Page 82 of The Unwilling Bride
Ranulf’s words brought no comfort as that old, familiar, hated fear gripped Merrick again. A journey. A road. A wood. The dying. The dead. And blood upon the ground.
He forced the memories away. “I want that many men. Or do you think I’m leaving Tregellas too unprotected?”
“God save you, no. This place is so well fortified, a band of children could hold it against an assault.”
Ranulf’s confidence brought no relief, either.
Merrick went over to a stand holding several simple iron swords, their hilts wrapped with leather strips. So many weapons. So many soldiers. So why could he never feel completely safe? “The men will be ready to go at first light?”
“Absolutely. Will your wife?”
Merrick closed his eyes a moment, remembering their last argument. His anger. His harsh words. “Absolutely.”
“I thought perhaps you might want her to stay here.”
“No. Another pair of ears, especially for what the women are saying, will be valuable.”
“Does she know what you want her to do?”
She knew. That didn’t mean she would do it. Yet rather than answering, Merrick grabbed one of the swords and took a few practice swings.
“I was afraid you didn’t care what she thought about anything after the hall moot.”
Ranulf was trying to sound nonchalant, as he always did, but Merrick wasn’t fooled. The very fact that he was saying anything at all about Merrick’s relationship with his wife after their last confrontation on that subject revealed a deep and genuine concern.
No matter how well-meaning he might be, Ranulf would never understand, any more than Henry could.
So Merrick didn’t reply, hoping Ranulf would take the hint and speak of something else.
He didn’t.
“Is all well between you, then, despite appearances?” he inquired as he leaned back against the rough stone wall and crossed his arms as if he intended to stay until he had some answers.
If it was to be a contest of wills, Ranulf was going to lose, Merrick thought, disgruntled, as he made a defensive feint.
“You’re happy together?”
Merrick turned and aimed a blow at an imaginary opponent.
“That’s just what I thought. All is not well, and hasn’t been since the hall moot. In fact, I’d say you’re the most miserable man in Tregellas.”
Merrick decided to answer that, or who could say what other conclusions Ranulf would reach? “You’re wrong,” he said as he replaced the sword.
Ranulf’s eyes widened with exaggerated surprise. “Oh, so you’re stomping around like an enraged bull and growling at everybody because you’re deliriously happy, and Constance is floating about like a disheartened ghost because she’s blissfully content.”
“My wife doesn’t float,” Merrick retorted. He nodded at stacks of thin wooden shafts on a nearby shelf and sought to focus Ranulf’s attention elsewhere. “Are those arrows ever going to get feathered?”
“Tomorrow, and don’t change the subject,” Ranulf countered. “Are you going to talk to Constance and smooth things over, or are you going to let the ditch between you widen until you can’t bridge it at all?”
First Henry, now Ranulf. Who would be the next to offer him advice? Beatrice? “My relationship with my wife is none of your concern.”
“Yes, it is,” Ranulf replied, “when you’re ruining it.”
Merrick marched toward the door. “I’m not going to talk to you about my marriage.”
Ranulf intercepted him. “Well, you’d better talk tosomebody—preferably your wife, and the sooner the better.”
Merrick’s brows lowered as his patience deserted him. “For a man whose own history with women is not the best, you have a lot of gall.”
