The Unwilling Bride Page 7

  “Oh, look! There’s Sir Henry!” Beatrice cried, jumping up and down in her excitement. “He’s got the ball!”

  Henry deftly passed it back to Merrick, who charged up the field, keeping the ball just ahead of his rapid feet.

  Who was winning? It was hard to tell, for both the villagers and the soldiers were cheering wildly. Constance spotted Talek, the garrison commander, among the soldiers and, taking hold of Beatrice by the sleeve, pushed her way through the crowd of men surrounding him. They were so intent on the game, they didn’t realize who was shoving them aside until after she’d gone past.

  She tapped Talek on the arm to get his attention. “Who’s winning?” she shouted over the din.

  “It’s a tie,” the middle-aged soldier answered just as loudly. “But we’ve got his lordship, so it’s going to be us who win. I’ve never seen such a fine—”

  His words were drowned out by a great roar from the spectators. Merrick had stumbled and nearly fallen, but in the next moment he recovered with a fluid twist of his body. Then he ran even faster, as if that brief setback only spurred him on.

  He was nearly at the two posts stuck in the ground marking the goal. The soldiers shouted themselves hoarse. The villagers screamed at their men, and some groaned with dismay.

  Constance tried not to get caught up in the excitement. She was a lady, after all, and thus should behave with decorum and dignity. Besides, it was only a game. It didn’t matter who won, as long as fighting didn’t break out.

  Merrick was almost at the goal….

  The smith’s son charged forward and got the ball away from Merrick. The villagers shouted, loudly urging on their men; the soldiers cursed with astonishing variety and fluency.

  Eric passed the ball to his father, who passed it to—

  Ranulf intercepted it and, with a quick move, kicked it back to Merrick. His mighty chest heaving, Merrick again started up the field, this time with Henry and Ranulf guarding him on either side.

  Perspiration made Merrick’s chest shine in the sun as if it’d been oiled. His breeches were soaked with sweat at the waist and clung to his strong thighs.

  More cheering, more cursing—Merrick scored!

  “Well done!” Constance cried as she leapt into the air. Then she slapped her hand over her mouth. Could she possibly be more undignified?

  Beatrice, whom she’d quite forgotten, had no concern about her appearance as she danced with delight. “I knew we’d win! I knew it!” she declared, clapping.

  As the soldiers, led by Talek, surged into the field past them, Constance tried to compose herself. “Yes, well, that was certainly interesting,” she said, keeping her eyes—and attention—on the crowd as the villagers surrounded Eric and the others. There could yet be trouble.

  Beatrice stopped prancing. “Interesting? It was wonderful! Merrick was so fast. Whoever would have thought he could run like that?”

  “Indeed,” Constance murmured as the foot soldiers surrounded their overlord, who gulped down what seemed an enormous mug of ale that a grinning soldier handed him.

  Lord William wouldn’t have deigned to let one of his men get within ten feet of him.

  And then Merrick did something more surprising still: he went to the villagers and praised them for their efforts. He was followed by his men, who were laughing and bragging good-naturedly, as were the equally happy and proud villagers.

  Obviously Merrick knew men and their reactions better than she did, and he was certainly far more willing to mix with his people than his father had ever been.

  What kind of man was the new lord of Tregellas? Could he truly be so different from his father, and the brat she’d loathed for so long?

  “Come along, Beatrice,” she said, moving away before the excited soldiers and villagers engulfed them. “I don’t think there’s any need to linger.”

  “Don’t you want to congratulate Merrick?” Beatrice asked.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  Beatrice frowned. “You do like Merrick, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she replied, not quite sure if that was a lie or not.

  Beatrice leaned closer and dropped her voice to a whisper, as if she feared she was about to impart something scandalous. “I know age and looks aren’t supposed to be as important as family or wealth when it comes to a husband, but you’re so lucky he’s handsome. Really, Constance, would you want to make love with someone who looks like…like Ruan, for instance? Thank the blessed Virgin you can look forward to your wedding night.”

