Page 70 of The Unwilling Bride
Perhaps this was his punishment at last—to have Constance for his wife, to know a short time of bliss, then have it all ripped from him, and while trying to do right.
Maybe there was nothing he could ever do to be absolved of his sins.
He heard the door open, and for a brief instant, hoped Constance had returned. But a man’s familiar footsteps heralded a different visitor.
“For God’s sake, Merrick, what did you say to Constance?” Henry demanded. “She looks like death. Did you quarrel? Was it over that woman? Did you explain why you stood whispering to the chandler’s daughter as if you were lovers conspiring to rendezvous?”
He slowly turned around, his hand tightening on his sword hilt until his knuckles were white as he fought for control.
“I thought you knew me better, Henry,” he said, trying to keep the despair from his voice. To pretend he was strong. To remember that he was a mighty lord, and nota frightened little boy alone in the woods. “I would never betray my vows to my wife.”
“What did you expect?” Henry asked incredulously. “What do you think the villagers made of that cozy little tête-à-tête? And then your announcement that they couldn’t wed?”
Merrick’s jaw clenched as his restraint dwindled. “I expect them to believe me an honorable man.”
“What, you think you’ve won their trust in a few weeks after years of abuse at your father’s hands?”
His temper burst, raging like a river bursting through a dam. “I’m not my father!” He slammed his fist on the table. “How many times must I say it?”
Shocked at his outburst, Henry backed away and made placating gestures. “All right, you’re not your father and there’s nothing between you and that woman. Of course I believe you, but then, I’m not your wife. It’d only be natural for her to be jealous.”
“She has no reason to be jealous of me,” Merrick snarled.
“She’s a woman. They need very little reason.”
“I don’t need any advice about women from you,” Merrick retorted, struggling to regain mastery over his anger, in spite of Henry’s infuriating observations.
Henry couldn’t possibly understand. To him, women were toys, amusing playthings put on this earth to entertain him. He had no idea what it was like to truly love a woman, to love her so much he’d do anything to have her, even if it meant keeping a terrible secret for yearsand years. To live with the fear that one lapse, one inadvertent word, would tear her from him and make her hate him forever.
“Well, you’d better listen to somebody, or you’re going to lose her,” Henry said.
She might already be lost to him, Merrick realized, and pain, like the grip of bony dead fingers, squeezed his heart.
“Go away, Henry.” He wanted to be left alone to deal with this agony in his own way, as he had for fifteen years.
“Do you think telling me to leave is going to change anything?” Henry asked quietly.
Of course not, and he knew that better than Henry. He wasn’t a fool—and Henry was no virtuous priest to counsel him.
Merrick’s temper flared again and his hands balled into fists. “No, because you’ll talk and talk and talk whether I listen or not, offering your unwanted advice, as if you’re the world’s greatest lover and all the rest of us are dolts.”
Henry flushed. “I’m only trying—”
“I don’t give a rat’s turd for what you’re trying to do!”
Pain came to Henry’s eyes, but Merrick was beyond caring.
“Why are you still in Tregellas, Henry? Do you see your chance to make a good marriage? Beatrice is young and silly, but what is that to a great lover like you? You’ll either teach her well, or satisfy yourself with another despite your marriage vows.”
Henry blanched. “I have no such—”
“So why haven’t you left? Have you stayed to offerme advice I don’t want? To live off my land, eating my food, drinking my wine, making eyes at my wife?” Merrick’s dark brows lowered ominously as a new source of fury arose, one he’d been burying for weeks. “Maybe it’s Constance you really want, not her cousin.”
“Merrick, you go too far.”
“Do I?” he charged, now certain he’d been tricked by a serpent in their midst. The deceiver deceived—a fitting retribution.
“I haven’t forgotten we swore an oath that we would trust each other, fight for each other, guard each other,” Henry returned. “Have you? You must have, or how else could you say such things to me, or demean Ranulf as you have, treating him like your lackey or a common mercenary? He’s your friend, for God’s sake, and so am I. That’s why I’ll tell you the hard truth, whether you want to hear it or not.”
