Samantha James (23 page)

Beside him, Alana stiffened. Merrick felt it and glanced at her sharply. She had lowered her gaze but not before he saw the sudden glaze in her eyes.

Father Edgar pursed his lips. “This woman—”

His eyes bulged as he abruptly found himself seized by the throat of his coarse woolen robe. “Will soon be my wife and the lady
of Brynwald,” Merrick said from between his teeth. “So say no more, lest you forever regret it until the end of your days—which may be far sooner than you wish, Father.” His glare bespoke his displeasure as keenly as the cutting edge of his tone.

Father Edgar paled. “As you wish, my lord,” he stammered. “As you wish.”

By the time they reached the chapel, Alana’s mind was all awhirl. The assemblage followed; all grew quiet as the people of Brynwald filed in behind them and stood, shoulder to shoulder. Alana fought a choking panic. Did they come to see the lord of Brynwald wed? Or did they come to stare at
her
?

Clearing his throat, Father Edgar took his place before the altar. Merrick knelt, then tugged her down beside him on the smooth wooden floor. From that moment on Alana was aware of little else. At last Father Edgar made the sign of the cross, and bestowed on them the final blessing. Then Merrick was drawing her up beside him. Alana stood dumbly. It was over, she realized.

Her gaze strayed to Merrick. An odd smile curled his lips, but his eyes spoke only to her. A rush of emotion squeezed her chest, so intense it was almost painful. Merciful heaven, he was her husband…her
husband
. Unbeknownst to her, a slow-growing smile etched across her lips, a smile so sweet the man beside her caught his breath for never had he seen such blinding radiance.

Her hand held high and clasped tight within
his, Merrick turned. “The lady of Brynwald,” he announced.

The crush of people closed in on them. Alana pressed close to Merrick’s side, for she knew not what to expect. But there were no scathing denunciations; there was only much hearty laughter and boisterous congratulations. Alana felt her hands clasped by first one, then another and another. She turned, and Sybil’s pale face swam before her. Such black rage dwelled there that for a mind-splitting instant it was as if she’d been dealt a stunning blow to the head. But then it was gone and Alana was convinced it was naught but her imagination.

Sybil pressed a kiss upon her cheek. “You have done well for yourself, sister,” she whispered.

Genevieve came next. She hugged her fiercely. “I am so pleased for you, Alana. You will be happy, all of you. I know it. I feel it with all that I am.”

The people of Brynwald were ever ready to put aside their work, to feast and dance, and the wedding of the lord seemed as fine an occasion as any to do so. Wine and ale flowed freely throughout the day and evening. Then at last came time for the newly wedded couple to retire. Amidst much laughter and bawdy shouting, Alana fled up the stair with Genevieve but a step behind her.

It was Genevieve who helped her from her clothes and slipped a gown of sheer white linen over her head, whisking it into place.
She brushed her hair until it crackled and shone, then helped her into bed. Alana settled back against the pillows, awaiting whatever the night would bring.

It seemed Genevieve had scarcely left her alone than Merrick appeared. He closed the wide oaken portal, then paused there near the entrance. In that moment, he seemed as tall as the heavens, his chest as wide as the sea, as powerful and strong as some ancient god.

A tremor seized her. Her nerves were all amuddle. Never had he been so handsome—never had she been so afraid! Her emotions were a hopeless tangle. She told herself she’d awaited him so many countless nights before…

But never as his wife.

And now, in a never-ending moment, she felt the weight of his regard like a stone upon her breast. The sweep of his gaze dwelled long and intently upon her lips, the swell of her breasts, the rounding of her belly.

All at once Alana despaired as never before. She wished this night could have been different. That she could have come to him lithe and slim and proud…A pang rent her breast. Instead she was swollen and misshapen, and growing more so with every day that passed!

Such was not the case with Merrick.

His gaze traced slowly over her. Firelight played upon her hair, turning it to silken ripples of gold and silver, framing the exquisiteness of her features and tumbling around her shoulders. She appeared very young, draped
in sheer white linen, and something caught in his chest.

