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The Unwilling Bride
Margaret Moore


Promised to Merrick of Tregellas when she was but a child, Lady Constance was unwilling to wed a man she remembered only as a spoiled boy.Sure he had grown into an arrogant knight, she sought to make herself so unappealing that Merrick would refuse to honor their betrothal. Yet no sooner had this enigmatic, darkly handsome man ridden through the castle gates than she realized he was nothing like the boy she recalled. And very much a man she could love…Haunted by secrets from his past, Merrick was unwilling to return to Tregellas–until he caught sight of his bride-to-be. Beautiful and spirited, Lady Constance was everything he wanted in a wife. She stirred his passion–and his heart–as no woman ever had before. But what would happen when she discovered the truth? When enemies begin plotting their downfall, only trust can save a match never meant to end in true love.









Before she knew what was happening, Merrick tugged her into his arms and captured her mouth with his.


Never had she been kissed, and never, in her most lustful daydreams, had she imagined this. The taste of him. The scent of man and leather, horse and salt air. The sensation of his strong arms about her, holding her close.

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. “There’s no harm in a kiss.”

“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.

“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.”




PRAISE FOR MARGARET MOORE


“Ms. Moore transports her readers to a fascinating time period, vividly bringing to life a Scottish medieval castle and the inhabitants within.”

—Romance Reviews Today on Lord of Dunkeathe

“Entertaining! Excellent! Exciting! Margaret Moore has penned a five-star keeper!”

—CataRomance Reviews on Bride of Lochbarr

“This captivating adventure of 13th-century Scotland kept me enthralled from beginning to end. It’s a keeper!”

—Romance Junkies on Bride of Lochbarr

“Margaret Moore’s characters step off the pages into your heart.”

—Romantic Times

“Ms. Moore…will make your mind dream of knights in shining armor.”

—Rendezvous

“An author who consistently knows how to mix just the right amount of passion and pageantry.”

—Old Book Barn Gazette

“When it comes to excellence in historical romance books, no one provides the audience with more than the award-winning Ms. Moore.”

—Under the Covers

“Her writing is full of humor and wit, sass and sexual tension.”

—Heart Rate Reviews




Margaret Moore

The Unwilling Bride








With many thanks to the recappers and posters at

TelevisionWithoutPity.com, for the entertainment and

enjoyment. You never fail to make me smile!



THE UNWILLING BRIDE




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE




PROLOGUE


Oxfordshire, 1228

MORE THAN ANYTHING, THE BOY wanted to go home. There he knew every rock and path. There he could breathe the fresh salt air blowing in from the sea, feel sand and pebbles beneath his bare feet and the rivulets of water running between his toes. There he was happy. There he was safe.

Here, riding through this strange country, he was afraid.

He was afraid of the soldiers who surrounded him, with their terrible scars and big, calloused hands. Of their weapons. The long, heavy broadswords. The maces. The daggers they tucked in their belts and hid in their boots.

He hated the smell of them—sweat and ale and leather. He hated the way they cursed in their foreign tongue.

The nobleman leading the cortege was even more frightening than the soldiers. With his hawklike beak of a nose and narrow, dark, fault-seeking eyes, Sir Egbert bore no scars or other marks of battle. He didn’t smell like the soldiers, and he usually didn’t raise his voice—yet he could make the boy quiver with just a look.

He wanted to go home!

They came to a fork in the muddy, rutted road. One way led to a dark wood of oak and ash, elm and thick underbrush; the other veered away from the forest, although still heading north.

Sir Egbert raised his hand, bringing the column to a halt, and gestured for the leader of the soldiers, who had a horrible red welt of a scar marring his already ugly face, to join him.

The boy sat motionless and silent, wondering, worrying about why they had stopped. His hands trembled as he did his best to control his prancing pony. The tall grass bordering the road swayed and whispered in the breeze, sounding a little like the sea. The soldier nearest him hawked and spit, then said something under his breath that made the others sneer and laugh.

What was wrong? Was Sir Egbert unsure of the way?

Sir Egbert gestured down the rutted road that led toward the dark wood. The leader of the soldiers frowned, muttered something and pointed the other way.

Please, God, not into the wood, the boy prayed. The close-standing trees, the dense bushes, the shadows…it was like something from stories told ’round the hearth, the dwelling place of ghosts and evil spirits.

Please, God, not into the dark wood.

Please, Jesus, let me go home!

Sir Egbert’s voice rose to an angry, insistent shout, including what had to be curses, and he made angry gestures. The leader of the soldiers nodded and, frowning, turned his horse back toward his men.

Sir Egbert raised his hand and pointed to the wood—the murky, scary woods full of terrible things. The scarred man barked an order, and his men drew out their swords.

The boy prayed harder as he nudged his pony forward. Please God, keep me safe. Please, Jesus, let me go home. Mary, Mother of God, I want to go home!



WITHIN AN HOUR THE ATTACK WAS over. All in the cortege lay dead or dying in the wood.

Save one.




CHAPTER ONE


April, 1243

THE BOAR’S HEAD TAVERN boasted the prettiest, cleanest serving wenches for miles around. The young women were all eager to please their customers in a variety of ways, too, especially the boisterous knights and squires currently making merry in the taproom. Carrying pitchers of wine and mugs of ale, the wenches moved deftly between the tables, laughing and joking with the men, and sizing them up as to their worth. They could easily earn a month’s worth of income in a single night from drunken revelers like these.

Only one man sitting silently at a table in the corner seemed uninterested in the women, or celebrating. He had his back to the wall and stared down into his goblet, completely oblivious to the merry mayhem around him.

Two other knights, equally young and muscular, shared his table. The handsomest of the pair, brown haired and with a smile that held a host of promises, delighted in having the women compete for his attention and hurry to fetch his wine. The second knight, more sober, with shrewd hazel eyes, a straight, narrow nose and reddish brown hair, seemed more inclined to view the women and listen to their banter with a jaundiced eye, well aware that they were calculating how much they could charge for their services between the sheets.

“Here, m’dear, where do you think you’re going with that jug of wine?” the comely Sir Henry demanded as he reached out and drew the most buxom of the wenches onto his lap.

She set the jug of wine on the scarred table beside him and, laughing, wound her arms around his neck. It was a miracle her bodice didn’t slip farther down and reveal more of her breasts, but then, she wouldn’t have cared if it had. “Over to that table there, where they pay,” she said pertly, and with unmistakable significance.

“Egad, wench, will you besmirch our honor?” Henry cried with mock indignation. “Of course we’ll pay. Didn’t my friends and I win several ransoms at the tournament? Aren’t there many young men who had to pay us for their horses and armor after we triumphed on the field and forced them to cry mercy? Why, we’re rich, I tell you. Rich!”

The silent knight in the corner glanced up a moment, then returned to staring into his goblet as if he was expecting it to speak.

Henry turned to the cynical knight beside him while his hand wandered toward the wench’s fulsome breasts. “Pay the girl, Ranulf.”

Sir Ranulf raised a sardonic brow as he reached into his woolen tunic and drew out a leather pouch. “I don’t suppose there’s any point suggesting you be quiet about our winnings? You’re making us the bait of every cutpurse between here and Cornwall.”

“Fie, man, you fret like an old woman! No man would be fool enough to try to rob the three of us!”

With a shrug, Ranulf pulled out a silver penny. The wench’s eyes widened and she reached out to snatch it from his grasp, but Ranulf’s hand closed over it before she could. “You can have this if you bring us some good wine instead of this vinegar.”

She nodded eagerly.

Sir Ranulf’s eyes danced with amusement. “And if you’ll share my bed tonight.”

The wench immediately jumped up from Henry’s lap.

“Hey, now!” Henry protested.

Ranulf ignored him. “Off you go,” he said to the wench, holding out the coin again.

“What about him? Does he want any company?” the young woman asked, nodding at their companion.

The dark-haired man raised his head to look at her. He was undeniably good-looking, but there was something so stern and forbidding in his expression, the wench’s smile died and she immediately took a step back. “I didn’t mean no offense.”

“Don’t mind Merrick,” Henry said with a soothing smile. “He’s in mourning for his father, you see. Now fetch the wine like a good girl.”

The wench cast another wary look at Merrick, smiled at Henry and Ranulf, then hurried to do Henry’s bidding.

Henry smacked the table in front of their grimly silent friend. “For God’s sake, Merrick, this isn’t a wake.”

Ranulf frowned. “He’s got a lot on his mind, Henry. Let him alone.”

Henry paid Ranulf no heed. “It’s not as if you cared for your father that you should be upset over his death. You haven’t even been home in fifteen years.”

Merrick leaned back against the wall and crossed his strong arms that could wield a sword, lance or mace for hours without tiring. “Ruining your entertainment, am I?” he asked, his voice deep and gruff.

“As a matter of fact, you are. Granted, it would give any man pause to think he’s not just inherited an estate but also has to get married to some girl he hasn’t seen in years, but if you ask me, that’s all the more reason you should enjoy tonight. Given how many knights you defeated, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of these wenches would do it for nothing. Come, Merrick, why not have a little sport? I know you, and once you’re married you won’t stray, so all the more reason to—”

“No.”

“You’re going to save yourself for a girl you haven’t seen since you were ten years old?” Henry demanded.

“Yes.”

“Then I hope what we’ve heard is true, and she’s a beauty.”

“Her looks don’t matter.”

“But supposing you don’t suit each other?” Henry asked with exasperation. “What if you find you don’t even like her? What will you do then?”

“I’ll manage.”

