“I…I beg your pardon?” she stammered, trying to focus on what he was saying, and not just his moving lips.
“I am asking you if you want to be my wife.”
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. It was too hard to think right now, to know what to say.
His expression darkened as his hand left her cheek. “Clearly you’re reluctant. Perhaps I should take that as a refusal.”
“Yes—no!”
His brows rose.
The anguished truth broke from her lips. “I don’t know what I want!”
“You require more time to come to a decision?”
She grabbed at that suggestion like a miser after gold. “Yes!”
“Then you shall have it,” he said, as calm as a placid pond on a windless day as he stepped back, while she felt as if she’d been caught in storm-tossed waves.
Yet, as he looked into her eyes, she saw a longing, an almost desperate hope. Did her answer mean so much to him? Could he truly care for her?
What of the little boy he’d been? Had she remembered only the worst of his childish behavior? Had the years that he’d been gone truly writ a change in him?
Her speculation didn’t last. It couldn’t, when he gathered her into his arms and kissed her. His mouth captured hers with heated, powerful longing.
The fervor of his passion destroyed what remained of her wine-induced languor. Her body leapt to life with his kiss, and responded with its own ardent need. Eagerly, boldly, she gathered him to her, reveling in the sensation of his strong body against hers.
His lips left her mouth, to trail along her cheek toward her ear. “I’ve thought of you every day, Constance, no matter where I was or what I was doing,” he whispered. “I remembered you sitting cross-legged in a field after the haying, with two sheaves on either side of you, like sentinels. Your hair was long and loose, and you were watching a bug in the chaff so intently, you were lost to everything around you. You reached up to brush a strand of hair from your cheek with the most graceful gesture I’ve ever seen.”
He cupped her chin gently in his calloused palm. “You were but a child then, yet I knew in my heart that you would grow up to be a beautiful, graceful woman. And finding you again, discovering you’ve become so much more than that…Even if there’d been no contract, no betrothal, I would have sought you out to be my bride. I want you for my wife, Constance, more than I can ever say. I promise to do all in my power to make you happy. Will you, Constance? Will you marry me?”
Did he love her? Could he?
“I don’t want to make the wrong decision and live to regret it,” she answered honestly, her gaze searching his face. “Can you understand that, my lord?”
“I respect your honesty,” he said, turning his head as if she’d struck him. “And I’ll continue to hope you decide in my favor.”
“If you’re always fair and generous, I believe I might” was all she trusted herself to say as she guided his head toward her. Then she went up on her toes, and brought her lips to his.
As she kissed and caressed him, as he eagerly kissed and explored her body with his hands, the last of her old hatred and bitter resentment drifted away. The tormentor of her past was gone. She could believe the days of fear and worry and having to watch every word, every look, of anticipating every shift of mood and humor, were over.
That she was free.
Excited, light-headed with joy, emboldened, she reached down to stroke the hardened evidence of his desire. Still kissing her, he groaned.
His hand found her breast and kneaded it gently as the other cupped her buttock and held her tight. Leaving his erection, she reached under his tunic, running her hand up his hot, bare skin. She encountered his nipple and brushed her fingers across it.
He broke the kiss and grabbed her hand. “Constance!”
“What?” she cried, wondering what she’d done wrong. “Don’t you like—?”
His dark eyes glittered in the dim light. “Too much, I fear. Unless you want to lose your maidenhead tonight—”
Someone’s knuckles rapped sharply on the chamber door. Constance started and jumped away from Merrick, who looked just as surprised.
“Constance? Merrick?” Lord Carrell called.
Blushing as red as holly berries, Constance adjusted her slightly disheveled clothing while Merrick strode to the door and yanked it open.
Standing on the threshold, Lord Carrell looked past Merrick. “Constance, are you all right?” he asked, running a searching gaze over her.
“She’s quite unharmed, if that’s what brought you here,” Merrick said, making no effort—or unable—to hide his frustration.