  Merrick’s voice rose stern and commanding from the midst of the mob of soldiers. “Let me pass.”

  Now that could have been his father, Constance thought with a stab of disappointment.

  Then she realized that Merrick—still blatantly half-naked, although he held a shirt in his hand—was walking toward her, while the men made way for him as if he was a king.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  FOR ONE BRIEF INSTANT Constance thought of running away. But how would that look to the men, and Beatrice, too? And hadn’t she faced down the infamous Wicked William of Tregellas more than once?

  Beatrice, however, started to sidle away. “I believe I’ll change my gown before the feast,” she murmured.

  Then she was gone, leaving Constance feeling like the lone soldier on a bloody battlefield awaiting the enemy’s army.

  Except that it was no horde of soldiers who walked toward her, but the handsome, young and unabashedly virile man to whom she was betrothed—the same man who had a satisfied grin playing about the corners of his lips.

  So he was pleased he and his men had won—why didn’t he put his shirt on? Was he trying to make her feel uncomfortable? Was this some sort of attempt to intimidate or embarrass her? If so, he’d drastically underestimated her. She straightened her shoulders and prepared to show him how wrong he was.

  “So, my lady,” he said when he reached her, “all your worrying was for naught. No death, no injuries beyond a twisted ankle, no riots. My soldiers are happy—except those who wagered against us—and the villagers put up enough of a challenge that they can retire with pride to play another day.”

  She wasn’t about to let him gloat, either. “I know you’re the commander of Tregellas, but isn’t running around after a pig’s bladder taking things a bit too far?” she asked as Henry and Ranulf, Talek and a few of the other soldiers walked past them toward the mill. “I suppose it was Sir Henry’s idea. He seems just the sort to try to get his friends to behave in a wanton and undignified way.”

  The smug grin faded as Merrick’s brow furrowed with a frown. “You think Henry capable of leading me astray?”

  It suddenly seemed foolish to suggest that anybody could lead this man anywhere; however, having started, she would continue. “I think he tries, and likely sometimes succeeds.”

  The telltale vein in Merrick’s temple started to pulse. “When you know me better, you’ll appreciate the folly of that opinion. Would you accuse Ranulf of trying to lead me astray, as well?”

  “I have no idea what Sir Ranulf is capable of.”

  Merrick’s fierce gaze impaled her. “I see no indignity in doing what the men who may die for me are asked to do.”

  She was treading on thin ice, and she knew it. So she said nothing.

  “Whatever you’re trying to do, my lady,” Merrick said, stepping closer, “understand this. Never again presume to question my actions or my decisions in front of my men. I am the lord here, my lady, not you, and I will not be criticized in public.”

  As she flushed hotly and told herself her indignant anger was necessary, he finally put on his shirt. It hung loose from his broad shoulders, the hem at his muscular thighs. The unlaced neck gaped, revealing enough of his chest to make this seem a tease.

  Rolling the sleeves up over his forearms, he gazed at her steadily, and his voice dropped to a low growl, like the purring of a large and not-quite-tamed cat. “However, when we’re alone, you may criticize me all
you like.”

  He couldn’t be sincere. “You don’t mean that.”

  “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t say it.”

  She couldn’t believe any nobleman could truly be so acquiescent, let alone this one. “And you won’t take offense?”

  “I may very well take offense, but I won’t punish you for it.”

  She sniffed derisively. “How can I believe that?”

  “Because I give you my word.”

  “And if I should refuse you your rights in the bedchamber?” she challenged, certain she had found one thing he would insist upon.

  “I would expect you to tell me why, so that I may remedy the situation.”

  She backed away from him. She didn’t dare stay close, not when he was looking so incredibly virile, and making such astonishing, seemingly sincere concessions. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I…I have things to do.”

  It was a pathetic excuse and she felt like a coward, but it was that…or kiss him.

