by McCall, Mary
Champagne Books Presents
Strangclyf Secret
By
Mary McCall
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Champagne Books
www.champagnebooks.com
Copyright 2014 by Mary McCall
ISBN 978-1-77155-174-8
March 2015
Cover Art by Ellie Smith
Produced in Canada
Champagne Book Group
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High River, AB T1V 1G3
Canada
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Other Books By Mary McCall
Highland Captive
Highland Promise
Dedication
For my brother, Robert Duncan McCall II. You are one of my real-life heroes. Thanks for always being there.
Prologue
Caen, Normandy, July, 1066
Sometimes silence is just too loud.
Bernon grunted and shifted positions, resting his elbow on the arm of his chair and his chin on his palm. He studied the game table trying to discern his next move. The raging storm without pressed gloom throughout the hall heightening the shadows about the hall and the heaviness of the air dampened every swatch of cloth. How was he supposed to concentrate on chess when his life of unwedded bliss would soon end?
To his relief, a bang broke the silence. He glanced up from the game table near the dormant hearth. Thank the Almighty his friend arrived before he was trounced by William for not paying attention. If nothing else, Geno could generally lighten Bernon’s mood. For now Geno shook his tawny curls, sending a spray of droplets splattering down to the rushes then tossed his dripping cloak over a bench.
“’Tis about time you arrived. I was beginning to fear for your life, making the crossing in those winds,” William called from his seat across the game table from Bernon. With ruddy cheeks and rusty hair, the massive middle-aged warrior radiated a conquering spirit despite his casual pose.
Geno approached the contestants. Carrying a leather parcel under one arm, he halted, bowed to his liege with a flourish, and grinned. “Greetings, Your Grace. As you can see, my holy sire’s God has spared me.”
“I don’t suppose he spared me as well.” Bernon drained the wine from his pewter goblet and slammed the empty cup upon the table.
Geno raised a brow and swept his gaze over his friend. “Santa Anna, your mood is as black and dour as your garments. The Almighty has done more than spared you. For some reason, He has given you a pearl beyond price. Mayhap someday you will recognize her value.”
“Leave it to you to find perfection in every female who breathes.” Lifting a pitcher, Bernon poured more wine and took a long draught.
William frowned at Bernon’s churlishness and then cocked an inquiring brow at Geno. “Lord Strangclyf accepted you as Bernon’s proxy then?”
“Aye. Though he was not pleased by Bernon’s absence, the vows have been pledged. When Lord Strangclyf dies, the holding will pass to Bernon through his new bride after a traditional ritual of transference prescribed by the Strangclyf ancestors.” A devilish gleam flickered in Geno’s light-blue eyes. “Lord Sidney wanted me to make a point of telling you the holding does not pass on until the marriage is consummated, Bernon. You cannot put off meeting your bride forever.”
William nodded and waved a hand in a dismissive gesture as he studied the game, then moved a rook. Nodding once at his prowess, he said, “He will take care of that after England is mine.”
Bernon raised a brow. “Is it not enough that you ordered the marriage? Do you intend to set the date and the time of the consummation as well?”
“I hope such an order will not be necessary.” William scowled. “Strangclyf is a strategic holding for England’s defense on the North Sea and possesses a legion of trained warriors, who I would rather have fighting with me than against me when we invade. There is rumor of a great secret about the place, which makes it invincible. ‘Tis also a rich holding that you should appreciate.”
Bernon flushed and raked his fingers through his short locks. “I do appreciate it and an order is not necessary. You know I will do whatever is required to secure the holding.”
William nodded. “So, did Bernon’s bride appreciate the gift he sent her?”
“I sent no gift,” Bernon said and banged his goblet on the table.
“Bernon, quit banging the goblet. Matilda still has not forgiven you for bending the others.” William snatched the goblet from Bernon’s reach and handed it to Geno. “Honestly, you’ve been sulking more like the nine-year-old I caught stealing bread from me seventeen years ago rather than a seasoned warlord.”
“Nay, William. He simply acts like the grumpy Black Bear his warriors have dubbed him.” Straight pearly teeth flashed in Geno’s face as he accepted the goblet for himself.
“I am not sulking and I would not be ill-tempered at all if not for the existence of my unwanted bride. Who was it that came up with the offensive notion of attaching land to women?”
Geno chuckled. “I believe you refer to my holy sire’s God—about the time he put Eve in the garden.”
“Aye, and ‘twas because of Eve that Adam was driven from Paradise,” Bernon countered.
“’Twas the serpent that caused poor Eve’s woes and you have no need to complain, Bernon,” Geno chided. “With a wife, all the little Bernons you make in the years to come will be devoid the stigma of bastardy, which so plagued you as a child. As to the gift, Your Grace, the lady said she has never owned anything so fine and intends to fashion a gown in honor of her husband.”