Lord Carrell stopped looking at Constance. He glanced down below Merrick’s belt and flushed. Lord Algernon followed his gaze, then immediately disappeared from view.
“I, um, that is, my lord,” her uncle began, “until you marry her, Constance is under my care and I—”
“I understand, my lord,” he replied, his voice once more calm. “I give you good evening.” He turned to Constance, and the look in his dark eyes set her heart racing. “Good night, my lady.”
She could only bow her head in response as Merrick strode from the room.
Lord Carrell smiled at his flustered niece. “Since you’re betrothed, there’s no harm done.” He gave her a wink. “Good night, my dear.”
Then he, too, left her chamber.
Alone, Constance staggered to her bed and sat heavily. God help her, what was she going to do? Should she wed Merrick or not? Obey her head, which urged her to take the way of caution and refuse, or follow her desire…and accept?
CHAPTER SIX
THREE DAYS LATER, MERRICK strode into the courtyard, followed by Ranulf and Henry. He’d been summoned from the outer ward where the men were training with quintains and swords, despite the drizzling rain, because Sir Jowan, who held the manor of Penderston to the west of Tregellas, and his son, Kiernan, had arrived.
Sir Jowan was obviously the stout, apple-cheeked, white-haired man sitting on a very fine gelding. His son, a slender young man, fair-haired, fair skinned and with a pleasant, if not overly handsome face, rode another excellent horse. They were accompanied by a troop of twenty, who were clearly waiting for their lord’s signal before dismounting.
“Welcome to Tregellas,” Merrick said, ignoring both the older man’s steadfast, measuring gaze and his son’s haughty glare. He had encountered both reactions often enough before, so he attached no particular significance to either. “I assume I have the honor of addressing Sir Jowan of Penderston and his son?”
“Indeed, you do, my lord, indeed you do,” Sir Jowan said, his deep voice hale and hearty.
Merrick didn’t recognize it, or the man himself.
Sir Jowan called for his soldiers to dismount, and the noblemen did likewise. Watching the younger man out of the corner of his eye, Merrick noted that he had come fully mailed and armed. Interesting, especially as his father had not.
“Welcome back to Tregellas, my lord. I hope you remember me,” Sir Jowan said.
“I do,” Merrick lied. If he’d seen Sir Jowan before, he had no recollection of it. But he saw no reason to create any ill will—or increase any that existed between his neighbors and himself. “These are my friends, Sir Henry and Sir Ranulf, who trained with me under Sir Leonard de Brissy.”
“I remember you, my lord,” Kiernan said, and it was clear Merrick was not supposed to be flattered.
He didn’t remember Kiernan, either, but that wasn’t so surprising. He wondered how many times they’d visited Tregellas both before and after he was gone. Not many, he suspected.
On the other hand, Kiernan looked to be near in age to Constance, and she was attractive enough to make men risk much for her company. Kiernan was also young, from a prosperous family and clearly beloved by his father. No lines of worry or hint of past sins darkened his brow. He likely had no secrets to stand between him and the woman he yearned for.
Where was Constance now, he w
ondered. The kitchen? The storerooms? How would she greet these visitors?
Reminding himself that he, not Kiernan, was betrothed to Constance, and that she had not yet refused him, Merrick buried his jealousy deep and betrayed nothing on his face.
“Please join me in my hall,” he said, leading the way.
Once they were inside, Demelza hurried to bring wine, bread and cheese without having to be told. Constance had trained the servants well.
There was a long, awkward moment of silence while they waited for the wine, which Henry eventually broke. “So, Sir Jowan, has your family held land in Cornwall a long time?”
“Since before the Conquest,” the older man said, his bass voice full of pride.
“Really? And it wasn’t taken from your family by William? I wonder how that came to pass.”
“By marriage, sir,” Sir Jowan replied with a frown. “A Norman married into the family, and the land passed down that way. How did your family get their land in England?”
“Forgive me if I’ve offended you, my lord,” Henry said while Merrick silently took note of Sir Jowan’s easily roused pride. “Merely my natural curiosity, as my friends will avow.”
