Midnight's Bride (33 page)

Mereck hauled Netta close against his side.

“Husband, you are hurting my arms.” Netta pinched his waist, demanding his attention. When he glanced down, he appeared surprised to see her there.

“You willna leave my side, wife. Should you need to seek privacy, I will go with you.” His face was set in hard lines as he righted her and patted her shoulder.

Netta gasped at such an indelicate remark. And how was she going to get Elise alone and explain mating to her? She didn't want to tell Elise with Brianna or Meghan nearby. If they learned of her foolish beliefs about mating, they would laugh.

The only time Mereck left her side was during the afternoon games to decide the strongest warrior. The men refused to participate unless Mereck also entered. He would be the last to compete, for none had ever bested him at the caber toss.

He hauled her by her hand over to Damron's side. “I would deem it a favor, Damron, if you would hold to Netta.” Hearing Netta snort, he narrowed his eyes at her. “She has a habit of wandering off alone.” He pushed her closer to Damron and left.

“Netta?”

Damron's tone was harsh and demanding. When she looked up at him, his jaw looked carved in stone as he crossed his arms over his chest. His sea-green eyes stared into hers. How did Brianna ever have the courage to crawl between the sheets with this man? She wasted no time nodding to him.

“I dinna believe in hangin' on to a lass like me foolish brither. Ne'ertheless, ye willna move from this spot now, will ye?”

Damron waited for her to nod. Smiling, she did. In a short while she could talk to Elise without a man listening. When she saw he was occupied watching the events, she inched away.

“I wudna hesitate to thrash ye if ye disobey me, do ye ken?”

Damron's voice was mild. His eyes were not.

“I will not move a hand-width away. You have my word.”

That settled it. Elise was on her own. Netta didn't doubt the laird would do as he said.

She sighed and resigned herself to watching the men's games. Holy saints! Why, they were truly brainsick, that's what they were. This caber toss thing was not a weapon like she thought.

They threw trees. Oaks stripped to their trunks.

She watched as a man would squat down, get a firm grip on the thin end of the trunk and lift it. When he balanced it to his satisfaction, he surged forward and heaved it upward. If tossed strongly enough, it would somersault through the air to land on its heavy end and fall forward. They judged who had thrown their tree in the straightest line.

Of course, Mereck won. He was not arrogant about it. He didn't act like it was an unusual accomplishment.

It was a very long day. She never had the opportunity to talk to Elise alone. After the banquet, when the women took the bride to help her prepare for bed, Netta gave up. She hoped her friend wouldn't be too horrified when Connor did more than bump against her arse.

When Mereck immediately turned her toward their room, he surprised her. Before they got to their door, which was across the hall from the bridal couple's, he looked blatantly sensual. He sent Bran away and stripped both their clothes off before Netta could whisper a brief prayer.

She was on the bed in a flash, and his mouth and hands touched her everywhere at once. Mereck was ravishing her, she decided, and doing a thorough job of it. When his lips slid from her stomach down to nuzzle the tight curls between her thighs, she almost sprang from the bed. He lifted her legs to place them over his shoulders, and he clasped her waist to hold her still as he burrowed lower.

His deep growl when his lips and tongue began to torment her already swollen flesh proved his sensual arousal. His rumblings sounded much more satisfying than the puny whimpers she couldn't control. She had no time to ponder the reason women didn't make the same sound. She tried to bite her lips to keep silent, but he teased her nipples between his fingers and thumbs until she was beside herself. To Hades with being ladylike.

Netta came undone in his hands.

As he glided up between her legs, his long shaggy hair flowed about his face, and his hot, passionate eyes gleamed at her. He looked like a giant tawny cat covering his mate as he edged closer to her lips. Just as he reached them, a shout stopped him.

“You are going to do what?”

Elise's voice. They didn't hear Connor's reply.

“They are going to do this,” Mereck whispered and thrust into her eager center.

“Oh, yes. Please keep doing just that.”

He was more than willing to oblige her.

 

When Netta awoke at dawn, she was glad Mereck had already left with the men on a hunt. She had need of a bucket for she had eaten too much the night before. After she finished gagging and retching, she wiped her face with a cold wet cloth and took deep breaths. She waited until her stomach calmed before she dressed and went to Elise.

“Why did you lie to me, Netta?” Elise demanded after a swaggering Connor handed Brianna the wedding sheet and left the room.

“When we talked about it, I didn't lie. I truly believed it at the time.”

