Margaret Moore - The Unwilling Bride

Merrick was almost at the goal….

The smith’s son charged forward and got the ball away from Merrick. The villagers shouted, loudly urging on their men; the soldiers cursed with astonishing variety and fluency.

Eric passed the ball to his father, who passed it to—

Ranulf intercepted it and, with a quick move, kicked it back to Merrick. His mighty chest heaving, Merrick again started up the field, this time with Henry and Ranulf guarding him on either side.

Perspiration made Merrick’s chest shine in the sun as if it’d been oiled. His breeches were soaked with sweat at the waist and clung to his strong thighs.

More cheering, more cursing—Merrick scored!

“Well done!” Constance cried as she leapt into the air. Then she slapped her hand over her mouth. Could she possibly be more undignified?

Beatrice, whom she’d quite forgotten, had no concern about her appearance as she danced with delight. “I knew we’d win! I knew it!” she declared, clapping.

As the soldiers, led by Talek, surged into the field past them, Constance tried to compose herself. “Yes, well, that was certainly interesting,” she said, keeping her eyes—and attention—on the crowd as the villagers surrounded Eric and the others. There could yet be trouble.

Beatrice stopped prancing. “Interesting? It was wonderful! Merrick was so fast. Whoever would have thought he could run like that?”

“Indeed,” Constance murmured as the foot soldiers surrounded their overlord, who gulped down what seemed an enormous mug of ale that a grinning soldier handed him.

Lord William wouldn’t have deigned to let one of his men get within ten feet of him.

And then Merrick did something more surprising still: he went to the villagers and praised them for their efforts. He was followed by his men, who were laughing and bragging good-naturedly, as were the equally happy and proud villagers.

Obviously Merrick knew men and their reactions better than she did, and he was certainly far more willing to mix with his people than his father had ever been.

What kind of man was the new lord of Tregellas? Could he truly be so different from his father, and the brat she’d loathed for so long?

“Come along, Beatrice,” she said, moving away before the excited soldiers and villagers engulfed them. “I don’t think there’s any need to linger.”

“Don’t you want to congratulate Merrick?” Beatrice asked.

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”

Beatrice frowned. “You do like Merrick, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she replied, not quite sure if that was a lie or not.

Beatrice leaned closer and dropped her voice to a whisper, as if she feared she was about to impart something scandalous. “I know age and looks aren’t supposed to be as important as family or wealth when it comes to a husband, but you’re so lucky he’s handsome. Really, Constance, would you want to make love with someone who looks like…like Ruan, for instance? Thank the blessed Virgin you can look forward to your wedding night.”

Merrick’s voice rose stern and commanding from the midst of the mob of soldiers. “Let me pass.”

Now that could have been his father, Constance thought with a stab of disappointment.

Then she realized that Merrick—still blatantly half-naked, although he held a shirt in his hand—was walking toward her, while the men made way for him as if he was a king.

FOR ONE BRIEF INSTANT Constance thought of running away. But how would that look to the men, and Beatrice, too? And hadn’t she faced down the infamous Wicked William of Tregellas more than once?

Beatrice, however, started to sidle away. “I believe I’ll change my gown before the feast,” she murmured.

Then she was gone, leaving Constance feeling like the lone soldier on a bloody battlefield awaiting the enemy’s army.

Except that it was no horde of soldiers who walked toward her, but the handsome, young and unabashedly virile man to whom she was betrothed—the same man who had a satisfied grin playing about the corners of his lips.

So he was pleased he and his men had won—why didn’t he put his shirt on? Was he trying to make her feel uncomfortable? Was this some sort of attempt to intimidate or embarrass her? If so, he’d drastically underestimated her. She straightened her shoulders and prepared to show him how wrong he was.

“So, my lady,” he said when he reached her, “all your worrying was for naught. No death, no injuries beyond a twisted ankle, no riots. My soldiers are happy—except those who wagered against us—and the villagers put up enough of a challenge that they can retire with pride to play another day.”

She wasn’t about to let him gloat, either. “I know you’re the commander of Tregellas, but isn’t running around after a pig’s bladder taking things a bit too far?” she asked as Henry and Ranulf, Talek and a few of the other soldiers walked past them toward the mill. “I suppose it was Sir Henry’s idea. He seems just the sort to try to get his friends to behave in a wanton and undignified way.”

The smug grin faded as Merrick’s brow furrowed with a frown. “You think Henry capable of leading me astray?”

It suddenly seemed foolish to suggest that anybody could lead this man anywhere; however, having started, she would continue. “I think he tries, and likely sometimes succeeds.”

The telltale vein in Merrick’s temple started to pulse. “When you know me better, you’ll appreciate the folly of that opinion. Would you accuse Ranulf of trying to lead me astray, as well?”

“I have no idea what Sir Ranulf is capable of.”

Merrick’s fierce gaze impaled her. “I see no indignity in doing what the men who may die for me are asked to do.”

She was treading on thin ice, and she knew it. So she said nothing.

“Whatever you’re trying to do, my lady,” Merrick said, stepping closer, “understand this. Never again presume to question my actions or my decisions in front of my men. I am the lord here, my lady, not you, and I will not be criticized in public.”

As she flushed hotly and told herself her indignant anger was necessary, he finally put on his shirt. It hung loose from his broad shoulders, the hem at his muscular thighs. The unlaced neck gaped, revealing enough of his chest to make this seem a tease.

Rolling the sleeves up over his forearms, he gazed at her steadily, and his voice dropped to a low growl, like the purring of a large and not-quite-tamed cat. “However, when we’re alone, you may criticize me all you like.”

He couldn’t be sincere. “You don’t mean that.”

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t say it.”

She couldn’t believe any nobleman could truly be so acquiescent, let alone this one. “And you won’t take offense?”

“I may very well take offense, but I won’t punish you for it.”

She sniffed derisively. “How can I believe that?”

“Because I give you my word.”

“And if I should refuse you your rights in the bedchamber?” she challenged, certain she had found one thing he would insist upon.

“I would expect you to tell me why, so that I may remedy the situation.”

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