The Unwilling Bride Page 3

  “Your liege lord, the earl of Cornwall, often disagrees with his brother the king,” Lord Carrell replied. “Indeed, we hear many barons fear King Henry is too much influenced by his French wife.”

  The corners of Merrick’s full lips curved downward in a frown. “Whatever the king does or does not do is not for me to question, and how he comes to his decisions is not for me to ponder.”

  Merrick was obviously the sort of nobleman who was loyal no matter what the king did, even if Henry and his French queen were leading the country down the road to rebellion.

  And if Merrick, like most noblemen, believed a woman’s place was confined solely to the hearth and home and children, her observations on the political situation, as well as her suggestions as to how he should deal with the earl and the king, would surely be unwelcome. So she blithely began to tell her intended husband exactly what she thought.

  “From what I understand of the court, there’s a great deal of conflict between the English barons and the relatives of the queen. The king seems to be making a terrible mistake giving Queen Eleanor’s relatives so much power. As for her insisting that her uncle be made Archbishop of Canterbury, is there a more ambitious, greedy candidate? If that man is holy, I’m a nun. Thank heavens he has yet to be confirmed because the pope is in such difficulty. Now we hear the earl of Cornwall might marry Eleanor’s sister. No doubt the queen seeks to bind him closer to prevent him from leading a rebellion, since there are many who would prefer him to his brother when it comes to commanding the kingdom. After all, it’s because of Richard’s diplomacy that Henry is free after his failed campaign to win back lands in France. And then there’s the matter of Simon de Mont-fort’s marriage to the king’s sister. Is it true de Mont-fort seduced her, or is that just gossip?”

  She felt the uncles’ gaze upon her, but she ignored them and continued to look at Merrick, her brows raised in query. “What if Henry does something stupid again and the earl doesn’t rescue him? What if Richard finally turns against him?”

  Merrick straightened, lowered his arms and regarded her sternly. “You speak of rebellion and treason, my lady. I will have no such talk, or even the suggestion of it, for any reason, in Tregellas while I command here. If the earl of Cornwall rebels against his brother, if this country is torn apart by civil war, then I shall choose which side to support, and not before.”

  A vein in his temple began to throb, just as his father’s had before an enraged outburst. Having already endured enough fits of temper to last a lifetime, and realizing she’d achieved a certain measure of success, Constance changed the subject. “Perhaps we should discuss the wedding.”

  “Very well,” Merrick said, nodding his agreement. His features relaxed a fraction, enough to tell her he preferred this subject to politics, or at least her political opinions. “I wish to be married within the week.”

  If he’d grabbed her and bitten her, she couldn’t have been more shocked. How could she make him hate her enough to break the betrothal in that short a time? “That’s impossible!”

  Merrick merely arched his straight black brows. “Why? You knew we were betrothed, did you not? And that I was to marry you as soon as I inherited the title, if not before. I see no reason to delay.”

  “I do,” she retorted, her dismay turning swiftly into indignation. “We need time to prepare food for the feast—”

  “The larders are well stocked,” her uncle interrupted. “Indeed, Constance, if Merrick is eager—”

  She was anything but eager. “What about our guests? It will take at least a month to invite them, gather responses and prepare accommodations.”

  “The only guests I care to have at my wedding are already here.”

  “And then there are the wedding clothes…”

  Merrick’s dark gaze impaled her. “It wouldn’t matter to me if you were married in your shift.”

  Her breath caught for an instant—but only that. “It would matter a great deal to me, my lord,” she declared. “After being delayed for so long, I expect my wedding to be worth the wait.”

  “I hope to make it so, my lady.”

  Even though she was as incensed as she’d ever been, when he said those words in that low, husky voice, an unwelcome frisson of heated excitement flowed through her traitorous body. But she snuffed it out quickly. This whole discussion was proving that he was still the same selfish, spoiled brat, concerned only about his own needs and desires.