A powerful tide of emotion swelled within him. He’d been right to bind her to him in this way…in every way. He remembered how she had looked up at him when she came to realize he sought to marry her—her eyes huge and shining, her lovely features dazed and sweet. And now she was his wife. By God, his wife. She was soon to bear his child—God willing, there would be others. She shared his home. She would share his life, in this and every way…

But something was wrong. Her eyes grazed his, then slid away. Her fingers wound together on an upraised knee, so tightly her knuckles showed white. He frowned, for she appeared as timid and uncertain as a doe in the presence of some great, fearsome beast.

The mattress dipped as he sat on the edge of the bed. Reaching out, he clasped her hand lightly within his. “This night is no different than many others we have spent together.”

“Nay,” she blurted. “It is different!”

He studied her a moment. “How so?”

“We were not wed,” she said wildly.

“And now we are. Does that not please you?”

“Aye, but—” She struggled to free her hand but he would not allow it. His fingers tightened ever so slightly around hers.

“No,” he commanded softly. “Do not turn away, Saxon. I would know what distresses you so.”

Never in her life had she felt so helpless—so utterly foolish! She floundered, wondering if she dare speak the truth. And then she realized she must, for Merrick would have it from her no matter what!

Her lips quivered. “’Tis different because…we are wed…and…and I wish that I could come to you as a bride should…untouched and…and slender…” Sybil’s accusation tumbled in her brain, even as the words stumbled from her lips. “But I cannot for I am fat as a—a sow…and oh, how I wish I were not!”

She thought he would agree—at the very least, that he would laugh and chide her, mayhap even mock her. But to her horror he cast the furs away and tugged her onto his lap.

The warmth of his whisper brushed her cheek. “You are untouched by any but me, Saxon. That pleases me as nothing else could.” She felt his fingers, spanned wide across her belly, the gentlest caress. “I have no way to tell you the satisfaction I feel, knowing ’tis my child that rounds your belly, sweet. But know this—that, too, pleases me as nothing else could. To me you are more alluring and desirable than ever. You possess a beauty unequaled by any other. I want no woman save you. I will
have
no woman save you.”

Solemnly intent, his expression made her throat ache. The words he spoke were the very words she needed so desperately to hear.

With a stifled sob of relief, she locked her arms around his neck and clung, burying
her face in the hollow of his shoulder. For a time he merely held her, until her shaking ceased. Sweeping away a shining lock of hair, he bared her nape and brushed his mouth across the smoothness of her flesh. He kissed the quivering lips she offered so shyly, a kiss so infinitely sweet it brought tears to her eyes.

At last he drew back, a finger beneath her chin so he could see her face. Her eyes wide and glistening and overbright. But the veriest smile grazed the curve of her lips…

One thought stood high in his mind…
Mine
, he thought in amazement, and then with stark possessiveness.
She is mine
…Passion soared, swift and hot and bright.

With a groan he crushed her to him. He kissed her over and over, then rose to discard his clothes impatiently. He made short work of hers as well, with far more care but just as much haste.

At last they stretched out together, naked and unashamed. She blushed fiercely as his eyes roamed where they would, but made no effort to shield herself. Nay, for the heat in his eyes was scorching. His hunger for her was thrilling. The evidence of his desire for her rose wantonly proud and erect before her very eyes.

Never had he made love to her so tenderly. He kissed the place where their child slept so peacefully, laughing a little as the babe stirred within her. With his fingertips and tongue he toyed with the dark, straining centers of her breasts, circling and teasing, his touch mad
deningly elusive. Boldly he sought the furrowed cove between her thighs, stroking and tormenting until she was twisting beneath him and his name was a wanton plea upon her lips.

“Merrick,” she cried. “
Merrick
!”

His chest heaving, his shaft near to bursting, he levered himself above her. He braced himself on his arms above her, ever mindful of his greater weight and the precious burden she carried.

Alana ran her fingers over the bulging tightness of his arms, loving the sleek feel of corded muscle smoothly sheathed in skin. Her hands climbed higher, curling and uncurling against his shoulders.

She gasped his name anew. “Please, Merrick. Oh, please…”

He came inside her then. With a groan his lips sealed hers. His breath filled her mouth. His shaft filled her body, so deep he touched her womb, her very soul…

It was a union unlike any other. They were linked by a force more powerful than a joining of the flesh, a bond of spirit and soul.

