Midnight s Bride

by Sophia Johnson

  Until Damron rose and announced the upcoming weddings.

  Chapter 17

  Netta felt Mereck’s light grip on her elbow and gulped. Though her knees wobbled, she feigned calm and rose without protest.

  Elise clung to her seat. Connor snaked an arm around her waist to lift her to her feet—no easy task. She released the chair, only to have it crash backward with such force, a gust of laughter filled the hall.

  “Could I not send for my father? Mayhap he has changed his mind?” Netta asked Mereck as casually as she could manage.

  Mereck stiffened. “Nay, little bride. We willna be waiting. A promise must ne’er be broken.”

  Though Mereck’s tone was firm, she tried again.

  “What promise?” She hoped he didn’t refer to her frightened plea on the mountain. His next words proved he did.

  “You well know what promise, Netta. Your pledge to Saint Monica to marry the man she chose was loud enough for every creature of the forest to hear. Both Bleddyn and Damron agree I am that man. Ne’er vow what you dinna plan to keep.”

  His face hardened. He looked down his nose at her with a frigid stare. When her father wore the same expression, she soon found herself banished to her room. She studied him from the corner of her eye. He made no move to do the same.

  Relief flooded her when Dafydd brought Tuan’s food. She fed and watered the little raptor, then placed the sleeping bundle of feathers back in his nest.

  “Yech! Netta, you have bird droppings on your clothing. Someone bring hot water and soap. Lots of soap. Lots of water,” Elise yelled to no one in particular.

  Netta glanced at her hands and her chest where Tuan had made herself at home. She grinned at Elise. “Have you never changed a baby’s bindings?” Lazy nursemaids had oft disappeared when her stepsisters were babes and their bindings needed changing.

  A page balancing a sloshing, too-full basin of hot water slid careful feet across the floor, his tongue peeking between his lips in concentration. Another followed with soap and linens.

  “The water is too hot for your hands, Netta.” Mereck turned her so her back was to the room. He dipped a cloth in the water and wrung it out. He smiled as he smoothed it over her neck, then cleansed her tunic down to the soft tops of her breasts.

  His gaze held her own, daring her to move while he attended her. The feel of his hands brought an unwelcome blush to heat her face. She stared at his tanned fingers against her pink skin and shivered, picturing them on her naked breast.

  Did she imagine sparks in the air between them? Mereck’s nostrils flared, his eyes glinted. His fingers darted through the opening of her gown, caressed her nipples and withdrew. How had she forgotten to hum? Of late, his dreaded gift slipped her mind. His smoldering gaze traveled over her breasts, stopped to stare at her nipples thrusting against her tunic, then up past her chin to meet her eyes. Lust heated his sea-green eyes to the green of a forest at dusk. Ever so gentle, he cupped her breasts and squeezed.

  “Nay.” She tried to push him away, but he captured her wrists, dunked her hands in the cooled water and washed them. After he finished and dried her, he turned her chair back to the table.

  Why did the widowed ladies smile so knowingly? When Meghan grinned and patted her chest, Netta glanced down.

  Wet handprints marked her tunic. She started to rise and race from the room. His speed amazed her. His right hand gathered her wrists, and he went on to fill their trencher with his left. His eyes warned her to stay seated. The damage was done. Leaving the table would cause an unwelcome scene.

  Netta’s days passed swiftly as she helped cut and sew her wedding outfit in Brianna’s solar. It was a hated chore. As Mereck’s wife, would he insist she spend her days sewing as so many women did? At the thought, she pricked her finger for the third time. She scowled and stuck it in her mouth.

  “Go, Netta, afore you drip so much blood on the cloth it will seem the whole of it is red.” Elise reached over and rescued the shift Netta had attempted to hem.

  “But you have your own to do.”

  “I’m done with this day’s garment.” Elise grinned and gave Netta’s shoulder a light push.

  Glad to escape the solar, Netta didn’t need any more encouragement. She hugged Elise’s shoulders and jumped up.

  In the bailey, Netta searched for Meghan. She learned Meg had Simple out on a short hunt, escorted by the castle huntsman and his helpers. Netta played with Sprite and worked with Tuan, but she still felt restless.

