes. If she pushed him any more on this subject, he might finally lose his temper, and there was another important matter they had yet to resolve. “Very well, my lord. Have the foot ball game, and punish smugglers as the law allows. However, you must not choose the Queen of the May.”
She had caught him off guard. “Why not?”
“Because, my lord, the last time the villagers allowed your father to choose the Queen of the May, he dragged her off, had his way with her and then passed her to his bodyguards to do with as they pleased.”
She’d watched, terrified, as Wicked William had dragged the shrieking, crying, terrified young woman with a circlet of flowers in her hair toward the stairs leading to his bedchamber. His fiercest mercenaries who made up his bodyguard—frightening, vicious men she’d ordered from Tregellas the moment he’d died—had followed him, laughing and joking about the lord and his conquered queen.
“Oh, God,” Merrick whispered. He splayed his hands on the table and bowed his head. “I should have guessed he would…”
His words trailed off as he stared down at the table. “My father left me quite a legacy,” he muttered after a long moment of silence.
In spite of his bitter words, she would feel no sympathy for him, as he had none for his overtaxed people.
He raised his head and regarded her with that unwavering stare with which she was getting familiar. “I give you my word, Constance, that the women of Tregellas need never fear me. They need never hide from me. As lord of Tregellas, it’s my duty to protect them, and that I will do, if it costs me my life.”
His voice was strong, resolute, his gaze steady, and in his eyes, she saw complete honesty. Who would not believe him?
He straightened and started around the table toward her. “Perhaps choosing the Queen of the May will prove that I’m different from my father, and that they need not fear me.” He reached down and, taking Constance’s hands in his, pulled her to her feet. “If you stand by me when I go to the village on May Day and pick a queen, the village will see that the only woman I want is the woman I’m to wed.”
God help her! Why did he have to touch her? Why did he have to say that, and in that deep, rough voice that sounded so intimate, as if he was whispering beside her in bed? Why did he have to look at her that way?
If he kissed her again, she would slap him. She would. She really would.
How far away was the door?
“Perhaps you can tell me who I should choose before the festivities,” he suggested. “I’m not ignorant of the tensions and conflict inherent in the choosing of one woman over another, and your knowledge of the villagers can steer me to the least controversial choice.”
If she refused, he might continue to try to convince her, to sound even more persuasive. “As you wish, my lord.”
Although he didn’t smile, she could tell he was pleased, and the resentment she felt at conceding began to melt away.
She thought a moment. “Annice,” she suggested, “the chandler’s daughter. She’s very pretty and well liked, and already promised to the smith’s son, Eric.”
“The boy who was hurt in the foot ball game?”
“Yes. That was some years ago, my lord. He’s certainly of an age to be wed now.”
“Why haven’t they married already?” Merrick asked. “Does her family object?”
“They haven’t married because your father died, and as tenants of your estate, they require the lord’s permission to wed. They will probably be seeking that permission at the next hall moot.” She hesitated a moment, then asked, “Will you grant it?”
“Why would I not?” he answered. “If the families agree, I will not object.”
Relief lessened her anxiety, and she grew more aware of his hands holding hers.
“I assume there’ll also be a bonfire May Day eve,” he said, “and the young people will go into the woods to collect flowers and branches, and that there’ll be music and dancin
g around a Maypole.” His eyes glittered and he gently squeezed her hands. “I would enjoy watching you dance, Constance.”
Oh, heaven and all the saints help her! She should pull away and run out the door. Flee before it was too late.
But that would bring her no closer to freedom. Indeed, it might make him think he was gaining power over her, overwhelming her with desire, easily seducing her and bending her to his will.
Determination, fired by her pride, shot through her and as she tugged her hands from his, she gave him an insolent smile. “Do you intend to dance around the Maypole, too, my lord? I would enjoy seeing that.”
Far from disturbing him, her question brought amusement to his eyes as his lips curved up into a devastatingly seductive smile. “I would far rather watch you.”