Husband…and wife.

Lord…and lady.

I love him
, she thought helplessly.
I love him so
. The certainty seared her very breast, even as the words hovered on her lips. Above her, Merrick gave one last, piercing lunge. Feeling his seed throb and burst within her, her pleasure reached its zenith. Release came in a blinding shimmer of blazing sensation.

She was only vaguely aware of Merrick turning her. She smiled, for she did not mind as his arm came hard around her and he tugged her close, his torso warm and furry against the arch of her back and bottom. Merrick chuckled and brushed a kiss across the downy softness of her cheek. Just so, they fell asleep, her small hand trapped beneath his and resting squarely atop the hard mound of her belly.

T
he days passed and summer waned. Her babe ripened within her; her belly grew round and distended.

For Alana, it was a time to face a bittersweet truth. Merrick was ever obliging, ever attentive, ever tender and considerate of her every wish. Indeed, his arms provided a sheltering haven from the turmoil all around, for but a sennight past, there had been yet another mutilation of a wee, tiny lamb.

And they had yet to discover the reason for the killings. She hated the whispers, the wary glances cast her way when they thought she was not looking. One day in the yard she chanced to hear a stableboy whisper to another.

“My mum says ’tis she who butchers the animals. She says we’d best watch out lest one of us comes next.”

Alana had cringed inside, and hurried away. She hadn’t realized that Merrick had overheard as well. Later, a beaming Genevieve disclosed how Merrick had plucked up the lad by the
scruff of his collar, warning the boy sharply that he would hear naught said against his wife.

’Twas odd, she reflected as she lay wrapped in Merrick’s arms later that night, that this man who had once vowed to be her lord and conqueror should in truth have become her staunchest defender…

Nay, no longer could she hide the truth from herself.

She loved him. She loved him wildly. Endlessly. Forever and ever…

The thought that he might never return her love was devastating. Aye, he whispered of his passion, his pleasure. But she was terribly afraid that it would ever be so—that Merrick would give of his body but not his heart…never his heart.

And alas, her dreams had returned to haunt her—and taunt her—as well. Many was the night she bolted upright, a garbled scream wedged in her throat, the vision of Merrick looming above her, his sword held high aloft, the sense of danger so acrid she could taste it.

But on this night the dream was different, for Sybil was there, hands perched on her hips, dark eyes agleam. And she could see herself lying abed, a small bundle wrapped in swaddling nestled against her breast.

“
It matters little that he married you,” Sybil sneered. “Your babe will still be called bastard. Aye, bastard like his mother
.”

“
Nay,” Alana whispered. “Nay!
”

“
Yes, Alana, yes! Indeed, ’tis likely the babe will be born with your curse,” she jeered as she had once before. She leaned close and hissed. “There are ways to end the possibility of such, you know. I could show you—
”

Alana saw herself as if from a very great distance away. “Nay!” she heard herself shriek. “You will not touch my babe. You will not touch him!
”

Sybil just laughed. And laughed and laughed and laughed…And then she reached for the babe…

“Alana! Sweet God above, you will harm yourself! Do not fight me so! Do you hear? You must not fight me!”

Her eyes snapped open. She stared into Merrick’s features, dark and taut above her. Only then was she aware that she’d been twisting and thrashing wildly. Feeling Merrick’s hands warm and strong upon her shoulders, she sank back against the pillows. Her hand had crept to her belly. The babe was alive and well; he rolled strongly within her. Giving a silent prayer of thanks, she tried to summon a smile but failed abominably.

Merrick’s breath stirred the fine hairs on her temple. “’Twas just a dream, Saxon. A dream you’ve had these many months that still has yet to pass. Indeed, ’twill never come to pass, for you are my wife, sweet. My wife, and never could I harm you.”

Softly though he spoke, the intensity of his passion made her heart turn over. She prayed anew that he was right, for she could not bear to think she loved the man who would ulti
mately slay her! Merrick was right, she sought to assure herself. Such a thing could not be. Nay, surely not…Despite all, she shivered.

