The Unwilling Bride. Margaret Moore
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“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