“It’s a question of honor, Henry,” Ranulf interjected, giving Henry another warning look. “The betrothal agreement means they’re as good as married already, so it’s no easy contract to break. Now for God’s sake, let it alone.”

“If there’s honor involved, it’s his late, unlamented father’s, not his,” Henry replied. “Merrick didn’t make the betrothal agreement.”

“His bride’s lived in Tregellas since they were betrothed, so she’ll know the household, the villagers and the tenants,” Ranulf pointed out. “That’ll be a help to Merrick when he arrives to take possession. Plus, she’s got a sizable dowry…” He glanced at Merrick. “There is a sizable dowry?”

The knight inclined his head.

“So he’ll be even richer. He’ll also be wanting heirs as well as a chatelaine, so he needs a wife.”

Henry frowned. “I don’t know what it is about men once they get an estate. Suddenly it’s all about finding a woman who’s a good manager, like a steward.”

“You’ll be the same, should you ever get an estate,” Ranulf replied. “Responsibility changes a man.”

“God help me, I hope not!” Henry cried, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling as he grinned. “When I marry, I’m going to find the most beautiful woman I can and to hell with anything else.”

“Even if she’s poor?” Ranulf skeptically inquired.

“My brother claims his wife has enriched his life in a hundred ways although she brought barely a ha’penny to the marriage. So, yes, even if she’s poor.”

“And if she’s silly and insipid, and can’t run your household?”

“I’ll make sure I have excellent servants.”

Ranulf raised a brow. “How do you plan to pay these servants?”

That gave Henry a moment’s pause. Then he brightened. “I’ll win more tournament prizes, or find a lord who needs a knight in his service.”

“Surely you’ll want a woman you can talk to, who doesn’t drive you mad with foolish babble?”

Henry waved his hand dismissively. “I won’t listen and I’ll keep her too busy to talk.” He grinned at Merrick. “Is that your plan, too? Keep Lady Constance too occupied to talk? You do intend to actually have some conversation with your wife? Otherwise, she’s liable to think you’re mute.”

Merrick shoved back his stool and got to his feet. “I speak when I have something worthwhile to say. Now I’m going to bed.”

Henry shrugged his shoulders. “Well, if you want to leave so soon, Merrick, farewell. All the better for us, since we won’t have to compete with the new lord of Tregellas and tournament champion for a woman’s favor.” He shook his head with bogus dismay. “For a man who barely says ten words at a time, I don’t know how you manage to attract the attention you do.”

“Perhaps because I barely say ten words at a time.”

“Since he doesn’t usually go lacking, there must be some truth to that,” Ranulf dryly affirmed.

Henry looked indignant. “I’ll have you know many women consider me charmingly well-spoken.” Then he raised his voice so that those around him could hear. “Merrick may outshine me on the tournament field, but I believe I carry the honors in the bedchamber.”

The rest of the merrymakers in the tavern fell silent, while the women eyed him with speculation.

“If it pleases you to think so,” Merrick said, and there was a look in his eyes that told Ranulf that Merrick’s temper, slow to rouse, was rising.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” he cried, likewise getting to his feet. “Since the lord of Tregellas and champion of today’s tournament wishes to leave us, let’s allow him to retire from the field with honor intact and declare a draw in matters of the bedchamber.”

Henry stood and bowed to Merrick. “I’m willing to agree that we’re evenly matched.”

The buxom serving wench sauntered toward them, a carafe of wine balanced on her hip. “I could try you both,” she offered, “and choose a winner.”

“No need. My friend is just leaving,” Henry said as he grabbed the carafe out of her hands. Tipping it back, he let the wine pour into his open mouth, while with his free hand he reached out to embrace her.

She wasn’t there.

She was in Merrick’s arms, and being quite thoroughly kissed. His friend’s mouth moved over hers with sure and certain purpose, one hand sliding slowly down her back to caress her rounded buttocks.

The wench not only responded willingly to Merrick’s kiss, she ground her hips against him as if she wanted him to take her then and there.

Finally Merrick broke the kiss and removed the panting woman’s clinging arms from around his body. As she staggered over to the nearest bench and sat heavily, fanning herself with her hand, he turned on his heel and marched out of the tavern without another word.

The moment he was gone, the Boar’s Head taproom erupted with the noise of amused, drunken noblemen and laughing women.

“I don’t think you should have implied that Merrick is second best when it comes to the bedchamber,” Ranulf noted as he and Henry returned to their seats.

“Obviously not,” Henry said with a good-natured smile. “But at least I got him to quit brooding for a bit, didn’t I?”



“HOW CAN YOU BE SO CALM? I’d be beside myself with excitement if I was going to see the man I was to marry, and after fifteen years!” sixteen-year-old Beatrice cried, her face aglow, her hands rapturously clasped, as she sat on the bed in Constance’s bedchamber.

“I’ve been betrothed since I was five years old, so I’ve had plenty of time to get used to the idea of marriage,” Constance replied without turning away from the polished silver plate that served as her mirror. She raised a gold necklace to drape it around her neck, then set it down before her cousin noticed that her hands were trembling. “Perhaps if my betrothed had come home once or twice in those fifteen years, I might be more excited. As it is, I hardly know what to expect. He may hate me on sight.”

Indeed, she hoped he did hate her. For years her greatest hope had been that Merrick’s long absence meant that he shared her aversion to their contracted marriage.

“I’m sure he’ll like you,” Beatrice assured her. “Everybody in Tregellas likes you. All the servants in the castle admire and respect you. Nobody else could handle the old lord the way you did, so Father says.”

Constance tried to focus on adjusting her veil and not recall the shouting, the curses, the throwing of anything within reach, the blows aimed at everyone except her….

“I’m sure Merrick’s a fine fellow,” Beatrice went on. “He’s won a lot of tournaments and he’s been to court, too. Surely that means he can dance. I wonder if he sings? Maybe he’ll sing a love song to you, Constance. Wouldn’t that be delightful?”

Constance sent up a silent prayer for patience before she addressed her loquacious cousin. “I would rather he respect me.”

Beatrice’s brow furrowed. “Don’t you want your husband to love you?”

“It’s the dearest wish of my heart,” Constance truthfully replied. Unfortunately, she feared any son of Wicked William would be incapable of that sincere emotion.

“At least you knew each other before,” Beatrice offered.

“Yes, we did,” Constance replied, keeping any animosity from her voice.

But Merrick had been a horrible boy who always demanded his own way and made sure he got it; who teased her until she cried, then derisively called her a baby; who never took the blame for any of the mischief he caused, but always found a way to turn it to a helpless servant.

Worse, if he was as vindictive as she remembered, he would surely demand compensation if she tried to break the betrothal agreement, leaving her with no dowry for another marriage, which was why she planned to induce Merrick to break the contract. That way, he couldn’t claim that she’d wronged him.

Beatrice jumped up from the bed and threw open the large, carved oaken chest that held her cousin’s clothes. “What are you going to wear to meet him?” she asked, surveying the few fine garments inside.

“The gown I have on.”

Beatrice stared at her cousin as if she’d never heard anything so ludicrous in her life. “But your peacock blue bliaut with the silver threads looks so much better with your eyes and hair.”

Constance was well aware that the long blue tunic worn over a thinner gown of white or silver flattered her fair coloring and brought out the blue in her eyes. The yellowish green of the dress she was currently wearing made her look sickly—which was precisely why she’d chosen it.

“I don’t have time to change,” Constance replied, wondering if that was true, and praying that it was.

As if to confirm her reply, a sharp rap sounded on the door before it was immediately opened by Beatrice’s father. Lord Carrell strode into the bedchamber, his long parti-colored robe swishing about his ankles. Ignoring his daughter, he ran a measuring gaze over his niece.

Her uncle had never loved her, of that Constance was quite certain. If he’d had any concern for her happiness, or any fear for her safety, he would have asked Lord William to release her from the betrothal years ago and taken her to his home. But he had not.

How different her life might have been if her mother hadn’t died giving her birth, and her father from a fall not six months later.

“Merrick and his party are nearly here,” Lord Carrell announced.

Constance felt as if a lead weight had settled in her stomach. “How many men did he bring with him?”

“Two.”

“Only two?” she asked, dumbfounded. The Merrick she’d known would have delighted in a show of power and importance, so she’d expected him to have an escort of at least twenty. With that in mind, she’d ordered accommodations to be prepared for that number, with a warning to the servants that there might be more.

“That shouldn’t be so surprising,” her uncle replied. “No one in Cornwall would dare to attack the lord of Tregellas.”

“No, I don’t suppose they would,” Constance agreed. They certainly wouldn’t have dared to attack Merrick’s father, whose retribution would have been swift and merciless.

“Smile, Constance,” her uncle said with an expression she assumed was intended to be comforting, not condescending. “I doubt your life will be worse as Merrick’s wife than when Lord William ruled here.”

It couldn’t get very much worse, she thought, except that as Merrick’s wife, she’d share his bed—which might be terrible indeed. As for her uncle’s attempt to console her, he wouldn’t be the one living in hell if he was wrong.

“What do we really know of Merrick?” she asked, some of her genuine distress slipping into her voice.

Her uncle gave her a patronizing smile that set her teeth on edge. “What is there to know? He’s your betrothed. And if you have any little difficulties, you should be able to deal with him. You’re a beautiful, clever woman.”

“What if doesn’t want to marry me and is only doing so because of the contract?”

“Once he sees you again, Constance, I’m sure you’ll please him.”

As if she were a slave, or chattel to be bartered.

