Midnight's Bride

by Sophia Johnson

  He ignored her. Peering over her head at Elise, he nodded.

  “I’m sorry for saying money would make you sweeter,” Elise blurted. “It cannot. But truly, Father did say you should pay for favors and my father was never wrong.”

  “I ken, milady, and I accept yer apology.” Ewen continued to stare over the top of Netta’s head.

  Netta nudged his boot harder and cleared her throat.

  “It has come to my attention that when I tried to speak with you, I could have caused you a great deal of harm.” She forced out the words from between clenched teeth. Determined, she kicked his boot until he looked at her.

  “Speak, milady? What were ye trying’ to say to me?”

  “Oh, blessed saints. I told you oft enough that I had to go out. I could hardly make it more clear.”

  “Where would ye possibly go in the wilderness?”

  Watching Netta struggle with her apology, Mereck wanted to put his arm around her in comfort. She was small and far more helpless than she realized. Her face reddened with shame. But he steeled himself.

  For her own safety, this was an important lesson she must learn. When he told her to stay where she was, she must obey him. She could not wander about lacking an escort. Without male protection, a raider can easily seize a woman. It happened far too often in the Highlands. He shuddered at the thought Netta could unknowingly put herself in such danger.

  “I did not wish to visit someone.” Exasperation caused her voice to raise. “I needed to visit someplace. Now do you understand?”

  “What place, milady? If ye needed somethin’ from the packs, I would have sent a mon to fetch it. Ye didna want a bath, fer ye had already bathed. I canna think of another place ye would want to visit.”

  “Blessed Saint Martha. I had need of a privy place. Is that plain enough?” Her face felt on fire.

  “Your apology, Netta,” Mereck demanded.

  “Oh, rats.” Netta kicked the ground in frustration. “I’m sorry for near getting you punished, because you were too dense to understand a perfectly natural request. Are you satisfied now, Sir Mereck?”

  She twirled around and gasped in dismay when she saw the men standing behind her. Lifting her nose in the air, she gave a disdainful sniff and disappeared into the tent as quickly as dignity would allow.

  In Northumbria, the body of Baron Mortain lay on the table in the keep’s great hall, awaiting burial. Roger’s rage crackled in the air. The new baron had hated his sire with an intensity only equaled by the loathing he had earned from his father. Now Roger had more urgent business to attend than seeing to his father’s remains.

  “Your soul will linger until I return,” Roger ordered the oh-so-still body. “I will have no masses said to speed your way, though ’tis to Hades Gates you will surely go.”

  With unseemly haste, he rifled through his late father’s strongbox. It held gold and jewels, hoarded by generations of frugal Mortain barons. Buried in one corner, he found what he wanted, and made haste to Wycliffe Castle.

  Months earlier, Baron Wycliffe had stoked his wrath when he rejected Roger’s suit for his eldest daughter.

  He had sneered that Roger had not the coins to buy her.

  He did now.

  Two days after his father’s death, Roger slammed a small coffer stuffed with gold coins and jewels on the table at Wycliffe. It near struck George’s eager nose.

  “Summon Lynette!” Roger’s fists rested on his hips, his legs widespread.

  His scornful gaze swept over the baron’s simpering younger daughters and ignored the baron’s wife. Where was the girl hiding? When Wycliffe did not immediately beckon a servant to do his bidding, he leaned menacingly across the table, his nose almost touching the baron’s quivering face.

  “I must needs have a small amount of time,” the baron stammered, greedily clutching an emerald many times larger than any he possessed.

  “Time? How much time can it take to fetch the girl and call for the priest? We will wed at once.” He swaggered toward the stairway that lead to the floor above.

  “Lynette! Get you down and greet your husband.”

  When she did not appear, properly subdued by his mastery, Roger cursed and vowed she would pay for not obeying his command.

  “She cannot hear you.” Wycliffe’s words spurted from his mouth, when Roger stalked back and reached for him. “Baresark, that wild savage, stormed through our gates less than a fortnight ago. He demanded Lynette to wive,” he said all in one breath.

