The Unwilling Bride

by Margaret Moore

  She couldn’t see Henry in the crowd as more people came to lend a hand and bewail the disaster.

  She spied the miller’s wife, her arms about her crying children. The flames made the tears on her cheeks shimmer and she was silently mouthing prayers.

  Constance hurried to her. “Has anyone been hurt?”

  The miller’s wife stared at her as if she didn’t recognize her. “What’s to become of us?” she moaned. “What’s to become of us?”

  Constance took hold of the woman’s face to get her undivided attention. “Has anyone been hurt?” she repeated with slow deliberation.

  The woman’s eyes focused. “No, my lady,” she murmured. “I don’t think so.”

  “Where are your maidservants?”

  The miller’s wife nodded at the line of people passing the buckets and a few wandering aimlessly.

  “Fetch your maids. Set one to watch your children and keep them out of danger. Have the others help you take what valuables you can from your house.”

  The woman gasped as she understood what Constance was implying.

  “Only as a precaution,” Constance assured her. “If the wind holds as it is, and the shed comes down, your house should be spared.”

  But if it shifted…

  “If the house catches, you must get out at once. Your lives are worth more than anything you possess.”

  “Yes, my lady,” the woman said, choking back a sob. “Oh, my lady, what’ll we do if the house burns down?”

  “Lord Merrick will build you another,” Constance staunchly replied. “Have no fear that you’ll be left homeless.”

  Another cry went up from the line. Someone had fallen.

  Coughing when a gust of wind blew smoke into her face, Constance ran to help, pushing her way through the people gathered around the man lying on the ground.

  “Peder!” she cried, her heart sinking when she saw who it was. She knelt beside the old man, whose face was drawn and gray.

  She pointed at a younger servant from the castle. “You, there, take his place. Someone help me carry—”

  Two strong, familiar hands appeared and pulled Peder up. Constance raised her eyes to see Merrick cradling Peder in his arms as if he were a child and, without a word, he carried the elderly man away from the fire and smoke.

  She ran after them. “Here. Set him here,” she said when they reached a small embankment where Peder’s head could be elevated.

  Merrick set the old man down as gently as if he were a slumbering infant. Once Peder was on the ground, she used the corner of her sleeve to wipe the soot from his face.

  “Is he dead?” Merrick asked, his voice as cold as the north wind.

  “No. He’s breathing. I think…I hope…he swooned from the effort of hauling buckets,” she said as she examined Peder’s face.

  When she looked up, Merrick was gone. Soon she could hear him calling out for the men to pull harder.

  As the shed’s roof came down, she gave Peder a sip of a restorative made from foxglove. He coughed and spluttered, then opened his eyes. “What—?”

  “You swooned.”

  He struggled to sit up. “The hell I did.”

  “You fell to the ground unconscious, and I call that a swoon,” she said more firmly, forcing him back down. “Do you have any pain in your chest or arms?”

  “No.”

  “Truly, Peder?”

  “Just my back, a bit.”

  “You must rest and stay out of the smoke.”

  “I tell you, I’m all right,” he insisted.

  “I tell you, you’re not. Do I have to summon Lord Merrick again to keep you here?”

  “Lord Merrick? What’s he—?”

  “He carried you from where you fell.”

  Peder’s brow furrowed. “He never.”

  “He did, and unless you want him demanding an explanation for why you’re risking another fainting spell, you’ll stay here and rest.”

  Before he could answer, two more men came toward her, with a third hobbling between them, holding on to their shoulders.

  “One of the slates from the roof fell on me foot,” the middle man said, grimacing as his friends set him down. “I think it’s broke, my lady.”

  After she tended to that man’s injury, another came with a burned arm from a falling piece of timber. Then another with a strained arm. It was only when the sun was nearing its high point in the day and the mill was a smoking hulk of masonry that she realized the fire was out, and the miller’s house was still standing.

  Beyond the small circle of the injured, the men and women who’d carried the buckets and otherwise fought the fire lay or sat on the ground, too exhausted to move, including Ranulf and Henry, who was, it seemed, too tired even to talk.

