Midnight's Bride (8 page)

“A most filling meal. What a shame you couldna share it.” Mereck popped the last piece from the sopping trencher into his mouth.

Shame scorched Netta. She could not look at him.

“Aye. A man could have no better.” Marcus sat back with a well-fed air. He thumped his chest, and burped. Leaning forward, he raised Netta's chin. She tried to draw back, but he held fast. He turned her face from one side to the other, then let her go.

“You are a wee bonnie lassie this day. Have you sipped a magic elixir?”

“Magic elixir? This day, sir? I am the same as any other.” She paused and blushed when her stomach grumbled.

“What say you, Mereck? Dinna you agree?”

“Indeed. All for the better, I might add.”

“What, sir? What is it you speak of?” Netta blinked at Marcus. Was the stain gone from her teeth?

“Your skin has not the red about it.” Marcus eyed her. “What potion did you use to rid yourself of your strange flaw?”

Netta's hand flew to her face and neck. Her skin was smooth and soft. The sticky juice was gone. Then she remembered Mereck wiping her face with the wet cloth. She had to think of an explanation, for he peered straight into her eyes. His expression demanded she answer Marcus' question.

“Uh, the forest trees and flowers in the gardens of Ridley Castle trouble me. They have always caused me to react in such a way, have they not, Elise?”

“Aye, they did.” Elise nodded with vigor.

“Your distancing yourself from Ridley made such a change for the better?” Mereck did not look like he believed her.

“It had to be the trees, sir. I am sure of it.” Netta felt her cheek and pasted a pleased smiled on her lips.

“I dinna think it the true reason, lass.”

Her heart lurched. He knew she lied. He had seen through her disguise.

“You are right, milord. It was not from the trees. When Lady Elise asked me to come to the Highlands with her, my aunt suggested if I was less comely, your men would leave me alone.”

Making a sympathetic clucking sound with his tongue, Mereck shook his head.

“Have no fear of my men, Netta. You are under my care.” He stared her in the eye as he added, “I will see to you myself. 'Tis time to be abed. You know where your pallet lies.”

As he said those last words, a resonant sound like the purr of a giant cat rumbled from his chest.

Chill bumps scurried about Netta's back. She jumped to her feet, moving faster than she had in years as she headed for the tent.

“See to me himself, will he?” She turned to Elise after they entered the tent. “Not if I can help it. What was that blather about the food? I'm so hungry I could eat poor Lightning.”

“While we were returning with the ale and wine, I saw Mereck switch his trencher for yours.” She shuddered and gagged again. “They watched us so closely, and he would not let me speak. I could not let you eat it, nor could I tell you why. Seeing you about to eat those worms, I was sickened.” Her face looked like someone who spied a sumptuous feast, but was deprived of even the first bite. “I am hungry too.”

Netta wanted to kick Mereck in the shins. The churls had been laughing at her the whole time! 'Twas no wonder Marcus near choked on each bite. She ground her teeth and fumed. Soon the humor of the situation struck them, and they rolled on the pallet, holding furs against their mouths to muffle their laughter.

Hearing Mereck's deep voice shout Netta's name, she gave him no cause to call her again. She hugged Elise, burst from the tent and dived under the plaid on her pallet in but scant seconds.

 

The farther from England they traveled, the more relaxed Netta became. She was glad she no longer had to wear the berry paste or the walnut stain on her teeth.

One day, as they traveled through the Central Lowlands of Scotland approaching the foot of the Grampian Mountains, they neared a small village. The peasants hurried from their cottages to stare at them. Mereck beckoned Netta to pull up alongside him.

“The trails are ever more steep. They are becoming difficult for your mounts,” Mereck said, then turned to the villagers. “Does anyone have two Highland ponies to exchange for a fine farm animal?” He pointed to Lightning.

“Aye. I have what ye want.” A man streaked with the dirt of many days of labor stepped forward. He near drooled as he gaped at Netta. “I see ye got a runt of a serving' lass. That one canna give a mon as brawny as ye a fittin' ride. I be willin' to take the puir thing off yer hands, and ye can keep the horse.”