“Now come along. Lord Algernon has already gone to the courtyard to greet him.”

If Merrick’s paternal uncle was waiting in the courtyard, she had little choice but to follow at once.

Trailed by Beatrice, Constance and her uncle hurried down the curving stone steps and through the great hall, a huge chamber with a high beamed ceiling and corbels carved in the shapes of wolves’ heads holding up great oaken beams. The raised dais sported a fireplace in the wall behind it—something only the most progressive nobles had added to their castles. The late Lord William had never denied himself any innovations that would add to his personal comfort.

In spite of her worries, Constance made a swift survey to ensure all was in readiness for the new overlord. Fresh rushes had been spread on the floor, with rosemary and fleabane sprinkled over them. The tapestries had been beaten as free of dust and soot as possible. The tables had been scrubbed and rubbed with wax, the chairs for the high tables had been cleaned, and their cushions repaired or replaced.

As they left the hall, Constance blinked in the sunlight. Lord Algernon, his portly body clad in rich garments of silk and velvet, bowed in greeting and gave her a slightly strained smile.

All of the garrison except those on guard stood in neat rows, their backs straight, their mail polished, their helmets gleaming. Groups of well-dressed folk from the village—merchants, tenants and vassals who owed the lord tithes and service, as well as their families—waited quietly, too.

Equally uneasy servants crowded the doors of the buildings, and a few peered from the upper windows of the keep, or the family bedchambers. Indeed, it seemed as if the very stones of Tregellas were keeping a wary vigil.

And then her straining ears caught the sound she’d been dreading: horses coming through the inner gatehouse.

Three knights appeared, riding side by side into the courtyard. All three were tall and well built. All three looked as if they could easily defeat ten men without breaking a sweat.

The one to Constance’s left wore a forest-green surcoat over his chain mail hauberk, and his horse’s trappings were likewise forest-green, with a worked-leather breast collar and britchens. He reminded Constance of a fox with his straight nose, pointed chin and reddish hair. Merrick had been as clever as a fox, too, but there was nothing in this man’s features or coloring to make her think he was Wicked William’s son.

The smiling man on the right wore a surcoat of brilliant scarlet wonderfully embroidered with gold and silver threads. The accoutrements of his destrier were just as flamboyant and costly; they would be hard to miss from a mile away. This merry, smiling fellow had the easy confidence of a nobleman, but he seemed too amiable and fair of face to be Merrick.

Therefore Merrick had to be the man in the middle, wearing a surcoat of plain black. He didn’t much resemble the boy she remembered, either in form or feature. This man’s eyes weren’t impish slits, and as for his lips, they weren’t thin now, or smirking, but full and well cut. He was also the tallest by half a head, lean and muscular, and his unexpectedly long black hair waved to his broad shoulders.

All three knights dismounted easily, swinging down from the saddle in perfect unison, as if their mail weighed next to nothing. The black-clad man’s unblinking gaze swept over the yard and everyone in it until it finally settled, with unwavering directness, on her, dispelling any doubts as to which one was the son of Lord William. So had his father looked at her a hundred, nay, a thousand times, before he erupted into rage.

Disappointment, sharp and unexpected, stabbed at her. For a moment, her heart had leapt with an excitement she’d never felt before, but she could guess what it was. Merrick had become an impressive-looking warrior, and for that while, it had seemed she was looking at a man she could respect and possibly even admire—until those cold, dark eyes told her otherwise.

She glanced at the sober crowd watching. Did they see his brutal, lascivious father in his son’s unwavering gaze and stern brow? Did they fear that he would be as harsh and greedy an overlord?

“Merrick, my boy…or I should say, my lord!” Lord Algernon cried, breaking the silence as he trotted down the steps, his stomach bouncing with every step. “Welcome! Welcome to Tregellas! How wonderful to see you again after all these years!”

Merrick stopped looking at Constance to regard his uncle with that same unwavering, unsmiling gaze.

Lord Algernon came to an embarrassed halt. “Surely you remember me, my boy…my lord. I’m your uncle, Algernon.”

That brought the merest glimmer of a smile to the stony visage. “Yes, Uncle, I remember you.”

Constance had never heard such a voice. It was husky and deep, and although he seemed to speak quietly, she didn’t doubt that everyone in the courtyard had heard him.

Lord Carrell likewise hurried forward, albeit with more dignity. “I hope you remember me, my lord. I’m Lord Carrell de Marmont, your neighbor and Constance’s uncle. Of course I would know you anywhere. You have the look of your father about you.”

“Do I?”

Constance had had long practice studying a man’s face for any hint of emotion, to better gauge what she should do. Never had she found a man more difficult to decipher, yet even Merrick’s gaze wasn’t impossible to read. Whatever else he was thinking upon his return, he was not flattered by the comparison to his late father.

Her uncle turned to Constance and held out his hand. “I trust you also remember your betrothed, Lady Constance, although of course she’s changed.”

“So I see,” Merrick agreed as Constance approached, and in the depths of his eyes something seemed to kindle—a spark of recognition? Or a spark of…something else?

She knew she was a comely woman. She’d seen men watch her when she danced and leer at her when they thought she couldn’t see. She knew what lust looked like. Was he his father’s son that way, as well? If so, and betrothed or not, she would stay as far away from him as possible.

Yet his expression was different, too. The desire was tempered, restrained. Held in check, like the rest of his powerful body as he stood motionless in the yard.

Merrick put his hands on her shoulders and drew her close to exchange the kiss of peace. She steeled herself to feel nothing, and to betray nothing, either in look or word.

“I remember you, too, my lord,” she said evenly as she moved back.

Surprise flared briefly. “You were very young when I left here.”

“Not so young that I don’t remember you and some of your…antics.”

His brow furrowed slightly, as if he was trying to remember. “You must forgive me, my lady, if I have forgotten happier times. Much has happened to me since I last saw you.”

She thought of the attack upon his cortege, and a tinge of guilt crept over her. Yet much had happened to her, too, and she would never forget Merrick’s merciless teasing and pinches and the cruel tricks he’d played on the servants.

Merrick turned to the foxlike knight. “This is my friend and sworn comrade, Sir Ranulf.” He nodded at the knight in scarlet. “This other fellow is also my friend and sworn comrade, Sir Henry.”

“They are most welcome, too,” Constance said with a bow.

Sir Henry stepped toward Beatrice, whose face turned nearly as red as his surcoat when he gave her one of the most disarming smiles Constance had ever seen. “And who is this lovely young lady?”

“That is my daughter, Lady Beatrice,” Lord Carrell said stiffly.

“And she is my cousin,” Constance added, a note of warning in her voice. Beatrice was young and had a head full of romance; Sir Henry was handsome and flattering.

“Then I am even more delighted to meet her,” Sir Henry said.

Constance caught the look that passed between Merrick and his other friend—a sort of patient forbearance. So this Sir Henry was the sort who enjoyed charming women. She would warn Beatrice, and the maidservants, too. “I was expecting you to have more of an escort, my lord,” she said, loud enough to draw the attention of everyone nearby, including Sir Henry.

“There was no need,” Merrick replied. “I regret I neglected to inform you, but I had other things on my mind.”

Although she wasn’t sure if he was alluding to their marriage—and everything that went with it—Constance felt the heat of a blush steal up her face and tried to will it away. “What of your baggage, my lord?”

“A carter is bringing it.”

“Shall we retire, nephew?” Lord Algernon asked, a bead of perspiration running down his plump cheek. “We have some fine Bordeaux wine awaiting in the hall.”

“A most welcome suggestion,” Merrick replied before turning to Constance. “I shall lead the way into my hall with my bride-to-be by my side, if she will allow me that honor.”

Since she had no choice, Constance lifted her hand and lightly put it on Merrick’s muscular forearm.

Which was as hard as iron.

An unexpected flutter of heat spread through her body, but she fought to ignore the sensation. So what if he was strong and well built? Had his father not been handsome in his day? Yet look how he had ended. She must not, she would not, tie herself to a man who might turn out the same.

When the group reached the dais, she immediately lifted her hand from her betrothed’s arm.

Merrick didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he addressed Lord Algernon. “Is there not somewhere more private? I prefer not to discuss my estate and my wedding where any servant or foot soldier may overhear.”

His wedding. So he did plan to honor the betrothal agreement. So much for the hope that he would wish to be free of her. She would have to implement her scheme to win her freedom, and the sooner, the better.

“The solar, perhaps?” Lord Algernon suggested.

Merrick turned to his friends. “I leave you in Lady Constance’s care.”

She would have to be careful not to go too far, but she wouldn’t wait to begin her campaign for liberty. She would start now. “If you’re going to talk about our wedding, I should come to the solar, too, should I not? After all, I am the bride.”

At Constance’s determined pronouncement, her uncle stared at her in amazement, while Lord Algernon gaped with undisguised disbelief.

In spite of their obvious surprise, the lord of Tregellas merely raised a coolly inquisitive brow. “As you wish. Lady Beatrice, will you be so good as to take charge of my friends?”

Beatrice blushed to the roots of her honey-blond hair. “Yes, o-of course, my lord,” she whispered as if she were afraid to speak any louder, while Sir Henry smiled as if he’d just been given a present.

Yes, he would bear watching, and Beatrice, too. Constance loved her cousin, and didn’t want Beatrice’s heart broken—or worse, for Beatrice to be dishonored by a charming seducer her betrothed had brought into their midst.

Merrick paused in his progress toward the steps and glanced back over his shoulder. “Well, my lady, will you join us or not?”