Strong arms immediately swept her close. Held tight against his chest, she released a long, uneven breath.

“Alana!” he chided. “Why do you tremble? You must believe me. I would never raise my hand against you—never!”

Her fingers curled in the springy dark hair on his chest. “I know,” she said haltingly. “And truly, ’tis not that I fear
you
.” She stopped, unable to go on.

Merrick probed gently. “What then? Tell me, sweet.”

Alana blinked back a hot rush of tears. Her time would be soon, she knew, for the babe had settled uncomfortably low within her. She longed for the day she would hold her child in her arms, yet she could not banish her secret dread so easily. How could she tell him of all she held within her?

“I am…afraid.”

“Of what?”

Sybil’s face swam afresh in her mind. Her cruel warning tolled through her mind until Alana longed to clamp her hands over her ears.

“Tell me, Saxon.”

He was not to be dissuaded and she knew it. “Sybil says this babe may well be born with my curse.” She turned her cheek into the hollow of his shoulder. Her voice emerged scarcely more than a breath of air.

Above her, Merrick swore a vile oath. “Were she not your sister, I would see her banished from this keep, for she is ever ready to brew trouble for you. By all that is holy, the wench has a tongue of which I should dearly like to deprive her. And as for you, Saxon, you have no curse, save that of having one such as her for a sister!”

Alana’s throat grew achingly tight. That he would defend her so tied her heart in knots. Alas, if only he loved her. If only…

In time, she slept again, curled against his side, her head pillowed trustingly on his chest. She roused slightly when he arose at dawn. She was only half-aware as he brushed a feathery kiss upon her lips, but she slept again with the memory of that caress seared into her consciousness. She woke some time later, wincing a little as she struggled to rise. The dull ache in the small of her back that had plagued her these last days had not lessened.

She had just finished plaiting her hair and donning her bliaud when she heard a loud rumbling belowstairs. Hurrying as best she was able, she entered the hall in time to see everyone rushing toward the chapel. An eerie prickling raised the hair on the back of her nape. Drawn by some force she could not control, she trailed the others.

Just then came the piercing shrill of a scream. “He is dead,” someone wailed. “May God have mercy, Father Edgar is dead!”

“Murdered!” came the cry. “He has been murdered!”

Alana had reached the entrance to the chapel. Her heart pounding, she edged forward numbly, as if in a trance. Several men-at-arms stepped aside, affording her an unobstructed view of the chapel.

An icy jolt tore through her. God above, it was true. Father Edgar lay sprawled near the altar…face down in a crimson pool of blood.

The world tilted all around her. Her head swam giddily. Her face bleached of all color, Alana pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. “It cannot be,” she whispered. “It cannot be.”

One by one all those present turned. To Alana it was as if the whole of Christendom stared at her. Their expressions ranged from furiously accusing to frankly terrified.

“Who would dare to kill one of God’s own?” The whisper began to spread.

A figure near the body raised his fist high and shook it, then pointed to Alana. “She did it!” he cried. “She killed Father Edgar because he did not wish to see her married to Merrick!”

“Aye,” shouted another. “The devil’s hand she is!”

“’Twas she who killed our animals—a sacrifice to the devil!”

Alana began to shake.

Merrick shoved his way into the fray. “’Tis foolishness you spout, the lot of you!” he said fiercely. “She was with me the night through. Last eve and all others before it, so cease your accusations.”

Behind him, a sudden stab of pain tore through Alana’s belly. Still another came, this one more violent than the first. With a low moan she sank to her knees, clutching her belly.

Genevieve had been standing nearby, stunned and dismayed by all that went on before her. But then she chanced to glimpse Alana’s distress. In but an instant she was at her side.

She came down beside Alana, her features frantic. “Alana, what is wrong? Is it your time?”

Frightened eyes met hers. “I—I do not know,” she gasped. “But I—I think it may well be.”

Genevieve hugged her. “There now, do not worry,” she soothed. “I’ve delivered many a young one into this world and you may be very certain I am as anxious to see this one as you,” she teased.

Merrick was there, his features as frantic as his sister’s had been. “What is amiss? The babe?”