  Seconds before Roger’s hands could grab his plump neck, he bolted off his chair. “He left me no choice,” he spluttered. “I feared for my very life. He forced me to sign the betrothal contract.”

  Wycliffe had given her to Baresark?

  A savage. A barbarian. A bastard.

  Roger’s wrath exploded. Lynette belonged to him. His to bring home in triumph.

  He bounded over the table, strewing gold-plated goblets recently filled with wine. Trenchers of greasy mutton toppled onto the rushes. Curses spewed from his mouth. His hands clamped around George’s pudgy, sweating neck. He ignored the women’s screeches and held the wriggling baron until three men-at-arms attached themselves to Roger like leeches.

  Baron Wycliffe, shaking from head to toe, squeaked out a solution. “I vow I had no control over the berserker. Mayhap ’tis for the best. Surely you would prefer one of my lovely, dutiful daughters to replace that witch of a Lynette.”

  Priscilla and Elizabeth, tugged forward by their mother, cried and howled until their noses turned red.

  They wanted husbands—but not this husband.

  He chose neither. Both dowries combined did not compare to Caer Cad-well. Only after Wycliffe vowed to petition their overlord, Baron Hugh of Carswell, for aid did Roger finally stop frothing at the mouth. He pried the clasped emerald from the baron’s greedy fist, replaced it in the chest and slammed the lid. Until Lynette was in Roger’s bed, Baron Wycliffe would not see the jewels or gold coins again.

  When he returned to Mortain Castle and burst into the great hall, women scattered and disappeared. Grown men scurried from the room and tried to make themselves invisible to their new baron. He strode up to the table where his father’s body lay.

  “’Tis your fault, you stinking pile of bones,” he hissed. “If you had released your coins, Lynette would be in my bed. The riches of Cad-well would be mine. I should long ago have rid you of breath.”

  He heard a gasp behind him and turned to find his father’s old manservant. He did not spare a second thought. His fist cracked into the man’s jaw, the blow slamming the man to the filthy rushes. Roger, ignoring the sickening sound of a skull meeting stone, began to pace.

  “How dared the devil-eyed bitch.” His words screeched like the voice of a raptor and sent even the rats scurrying. “She would not have me? She went happily with that half-breed animal?”

  Roger had loved her, but she had betrayed him. The last time he had her in his grip, she had claimed she was not intact. If not for her guards, he would have done more than slap her disobedient face and beat her. He would have taken her. He did not doubt his manliness would get her with child. She would have wed him then. She would have had no choice. As she would not have when he found her.

  For the past sennight, Mereck and his party had traveled on Morgan lands. They would reach Blackthorn afore the midday meal on the morrow. Netta planned to persuade Bleddyn, and he would convince her father to release her from the contract.

  For certs she could attract her own suitors. Surely Saint Monica would send her a man superior to any her father had chosen for her. Hmm, perchance Mereck would court her? Her face heated. How would his beautiful hands feel on her body? Her nipples tingled at the thought.

  Blessed saints! Whatever made her think that?

  “Come, Elise, let us choose what we will wear on the morrow. You want to be beautiful. In case Lord Damron has chosen a mate for you.”

  “A mate?” Elise whispered, her sky-blue eyes
wide with worry. “Do you think he has planned a nuptial without telling Father? Oh, heaven help me.” She put her hands to her head and groaned. “He is even more stern than his cousin Connor.”

  “Lord Damron? Who is Connor?”

  “Lord Damron’s cousin. His first-in-command. I met him when he came with Damron to collect Brianna. He smiles often. Yet if I but do the slightest thing, he frowns and orders me about. Each time I looked up, he was watching. He barked at any man who came close to speak to me.” She shuddered and with a tremulous smile asked, “Perchance you would care to beguile him?”

  “Why would I wish to do such? He does not sound like someone who would allow me to do as I wish.”

  “Oh, but he is most handsome. He has beautiful brown eyes that sparkle and laugh.” Her face took on a dreamy, wistful look. “His hair is brown and makes your fingers want to touch it. His lips are full and soft looking.” She drew in a deep breath and released it on a sigh. “He is as big a man as Damron and Mereck, but far more comely.”

