Page 83 of The Unwilling Bride
“I’ve learned from my dismal history with women,” Ranulf answered, genuine sorrow in his hazel eyes as he put a hand on Merrick’s arm. “Believe me, Merrick, keeping your feelings to yourself and expecting a woman to somehow read your mind is a very serious mistake.”
Everyone was always so sure they were right. That they knew what he should do—when they understood nothing.
“I don’t expect Constance to read my mind,” he shot back as he pulled away. “I expect her to believe that I’m an honorable man, since I’ve given her no reason to think otherwise.”
“And so you’re going to sulk until one of you is dead?”
Merrick’s temper flared. “I’m not sulking!”
“All right,” Ranulf agreed with a shrug, apparently unaffected by his anger. “You’re not sulking. You’re brooding. Moping. Use what word you will.”
Merrick pushed past him. “This is pointless.”
Again Ranulf blocked his way. “It would be pointless if I didn’t believe you cared about her. But you do—more than I’ve ever seen you care about anything or anybody.”
Friend or not, Merrick wasn’t going to talk about his wife with Ranulf. “Let me pass.”
“For God’s sake, Merrick, if you love her, make peace with her!”
“Do not tell me how to live my life!” Merrick snarled. “You’re the commander of my garrison, not my overlord.”
“I thought I was your friend.”
Ranulf’s quiet words hit Merrick like a blow to the chest. He’d lost Constance. And Henry. Would he now lose Ranulf, too?
But he couldn’t be honest with his friend, no matter how much he wanted to be. He might reveal too much.
“Make sure the men and the baggage carts are ready at first light,” he said, walking around Ranulf.
As Merrick opened the door, Ranulf sighed heavily. “And Lady Beatrice?” he asked. “How many men should escort her home?”
Merrick briefly checked his steps. “Ten.”
“Then ten it shall be, my lord,” Ranulf murmured as Merrick closed the door.
CONSTANCE HAD BEEN UNHAPPY for days, but now, seated on her mare in a drizzling rain, her cloak providing little in the way of shelter, she was utterly wretched. She wished she could have stayed at home, where she would at least be warm and dry, as well as not having to dread what might happen at Tintagel.
The women would surely marvel at her husband’s good looks and proud bearing, and make jokes and sly innuendos about his abilities in bed. Maybe one of hisformer lovers would be there, to whisper to other women and smile knowingly and try to catch his eye.
The men would look at her with speculation, just like the few who’d visited Tregellas before Merrick arrived, making her feel like a head of livestock to be judged.
The talk would surely turn to the way the newly wedded couple rarely spoke. How the lord of Tregellas ignored his wife. How she kept her distance from him. Some of the women might try to take her place, at least in his bed. Some of the men might assume she would be anxious for a sympathetic ear, hoping that “comfort” might lead to adultery.
If she’d stayed home, she wouldn’t have to endure that.
If she’d stayed home, Beatrice wouldn’t have had to leave, either. Her poor cousin had sobbed so piteously as she got into the wagon to return to her father’s castle.
Ranulf’s friendship with Merrick seemed to be suffering, too. As Beatrice had taken her farewell, he’d looked as grim as death.
The faces of the villagers they’d passed confirmed that whatever goodwill Merrick had earned, he’d lost it. Only the bevy of workmen repairing the mill had paused in their tasks and nodded a simple greeting as the cortege went by—but then, they were getting well paid by the lord of Tregellas.
Once in Tintagel, she would have to guard her tongue, whether she wanted to or not. Merrick was right. Most men would assume her opinions were also herhusband’s, and so she would have to take care not to embroil them in the turmoil of the court.
Fortunately, it was also the way of the world, or at least of men, to consider women little more than silly children. All she had to do was chatter like Beatrice and give several contradictory opinions about the state of the realm for Lord Osgoode and everyone at Tintagel to assume she was an empty-headed ninny, trying to sound less ignorant than she was. Thus far, she’d been successful. Lord Osgoode now thoroughly patronized her.
What Merrick thought of her new behavior she didn’t know. Although he had never again spent the night away from her, and the telltale bits of chaff in his hair the next morning had told her he’d probably slept in the stables after their most recent argument, he seemed more of a stranger to her now than he ever had.
She sighed heavily. Every hope, every dream of happiness and security she’d had, was in ruins, like the mill. Shattered, like her comb.
