Midnight's Bride (2 page)

“Why she done killed old Baron Durham,” he had said. “He thought she was near to drappin' a bairn.”

“That killed him?” Mereck's left brow had risen in disbelief.

“Nay,” the tinker chortled. “'Twas by coaxin' him aside her bath. He got a look at her neked body.”

“You believe the sight of her killed him?” Mereck probed.

“Never heard of old ones dyin' from seein' a neked slip of a girl.” He scratched his groin and thought a moment. “Nay, musta poisoned him. What 'bout all the others? Some could not run fast enuff to be rid of her. Stumbled o'er their own feet, they did. She's to be giv'n to the first 'un thru the gate soon's the sun rises, but not e'en swineherds wud chance weddin' sech a one now.”

Mereck chuckled as he led his men through the portal of the barbican and into the bailey of Wycliffe Castle. The first rays of dawn barely peeked over the horizon. After pointing at his standard bearer, men atop the walkways gawked at him. Mereck glanced over his shoulder. Caught by a breeze, two banners cracked in the wind. One the Morgan standard, the other, black letters on a field of scarlet. He scowled at the lad, who quickly lowered the second.

An unusual number of people milled about in the bailey, and his gaze caught the stable master and his helpers. A falconer stood nearby with a young merlin perched on his wrist. The chandler, carrying a rod of new-made candles dangling by their wicks, walked so slowly the candles did not sway. The cook, hugging an empty iron pot, eyed him from his head to his toes, while laundresses, clutching dirty linens to their breasts, shuffled through the dust and headed to the stables.

To the stables?

Why were they all not at their duties? 'Twas interesting.

Annoyed by his beard, Mereck scratched his chin and used his gift, his special gift, inherited from his Welsh mother. He freed his mind to search their thoughts for his answers. Words screamed from all directions, making him grimace with pain:
savage
,
poor mite
,
kill her
,
shameful
,
old bastid
.

Baron George of Wycliffe lumbered down the wooden stairs as Mereck vaulted from his saddle. He handed his destrier's reins to his squire and turned to his first-in-command. “See to the men. Dinna turn your back,” he murmured as he glanced at the lingering crowd.

“Greetings, greetings, my good man.” Wycliffe's smile was fawning as he approached. “I see your man bears Lord Morgan's banner. I have heard much of him.”

“Thank you, Baron.” Mereck's nod acknowledged Wycliffe courteously. “I am Mereck of Blackthorn, friend to Bleddyn ap Tewdwr, Caer Cad-well's overlord. I come at his bidding.”

Mereck found it strange he was welcomed so heartily. 'Twas no more than two leagues from Wycliffe that a band of masterless warriors had set upon them, no doubt planning to rob them of their fine mounts. He had not the opportunity to change from his bloodied Welsh war garb.

Could the tinker from last eve be right that a father would marry his daughter to a stranger without thought of her welfare? Even so, would he not have denied someone like him? Blue dye stained one side of his face. He wore a blood-splattered ox-hide tunic, which came to just below his knees, wolf skins draped across his shoulders and leather arm bands from his wrists to his elbows. The size of his sword alone added an extra threat to his appearance.

At Blackthorn, if warriors such as his were to appear unexpectedly, he would have stood atop the gatehouse with a closed portcullis, his archers armed and ready until he learned the reason for the visit.

“Will Lord Bleddyn not come for his yearly call?” the baron asked as he led Mereck up the stairs and into the great hall.

“He is at Blackthorn Castle in Scotland, Baron. I came to England on another matter. Lord Bleddyn asked that I visit you and inquire how the heiress to Caer Cad-well fares.”

The baron rubbed his hands together and grinned before he waved Mereck toward the high table. As Mereck crossed to it, he scrutinized the room before sitting across from Wycliffe. Long trestle tables and benches lined the walls, and servants scurried about wiping already cleaned tables and moving stools from one spot to another while avidly watching him.

“Such a lengthy journey must cause your wife to bemoan your absence,” the baron said.

“Wife? I have no wife, sir.”

“Do you spend much time in Wales?” George asked.

In reply, Mereck's brow quirked.

“You are Welsh, are you not?” the baron supplied. “No other would be at ease in such savage garb.”

Mereck narrowed his eyes, and the baron stammered to a halt.

“I command the Morgan's warriors at Blackthorn Castle and spend most of my time in the Highlands. My mother was Welsh. I uphold much of her family's customs.”

“Ahh. And what think you of Caer Cad-well? Would you wed to claim such as your own?”

“I am Damron of Blackthorn's bastard half brother and not suitable to be lord over such a demesne.” Mereck let no flicker of expression betray his thoughts. No matter how angry, no father would give his wealthy daughter to a bastard, unless the suitor was a royal one acknowledged by his sire.

