The Unwilling Bride. Margaret Moore
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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!
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