Mereck seemed to consider the man's words, for he nodded and waited to hear his bargain.

“I wud trade ye me strappin' Mollie here, too. Her tits be more than a mouthful.” He leered at Mereck. “Her belly be soft and her hips plump eneuch to cush the grandest ballocks. She'll gie ye a ride ye'll no soon fergit.” He reached behind him, grabbed hold of the woman standing pressed against his back and brought her forward.

Mereck's eyes widened. He ogled the woman, then glanced at Netta and frowned.

Netta gulped. A mouthful? She eyed the village woman's huge breasts. No mere mortal could possibly accomplish that feat. Why, you could balance two trenchers on the woman's obvious charms and still have ample room for more. Aye, for certs she was plump. No fear of her bones cutting a man.

Mereck's appreciative gaze roved over the woman, lingering overlong. After eyeing what he no doubt found interesting, Netta peered down at her own small breasts hardly tenting her tunic and shrugged. She scowled at Mereck's gawking men. A hoard of bare-arsed savages could spring upon them and nary a one of them would notice. Turned to pillars of salt, that's what they were, incapable of speech.

The slattern bent over to flick an imaginary insect off her leg, causing the freckled Ewen to gurgle some sort of exclamation and slide off his horse.

Huh! Netta scoffed. Little protection they offered, if it was so easy to distract them.

“I do need a lass with experience to ease me.” Mereck gave a gusty sigh and nodded at the codger. “The scrawny lass isna much to look upon, but in time she will learn to comfort my pain.”

Hah! More than likely, she would give him a sturdy whack with a thick branch.

Mereck's hot green gaze returned to her, pinning her to the saddle as it raked over her body and stopped to linger on her hips. He leered at her as he leaned down to murmur in the old man's ear.

“I wud no hae guessed she wud do that,” the villager chortled and slapped his thigh.

“Indeed, it is truth. Though I was rather surprised at the time,” Mereck replied and nodded.

“Why you…” Netta spluttered and tried to scramble from Lightning.

Marcus grasped her shoulder, keeping her firmly in the saddle.

“He but wants to tease you.” Marcus chuckled. “And 'tis a game he plays to win the villagers' goodwill.”

He twisted in his saddle and motioned to Angus, who hoisted a huge sack of grain on his shoulder, struggled over and dropped it with a thump at the man's feet.

She watched the village men stare at the sack and smack their lips with obvious relish. Would they put the grain to good use to feed their families? Unfortunately, from their gleeful eyes and the way they drooled, they thought only of the ale they could make.

The old man's scrawny elbows prodded his son in the side. The boy ran and brought two Highland ponies forward. Marcus helped the women dismount and removed their saddles for the squires to place on the ponies.

To Netta's annoyance, when they led Lightning away, the traitorous horse near flew across the ground to reach the field. She frowned, insulted. The swaybacked beast preferred toiling in the fields to the task of carrying her. Marcus' squire, Fergus, put a lead on Elise's Buttercup. The mare followed docilely behind him when they started off.

Netta's new mount moved smooth and sure, and did not plod about jarring her with every step. She was soon grateful Mereck had the foresight to exchange Lightning for the smaller mount. That poor lumbering beast could not have climbed the steep paths.

The ground became narrow and dangerous. The men dismounted and led the horses. They rode close beside a steep drop, sending icy fingers of dread creeping over her body. Her arms became weak, her legs limp. Now, her heart raced and drummed in her ears. She trembled like she suffered an ague. Determinedly, she strangled her fear. She decided she was doing an excellent job hiding her dreaded fault from Mereck. Her father had ridiculed her weakness. Surely Mereck would humiliate her in the same way.

