Midnight's Bride

by Sophia Johnson

  Meghan broke into another round of laughter. Before Netta could ask what amused her, servants arrived with their baths. In their hurry to prepare for the evening, the matter slipped her mind.

  Mereck awaited at the entrance to the great hall. Netta could not help comparing him with Percy. He had neither a delicate face like her former suitor, nor a slight body. Mereck was twice Percy’s size. His beautiful hand gripped hers, and its warmth spread up her arm. Men also looked at him, but with respect and gruff greetings. They threw no glares her way for allowing him to put her hand in his.

  But Percy had one great advantage. He could not steal her mind, or drain her thoughts. Mayhap she had been wrong to shun him?

  As everyone settled at their respected places, she started to apologize for being tardy. Mereck’s long slender fingers touched her lips, silencing her.

  She inhaled his scent. Her stomach fluttered.

  “’Tis well worth the waiting to have you at my side, Netta.” He filled their trencher with choice bits of mutton, pork and salmon. He added peas and cabbage beside them. “How spent you the day?”

  The delightful aroma of the food distracted her, making it hard for her to think of something to tell him.

  “We were busy talking.”

  “Talking? Did Meghan not show you around the grounds?” He offered her a bit of pork and quirked a brow at her.

  Could he know what they did today? Netta worried, uneasy. Was he listening to her thoughts? If so, how could one protect oneself from an ap Tewdwr man? Perchance, if she hummed, he could not hear them? She started to hum.

  Mereck enjoyed the expressions flitting through Netta’s lovely eyes. Hesitation was there, making him curious. He didna oft release his mind to hear thoughts. At an early age, his grandfather had taught him to respect other people’s privacy. He used his “gift” only when needful. Or when someone intrigued him, as did Netta. He found that, far from being painful, her thoughts were as a light summer’s breeze soothing his mind.

  He had spent hours in the far practice area honing the men’s fighting skills, but he knew Netta had been up to something. He studied her face. The longer he did, the more she revealed.

  “We took Guardian to the roof and sat in the sun for a time,” she ventured. She hummed a little stronger. They had cut his hair for their brows, but she could not tell him of it.

  His eyes narrowed. So, they used hair clipped from the wolf to disguise themselves? He would have to ensure they did not come to harm. “Did the wolf enjoy the attention?”

  “Oh aye. He likes to have his neck scratched.” The tune she hummed became disjointed.

  “Did you stay on the roof all the while, or were you also in the bailey?”

  “We did go down into the bailey. Meghan took us to each hut and explained their purpose.”

  Mereck plied her with food between questions. She started to eat in earnest. He did not doubt her appetite, for she seemed to enjoy her meals. It was also apparent she did not want to reveal more of her day. He coaxed her again.

  “Where else did you go in the bailey?”

  “Uh, we watched young men practice with knives.” Meghan had made it look so easy to hit the target, but she herself had never even nicked it.

  He placed a juicy bit of pork at her lips.

  Netta couldn’t resist it. She chewed and remembered the surprise on the young man’s face when the sand-filled bag knocked him off his horse.

  “Hmm.” Mereck rubbed his hand over his mouth. “If ever you are near the quintain, stay behind the fence. A horse sometimes becomes wild when the sandbag unseats its rider. It may bolt from the area.”

  Netta’s eyes widened. Her gaze darted down to stare at the food on the trencher. Had he been stealing her thoughts? She recalled her whole day from start to finish. Nothing seemed to be missing in her memory, for she could account for each stage of the sun. Possibly his was a gentle stealing? Did he but borrow her thoughts and then return them?

  Servants brought cheeses, cakes, apples and pears to the table. Meghan suggested the women would enjoy a round of songs by the men, for it had been a long time since they had done so. Mereck was reluctant, but Brianna had but to smile at Damron, and he agreed.

  Meghan picked up her pipes from beside the hearth, Bleddyn brought forth his bodhran, and Fergus, Marcus’ squire, produced Elise’s small harp he had protected on their journey. After they coaxed her to join them, they played through the melody once for her to learn the tune. That was all Elise needed.

  Mereck, Damron and Bleddyn’s voices began to fill the hall.

