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The Unwilling Bride
Margaret Moore
Promised to Merrick of Tregellas when she was but a child, Lady Constance was unwilling to wed a man she remembered only as a spoiled boy.Sure he had grown into an arrogant knight, she sought to make herself so unappealing that Merrick would refuse to honor their betrothal. Yet no sooner had this enigmatic, darkly handsome man ridden through the castle gates than she realized he was nothing like the boy she recalled. And very much a man she could love…Haunted by secrets from his past, Merrick was unwilling to return to Tregellas–until he caught sight of his bride-to-be. Beautiful and spirited, Lady Constance was everything he wanted in a wife. She stirred his passion–and his heart–as no woman ever had before. But what would happen when she discovered the truth? When enemies begin plotting their downfall, only trust can save a match never meant to end in true love.
Before she knew what was happening, Merrick tugged her into his arms and captured her mouth with his.
Never had she been kissed, and never, in her most lustful daydreams, had she imagined this. The taste of him. The scent of man and leather, horse and salt air. The sensation of his strong arms about her, holding her close.
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. “There’s no harm in a kiss.”
“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.
“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.”
PRAISE FOR MARGARET MOORE
“Ms. Moore transports her readers to a fascinating time period, vividly bringing to life a Scottish medieval castle and the inhabitants within.”
—Romance Reviews Today on Lord of Dunkeathe
“Entertaining! Excellent! Exciting! Margaret Moore has penned a five-star keeper!”
—CataRomance Reviews on Bride of Lochbarr
“This captivating adventure of 13th-century Scotland kept me enthralled from beginning to end. It’s a keeper!”
—Romance Junkies on Bride of Lochbarr
“Margaret Moore’s characters step off the pages into your heart.”
—Romantic Times
“Ms. Moore…will make your mind dream of knights in shining armor.”
—Rendezvous
“An author who consistently knows how to mix just the right amount of passion and pageantry.”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
“When it comes to excellence in historical romance books, no one provides the audience with more than the award-winning Ms. Moore.”
—Under the Covers
“Her writing is full of humor and wit, sass and sexual tension.”
—Heart Rate Reviews
Margaret Moore
The Unwilling Bride
With many thanks to the recappers and posters at
TelevisionWithoutPity.com, for the entertainment and
enjoyment. You never fail to make me smile!
THE UNWILLING BRIDE
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
PROLOGUE
Oxfordshire, 1228
MORE THAN ANYTHING, THE BOY wanted to go home. There he knew every rock and path. There he could breathe the fresh salt air blowing in from the sea, feel sand and pebbles beneath his bare feet and the rivulets of water running between his toes. There he was happy. There he was safe.
Here, riding through this strange country, he was afraid.
He was afraid of the soldiers who surrounded him, with their terrible scars and big, calloused hands. Of their weapons. The long, heavy broadswords. The maces. The daggers they tucked in their belts and hid in their boots.
He hated the smell of them—sweat and ale and leather. He hated the way they cursed in their foreign tongue.
The nobleman leading the cortege was even more frightening than the soldiers. With his hawklike beak of a nose and narrow, dark, fault-seeking eyes, Sir Egbert bore no scars or other marks of battle. He didn’t smell like the soldiers, and he usually didn’t raise his voice—yet he could make the boy quiver with just a look.
He wanted to go home!
They came to a fork in the muddy, rutted road. One way led to a dark wood of oak and ash, elm and thick underbrush; the other veered away from the forest, although still heading north.
Sir Egbert raised his hand, bringing the column to a halt, and gestured for the leader of the soldiers, who had a horrible red welt of a scar marring his already ugly face, to join him.
The boy sat motionless and silent, wondering, worrying about why they had stopped. His hands trembled as he did his best to control his prancing pony. The tall grass bordering the road swayed and whispered in the breeze, sounding a little like the sea. The soldier nearest him hawked and spit, then said something under his breath that made the others sneer and laugh.
What was wrong? Was Sir Egbert unsure of the way?
Sir Egbert gestured down the rutted road that led toward the dark wood. The leader of the soldiers frowned, muttered something and pointed the other way.