 

Mereck walked beside Netta, keeping a firm hand on the pony's reins. He heard her thoughts and noted the fear glittering in her eyes. Her face lost all color as she chanted prayer after prayer to every female saint he had heard of and some he had not. Was this trait common to frightened Saxon women? Elise had done the same when they attempted to leave Ridley.

“Oh! Blessed Saint Bride, protector of dairymaids. I know I have never tended a cow, but I do love their milk,” Netta prayed.

The lass had never been close enough to a cow to ask it for milk, much less to touch it, Mereck decided. They moved slowly, and the path became even more narrow. Seeing her eyes widen in alarm, he patted her shoulder.

“Saint Martha, pray forgive me for not knowing how to cook. And for that little sin with the stew.” She wrung her hands together.

“Are you hungry, Netta?” Mereck grinned at her. It was very likely life with Netta would be most interesting. For certs, she had amused him often in the past few days.

“Hungry? Why would I be hun…, oh, saints,” she gasped and clutched the pony's mane. “What was it? Oh, aye. You complained of hunger. Did you not eat enough at our midday meal, sir?” Netta blinked and looked at him.

Oh my, it was a dreadful mistake, for they rode above the tops of the trees. The loch below looked like a small pond. Netta panted. Her eyes opened even wider. As they climbed higher, her mount's hooves slid, causing her to sway in the saddle.

“Yeew! Please, Saint Monica, protector of wives. Forgive me for not marrying the barbarian. But he was the worst of the lot Father tried to force on me.” Netta's eyes were squeezed shut. She gasped moments later. “Bring me unharmed to flat ground,” she added quickly, “and I vow I will marry the man you choose for me.”

Mereck winked at Marcus and grinned. He would remind Netta of her promise. As for now, he kept up a steady stream of calming words and patted her shoulders in a comforting way.

His ballocks heated, remembering when he had soaped her arms after she tried to cook the hare in all its glorious coat. She had watched his hands move over her skin, his touch a soapy caress. Her startled eyes had showed surprise at her first stirring of passion. Feeling shivers spread over her body, desire had shot through him. Her skin had flushed, and he had cooled her face with the wet cloth, unmasking its flawless beauty.

The time would soon come when he would have her naked and in the bathing tub with him. He would lean her back against his chest, her lithe body cradled between his legs, exposed and available to him. His tarse heated and stirred beneath his plaid as he pictured his slippery hands caressing up over her arms, across her shoulders and down her perfect, small breasts. As they moved downward from there over her stomach, the painful fullness of his tarse reminded him the cliff's edge was too dangerous a place to distract his mind with pleasures yet to come.

At last they reached solid ground that held no fear of having a horse plunge over the cliffs. Mereck called a halt. It had been an arduous and exhausting walk for the men.

Mereck lifted her from the saddle and whispered in her ear. “I will see you honor your vow to Saint Monica, Netta.” He held her closer than necessary to better breathe in her scent.

“Vow, sir? What vow?” Her brows rose, and her head tilted to the side.

“Your pledge that you would marry the man she chose for you, if she would see you unharmed to flat ground.”

“I did no such thing,” she gasped, astounded. “You are mistaken.”

“Did you not? I heard you vow before everyone that you would honor the choice. What say you, Marcus?”

“You did shout it right loud, Netta.” Marcus nodded briskly. “Every man to the end of the line heard your prayers.”

“Aye,” men hollered with enthusiasm. They smiled black-toothed smiles at her. Marcus grinned at her surprised expression.

“Your prayer to Saint Martha holds me curious, henny,” Mereck continued, thoughtfully. “Something about cooking. Stew, wasna it? Would you care to enlighten me?”

“You should not listen in on a woman's prayers, sirs,” Netta scolded. “They are private, sacred moments talking to God. He must be displeased with the lot of you.”

“How could we cover our ears and lead the beasties, lady?” Marcus held up his hands and shrugged. “You shouted prayers loud enough for Cloud Dancer to hear as far distant as Blackthorn.”

“Cloud Dancer? What manner of man has such a strange name?” Netta tilted her head and waited for his answer.