The Unwilling Bride

by Margaret Moore

  “No.” Constance suddenly felt utterly exhausted. “Come, Beatrice, we should both have a nap. It was a long and busy night.”

  “I suppose that would be wise,” Beatrice agreed, albeit reluctantly, as she followed Constance from the kitchen. “And I suppose I should be more upset about the fire, but it was rather exciting, too. That must be a little like being in battle, don’t you think? I felt like the leader of an army, although of course, servants aren’t soldiers. I had no time to worry if what I was doing was exactly right or not.”

  “I suspect battles are much worse,” Constance said as she slowly made her way up the steps toward their bedchambers, gripping the handrail carved in the side of the wall and worn smooth over the years. “Either way, both are terrible things.”

  Beatrice flushed. “I know. That is, I’m sure battles are horrid. So many people die! I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “It’s all right, Beatrice,” Constance said as she stifled another yawn. “I know what you meant.”

  At least Beatrice would be quiet once she was asleep.

  THE NEXT MORNING AFTER compline, Constance took herself to Merrick’s solar. He’d gone with some soldiers to search the area around the mill, and ordered more patrols of the estate. He shouldn’t be absent from the castle for much longer, though, and even if he was, she wanted to get away from Beatrice, who was still going on about the fire and speculating as to its cause until Constance thought she was going to scream at her to be quiet.

  Strolling toward the table, she looked over the parchments open there. That must be his writing, she thought as she studied a few notations beside some figures Alan de Vern had written. It was a strong, firm hand—like the man himself.

  She sat in his cushioned chair. How many times had she stood on the other side of this table and waited for Lord William to start shouting or throw something at her? How often had he screamed at her, shrieking his anger, claiming that everyone was out to destroy him? Accusing his brother Algernon of coveting his possessions, and crying out that he had legions of enemies plotting to assassinate him. Toward the end, the shouts had become feeble cries that ended, more often than not, in self-pitying sobs.

  She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Those days were over now. Really over…

  A kiss on her forehead brought her awake with a start, to find Merrick bending over her, his expression as grave as she’d ever seen it.

  Constance gripped the arms of the chair. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  His lips curved upward, and his eyes shone with affection. “Nothing. I simply couldn’t resist the urge to kiss you.”

  Constance put her hand to her breast. “You frightened me.” She realized where she was sitting and hurried to stand. “I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep.”

  He went to the small side table and poured some wine. “There’s no need for you to vacate my chair,” he said as he came toward her and held out a goblet.

  Since she was thirsty, she didn’t decline the offer, and since she was tired, she sat.

  “Did you discover any sign of who might have set the fire?” she asked.

  Merrick shook his head as he got himself a drink. “The ground was trampled and muddy from the rain yesterday evening, and if there was evidence in the shed, it was destroyed.”

  “Did anybody in the village see anyone skulking about the mill before the fire started?”

  “No. Whoever set it, they weren’t seen—or if they were, somebody’s protecting them, the same way they protect smugglers.”

  Constance tensed, then answered with firm conviction. “This is different, Merrick. Setting fire to the mill hurts everyone who eats bread. The smugglers believe the only person they’re robbing is a king who regards them as foreigners and taxes them unfairly.” She remembered Beatrice’s suggestions. “Beatrice wondered if it might have been caused by a drunken man on his way home.”

  “The miller says the shed was kept locked, and we found what was left of the heavy iron lock outside the door. It was broken in two pieces, but whether before or from the heat of the fire, we can’t tell. If it was done before, to gain entry to the shed, I doubt it was done by a man sodden with drink, although it’s possible, I suppose. But the night was clear. What reason would a man have to seek shelter in the shed?”

  “Perhaps he didn’t want anyone at his home to know he was drunk,” she proposed.

  “Do you have anyone in mind?”

  She shook her head. “Alas, no.”