Despite his imperious tone, she made no effort to rush as she followed the new lord of Tregellas.

Who seemed to be very much his father’s son after all.




CHAPTER TWO


MAKING SURE NO PART OF HER came into contact with Merrick as he waited by the door, Constance followed the uncles into the solar, the small chamber Lord William had used for his private business.

As in the hall, expensive and colorful tapestries lined the walls to keep out the chill. A massive trestle table, pitted and scared from Lord William’s blows and missiles, stood near the window. A wooden, bossed chest holding all the various parchments detailing the tenants and the tithes rested in the corner. There Merrick would also find a copy of his father’s will, a document that had elicited many a raving tantrum before it had finally been completed to Lord William’s satisfaction.

The lord’s chair—a huge, heavy thing of carved oak with a cushioned seat—was behind the table. The only other seats were stools, set against the wall, and rarely used in Lord William’s time. He preferred to have those brought before him standing like humble petitioners, no matter what their rank or worth.

“We hear you’ve been to court many times, my lord,” Lord Carrell began as they arranged themselves like a line of soldiers about to be inspected. “You must have met the king and queen, for which I envy you. Tell me, what do you think of our young ruler?”

Merrick didn’t go around the table and take his seat, as she expected. Instead, he stood in front of it and crossed his muscular arms, regarding them steadily. “King Henry is my sovereign lord.”

“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 her, 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.



AS CONSTANCE WAS DOING HER best to discourage Merrick, Lord Carrell made his way to a secluded corner of the courtyard, followed by Lord Algernon. Algernon was so agitated, a private conversation seemed the best way to calm him down.

“What were you thinking, asking him about Henry and the queen as soon as we entered the solar?” Algernon whined as they came to a halt in the shadow of the wall walk.

Carrell pulled a small chunk off the nearest block of stone and rubbed it between his fingers as he shrugged. “Why wait to find out where he stands? Better to know before we say something to make him doubt our loyalty to the king. Now we know that we mustn’t give him any reason to suspect we aren’t as loyal as he is.”

“And I say you should have waited. You could ruin our plans if you aren’t patient.”

“Patient?” Carrell sniffed, tossing the stone aside. “God’s blood, man, you don’t have to tell me to be patient. I’ve been patient for fifteen years.”

“I’ve been waiting for longer than that to get what I deserve,” Algernon complained, “and I don’t want to lose it because you have to push yourself forward and ask a lot of questions.”

“If you’d taken the trouble to visit your nephew on occasion, I wouldn’t have had to ask,” Carrell retorted. “We’d have already known that he’s loyal to the king.”

“If I’d tried to see him, what do you think my detestable brother would have done?” Algernon grumbled. “He’d have assumed we were conspiring against him and had me killed.”

“Not if you killed him first.”

Algernon gave Carrell an incredulous look. “How could I have done it, with those guards of his? He didn’t even leave his castle most of the time.”

“Yes, it would have been very difficult,” Carrell agreed, his tone appeasing.

It was a pity William’s other brother had been sent north with Merrick and killed instead of this one. Egbert had been a far more ruthless fellow, especially where his own interests were concerned. Algernon was a greedy, weak, stupid man, although he had his uses, for now.

Algernon moved closer and, after surreptitiously ensuring that no one could overhear, lowered his voice and asked, “Have you had news from London? Any word of when the king or his brother will return to England?”

Carrell shook his head. “No news. The queen and her husband are enjoying Bordeaux too much to be in any hurry to return to England and face their disgruntled nobles. I believe the earl of Cornwall has his reasons for staying with them.”

“To keep Henry from making any more unwise decisions,” Algernon agreed.

“To spend more time with the queen’s sister,” Carrell replied with a smirk. “Now that Richard’s wife is dead, he needs another, and Eleanor’s sister is a beauty, and pliable. You can be sure Eleanor will be doing all she can to promote a marriage between them. Richard’s the only person who can influence her husband as much as she, and he’s got the support of far more nobles. To her, he’s a rival, and must be neutralized. How better than to have him wed her sister?”

“God save us from that woman,” Algernon muttered. “She’ll be the ruin of England.”

“Which is why the king must be overthrown, and his brother, the earl of Cornwall, too, if it comes to that. But we’ll let Merrick be lulled into believing all is well. Indeed, let’s hope my niece can keep him so busy with lovemaking, he grows lazy and lax, and lowers his guard. Then it’ll be easier to kill him.”

“What about Constance? You assured me she was in favor of the marriage, but she certainly didn’t sound like it today. I’ve never heard her speak in such an impudent manner.”

Carrell fingered the jeweled hilt of the dagger stuck in his belt. “Of course she’ll marry him.”

“How can you be so certain? Have you ever before heard her speak to any man that way? I nearly swooned, she was so impertinent.”

Carrell frowned. “Of course she’ll marry him, for the people’s sake if not her own. You’ve seen how she dotes on them. She was always like that, from a child. Any dead puppy or kitten would have her in tears for a day.” His tone made it clear he considered this a great failing on her part, yet it was one he would happily exploit if it helped achieve his ends. “Leaving her here with your brother was one of my more clever moves. This is her home now, and these peasants are like her family. She’ll never desert them, especially if she fears they’ll come to harm under their overlord.”

Carrell’s frown became a smirk. “Even if she had any reservations, can you doubt that they were likely done away with the moment she saw him? What woman wouldn’t be tempted to share your nephew’s bed? If he didn’t have the look of your brother in his face, I’d swear he’d been sired by Zeus. No wonder he’s won all those tournaments. I was sure he’d paid off the other knights for the privilege until I saw him ride in.”

“Constance is made of sterner stuff and not likely to be ruled by lust,” Algernon said doubtfully.

A gleam of unhealthy curiosity sparkled in Carrell’s blue eyes. “Knowing your brother for the lascivious scoundrel he was, do you think there was ever anything of that sort between them?”

“God’s wounds, no,” Algernon retorted, “and I would have known if there was. William wouldn’t have been able to keep from bragging about it.” His features made no secret of his scorn. “I got to hear about every conquest he ever made, in disgusting detail, from the time he was twelve years old.”

“I suppose that’s just as well,” Carrell said. “I don’t think Merrick would care to wed his father’s mistress.”

“Not the Merrick we just met, anyway,” Algernon agreed.

He looked away, out into the courtyard toward the stables. “Must we kill Constance?”

“If Constance is not dead, the king may decide to marry her to someone else, and Tregellas will be out of your reach. Merrick and his wife must both die if you’re to inherit. And then you’ll marry Beatrice, joining our families and our power as we’ve planned all these years. We’re allies, Algernon. I don’t forget that, and I hope you won’t.”

“No,” his companion assured him. “I’ll abide by our plans.”

“Good. Now we should go back to the hall before our absence is noticed. And don’t worry. Soon enough, you’ll have Tregellas, and my daughter.”




CHAPTER THREE


A FEW DAYS LATER, CONSTANCE and Alan de Vern stood in the buttery adjacent to the kitchen, looking over the wine that had arrived before a storm blew in from the ocean. Straw covered the floor of the chamber to catch any spills, and bits of chaff floated in the air. Over the years, spiders had created a vast array of cobwebs in the seams between the walls and the vaulted ceiling of the chilly chamber. At the moment, raindrops beat against the stone walls as if they were demanding entrance.

“Lord Merrick says we must have the best wine for your wedding feast,” Alan said, his accent marking him as a native of Paris. “Wine from Bordeaux for the entire company in the hall, even those below the salt, and plenty of ale for the village.”

“That will cost a small fortune!” Constance exclaimed, rubbing her hands together for warmth.

It would also make a very fine show of generosity, she added in her thoughts. Just as that kiss had surely been a demonstration of his vain belief that he could overwhelm her with his manly…masculinity. But he’d simply caught her by surprise; otherwise, she would have slapped his face.

She should have slapped his face.

“It is quite expensive,” Alan agreed. “But he told me he had done well in his last tournament. He also said exactly how much I was to offer at first, and how much I was to spend altogether. Fortunately, the merchant settled for less than we expected.” The steward grinned. “Lord Merrick has a head for figures. I doubt he’ll ever spend as recklessly as his father.”

“I hope not,” Constance replied, thinking of all the times she’d heard Lord William screaming at Alan and the bailiff about money.

“Gaston is delighted with the menu for the wedding feast, too. A true chance to show his skill, he claims. Mind you, his first proposals were too extravagant by far, until Lord Merrick managed to get him to be reasonable. To hear Gaston tell it, they debated for hours.”

“Lord Merrick debated?”

In answer to her incredulous response, Alan gave her a wry smile as he crooked his elbow and leaned against one of the large butts of ale. “I think we can both guess how it went. Gaston made his suggestions, Lord Merrick shook his head, Gaston made more suggestions, Lord Merrick shook his head, Gaston was finally reasonable, and Lord Merrick nodded his head.”

Constance had to smile at that probably accurate description. “Yes, I daresay you’re right.”

Alan’s gaze wandered to the shelf holding smaller casks of English wine across the room. “A lady could do much worse for a husband than Lord Merrick,” he reflected.

Although Alan was a trusted friend, and she’d often turned to him when there was trouble with the tenants, Constance wasn’t about to share her innermost feelings with him. And a man who impressed a steward wouldn’t necessarily be a good husband, even if he’d also apparently impressed the garrison commander, the soldiers and the servants in the time since he’d arrived.

“What of the fodder for the wedding guests’ horses?” she asked, trying not to shiver.