  Therefore, she would give him a selfish need, if that was what he required. “Such celebrations are useful for creating alliances. Our wedding could be a valuable opportunity.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of my marriage as a political opportunity.”

  Only a financial one, she supposed. Why else would he be in such a hurry? If he were truly chivalrous, if he cared at all about her feelings, he would have asked her when the ceremony should be.

  “I believe she’s right, nephew,” Lord Algernon seconded, albeit warily. “Perhaps it would be best to move more slowly.”

  Constance could have kissed him. “Yes, my lord. I would rather not have our wedding marred by accusations of scandalous and undue haste.”

  Merrick’s gaze flicked to the other noblemen. “If you will excuse us, my lords, I would have some words with my betrothed. Alone.”

  Alone? Was he mad? Or that sure of his power?

  Her uncle and Lord Algernon exchanged brief looks, then bowed a farewell and hurried out the door. So much for their help, she thought sourly. But she had stood alone before a powerful, arrogant man before, and she wouldn’t give in now, not when her freedom was at stake.

  “It isn’t right for us to be alone together before we are married,” she declared, heading after the noblemen. “This is most improper.”

  The lord of Tregellas moved to stand in her way with surprising, and surprisingly lithe, speed.

  “My lord, you may not care about my reputation,” Constance said through clenched teeth as she glared at the man in front of her, “but I do and—”

  “I promise you nothing improper will occur, and unless you give me cause, any man or woman who dares imply that your reputation is less than spotless will have to answer to me.”

  The sheer forcefulness of Merrick’s response stunned and silenced her.

  He reached for one of the stools along the wall and swung it forward as if it weighed no more than a feather, placing it in front of the table. “Please sit down, my lady.”

  She crossed her arms. “I prefer to stand, my lord.”

  “Very well.” Merrick mercifully stayed where he was. “Do you have some objections to the marriage itself, my lady? If so, I would hear them.”

  He spoke so coldly and so severely, she was absolutely certain he would demand her dowry in forfeit if she refused to marry him. “No, my lord,” she lied. “But I would rather not marry so quickly. After all, it’s been fifteen years. We barely know one another.”

  To her surprise, his features relaxed a little. “Forgive me, Constance. My suggestion came from my great joy at being home and here with you again. I left a pretty little girl, and I’ve come home to find a beautiful, intelligent woman.”

  Was she supposed to be flattered? “Perhaps if you’d come home even once in fifteen years, my appearance and the fact that I’m not a silly fool wouldn’t be so unexpected.”

  He stiffened and the little vein in his temple started to throb again.

  Good, but she must go carefully.

  Yet instead of flying into a fury, Merrick merely shrugged his broad shoulders. “My father made no effort to see me, so I made none to see him.”

  What of his betrothed? Had he ever once thought of her until his father died? “He was still your father. As his son, your duty—”

  “Don’t!” Merrick snapped.

  His dark eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. “Do not ever try to tell me about my duty, my lady,” he warned, his voice low and rough. “Do you think my presence here would have made any difference?
Do you honestly believe I could have influenced my father, or made his last days better? I more likely would have killed him.”

  Constance could only stare at him, aghast, as she realized he meant what he said. She’d known there was little love between father and son, but she hadn’t expected so much naked hate.

  Merrick raked his hand through his long dark hair. “I gather my vassals and tenants weren’t eager to see my father’s son return.”

  As it had so often, her concern for those under the lord of Tregellas’s power arose within her and subdued any thoughts of her own troubles. “They’re understandably wary, my lord. After all, they haven’t seen you in years and have no idea what kind of overlord you’ll be.”

  “As you, having known my father, are no doubt wondering what sort of husband I’ll make, and likely fearing the worst. I shouldn’t be surprised that you asked for more time before the ceremony.”

  She nearly choked. What was he, some kind of seer or mind reader? Or had she been too obvious?

  “Did my father…” He hesitated for the briefest of moments before continuing. “Did my father ever lay hands on you?”

