Midnight's Bride (24 page)

After they finished eating, Brianna and three of the castle widows came to the door. They carried bolts of cloth of every type and color. Brianna waved a square of parchment on which she had sketched pictures of several tunics.

It struck Netta that one of the differences about Brianna was her clothing. Not all of her tunics had the round or square necklines which were common. Some had vee necks cut in the front and back. Others had a flap of material which started at the shoulders and lay open at the chest. Brianna called it a “lapel.” When she grew cold of an evening, she pulled it across beneath her neck and secured it with a pin.

If anything made Netta restless, it was selecting cloth and colors for gowns. Content with the tunics Brianna had lent her, she asked if her new clothing could be modeled after them. Her thoughts brightened when the women agreed.

Later when they went to the great hall to listen to a traveling jongleur, she was more than a little nervous. She looked at Mereck in a new light. He waited, Mither draped across his broad shoulders. The huge cat purred loudly while he scratched her behind her ears. How could a man look like a pagan one day, be charming and courteous on the next then turn into a forbidding warrior at the drop of a pence?

“Come now, Mither, you neglect your kits,” he admonished the cat as he removed her from her perch. When he put her on the stone floor, she rubbed against his bare calves and turned her head to run her raspy tongue over his skin. Satisfied that she had groomed him properly, she uttered a hoarse meow, stabbed her tail high and regally made her way from the room.

“
Mo bean na bainnse
, my bride.” Mereck kissed her cheek and murmured, “I have missed you. Soon we will have long, cold nights to while away exploring each other's secrets.”

Netta swallowed. Hard. His scent drew her to him. It never failed to make that secret place between her legs hot and sensitive. Long nights together? He would have the right to sleep next to her. Well rats and fleas. What secrets did he seek?

“I have no secrets, sir. You need only ask, and I'll tell you what you want to know.”

He bent to whisper in her ear.

“Which will pleasure you most, little bride? My lips on your throat?”

His hot, open mouth moved to follow the curve of her throat. His tongue licked her skin; his teeth nipped her gently.

“Or my body when it covers yours?”

He moved until he pressed against her from her head to her toes. His heat seared through her clothing.

Oh my. She felt more than his heat. She moved back like he had scalded her.

“You need not act as a cover, my lord. We have ample blankets.” She forced herself to look up at him and was sorry. His heated gaze promised something. She knew not what. It made her squirm. That intriguing area began to throb and dampen. The nipples on her breasts tingled and hardened to strain against her clothing. Swallowing, she folded her arms across her chest in a bid to soothe them.

What had she been about to say? She remembered.

“Blankets. They make them here at the castle. Did you know Brianna has a weaver's hut where five women and one man work? They make the plaids as well. She thinks to add two women to keep up with the need.” She began to ramble as much as Elise sometimes did, but she could not stop herself. “Why do you suppose there are not more men skilled at weaving?”

“Could women keep the skill a mystery?” His eyes crinkled at the corners, and his mouth twitched.

Hmm, what about his secrets? Would she finally satisfy her curiosity about those parts she had glimpsed? Her mouth went dry at the thought of those things being in the same bed with her. Perhaps he slept in braies, those loose-fitting drawstring pants she had helped to mend. The idea calmed her. She decided, to be on the safe side, she would make sure she had many heavy nightdresses.

After they took their seats, Netta spied a wooden perch waiting there.

“Tuan will soon be ready to spend more time out of the mews.” Mereck smiled as he spoke. “I fastened a nest to the crosspiece, for he canna stand for long. Do you like it?”

Netta took in the trees, flowers, birds and scenes of the forest and lakes he had engraved on the upright post, all painted in vivid colors.

“How did you find time to do such intricate work?” She was delighted with the gift. “It is beautiful. Thank you, Mereck.” She blinked when he leaned down, his face close to her lips. It took her a while to understand he requested a kiss for his efforts. Flushing, she bestowed the kiss. The rough feel of the hair grown there during the day surprised her. She tested it with her fingertips. She liked the feel of it. Sighing, she started to relax.