  Without taking his gaze from Elise, Connor slid into the seat beside Netta. “Mereck rarely sings for our benefit. ’Tis an honor he does you, lady.” He tilted his head to the side, a slight frown flitted across his face. “Truth be told, the last time he did such was for Brianna. When Damron snatched her from under Sir Galan’s nose, her lost love composed a most poignant and beautiful love song. Mereck sang it to her. It made Damron furious.” With a rueful expression, he grinned at her.

  Mereck and Damron started a rousing duet in French then switched to English for the next. On the third, Mereck sang in Gaelic. Alone. His heated gaze flowed over Netta.

  Mereck’s sensuous baritone stroked her skin much as if his fingers stroked her. She shivered. Her nipples prickled. She pretended to check for stains as she eased the tunic away from them. Was it the material that chafed her breasts and caused such sensitivity?

  She groaned. Well, rats. So much for hoping no one noted.

  Mereck had. Why else would his smoldering eyes mock her?

  At the end of the melody, Bleddyn’s voice soared about the room in a wild Welsh ballad that had everyone stamping their feet.

  On their last song, another duet with Damron, Mereck again kept his gaze on Netta as their voices filled the great hall. They sang in German, but she knew it to be a love song. Who could not know, when Damron looked at his Brianna the way a starving man eyed a trencher heaped with succulent boar?

  “One dreary evening, Damron sang this melody to his bride,” Connor whispered. “All in the keep knew he sang his way into her heart. A blind man would know Damron’s heart was in his voice. It helped persuade Brianna to fall in love with him.” Crossing his arms, he sat back with a satisfied look on his face, as if he alone had caused Damron’s good fortune.

  Mereck’s voice filled Netta with sensuous yearnings. The ties of his white shirt slid open, baring the hard planes of his chest. She stared as his powerful muscles flexed with his movements. Her pulse quickened. Would his bare skin feel hot to her hands? Would the hair on his chest tickle her palms? The room seemed hot. She sipped her watered wine. It helped not a whit. When her woman’s flesh pulsed, she squeezed her thighs together.

  While singing the last notes, Damron strolled over and put his arm around his Brianna. Their love flashed bright as lightning on an overcast day. Before the notes faded, he hurried her from the room. The obvious bulge of his rampant tarse beneath his plaid spurred ribald calls of encouragement from the men.

  At Castle Mortain in Northumbria, Roger’s sharp nose twitched. His lips thinned to a taut line. He circled the men holding the drunk varlet upright, and his nostrils flared at the stench wafting from the filthy lout. He motioned for a servant to throw a bucket of water over the drooping head.

  “Gor! No needs ter drown me,” the man spluttered.

  A guard grabbed the churl by the neck and shook him like a wet chicken.

  “Are my orders firmly planted in your brainless skull? Repeat them.” Roger’s voice snapped with irritation.

  “I am ter spy out and ketch the devil-eyed bitch and brung ’er to ye.”

  “And?”

  “Wot do ye mean ‘and’? Ain’t thet…” A backhand to his mouth stopped his question.

  “And you are not to…?” Roger tapped his foot.

  “Look or tech ’er. But ’ow am I ter git the right’un if’n I don’t look, melord? Gots to tech ’er too.”
>
  “Fool. Find the Wycliffe bitch and bring her to me.”

  He should not have to put himself out in such a way. From the first time he saw her, Lynette belonged to him. He wanted her. No, not merely want. He had to have her.

  With Lynette as his wife, no great house in England would be closed to him. For certs, King William would request their presence at court.

  He ordered two men to go with the lout and wait at the Morgan border. Once he delivered Lynette to them, they knew what to do. Gold? The brainsick fool believes he will give him even one of his hard-earned coins?

  Aye. Roger would see to his payment.

  He would get what he deserved.

  Chapter 13

  It was a beautiful early morn. Netta passed through the keep’s massive doorway to lean against the rough wood of the railing, the better to study the outer bailey. She squinted her eyes not only against the sun but in puzzlement. “Why must they practice so distant from the keep, Meghan?”

  “To avoid distractions.” Meghan shrugged and grinned. “’Tho they still have it. Every lass able to sneak past watchful eyes will be hangin’ on the fence and droolin’.”

