Page 13 of The Unwilling Bride
That was what Constance was thinking, too.
“I’m sure he’ll want to please you, my lady,” Ruan said quietly, and in a way that seemed to imply all manner of unsavory things. “If you tell him—”
“Good day, Ruan,” she interrupted, turning toward the stairs to the solar.
“Good day, my lady,” he muttered under his breath as he watched the beautiful, haughty lady hurry on her way.
They thought themselves so fine and clever, all these lords and ladies.
Well, he was clever, too.
CONSTANCE RAPPED SHARPLY on the heavy wooden door to the solar, then entered without waiting for Merrickto answer. “I understand you have made certain plans for May Day.”
The lord of Tregellas sat at the trestle table, which was now covered with scrolls. As the wind howled outside the walls, the tapestries swayed in the draught that made its way through the linen shutters that couldn’t keep out the rain. Droplets ran along a jagged path across the sill, then trickled down the wall to puddle on the floor.
“I have,” he said gruffly as he raised his head to look at her. The flame of the plump tallow candle on the table flickered, altering the shadows on his face. The planes of his cheeks. His brown eyes, so dark they were nearly black.
She took a step back, then berated herself for acting like an addlepated ninny. The lord of Tregellas was, after all, just a man.
He gestured at the stool in front of the table that Ruan had likely just vacated. “Will you sit, my lady?”
This might take some time, so perhaps she should. As gracefully as she could, Constance lowered herself onto the stool and arranged her skirts. “You should have consulted with Alan de Vern or me.”
His hands resting on the table before him, Merrick leaned back in his chair and regarded her steadily. “Why? I remembered such activities from my boyhood here and assumed they still continued.”
“There have been some changes since your boyhood, my lord.”
He ran a swift gaze over her. “Yes, so I’ve noticed.”
She frowned. “My lord, this is a very serious matter, and you’d do well to listen to me.”
Furrows of concern appeared between his brows. “Very well, my lady. Explain what has changed.”
How could she possibly make him understand? she wondered as a blast of wind sent another barrage of rain against the tower walls. The tapestry nearest her billowed, as if someone was hiding behind it, although that was impossible. There was no room; she’d supervised the hanging of it herself.
Nevertheless, she shivered and wrapped her arms about herself as she began to explain why there should be no competition between the villagers and the garrison, and especially why he should have nothing whatsoever to do with the Queen of the May. “The men of the garrison are hardened soldiers and they can be brutal when their blood is up. That may serve you well in battle, but can lead to trouble during such sport. The last time there was a foot ball game between the garrison and the villagers, the smith’s son was nearly killed by one of your father’s bodyguards.”
Merrick wordlessly rose and brought the brazier full of glowing coals closer to her chair. She was grateful for the added warmth, and as he moved, she tried not to notice the lithe, athletic grace of his actions, or the power of those broad shoulders and the arms that lifted the heavy iron brazier as easily as another man would a slender branch.
When he went to the small side table that bore a silver carafe of wine and some goblets, her gaze traveled to his equally powerful thighs encased in snug woolen breeches, and his muscular calves.
“Wine, my lady?”
Blushing like a silly girl caught ogling a soldier or servant, she looked quickly up at his face, then away to hide her foolish reaction. “No, thank you.”
He poured himself some wine before strolling back toward the table, bringing the goblet with him. “Such activity is good for my men. It encourages camaraderie between them, and given what I remember of the games in my boyhood, should ensure a healthy respect for the abilities of the villagers—whose blood, I believe, is just as swift to rise. I recall they were fierce competitors. Has that changed?”
She hesitated to answer, because he was right. If the young Eric hadn’t been so keen to get the inflated pig’s bladder through the sticks at the west end of the village, he wouldn’t have collided with that mercenary and subsequently been struck so hard that he’d been knocked cold.
“Well?” Merrick prompted.
“I think they will give your men a battle—which is just what I’m afraid of. This ‘sport’ could turn into a riot.”
“I won’t allow that to happen.”
If ever there was a man capable of holding off a riot single-handedly, she was looking at him. But she wouldn’t grant him that concession. “If you’re able.”
Merrick gave her the closest thing to a genuine smile she had yet seen. “I think between Henry, Ranulf and myself, we can control my men, especially if they’re tired from running after a ball. That’s another reason I would have the game. It will weary my men and prevent them from expending their energy in more harmful ways during the festivities.”