  THE WINE FOR THE MAY DAY feast was the best Constance had ever tasted, and Gaston had outdone himself with the food. Dish after dish of soup, stew, meat with rich sauces, pasties, greens and bread came and went, ending with sweetmeats and fruit both cooked and fresh. Afterward, a minstrel entertained with songs of Arthur and his knights, making references to Tintagel, home of Arthur’s mother and now one of Richard of Cornwall’s strongholds. Other musicians played tunes for dancing on lute and tabor, and of course there’d been more wine. After one particularly lively round dance with Henry as her partner, Constance had removed her veil because she was too warm and taken out the pins that held her coiled braids tight against her head.

  Henry was really a very amusing fellow, and as he and Ranulf bantered about the relationship between Arthur, Guinevere and Lancelot—Henry maintaining Arthur must have been so busy looking for grails and otherwise “dashing about” that he’d neglected his wife, and Ranulf claiming Lancelot was an immoral fellow whose battle prowess had gone to his head—she laughed so hard, she could scarcely draw breath. Even Merrick had chuckled, a surprisingly pleasant rumble of amusement. Beatrice giggled until the tears ran down her cheeks and her father, with a look of disapproval, sent her off to bed.

  Constance smiled indulgently as Beatrice wove her way toward the stairs, helped by Demelza. Her father wasn’t paying much attention to her progress; he had returned to a lively discussion about hounds and their merits with Lord Algernon.

  She felt free and delightfully happy, even with Merrick beside her, looking handsome in his black clothing and his long, thick, waving dark hair. And splendid features. And well-cut lips. If he were to take her hand now, she might even welcome that attention.

  “God save me, it’s warm in here!” she murmured to no one in particular as she held out her goblet for more of the rich red wine.

  Merrick plucked her goblet from her hand.

  Since she was in a good humor, instead of being angry, she gave him a saucy smile as she tried to get it back. “I’m thirsty, my lord.”

  He held it up just out of her reach. “Have you not had enough wine to slake your thirst, or is your throat still dry from all the cheering you did today?” he asked, one brow raised in query.

  “I was cheering for you, my lord,” she protested, recalling the sight of the lord of Tregellas, half-naked, his long hair flying, running after the inflated pig’s bladder with the grace of a deer. He had, without a doubt, the finest body in Cornwall, perhaps even England. “You were really quite magnificent. No doubt the garrison would have lost without you. I never thought you’d play, though. I could more easily imagine you commanding the bladder as if it were one of your men.” She lowered her voice to an imitation of Merrick’s deep growl and pointed an imperious, if slightly wobbly, finger at an imaginary ball on the floor. “Bladder, come here! Bladder, I command you to cease rolling! Bladder, obey me or I shall pierce you with my trusty blade!”

  Amused by her jest, she started to giggle. “And your good friend Sir Ranulf would say, “Bladder, my friend, what the devil are you doing? You weary me with all this rolling,” while Sir Henry would no doubt try to charm it into stopping with smiles and gentle pleading. “Please, pretty bladder, come back to me….” And it probably would, too. He’s a very charming fellow, your friend.” She waggled a warning finger at Merrick. “I shall have to keep my eye on him.”

  Merrick didn’t seem the least bit amused. “I think it’s time you retired, my lady.”

  She opened her eyes wide, both to display her surprise and the better to focus on his somewhat blurry face. “The night is young, my lord.” She gave him her very best smile. “And there may be more dancing.”

  “Not for you, I think.”

  Constance leaned over him to address her uncle, her breasts pressing against Merrick’s forearm. The sensation was quite pleasant. Exhilarating, even.

  “He says I must retire, Uncle,” she complained, interrupting their debate about the bloodlines of their respective hunting hounds. “Tell him I’m old enough to decide for myself when I go to bed.”

  To her chagrin, her startled uncle looked to Merrick before he answered. “I believe, my dear, that you’ve had quite enough excitement for one day.”

  “I have not.” Determined not to be sent from the hall like an errant child, she again smiled at Merrick. “Don’t you want to dance with me, my lord?”