“You did too lie,” Elise huffed. “How could you not have known? You were married when you told me such a giant untruth. When I prepared myself and proudly told him I was ready for him, I thought Connor was going to die of shock. He turned purple and kept gasping for breath.”

“What in the world did you do?”

“You are not listening.” Elise huffed indignantly and frowned at Netta. “I told him I was ready. What else do you think I did? I got up on my hands and knees, said some quick prayers and waited.” Elise groaned and turned red. “When nothing happened, I crawled around to discover he was having a fit. I sat beside him and slapped his back. He put his head on my shoulder and gasped a couple of times until he could breathe better.”

“So? Why is that bad? He could not help it if he was sick.”

“Easy for you to say.” Elise glared at her a second and then shouted, “He was not sick, like in
really
sick, Netta. He was strangling from trying not to upset me by laughing.”

“I am so sorry, Elise. Truly I am.” She wrung her hands. For their friendship's sake, she told how her own wedding night ended. In the telling, she realized how thoughtful Mereck had been not to make an issue of her ignorance.

They remained silent for a while. Elise giggled first, then before they knew it, they howled with laughter.

Meghan burst into the room, demanding to know what was so funny. Elise peeked out to make sure no one stood in the hallway and shut the door. Netta didn't think they should discuss their marital experiences.

“Tsk.” Meghan's disbelieving sound started them giggling over again. “I learned about matin' when I was a young girl in the French court. You wud need to be blind not to see the couplin' going on all but out in the open.”

When they told Meghan of their first nights, she laughed until tears streaked down her face. They stopped guiltily when a worried Brianna came to tell them sentries had spotted the men returning from their stag hunt.

A warrior rode at their lead. Supported in his arms was a limp, injured man.

Netta didn't draw a sane breath until Mereck vaulted off
M'Famhair.
The great brown warhorse stamped and threw his head about, unwilling to end his outing. Dafydd waited while Mereck soothed the mount, then handed him the reins. An assured smile flashed on Mereck's wolfishly handsome face as his confident, long-legged stride ate the distance between them. Netta had had a terrible fright thinking a wild boar had savaged him. Now, recognizing the injured man, she didn't feel guilty about being glad.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, God.”

Her pleased litany stopped when she realized Roger would be unable to leave this day. She saw no blood. He could not have a serious injury. She shoved her hands on her hips and scowled.

“Well, I hope he gets nibbled by every one of Lucifer's fleas and rats,” she muttered. Hearing his high-pitched whining, she tugged on Meghan's sleeve.

“Saints' alive, he is a coward. I will gladly give his leg a well-aimed kick to give him something to whimper about.”

 

Netta spent the next fortnight keeping close to Brianna's solar. Even Meghan avoided Roger's constant presence in the hall, where he lounged with his foot atop a padded stool, demanding attention. Brianna kept Guardian nearby, for the wolf snarled and slavered every time his golden eyes spied Roger.

Time passed so quickly that Netta paid little heed to a strange sickness that plagued her. Each dawn and when time for the evening meal, she hugged a wooden bucket. She reasoned that if she did not eat, she would have naught to return to the outside world. Sadly, it didn't work.

Everyone noticed she had lost her robust appetite. Mereck and Damron shared knowing grins. How could they find her wasting sickness amusing? Early one bright golden morn, Mereck left his brother's side to come to her.

“Meghan is going hawking, and she thought mayhap my lovely bride would enjoy an outing. What say you, wife?”

Delighted that she could take Tuan for his first real hunt, she ignored her queasy stomach. Throughout the morn, they took turns freeing their raptors to catch unwary prey. Meghan's Simple seemed in awe of Glider, Mereck's graceful falcon.

When time for Simple to hunt, the sparrowhawk plunged for a grouse flushed from a bush. So engrossed in her zeal for the catch, the raptor failed to see the tree around which the wily grouse flew. She flapped to the ground, a surprised look on her face. Hearing Mereck's laughter made Netta smile with pleasure.

When she freed Tuan for his flight, Netta watched with motherly pride while the little kestrel took to the air in sweeping curves. The raptor soon spotted his prey. Netta held her breath as Tuan swooped down, caught a mouse in his claws and returned to drop it at her feet.

Netta intended to praise Tuan for being such a smart hunter. One look at the dying mouse sent her racing for cover behind a large rowen tree weighted with orange-red berries. Mereck followed to hold her head and whisper soothing words while she retched. His kindness made her realize that this eve she should warn him the Baresark curse intended to claim another bride.