  “Drooling? Why? Over sweat-soaked men brandishing broadswords and getting filthy?”

  “Come. Ye’ll soon see for yerself. We canna hang on the fence, for I dinna doubt Mereck would forbid it. A lean-to stands at the left end of the field. The men sometimes take shelter there. We can peer between the slats without their seein’ us.”

  Netta didn’t ask any more questions. Meghan and Elise were already far ahead of her. As they eased through the shadows along the walls, she felt a delicious sense of forbidden adventure. Before they were close enough to see what happened there, the clang of weapons and the men’s blasphemous oaths created a deafening noise.

  They slipped up behind the shelter. Netta’s ears rang with the clamor. She clasped her hands over them, quieting the din to a soft roar. If there was such a thing. Near thirty men brandished broadswords and shields. Her curiosity got the best of her. She sought an opening between the boards, and she and Elise peered through it. Scant inches away, a man hefted a massive shield and countered his opponent’s blade. His arm flashed up to swing his own weapon. Broad, sweaty shoulders blocked their view. She moved farther down to the next opening.

  “Blessed Saint…” She didn’t know what saint to call upon. In front of her loomed a man’s back.

  A hairy back.

  A hairy all-the-way-down-to-the-legs back.

  Elise also realized the men were nude. Meghan clamped a hand over Elise’s lips to stifle her gasps.

  A frisky wind fluttered skirts, drawing Netta’s attention to the wooden rail fence opposite them. With arms crossed over the top of it, women watched with avid eyes.

  Even from this distance, she noted their interest. They drooled. What fascinated them? She followed their gaze; she found out. Her fists clenched. Anger heated her face.

  They lusted over a man. A man who wore his hair braided at the sides, and tied back to keep it from his eyes.

  She’d blacken their eyes, she would!

  He was not just any man. He was supposed to be hers.

  Mereck.

  He and his opponent battled, his face tight, his eyes narrowed. Well-matched in body and skills, they must have fought for a goodly time, for sweat ran down Mereck’s face and dripped off his chin. His opponent’s naked back faced them. She recognized Connor’s thick brown hair falling past his sweating shoulders. It was the only thing she recognized. He aimed high for his cousin’s arm. Mereck lifted his shield to block the blow.

  Netta blinked. Mereck’s gaze darted toward the shadows. A man-hawk searching its prey. Elise gurgled. She plunked down on the dirt, her eyes squinted shut.

  “Come. Mereck senses us,” Meghan whispered. “Hurry if we dinna want to get caught.”

  They grabbed Elise’s arms and sprinted—like deer afeared of the cook’s bowman—from the area. Netta’s heart raced faster than her feet. Finally, they reached the inner bailey. She took a deep, calming breath.

  A small orchard grew behind the cook’s vegetable garden. With bright green leaves rustling from a light breeze, a pear tree offered shelter from the sun. Magpies, upset for they were no longer alone to fill their beaks with fruit, cried their displeasure and left. When Netta looked at Elise, she wondered if her own face flamed as red. Meghan’s throaty laughter assured her it did.

  “Now ye know why Morgan men have lasses pantin’ after them.”

  “I don’t think anyone would say the Morgan men have, um, what did you call those little ones—a prick?” Netta giggled.

  “Not since they grew from halfin’s, young boys.”

  “How do they keep their minds on their swords when their, er, parts, are unprotected? Do you not think it would distract them?” Netta asked.

  “Aye. ’Twould seem so.” Meghan grinned and shrugged. “Clothin’ restricts their movements. In olden days, ancient Celts fought bare-arsed. Damron says it makes for valuable trainin’, for they dare not let their minds stray. In battle, bogs and trees hinder the horses, so they do their battlin’ on the ground. But with loincloths to cover their nether parts.”

  “Barearse! I’ll ne’er think of him as Baresark again.” Hearing Elise start to mutter, she turned to her. “What is it?”

  “I keep seeing them. How can they be so different from each other?” Elise’s face flamed. “Do you think Connor has a handsome trio, or by chance it is repulsive?” She shuddered.

