The Unwilling Bride. Margaret Moore

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СКАЧАТЬ gaze flicked to the other noblemen. “If you will excuse us, my lords, I would have some words with my betrothed. Alone.”

      Alone? Was he mad? Or that sure of his power?

      Her uncle and Lord Algernon exchanged brief looks, then bowed a farewell and hurried out the door. So much for their help, she thought sourly. But she had stood alone before a powerful, arrogant man before, and she wouldn’t give in now, not when her freedom was at stake.

      “It isn’t right for us to be alone together before we are married,” she declared, heading after the noblemen. “This is most improper.”

      The lord of Tregellas moved to stand in her way with surprising, and surprisingly lithe, speed.

      “My lord, you may not care about my reputation,” Constance said through clenched teeth as she glared at the man in front of her, “but I do and—”

      “I promise you nothing improper will occur, and unless you give me cause, any man or woman who dares imply that your reputation is less than spotless will have to answer to me.”

      The sheer forcefulness of Merrick’s response stunned and silenced her.

      He reached for one of the stools along the wall and swung it forward as if it weighed no more than a feather, placing it in front of the table. “Please sit down, my lady.”

      She crossed her arms. “I prefer to stand, my lord.”

      “Very well.” Merrick mercifully stayed where he was. “Do you have some objections to the marriage itself, my lady? If so, I would hear them.”

      He spoke so coldly and so severely, she was absolutely certain he would demand her dowry in forfeit if she refused to marry him. “No, my lord,” she lied. “But I would rather not marry so quickly. After all, it’s been fifteen years. We barely know one another.”

      To her surprise, his features relaxed a little. “Forgive me, Constance. My suggestion came from my great joy at being home and here with you again. I left a pretty little girl, and I’ve come home to find a beautiful, intelligent woman.”

      Was she supposed to be flattered? “Perhaps if you’d come home even once in fifteen years, my appearance and the fact that I’m not a silly fool wouldn’t be so unexpected.”

      He stiffened and the little vein in his temple started to throb again.

      Good, but she must go carefully.

      Yet instead of flying into a fury, Merrick merely shrugged his broad shoulders. “My father made no effort to see me, so I made none to see him.”

      What of his betrothed? Had he ever once thought of her until his father died? “He was still your father. As his son, your duty—”

      “Don’t!” Merrick snapped.

      His dark eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. “Do not ever try to tell me about my duty, my lady,” he warned, his voice low and rough. “Do you think my presence here would have made any difference? Do you honestly believe I could have influenced my father, or made his last days better? I more likely would have killed him.”

      Constance could only stare at him, aghast, as she realized he meant what he said. She’d known there was little love between father and son, but she hadn’t expected so much naked hate.

      Merrick raked his hand through his long dark hair. “I gather my vassals and tenants weren’t eager to see my father’s son return.”

      As it had so often, her concern for those under the lord of Tregellas’s power arose within her and subdued any thoughts of her own troubles. “They’re understandably wary, my lord. After all, they haven’t seen you in years and have no idea what kind of overlord you’ll be.”

      “As you, having known my father, are no doubt wondering what sort of husband I’ll make, and likely fearing the worst. I shouldn’t be surprised that you asked for more time before the ceremony.”

      She nearly choked. What was he, some kind of seer or mind reader? Or had she been too obvious?

      “Did my father…” He hesitated for the briefest of moments before continuing. “Did my father ever lay hands on you?”

      It would have been no thanks to her absent betrothed if he had. “My dowry was apparently worth more to him than my maidenhead.”

      Merrick winced at her blunt words.

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