“What did I send her?” Bernon asked through gritted teeth. He had a right to be irritated. He didn’t want some crafty, greedy female disrupting his life. He had a sword and a horse. All he wanted now was land. Then his portion would be complete...and totally satisfying if it didn’t come with a wife.
“A fine bolt of gold chainsil and another of black,” William replied with a smile. “Matilda picked them out so your bride may clothe herself in your colors.”
Bernon tossed up his hands in aggravated surrender. “Fie, now she will expect me to spend all my coins to clothe and pamper her—and probably never consider I face death to earn them.”
Geno crooked his lips in a sardonic half-smile. “I do not think so, Bernon. ‘Tis my understanding from the few moments we spoke that she believes her main duty in life is to please you.” He tossed the bundle onto Bernon’s lap and a mocking tenor crept into his voice. “A token from your bride. She says she does not wear ribbons or scarves, so she hopes you will accept her paltry offering, because ‘tis the best she had to send.”
“What kind of rich man’s daughter wears no adornments?” William asked.
“One with no vanity and who deems herself unworthy of her husband,” Geno replied.
Bernon snorted. “No woman deems herself unworthy of a bastard, Geno. You should know that by
now.” He turned over the bundle, testing its weight. Then he pulled the string, unrolled the leather, and stared in amazement at the wavy mane shimmering like liquid gold in the candlelight.
Good God Almighty! She had sent him her hair. No woman would do such a thing unless Geno was right and she possessed no vanity. Long hair was not only the fashion but also a status symbol. And honest to God, these strands were glorious—a crowning glory with which no woman of his acquaintance would part.
He lifted the end bound by a frayed leather string and slid his fingers through the cool silken strands. The enticing fragrance of lavender mixed with roses wafted under his nostrils, intriguing his senses. The curly tresses wrapped around his fingers like a lover’s embrace just as surely as tension coiled and kicked in his gut.
Geno raised his goblet in mock salute to his friend. “She said to tell you ‘tis the first time she has cut it and no other man has ever held it. Your bride, Bernon, thanks you for the honor you have done her, hopes she may someday prove worthy of you, and eagerly awaits your arrival, so she may welcome you home.”
“And just what is this paragon’s name, pray tell?” Bernon asked, less sarcasm in his tone, as he gently replaced the rare gift on the leather and carefully rolled the protective cover.
Amusement frolicked across Geno’s face and he chuckled. “That, my friend, I have promised her I would not tell.”
“This woman does not wish her husband to know her name?” William drew his brows together.
“She has her reasons.” Geno shrugged. Then a rogue’s smile curved his mouth. “Bernon may choose. I am sure she will be pleased and answer to any name he picks. Right now she is having people call her Bernon’s bride.”
One
Londontown, England, March, 1067
Bernon strode down the corridor of the rambling residence William occupied in Londontown between skirmishes with the Saxon Resistance. His glower sent servants scurrying from his path. In his black mood, he ignored the stinging flesh wound in his left upper arm by focusing his fury on the gripping need to find the recreant who had injured him. Not on a battlefield like an honorable man, but from behind and safely hidden. King William’s suggestion that the culprit might be part of the resistance fell apart, considering the king wasn’t the target. Honest to God, someone wanted him dead, and he intended to ferret out the dastard before another attempt.
As he approached his chamber, he deepened his scowl. Balen, his brother, and Damon, a young lanky soldier who served in his ranks, stood guard outside the room and had the audacity to move in front of the door at his approach.
“I am in no mood to talk, Brother,” he clipped out, knowing how daunting he appeared at the moment. “Stand aside and seek me out later.”
Balen’s Adam’s apple bobbed, but he didn’t budge. “I am not here to talk, Bernon.” He cleared his throat and tugged at the collar of his forest-green tunic. “Well truly, I did come by earlier to talk, but that is not why I am here now.” Bernon raised an irritated brow, and Balen nudged his friend. “Tell him why we’re here, Damon.”
“We are, ah...we are guarding the door.” Damon’s wary pale-blue eyes glanced over Bernon’s shoulder, looking for nonexistent help, and he cleared his throat. “No one...that is we are not to let anyone enter or leave without Geno’s approval.”
Bernon narrowed his eyes to slits. “And do Geno’s orders supersede mine?”
“Well, ah...liege, I guess...I mean...” Damon sputtered then glared at Balen.
“Stand aside,” Bernon ordered in a voice that chilled the corridor.
Balen stood his ground as Damon moved away. “Bernon, there is something you should know before you go into your chamber.”
“Spit it out, Balen. You can see I am in no mood for delays or riddles.”
Balen took a deep breath and looked his brother in the eyes. “Your bride is within and ‘tis the first time she has slept in nearly three days.”
Bernon wiped all expression from his face as he reached for the door. He had been waiting for William to dismiss him, so he could claim Strangclyf and his bride. The Saxon Resistance had delayed his discharge from service. Why had the woman not stayed at home under her father’s protection?