  “Well, now. From what I’ve heard of my strappin’ brother, the wenches seem to think all of him is handsome. They say he ne’er tires and kens how to take care of a lassie. If ye get my drift.” Meghan fell back on the grass and chuckled when Elise opened her eyes with a weak grin.

  Mereck felt someone watched him. Lasses who could sneak away from their duties lined the rails, but he had grown used to their stares. Allowing himself a quick glance, he spied a flash of yellow in the shadows.

  Ah. He knew.

  This sudden knowledge lowered his guard. Connor cursed at the same time as Mereck felt a sharp sting on his arm.

  “Bluidy Lucifer. What are ye doin’, Mereck?” Connor shouted. “’Tis nae like ye to forget ye are facin’ a sharp blade.” Worry that he had near seriously injured his cousin fanned his anger.

  Mereck nodded toward the shadows along the walls. Connor’s eyes widened.

  “Father Matthew had best not tarry. The sooner Netta is wed to ye the better.”

  “What of a husband for Elise? Are you eager for Damron to choose her mate? Afore he broke his fast, two hot-eyed youths met with him in his solar.” Seeing Connor scowl, Mereck laughed. “He had best hurry with his selecting. Netta did not appear alone. She and Meghan drug Elise away by her arms. She seemed reluctant to stop gaping at her petitioners.”

  Connor shouted for their squires and clothing. They found the three women beneath a pear tree in the orchard. Meghan lay on her back laughing. None heard Mereck and Connor’s approach.

  The shadows deepened like clouds blocking the sun. The back of Netta’s neck tingled. She peeked over her shoulder.

  Her nose bumped a hairy leg. Swallowing, she allowed her gaze to raise above sturdy knees, a carelessly donned plaid and a sweaty bare chest. When she got past an unyielding jaw, she saw Mereck studied her through narrowed eyes.

  Connor stood by his side.

  Neither man appeared happy. Or amused. She gulped.

  Elise, hands still covering her eyes, giggled afore she spoke. “I saw two of the men who thumped the staff when Lord Damron announced he sought a husband for me.”

  “Uh, Elise. Open your eyes,” Netta begged.

  “Nay. If I do, I’ll see all those…”

  She did not finish. Netta grabbed her arm and pulled her hands away. Just then, Connor bumped his legs into Elise’s back.

  “Holy Mother. We are done for,” she yelped and scrambled to her knees. She turned and edged between Netta and
Meghan.

  Meghan scowled at the men. “If ye e’er want her to couple without a blindfold, brither, stop scarin’ the lass.”

  “What have you been teaching them, Meg? If I catch you showing them something they should not see, I’ll have Damron whip you properly.”

  “We took a walk in the sun, that is all. We could not help that everything was there afore our eyes.” Netta sought to defend Meghan. She could not meet either man’s gaze but studied Connor’s chin instead. Something warm fell on her arm, drawing her attention.

  Blood! Her gaze flew up. Rivulets of blood ran down Mereck’s right arm and dripped off his fingertips.

  “Blessed Saint George! A fine patron saint you are,” she scolded the heavens above the cloudy sky. “You don’t take very good care of your warriors.” She leaped up and turned an accusing glare on Connor. “For shame. You have hacked your cousin. Do you not know he could well bleed to death? Or suffer a killing wound from your dirty sword? Why do you stand like statues? Hurry. We must find Bleddyn.” With both hands, she grabbed Mereck’s left arm.

  Beside the chapel stood a building which Damron had set aside for the mystic and his herbal room. She tried to tug him toward it. He did not budge.

  “Cease, Netta. I need no stitches. ’Tis but a scratch. It will soon stop. Have you ne’er seen bloodied men?”

  “My father’s men are not foolish. They practice with armor.”

  Oh my. She could not meet his eyes. Why had she admitted she knew he trained without protection? She huffed. Protection? Well, rats. He had not even worn a scrap of cloth to cover him. She cast a desperate look at Meghan.

  “Were ye no watchin’ Connor’s blade, Mereck?” Meghan sprang to her feet. “I think ye need a lesson from Damron on the hazards of gettin’ distracted.”

  “Aye,” he replied. “And you need a lesson from Damron on the hazards of being where you should not.”

  “Oh, they are all going to fight, I know it,” Elise whispered. She crouched at the women’s feet.