He took hold of her shoulders and began to pull her to him. He was going to kiss her. She should get away. Turn and run. But when he touched her, she felt so…and he looked so…
He did kiss her, and the moment his mouth met hers, blatant, raw desire rose up within her, overwhelming her thoughts, washing away her protests.
Still kissing her, he pressed her closer, his body hard against her own. One arm wrapped about her, and his other hand traveled across her ribs and upward, to cup her breast.
This was…wrong. She should stop him…but it felt so…good. When his thumb stroked her pebbled nipple, her legs felt like water and she moaned into his mouth.
He slowly broke the kiss, although he continued to embrace her. She opened her eyes, to see him regarding her with desire-darkened eyes gleaming with need. “A month seems a long time to wait, my lady.”
It was as if the storm outside had come into the room and thrown rain into her face. What did she really know of him, except that he was his father’s son, and he’d made a host of promises and declarations that could all prove meaningless once she was his wife and he had her dowry?
What a fool she was! A weak, silly fool!
He made no effort to hold her as she pulled free of his grasp and stumbled backward. “I told you not to touch me unless I gave you leave.”
“Did you not enjoy that, my lady? Do you find me so abhorrent?”
“Yes! No!” She fought to regain her self-control, to remember her plan to make him hate her. “When I marry you, my lord, you may kiss me all you like. Until then—”
“Until then, I am to ignore the yearning you inspire within me? I’m to pretend that I feel no desire? That I find you repellent?”
“I would have you treat me with respect!”
Merrick spread his arms wide. “I do respect you, and I admire you not just for your beauty, but for your competence and compassion. Alan de Vern, Ruan, the garrison commander, the servants—all speak most highly of their lady.”
She swallowed hard and fought to retain her anger. “Then please respect my wishes and don’t kiss me. Or is Sir Henry not the only practiced seducer in Tregellas?”
Merrick’s dark brows lowered, and it was like seeing thunderclouds on the horizon. She told herself that was good. That was what she wanted. Needed.
“You think I have ulterior motives when I kiss you?” he demanded.
“I don’t know what you want when you kiss me,” she retorted. “I don’t know you.”
His hands on his hips, he glared at her, his dark eyes fiercely angry, his mouth a thin line of annoyance. “No, you do not, my lady, or you would never accuse me of selfish seduction. The women I’ve been with have all approached me, and they were made well aware that they should expect nothing more from me than a night’s pleasure.”
“How very generous of you, my lord.”
“Would you prefer me to be like Henry? To speak flattery and honeyed, meaningless words? To murmur tender nothings?”
“I want you to stop kissing me! I’m not yet your wife.”
His eyes widened for a brief instant, and then his expression changed. It was like seeing flames snuffed out, and she knew the storm raging within him had passed. “No, you’re not,” he muttered, running his hand through his long, thick hair.
She was so close to her liberty, she couldn’t stop now. She must rouse his ire again. “I want you to order Sir Henry and Sir Ranulf to stay away from Beatrice.”
Despite her irate tone, no answering spark ignited in his eyes. “They’re both honorable knights and will never touch her or harm her in any way,” he said coolly as he moved behind the table again, as if to put a barrier between them. “I trust them completely.”
“I don’t,” she retorted. “Sir Henry seems the sort who cares only about his own desires, no matter what harm he may do. As for Sir Ranulf, he looks quite capable of doing anything to get what he wants. Woe betide your friends if they hurt those I love!”
“Let us understand each other, my lady,” Merrick said, his voice still calm. Very calm, as he crossed his arms. “I trust my friends absolutely, or they wouldn’t be my friends. I hope to be able to trust my wife in that same way.”
“And if you cannot?”
His gaze was steady. Stern. Implacable. “Then she will not be my wife.”
Outside, the rain slashed against the stones and the wind moaned; inside the solar, the very air seemed to quiver with expectation.
Her freedom was within her grasp. All she had to do was tell him that she would not be faithful. That she would break her marriage vows, or even that she was no longer a virgin. All she had to do was lie, and say she would bring shame to him. And to herself.
So why did she hesitate? Her honor or her freedom. Why not choose and be done?