 

Rain drummed against the outer walls and lightning flashed close in the woods while Mereck made passionate love to his wife. She waited till her heartbeat slowed to prepare him for her death.

“Husband, I have a dreadful sickness.” Noting his surprised look, she patted his cheek to comfort him. “You see, I cannot eat. I can only bear to look at food at the noon meal. I will soon waste away. God wishes to punish me for my sins,” she whispered.

“Are there other symptoms of this alarming malady, wife?”

What ails the man? She was trying to prepare him that he will soon need another wife, yet he dared look amused? No Saxon would greet his wife's tragic problem with such ease.

“Aye. Everything exhausts me. Likely it is because of my weakened condition. I have hid it from you.”

When he did not soon reply, she started to sniff. He seemed to mull the problem over in his mind. While she waited for him to think of a suitable reply, she rested her head on his chest to listen to his lulling heartbeat. Before he could tell her his thoughts, she fell asleep.

Mereck gave her the comfort she required.

She snored too loudly to hear it.

He hugged her tight and rubbed his chin on her head. Whispering into her sleeping ear, he told her how happy and proud he was.

If it was a son, he will have a father who will acknowledge him. He will not be a bastard, unable to inherit. Mereck grinned, thinking of a daughter he could coddle and give a father's love. Love Netta had ne'er known. The babe's sex mattered not. A son or daughter would have an abundance of love.

He had noted the changes in Netta's breasts and knew her courses had not come since they first mated. She knew nothing of the signs of expectant motherhood, for Wycliffe had kept the women thickening with babes away from the castle, knowing his wife would rant about his many bastards.

Mereck would take his Netta out alone the next day. They would go at midday when her stomach was the most settled. After they supped on cheese, bread and wine, he would explain to his darling that she was with a child.

With any luck at all, Roger, that sorry excuse for a man, would leave before they returned.

 

“What?” If not for the masking sounds of the waterfall, everyone back at the castle would have heard Netta's shout. “I'm not dying? Why did you not tell me sooner? I have worried this last sennight for naught?”

“Love, if you had confided your fears to me, I would have set them to rest.” Mereck grinned at her. “Have I told you how very happy I am?” It was more than pleasure over knowing they were to have a child. He loved her. His wife had become important to him. What proved to him it was love was the first thing he had thought when he suspected she was increasing.

The Baresark legend. How could he live if he lost her?

The thought sent waves of fear through him. He hugged her tight and vowed to warn Bleddyn he was not to let anything happen to her. He had faith in the Welsh mystic, for he was the only person alive who could have saved Brianna when she lay so near death. He knew, for he had been with them through it all. He grimaced, remembering the terrible fear.

Mereck clasped Netta to his chest and started to tell her how much he loved her. He had little warning over the roar of the waterfall, only a startled awareness of evil thoughts. No sooner had they registered in his mind, than his head exploded with light. Netta screamed. With a tremendous strength of will, he fought the blackness creeping over his consciousness.

Forcing his eyes to focus, he saw the bastard strike Mereck's love across her face. He roared in fury, drowning out her cry of pain. He lurched to his feet. Drew his sword.

Roger whirled and lunged at him.

“You rock-headed Welsh bastard. Why are you not dead?” Roger's high-pitched ranting shrilled above the noise of the falls. “Caer Cad-well and its gold will be mine. I will tear your heart from your body. Lynette will carry it to her father. I will force him to give her to me.” His eyes flamed with triumph.

Mereck parried Mortain's thrusts and forced the baron back from where Netta lay. It was not easy. To his surprise, the baron was a skilled swordsman. With lightning speed, Roger's blade whipped across Mereck's forehead. Hot blood flowed from the gash, threatening to blind him, while dizziness from the blow to his head unsettled him.

“Shall I tell you how she will pleasure me?” Drool seeped from Roger's lips. Evil gleamed in his eyes. “I will take a finger from your hand each time she does not draw my tongue into her mouth.” His lips twitched. “What think you of this fine idea, Sir Bastard?” The madness he had kept hidden was surfacing out of control.

“Think? I will rip your tongue from your mouth for such thoughts, Baron Simpleton.” If he could inflame Mortain's fury, it would make him careless. His blade flashed out, leaving a trail of blood across the baron's chest.

“Simpleton? Simpleton?” Startled by his shrieks, birds squawked and scattered leaves as they flew from the trees. “Who else but I would have punished the lout the way he deserved? I am exceedingly cunning.”

