The Unwilling Bride. Margaret Moore
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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