“Your bastardy means naught to me, sir.” The baron's lips curled in a sly smile. “Your deeds as a warrior and leader of Lord Damron's army have made you famous throughout England.” He near wriggled with excitement. “I spied your standard. Only the fiercest warrior in the land can have earned the name Baresark from his enemies.”

Mereck's hands clenched under the table remembering the first time someone had pinned the title on him. He held his tongue, for he craved nothing more than his own lands, especially these particular lands. Why was the baron so eager to rid himself of his daughter? There had to be more to the story than the tales he had heard.

He felt someone studying him, as if soft fingers ran over his hair, down his back and arm. He shifted on the bench, feeling their heat before they jerked away. A woman. Her gaze physical. Determined. Studying the balcony above, he sought her form. He did not see her. She hid in the shadows.

Mereck felt the instant she left.

 

Netta's hand covered her mouth to still its trembling. The stranger sat, his back to her, talking to her father in a rich baritone. The melodious sound, in stark contrast to his powerful body, drifted up to her. She couldn't see his face. From what she did see, she knew what he was.

A savage. A giant of a savage.

Long wavy hair, neither brown nor golden, a mixture of both, fell about his shoulders. She saw flashes of blue dye at his temple. He wore wolf skins as casually as her father wore a cloak. Slender, sensuous fingers rubbed over his chin and hesitated as if annoyed to find the tangled beard there. Shifting on the bench, his blood-stained hide tunic rode up his leg, revealing a muscular thigh as substantial as a tree trunk.

The barbarian must have felt her scrutiny. His head turned. Afraid that he would spy her in the shadows, she wasted no time pulling back out of sight.

She had to see his face.

If she was very careful, she could make her way to the outer door of the castle. From there, she would have a clear view of the lord's table where the men sat. Spying a large bowl of flowers on a nearby table, she hugged them to her. She could look between the blossoms and still hide her face.

By the time she went down the stairs and to the entrance of the great hall, her nose began to twitch. Saints preserve her! Someone had stuck feathers deep in the arrangement. Her stepsisters, Priscilla or Elizabeth. Likely mean-spirited Prissy. She'd vow her life on it. Not only did Prissy know Netta loved flowers, she knew feathers made her sneeze.

Oh, saints! She held her breath. Too late. An explosive sneeze that would do justice to as large a man as the barbarian erupted from her lips. The flowers parted. Sea-green eyes stared into hers. She gasped in three hasty breaths. Another powerful sneeze burst forth.

The flower arrangement catapulted to the floor.

Baron Wycliffe sprang from his bench, crashing it backward. “Netta! Hold.” His bellow sent servants racing for cover.

Netta darted for the outer door, running as fast as her legs could carry her. She jerked it open and heard his furious shout.

“'Tis a thief! Seize her.”

Netta flew out into the open and down into the dusty bailey, naked fear adding a burst of speed to her feet. Heavy footsteps thundered close at her heels. She squeaked like a mouse chased by the barn cat. Desperate to find a hiding place, she dashed forward. Where were all the castle folk she had seen gawking about earlier? Her pursuer gained by every step. Whimpering, she fancied she felt his hot, feted breath on her neck. The stables! She leapt through the doorway into the dark interior.

A large callused hand clamped on her shoulder and jerked her to a halt.

“Why do you flee, girl? What have you taken?” The words held a harsh thread of warning.

She recognized that voice. It belonged to the man in the great hall. Ugh. She smelled him too. Blood. Sweat. Chain mail and horse. In great quantities. He held her like a grouse meant for the cook's pot, by the neck with feet dangling in the air.

“I have taken nothing. Unhand me,” Netta gasped out.

“Nay. Not until I know you have not stashed the baron's coins on your person.” He allowed her feet to rest on the floor, her back to him, but he did not release her.

Feeling his hands rove over her body looking for the stolen goods, she fought to defended herself. She scratched, hit, pinched and did everything possible to make the odious man release her. She gasped. He had thrust his hand down the front of her loose tunic and inspected her breasts! His roughened palm grazed over her nipple, sending shock waves through her.

“Cease, oaf.” Outraged, she struck his hand so hard she flattened it further against her tender skin.

He did not stop. What he did do was close his fingers around her quivering flesh and squeeze gently. Deep sounds came from his chest. Much like a giant cat's purr. Horrified, Netta's arms came back, and she rammed her sharp elbows into his body as hard as she could. She yelped, not he. His stomach was like stone.

“You hurt only yourself when you grapple with me, girl. Come. Baron Wycliffe will determine what you have taken.”

His deep voice and his warm breath on the back of her neck made her knees weak. Was she turning into a coward? Her father was still furious with her; she could not let the man give her over to him. She had told Mary she did not care if Father beat her again. Heaven help her. She lied.