Ranulf nodded. “He’s always asking noblemen how their family came into their estates because he has none himself,” he explained.
Henry grinned. “Alas, Sir Jowan, ’tis true. My family has no land in England at all. We did have some in Normandy, but my father lost it all through a series of injudicious alliances and a tendency to gamble. My brother has a fine estate in Scotland—not that it does me any good.” He gave the older man a hopeful look. “You wouldn’t happen to know any well-landed Cornish maidens or widows who might be in need of a husband?”
Sir Jowan stopped frowning, and chuckled good-naturedly. “No, I don’t, but if I did, I’d surely introduce you.”
So he was proud, but didn’t seem to hold a grudge.
The younger Cornishman, however, shot his father a condemning look. The fierce pride of youth, which is not so quick to recede, or a hatred for Normans? Merrick wondered. Or perhaps he didn’t approve of Henry and his easy charm.
“With your manners, you won’t be landless and unmarried for long,” Sir Jowan assured Henry, apparently not noticing his son’s reaction. “I’m surprised no woman’s caught you yet.”
“I’m waiting to fall in love,” Henry said with a smile. “My brother and sister recommend it as a prerequisite to marriage.”
“And you, my lord?” Kiernan demanded of Merrick. “Do you agree that love should be a prerequisite to marriage?”
Merrick gave him an honest answer. “No.”
His brusque response caused another momentary silence to descend, until it was broken by Kiernan. “Where is Lady Constance?”
“I don’t know,” the lord of Tregellas replied.
Kiernan got to his feet. “Then if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see if I can find her. We’re friends of long acquaintance and I should wish her joy on her marriage after all these years of waiting.”
As Henry and Ranulf exchanged glances, Merrick’s lips curved up in what was a sort of smile. “You have my leave to go.”
Henry and Ranulf realized the gleam in his eyes did not bode well, but Kiernan was too ignorant of his enemy to notice, or too upset about Constance’s marriage to care even if he did.
“Thank you, my lord,” the young man said before he bowed and strode out of the hall.
“You’ll stay until the wedding?” Merrick asked Sir Jowan as the heavy door closed behind his son. “I should get to know my neighbors.”
“We’d be delighted to stay, except that we brought nothing with us,” Sir Jowan replied, a trifle uneasily. “To speak truth, my lord, we hadn’t expected such a kind invitation.”
“Servants can be sent to bring what you require from home.”
Sir Jowan looked as if he wasn’t sure he should be pleased or wary, then decided to be pleased. “We’ll stay, my lord, and gladly.”
“CONSTANCE!”
Startled and annoyed, Constance shoved back her embroidery frame and quickly got to her feet. Knowing that the priest was visiting some of the poor and sick in the village, she’d brought her embroidery to the small chapel after she heard Sir Jowan and his son were at the outermost gate. She’d been determined to avoid Kiernan and his sighs and lovesick looks until she was forced into his company at the evening meal.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded as he hurried forward. “You must go at once!”
“I had to speak to you. Nobody saw me. I made sure of it.”
“You mustn’t stay. If you’re caught here—”
“I love you!” he cried, rushing toward her as if he would embrace her.
She pushed the frame so that it was between them. This wasn’t love. This was madness, or the act of an upset, selfish boy. A man who loved her wouldn’t put her, and her reputation, at risk by seeking her out when she was already betrothed to another, and alone.
“If you truly care for me, you’ll go at once,” she said. “What would Lord Merrick make of this? Or my uncle? They’ll think I invited you here.”
Kiernan regarded her with bright-eyed hope. “What if they did? We would have to marry, that’s all.”
“I don’t want to be forced to marry anyone, and I’d prefer not to have my honor besmirched,” she forcefully replied. “And you may be lucky to escape with your life if Merrick finds you here.”
“I don’t care!”
“I do! And have you no thought of what might happen to me? Scandal or not, Merrick might still marry me, but always believe me capable of deception. What kind of life would I lead then?”