  Netta grinned. Did Elise not realize she favored the man she described? Hmm. It would be interesting to watch them together. If this Connor was not suitable for Elise’s gentle soul, she vowed to protect her friend.

  Sorting through the few ribbons and girdles they had brought with them, they finally selected their clothing for the next morn. Soon after they finished, Mereck appeared and ordered them to retire.

  Chill bumps ran over her skin. Tonight would be the last they would sleep so close together. She blushed, for more than once she had awakened to find her head snuggled on his shoulder, her arm flung over his massive chest. To her shame, her fingers had clutched his plaid as she burrowed closer. For certs, she sought only his heat.

  She hugged Elise and scurried out of the tent afore he must needs call a second time. He was unyielding when he gave an order. After they arrived at Blackthorn, he would have no right to demand her obedience. Her status as Lady Lynette of Wycliffe would cushion her from this dominating man.

  Chapter 8

  Netta awoke to the tantalizing scents of juniper and musk—along with thumping heartbeats beneath her ear. They came from the firm-as-a-tree-trunk, but oh, so delightfully warm body clutched in her arms. She gasped, then caught her breath as she moved as slow as a snail to lift herself off Mereck’s chest and peek through her lashes.

  Rats and fleas. His eyes were open.

  Not only were they open, but their deep green hue made her more than aware something had prodded his emotions. And it was not anger. Blinking, she prayed he would look away.

  He did not.

  His steady regard made her shiver. His lips lifted in a wicked smile.

  She pulled the plaid up high under her chin and glowered at him, accusing him for her own misdeed.

  His smile widened.

  “You will find our bedding arrangements at Blackthorn to be most satisfying, Netta,” he whispered in a husky purr as he stroked her hair.

  The deep rumble of his voice beneath her ear sent chill bumps coursing over her body. She tightened her grip.

  “Undoubtedly, sir. I will likely share a room with Elise.”

  “For a time.” He smiled again, this time pleased. His beautiful voice deepened. “Then you will have a most interesting bed partner.”

  She started to retort, but he stopped her.

  “Milady, if you have ceased tempting me, I must rise.”

  Netta gasped and jerked away from him.

  He chuckled and rose.

  “When I have donned my clothing, wake Elise and make haste with your preparations. My men are eager to return to their families.” He glanced down at her and ordered, “Close your eyes.”

  Puzzled, she closed them. Until her curiosity got the better of her. Mereck had always arisen before he woke her. She opened her lids the tiniest bit. It was more than enough. He was removing the plaid that kept him warm during the night.

  He was a giant of a man. His body projected power. His neck was strong and firm, as was his jaw. Dark shadows showed he shaved each morn, afore she had even left her pallet. The breadth of his shoulders amazed her. She could not begin to circle them with her arms. Not that she planned to, of course.

  His skin was golden all over and light brown hair dusted over his chest to narrow at his waist. The tartan lowered further. As it slithered past his waist, she followed the arrow of brown hair down to his…! She had but a glimpse before she gasped and squeezed her eyelids shut.

  Saints! Truly he is unnatural? With such an obstruction, how could he walk or ride a horse in any kind of comfort?

  She heard the rustle of Mereck’s clothing as he prepared himself for the day. She felt his movements when he sat down on the ground beside her.

  “Rise, Netta, and wake Elise.” Grasping a stocking, he worked it up over a tanned foot.

  “Are you clothed, sir?” she whispered.

  He grunted.

  She gathered her covers around her and sat up.

  Mereck straightened his right leg. His plaid covered his manly parts, but his left leg was bare to her view. Her gaze quickly traveled over a massive and hairy calf, and up to an even more impressive thigh. The sounds of warriors rising from their sleep distracted her. Glancing around, her eyes widened in utter disbelief.

  She scrambled to her feet and made a frantic dash for the tent.

  Mereck laughed and continued to dress.

  “Wake up, Elise.” Netta grabbed her friend’s shoulder and jostled her. “Do you know I have been sleeping with all these men and they have been naked?”