  It would have been no thanks to her absent betrothed if he had. “My dowry was apparently worth more to him than my maidenhead.”

  Merrick winced at her blunt words.

  “That was the sort of man your father was, my lord,” she said without regret for causing him pain. She’d suffered often enough while he was God knew where.

  Merrick regarded her steadily and spoke with what sounded like completely sincere conviction. “I know about my father’s sinful nature. I vowed long ago that I would never treat any woman, whether high born or low, as he did. As long as I am lord here, no woman need fear death or dishonor at my hands, or be afraid of me.” His voice dropped to a low, husky whisper. “As for my wife, I will be faithful to her until my death. I will honor, respect and cherish her. She need never fear violence or degradation at my hands.”

  Constance took a wary step back. Against his stern arrogance she was proof. Against his haughty orders, his firm commands, even his anger, she could defend herself, but this…She had no defense against such words, especially spoken by a man who looked at her thus, and whose voice was low and rough, but unexpectedly gentle, too.

  And to speak of respect, the thing she craved most except for love…

  She had to get away from him and his deep voice and intense dark eyes and the powerful body that made her remember things she’d heard the maids whisper about, concerning men and pleasure and secret delights shared in the dark.

  “Since you wish to wait a month, so be it.”

  Constance came out of her reverie and told herself she was sorry she hadn’t asked for six.

  Merrick walked around the table and finally sat in the lord’s chair. “There’s an old man who lives at the edge of a village in a cottage that looks like a tumbled-down mess of stones. He spit at the ground when I rode by. Who is he?”

  Despite her pleasure at the delay of their wedding, a shiver of dread went down her spine. Perhaps Merrick’s concession was intended to soften her, to make her malleable and pliable, as if she were a simpleton easily duped. Maybe now he thought she’d tell him everything she knew, about everyone in Tregellas.

  Being born and bred in Cornwall, he would be aware of the smuggling that had been taking place along this coast for centuries. Being a loyal follower of the king, he would probably seek to enforce the laws against it.

  Well, kings and lords before him had tried to stop the smuggling, to no avail. Let him try—without her assistance.

  She took her time as she lowered herself onto the stool and regarded him with calm rectitude. “I suppose you mean Peder, my lord.”

  She was fairly certain it was Peder he spoke of. The old man had been a tinner and smuggler since before Constance was born, and he hated the late lord of Tregellas passionately and with good reason, as she sought to make clear to Wicked William’s son. “You may remember his daughter, Tamsyn, and the son she bore after she was beaten and raped, although likely the whispers that her attacker was your father were kept from you.”

  Was that a flicker of dismay in his eyes? Even if it was, she would feel no sympathy for him. She would make him understand why his people hated and feared his father, and why they were ready to hate and fear him, too.

  “If that’s true, I can see why Peder would loathe my father and be less than pleased by the return of his heir,” he replied. “Is there proof that the child was my father’s?”

  “No one who knew your father and saw Bredon doubted it, my lord. The resemblance was too marked.”

  “Are the woman and her son still here?”

  She wondered what Merrick would do if his sibling were still alive, but it didn’t matter. “Bredon drowned in the river just after you left Tregellas. Sick with grief, Tamsyn hung herself. Peder found her in their cottage.”

  An emotion she couldn’t quite decipher flashed quickly across Merrick’s face, and was just as quickly gone. Was it sympathy, or relief?

  Merrick rose and came around the table. “Did my father sire other bastards?”

  “No, my lord,” she replied, “despite his efforts. He had only two children, you and Tamsyn’s son.”

  “I’ve never sired any bastards, at least none that their mothers have made known to me.”

  Was she supposed to be thrilled by that? “I didn’t expect you to be a virgin.” She got to her feet. “Now, my lord, I hope you’ll give me leave to go. I’d rather not discuss your past liaisons, however fascinating they may be to you.”

  “There is just one thing more.”

