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“That was the sort of man your father was, my lord,” she said without regret for causing him pain. She’d suffered often enough while he was God knew where.
Merrick regarded her steadily and spoke with what sounded like completely sincere conviction. “I know about my father’s sinful nature. I vowed long ago that I would never treat any woman, whether high born or low, as he did. As long as I am lord here, no woman need fear death or dishonor at my hands, or be afraid of me.” His voice dropped to a low, husky whisper. “As for my wife, I will be faithful to her until my death. I will honor, respect and cherish her. She need never fear violence or degradation at my hands.”
Constance took a wary step back. Against his stern arrogance she was proof. Against his haughty orders, his firm commands, even his anger, she could defend herself, but this…She had no defense against such words, especially 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 in a tournament or played a game of foot ball. Or kissed his beloved Constance, who’d been the bright angel of even his darkest, loneliest days.
If he were truly a good and honorable man, he would confess his crime, and risk losing her.
Since he was not, he would keep his secret, as he had for fifteen years. He would tell no one, including Constance, what he’d done. Only he need know, and suffer for it.
AS CONSTANCE WAS DOING HER best to discourage Merrick, Lord Carrell made his way to a secluded corner of the courtyard, followed by Lord Algernon. Algernon was so agitated, a private conversation seemed the best way to calm him down.
“What were you thinking, asking him about Henry and the queen as soon as we entered the solar?” Algernon whined as they came to a halt in the shadow of the wall walk.
Carrell pulled a small chunk off the nearest block of stone and rubbed it between his fingers as he shrugged. “Why wait to find out where he stands? Better to know before we say something to make him doubt our loyalty to the king. Now we know that we mustn’t give him any reason to suspect we aren’t as loyal as he is.”
“And I say you should have waited. You could ruin our plans if you aren’t patient.”
“Patient?” Carrell sniffed, tossing the stone aside. “God’s blood, man, you don’t have to tell me to be patient. I’ve been patient for fifteen years.”
“I’ve been waiting for longer than that to get what I deserve,” Algernon complained, “and I don’t want to lose it because you have to push yourself forward and ask a lot of questions.”
“If you’d taken the trouble to visit your nephew on occasion, I wouldn’t have had to ask,” Carrell retorted. “We’d have already known that he’s loyal to the king.”
“If I’d tried to see him, what do you think my detestable brother would have done?” Algernon grumbled. “He’d have assumed we were conspiring against him and had me killed.”
“Not if you killed him first.”
Algernon gave Carrell an incredulous look. “How could I have done it, with those guards of his? He didn’t even leave his castle most of the time.”
“Yes, it would have been very difficult,” Carrell agreed, his tone appeasing.
It was a pity William’s other brother had been sent north with Merrick and killed instead of this one. Egbert had been a far more ruthless fellow, especially where his own interests were concerned. Algernon was a greedy, weak, stupid man, although he had his uses, for now.
Algernon moved closer and, after surreptitiously ensuring that no one could overhear, lowered his voice and asked, “Have you had news from London? Any word of when the king or his brother will return to England?”
Carrell shook his head. “No news. The queen and her husband are enjoying Bordeaux too much to be in any hurry to return to England and face their disgruntled nobles. I believe the earl of Cornwall has his reasons for staying with them.”
“To keep Henry from making any more unwise decisions,” Algernon agreed.
“To spend more time with the queen’s sister,” Carrell replied with a smirk. “Now that Richard’s wife is dead, he needs another, and Eleanor’s sister is a beauty, and pliable. You can be sure Eleanor will be doing all she can to promote a marriage between them. Richard’s the only person who can influence her husband as much as she, and he’s got the support of far more nobles. To her, he’s a rival, and must be neutralized. How better than to have him wed her sister?”
“God save us from that woman,” Algernon muttered. “She’ll be the ruin of England.”
“Which is why the king must be overthrown, and his brother, the earl of Cornwall, too, if it comes to that. But we’ll let Merrick be lulled into believing all is well. Indeed, let’s hope my niece can keep him so busy with lovemaking, he grows lazy and lax, and lowers his guard. Then it’ll be easier to kill him.”
“What about Constance? You assured me she was in favor of the marriage, but she certainly didn’t sound like it today. I’ve never heard her speak in such an impudent manner.”
Carrell fingered the jeweled hilt of the dagger stuck in his belt. “Of course she’ll marry him.”
“How can you be so certain? Have you ever before heard her speak to any man that way? I nearly swooned, she was so impertinent.”
Carrell frowned. “Of course she’ll marry him, for the people’s sake if not her own. You’ve seen how she dotes on them. She was always like that, from a child. Any dead puppy or kitten would have her in tears for a day.” His tone made it clear he considered this a great failing on her part, yet it was one he would happily exploit if it helped achieve his ends. “Leaving her here with your brother was one of my more clever moves. This is her home now, and these peasants are like her family. She’ll never desert them, especially if she fears they’ll come to harm under their overlord.”