  She shaded her eyes to study the archer’s area. No one awaited a turn. Mereck had not mentioned a lesson for today. Could she not practice by herself? Women shouldn’t be alone in the practice fields, so she would wear Connor’s old clothing. In her mind, she heard Mereck’s stern voice forbidding her to don them again or risk his displeasure. She hesitated, then shrugged. For certs, he but meant to intimidate her.

  She changed her clothing and hurried to the bailey with her bow and quiver of arrows. Two young men called to her when she passed by the quintain. She waved and pretended she hurried on an important mission to the stable where the head groom worked on a giant warhorse. Thankfully, ’twas not Mereck’s M’Famhair.

  She got no farther.

  Rough calloused fingers grabbed her collar and swung her toward the stable door. She held her breath. She had not even loosed the first arrow and Mereck already found her out. She exhaled in a rush on hearing the groom’s gruff voice.

  “Fetch the brush from Angel’s stall, lad. His be the second from last. Go on now. There be a knot in his mane what needs fixin’.” He shoved her into the dim stable. She hurried down the aisle, until she heard strange sounds coming from within a nearby stall. She skidded to a stop. Moans. Someone was hurt and in need of tending. Why did they not call out? Before she ran for help, she looked over the top of the rails to see how much aid they required.

  Her eyes snapped open. The moans came not only from a man, but also from a buxom young woman. A naked, buxom young woman. She knelt with her hands on the floor, her heavy breasts dangling beneath her. An equally naked but far from buxom man knelt behind her. He bumped against her buttocks while he squeezed and played with her breasts.

  His head reared up. He moaned, his face taut with pain. She gasped. Heavenly saints. She spied Sir Marcus’ profile. What she didn’t recognize was Sir Marcus’ bare arse, the muscles flexing then relaxing as he bounced away. What did he do to her? If it pained him, why did he not stop? She turned and scurried back out the door. She tried to race around the groom. He scowled and shoved her back through the entrance.

  “Fetch the bluidy brush and be quick aboot it.”

  She gulped, took a deep breath and called out, “I be going to fetch the brush what’s back in the far stall.”

  “O’ course ’tis in the far stall. I told ye so.” The groom sucked his teeth, disgusted with the simple-minded boy.

  Netta went a short distance. “The groom wants Angel’s brush right away, ’tis what he wants,” she hollered. She stomped around, making as much noise as possible. When near her destination, she yelled again. “That’s what I be aimin’ to do. Get the brush and make the master proud, I will. If’n I don’t find it soon, I’m afeared he won’t be happy.”

  She kicked a bucket standing beside a rusted shovel. It made a terrible din. Enough to make horses stick their heads up and gaze at her. Marcus’ head poked out the entrance to the stall. He blinked, then a wide grin split his face.

  Oh, saints. He recognized her.

  Her face heated. She bobbed her head and dashed into the next area. After a hasty search, she grabbed the brush and raced out so fast not even Guardian could have caught her.

  Netta dropped the brush at the groom’s feet and bolted away before he could make another request. Her heart didn’t slow its racing until she was well away from the stable. She lost her desire to practice. Before she got into any more trouble, she’d best return to the keep.

  Sewing was a safer pastime.


  Not two steps farther, a young man slung his arm around her shoulder.

  “Come, lad. You dinna seem to have duties, and I have need of you.”

  What was it with Highlanders? Did they always grab unsuspecting people to do their bidding? She recognized him. He had challenged Meghan but a day before. He steered her to where the quintain creaked and groaned.

  Hoping to sound manly, she ducked her head and deepened her voice. “I be sorry, but I canna reach the posts.”

  “Douglas left the nag he used. I must needs have you ready the crossbar.” He pointed at the old horse standing beside him.

  Before Netta knew what to expect, he picked her up and dumped her onto the saddle. She scrambled about and tried to seat herself. Impatient, he took her right leg and threw it over the saddle. His friend Douglas must have been short, for the stirrups were the right length for her.