  She couldn’t quite read the expression on his face, but he might have been amused. “Not when you’re in this condition. Come, my lady, retire before you make a fool of yourself.”

  She bristled at both his words and the laughter lurking in his eyes and the corners of his shapely lips. “I never make a fool of myself.”

  “There’s always a first time.”

  Affronted, Constance rose to her feet with all the dignity she could muster, in spite of the wine. “Very well, my lord, since heaven forbid you should be ashamed of me, I’ll retire.”

  Unfortunately, the floor seemed to have become somewhat unstable during the meal. She reached for the back of her chair to steady herself—and instead found herself swept up into Merrick’s arms. She gave a little screech of protest and clamped her arms around his neck so she wouldn’t fall.

  “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us,” he said to the uncles and his friends at the high table.

  She was not so far gone with drink that she thought this acceptable, even if it was rather…delightful. “Put me down!”

  “I wouldn’t want you to fall and break a limb before our wedding,” Merrick replied as he leapt lightly down from the dais and proceeded through the hall.

  Alan de Vern, who should have come to her aid, started to chuckle. So did his pleasant, plump wife and those around them, and soon the hall rang with laughter. A swift glance showed that her uncle and Lord Algernon were also amused, and Henry grinned like a gargoyle. Ranulf was apparently more intent on the fruit pie before him.

  “Let me down, you big ox!” she hissed in Merrick’s ear as he wove his way through the tables. “What will people say?”

  “I believe, my lady, they already have plenty to discuss about you and me,” he said as he reached the stairs. “If you were afraid of scandal, you should have watched how much wine you imbibed. You were gulping it like a sot.”

  “Put me down!” she insisted. This had gone far enough.

  “Put me down!” she repeated when he didn’t. She was no piece of baggage. She wasn’t yet his chattel. To rule as he would. Or ignore as he would.

  When he still didn’t release her, she slapped him.

  The whole hall seemed to gasp with one breath and she instantly realized the enormity of what she’d done. Although he didn’t so much as flinch, she could see the red mark of her palm on his cheek. “My lord, I—I’m—!”

  Without a word, he tightened his hold. Grimly silent, he began to take the stairs two at a time. She clung to his neck, afraid he would drop her, and more afraid of what he’d do when they reached her bedchamber. “My lord
, forgive me!”

  “Say nothing, Constance,” he growled. “Nothing until we’re alone.”

  She’d be lucky if he only slapped her in return.

  A tear slid down her cheek. Then another. If he beat her, that would be the proof she needed that he was his father’s son.

  She didn’t want him to be his father’s son. She wanted him to be the man she’d come to respect. To admire. To…

  He reached her chamber and shoved open the door with his shoulder. A rushlight burned on her dressing table, the weak flame leaving most of the room in shadow as he set her down. Distraught, dismayed, still a little drunk, she felt her knees give way and she slid to the floor.

  “Get up,” he ordered.

  “I…I can’t.”

  He reached down and pulled her to her feet. Holding her steady by the shoulders, he glared at her. Then his dark eyes widened with shock. “Are you crying?”

  “Are you going to beat me?”

  “I’ve never struck a woman in my life!”

  A sob of relief broke from her lips.

  “I could never hurt you, Constance—never!” he whispered as he pulled her into his arms.

  She heard the sincerity in his voice, felt it in his tense body, and believed him. He would never hurt her.

  She relaxed into his embrace and wrapped her arms around him. Closing her eyes, she drew in a shuddering breath, leaning her cheek against his chest. She was safe in his arms. Protected.

  He drew back and she hoped to see some affection in his eyes, but while there was concern, there was reserve also. “I will leave you now.”

  She didn’t want him to go, so she kept her arms around him. “I did have too much wine. It’s a different thing when men get drunk. Nobody thinks anything of that.”

  His little smile warmed her entire body. “I’ve never been drunk.”

  “What, never?”

  “No,” he replied as he stroked her cheek with his calloused palm. It was a man’s touch. A warrior’s gentle caress. “Constance,” he asked softly, “do you want to marry me?”