Page 53 of The Unwilling Bride
Constance didn’t want Kiernan, yet she didn’t think he’d be suitable for Beatrice, either. Or any woman she cared about. He was nice enough in his way, but there was something…lacking…somehow. However, therewas no point voicing any reservations. After all, Kiernan might not “suit” Beatrice, either.
Beatrice covered her mouth to hide a prodigious yawn. “God’s rood, I am tired. I suppose everybody is. Ranulf barely spoke two words when he came back to the hall and had some stew. I wonder how long he’s going to stay. Has Merrick said anything about a new garrison commander?”
“No.” Constance suddenly felt utterly exhausted. “Come, Beatrice, we should both have a nap. It was a long and busy night.”
“I suppose that would be wise,” Beatrice agreed, albeit reluctantly, as she followed Constance from the kitchen. “And I suppose I should be more upset about the fire, but it was rather exciting, too. That must be a little like being in battle, don’t you think? I felt like the leader of an army, although of course, servants aren’t soldiers. I had no time to worry if what I was doing was exactly right or not.”
“I suspect battles are much worse,” Constance said as she slowly made her way up the steps toward their bedchambers, gripping the handrail carved in the side of the wall and worn smooth over the years. “Either way, both are terrible things.”
Beatrice flushed. “I know. That is, I’m sure battles are horrid. So many people die! I didn’t mean to imply—”
“It’s all right, Beatrice,” Constance said as she stifled another yawn. “I know what you meant.”
At least Beatrice would be quiet once she was asleep.
THE NEXT MORNING AFTER compline, Constance took herself to Merrick’s solar. He’d gone with some soldiers to search the area around the mill, and ordered more patrols of the estate. He shouldn’t be absent from the castle for much longer, though, and even if he was, she wanted to get away from Beatrice, who was still going on about the fire and speculating as to its cause until Constance thought she was going to scream at her to be quiet.
Strolling toward the table, she looked over the parchments open there. That must be his writing, she thought as she studied a few notations beside some figures Alan de Vern had written. It was a strong, firm hand—like the man himself.
She sat in his cushioned chair. How many times had she stood on the other side of this table and waited for Lord William to start shouting or throw something at her? How often had he screamed at her, shrieking his anger, claiming that everyone was out to destroy him? Accusing his brother Algernon of coveting his possessions, and crying out that he had legions of enemies plotting to assassinate him. Toward the end, the shouts had become feeble cries that ended, more often than not, in self-pitying sobs.
She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Those days were over now. Really over…
A kiss on her forehead brought her awake with a start, to find Merrick bending over her, his expression as grave as she’d ever seen it.
Constance gripped the arms of the chair. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
His lips curved upward, and his eyes shone with affection. “Nothing. I simply couldn’t resist the urge to kiss you.”
Constance put her hand to her breast. “You frightened me.” She realized where she was sitting and hurried to stand. “I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep.”
He went to the small side table and poured some wine. “There’s no need for you to vacate my chair,” he said as he came toward her and held out a goblet.
Since she was thirsty, she didn’t decline the offer, and since she was tired, she sat.
“Did you discover any sign of who might have set the fire?” she asked.
Merrick shook his head as he got himself a drink. “The ground was trampled and muddy from the rain yesterday evening, and if there was evidence in the shed, it was destroyed.”
“Did anybody in the village see anyone skulking about the mill before the fire started?”
“No. Whoever set it, they weren’t seen—or if they were, somebody’s protecting them, the same way they protect smugglers.”
Constance tensed, then answered with firm conviction. “This is different, Merrick. Setting fire to the mill hurts everyone who eats bread. The smugglers believe the only person they’re robbing is a king who regards them as foreigners and taxes them unfairly.” She remembered Beatrice’s suggestions. “Beatrice wondered if it might have been caused by a drunken man on his way home.”
“The miller says the shed was kept locked, and we found what was left of the heavy iron lock outside the door. It was broken in two pieces, but whether before or from the heat of the fire, we can’t tell. If it was done before, to gain entry to the shed, I doubt it was done by a man sodden with drink, although it’s possible, I suppose. But the night was clear. What reason would a man have to seek shelter in the shed?”
“Perhaps he didn’t want anyone at his home to know he was drunk,” she proposed.
“Do you have anyone in mind?”
She shook her head. “Alas, no.”
He sighed. “I fear it’s as I suspect. The fire was deliberately set. Is there no one in or near Tregellas you think might be capable of such a crime or believe he has cause for such an act? Perhaps a disgruntled soldier or a disappointed lover? I can believe a man who feels the sting of rejection could be driven to some mad form of revenge.”
She guessed what he was implying and hastened to clear his mind of that suspicion. “Not Kiernan. He wouldn’t be so evil…or so furtive.”
“I agree that he’s the least likely. He’s the sort to challenge me directly.”