The man grasped her shoulders and spun her around. She flinched, and a whimper of pain escaped her lips.

“What is this, girl?” His voice held displeasure.

Sensing what she had to do, she allowed fear to show in her eyes. She had no need to pretend; her voice quavered on its own.

“Please, sir. Do not give me over to the baron. He is cruel beyond measure. He likes beating the servant girls, he does. The more we cry out, the more the master enjoys it.” She guiltily sent a quick prayer to her favorite saint, Saint Agnes, to forgive her the lie. Father only enjoyed beating
her
.

She looked up at him and shuddered. Not only was he a giant of a man, he was a hairy one, too. He had painted half his face blue! She could not see the rest of it for all the hair that dwelled there. Many Saxon men wore beards, but this man had enough hair on his face to make two men proud. She tilted her head back to see more of him and met his eyes. Beautiful green eyes that searched her own. Their beauty was not only in their color, but in their expression.

Sympathy? How could that be? Confused, she kept silent.

“What would you have me do, girl?” He frowned down at her. “You heard your master demand I seize you. I cannot hide you behind me and pretend you are not there.” His brows arched.

Not hide her? Aye, he could. As mighty as he was, another man could disappear behind him. Was that a smile behind his whiskers?

“Sir, can you not tell him you lost me amongst the people in the bailey?” She hoped the lout would take her suggestion.

“He called you by name. He will easily find you.”

Rats and fleas! She had best be away afore her father became impatient and followed the giant. “Release me and I will join my mother. She works in the kitchens of Ridley Castle, just over the next rise.” Saint Agnes received another prayer begging forgiveness for such a lie. “She will aid me.”

“What if they deny you entrance?”

He sounded worried. Was he a barbarian with a conscience?

“The daughter of the house has need of a lady's maid, sir. She'll not turn me away.”

No cause for another prayer there. She sighed with relief. Elise would be happy to shelter her, but how would she get there? She could not take her favorite mount. Before she could voice her thoughts, he solved the problem for her.

“My squire will take you up behind him. He will stay with you until he is assured they allow you entrance.”

He made good on his word. Dwarfing her wrist in his big hand, he pulled her behind him to the last stall. A young man, a stranger to Netta, tended a huge destrier. He stopped and looked at them. The horse trumpeted and threw his head about in such a vigorous fashion he nearly knocked the lad to the ground.

“You there. Go to Marcus and tell him Baresark has need of a gentle mount.”

Baresark? Netta jerked and near shrieked in fear. The man in Welsh legend her stepmother had told her tales of since she was but five summers old had come to life. Their threats rang through her mind and fright near buckled her knees. Her father had sworn that if she did not obey him, this fearsome warrior from the past would come at his bidding and drag her away to his dungeon.

How had he summoned him? Was her father a warlock? Trying to break the man's steely grasp, she jerked back so hard she feared she would wrench her arm from its socket.

The boy nodded and raced from the room. Why had he grinned when called “you there,” and why was he not afeared of this savage? Instead, his lips had spread even wider on hearing his master call himself Baresark. Was the boy brainsick?

Netta grimaced. Her skin felt over-sensitive. She began to fidget, drawing her shoulders forward to try to put space between her flesh and her borrowed clothing. 'Twas as if she had nettles in her tunic. She wondered why. Then she knew. His penetrating gaze, roving over her face and form in the dim light, felt like calloused hands exploring her curves. Bile surged to her throat. She gulped. Afore he learned she was his intended bride, she had to get away from him. Above her heart's pounding, she heard the sharp clop of a horse's hooves coming toward them. A large man led the horse, the squire followed.

“You wished a gentle mount,
Baresark?”
he asked, giving the name emphasis. “I can call none of the mounts gentle, but this be the calmest of the lot.” Laughter sounded in his voice.

The large hand grasping her wrist tightened, then relaxed.

Netta could not see clearly, as the steed blocked out what little light there was. The squire knew his job well, for he immediately started to saddle the horse. The men began to speak, and she listened. Not because she was being nosey. It would not have done her any good, for the words were strange to her. What language did they speak? Possibly Welsh? The giant looked at her expectantly. When had they ceased talking?

“What? Is something wrong, sir?” She tried to stop her voice from quavering. Saints! What had she missed?

“Twice have I asked if you were ready to mount?”

She blinked. The squire grinned at her from atop the horse.

“Oh, aye. Methinks I was woolgathering.” No chance of any more of that. Before she realized her feet had left the ground, the barbarian had seated her behind the lad.

“Netta. Is that not the name the baron used? I will see how you fare at Ridley Castle.” His gaze studied her.

