The Unwilling Bride

by Margaret Moore

  Constance was sure he didn’t really mean that, but she wasn’t about to chastise him. Indeed, she wasn’t sure what to say or do now that they were alone, and married.

  Merrick marched to the side table, where he downed the wine he’d poured. Then he added some more into his goblet.

  Was he going to get drunk now?

  He raised the goblet, then hesitated and glanced at her. “Would you like some wine?”

  She shook her head.

  Still holding his drink, he sat on the stool in front of her dressing table and put the goblet on the table without drinking from it.

  Aware of her rapidly beating heart, mindful of every kiss and caress they’d already shared, Constance wondered why he wasn’t getting undressed. He’d seemed very keen to make love with her before their union was blessed by the priest.

  Perhaps his friends’ remarks bothered him. “Weddings seem to inspire a certain ribald revelry,” she noted. “I hope you didn’t take offense.”

  “Henry has a loose tongue.”

  It was probably better not to discuss Henry. “Does Ranulf really claim he’ll never love a woman well enough to wed?”

  “So he says.”

  “Why not?”

  Merrick shrugged. And still he sat on the stool.

  Chewing her lip, Constance wondered what was wrong, and what, if anything, she ought to do.

  As the silence continued and Merrick kept staring at his wine, she grew impatient, and then a little annoyed. If he didn’t want to marry her, he could have broken the betrothal. She’d certainly given him cause, at least in the beginning. And hadn’t he been anxious, almost desperate, for her to accept him? So what was his reason for this hesitation now? Or was this an attempt to increase her anticipation for what was to come?

  Perhaps it was a way to prove who was truly in command in the bedchamber.

  If so, had he not learned she was no mild maiden to sit quietly by and wait to be told what to do?

  She rose and went to the side table where the carafe and another goblet glimmered in the flickering candlelight, moving slowly, very aware that the glowing night candle beside the bed would make her gown virtually transparent. The coldness of the stone floor made her nipples pucker, as they did when he caressed them.

  Merrick glanced at her. She saw his surprise and then desire, enflamed in a moment.

  Even though her hands trembled a little, she picked up the carafe. “Perhaps I will have some wine.”

  Merrick slowly got to his feet. “Constance…?”

  “Yes?” she inquired, raising the goblet to her lips and sipping the rich, red drink.

  “I’ve heard the king is on his way back to England, and the earl of Cornwall with him.”

  Constance felt a stab of irritation. This was their wedding night—why did he have to speak of the king and the earl of Cornwall?

  Maybe she ought to remove her gown completely.

  Merrick walked over to the window. He opened the linen shutter enough to see out over the walls of Tregellas. He took deep breaths of the salt-tinged air, as if he was finding it difficult to breathe. “Since the earl is my liege lord, I expect we’ll be summoned to Tintagel.”

  “Do you have an objection to answering the summons?”

  “No.” Merrick turned and looked at her, his expression frustratingly inscrutable. “But I would prefer to stay here.”

  She didn’t understand his reluctance unless, she thought with better humor, he would be sorry to leave her for even a short time. “It would be your duty to go, and I could go with you. Alan is quite capable of running Tregellas for a few weeks.”

  “That is not what troubles me.”

  She thought of the fate of his cortege when he was a boy. “Is it an attack on our party you fear?”

  “That, and other things.”

  “We’ll take a large escort. Ranulf can lead—”

  “Ranulf should stay here to protect Tregellas.”

  “Very well. But if we take sufficient men, we should be safe.”

  He didn’t meet her gaze. “It isn’t only concern for our safely that makes me uneasy,” he confessed. “I have no love for the nobility. Too many of them are greedy and ambitious, seeking power at any cost.”

  “You don’t have to love them. You need only tolerate them.”

  “Is that what you’ve been doing with Kiernan, tolerating him?”

  Was that why he’d not come near her? Had she not made her opinion of Kiernan clear? What more assurance could she give him?

