The Unwilling Bride. Margaret Moore

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      Worse, if he was as vindictive as she remembered, he would surely demand compensation if she tried to break the betrothal agreement, leaving her with no dowry for another marriage, which was why she planned to induce Merrick to break the contract. That way, he couldn’t claim that she’d wronged him.

      Beatrice jumped up from the bed and threw open the large, carved oaken chest that held her cousin’s clothes. “What are you going to wear to meet him?” she asked, surveying the few fine garments inside.

      “The gown I have on.”

      Beatrice stared at her cousin as if she’d never heard anything so ludicrous in her life. “But your peacock blue bliaut with the silver threads looks so much better with your eyes and hair.”

      Constance was well aware that the long blue tunic worn over a thinner gown of white or silver flattered her fair coloring and brought out the blue in her eyes. The yellowish green of the dress she was currently wearing made her look sickly—which was precisely why she’d chosen it.

      “I don’t have time to change,” Constance replied, wondering if that was true, and praying that it was.

      As if to confirm her reply, a sharp rap sounded on the door before it was immediately opened by Beatrice’s father. Lord Carrell strode into the bedchamber, his long parti-colored robe swishing about his ankles. Ignoring his daughter, he ran a measuring gaze over his niece.

      Her uncle had never loved her, of that Constance was quite certain. If he’d had any concern for her happiness, or any fear for her safety, he would have asked Lord William to release her from the betrothal years ago and taken her to his home. But he had not.

      How different her life might have been if her mother hadn’t died giving her birth, and her father from a fall not six months later.

      “Merrick and his party are nearly here,” Lord Carrell announced.

      Constance felt as if a lead weight had settled in her stomach. “How many men did he bring with him?”

      “Two.”

      “Only two?” she asked, dumbfounded. The Merrick she’d known would have delighted in a show of power and importance, so she’d expected him to have an escort of at least twenty. With that in mind, she’d ordered accommodations to be prepared for that number, with a warning to the servants that there might be more.

      “That shouldn’t be so surprising,” her uncle replied. “No one in Cornwall would dare to attack the lord of Tregellas.”

      “No, I don’t suppose they would,” Constance agreed. They certainly wouldn’t have dared to attack Merrick’s father, whose retribution would have been swift and merciless.

      “Smile, Constance,” her uncle said with an expression she assumed was intended to be comforting, not condescending. “I doubt your life will be worse as Merrick’s wife than when Lord William ruled here.”

      It couldn’t get very much worse, she thought, except that as Merrick’s wife, she’d share his bed—which might be terrible indeed. As for her uncle’s attempt to console her, he wouldn’t be the one living in hell if he was wrong.

      “What do we really know of Merrick?” she asked, some of her genuine distress slipping into her voice.

      Her uncle gave her a patronizing smile that set her teeth on edge. “What is there to know? He’s your betrothed. And if you have any little difficulties, you should be able to deal with him. You’re a beautiful, clever woman.”

      “What if doesn’t want to marry me and is only doing so because of the contract?”

      “Once he sees you again, Constance, I’m sure you’ll please him.”

      As if she were a slave, or chattel to be bartered.

      “Now come along. Lord Algernon has already gone to the courtyard to greet him.”

      If Merrick’s paternal uncle was waiting in the courtyard, she had little choice but to follow at once.

      Trailed by Beatrice, Constance and her uncle hurried down the curving stone steps and through the great hall, a huge chamber with a high beamed ceiling and corbels carved in the shapes of wolves’ heads holding up great oaken beams. The raised dais sported a fireplace in the wall behind it—something only the most progressive nobles had added to their castles. The late Lord William had never denied himself any innovations that would add to his personal comfort.

      In spite of her worries, Constance made a swift survey to ensure all was in readiness for the new overlord. Fresh rushes had been spread on the floor, with rosemary and fleabane sprinkled over them. The tapestries had been beaten as free of dust and soot as possible. The tables had been scrubbed and rubbed with wax, the chairs for the high tables had been cleaned, and their cushions repaired or replaced.

      As they left the hall, Constance blinked in the sunlight. Lord Algernon, his portly body clad in rich garments of silk and velvet, bowed in greeting and gave her a slightly strained smile.

      All of the garrison except those on guard stood in neat rows, their backs straight, their mail polished, their helmets gleaming. Groups of well-dressed folk from the village—merchants, tenants and vassals who owed the lord tithes and service, as well as their families—waited quietly, too.

      Equally uneasy servants crowded the doors of the buildings, and a few peered from the upper windows of the keep, or the family bedchambers. Indeed, it seemed as if the very stones of Tregellas were keeping a wary vigil.

      And then her straining ears caught the sound she’d been dreading: horses coming through the inner gatehouse.

      Three knights appeared, riding side by side into the courtyard. All three were tall and well built. All three looked as if they could easily defeat ten men without breaking a sweat.

      The one to Constance’s left wore a forest-green surcoat over his chain mail hauberk, and his horse’s trappings were likewise forest-green, with a worked-leather breast collar and britchens. He reminded Constance of a fox with his straight nose, pointed chin and reddish hair. Merrick had been as clever as a fox, too, but there was nothing in this man’s features or coloring to make her think he was Wicked William’s son.

      The smiling man on the right wore a surcoat of brilliant scarlet wonderfully embroidered with gold and silver threads. The accoutrements of his destrier were just as flamboyant and costly; they would be hard to miss from a mile away. This merry, smiling fellow had the easy confidence of a nobleman, but he seemed too amiable and fair of face to be Merrick.

      Therefore Merrick had to be the man in the middle, wearing a surcoat of plain black. He didn’t much resemble the boy she remembered, either in form or feature. This man’s eyes weren’t impish slits, and as for his lips, they weren’t thin now, or smirking, but full and well cut. He was also the tallest by half a head, lean and muscular, and his unexpectedly long black hair waved to his broad shoulders.

      All three knights dismounted easily, swinging down from the saddle in perfect unison, as if their mail weighed next to nothing. The black-clad man’s unblinking gaze swept over the yard and everyone in it until it finally settled, with unwavering directness, on her, dispelling any doubts as to which one was the son of Lord William. So had his father looked at her a hundred, nay, a thousand times, before he erupted СКАЧАТЬ