Nay. He would never see her again if she could help it. From atop the mount, she saw his face. As if she had spoken her thoughts, the expression in his eyes changed. Were the tales of his being able to hear other's thoughts truth?

“Your interest will be welcome, sir.” Ha, when loathsome toads walk upright on warty back legs. Her hand flew to her mouth to hush her thoughts. Saints! Did his lips twitch?

Wordlessly, he motioned toward the bailey. Clutching the squire's slender waist, she tried to disappear behind him. Did he feel her heart pound against his back? As they made their way across the grounds and out over the drawbridge, she listened for sounds of pursuit.

She did not relax her tense grip on his tunic until they were well out of sight of her father's castle.

 

No one would pursue them, for Mereck sent word to Baron Wycliffe that he had everything in hand. Netta had unusual courage. Especially for a woman. She had not fooled him for a moment. He had known it was she, Lynette of Wycliffe, on the balcony.

When he had chased the supposed thief, he knew who fled from him. He had purposely let her gain the lead until she entered the stable. He decided to send her out of harm's way when he learned her father had beaten her. No woman should suffer at the hands of any man—surely not by those of her father.

Had Wycliffe told Netta of the Baresark legend, and of the early rulers of Caer Cad-well, to frighten her of Wales? He would have to take care she did not learn the man she feared as Baresark was also Mereck of Blackthorn, else he would have to force her to marry him. It did not set easy on his soul.

Ridley. The two estates bordered each other, and Bleddyn had told him Netta and Elise were friends. Ridley's daughter was the second reason for his journey to England.

Standing with legs braced wide and hands fisted on his waist, he chuckled.

Netta would soon be under his scrutiny.

Later that day, as the sky deepened to a stormy gray at dusk, Mereck tapped the betrothal contracts on the table and listened to Baron Wycliffe reciting Lynette's dowry. How many months before, nay, years even, had they been prepared?

“I note Caer Cad-well and its manors are passed through the matriarchal line, Baron.” Mereck's gaze bored into the weak blue eyes of the man facing him. “How are the holdings protected to prevent losing them by the wrong choice of husband?”

The baron dusted his hands together as if ridding himself of something distasteful. “The man who weds my daughter must be able to protect her holdings by personal prowess, or by great wealth. Your warrior's reputation proves you capable.”

Mereck watched the baron pick at his clothing. Why was Wycliffe determined to lure him into taking his daughter? The man was already speaking to him familiarly as if the contracts were all but signed. The girl deserved better than a bastard. Mereck grimaced at the hated word.

“Lynette's foolish mother insisted her daughter and her son-by-law must happily share a year's wedded bliss afore they are permitted to reside at Caer Cad-well.”

Mereck nodded his head on hearing this. It seemed her mother had been far more concerned for her welfare than was this strange man.

“Baron, knowing I can bring naught to increase your wealth, why are you willing for me to wed your daughter?”

“Lynette needs a strong fist to rein her in.” Wycliffe eyed Mereck, appraising him like he would a wild boar in a hunt. “Suitors aplenty have vied for her hand.” Anger caused his voice to rise. “She found ways to send them running without an offer. After the fifth man feigned an urgent summons from his father, I watched her more closely.” He banged his pewter goblet on the table, sloshing wine onto the pristine white cloth. He muttered, “A clever girl. Too clever.

“Afore I called her to the great hall, she found a way to meet her new suitor alone. I caught her. In this very room.” He twitched in the chair, his fat hands fisted until his knuckles turned white. “Dressed like a slattern, she was.” The baron's words hissed through clinched teeth. He turned red with anger. “Spittle ran from the corner of her lips, and her hair was knotted and streaked with mud.”

Mereck's tense body relaxed, and he fought a smile. The girl had imagination. His hand tingled with the memory of her soft breasts, and his blood surged on thinking of the beauty of her face and form.

“By God's sweet nails. She crossed her eyes 'til they stared at her nose.” The baron sputtered and scowled so hard his own eyes were in danger of crossing. “She pointed at them to be sure he noted it. She talked like a fool and chanted what sounded like a curse. The man was well on his way by the time I reached the bailey.”

Mereck had long since learned to restrain his ability to hear people's thoughts, for if they came from a mind filled with venom, blinding pain slashed through his head. Whatever the costs, he had to know what lurked behind Wycliffe's loathing. While he waited for the baron to recover his composure, Mereck cleared his mind and steeled himself to listen to the man's thoughts of his hated eldest daughter.

 

Wycliffe's hands tightened to fists. How he'd love to hammer them into that cursed Bleddyn, who had banned his crossing the Welsh border. How had that Welshman known Kyrie despised him as much as he loathed her? His wife had thought to secure her daughter's happiness? This savage will deal with the little witch as harshly as she deserves. Bleddyn will not dare cross Baresark.