Please, God, not into the wood, the boy prayed. The close-standing trees, the dense bushes, the shadows…it was like something from stories told ’round the hearth, the dwelling place of ghosts and evil spirits.
Please, God, not into the dark wood.
Please, Jesus, let me go home!
Sir Egbert’s voice rose to an angry, insistent shout, including what had to be curses, and he made angry gestures. The leader of the soldiers nodded and, frowning, turned his horse back toward his men.
Sir Egbert raised his hand and pointed to the wood—the murky, scary woods full of terrible things. The scarred man barked an order, and his men drew out their swords.
The boy prayed harder as he nudged his pony forward. Please God, keep me safe. Please, Jesus, let me go home. Mary, Mother of God, I want to go home!
WITHIN AN HOUR THE ATTACK WAS over. All in the cortege lay dead or dying in the wood.
Save one.
CHAPTER ONE
April, 1243
THE BOAR’S HEAD TAVERN boasted the prettiest, cleanest serving wenches for miles around. The young women were all eager to please their customers in a variety of ways, too, especially the boisterous knights and squires currently making merry in the taproom. Carrying pitchers of wine and mugs of ale, the wenches moved deftly between the tables, laughing and joking with the men, and sizing them up as to their worth. They could easily earn a month’s worth of income in a single night from drunken revelers like these.
Only one man sitting silently at a table in the corner seemed uninterested in the women, or celebrating. He had his back to the wall and stared down into his goblet, completely oblivious to the merry mayhem around him.
Two other knights, equally young and muscular, shared his table. The handsomest of the pair, brown haired and with a smile that held a host of promises, delighted in having the women compete for his attention and hurry to fetch his wine. The second knight, more sober, with shrewd hazel eyes, a straight, narrow nose and reddish brown hair, seemed more inclined to view the women and listen to their banter with a jaundiced eye, well aware that they were calculating how much they could charge for their services between the sheets.
“Here, m’dear, where do you think you’re going with that jug of wine?” the comely Sir Henry demanded as he reached out and drew the most buxom of the wenches onto his lap.
She set the jug of wine on the scarred table beside him and, laughing, wound her arms around his neck. It was a miracle her bodice didn’t slip farther down and reveal more of her breasts, but then, she wouldn’t have cared if it had. “Over to that table there, where they pay,” she said pertly, and with unmistakable significance.
“Egad, wench, will you besmirch our honor?” Henry cried with mock indignation. “Of course we’ll pay. Didn’t my friends and I win several ransoms at the tournament? Aren’t there many young men who had to pay us for their horses and armor after we triumphed on the field and forced them to cry mercy? Why, we’re rich, I tell you. Rich!”
The silent knight in the corner glanced up a moment, then returned to staring into his goblet as if he was expecting it to speak.
Henry turned to the cynical knight beside him while his hand wandered toward the wench’s fulsome breasts. “Pay the girl, Ranulf.”
Sir Ranulf raised a sardonic brow as he reached into his woolen tunic and drew out a leather pouch. “I don’t suppose there’s any point suggesting you be quiet about our winnings? You’re making us the bait of every cutpurse between here and Cornwall.”
“Fie, man, you fret like an old woman! No man would be fool enough to try to rob the three of us!”
With a shrug, Ranulf pulled out a silver penny. The wench’s eyes widened and she reached out to snatch it from his grasp, but Ranulf’s hand closed over it before she could. “You can have this if you bring us some good wine instead of this vinegar.”
She nodded eagerly.
Sir Ranulf’s eyes danced with amusement. “And if you’ll share my bed tonight.”
The wench immediately jumped up from Henry’s lap.
“Hey, now!” Henry protested.
Ranulf ignored him. “Off you go,” he said to the wench, holding out the coin again.
“What about him? Does he want any company?” the young woman asked, nodding at their companion.
The dark-haired man raised his head to look at her. He was undeniably good-looking, but there was something so stern and forbidding in his expression, the wench’s smile died and she immediately took a step back. “I didn’t mean no offense.”
“Don’t mind Merrick,” Henry said with a soothing smile. “He’s in mourning for his father, you see. Now fetch the wine like a good girl.”
The wench cast another wary look at Merrick, smiled at Henry and Ranulf, then hurried to do Henry’s bidding.