“Well in hand, my lady,” Alan said. “All we’ve invited have already sent notice they’ll attend.”

She hadn’t expected their potential guests to respond so swiftly. “Including Sir Jowan and his son?”

“Yes, my lady. I believe they plan to visit before the wedding, too, to pay their respects to the new overlord of Tregellas.”

“They haven’t far to come,” Constance replied, keeping any hint of dismay from her voice, although the last thing she needed or wanted was the distraction of Sir Jowan’s son.

Beatrice burst into the buttery as if propelled by a gust of wind. She skittered to a halt in a most unladylike way, her face flushed and her eyes bright with excitement. “Demelza said I’d find you here. Have you heard? Lord Merrick has decided there should be a foot ball game as part of the celebrations for May Day. The garrison against the men of the village. Sir Henry says the garrison is sure to win, but I told him not to be so confident. Some of the villagers are very good. He said Merrick was going to choose a Queen of the May, too.”

He was going to—what?

As Constance and Alan exchanged shocked and dismayed looks, Beatrice frowned, her enthusiasm somewhat dimmed. “What’s wrong?”

How was she going to tell Beatrice the reason for their horror at this news? Her cousin wasn’t ignorant of some of Wicked William’s abuses; nobody who lived within fifty miles of Tregellas could be. But she’d always tried to shield Beatrice from the worst.

“I’m sure he’ll pick you for the Queen of the May, Constance,” Beatrice ventured, as if Constance’s silence was based on a worry far different from the one she was actually experiencing. “After all, he’s going to marry you.”

“It’s not that,” Constance replied. She searched for an explanation that wouldn’t require her to go into sickening detail. “Being a new-made lord, Merrick probably doesn’t appreciate all the complications that may arise from such events. I shall have to enlighten him. Right away. Good day, Alan. Until later, Beatrice,” she finished as she hurried to the door.

She carried on quickly through the kitchen, nodding briefly to Gaston and the busy servants, then through the corridor to the hall, where she looked for Merrick. At least—since she wanted him to hate her—she need not couch her words with care. That held some danger, too, but she was on her guard now. Just let him try to kiss her!

Servants trimmed the torches and added wood to the hearth. Sir Henry and Sir Ranulf were playing chess, Sir Ranulf studying the board with care while Sir Henry laughed and said something about making a move before night fell. The uncles, deep in discussion, sat near the central hearth.

Merrick wasn’t there.

She didn’t want to ask anyone where Merrick was; Lord Algernon would smirk as he had lately taken to doing, her uncle would ask her why she wanted to know, and his friends would regard her with that unnerving curiosity.

The bailiff came scuttling down the steps from the solar. He looked even more pale than usual and licked his lips as if he wanted a drink.

“Ruan!”

He checked his steps and then, smiling in that obsequious way that he had, rushed toward her.

Everything about the man reminded her of a crawling, slimy thing—his pale skin, as if he’d just climbed out from under a rotting piece of wood; the way he stood with his head thrust forward as if he was either about to bow or just rising from one; his clasped hands that would have done credit to a shy maiden; the pleading tone of his voice, as if every utterance was made with regret and against his better judgment; and especially the shrewd gleam in his watery blue eyes that, in spite of his posture and manner, betrayed a clever and, she was sure, devious mind. “Is Lord Merrick in his solar?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Has he told you of his plans for May Day?”

Ruan’s eyes shone with curiosity. “Yes, my lady. Didn’t he tell you?”

A blush heated her face. “How do you think the villagers will take the news?” she asked, not answering his question.

Ruan frowned and ran his hand over his moist lips. “I think they’ll be wondering if they’ve got to hide farther back in the woods when he chooses the Queen of the May.”

That was what Constance was thinking, too.

“I’m sure he’ll want to please you, my lady,” Ruan said quietly, and in a way that seemed to imply all manner of unsavory things. “If you tell him—”

“Good day, Ruan,” she interrupted, turning toward the stairs to the solar.

“Good day, my lady,” he muttered under his breath as he watched the beautiful, haughty lady hurry on her way.

They thought themselves so fine and clever, all these lords and ladies.

Well, he was clever, too.



CONSTANCE RAPPED SHARPLY on the heavy wooden door to the solar, then entered without waiting for Merrick to answer. “I understand you have made certain plans for May Day.”

The lord of Tregellas sat at the trestle table, which was now covered with scrolls. As the wind howled outside the walls, the tapestries swayed in the draught that made its way through the linen shutters that couldn’t keep out the rain. Droplets ran along a jagged path across the sill, then trickled down the wall to puddle on the floor.

“I have,” he said gruffly as he raised his head to look at her. The flame of the plump tallow candle on the table flickered, altering the shadows on his face. The planes of his cheeks. His brown eyes, so dark they were nearly black.

She took a step back, then berated herself for acting like an addlepated ninny. The lord of Tregellas was, after all, just a man.

He gestured at the stool in front of the table that Ruan had likely just vacated. “Will you sit, my lady?”

This might take some time, so perhaps she should. As gracefully as she could, Constance lowered herself onto the stool and arranged her skirts. “You should have consulted with Alan de Vern or me.”

His hands resting on the table before him, Merrick leaned back in his chair and regarded her steadily. “Why? I remembered such activities from my boyhood here and assumed they still continued.”

“There have been some changes since your boyhood, my lord.”

He ran a swift gaze over her. “Yes, so I’ve noticed.”

She frowned. “My lord, this is a very serious matter, and you’d do well to listen to me.”

Furrows of concern appeared between his brows. “Very well, my lady. Explain what has changed.”

How could she possibly make him understand? she wondered as a blast of wind sent another barrage of rain against the tower walls. The tapestry nearest her billowed, as if someone was hiding behind it, although that was impossible. There was no room; she’d supervised the hanging of it herself.

Nevertheless, she shivered and wrapped her arms about herself as she began to explain why there should be no competition between the villagers and the garrison, and especially why he should have nothing whatsoever to do with the Queen of the May. “The men of the garrison are hardened soldiers and they can be brutal when their blood is up. That may serve you well in battle, but can lead to trouble during such sport. The last time there was a foot ball game between the garrison and the villagers, the smith’s son was nearly killed by one of your father’s bodyguards.”

Merrick wordlessly rose and brought the brazier full of glowing coals closer to her chair. She was grateful for the added warmth, and as he moved, she tried not to notice the lithe, athletic grace of his actions, or the power of those broad shoulders and the arms that lifted the heavy iron brazier as easily as another man would a slender branch.

When he went to the small side table that bore a silver carafe of wine and some goblets, her gaze traveled to his equally powerful thighs encased in snug woolen breeches, and his muscular calves.

“Wine, my lady?”

Blushing like a silly girl caught ogling a soldier or servant, she looked quickly up at his face, then away to hide her foolish reaction. “No, thank you.”

He poured himself some wine before strolling back toward the table, bringing the goblet with him. “Such activity is good for my men. It encourages camaraderie between them, and given what I remember of the games in my boyhood, should ensure a healthy respect for the abilities of the villagers—whose blood, I believe, is just as swift to rise. I recall they were fierce competitors. Has that changed?”

She hesitated to answer, because he was right. If the young Eric hadn’t been so keen to get the inflated pig’s bladder through the sticks at the west end of the village, he wouldn’t have collided with that mercenary and subsequently been struck so hard that he’d been knocked cold.

“Well?” Merrick prompted.

“I think they will give your men a battle—which is just what I’m afraid of. This ‘sport’ could turn into a riot.”

“I won’t allow that to happen.”

If ever there was a man capable of holding off a riot single-handedly, she was looking at him. But she wouldn’t grant him that concession. “If you’re able.”

Merrick gave her the closest thing to a genuine smile she had yet seen. “I think between Henry, Ranulf and myself, we can control my men, especially if they’re tired from running after a ball. That’s another reason I would have the game. It will weary my men and prevent them from expending their energy in more harmful ways during the festivities.”

She hadn’t considered that. But she wasn’t willing to yield. “And it’ll make them thirsty, too. We could have a gang of drunken soldiers wreaking havoc in the village.”

“If that happens, they’ll be severely punished. I also intend to provide meat for the villagers’ feast, as well as ale. And I shall give my assurance that if any of my men cause serious harm or injury, or damage any property, the injured or aggrieved parties will be amply compensated.”

This was more generous than most lords, and far, far more generous than his father had ever been.

Perhaps he was trying to buy the villagers’ approval. If so, he was going to fail. The folk of the Cornish coast were far too independent to be purchased.

“I have another reason,” he said, taking a sip of wine before setting the goblet on the table behind him. “Such competitions also keep the soldiers fit for battle or long marches.”

She still wasn’t willing to concede. “Whatever your reasons, my lord, this may create more trouble than you can foresee, and whoever wins, I doubt the villagers are going to be any more inclined to look on your soldiers favorably.”

“If my people are honest, they’ll never have anything to fear from my soldiers. If one of my men commits a crime, during May Day or any other time, he will be punished to the full extent of the law,” Merrick said as he walked around the table.

As before, he sounded sincere…or else he was very good at pretending to be.

He made no move to sit. He stood tall and imposing, like a judge. Or a king.

“Although I hope to be merciful,” Merrick continued, his expression stern and his voice grim, “I won’t allow my people to flout the king’s laws. Smuggling, for instance. I’ll punish any smugglers I capture and confiscate their contraband for the king.”

How like his father he sounded then! Except for the part about mercy. And the contraband. Wicked William had never made any pretense to be merciful, and he would have kept any contraband for himself.

