Page 44 of The Unwilling Bride
The curtains were slowly parted by a strong male hand.
Merrick’s hand. He was there, in the bed, covered to his waist by a sheet, the rest of him naked and exposed, his long hair unbound. He sat up and smiled slowly, seductively. “Come to me, Constance,” he whispered as she stood rooted to the spot. “You know it’s what you want.”
She didn’t dare move. If she went to him, if she let him enfold her in his arms and take her to his bed, she would never be free of him.
But did she want to be free of Merrick? If she were his wife, he would protect her. He would treat her kindly and with respect, as his father and her uncle never had. She would be cherished, for she’d seen more than lust in his eyes when he looked at her.
Why not surrender? Why not take what he offered and what, deep in her heart, she truly wanted?
She took a hesitant step forward. Then another. His smile grew and his passionate eyes gleamed in the candlelight. He raised his hand, reaching out for her.
Sounds from outside interrupted. Far-off, distant, but persistent, and her dream dissolved.
Struggling awake, Constance stumbled out of bed and went to the window, sucking in her breath when her feet touched the cold stone floor.
The wall walks were deserted. No guards were at the gates. Where were the soldiers? Where was Merrick?
A group of men went running through the courtyard, half dressed and unarmed. Were they under attack? Had it come to civil war at last?
Smoke. Smoke was in the air. Where did it come from? She scanned the yard and buildings around it. Not the kitchen or the stables. Not anywhere in the castle.
Then she saw the illumination against the dark night sky and realized what it meant. The mill was on fire!
Pulling on her shoes, Constance hopped to the chest where she kept her basket of medicines. They might be needed. Then she threw a gown over her shift, tied the laces as best she could, grabbed her basket and rushed to Merrick’s bedchamber. She opened the door without pausing to knock.
Merrick was already gone. He must have heard the commotion. She pulled the door shut as Beatrice, rubbing her eyes, appeared on the threshold of her bedchamber, a bedrobe over her shift. “What is it?” she asked sleepily.
“The mill’s on fire. I must go and see if I can help.”
Beatrice’s eyes widened in alarm. “What can I—?”
“Go to the kitchen. Tell Gaston to make soup and stew—lots of it.”
“Why would—?”
Constance didn’t stay to answer. Nor did she seek out the uncles or their guests. All she could think about now was the horrible possibility that someone might be hurt, perhaps even dead.
Holding her basket, she ran down the stairs to the hall. A group of frightened servants huddled near the kitchen. They gave a cry when they saw her and hurried to her.
“Oh, my lady, what can we do?” Demelza asked, tears in her eyes as she wrung her hands. “It’s the mill. It’s on fire. Oh, what’ll we do?”
“You women go to the kitchen. Prepare food, and do as Lady Beatrice commands. She’s in charge while I’m at the mill. You men, follow me,” Constance ordered.
Her basket over her arm, she gathered up her skirts and ran to the mill as fast as she could. The servants following her were joined by the village women who had no young children to tend.
As Constance got closer to the river, the sight that met her eyes confirmed her worst fears. The wooden parts of the mill were completely ablaze. Flames shot out of the wheel pit and the open door, and flickeredaround the edges of the slate roof, telling her the beams were alight. Smoke billowed into the sky, obscuring the moon and stars.
A clear night—heaven help them, for never had they needed rain more.
Around the mill, illuminated by the flames, coughing from the smoke, choked by the chaff thick in the air, several men and women stood motionless, stunned by the disaster unfolding before them.
Others—thank God!—had formed a line from the leat to the mill. They dipped leather or wooden buckets into the water and passed them on to those who flung the contents onto the nearest flames. Children took the empty buckets and ran them back to those at the leat.
Was that Ranulf bending and handing off buckets, grabbing more with frantic haste? Where was Merrick? And Henry?
She ordered the men from the castle to join those fetching water.
A cry went up as the roof of the mill collapsed, flames shooting into the dark sky. For a moment nobody moved, until Merrick’s deep, commanding voice rang out. “More water! Don’t stop!”