Until Damron rose and announced the upcoming weddings.

Netta felt Mereck's light grip on her elbow and gulped. Though her knees wobbled, she feigned calm and rose without protest.

Elise clung to her seat. Connor snaked an arm around her waist to lift her to her feet—no easy task. She released the chair, only to have it crash backward with such force, a gust of laughter filled the hall.

“Could I not send for my father? Mayhap he has changed his mind?” Netta asked Mereck as casually as she could manage.

Mereck stiffened. “Nay, little bride. We willna be waiting. A promise must ne'er be broken.”

Though Mereck's tone was firm, she tried again.

“What promise?” She hoped he didn't refer to her frightened plea on the mountain. His next words proved he did.

“You well know what promise, Netta. Your pledge to Saint Monica to marry the man she chose was loud enough for every creature of the forest to hear. Both Bleddyn and Damron agree I am that man. Ne'er vow what you dinna plan to keep.”

His face hardened. He looked down his nose at her with a frigid stare. When her father wore the same expression, she soon found herself banished to her room. She studied him from the corner of her eye. He made no move to do the same.

Relief flooded her when Dafydd brought Tuan's food. She fed and watered the little raptor, then placed the sleeping bundle of feathers back in his nest.

“Yech! Netta, you have bird droppings on your clothing. Someone bring hot water and soap. Lots of soap. Lots of water,” Elise yelled to no one in particular.

Netta glanced at her hands and her chest where Tuan had made herself at home. She grinned at Elise. “Have you never changed a baby's bindings?” Lazy nursemaids had oft disappeared when her stepsisters were babes and their bindings needed changing.

A page balancing a sloshing, too-full basin of hot water slid careful feet across the floor, his tongue peeking between his lips in concentration. Another followed with soap and linens.

“The water is too hot for your hands, Netta.” Mereck turned her so her back was to the room. He dipped a cloth in the water and wrung it out. He smiled as he smoothed it over her neck, then cleansed her tunic down to the soft tops of her breasts.

His gaze held her own, daring her to move while he attended her. The feel of his hands brought an unwelcome blush to heat her face. She stared at his tanned fingers against her pink skin and shivered, picturing them on her naked breast.

Did she imagine sparks in the air between them? Mereck's nostrils flared, his eyes glinted. His fingers darted through the opening of her gown, caressed her nipples and withdrew. How had she forgotten to hum? Of late, his dreaded gift slipped her mind. His smoldering gaze traveled over her breasts, stopped to stare at her nipples thrusting against her tunic, then up past her chin to meet her eyes. Lust heated his sea-green eyes to the green of a forest at dusk. Ever so gentle, he cupped her breasts and squeezed.

“Nay.” She tried to push him away, but he captured her wrists, dunked her hands in the cooled water and washed them. After he finished and dried her, he turned her chair back to the table.

Why did the widowed ladies smile so knowingly? When Meghan grinned and patted her chest, Netta glanced down.

Wet handprints marked her tunic. She started to rise and race from the room. His speed amazed her. His right hand gathered her wrists, and he went on to fill their trencher with his left. His eyes warned her to stay seated. The damage was done. Leaving the table would cause an unwelcome scene.

 

Netta's days passed swiftly as she helped cut and sew her wedding outfit in Brianna's solar. It was a hated chore. As Mereck's wife, would he insist she spend her days sewing as so many women did? At the thought, she pricked her finger for the third time. She scowled and stuck it in her mouth.

“Go, Netta, afore you drip so much blood on the cloth it will seem the whole of it is red.” Elise reached over and rescued the shift Netta had attempted to hem.

“But you have your own to do.”

“I'm done with this day's garment.” Elise grinned and gave Netta's shoulder a light push.

Glad to escape the solar, Netta didn't need any more encouragement. She hugged Elise's shoulders and jumped up.