  She blinked and clutched the reins.

  “Seize the end of the crossbar by the dummy, and start it around. Mind you, keep out of its way,” he added.

  It sounded simple enough, for the bar moved easily. She did a rather good job. She congratulated herself a mite too soon. Something heavy thumped her shoulder. She lurched forward. Her bow and quiver of arrows fell to the ground. A most unmanly cry burst from her lips. She grabbed the horse around its neck. Her hat landed in the dirt, and her dark curls tumbled over her face.

  “Satan’s horns. The commander’s bride! He’ll thrash us for sure.” The young man threw his lance down and stomped toward her. “He be planning to watch my progress when he comes from the field.”

  She knew he meant her no harm, but he was not the problem. From her added height on the horse, she saw Mereck in the distance. If she did not hurry away, he would catch her not only dressed as a boy but inside the quintain enclosure. She groaned. Two forbidden pursuits.

  “I’m sorry. I have to go. I’ll return the horse soon.” Netta grabbed the reins and kicked the startled nag into fast motion before the young man could reach her.

  Where in the world was she to go? She made her way to the opposite side of the bailey. Milling people, horses and carts were everywhere. The laundress with a barrow full of soiled sheets crossed in front of her. Netta held back on the horse to let her pass. A peasant bearing a stout rod across his shoulders, fowls trussed and hanging from each end, hurried toward the cookhouse. Destined for the ax, their cackle and fuss sounded like they knew their fate.

  Netta winced. Her own fate didn’t look much more promising.

  The barbican loomed before her. On her left, fishermen with their catch strung on sturdy lines crossed the drawbridge. The gamekeeper, with a loaded cart, made his way behind them. Peasants with produce tied into large bundles slung over their shoulders pushed around her right side. She tried to edge past as a line of warriors left the castle, but they hemmed her in, taking her with them.

  Sweat trickled down her neck. She peered back and glimpsed the young man heading toward Mereck. Did some code of chivalry demand a squire confess if he caused a damsel to be struck on the shoulder?

  She would find Meghan. Together they would think of a way to get her back inside the castle before her soon-to-be husband found her out. Surely other women in the castle had the same color of hair? Saints help her. Mereck had warned the women not to leave the castle grounds without ample protection. She could almost feel the hot depth of his anger if he learned she had done so. She nudged the old horse to go faster.

  Netta found the path into the woods and sighed with relief. Meghan would soon return. She would hide inside the first lines of trees and await her. Her sigh turned into a shriek, for the sharp point of a sword pricked her back.

  “Shut yer trap, else me fist will shut it fer ye,” a surly voice growled. “Right stupid of ye to fall into me ’ands, and making me job easy. Keep riding and ’ead to that knoll, else I gut ye ’ere and now.” He uttered a menacing growl.

  Netta’s stomach knotted as he continued to give directions in the lower-class accent from the east end of London. What was he doing in the Highlands? He took her deeper into the woods on a track too overgrown to be in current use. There was no chance Meghan would come upon them.

  Fearful images flashed in her mind. She hauled back on the reins and attempted to turn the horse. If the churl meant to ravish her, he would have to do it here and now. If they didn’t get farther away from Blackthorn Castle, at least she would have a better chance for someone to hear her screams.

  “I didn’t tell ye to stop.” He cuffed the back of her head.

  Netta cried out and dropped the reins. He growled at her to get moving. She didn’t start fast enough to please him, for he jabbed the nag’s rump with the tip of his sword.

  The horse screamed and shot forward. Netta grabbed for the reins, but they flew free before she could catch them. Frantic, she grasped the horse’s mane and held on for dear life. The animal, who looked too old to trot, galloped like he trained for knightly battles. Horses were a puzzle. Lightning could not outpace a worm until he saw the open field. Now this four-legged snail tried to race.

  A shiver of panic swept her. A short distance ahead a tree lay across the road. She doubted the beast knew anything about jumping. The horse saw the tree and tried valiantly to clear it.

  Blessed saints. Maybe he did know what he was doing. For certs, she sure as Lucifer didn’t. His front hooves cleared the tree. When they again met the earth, she catapulted off his back. The scream had not quite cleared her lips, before the hard earth rose to meet her.