“If they smuggle, my lord, it’s because they feel justified in avoiding a harsh and unfair tax,” she explained, taking the people’s part as she had so many times before. “Cornish tinners are taxed at twice the rate of those from Devonshire, for the foolish reason that Cornishmen speak a different language. Therefore, according to the clever minds in Westminster, Cornwall must be a foreign country. But if it were a foreign country, the king would have no right to collect taxes at all. I ask you, is that fair? Is that just? Is it any wonder the men who dig the tin from the ground believe they have every right to hide some of their profits from the crown?”

Merrick was obviously unmoved. “The tinners pay no tithes, they are exempt from serving in my army, they have their own courts—far more rights than most. Would they agree to give up those rights, and cease smuggling, if the king reduced their taxes?”

She fidgeted on the stool. He had, unfortunately, hit upon a truth she couldn’t deny. Smuggling had a long history in Cornwall, and unless taxes were abolished completely, it would likely continue forever. “You seem very well versed in the rights and privileges of the tinners.”

“I did spend the first ten years of my life here. But as I’m also a knight sworn to the king’s service, I’ll enforce the king’s laws.”

She heard the implacable tone, saw the determination in his eyes. If she pushed him any more on this subject, he might finally lose his temper, and there was another important matter they had yet to resolve. “Very well, my lord. Have the foot ball game, and punish smugglers as the law allows. However, you must not choose the Queen of the May.”

She had caught him off guard. “Why not?”

“Because, my lord, the last time the villagers allowed your father to choose the Queen of the May, he dragged her off, had his way with her and then passed her to his bodyguards to do with as they pleased.”

She’d watched, terrified, as Wicked William had dragged the shrieking, crying, terrified young woman with a circlet of flowers in her hair toward the stairs leading to his bedchamber. His fiercest mercenaries who made up his bodyguard—frightening, vicious men she’d ordered from Tregellas the moment he’d died—had followed him, laughing and joking about the lord and his conquered queen.

“Oh, God,” Merrick whispered. He splayed his hands on the table and bowed his head. “I should have guessed he would…”

His words trailed off as he stared down at the table. “My father left me quite a legacy,” he muttered after a long moment of silence.

In spite of his bitter words, she would feel no sympathy for him, as he had none for his overtaxed people.

He raised his head and regarded her with that unwavering stare with which she was getting familiar. “I give you my word, Constance, that the women of Tregellas need never fear me. They need never hide from me. As lord of Tregellas, it’s my duty to protect them, and that I will do, if it costs me my life.”

His voice was strong, resolute, his gaze steady, and in his eyes, she saw complete honesty. Who would not believe him?

He straightened and started around the table toward her. “Perhaps choosing the Queen of the May will prove that I’m different from my father, and that they need not fear me.” He reached down and, taking Constance’s hands in his, pulled her to her feet. “If you stand by me when I go to the village on May Day and pick a queen, the village will see that the only woman I want is the woman I’m to wed.”

God help her! Why did he have to touch her? Why did he have to say that, and in that deep, rough voice that sounded so intimate, as if he was whispering beside her in bed? Why did he have to look at her that way?

If he kissed her again, she would slap him. She would. She really would.

How far away was the door?

“Perhaps you can tell me who I should choose before the festivities,” he suggested. “I’m not ignorant of the tensions and conflict inherent in the choosing of one woman over another, and your knowledge of the villagers can steer me to the least controversial choice.”

If she refused, he might continue to try to convince her, to sound even more persuasive. “As you wish, my lord.”

Although he didn’t smile, she could tell he was pleased, and the resentment she felt at conceding began to melt away.

She thought a moment. “Annice,” she suggested, “the chandler’s daughter. She’s very pretty and well liked, and already promised to the smith’s son, Eric.”

“The boy who was hurt in the foot ball game?”

“Yes. That was some years ago, my lord. He’s certainly of an age to be wed now.”

“Why haven’t they married already?” Merrick asked. “Does her family object?”

“They haven’t married because your father died, and as tenants of your estate, they require the lord’s permission to wed. They will probably be seeking that permission at the next hall moot.” She hesitated a moment, then asked, “Will you grant it?”

“Why would I not?” he answered. “If the families agree, I will not object.”

Relief lessened her anxiety, and she grew more aware of his hands holding hers.

“I assume there’ll also be a bonfire May Day eve,” he said, “and the young people will go into the woods to collect flowers and branches, and that there’ll be music and dancing around a Maypole.” His eyes glittered and he gently squeezed her hands. “I would enjoy watching you dance, Constance.”

Oh, heaven and all the saints help her! She should pull away and run out the door. Flee before it was too late.

But that would bring her no closer to freedom. Indeed, it might make him think he was gaining power over her, overwhelming her with desire, easily seducing her and bending her to his will.

Determination, fired by her pride, shot through her and as she tugged her hands from his, she gave him an insolent smile. “Do you intend to dance around the Maypole, too, my lord? I would enjoy seeing that.”

Far from disturbing him, her question brought amusement to his eyes as his lips curved up into a devastatingly seductive smile. “I would far rather watch you.”

He took hold of her shoulders and began to pull her to him. He was going to kiss her. She should get away. Turn and run. But when he touched her, she felt so…and he looked so…

He did kiss her, and the moment his mouth met hers, blatant, raw desire rose up within her, overwhelming her thoughts, washing away her protests.

Still kissing her, he pressed her closer, his body hard against her own. One arm wrapped about her, and his other hand traveled across her ribs and upward, to cup her breast.

This was…wrong. She should stop him…but it felt so…good. When his thumb stroked her pebbled nipple, her legs felt like water and she moaned into his mouth.

He slowly broke the kiss, although he continued to embrace her. She opened her eyes, to see him regarding her with desire-darkened eyes gleaming with need. “A month seems a long time to wait, my lady.”

It was as if the storm outside had come into the room and thrown rain into her face. What did she really know of him, except that he was his father’s son, and he’d made a host of promises and declarations that could all prove meaningless once she was his wife and he had her dowry?

What a fool she was! A weak, silly fool!

He made no effort to hold her as she pulled free of his grasp and stumbled backward. “I told you not to touch me unless I gave you leave.”

“Did you not enjoy that, my lady? Do you find me so abhorrent?”

“Yes! No!” She fought to regain her self-control, to remember her plan to make him hate her. “When I marry you, my lord, you may kiss me all you like. Until then—”

“Until then, I am to ignore the yearning you inspire within me? I’m to pretend that I feel no desire? That I find you repellent?”

“I would have you treat me with respect!”

Merrick spread his arms wide. “I do respect you, and I admire you not just for your beauty, but for your competence and compassion. Alan de Vern, Ruan, the garrison commander, the servants—all speak most highly of their lady.”

She swallowed hard and fought to retain her anger. “Then please respect my wishes and don’t kiss me. Or is Sir Henry not the only practiced seducer in Tregellas?”

Merrick’s dark brows lowered, and it was like seeing thunderclouds on the horizon. She told herself that was good. That was what she wanted. Needed.

“You think I have ulterior motives when I kiss you?” he demanded.

“I don’t know what you want when you kiss me,” she retorted. “I don’t know you.”

His hands on his hips, he glared at her, his dark eyes fiercely angry, his mouth a thin line of annoyance. “No, you do not, my lady, or you would never accuse me of selfish seduction. The women I’ve been with have all approached me, and they were made well aware that they should expect nothing more from me than a night’s pleasure.”

“How very generous of you, my lord.”

“Would you prefer me to be like Henry? To speak flattery and honeyed, meaningless words? To murmur tender nothings?”

“I want you to stop kissing me! I’m not yet your wife.”

His eyes widened for a brief instant, and then his expression changed. It was like seeing flames snuffed out, and she knew the storm raging within him had passed. “No, you’re not,” he muttered, running his hand through his long, thick hair.

She was so close to her liberty, she couldn’t stop now. She must rouse his ire again. “I want you to order Sir Henry and Sir Ranulf to stay away from Beatrice.”

Despite her irate tone, no answering spark ignited in his eyes. “They’re both honorable knights and will never touch her or harm her in any way,” he said coolly as he moved behind the table again, as if to put a barrier between them. “I trust them completely.”

“I don’t,” she retorted. “Sir Henry seems the sort who cares only about his own desires, no matter what harm he may do. As for Sir Ranulf, he looks quite capable of doing anything to get what he wants. Woe betide your friends if they hurt those I love!”

“Let us understand each other, my lady,” Merrick said, his voice still calm. Very calm, as he crossed his arms. “I trust my friends absolutely, or they wouldn’t be my friends. I hope to be able to trust my wife in that same way.”

“And if you cannot?”

His gaze was steady. Stern. Implacable. “Then she will not be my wife.”

Outside, the rain slashed against the stones and the wind moaned; inside the solar, the very air seemed to quiver with expectation.

Her freedom was within her grasp. All she had to do was tell him that she would not be faithful. That she would break her marriage vows, or even that she was no longer a virgin. All she had to do was lie, and say she would bring shame to him. And to herself.

So why did she hesitate? Her honor or her freedom. Why not choose and be done?

Because she simply couldn’t tell this man she was, or would be, no better than a whore.

“I will have no unwilling wife, Constance,” he said softly, coming around the table toward her. “If I’ve offended you by my decisions, or if you care more for another, tell me now and I’ll release you.”

Perhaps he would—but at what price? “What penalty would you seek if I refused? My dowry?”

Surprise flashed across his face. “Nothing. I would want nothing at all from you, my lady.”