In the bailey, Netta searched for Meghan. She learned Meg had Simple out on a short hunt, escorted by the castle huntsman and his helpers. Netta played with Sprite and worked with Tuan, but she still felt restless.

She shaded her eyes to study the archer's area. No one awaited a turn. Mereck had not mentioned a lesson for today. Could she not practice by herself? Women shouldn't be alone in the practice fields, so she would wear Connor's old clothing. In her mind, she heard Mereck's stern voice forbidding her to don them again or risk his displeasure. She hesitated, then shrugged. For certs, he but meant to intimidate her.

She changed her clothing and hurried to the bailey with her bow and quiver of arrows. Two young men called to her when she passed by the quintain. She waved and pretended she hurried on an important mission to the stable where the head groom worked on a giant warhorse. Thankfully, 'twas not Mereck's
M'Famhair.

She got no farther.

Rough calloused fingers grabbed her collar and swung her toward the stable door. She held her breath. She had not even loosed the first arrow and Mereck already found her out. She exhaled in a rush on hearing the groom's gruff voice.

“Fetch the brush from Angel's stall, lad. His be the second from last. Go on now. There be a knot in his mane what needs fixin'.” He shoved her into the dim stable. She hurried down the aisle, until she heard strange sounds coming from within a nearby stall. She skidded to a stop. Moans. Someone was hurt and in need of tending. Why did they not call out? Before she ran for help, she looked over the top of the rails to see how much aid they required.

Her eyes snapped open. The moans came not only from a man, but also from a buxom young woman. A naked, buxom young woman. She knelt with her hands on the floor, her heavy breasts dangling beneath her. An equally naked but far from buxom man knelt behind her. He bumped against her buttocks while he squeezed and played with her breasts.

His head reared up. He moaned, his face taut with pain. She gasped. Heavenly saints. She spied Sir Marcus' profile. What she didn't recognize was Sir Marcus' bare arse, the muscles flexing then relaxing as he bounced away. What did he do to her? If it pained him, why did he not stop? She turned and scurried back out the door. She tried to race around the groom. He scowled and shoved her back through the entrance.

“Fetch the bluidy brush and be quick aboot it.”

She gulped, took a deep breath and called out, “I be going to fetch the brush what's back in the far stall.”

“O' course 'tis in the far stall. I told ye so.” The groom sucked his teeth, disgusted with the simple-minded boy.

Netta went a short distance. “The groom wants Angel's brush right away, 'tis what he wants,” she hollered. She stomped around, making as much noise as possible. When near her destination, she yelled again. “That's what I be aimin' to do. Get the brush and make the master proud, I will. If'n I don't find it soon, I'm afeared he won't be happy.”

She kicked a bucket standing beside a rusted shovel. It made a terrible din. Enough to make horses stick their heads up and gaze at her. Marcus' head poked out the entrance to the stall. He blinked, then a wide grin split his face.

Oh, saints. He recognized her.

Her face heated. She bobbed her head and dashed into the next area. After a hasty search, she grabbed the brush and raced out so fast not even Guardian could have caught her.

Netta dropped the brush at the groom's feet and bolted away before he could make another request. Her heart didn't slow its racing until she was well away from the stable. She lost her desire to practice. Before she got into any more trouble, she'd best return to the keep.

Sewing was a safer pastime.

Not two steps farther, a young man slung his arm around her shoulder.

“Come, lad. You dinna seem to have duties, and I have need of you.”

What was it with Highlanders? Did they always grab unsuspecting people to do their bidding? She recognized him. He had challenged Meghan but a day before. He steered her to where the quintain creaked and groaned.

Hoping to sound manly, she ducked her head and deepened her voice. “I be sorry, but I canna reach the posts.”

“Douglas left the nag he used. I must needs have you ready the crossbar.” He pointed at the old horse standing beside him.

Before Netta knew what to expect, he picked her up and dumped her onto the saddle. She scrambled about and tried to seat herself. Impatient, he took her right leg and threw it over the saddle. His friend Douglas must have been short, for the stirrups were the right length for her.