  He sighed. “I fear it’s as I suspect. The fire was deliberately set. Is there no one in or near Tregellas you think might be capable of such a crime or believe he has cause for such an act? Perhaps a disgruntled soldier or a disappointed lover? I can believe a man who feels the sting of rejection could be driven to some mad form of revenge.”

  She guessed what he was implying and hastened to clear his mind of that suspicion. “Not Kiernan. He wouldn’t be so evil…or so furtive.”

  “I agree that he’s the least likely. He’s the sort to challenge me directly.”

  “Has he?”

  Merrick shook his head.

  “Good,” she replied with genuine relief. She might be upset with Kiernan for causing her some trouble, but she wouldn’t want him seriously injured. And anyway…“He would have to be mad to think he could beat you.”

  Merrick gave her a little smile that warmed her from within. “I shall take that as a compliment.” His smile disappeared. “What about Talek?”

  Constance shifted in her chair. “I’d like to think he wouldn’t, but…”

  “I agree. I should have had him escorted far away before I let him go.”

  “Constance, I—oh, I’m sorry!” Beatrice halted awkwardly on the threshold and blushed bright red. “I didn’t realize you’d come back, my lord, or that you were here.”

  As Merrick faced her, her expression became surprisingly resolute. Before Constance could figure out what that meant, Beatrice pressed her hands together as if she were praying and addressed Merrick as she entered the room. “Since you are here, my lord, I have a boon to beg of you. I would dearly like to remain here for a little while after your wedding. I realize it’s an imposition, but we are going to be related. Otherwise, when I go home, I’ll just have my maidservant, Maloren, for company and I’ll be utterly miserable. You can’t think how she goes on and on, and she’ll pester me for details about the wedding and the feast and who was here or not here until I’m like to go mad. My father won’t miss me for a moment, either. His leman can run the castle better than I can anyway and—”

  Her eyes widened and she clapped a hand over her open mouth. “I didn’t mean…I shouldn’t have said…Oh, he’ll be so angry I told you!”

  Constance rose and hurried to assuage her cousin’s discomfort. “I figured out what Eloise’s position was long ago, and many men have mistresses,” she assured Beatrice before glancing at a stone-faced Merrick. “Isn’t that right, my lord?”

  As he nodded, she tried not to wonder if he’d ever had a mistress. He’d told her he’d be faithful once they wed; surely that was more important than any liaison he’d had in the past.

  “You are welcome to stay, Beatrice,” he said.

  Her cousin ran to Merrick and threw her arms around him, laying her head on his chest. “Oh, thank you, thank you!”

  He was completely, utterly astounded, and Constance rushed to disengage her impetuous cousin.

  Aghast at what she’d just done and to whom, Beatrice stared at Merrick with a horrified expression. “Oh, I’m sorry! I’m just so happy. And grateful.” She made her flustered way to the door. “I’ll go tell—ask—my father. Thank you, my lord, thank you!”

  After she went out, Merrick raised a sardonic brow that would have done credit to Ranulf, although Constance could see laughter lurking in his dark eyes. “I fear I may regret that moment of generosity, but I can’t refuse a woman who begs.”

  “She’s young, my lord.”

  “In
some ways, very young.” The merriment in his eyes disappeared. “As you and I were not allowed to be.”

  His quiet words touched something deep within Constance, like a low note on a harp. No, she’d never been as carefree as Beatrice, and it had been a very long time since she’d been as innocent. But now she realized the burden Merrick had borne had been no lighter. “I add my gratitude to hers, my lord,” she said softly.

  He came toward her and his voice fell to a deep, intimate whisper that set her blood tingling. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have revealed my inability to resist pleading women. You may use it against me.”

  “On the contrary, it pleases me to know you have a weakness.”

  “I assure you, I do,” he said as he took her into his arms. “And her name is Constance.”

  Whatever liaisons he’d had with women in the past, they were in the past, or he wouldn’t look at her the way he did. Hold her as he did. Kiss her as he did.

  With a sigh of surrender, she relaxed into him as his lips brushed gently over hers.

