The Unwilling Bride

A cheering, extremely excited crowd?

That was what met her eyes as she rounded the mill and discovered groups of villagers gathered at the north edge of the meadow, shouting encouragement to the village men dashing about the field. Off-duty soldiers not involved in the game were gathered at the other end of the field, likewise shouting praise and suggestions to their fellows.

She came to a halt, panting. She was thrilled she was wrong, of course, but even so, one hard hit could still lead to trouble.

Beatrice stopped beside her. “I didn’t mean we had to run,” she said, trying to catch her breath.

“I misjudged the cheers,” Constance admitted. “I thought the men were fighting.”

“Oh,” Beatrice murmured, her attention now fully on the game.

Or at least the half-naked players, Constance realized with a bit of a jolt. For half-naked and sweating they certainly were.

She was no sheltered child, and neither was Beatrice. They’d seen half-naked men before, and men wearing even less working in the fields on a hot summer’s day. Nevertheless, the sight was certainly…disconcerting.

“I just hope nobody gets hurt,” she said, trying to pay attention to the game.

Beatrice gave her a confident smile. “They’ll all be careful, I’m sure. The garrison won’t want Merrick to be angry with them—which he would be if someone got hurt and he had to pay—and the villagers will be afraid to hurt the soldiers because they won’t want to anger Merrick, either.”

That was very likely true, Constance thought with some relief. Then she wondered why that hadn’t occurred to her. She’d obviously been too distracted by…other things.

“Isn’t that Lord Merrick on the field?” Beatrice asked, pointing.

Surely not, Constance thought as she followed her cousin’s gaze. But unless she was going blind, the man in the front of the pack chasing after the ball, with his dark hair streaming behind him like a pennant, was the lord of Tregellas himself. His powerful arms churned and his long and graceful strides reminded her of a stag bounding over the moor.

Constance could hardly believe the evidence of her own eyes. Yet wasn’t that Sir Henry and Sir Ranulf running neck and neck behind him? “By the saints,” she murmured, aghast at both a lord engaging in such play and the sight of her betrothed’s undoubtedly fine body.

“Oh, look! There’s Sir Henry!” Beatrice cried, jumping up and down in her excitement. “He’s got the ball!”

Henry deftly passed it back to Merrick, who charged up the field, keeping the ball just ahead of his rapid feet.

Who was winning? It was hard to tell, for both the villagers and the soldiers were cheering wildly. Constance spotted Talek, the garrison commander, among the soldiers and, taking hold of Beatrice by the sleeve, pushed her way through the crowd of men surrounding him. They were so intent on the game, they didn’t realize who was shoving them aside until after she’d gone past.

She tapped Talek on the arm to get his attention. “Who’s winning?” she shouted over the din.

“It’s a tie,” the middle-aged soldier answered just as loudly. “But we’ve got his lordship, so it’s going to be us who win. I’ve never seen such a fine—”

His words were drowned out by a great roar from the spectators. Merrick had stumbled and nearly fallen, but in the next moment he recovered with a fluid twist of his body. Then he ran even faster, as if that brief setback only spurred him on.

He was nearly at the two posts stuck in the ground marking the goal. The soldiers shouted themselves hoarse. The villagers screamed at their men, and some groaned with dismay.

Constance tried not to get caught up in the excitement. She was a lady, after all, and thus should behave with decorum and dignity. Besides, it was only a game. It didn’t matter who won, as long as fighting didn’t break out.

Merrick was almost at the goal….

The smith’s son charged forward and got the ball away from Merrick. The villagers shouted, loudly urging on their men; the soldiers cursed with astonishing variety and fluency.

Eric passed the ball to his father, who passed it to—

Ranulf intercepted it and, with a quick move, kicked it back to Merrick. His mighty chest heaving, Merrick again started up the field, this time with Henry and Ranulf guarding him on either side.

Perspiration made Merrick’s chest shine in the sun as if it’d been oiled. His breeches were soaked with sweat at the waist and clung to his strong thighs.

More cheering, more cursing—Merrick scored!

“Well done!” Constance cried as she leapt into the air. Then she slapped her hand over her mouth. Could she possibly be more undignified?

Beatrice, whom she’d quite forgotten, had no concern about her appearance as she danced with delight. “I knew we’d win! I knew it!” she declared, clapping.

As the soldiers, led by Talek, surged into the field past them, Constance tried to compose herself. “Yes, well, that was certainly interesting,” she said, keeping her eyes—and attention—on the crowd as the villagers surrounded Eric and the others. There could yet be trouble.

Beatrice stopped prancing. “Interesting? It was wonderful! Merrick was so fast. Whoever would have thought he could run like that?”

“Indeed,” Constance murmured as the foot soldiers surrounded their overlord, who gulped down what seemed an enormous mug of ale that a grinning soldier handed him.

Lord William wouldn’t have deigned to let one of his men get within ten feet of him.

And then Merrick did something more surprising still: he went to the villagers and praised them for their efforts. He was followed by his men, who were laughing and bragging good-naturedly, as were the equally happy and proud villagers.

Obviously Merrick knew men and their reactions better than she did, and he was certainly far more willing to mix with his people than his father had ever been.

What kind of man was the new lord of Tregellas? Could he truly be so different from his father, and the brat she’d loathed for so long?

“Come along, Beatrice,” she said, moving away before the excited soldiers and villagers engulfed them. “I don’t think there’s any need to linger.”

“Don’t you want to congratulate Merrick?” Beatrice asked.

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”

Beatrice frowned. “You do like Merrick, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she replied, not quite sure if that was a lie or not.

Beatrice leaned closer and dropped her voice to a whisper, as if she feared she was about to impart something scandalous. “I know age and looks aren’t supposed to be as important as family or wealth when it comes to a husband, but you’re so lucky he’s handsome. Really, Constance, would you want to make love with someone who looks like…like Ruan, for instance? Thank the blessed Virgin you can look forward to your wedding night.”

Merrick’s voice rose stern and commanding from the midst of the mob of soldiers. “Let me pass.”

Now that could have been his father, Constance thought with a stab of disappointment.

Then she realized that Merrick—still blatantly half-naked, although he held a shirt in his hand—was walking toward her, while the men made way for him as if he was a king.

CHAPTER FIVE

FOR ONE BRIEF INSTANT Constance thought of running away. But how would that look to the men, and Beatrice, too? And hadn’t she faced down the infamous Wicked William of Tregellas more than once?

Beatrice, however, started to sidle away. “I believe I’ll change my gown before the feast,” she murmured.

Then she was gone, leaving Constance feeling like the lone soldier on a bloody battlefield awaiting the enemy’s army.