Because she simply couldn’t tell this man she was, or would be, no better than a whore.
“I will have no unwilling wife, Constance,” he said softly, coming around the table toward her. “If I’ve offended you by my decisions, or if you care more for another, tell me now and I’ll release you.”
Perhaps he would—but at what price? “What penalty would you seek if I refused? My dowry?”
Surprise flashed across his face. “Nothing. I would want nothing at all from you, my lady.”
She couldn’t believe that he would be so generous, so willing to let her go free without some compensation. “If that’s so, you’re not the same boy who left here fifteen years ago.”
“No, I am not.”
Tell him to let you go, her mind urged.
The words wouldn’t come.
She’d been so sure of what she wanted for so long, yet he seemed so different from that spoiled boy. He might be a chivalrous knight, a just overlord, a man she could respect, perhaps even, in time, to love. He certainly aroused her desire as no other man ever had.
But could she trust him? Despite his apparent sincerity, could she truly believe he would let her—and her dowry and the connection to her family—go so easily?
No, she couldn’t. At least, not yet.
“Yes or no, Constance? Will you be my wife or not? I would have an answer one way or the other, my lady.”
If an answer was what he wanted, she’d give him one. “In spite of your seductive skill, my lord,” she said, “I require more time to make up my mind.”
Then she strode out of the chamber, and did everything she could to avoid being near him until the first of May.
CHAPTER FOUR
ON MAY DAY MORNING, CONSTANCE stood beside Merrick on a raised platform that had been erected at the edge of the village green.
In the center of the green was the Maypole, with its bright ribbons and wildflowers and, gathered around it, the villagers and tenants of Tregellas, as well as the garrison soldiers not on duty. Tumblers and other entertainers were at the far end of the green, stretching and preparing as they waited for the lord to select the Queen of the May.
The uncles, Henry, Ranulf and Beatrice were on the dais with Merrick and Constance, and it seemed the excitement of the crowd had transferred itself to Beatrice and Henry, at least. Beatrice’s eyes glowed with delight, and Henry had been making jokes the whole way fr
om the castle. The uncles stood with appropriately serious lordly dignity, while Ranulf regarded the celebrations with cynical amusement.
“Which one is Annice?”
Fanning herself with her hand, for the day was sunny and warm for May, Constance answered Merrick’s query. “She’s beside the chandler’s stall.”
“And that young man holding her hand is Eric?”
“Yes.”
“Merrick, why don’t you get this moving along and declare Lady Constance the Queen of the May?” Henry suggested, moving closer. “I’m parched from the heat already.”
“As much as I would like to give my bride that honor, I’ve been informed I should choose another, for the sake of peace,” Merrick said to his friend.
Henry’s eyes widened with surprise for an instant, then he shrugged and said, “What about Beatrice then? She’s very pretty.”
Beatrice reddened and started to giggle.
“No,” Merrick brusquely replied.
Beatrice’s face fell.
“A choice from the village will please the people of Tregellas,” Constance explained to the disappointed Beatrice and her champion.
She gave Beatrice a comforting smile. “You shouldn’t begrudge one of the village girls the chance to be the center of attention. One day, you’ll have a great wedding, with feasting and dancing and music and guests from all over England. You’ll be far more important than a Queen of the May that day.”
Beatrice brightened. “Like you, on your wedding day.”
Fortunately, Merrick spoke, sparing Constance the necessity of answering. “Constance thinks Annice would be best, so Annice it will be,” he said with quiet force.
Then he unexpectedly reached for Constance’s hand, an act that would surely be interpreted by all in the village as a confirmation that she was eager to have him for her husband.
Unfortunately, he held her tight, and short of yanking her hand from his firm grasp, she had no recourse but to let him continue holding it.
“Good people of Tregellas,” Merrick called out, his gruff, strong voice carrying easily in the warm spring air, “it is my honor today to choose the Queen of the May. After consulting with Lady Constance, I have made my decision. This year, your queen shall be Annice, the chandler’s daughter.”
The Unwilling Bride Page 5