  She answered bluntly, and with indignation. “I resent your implication, my lord. I told you I have no deep feelings for him. I’ve hardly spoken to him at all since…” This would not be a good time to mention her conversation with Kiernan in the chapel. “Since he arrived with his father. Beatrice has spent more time in his company than I have. I thought you believed me when I said I cared nothing for him in that way.”

  Merrick ran his hand through his long hair. “I did. I do.”

  “Then why accuse me?”

  “I didn’t mean to. I just…”

  “What?” she demanded. “What are you trying to do? Enrage me? Upset me? On this, our wedding night? I believed you wanted me, my lord. Was I wrong? Would you rather we had not wed? Would you like to leave me, my lord, and have our union annulled?”

  Instead of answering her heated questions, he crossed the chamber in two long strides and pulled her into his arms. His lips took hers with fiery, fierce passion, robbing her of breath and thought. His hands stroked her body, raked her unbound hair, aroused and enflamed her desire until she had to hold on to him or sink to the ground.

  Still kissing her deeply, he picked her up and carried her to the bed. After he laid her upon it, he stepped back and started to strip off his clothing.

  “I take it, then,” she asked breathlessly, “hat you don’t want to annul our marriage?”

  Bending to pull off his boots, he raised his eyes and looked at her. The intensity of his desire made her blood throb with expectancy.

  Swallowing hard, she moved back and sideways on the bed, to make room for him, her husband.

  He straightened. He wore only his breeches that clung to his powerful thighs, and she could see that he was as aroused as she.

  “Take off your shift,” he ordered. “I want to look at you.”

  Taken aback by his brusque command, she swallowed hard as her trembling fingers fumbled trying to undo the drawstring at the neck of her shift.

  She heard him remove his breeches and toss them aside. She felt the bed dip when he knelt beside her. He put his hand over hers and held them still. “If you would rather leave it on…?”

  She didn’t know what to do.

  Merrick removed his hand and cursed softly as he swung himself around to sit on the edge of the bed. In the dim golden light of the bedside candle, she could see several small scars crossing the skin of his broad back. His shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” she asked warily.

  “For frightening you. That was the last thing I wanted to do.”

  She was unprepared for the remorse in his voice. “I was just caught unawares. And you were so—” she struggled to find the word “—forceful.”

  He sighed again and answered without looking at her. “I’m a stern, grim man, Constance. If it’s a merry husband that you seek, I am not he.”

  “I want more than merriment,” she said, meaning it. “I have no desire to be married to a man little more than a jester, like Henry.”

  “I am too serious, too harsh. I can’t say sweet words of the sort women like to hear.”

  “You mean you don’t utter flattering nonsense or empty promises under the guise of love.” She clasped her hands, her heart aching with dread. “Is that all, Merrick? Or have you reconsidered? Do you no longer want me for your wife?

  “To be with you is all I’ve ever wanted,” he replied, his deep voice hoarse with longing, his eyes full of a
nguish, as if he feared she no longer wanted him. “But I don’t deserve you.”

  “Why not?” she asked wonderingly. “You are a lord, a mighty knight, champion of tournaments. I doubt there is a better man in England, and if we speak of deserving, perhaps it is I who don’t deserve you.”

  His face flushed as he looked away. “You can’t mean that.”

  “But I do,” she insisted. “You are everything I’ve hoped for when it came to a husband. I wanted a man I could respect and who respected me, who made me feel loved and cherished and desired. Who made me feel safe. You do all that, and more. You stir my heart, and my desire, more than I could ever dream, and you need no words to do it.”

  How he looked at her then! Relief, happiness and something that caused her blood to pulse with excitement mingled in his eyes. He reached out to touch her cheek, sending shivers of longing through her. “How I wish I could find the words to tell you how I feel about you, to say how much I need you, how much I want you.”

  She had no difficulty with the drawstring of her shift now. “Show me instead,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MERRICK NEEDED NO FURTHER urging. He eagerly began to strip off his wedding clothes as Constance blew out the candles set on the table and in the candlestand, all save one beside the bed.