  Demelza and other servants from the castle went among them, serving them water, ale, soup or stew in wooden bowls. Beatrice had done her job well.

  She should tell Merrick about the injuries she’d tended, and what must be done next for those who’d been hurt.

  “Have you seen Lord Merrick?” she asked Ranulf.

  “He’s in the mill,” the knight answered, nodding at the smoking, soot-blackened building.

  “Probably trying to figure out how it started,” Henry said, wiping his sooty brow with the back of his hand. “Thank God no one was killed.”

  “Yes, thank God,” Constance seconded as she left them to go to what was left of the mill, wondering who could be so evil as to fire a building whose destruction would affect everyone in Tregellas.

  “My lord?” she ventured as she gingerly picked her way through the open door that was hanging off one twisted leather hinge. The sunlight shone in where the roof had been, illuminating the charred wood and smoke-stained walls. She wrinkled her nose at the heavy smell of scorched, damp wood and burnt grain.

  “Here.”

  He stood near the huge millstones that had fallen to the ground and cracked in two. His hands on his hips, he was black with soot from head to toe, his chest and arms and face streaked where the sweat had run down in rivulets.

  He looked the way Vulcan might have, before he’d been thrown from Olympus—a powerful, dark god, and one burning with a righteous wrath she shared.

  “Some of your soldiers will need assistance to get back to the castle,” she said, moving closer. “And they’ll have to rest for a few days. Fortunately, their injuries are minor.”

  “I wish the damage to the mill was minor,” he muttered.

  The walls still looked sound to her. “Can it not be repaired?”

  “I’m no mason, but I fear the heat has ruined the mortar and cracked some of the stones.” He nudged the fallen millstones with his foot. “These will have to be replaced.”

  Constance thought a moment. “Sir Jowan has been praising the mason leading the work on the rebuilding of his northern wall. Perhaps he could come and tell us if we can make repairs to the walls, or must rebuild entirely.”

  “I’ll ask Sir Jowan if he can spare his mason for a few days,” Merrick agreed.

  It occurred to her that she hadn’t seen Sir Jowan anywhere, or Kiernan. Or Lord Algernon or her uncle. They must have stayed at the castle. “If we have to rebuild, how long do you think it will take?”

  Merrick shrugged his powerful shoulders as he picked his way through the debris toward her. “As I said, I’m no mason,” he answered, running his hand over his eyes, smearing the sweat and soot more.

  “You should go back to the castle, my lord. You need to eat and rest.”

  “And wash,” he muttered, looking down at his smutty chest.

  He ran his gaze over her. She had no girdle to cinch her waist, so it hung loose about her, nor had she covered her hair, which had to be a mess. “You must be very tired, too,” he observed.

  She didn’t disagree. With a nod, she turned to go back, then stepped on a piece of wood and nearly fell. His strong hand gripped her arm to steady her, his touch warm and, this time, welcome.

  “
How is Peder?” he asked, letting go.

  “Much better. I think he simply overtaxed his strength. Although he’s a strong man, he sometimes forgets he’s no longer young.”

  Merrick nodded, but her news didn’t seem to please him. “When you were tending to the injured, did you hear anything about how this fire may have started?”

  She shook her head.

  “I believe the shed caught fire first and it spread from there,” he said. “But a fire should not have started there.”

  “You think it was set deliberately?” she asked, hoping he’d have some other explanation.

  “Yes. To hurt Tregellas. To hurt me.”

  That had a familiar, horrible ring to it. His father had often cried that the whole world was out to destroy him, and all men wanted him dead. Yet Merrick did have some cause for his fears. When he was younger, someone had set upon his cortege and murdered everyone else in it. Perhaps they were thieves, but perhaps they were assassins. She wondered, and not for the first time, who might have sought his death and how Merrick had managed to escape.

  “Perhaps the fire was an accident,” she proposed with more hope than faith. “A stray spark from the miller’s chimney landing on a bit of chaff.”