  Mereck’s head jerked up. His body stopped in mid-motion. Fearful prickles coursed down his spine. He searched the crowd in the bailey. Netta is hurt. He knew it with as much certainty as he knew where he stood. He ran, sounds of distress bursting from his lips. A young man tried to stop him. Mereck started to shove him out of the way but stopped on hearing the word bride.

  “What did you say?” His fingers dug into the man’s shoulder.

  “I didn’t know it was your bride. The sack knocked her and she near fell. It was her cap coming off and her hair spilling free that warned me.” Kenneth’s voice wavered.

  “The Lady Lynette, where is she? Is she hurt? Did you seek aid for her?” He searched the squire’s ashen face.

  “Not hurt. I came to meet you, for she took off into the outer bailey. She tried to make her way back, but the crowd carried her out of the castle walls. I lost track of her.”

  “Get Sir Connor and twelve men. Send them behind me. Hurry!”

  Kenneth ran to do his bidding. Mereck readied M’Famhair and finished in lightning speed, for he had no need of a saddle. Rider and horse soon crossed the drawbridge and headed into the woods. Connor and his men followed not far behind.

  Mereck scanned the cleared countryside around the high curtain walls. His bride wasna among the people who came and went. On entering the path in the woods, he slowed his pace. He inspected the ground and trees and listened, but he heard only forest sounds.

  When he found Netta, he would impress on her the dangers of being out and alone. Lucifer’s crooked nose! This is not the English countryside. She defied him to again dress as a squire and enter the quintain enclosure. He remembered his promise of swift consequences if she did so. His mouth set in a grim line.

  After the first knowledge she had been hurt, he felt no other sense of her. His body tensed. Was he too late? Connor and the men caught up with him, and they spread out to search the surrounding woods. After several leagues, Mereck stiffened.

  Fear.

  He felt her fear as surely as if it was his own. He would use it to find her.

  Ohh, her head ached. Every inch of her felt bruised. Damp musty earth cradled her chin. Grass and leaves tickled the skin of her face. Mercy sakes. A busy ant crawled across her cheek, headed for her ear. She stirred and tried to lift her hand to swat it. She did not get far. The man threw her onto her back much like a sack of grain.

  Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth to yell her lungs o
ut. Before the first cry burst through her lips, a grimy and foully odorous hand clamped over them. When she took her next breath, she gagged from the taste and smell. With the face too close to her own, she blinked and tried to uncross her eyes.

  Surely his was the most disgusting face in the world. Strings of greasy black hair fell over a narrow forehead. Warts covered a gourd-like nose, and hair protruded from his nostrils and ears. The nose dominated the man’s face. Bulging, brown eyes rivaled it for prominence.

  She closed her eyes and wished the horrid face would go away. It didn’t. He removed his hand, only to replace it with cloth torn from her shirt. She knew it was from her clothing, for it was clean. From the sight and smell of him, the man couldn’t have a clean thing on him.

  “Stupid girl,” he hissed. “Yer ’orse ran. Now ye’ll ’ave ter come up with me.” He bound her hands behind her and slung her up on his horse. Seconds later, he mounted and clamped an arm around her to haul her tight against him.

  Her skin couldn’t crawl with revulsion any harder, or it would strip away from her bones. She tried to pull away from him. He cursed and held her all the tighter, wedging her hands against his sex. His breath became hard and ragged, so foul and strong it defied the brisk wind to waft beneath her nose. Something moved against her hands. She clenched her fingers; she tried not to touch him. Feeling his limp male flesh heat and squirm against her wrist, she shuddered.

  Mereck. Why had she not listened to him? He would save her if he could. What if he failed to learn she was missing until too late, and she was long gone from here?

  They rode farther into the woods and came to a small clearing near overtaken by the forest. She stared at the jumble of growth and spied an abandoned bothy in the center of it. From the looks of it, many years had passed since anyone used the shelter. Part of the thatched roof had long since rotted and fallen inside. The door hung by one strap.