Carrell’s frown became a smirk. “Even if she had any reservations, can you doubt that they were likely done away with the moment she saw him? What woman wouldn’t be tempted to share your nephew’s bed? If he didn’t have the look of your brother in his face, I’d swear he’d been sired by Zeus. No wonder he’s won all those tournaments. I was sure he’d paid off the other knights for the privilege until I saw him ride in.”
“Constance is made of sterner stuff and not likely to be ruled by lust,” Algernon said doubtfully.
A gleam of unhealthy curiosity sparkled in Carrell’s blue eyes. “Knowing your brother for the lascivious scoundrel he was, do you think there was ever anything of that sort between them?”
“God’s wounds, no,” Algernon retorted, “and I would have known if there was. William wouldn’t have been able to keep from bragging about it.” His features made no secret of his scorn. “I got to hear about every conquest he ever made, in disgusting detail, from the time he was twelve years old.”
“I suppose that’s just as well,” Carrell said. “I don’t think Merrick would care to wed his father’s mistress.”
“Not the Merrick we just met, anyway,” Algernon agreed.
He looked away, out into the courtyard toward the stables. “Must we kill Constance?”
“If Constance is not dead, the king may decide to marry her to someone else, and Tregellas will be out of your reach. Merrick and his wife must both die if you’re to inherit. And then you’ll marry Beatrice, joining our families and our power as we’ve planned all these years. We’re allies, Algernon. I don’t forget that, and I hope you won’t.”
“No,” his companion assured him. “I’ll abide by our plans.”
“Good. Now we should go back to the hall before our absence is noticed. And don’t worry. Soon enough, you’ll have Tregellas, and my daughter.”
CHAPTER THREE
A FEW DAYS LATER, CONSTANCE and Alan de Vern stood in the buttery adjacent to the kitchen, looking over the wine that had arrived before a storm blew in from the ocean. Straw covered the floor of the chamber to catch any spills, and bits of chaff floated in the air. Over the years, spiders had created a vast array of cobwebs in the seams between the walls and the vaulted ceiling of the chilly chamber. At the moment, raindrops beat against the stone walls as if they were demanding entrance.
“Lord Merrick says we must have the best wine for your wedding feast,” Alan said, his accent marking him as a native of Paris. “Wine from Bordeaux for the entire company in the hall, even those below the salt, and plenty of ale for the village.”
“That will cost a small fortune!” Constance exclaimed, rubbing her hands together for warmth.
It would also make a very fine show of generosity, she added in her thoughts. Just as that kiss had surely been a demonstration of his vain belief that he could overwhelm her with his manly…masculinity. But he’d simply caught her by surprise; otherwise, she would have slapped his face.
She should have slapped his face.
“It is quite expensive,” Alan agreed. “But he told me he had done well in his last tournament. He also said exactly how much I was to offer at first, and how much I was to spend altogether. Fortunately, the merchant settled for less than we expected.” The steward grinned. “Lord Merrick has a head for figures. I doubt he’ll ever spend as recklessly as his father.”
“I hope not,” Constance replied, thinking of all the times she’d heard Lord William screaming at Alan and the bailiff about money.
“Gaston is delighted with the menu for the wedding feast, too. A true chance to show his skill, he claims. Mind you, his first proposals were too extravagant by far, until Lord Merrick managed to get him to be reasonable. To hear Gaston tell it, they debated for hours.”
“Lord Merrick debated?”
In answer to her incredulous response, Alan gave her a wry smile as he crooked his elbow and leaned against one of the large butts of ale. “I think we can both guess how it went. Gaston made his suggestions, Lord Merrick shook his head, Gaston made more suggestions, Lord Merrick shook his head, Gaston was finally reasonable, and Lord Merrick nodded his head.”
Constance had to smile at that probably accurate description. “Yes, I daresay you’re right.”
Alan’s gaze wandered to the shelf holding smaller casks of English wine across the room. “A lady could do much worse for a husband than Lord Merrick,” he reflected.
Although Alan was a trusted friend, and she’d often turned to him when there was trouble with the tenants, Constance wasn’t about to share her innermost feelings with him. And a man who impressed a steward wouldn’t necessarily be a good husband, even if he’d also apparently impressed the garrison commander, the soldiers and the servants in the time since he’d arrived.
“What of the fodder for the wedding guests’ horses?” she asked, trying not to shiver.
“Well in hand, my lady,” Alan said. “All we’ve invited have already sent notice they’ll attend.”
She hadn’t expected their potential guests to respond so swiftly. “Including Sir Jowan and his son?”
“Yes, my lady. I believe they plan to visit before the wedding, too, to pay their respects to the new overlord of Tregellas.”
“They haven’t far to come,” Constance replied, keeping any hint of dismay from her voice, although the last thing she needed or wanted was the distraction of Sir Jowan’s son.
Beatrice burst into the buttery as if propelled by a gust of wind. She skittered to a halt in a most unladylike way, her face flushed and her eyes bright with excitement. “Demelza said I’d find you here. Have you heard? Lord Merrick has decided there should be a foot ball game as part of the celebrations for May Day. The garrison against the men of the village. Sir Henry says the garrison is sure to win, but I told him not to be so confident. Some of the villagers are very good. He said Merrick was going to choose a Queen of the May, too.”
He was going to—what?
