The Unwilling Bride. Margaret Moore
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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