Page 28 of The Unwilling Bride
His action reminded her of another man who raged, and she backed toward the altar. “Leave me, Kiernan.”
“Can’t you see, Constance? He only wants your dowry, and the power that goes with the alliance to your family. He’ll treat you badly and make you miserable. I could never do that. Never!” He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her toward him. “I love you, Constance, and I know you love me.”
Anger, disgust, outraged pride and revulsion filled her as she twisted free of Kiernan’s grasp. “I don’t love you and I never have. Now go, and don’t try to speak to me alone again.”
Kiernan stared at her, aghast, and his eyes filled with tears. “What were all those smiles, those happy hours we spent sitting together, your joy when I came to visit?”
“I was glad of your company, as I was for any friendly face. Now please go.”
“You can’t want to marry him,” Kiernan charged. “You feel bound by your father’s word and the need to protect the people of Tregellas.”
“Don’t presume to tell me what I feel. All you need know is that even if I were free, I wouldn’t marry you.”
When Kiernan’s shoulders finally slumped as if in defeat, her anger softened into sympathy. They had enjoyed some pleasant times together, although to her they were no more than a brief respite from anxiety and fear. Yet for the sake of those happier times, and his friendship, she spoke gently. “I want you to be happy, Kiernan. I want you to have a wife who loves you with all her heart. I’m not that woman.”
“You’re wrong,” he whispered, raising his head, his gray eyes flashing with what could be passionate devotion—or passionate hate. “You’ll see.”
She put out her hand to touch his arm. “Kiernan, don’t do anything foolish. Merrick is a proven warrior and…”
Kiernan stepped back as if he feared contact with her would scald him. “I’m not a child, Constance. I grant that I made a mistake coming here like this, but I can’t believe you want to marry that man I met in the hall. You’re a warm, loving woman and he’s as cold as snow.”
“Snow can melt.”
“Or freeze what it covers. He’ll destroy you, Constance, as his father destroyed his mother. Love me or not as you will, but I won’t let that bastard have you.”
His words chilled her. “I’m not a thing for you to wrest from his grasp.”
“But you’re not free, either.” He took hold of her hands. “Let me set you free.”
She pulled away. “Kiernan, please leave me and let me look after myself.”
“You’re only a woman—”
“Who kept Wicked William from laying waste to Tregellas, or making the people rise up in rebellion to protect themselves. If you have no faith in my ability to make my way, I do.” She put her hand on his chest and started propelling him down the nave. “Now go, before you’re discovered here and our lives are ruined.”
“Am I to have no hope of you, Constance?” he pleaded.
“No,” she answered firmly, but not unkindly, as she looked out the door to make sure no one would see him.
His expression hardened. “Someday you’ll be glad of my company again,” he said before he hurried swiftly from the building.
Sighing, Constance gathered up her sewing, since there was no longer any need to stay here. How she wished Kiernan and his father had not come! It would be better if they were in London. Or on a pilgrimage to Rome.
She left the chapel and was nearly past the lady’s garden beside the family apartments when she spotted Beatrice seated on the small stone bench inside.
Her cousin’s shoulders were slumped and she rested her cheek on one hand, the very picture of despondent despair. That was so unlike Beatrice, Constance immediately opened the gate and hurried toward her along the narrow, pebbled pathway.
It wasn’t much of a garden, Lord William considering it a waste of money. Three rosebushes made a brave attempt to climb the wall, and a few small groups of hardy flowers had begun to sprout.
Her worries increased when Beatrice didn’t seem to hear her approach. “Beatrice?” Constance said softly, sitting beside her and setting her workbasket on the ground. “What’s wrong? Are you ill?”
Beatrice looked up at her and woefully shook her head. “I’m not sick. I’m…” She shrugged and sighed, then fixed an anxious gaze on Constance’s face. “Has my father ever said anything to you about when I’m to be married?”
“No,” Constance admitted.
“He hasn’t once spoken to me about it, either, and I’m nearly sixteen. You were betrothed when you were five.”
Constance had wondered about this more than once, and the conclusion she’d reached had been a painful one for her. “He must intend to consult with you when it comes time to pick your husband.”