Balen placed a restraining hand on his arm. “Just remember she is not our mother, Bernon. She is a scared and gentle young woman in a strange city, married to a man whom she has never met and has heard terrible tales about.”
“Remove your hand, Balen,” Bernon said, without so much as a blink giving away his thoughts.
Balen released his grip and stepped aside.
Bernon entered the chamber, closed the door, and silently moved to the bedside. The faint essence of lavender and roses grazed him as he stared down at the woman about to ruin his well-ordered existence.
This bride of his slept on her side, facing away from him with the covers pulled over her face. Spun-gold curls peeked over the linens. He reached out a hand and ran his fingers through the short locks, finding them as silky as the mane she sent him the past summer.
“Nay!” The muffled cry came from under the covers, and her head jerked away from his touch, snuggling deeper under the covers.
Bernon snapped his brows together in a fierce frown. The woman should know better than to deny him. He reached for the covers, but they were suddenly tossed aside as his bride fought some sleeping enemy.
“Nay, Hadwyn! You will not do this! I belong to Bernon!” One of his under tunics threatened to swallow her petite form as she continued her struggles, fighting the garment as much as her sleep-induced foe.
His eyes widened. God help him! William had married him to a babe! Her thrashing soon bunched the material around her hips. Bernon saw a massive bruise on the back of one shapely thigh just before she flipped onto her back. He hissed out a breath that he didn’t realize he was holding. Thank the Almighty, her legs looked mature, and she had hair at the juncture between them. Not too young—just very small.
“He does not want me, does he, Geno?” she asked in a pathetic sleepy voice, still enthralled by her unhappy slumber.
Bernon studied her pale strained features, taking in the long golden lashes, short pert nose, tremulous rosy lips, and small pointed chin. Her features seemed to fit together well enough. At least she wasn’t an eyesore. His gaze fell upon mottled bruises around her neck, and his blood boiled. Had he been a volcano, he would have been spewing. He may not want her, but she was his and nobody marked his property.
Emerald eyes popped open and fastened on him. She looked like a terrified fairy. A gorgeous terrified fairy.
The muscles in her throat constricted and she whispered in a hushed frightened voice, “Are you him?”
“I am.”
“Zut! When did I die?” She sat up and raked her fingers through her hair, glancing wildly about.
Bernon frowned at the curse. “You will not use—”
“Oh Lord!” she exclaimed, cutting him off. “I did not please my husband, did I? And he killed me. Now I have to spend all eternity in hell with you.” She turned an anxious gaze upon him. “I was truly hoping we would never meet.”
What kind of game was she playing? He cocked his head and considered her through narrowed eyes. “Are you daft?”
“Nay. I am valuable, rare, and precious.” Her hands twisted in the sheets. “Are you going to start my eternal torture now or make me worry about when you will strike?”
If fear could kill, he wouldn’t have to worry about having a wife long. He had never seen anyone so craven in his life. “You are not dead.”
“Am I not?” she asked, a surprised tone in her voice. He shook his head.
“Then why do you come to me on earth?” She gasped then narrowed her eyes. “Why, you no-good demon, You must think you will get my consent.” She scrunched her face in what he assumed must be her version of a scowl. “I’ll not let you take my soul.”
Bernon closed his eyes and counted to ten. The woman lacked wit and could not even
summon an expression to scare a mouse. “I do not want your soul.”
“Well, why not?” she asked in a disgruntled tone of voice and balled her hands into dainty fists. “What is wrong with me that even the devil doesn’t want my soul?”
Bernon folded his arms across his chest and studied her curiously. His enemies upon occasion may have referred him to as Satan Incarnate, but he didn’t expect such a comparison from a bride he had never met. Was she trying to rouse his ire to test him? “Now you insult me. What makes you think I am the devil?”
“Because only Lucifer could be so handsome in such a dark way, and you just said you were him.” She waved an arm indicating his entire body then peered up, giving him a look that told him she wasn’t impressed. “How can you expect to steal souls if you cannot remember what lies you use? Is your memory short?”
He wiped a hand over his face conveying his exasperation. This had to be the most ridiculous conversation he had ever had. “I am not Lucifer.”
“Well if you are not Lucifer, then who are you and wher—” She broke off and slapped a hand over her mouth. Then she peeked up at him through her lashes. “Are you Bernon?”
He nodded once, compressing his lips into a thin line.
“I have displeased you, have I not?” she asked. All color receded from her honeyed complexion. “I was having a nightmare and...”
God’s bones, now she looked like she was going to cry. “How old are you?”
She glanced away and combed her short locks with her fingers in a nervous gesture. “I will be eight and ten at the beginning of June.”
She might be close to eight and ten, but she had the wits of a four-year-old. At a knock on the door, he made a curt perusal of her half-naked form. “Cover yourself.”