  She opened her mouth, but whether to simply take a breath or ask a question, she could never recall, because before she knew what was happening, Merrick tugged her into his arms and captured her mouth with his.

  For a moment she was too stunned to feel anything except surprise. Then she was simply, completely, overwhelmed.

  Never, even in her most lustful daydreams, had she imagined this. The taste of him. The scent of man and leather, horse and salt air in her nostrils. The sensation of his strong arms about her, holding her close, steadying her when her own legs were suddenly without strength. Then his tongue lightly, insistently pushed against her lips, seeking entry.

  This could not be right, because no matter how good it felt, this man kissing her was Merrick, Wicked William’s son.

  She struggled to break free. “I’m an honorable woman!”

  “You’re my betrothed,” he replied as he let her go and stepped back. “There’s no harm in a kiss.”

  There was if she didn’t want to marry him. “Betrothed or not, I didn’t give you leave to kiss me!”

  “Then I humbly beg your forgiveness, my lady,” he calmly replied, bowing like the most chivalrous of knights.

  He looked about to smile and his eyes seemed to glitter with…she didn’t care what. “There is nothing humble about you, my lord, and I beg you not to touch me again unless I give you leave.”

  The little half smile melted away, and his expression settled into an impassive mask. “As you wish, my lady—until you give me leave.”

  Of all the vain, arrogant, impudent—! She turned on her heel and marched from the room, slamming the door behind her.

  AFTER SHE WAS GONE, MERRICK ran his hand through his hair and walked to the window that overlooked the courtyard of Tregellas.

  He wasn’t that frightened little boy hiding in the woods anymore. He was the lord and master of this castle. He was the commander and overlord of Tregellas. His father was dead, and he had come home, back to where he used to know every path and field. Where he loved to stand on the shore, the rivulets of water running between his toes. When he was a boy, and things were so much simpler.

  He shouldn’t have kissed Constance, or suggested that they wed so quickly. He should have shown more restraint, acted with more fitting decorum.

  But how could he, when the moment he’d seen he
r, that same ache of yearning had torn through him? Yes, he’d been but a boy when he’d left here, but he had never forgotten her. He had loved her then with all the affection of his boyish heart, and he loved her still, but not as a boy—as a man desires a woman, to cherish, to protect, to take to his bed. Yet he still felt like an awkward lad in her presence, not a knight of some fame who’d had women vying for his favors only a few short weeks ago.

  He had never been a charming courtier like Henry. He could never think of the things that rolled so easily from Henry’s tongue, and he was sure he would sound like a fool if he tried.

  How did Constance really feel about him? Part of her desired him, of that he was certain. If she truly disliked or feared him, she would never have kissed him as she had, arousing such desire and hope.

  Yet Constance’s lust alone would not satisfy him. He wanted more from her—much more. He wanted her love. Without it, if she ever learned the truth about him, she might come to hate him—a thought that filled him with worse pain than any physical wound. It would be better to let her go rather than see hate and loathing appear in her eyes, the way it did when she spoke of his father.

  But he’d discovered that he lacked the strength to give her liberty. He couldn’t bear to abandon the hope that she could come to love him.

  Deep in his heart, he knew it wasn’t his natural reticence or his serious nature that was keeping him from proclaiming his feelings for her. It was the fear that by wedding her, he would be wronging her.

  He kept trying to convince himself that if he ruled wisely and fairly, if he loved and treated her well, his past didn’t matter. But his great misdeed was like a black shadow between them—a shadow of lies, of deceit, of death and pain and fear. His sin haunted him, except when his mind and body were fully occupied, such as when he fought in a tournament or played a game of foot ball. Or kissed his beloved Constance, who’d been the bright angel of even his darkest, loneliest days.

  If he were truly a good and honorable man, he would confess his crime, and risk losing her.

  Since he was not, he would keep his secret, as he had for fifteen years. He would tell no one, including Constance, what he’d done. Only he need know, and suffer for it.