Page 24 of The Unwilling Bride
“I wouldn’t want you to fall and break a limb before our wedding,” Merrick replied as he leapt lightly down from the dais and proceeded through the hall.
Alan de Vern, who should have come to her aid, started to chuckle. So did his pleasant, plump wife and those around them, and soon the hall rang with laughter. A swift glance showed that her uncle and Lord Algernon were also amused, and Henry grinned like a gargoyle. Ranulf was apparently more intent on the fruit pie before him.
“Let me down, you big ox!” she hissed in Merrick’s ear as he wove his way through the tables. “What will people say?”
“I believe, my lady, they already have plenty to discuss about you and me,” he said as he reached the stairs. “If you were afraid of scandal, you should have watched how much wine you imbibed. You were gulping it like a sot.”
“Put me down!” she insisted. This had gone far enough.
“Put me down!” she repeated when he didn’t. She was no piece of baggage. She wasn’t yet his chattel. To rule as he would. Or ignore as he would.
When he still didn’t release her, she slapped him.
The whole hall seemed to gasp with one breath and she instantly realized the enormity of what she’d done. Although he didn’t so much as flinch, she could see the red mark of her palm on his cheek. “My lord, I—I’m—!”
Without a word, he tightened his hold. Grimly silent, he began to take the stairs two at a time. She clung to his neck, afraid he would drop her, and more afraid of what he’d do when they reached her bedchamber. “My lord, forgive me!”
“Say nothing, Constance,” he growled. “Nothing until we’re alone.”
She’d be lucky if he only slapped her in return.
A tear slid down her cheek. Then another. If he beat her, that would be the proof she needed that he was his father’s son.
She didn’t want him to be his father’s son. She wanted him to be the man she’d come to respect. To admire. To…
He reached her chamber and shoved open the door with his shoulder. A rushlight burned on her dressing table, the weak flame leaving most of the room in shadow as he set her down. Distraught, dismayed, still a little drunk, she felt her knees give way and she slid to the floor.
“Get up,” he ordered.
“I…I can’t.”
He reached down and pulled her to her feet. Holding her steady by the shoulders, he glared at her. Then his dark eyes widened with shock. “Are you crying?”
“Are you going to beat me?”
“I’ve never struck a woman in my life!”
A sob of relief broke from her lips.
“I could never hurt you, Constance—never!” he whispered as he pulled her into his arms.
She heard the sincerity in his voice, felt it in his tense body, and believed him. He would never hurt her.
She relaxed into his embrace and wrapped her arms around him. Closing her eyes, she drew in a shuddering breath, leaning her cheek against his chest. She was safe in his arms. Protected.
He drew back and she hoped to see some affection in his eyes, but while there was concern, there was reserve also. “I will leave you now.”
She didn’t want him to go, so she kept her arms around him. “I did have too much wine. It’s a different thing when men get drunk. Nobody thinks anything of that.”
His little smile warmed her entire body. “I’ve never been drunk.”
“What, never?”
“No,” he replied as he stroked her cheek with his calloused palm. It was a man’s touch. A warrior’s gentle caress. “Constance,” he asked softly, “do you want to marry me?”
“I…I beg your pardon?” she stammered, trying to focus on what he was saying, and not just his moving lips.
“I am asking you if you want to be my wife.”