“You could refuse him.” Kiernan took hold of the frame and pushed it aside. “Why haven’t you refused him? You mustn’t feel bound by a contract made when you were a child and had no voice to protest.”
His action reminded her of another man who raged, and she backed toward the altar. “Leave me, Kiernan.”
“Can’t you see, Constance? He only wants your dowry, and the power that goes with the alliance to your family. He’ll treat you badly and make you miserable. I could never do that. Never!” He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her toward him. “I love you, Constance, and I know you love me.”
Anger, disgust, outraged pride and revulsion filled her as she twisted free of Kiernan’s grasp. “I don’t love you and I never have. Now go, and don’t try to speak to me alone again.”
Kiernan stared at her, aghast, and his eyes filled with tears. “What were all those smiles, those happy hours we spent sitting together, your joy when I came to visit?”
“I was glad of your company, as I was for any friendly face. Now please go.”
“You can’t want to marry him,” Kiernan charged. “You feel bound by your father’s word and the need to protect the people of Tregellas.”
“Don’t presume to tell me what I feel. All you need know is that even if I were free, I wouldn’t marry you.”
When Kiernan’s shoulders finally slumped as if in defeat, her anger softened into sympathy. They had enjoyed some pleasant times together, although to her they were no more than a brief respite from anxiety and fear. Yet for the sake of those happier times, and his friendship, she spoke gently. “I want you to be happy, Kiernan. I want you to have a wife who loves you with all her heart. I’m not that woman.”
“You’re wrong,” he whispered, raising his head, his gray eyes flashing with what could be passionate devotion—or passionate hate. “You’ll see.”
She put out her hand to touch his arm. “Kiernan, don’t do anything foolish. Merrick is a proven warrior and…”
Kiernan stepped back as if he feared contact with her would scald him. “I’m not a child, Constance. I grant that I made a mistake coming here like this, but I can’t believe you want to marry that man I met in the hall. You’re a warm, loving woman and he’s as cold as snow.”
“Snow can melt.”
“Or freeze what it
covers. He’ll destroy you, Constance, as his father destroyed his mother. Love me or not as you will, but I won’t let that bastard have you.”
His words chilled her. “I’m not a thing for you to wrest from his grasp.”
“But you’re not free, either.” He took hold of her hands. “Let me set you free.”
She pulled away. “Kiernan, please leave me and let me look after myself.”
“You’re only a woman—”
“Who kept Wicked William from laying waste to Tregellas, or making the people rise up in rebellion to protect themselves. If you have no faith in my ability to make my way, I do.” She put her hand on his chest and started propelling him down the nave. “Now go, before you’re discovered here and our lives are ruined.”
“Am I to have no hope of you, Constance?” he pleaded.
“No,” she answered firmly, but not unkindly, as she looked out the door to make sure no one would see him.
His expression hardened. “Someday you’ll be glad of my company again,” he said before he hurried swiftly from the building.
Sighing, Constance gathered up her sewing, since there was no longer any need to stay here. How she wished Kiernan and his father had not come! It would be better if they were in London. Or on a pilgrimage to Rome.
She left the chapel and was nearly past the lady’s garden beside the family apartments when she spotted Beatrice seated on the small stone bench inside.
Her cousin’s shoulders were slumped and she rested her cheek on one hand, the very picture of despondent despair. That was so unlike Beatrice, Constance immediately opened the gate and hurried toward her along the narrow, pebbled pathway.
It wasn’t much of a garden, Lord William considering it a waste of money. Three rosebushes made a brave attempt to climb the wall, and a few small groups of hardy flowers had begun to sprout.
Her worries increased when Beatrice didn’t seem to hear her approach. “Beatrice?” Constance said softly, sitting beside her and setting her workbasket on the ground. “What’s wrong? Are you ill?”
Beatrice looked up at her and woefully shook her head. “I’m not sick. I’m…” She shrugged and sighed, then fixed an anxious gaze on Constance’s face. “Has my father ever said anything to you about when I’m to be married?”
The Unwilling Bride Page 8