  Regrettably, his kiss did not last long before he drew back with a heavy sigh. “I have to go back to the mill and see what can be salvaged.”

  He kissed her again on the forehead, light as a moth’s wing, and then he was gone.

  She leaned back against the table. To think that once she had considered him as cold as ice….

  MERRICK AND HIS MEN FOUND no clues as to who had set fire to the mill that day, or on any other as the wedding of the lord of Tregellas drew near. But no other troubles disturbed the peace of the estate, and all dared hope that perhaps the fire had been an accident, however improbable, after all. The people grew secure and regarded their overlord with respect for the way he had joined with the common folk to fight the blaze. To be sure, he was a grim man, they said, but if Lady Constance treated him with affection—for the castle folk were quick to notice the change in their mistress and spread the word abroad—then he must be a good man. If she looked on him with favor, they had nothing to fear.

  Even Constance, busy with the arriving guests and preparations for her marriage, came to hope that Merrick was wrong, and their lives would continue to be as calm and tranquil as possible in these troubled times. Like her doubts, her worries subsided with every moment she spent with the man she was fast growing to love.

  Only Merrick, silent and serious except for those brief hours he spent with Constance, believed that this was but a momentary, blissful respite, and the worst was yet to come.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE DAY OF LADY CONSTANCE’S wedding to the lord of Tregellas dawned misty and cool for May, but that did nothing to dampen Beatrice’s enthusiasm or stem the bride’s barely contained excitement. If someone had told Constance a month ago she would welcome this day so eagerly, and be looking forward to the night to come, she would have said they were mad. Or drunk.

  Yet as she dressed in a new gown of brilliant royal blue edged with gold, and with a wedding gift from Merrick of a lovely circlet of gold on her head, she felt like a queen. Better than a queen. Happier than any queen had ever been.

  During the ceremony in front of their families and assembled guests, Merrick stood beside her looking seductively, incredibly handsome, even though his black wool tunic lacked any embroidery or other embellishment. The unrelieved simplicity suited him, and indeed, seemed to accent his powerful body more than any finery could. Her heartbeat quickened at the sight of him as it always did, and when he had sealed their vows with a kiss, she thought it seemed an age until they could be alone.

  Merrick was as reserved as ever, perhaps even more so. She had come to accept that he would always be so when they were in public, and she tried to act dignified and calm, too. No doubt, to many she appeared equally cool and aloof, even though when he touched her, he set her very flesh ablaze.

  During the wedding feast of roasted suckling pig, venison, boar and a host of fowl, she remembered all the reasons she had accepted him. The yearning vulnerability in his eyes when he asked her to be his. That he’d called her his weakness. His generosity to Beatrice. His vow to protect the people of Tregellas. Her certainty that women need never fear him.

  And she drank only a little wine.

  Merrick, meanwhile, conversed with his guests, discussing hunting and the responsibilities of running an estate. She noted he never, if possible, spoke of the king and queen. And when their eyes met, she knew he was as anxious as she to leave the wedding feast.

  Before that time came, however, they had to endure the celebrations and toasts in their honor. Henry’s slightly drunken voice rose louder and louder, and he made the most outrageous jokes, much to Beatrice’s amusement. Ranulf’s smile grew rather strained, until he finally whisked Beatrice away to dance. Constance and Merrick joined them, and while Merrick was a fine dancer, his mind was clearly not on the dance. Or the music.

  Neither was hers.

  The uncles, nearly as far in their cups as Henry, got into a heated discussion about the breeding of horses, and only the intervention of Alan de Vern prevented them from coming to blows. As the steward separated them, he winked at Constance, then steered them to different sides of the hall. Sir Jowan flirted outrageously with Demelza, who flirted outrageously back, while Kiernan sat sullenly in the corner, pouting over his wine.