She couldn’t believe that he would be so generous, so willing to let her go free without some compensation. “If that’s so, you’re not the same boy who left here fifteen years ago.”

“No, I am not.”

Tell him to let you go, her mind urged.

The words wouldn’t come.

She’d been so sure of what she wanted for so long, yet he seemed so different from that spoiled boy. He might be a chivalrous knight, a just overlord, a man she could respect, perhaps even, in time, to love. He certainly aroused her desire as no other man ever had.

But could she trust him? Despite his apparent sincerity, could she truly believe he would let her—and her dowry and the connection to her family—go so easily?

No, she couldn’t. At least, not yet.

“Yes or no, Constance? Will you be my wife or not? I would have an answer one way or the other, my lady.”

If an answer was what he wanted, she’d give him one. “In spite of your seductive skill, my lord,” she said, “I require more time to make up my mind.”

Then she strode out of the chamber, and did everything she could to avoid being near him until the first of May.




CHAPTER FOUR


ON MAY DAY MORNING, CONSTANCE stood beside Merrick on a raised platform that had been erected at the edge of the village green.

In the center of the green was the Maypole, with its bright ribbons and wildflowers and, gathered around it, the villagers and tenants of Tregellas, as well as the garrison soldiers not on duty. Tumblers and other entertainers were at the far end of the green, stretching and preparing as they waited for the lord to select the Queen of the May.

The uncles, Henry, Ranulf and Beatrice were on the dais with Merrick and Constance, and it seemed the excitement of the crowd had transferred itself to Beatrice and Henry, at least. Beatrice’s eyes glowed with delight, and Henry had been making jokes the whole way from the castle. The uncles stood with appropriately serious lordly dignity, while Ranulf regarded the celebrations with cynical amusement.

“Which one is Annice?”

Fanning herself with her hand, for the day was sunny and warm for May, Constance answered Merrick’s query. “She’s beside the chandler’s stall.”

“And that young man holding her hand is Eric?”

“Yes.”

“Merrick, why don’t you get this moving along and declare Lady Constance the Queen of the May?” Henry suggested, moving closer. “I’m parched from the heat already.”

“As much as I would like to give my bride that honor, I’ve been informed I should choose another, for the sake of peace,” Merrick said to his friend.

Henry’s eyes widened with surprise for an instant, then he shrugged and said, “What about Beatrice then? She’s very pretty.”

Beatrice reddened and started to giggle.

“No,” Merrick brusquely replied.

Beatrice’s face fell.

“A choice from the village will please the people of Tregellas,” Constance explained to the disappointed Beatrice and her champion.

She gave Beatrice a comforting smile. “You shouldn’t begrudge one of the village girls the chance to be the center of attention. One day, you’ll have a great wedding, with feasting and dancing and music and guests from all over England. You’ll be far more important than a Queen of the May that day.”

Beatrice brightened. “Like you, on your wedding day.”

Fortunately, Merrick spoke, sparing Constance the necessity of answering. “Constance thinks Annice would be best, so Annice it will be,” he said with quiet force.

Then he unexpectedly reached for Constance’s hand, an act that would surely be interpreted by all in the village as a confirmation that she was eager to have him for her husband.

Unfortunately, he held her tight, and short of yanking her hand from his firm grasp, she had no recourse but to let him continue holding it.

“Good people of Tregellas,” Merrick called out, his gruff, strong voice carrying easily in the warm spring air, “it is my honor today to choose the Queen of the May. After consulting with Lady Constance, I have made my decision. This year, your queen shall be Annice, the chandler’s daughter.”

A cacophony of cheers and happy murmurings went up from the gathering, enabling Constance to relax a little. Her choice had been as well received as she’d hoped.

Merrick, too, seemed pleased as he looked at Constance and squeezed her hand. Given what holding her hand might signify, she should be annoyed. But she wasn’t, until she wondered if that firm grasp signified possession, too.

Looking both wary and proud enough to burst his tunic lacings, Eric led a blushing Annice to the dais. When they arrived, Merrick gravely held out a plain silver ring as her prize—something Constance hadn’t expected. She wasn’t sure what to make of the gift as Annice hesitantly reached for it, her big green eyes staring up into Merrick’s dark brown ones.

“Go ahead, my girl,” Henry said jovially. “He won’t bite—unless you want him to.”

Appalled, Constance gasped. Annice turned pale and Eric glared, while Merrick glowered at his friend.

Henry smiled sheepishly. “Forgive me. I, um, forgot that I’m, um…”

“A fool?” Merrick snapped. He quickly turned back and addressed the young woman. “Don’t be afraid, Annice,” he said, his deep voice appeasing. “Your virtue is safe from me and—” he darted another sharp glance at Henry “—my men.”

He raised his voice. “I would have all in Tregellas know that your women have nothing to fear from me. As your overlord, their honor is mine to protect, not destroy. If any of my men ever harm you or your wives or children, you are to come and tell me, without fear that further trouble will befall you. As long as you obey the law, I promise to do my utmost to fulfill my duty to you, as I hope you will fulfill yours to me.”

He again took hold of Constance’s hand. “With my gentle lady wife to guide me, I hope to rule you well, with justice and clemency, as my father did not.”

As the assembly burst out cheering, Constance pulled her hand from his. He spoke as if she’d consented, or as if his offer of freedom had been bogus all along.

Seething with anger and indignation, she cursed herself for a weak-willed, lust-addled fool. Just because his touch and his kisses aroused her desire, she mustn’t forget what she feared—that he would prove to be a second version of his hated father.

Merrick turned to Henry, who was whispering something to Beatrice that made her giggle.

“I would speak with you, Henry,” he said in a tone that, even in the midst of her own concerns, made Constance shiver.

Henry, however, merely rolled his eyes. “God’s wounds, Merrick, it was a slip of the tongue.”

“So you said. Will you never learn to think before you speak? Your stupid jest could have cost me dear.”

“Well, obviously it didn’t,” Henry said, nodding at the crowd.

Several villagers clustered around Annice and Eric, admiring her ring. Two girls were trying to get a circlet of flowers to stay on the queen’s glossy tresses, laughing as it fell first to one side, then another. Others had already retired to the alehouse and tavern, where the innkeeper had set up tables and benches outside so his customers could observe the entertainers. Several couples were beginning a round dance near the Maypole, and children were anxiously and eagerly gathered there, waiting for that part of the festivities to begin. Many were already eating sweetmeats and other treats, to judge by the remainders around their mouths.

Henry turned to Beatrice and Constance for support. “It wasn’t so terrible, was it?”

Not unexpectedly, Beatrice smiled and shook her head. Constance, however, was not so inclined to agree. “The women here have had good cause to fear their overlord in the past. Your jest might have made them think their days of dread were not yet over.”

“I must have these people’s trust, Henry,” Merrick said. “I can’t allow anyone to undermine it.”

“Of course I understand that—”

“No, I don’t think you do, or the magnitude of the mistrust and hatred I have to overcome here if I’m to rule and my family be safe.”

“He’s right, you know,” Ranulf remarked before Henry could reply. “It wouldn’t be the first time a war got started over a few ill-chosen words.”

“Then maybe I ought to leave,” Henry said with obvious annoyance.

“Oh, surely not!” Beatrice cried, looking beseechingly from Constance to Merrick. “He didn’t mean any harm, my lord, and you’ve been such friends in the past, it would be terrible to break it off over such a little thing.” She gestured toward the green. “See? Nothing’s amiss. Everyone seems happy and content. Surely as long as Henry behaves honorably—which I’m certain he will—there’s no cause to banish him. Sir Henry will be more careful in the future, won’t you, Sir Henry?”

A swift glance at Lord Carrell told Constance her uncle was also suspicious of Beatrice’s defense of the roguish and handsome young knight.

“Forgive me, my lord,” Henry said with genial remorse. “I promise I’ll be as serious as a monk after a two-day fast from here on.”

“Then you may stay—provided you curb your tongue.”

Henry put his hand on his heart and bowed. “If I ever speak in a way that leads to trouble for you, you may cut it out.”

“I’ll remember that.”

Henry reddened, then smiled, although his eyes were not so merry.

Ranulf clapped a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Let’s go get some ale and watch the dancers, my swift-tongued friend.”

“Come, Beatrice,” Lord Carrell ordered as the two knights walked away.

Whatever Beatrice was thinking, she meekly followed her father from the dais. Lord Algernon bowed and hurried after them, leaving Constance alone with Merrick.

“I want to meet Peder,” he announced, to both her surprise and chagrin. She’d been hoping to abandon him.

“I don’t see him in the crowd, my lord,” she replied.

Merrick nodded toward the smithy. “Isn’t that Peder sitting outside the blacksmith’s?”

Since Merrick was, unfortunately, right, Constance had to agree. “Yes, but I don’t think you need me to—”

“I would prefer it.”

His words didn’t offer the possibility of refusal, so she silently led him toward the smithy, making easy progress because anyone who was in their path quickly got out of it.

Peder, whose eyesight was remarkably good for a man of his years, soon realized they were headed toward him, yet he made no move to stand until they reached him. Then he got to his feet, smiled and bowed to Constance. “My lady.” His expression hardened as he bowed to Merrick. “My lord.”

“Please, sit,” Merrick said in Cornish after Constance had made the introductions.

Peder and Constance exchanged surprised looks as Peder obeyed.

“I did spend the first ten years of my life here,” Merrick said in answer to their silent query, “so it shouldn’t come as a shock that I can speak the native tongue.”