“Cunning? 'Tis laughable. E'en a child could have outwitted that pitiful wretch.” Mereck opened a slash on Roger's leg.

“Laughable? You will hear laughter. I will laugh while you watch her luscious mouth service me. She will. And happily, else I will give her your severed balls to fondle.”

How dared the devil's spawn speak such filth about his Netta? Mereck unleashed his hard-held temper. Fury erupted. His eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared. His lips flattened to a hard, thin line.

He whipped his blade out to slash Roger's left cheek. He would rip open Mortain's chest and feed his heart to Guardian. He felt like he grew with his rage. His savage snarls rent the air. He lunged and parried. Both dripped blood from wounds to their chest and arms.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Netta shake her head and push herself up. Shuddering, he struggled for control remembering his vow never again to become a berserker in front of her.

“Little man,” he taunted Roger. “Dinna think you have the strength to satisfy a woman. Your worm of a prick couldna pleasure a widow long deprived of a mate. I hear it is no larger than a child's member that hasna learned to swell.”

Roger's face purpled. Mereck grimaced and near dropped his sword, for Roger's deranged mind shrieked at him. Locking his fingers around the sword hilt, Mereck goaded him again.

“Such a pitiful body. Your bony chest and skinny shanks puts to mind a chicken. My squire is more manly than you.”

Mortain's demented thoughts crashed through Mereck's mind, blinding him with searing pain. He could see naught but dull lights weaving afore him.

“A squire? A squire?” Mortain screamed and lunged.

Mereck lurched aside, dizzy. His knee bent. The blade missed his heart, but cut deep into his shoulder. He grunted. His hand jerked open. He bellowed in fury and pain. His sword fell. Blood spread over his tunic; it flowed off his fingers. He swayed. And fumbled for the short sword that always rode at his side. It was not there. He shook his head trying to clear blood seeping over his eyelids into his eyes.

Netta clutched a rock and watched for an opportunity to help Mereck. She gasped, horrified, when his sword clattered to the ground. Not daring to think, she hurled the stone. It crashed into Roger's temple, startling him. In those brief moments, she dove for the sword at Mereck's feet and grabbed the hilt tight with both hands.

Mortain, sneering with triumph, lunged at Mereck.

“Nay! You shan't kill him,” Netta screamed.

Halfway to her feet, she braced herself against Mereck's legs, held tight to the sword and raised the point. Roger had drawn his blade back, ready to thrust it into Mereck's chest. She lunged forward. Her blade sank through Roger's gut. His forward momentum pushed the blade deep to grate against his spine.

Shock and utter surprise blanketed Roger's countenance. His lips moved, without sound. He fell to his knees. To his face. The protruding hilt struck the ground, rocked Roger to his side. Air gurgled from his lungs.

Mereck fell beside him. Netta screamed and tried to roll him over. She couldn't move him. Taking a deep breath, she gripped his good shoulder and arm and tugged with all her strength. At last, she got him on his back. He lay on the edge of her tunic. Rather than yank it free, she grabbed the neck opening and stripped it over her head.

Netta sobbed so loudly she couldn't hear herself think. She couldn't see either. She swiped her arm across her blurred eyes. Spying Mereck's short sword Roger had seized and thrown aside after striking Mereck's head, she grabbed it and cut her tunic into long strips. She made a thick pad and held it tight against the wound. So much blood! It soaked through, hot beneath her fingers. Desperate to stop it, she folded more strips of linen and added it to the pad. Leaning hard on it, she prayed it would slow his bleeding.

“Please dear God, please do not let him die.” She repeated her prayer between whimpers of fear. She was not afeared for herself. Aye, she was. Now was not the time to lie.

She desperately feared losing him. She had come to crave his presence. How could she bear not having his compassion, his magical kisses? To never again feel her heart quicken watching his arrogant stride as he crossed the bailey? Not having him beside her in their bed would be more than she could endure.

“Please God, do not take him.” Tears dripped off her chin. “Not until we are old and gray and our children and grandchildren are old too. When you do, take us together.” She felt him spasm beneath her hand. Thinking his spirit was fighting to be free, she shouted her prayers even louder.

“You cannot have him, God. He is mine. I'm not asking anymore. I'm telling You. You had better listen to me,” she threatened.

“Do you seek to drown me, wife?” Mereck's voice was weak.

“Thank you, God, thank you.” She leaned forward and rained kisses over his face, soaked with her tears. He tried to kiss her back. His effort reassured her.