  Then, at last, it was time for the bride to retire. Although she’d been anticipating this moment for hours, Constance flushed scarlet as she hurried toward the stairs to Merrick’s bedchamber—now hers, as well—trailed by Beatrice, who could scarcely breathe for giggling, and accompanied by what was surely far too many maidservants.

  Beatrice giggled and chattered merrily as the servants prepared Constance for her bridal night. Although most of her comments were innocently intended, the maidservants exchanged looks that gave everything she said a hidden, lustful meaning.

  Constance didn’t know whether to laugh or send them from the room.

  “Oh, I hear the men!” Beatrice suddenly cried, jumping up and oversetting the stool upon which she’d been sitting. “They’re coming, they’re coming! Quick, Constance, to bed!”

  She eagerly shoved her silk-clad cousin toward Merrick’s bed, newly made with fresh white linen and strewn with herbs intended to be both sweet smelling and conducive to conception.

  Horrified that the men might see her in her shift, Constance practically dived for the bed and scrambled under the covers in a most undignified manner. That made Beatrice giggle more, until Constance feared the girl would collapse.

  Then Beatrice was forgotten as Merrick appeared in the door, with Henry, Ranulf and several other gentlemen behind him.

  A laughing Henry shoved the bridegroom through the door. “Here he is, my lady, and none the worse for drink, I assure you.”

  Merrick might have been perfectly sober—and Constance believed he was, for he’d barely touched his food and drink at the wedding feast—but Henry and the others were not.

  Henry’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “I’ve been giving him lots of excellent advice,” he assured Constance, swaying a little. “I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”

  Blushing, Constance glanced at her husband to see how he was taking this good-natured teasing.

  He barely seemed to hear. Instead, he strode over to the carafe on a side table and poured himself a drink.

  “Wheest, man, now’s not the time to get into the wine,” Henry said in a loud whisper. “You don’t want to be limp.”

  Ranulf took hold of Henry’s arm. “That’s enough out of you,” he chided, his words slurring slightly. His reddish brown hair was disheveled to an astonishing degree, making it look more ruddy and him more foxlike than ever. “Merrick knows what he’s about. He first dipped his wick months before you and—”

  As he realized what he’d just said, and when, and where, Ranulf’s face turned red and his eyes went wide as cartwheels. The uncles, who’d entered after the others, looked equally shocked at his crude revelation. Sir Jowan, howe
ver, blinked stupidly, as if he didn’t understand at all.

  It would have been comical, except that…it wasn’t. Constance didn’t need any reminders that Merrick had been with other women. Of course, she would have been more shocked if her husband had been a virgin, but she didn’t want to hear about his past escapades on her wedding night—or at any other time.

  Merrick’s deep, gruff voice suddenly filled the chamber. “I believe my bride and I should be alone.”

  Beatrice giggled, then hiccuped loudly. Her father, frowning, took hold of her arm. “Come along, Beatrice,” he said, pulling her out the door.

  Lord Algernon and Sir Jowan followed, both trying to exit at the same time. Lord Algernon muttered a protest, and Sir Jowan his apologies, bowing and gesturing for Lord Algernon to go first. Lord Algernon suggested Sir Jowan lead the way.

  This went on for another few moments, until Ranulf pushed his way between them.

  That left Henry.

  “Well, Merrick,” he said, regarding his friend with a slightly stupid grin, “you’ve done it and well, too. I never thought you’d be the first of us to be married. I always thought it’d be Ranulf, for all his protests and claims that he could love no woman well enough to wed.” He beamed at Constance, then spoke to Merrick as if he forgot she was capable of hearing. “Now, before I forget, remember what I told you about—”

  Merrick pointed imperiously at the door. “Out!”

  Henry blinked. “God’s blood, man, there’s no need to shout.” He backed toward the door. “Just wanted to remind you that since this is her first time, you should—”

  Merrick started walking toward him. With a comically exaggerated look of fear, Henry turned and fled, his laughter echoing down the stairs.

  “May he trip and break his neck,” Merrick muttered as he closed the door.