  “The shed had no windows and the roof was made of slate.”

  “Under the door, perhaps?” she suggested, knowing she was grasping at straws, but still reluctant to consider the alternative.

  Merrick’s expression told her he didn’t think that likely, either. “Angry or evil men will do anything to have revenge or advantage, and don’t care that innocents suffer,” he said grimly.

  “How could burning down the mill be to anyone’s advantage?”

  “It would weaken Tregellas. We’ll have to grind our grain elsewhere until the mill can be repaired or rebuilt, and that will cost money that could be spent on men or arms. I’ll have to pay for the repairs, again taking money that could be spent on defense or men or horses.”

  “Is there anyone you suspect?” she asked, almost afraid to hear his answer.

  “There are those who believe I’ll be as bad an overlord as my father. There are those who fear I’ll join in a conspiracy against the king, or others who fear I won’t. There could be others who would simply have me vulnerable. There may be more, with more personal reasons. Talek, for one.”

  “He’s gone. You banished him.” Yet even as she protested, a sickening wave of dizziness and nausea overcame her when she thought of the garrison commander’s wounded pride.

  “It’s possible he didn’t go far.”

  Putting her hand to her head, she reached out toward a charred strut to keep herself from falling. Merrick’s powerful arm encircled her waist and held her close.

  “I shouldn’t have kept you here,” he said, starting for the door and all but carrying her.

  For a moment, as in her dream, she wanted to surrender. To lean against him and let him take full command. To go to the castle, where she could be safe and secure as his wife-to-be and let him deal with the aftermath of the fire, including finding out who might be responsible. But she weakened only for a moment, because she’d felt responsible for the people of Tregellas for too long to stop now.

  She gently extricated herself from his grasp. “I must see that the injured get to their homes or the castle, as need be.”

  When she saw Merrick wince, she suddenly remembered the cut from Talek’s spear. She looked at his arm. “What happened to your stitches?” she cried, staring at the welt.

  “I took them out.”

  She looked up, aghast, at his impassive face. “By yourself?”

  He shrugged as if what he had done was not something worth mentioning. “I told you I’m used to taking care of my wounds.”

  But to pull out stitches! She went to take hold of his arm to examine it, but he held her off with an upraised hand. “You tend to the injured first. You can look at my arm later.”

  There was no room for dissent in his tone. “Very well,” she reluctantly agreed, “as long as you’ll give me your word I can do so and you won’t try to stop me.”

  His lips curved up, revealing teeth that looked very white against his soot-darkened skin and he bowed as if they were in the king’s court. “I give you my word, my lady.”

  AFTER LEAVING HIM, CONSTANCE made straight for Peder, who was sitting on a blanket the miller’s wife had brought him. Fortunately, no one was near him, so no one would hear their conversation. He smiled when he saw her, but she was in no mood to smile back.

  “Has Talek left Tregellas?” she asked in a whisper as she crouched beside him.

  She was well aware that not only were Talek and Peder friends, they shared some of the profits from the smuggling of Peder’s tin. Peder dug the metal out of the ground and prepared it for transport to France; Talek ensured Peder’s cache was never discovered and the French seamen never caught when they came ashore to collect their contraband cargo.

  The old man’s eyes widened with surprise. “What makes you ask that, my lady?”

  “Do you think he was angry enough to set fire to the mill?”

  “God help us, no!” Peder cried. “I’d wager all the profit I’ve ever made that it wasn’t Talek.”

  “Then who do you think could have done it?”

  Peder scratched his grizzled chin. “I don’t know anybody who’d do something so terrible—except a Norman. That’s the sort of game those bastards play. Beggin’ your pardon, my lady.”

  “In retaliation or during a siege perhaps, but Merrick’s not made war on anyone hereabouts.”

  “Not yet,” Peder said significantly. “And there’s been plenty of talk about what he’ll do if the earl moves against the king. Maybe some want to prevent him from helping one side or the other.”

