The Unwilling Bride. Margaret Moore
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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