  Standing beside it, she gave her husband a brazenly seductive smile. “Before I extinguish the last candle, I want to admire my husband as he wishes to admire me.”

  Facing her in all his masculine magnificence, Merrick’s eyes were dark, exciting pools of desire. She ran her gaze over him slowly, from his wide, intelligent brow, dark, passionate eyes, angular cheeks and sensual lips to his broad shoulders and slender torso. He had a few scars there, ones she’d touched lightly when she’d caressed him before. Dark hairs curled around his nipples and met in the center of his chest. They began again at his navel, and went lower, surrounding his shaft that stood in bold announcement of his desire. His legs were long and muscular, lean and strong from hours on horseback.

  “Do I meet with your approval, my lady?” he asked, his voice a husky whisper.

  She regarded him with blatant admiration. “You certainly do.” She rose, letting her shift fall to the floor and puddle at her feet. “And I, my lord? Do I meet with yours?”

  His hungry eyes devoured her. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  “And I’m yours,” she murmured, stepping forward and wrapping her arms about him. “Your wife.”

  “Mine,” he murmured as he bent his head to brush his lips over hers, teasing and tempting, as their bodies met. “I scarce dared to dream…”

  His words drifted away as he kissed her.

  Dared to dream what? she wondered as she sank into the haze of desire. That they would be wed? That she would be his? But that had been planned for years and years….

  Then she stopped wondering, aware only of the feel of his skin—so much of his skin—against hers. It was like being next to the heat of an open flame. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and his aroused shaft slipped between her naked thighs. His whole body tensed, as if the sensation took him by surprise.

  Yet only for an instant, for in the next, he was helping her down upon the bed. His knee slid between her legs to guide her, while his strong arms eased her onto the coverlet and pillows. He sank down, too, his body covering hers as he kissed her.

  She could sense him restraining his need, wondering why, until he told her. “Have no fear, Constance,” he murmured as his lips journeyed to her ear, his breath warm on her cheek. “I’ll make sure you’re ready for me.”

  “I’m ready for you now,” she whispered, certain that she was.

  “Not yet,” he said, his lips sliding lower while he raised his hips and shifted his weight onto his arms. “Not quite yet.”

  He leaned on one hand, freeing the other to stroke her, beginning with her leg. He brushed light, leisurely caresses upward from her knee to her thigh. He skimmed the place where her thighs met, and that alone was enough to make her whimper. Then he continued until he reached her breast. He gently cupped it a moment, letting the weight rest in his palm, before his fingertips danced slowly around the soft curve and glided toward her nipple. She gasped when he caressed the now stiff peak, then moaned when he lowered his head and sucked her nipple into his warm, wet mouth.

  She wiggled and squirmed with the pleasure of it, lost to the myriad sensations created by his lips and tongue and fingers.

  His mouth left her breast to again capture hers, this time with a fierce and hungry need. She could feel his control slipping away from him, knew he couldn’t wait much longer. She didn’t want to wait, either. He was her husband, and she his very willing bride.

  She parted her legs and bent her knees, silently inviting him to take her, ready to gladly sacrifice her maidenhead to his questing manhood.

  “Not yet,” he murmured, raising his head to smile at her.

  “Now!” she ordered.

  His eyes flashed fire but, smiling devilishly, he shook his head and stroked her belly. Lower. Then lower still. “Not yet.”

  “Please, Merrick!”

  “In a moment.”

  “You, sir, are…” She threw back her head with a low groan as he pressed the heel of his hand between her thighs, where she was moist and throbbing. “The devil,” she finished, panting.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured as he bent again to pleasure her breasts.

  “Liar!” she gasped as ripples of pure need seemed to spread from his tongue, until her whole body felt enflamed. “You’re hurting me now.”

  He stilled and looked at her, his expression appalled.

  “You’re wounding my pride by making me beg.”