“It’s been fifteen years,” Peder said, as if he suspected this was some kind of trick.

“I kept in practice by saying my prayers in Cornish,” Merrick explained. “But that’s not what I wish to discuss with you, Peder. I gather Lady Constance relies on you for information about the villagers.”

Constance stared at him with offended dismay. How had he come to that outrageous conclusion? She had never said that, nor would she ever betray the villagers’ trust.

“Lady Constance and me are friends, from when she was a girl,” Peder replied with scorn. “And neither of us are the sort to carry tales.”

“I meant no insult,” Merrick replied, glancing at Constance before again addressing Peder.

She wondered if he realized that he’d affronted her, too. Or cared if he had.

“I’d appreciate any guidance as to how I can best govern my people,” he said, “from a man who’s lived here all his life and has the respect of everyone.”

Was this a genuine request, or did he seek to flatter Peder into cooperation? Yet there was a tension in Merrick’s shoulders, as if he cared what Peder would do, or say, that seemed to belie that motive.

Peder regarded the nobleman steadily, without a hint of fear or favor, and Constance detected a note of pride in his voice when he answered. “It’s hard to tell what folks really think when you’re a great lord, I suppose. Too many tells ’em only what they want to hear.”

“A man in power needs trustworthy advisers,” Merrick agreed, his body still tense.

Would he heed a wife’s advice? Or would he pay attention to his betrothed’s views only until they were wed?

“You’d have me advise you, eh?” Peder asked, making no secret of his skepticism.

Merrick frowned, but she thought she saw disappointment lurking in his eyes, not anger. “I remember you from when I was a boy,” he said. “You were considered a good man. I could use the help of a good man.”

Constance hoped he never found out Peder had been smuggling out a significant portion of his tin for years.

“Please God, I’ll always be a good man, as much as one can be in these troubled times,” Peder said. His expression darkened. “But I’ll not spy on my friends.”

Merrick looked genuinely surprised. “Have I asked you to do so?”

What did he want, then?

“As I said, I remember you from before I left Tregellas,” Merrick continued. “I seek your help, if you’ll give it. Whether or not you do, I want to help you.” He went down on one knee so that he was looking directly into Peder’s face, his gaze searching for…what? Understanding? Agreement? “My father sinned greatly against your daughter, Peder, and caused your family much harm. I’m truly sorry for your loss. Although nothing can replace your daughter and her son, if there’s anything you ever need to make your days comfortable, you are to tell Constance or me, and I will see that you get it.”

Forgiveness? Was that what he was looking for in Peder’s aged face?

He didn’t get it.

Peder glared at him, anger furrowing his brow. “That can’t make up for what your father done.”

Disappointment flashed across Merrick’s face before he rose. “My offer stands, regardless,” he said before a loud, joyous cry coming from from the green made all three look that way.

“Unless I’m mistaken, my lady,” Merrick said, turning toward her, “they’re about to start the dance around the Maypole. I recall you were going to participate.”

“Can she still visit with me?” Peder demanded.

Merrick inclined his head. “Of course. I see no reason to forbid it. I’m grateful Lady Constance had such a friend while my father was alive.”

Peder got to his feet. “Then I’ll take her to the dancing, my lord.”

Merrick inclined his head. “Very well. I should discuss the boundary for the playing field with Sir Ranulf.”

Peder winked at Constance, although the look he gave Merrick when he addressed the lord of Tregellas was one of respect due to a nobleman. “Then good day to you, my lord.”

“Good day to you, Peder,” Merrick replied before heading toward the tavern where Sir Ranulf and Sir Henry were deep in discussion, and their ale.

“Look at ’im, the devil’s own spawn,” Peder muttered as he watched Merrick stride away. “Arrogant bastard. Handsome, like his father, and probably as sinful as his sire, too.” He slid Constance a sudden, piercing glance. “Maybe I shouldn’t be so free with my opinions.”

Constance couldn’t blame Peder for his hatred of the son of Wicked William, or the vices he believed Merrick would possess. She had been suspicious of him, too. How could she not be, remembering his father and all that he had done? Yet Merrick hadn’t acted the lascivious scoundrel since his arrival. The only woman he’d attempted to be intimate with, as far as she knew—and she would have heard—was herself. “Lord Merrick has given me his word that women will be safe from him.”

Peder scowled. “You think that means anything?”

Constance thought of Merrick’s tone and the look in his eyes when he vowed to respect her and to protect the women of Tregellas. “Yes, I do. At least, I hope so, and so far, he’s done nothing to make me believe otherwise. Maybe it’s because he was sent away from here so young. Perhaps Sir Leonard taught him to be a better man than his father ever could.”

“The boy decrees the man, my lady, and I’m old enough to know,” Peder declared as they walked toward the Maypole. “If that’s the Merrick who left Tregellas fifteen years ago, that’s a man you shouldn’t marry, or he’ll make you miserable, as his father did his poor mother. She was a gentle soul, and she thought she could change her husband. She found out quick enough she couldn’t, and many of us thought it a mercy she died giving birth to the boy.” Peder paused, and when he began again, his voice was thick with emotion. “You know what his father did to my daughter, my lady, and what became of her. Despair and disgrace and then…”

“Yes, Peder, I remember,” she said softly, squeezing his arm. “I will be wary. I promise. And there is something else I must tell you, while I have this chance. Merrick is determined to uphold the king’s laws against smuggling. You should cease for the time being, and pay taxes accordingly.”

“What, give all that money to the Norman king?”

“Lord Merrick may not prove to be as cruel and vindictive as his father, but until we know for certain, I think it would be best to be cautious. I appreciate that means less money for you, but that’s better than death, isn’t it?”

“That tax isn’t fair.”

“That’s why Alan de Vern and I were willing to turn a blind eye. Perhaps in time, Lord Merrick will come to appreciate that, but until then, I fear for your safety if you continue. Please, Peder, for my sake. You are like a grandfather to me and if anything happened to you…”

Peder looked at her with love in his steadfast brown eyes. “And you’re as dear to me as any granddaughter could be.” His gaze turned intense and he lowered his voice so she had to strain to hear him. “I think you should run, my lady. Run as far and as fast as you can from that Merrick.”

“I have thought of that, Peder,” she answered just as quietly. “But what would I do? Where would I go? How would I live?”

“I’m not the only one in the village who loves you like family, my lady. We know how many times you calmed the old lord when he was in one of his rages, and spared many a man’s life and a woman’s honor when you did. If you want to run away, come to me. We’ll help you get away and keep you safe.”

Although she was grateful for this offer, Constance felt no real relief or joy. If she got away, she would have to travel far before she could feel safe. She would be alone, in a strange land, among foreigners. She would be poor, for she wouldn’t take much from the villagers, who had little enough as it was.

Right now, that fate seemed far more lonely and frightening than…staying here.

Yet when she saw how anxious Peder was, she gave him a thankful smile. “I promise you, Peder, that if I decide to flee, I’ll come straight to you.”



“HURRY, CONSTANCE, HURRY, or the game’s going to be over!” Beatrice chided with bubbling enthusiasm as she led her cousin toward the river meadow a short while later.

“I think there’s plenty of time left,” Constance said, reluctantly following. She had no desire to lend her support to something she feared would end in disaster.

As they approached the mill, she was sure it had, for it sounded like a riot was already under way. Gathering up her skirts, she started to run.

“Wait! Wait for me!” Beatrice cried, hurrying after her.

“Go back to the castle,” Constance ordered over her shoulder. The last thing she wanted was for Beatrice to be involved in—

A cheering, extremely excited crowd?

That was what met her eyes as she rounded the mill and discovered groups of villagers gathered at the north edge of the meadow, shouting encouragement to the village men dashing about the field. Off-duty soldiers not involved in the game were gathered at the other end of the field, likewise shouting praise and suggestions to their fellows.

She came to a halt, panting. She was thrilled she was wrong, of course, but even so, one hard hit could still lead to trouble.

Beatrice stopped beside her. “I didn’t mean we had to run,” she said, trying to catch her breath.

“I misjudged the cheers,” Constance admitted. “I thought the men were fighting.”

“Oh,” Beatrice murmured, her attention now fully on the game.

Or at least the half-naked players, Constance realized with a bit of a jolt. For half-naked and sweating they certainly were.

She was no sheltered child, and neither was Beatrice. They’d seen half-naked men before, and men wearing even less working in the fields on a hot summer’s day. Nevertheless, the sight was certainly…disconcerting.

“I just hope nobody gets hurt,” she said, trying to pay attention to the game.

Beatrice gave her a confident smile. “They’ll all be careful, I’m sure. The garrison won’t want Merrick to be angry with them—which he would be if someone got hurt and he had to pay—and the villagers will be afraid to hurt the soldiers because they won’t want to anger Merrick, either.”

That was very likely true, Constance thought with some relief. Then she wondered why that hadn’t occurred to her. She’d obviously been too distracted by…other things.

“Isn’t that Lord Merrick on the field?” Beatrice asked, pointing.

Surely not, Constance thought as she followed her cousin’s gaze. But unless she was going blind, the man in the front of the pack chasing after the ball, with his dark hair streaming behind him like a pennant, was the lord of Tregellas himself. His powerful arms churned and his long and graceful strides reminded her of a stag bounding over the moor.

Constance could hardly believe the evidence of her own eyes. Yet wasn’t that Sir Henry and Sir Ranulf running neck and neck behind him? “By the saints,” she murmured, aghast at both a lord engaging in such play and the sight of her betrothed’s undoubtedly fine body.

“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.”




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