She blinked and clutched the reins.

“Seize the end of the crossbar by the dummy, and start it around. Mind you, keep out of its way,” he added.

It sounded simple enough, for the bar moved easily. She did a rather good job. She congratulated herself a mite too soon. Something heavy thumped her shoulder. She lurched forward. Her bow and quiver of arrows fell to the ground. A most unmanly cry burst from her lips. She grabbed the horse around its neck. Her hat landed in the dirt, and her dark curls tumbled over her face.

“Satan's horns. The commander's bride! He'll thrash us for sure.” The young man threw his lance down and stomped toward her. “He be planning to watch my progress when he comes from the field.”

She knew he meant her no harm, but he was not the problem. From her added height on the horse, she saw Mereck in the distance. If she did not hurry away, he would catch her not only dressed as a boy but inside the quintain enclosure. She groaned. Two forbidden pursuits.

“I'm sorry. I have to go. I'll return the horse soon.” Netta grabbed the reins and kicked the startled nag into fast motion before the young man could reach her.

Where in the world was she to go? She made her way to the opposite side of the bailey. Milling people, horses and carts were everywhere. The laundress with a barrow full of soiled sheets crossed in front of her. Netta held back on the horse to let her pass. A peasant bearing a stout rod across his shoulders, fowls trussed and hanging from each end, hurried toward the cookhouse. Destined for the ax, their cackle and fuss sounded like they knew their fate.

Netta winced. Her own fate didn't look much more promising.

The barbican loomed before her. On her left, fishermen with their catch strung on sturdy lines crossed the drawbridge. The gamekeeper, with a loaded cart, made his way behind them. Peasants with produce tied into large bundles slung over their shoulders pushed around her right side. She tried to edge past as a line of warriors left the castle, but they hemmed her in, taking her with them.

Sweat trickled down her neck. She peered back and glimpsed the young man heading toward Mereck. Did some code of chivalry demand a squire confess if he caused a damsel to be struck on the shoulder?

She would find Meghan. Together they would think of a way to get her back inside the castle before her soon-to-be husband found her out. Surely other women in the castle had the same color of hair? Saints help her. Mereck had warned the women not to leave the castle grounds without ample protection. She could almost feel the hot depth of his anger if he learned she had done so. She nudged the old horse to go faster.

Netta found the path into the woods and sighed with relief. Meghan would soon return. She would hide inside the first lines of trees and await her. Her sigh turned into a shriek, for the sharp point of a sword pricked her back.

“Shut yer trap, else me fist will shut it fer ye,” a surly voice growled. “Right stupid of ye to fall into me 'ands, and making me job easy. Keep riding and 'ead to that knoll, else I gut ye 'ere and now.” He uttered a menacing growl.

Netta's stomach knotted as he continued to give directions in the lower-class accent from the east end of London. What was he doing in the Highlands? He took her deeper into the woods on a track too overgrown to be in current use. There was no chance Meghan would come upon them.

Fearful images flashed in her mind. She hauled back on the reins and attempted to turn the horse. If the churl meant to ravish her, he would have to do it here and now. If they didn't get farther away from Blackthorn Castle, at least she would have a better chance for someone to hear her screams.

“I didn't tell ye to stop.” He cuffed the back of her head.

Netta cried out and dropped the reins. He growled at her to get moving. She didn't start fast enough to please him, for he jabbed the nag's rump with the tip of his sword.

The horse screamed and shot forward. Netta grabbed for the reins, but they flew free before she could catch them. Frantic, she grasped the horse's mane and held on for dear life. The animal, who looked too old to trot, galloped like he trained for knightly battles. Horses were a puzzle. Lightning could not outpace a worm until he saw the open field. Now this four-legged snail tried to race.

A shiver of panic swept her. A short distance ahead a tree lay across the road. She doubted the beast knew anything about jumping. The horse saw the tree and tried valiantly to clear it.