  “Naked? You have been sleeping with naked men?” Elise bounded upright, her eyes bright with interest.

  “Not sleeping with them. But ’tis the same. They have been naked under their blankets. When I looked up, they were standing about. They did not deign to cover their secret parts.” She blinked rapidly. “They scratched truly unspeakable places. Though they knew I slept close-by, none have worn even a scrap of cloth.”

  Elise dashed for the tent flap. She opened it enough to peer through. Her giggle made Netta join her. No sooner had she done so, than two very green eyes blocked their view and stared back at them. Elise backed up so quickly she threw Netta off balance. She landed on her bottom. A loud grunt sounded from the other side of the tent.

  “Clothe yourselves and stop dawdling,” Mereck’s stern voice commanded.

  They dressed as fast as their hands could snatch up their clothes and pull them on. Elise donned a dark blue tunic over an ice-blue smock and they wove blue ribbons through her braided hair. Netta wore a pale cream smock beneath an overdress of emerald green, the color of Mereck’s eyes when he stared at her. They pulled a section of Netta’s hair from each side of her face and secured it in back with dark green ribbons that mingled with her long, ebony curls.

  Netta hesitated leaving the shelter of the tent after Mereck had caught them peeking. But when Fergus called, saying Mereck said they were to come immediately and break their fast or they would travel hungry, Netta grabbed Elise’s hand. They sprinted toward Angus waiting with their steaming porridge.

  The men seemed determined to force a greeting from them.

  “Good morn, miladies,” they called out as the women passed. Each time Netta was forced to look up and acknowledge the greeting, she saw a man who grinned laughingly at her—with blackened teeth. Oh, saints. Did they all know she and Elise had spied on them? Elise never raised her gaze from the ground. She whispered her own timid replies.

  Mereck led them at a fast pace due north past Altnaharra. He had known Netta spied on him that morning. His body had felt it and reacted; his tarse had swelled and lifted in anticipation. He doubted anyone had instructed her in the ways of a man and woman and was glad for it. It would be his pleasure to initiate his little wife in the many delights they would bring to each other.

  He shook his head and stopped his thoughts with a frown. Netta was creeping beneath his guard as surely as she had crept close in the night to fling h
er arm and leg over him as she slept. Though it was well and good to enjoy the lass, he must needs never allow his feelings to deepen.

  A shudder racked him as he heard the cackling voice of old Beyahita. Her warning that a Baresark’s destiny was to destroy any woman he was so foolish to love rang in his ears.

  They forded a stream at the end of Loch Loyal, then entered the pass between Ben Loyal and Beinn Stumanadh, following Loch Loyal. Mereck called a halt at the northmost tip of the Loch, judging they were but two leagues from Blackthorn Castle. The women could refresh themselves with bannocks and watered wine.

  The day had turned cold. After he helped Netta to the ground, he beckoned to Dafydd and made a quiet request. The squire hastened off to the pack horse that carried Mereck’s clothing, and returned with his arms overloaded. On top was a plaid identical to the one Mereck wore.

  Taking it, Mereck came over to Netta.

  “You will wear this when we enter Blackthorn so our people will know who you are.” He draped it around her waist and brought the ends up and over her left shoulder, pinning the plaid securely with a Morgan crest brooch like his. It pictured a hand holding erect a dagger fisted in its grip with Manu Forti engraved across the top of the circle. A bar ran diagonally across the whole. When done, he gripped her shoulders and studied her.

  “Ah, sweetling, your lips would tempt a saint to sin.”

  His husky murmur made her shiver. He lowered his head and brushed his lips lightly against hers, surprising her.

  And surprising himself.

  When he lifted his head, Netta had the look of a woman who wanted more. Her eyes half closed, her lips parted slightly, and a flush stained her cheeks and neck.

  He turned and strolled into the woods.

  Netta drew a deep breath, then held it, unwilling to lose the scent that lingered from his skin. Her knees turned to weak porridge. She wished his lips had tarried longer. No one had ever kissed her like that.

  Heaven help her. She shook herself. Of course no one had. She had no good memories of kisses. The few she had received were forced on her by men she thoroughly disliked.