  “That’s what—” She hesitated. Perhaps it was wiser not to say what Merrick suspected. “That’s what I was thinking.”

  Since Peder knew no more than she, she rose. “I’ve arranged for Elowen to take you in until you’re well. I think she’s already missing Eric.”

  “The lad’s not married yet,” Peder said, wheezing a laugh. “What’ll she do when he’s off on his own, with a wife to boot?”

  “Take in stray dogs, I expect.”

  “Or help old men with no one else, eh?”

  Constance regretted making that flippant remark and bent to kiss Peder’s forehead. “You’ve got me, Peder. And didn’t Lord Merrick say you could ask for his help? I’m sure he meant it.”

  Peder frowned. “Aye, I think he did, too,” he muttered.

  And for once he didn’t hawk and spit when speaking of the lord of Tregellas.

  BY THE TIME CONSTANCE HAD ensured that all the injured were taken care of, she was desperately in need of washing herself. A little embarrassed by her filthy, untidy appearance, she tried not to be noticed as she made her way to the stairs leading to her bedchamber.

  That wasn’t as difficult as it might have been. Henry and Ranulf had already washed and changed their clothes, and Henry was now seated on the dais, goblet in hand, describing the fire and their attempts to stop it to his rapt audience that consisted of a gaping Beatrice—who was too entranced to ask questions—as well as her father, Lord Algernon, Sir Jowan and Kiernan, who likewise seemed too spellbound to pay attention to anything else. She gathered from a comment Sir Jowan made that the nobles had watched the fire from the wall walk of the castle.

  She wondered if Kiernan had been there, too. He wouldn’t have set fire to the mill, no matter how upset he was. He would plead, cajole, beg and complain, even issue a challenge to combat, but he’d surely consider firing a building beneath his dignity.

  She paused to speak in a hushed whisper to Demelza, who assured her that there was clean, warm water waiting in her chamber. Lady Beatrice had ordered it the moment Sir Henry and the others had returned, and she’d ensured that it was kept warm.

  Beatrice was proving herself very capable indeed. “And Lord Merrick? Is there h
ot water for him, as well?”

  “Yes, my lady. He ordered a whole bath.”

  Considering how dirty he was, she could see why.

  After dismissing Demelza, she hurried to her chamber to fix her hair, and wash and put on some clean clothes. Then she would examine Merrick’s arm and make sure he’d done no further damage.

  When she was ready, and wearing a soft, plum woolen gown with a gilded leather girdle about her hips, she took her basket of medicines and went to Merrick’s bedchamber. She wondered if he’d be asleep. He had to be utterly exhausted after his efforts last night. Not wanting to disturb him if he was sleeping, she didn’t knock, but quietly eased the door open.

  To find Merrick immersed in a large wooden tub full of dirty water, his muscular arms draped over the sides, his head lying back against the linen cushioning the edge, his hair wet and damply curling, and his eyes closed, the dark lashes resting on his sun-browned cheeks.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SHE COULD EXAMINE THE CUT ON his arm as long as he stayed asleep, Constance reasoned as she crept into Merrick’s bedchamber, averting her eyes from the water and what lay beneath.

  When she reached the tub, she picked up the lump of soap from the stool beside it and inhaled its scent. She recognized the spicy smell from when he’d held her and kissed her.

  Her gaze wandered to the bed, and the memory of her dream and Merrick’s invitation. Her heartbeat quickened, and so did her breathing as warmth suffused her body. If they wed, she would share that bed. With him. And do more than sleep.

  She looked back at Merrick—whose eyes snapped open.

  She dropped the soap. Trying to collect her scattered wits, she bent to retrieve it. “You’ll fall ill if you stay in that water,” she said, her embarrassment making her peevish.

  “Then I won’t,” he agreed, starting to rise.

  God help her, he was as naked as a newborn babe—but very much a man.

  She quickly turned away. “I came to examine your arm and make sure you have no other hurts,” she explained as she heard him step from the tub, water dripping.