Margaret Moore - The Unwilling Bride

If he kissed her again, she would slap him. She would. She really would.

How far away was the door?

“Perhaps you can tell me who I should choose before the festivities,” he suggested. “I’m not ignorant of the tensions and conflict inherent in the choosing of one woman over another, and your knowledge of the villagers can steer me to the least controversial choice.”

If she refused, he might continue to try to convince her, to sound even more persuasive. “As you wish, my lord.”

Although he didn’t smile, she could tell he was pleased, and the resentment she felt at conceding began to melt away.

She thought a moment. “Annice,” she suggested, “the chandler’s daughter. She’s very pretty and well liked, and already promised to the smith’s son, Eric.”

“The boy who was hurt in the foot ball game?”

“Yes. That was some years ago, my lord. He’s certainly of an age to be wed now.”

“Why haven’t they married already?” Merrick asked. “Does her family object?”

“They haven’t married because your father died, and as tenants of your estate, they require the lord’s permission to wed. They will probably be seeking that permission at the next hall moot.” She hesitated a moment, then asked, “Will you grant it?”

“Why would I not?” he answered. “If the families agree, I will not object.”

Relief lessened her anxiety, and she grew more aware of his hands holding hers.

“I assume there’ll also be a bonfire May Day eve,” he said, “and the young people will go into the woods to collect flowers and branches, and that there’ll be music and dancing around a Maypole.” His eyes glittered and he gently squeezed her hands. “I would enjoy watching you dance, Constance.”

Oh, heaven and all the saints help her! She should pull away and run out the door. Flee before it was too late.

But that would bring her no closer to freedom. Indeed, it might make him think he was gaining power over her, overwhelming her with desire, easily seducing her and bending her to his will.

Determination, fired by her pride, shot through her and as she tugged her hands from his, she gave him an insolent smile. “Do you intend to dance around the Maypole, too, my lord? I would enjoy seeing that.”

Far from disturbing him, her question brought amusement to his eyes as his lips curved up into a devastatingly seductive smile. “I would far rather watch you.”

He took hold of her shoulders and began to pull her to him. He was going to kiss her. She should get away. Turn and run. But when he touched her, she felt so…and he looked so…

He did kiss her, and the moment his mouth met hers, blatant, raw desire rose up within her, overwhelming her thoughts, washing away her protests.

Still kissing her, he pressed her closer, his body hard against her own. One arm wrapped about her, and his other hand traveled across her ribs and upward, to cup her breast.

This was…wrong. She should stop him…but it felt so…good. When his thumb stroked her pebbled nipple, her legs felt like water and she moaned into his mouth.

He slowly broke the kiss, although he continued to embrace her. She opened her eyes, to see him regarding her with desire-darkened eyes gleaming with need. “A month seems a long time to wait, my lady.”

It was as if the storm outside had come into the room and thrown rain into her face. What did she really know of him, except that he was his father’s son, and he’d made a host of promises and declarations that could all prove meaningless once she was his wife and he had her dowry?

What a fool she was! A weak, silly fool!

He made no effort to hold her as she pulled free of his grasp and stumbled backward. “I told you not to touch me unless I gave you leave.”

“Did you not enjoy that, my lady? Do you find me so abhorrent?”

“Yes! No!” She fought to regain her self-control, to remember her plan to make him hate her. “When I marry you, my lord, you may kiss me all you like. Until then—”

“Until then, I am to ignore the yearning you inspire within me? I’m to pretend that I feel no desire? That I find you repellent?”

“I would have you treat me with respect!”

Merrick spread his arms wide. “I do respect you, and I admire you not just for your beauty, but for your competence and compassion. Alan de Vern, Ruan, the garrison commander, the servants—all speak most highly of their lady.”

She swallowed hard and fought to retain her anger. “Then please respect my wishes and don’t kiss me. Or is Sir Henry not the only practiced seducer in Tregellas?”

Merrick’s dark brows lowered, and it was like seeing thunderclouds on the horizon. She told herself that was good. That was what she wanted. Needed.

“You think I have ulterior motives when I kiss you?” he demanded.

“I don’t know what you want when you kiss me,” she retorted. “I don’t know you.”

His hands on his hips, he glared at her, his dark eyes fiercely angry, his mouth a thin line of annoyance. “No, you do not, my lady, or you would never accuse me of selfish seduction. The women I’ve been with have all approached me, and they were made well aware that they should expect nothing more from me than a night’s pleasure.”

“How very generous of you, my lord.”

“Would you prefer me to be like Henry? To speak flattery and honeyed, meaningless words? To murmur tender nothings?”

“I want you to stop kissing me! I’m not yet your wife.”

His eyes widened for a brief instant, and then his expression changed. It was like seeing flames snuffed out, and she knew the storm raging within him had passed. “No, you’re not,” he muttered, running his hand through his long, thick hair.

She was so close to her liberty, she couldn’t stop now. She must rouse his ire again. “I want you to order Sir Henry and Sir Ranulf to stay away from Beatrice.”

Despite her irate tone, no answering spark ignited in his eyes. “They’re both honorable knights and will never touch her or harm her in any way,” he said coolly as he moved behind the table again, as if to put a barrier between them. “I trust them completely.”

“I don’t,” she retorted. “Sir Henry seems the sort who cares only about his own desires, no matter what harm he may do. As for Sir Ranulf, he looks quite capable of doing anything to get what he wants. Woe betide your friends if they hurt those I love!”

“Let us understand each other, my lady,” Merrick said, his voice still calm. Very calm, as he crossed his arms. “I trust my friends absolutely, or they wouldn’t be my friends. I hope to be able to trust my wife in that same way.”

“And if you cannot?”

His gaze was steady. Stern. Implacable. “Then she will not be my wife.”

Outside, the rain slashed against the stones and the wind moaned; inside the solar, the very air seemed to quiver with expectation.

Her freedom was within her grasp. All she had to do was tell him that she would not be faithful. That she would break her marriage vows, or even that she was no longer a virgin. All she had to do was lie, and say she would bring shame to him. And to herself.

So why did she hesitate? Her honor or her freedom. Why not choose and be done?

Because she simply couldn’t tell this man she was, or would be, no better than a whore.

“I will have no unwilling wife, Constance,” he said softly, coming around the table toward her. “If I’ve offended you by my decisions, or if you care more for another, tell me now and I’ll release you.”

Perhaps he would—but at what price? “What penalty would you seek if I refused? My dowry?”

Surprise flashed across his face. “Nothing. I would want nothing at all from you, my lady.”