  That brought another disarmingly wicked smile to his face. “Would you rather I begged?”

  Wondering if he could possibly be serious, if this proud, stern nobleman would ever really beg for anything, she nodded.

  As his finger slid into her cleft, he looked into her eyes. “Please, Constance,” he whispered with a tenderness and yearning that touched her heart, “let me love you.”

  How could any woman resist such a plea from such a man? “Oh, yes,” she sighed. “Yes! Love me now!”

  He said no more and waited no longer. He positioned himself between her legs, his hips against hers, his hands beside her head. She grabbed his shoulders and when she felt the head of his shaft against her, pushed forward. His eyes widened, but she didn’t care if he thought her wanton or impatient—for wanton and impatient she was.

  There was a moment’s resistance until the membrane gave way and he was inside her. The pain was sharp, quick, like a cut of a knife. Again he stilled, and looked at her.

  “Don’t stop,” she whispered, clutching the bedsheets in her fists. “Please…don’t stop!”

  “As you command, my lady,” he rasped and then, with a low growl of pure animal pleasure, thrust again.

  She raised her head and, wrapping her arms about him, found his nipple and laved it with her tongue as he had hers. His breathing and his quickening thrusts encouraged her, and she became even bolder in her ministrations.

  Until the sensation of his thrusting shaft, the anxious need of her own body, consumed everything else. She fell back, pulling him with her, holding him close as she locked her legs about him and licked and kissed every inch of his skin she could.

  The tension within her was like a thread being pulled tighter and tighter. She clenched her teeth, bunched the sheet in her hands, panting hard.

  And then…the straining need snapped and she rose, lifting her shoulders without even being aware of what she did, and crying out with release. She bucked as he jerked, and his groans joined with her cries as he, too, reached completion.

  After the release dissipated, she relaxed, flat on her back, still panting, still slightly throbbing, aware of his weight on her, and his chest rising and falling as he breathed heavily. She stroked h
is sweat-damp hair until he shifted away from her.

  He fell against the pillows and stared up at the canopy over the bed while she turned to nestle against him. “How soon can we do that again?”

  “How soon?” he asked, looking at her with surprise.

  She toyed with the dark hairs around his nipple. “Yes.”

  “Are you…are you not sore?”

  She hadn’t stopped to think about it. “Well, yes, a little,” she confessed.

  He levered himself up onto his elbow and looked at the sheets, which were smeared with blood from her lost maidenhead. He lay back down and studied the canopy again. “I think no more tonight, my lady, tempted though I may be.”

  “Your wife is here, Merrick, not hovering somewhere over the bed,” she reminded him. “Or are there more important matters deserving of your attention at this time?”

  He gave her a rueful smile—a new expression she’d never seen on his face before, and one that delighted her. “Forgive me. I was just thinking that I don’t deserve this happiness.”

  “Yes, you do,” she said firmly. Then she had a moment’s doubt. “You are happy?”

  His answer was another long and passionate kiss.

  Smiling, Constance snuggled against him, sighed and closed her eyes. “I’m very happy, too, my lord.”

  LONG AFTER CONSTANCE DRIFTED into blissful, sated sleep, Merrick lay guiltily awake, his beloved bride beside him.

  He’d thought he loved Constance with all his heart before they wed. Yet now, having experienced the most exciting, blissful physical union of his life, he loved her even more.

  That made his deceit even worse. By not being honest with her, he’d stolen something he could never return, and she could never recover. If she learned the truth, she’d surely think him a base, selfish and disgusting scoundrel, a man who’d tricked her into disgrace and dishonor.

  She must never find out the truth. He had to be more on his guard now than he’d ever been, lest he betray himself. And lose his beloved forever.

  WHEN CONSTANCE SLOWLY surfaced into consciousness the next morning, she immediately remembered she was married. Sighing and stretching, she reached for Merrick, ignoring the brief, sharp pain between her legs—a small price to pay for the glorious lovemaking she’d shared with him last night.