Alana nodded and sought to summon a smile, a smile that quickly transformed to a grimace of pain.

Without another word, Merrick swung his wife high in his arms and bore her to their chamber.

As Alana soon discovered, having a babe was no simple task. Indeed, she reflected hours later, it was sheer torture, for her pains did not start slowly, as Genevieve had assured her was
wont to happen. The dull ache moved around to the front, cramping her womb with ever increasing intensity.

Then all at once, they stopped. For some few hours, the pains ceased; Alana was both relieved and frustrated. Now that the time was upon her, she wanted nothing more than to hold her child in her arms. Then, alas, just when she thought she was destined to wait she knew not how long, her labor began anew.

And now it was stronger and harder than before. Alana could not stifle the scream that broke from her lips, for the pressure within her swelled until she was certain she would be torn asunder.

Hearing her cry, Merrick burst into the chamber. Genevieve straightened from where she stood near the end of the bed.

“Merrick!” She proclaimed her displeasure aloud. “You cannot be here!”

“Why not?”

“Because—because ’tis simply not done! This is women’s work and—”

She broke off abruptly, for Merrick paid her no heed. Instead he barreled straight to the side of the bed where his wife lay, pale and gasping as an especially strong contraction ebbed at last.

Though Genevieve clucked and muttered beneath her breath and cast dark glances at the unwelcome visitor, Merrick cared not. Shaken to the core of his being, his attention was solely on his wife. He sat beside her, her hands
locked tightly within his. An awful dread unleashed its claws within him. Sweet Mother Mary, if he should lose her now…nay.
Nay!
He refused to consider that such a thing might happen.

Yet his heart lurched again and again as spasm after spasm tightened her womb. Her efforts to expel his child wrenched at his insides, for never had he seen her so pale and weak. Faith! He would gladly take her pain unto him to spare her own, but alas! he could not. He could only stand by and offer what comfort he could.

Just when he was convinced she could stand no more, Genevieve gave a half-laugh. “Oh, there, it will not be long now, I promise you! Push, Alana, push now!”

Alana propped herself on her elbows. She strained mightily, then fell back, exhausted. Tears glistened in her eyes. “I cannot,” she moaned. “God help me, I can stand no more!”

Merrick leaned forward. Fingers that were incredibly gentle smoothed a wild tangle of hair from her cheek. Though his face was ashen, he spoke sharply. “What is this, woman? I did not marry you that you might give up before I see my son! Come, are you Saxons truly so feeble?”

A spark of life flared in her eyes. She drew a breath and prepared to deliver a scathing denouncement when the pressure within her soared once more. She clutched at his hand so tightly her nails carved furrows in his palm.

Genevieve gave an excited cry. “Yes, Alana,
yes! Oh, I can see the head! Oh, so much hair there is, love, and I believe…yes, dark as night, it is!”

Battling and anxious now, convinced the time she’d awaited so long was near, Alana arched her back so that the cords in her neck stood taut. Gritting her teeth, she summoned her last vestige of strength and pushed.

The babe slid from her in a tremendous rush. A thin, mewling cry filled the air. Alana sank back, relieved and dazed.

Merrick framed her face in his palms and kissed her lips. “’Tis over, Saxon. ’Tis over and we have a fine son to show for it. Aye, and ’tis just as I predicted—a fine Norman son, sweet.”

Alana’s eyes opened. She fixed him with a glare as best she was able, but again there was no refuting him. Merrick laughed heartily and bestowed on her lips another long, lingering kiss.

Soon Genevieve was busily cleaning the slippery little body. The babe squalled, loudly venting his dislike of the task. Merrick stood watch, anxiously scrutinizing this tiny new being.

Genevieve turned. An odd smile crossed her lips as she spied him standing there, a faint longing in his eyes, a longing that he was aware he displayed so vividly.

His heart caught as his sister laid the now tightly swaddled bundle in his arms. He swallowed, stricken by humble pride. Dark hair was slicked tight to the babe’s scalp; the child
carried his Norman coloring, but the slant of his brows and the pucker of his mouth were his mother’s.

A rush of emotion shot through him, nearly sending him to his knees, for this moment was far more than he could have ever imagined. He was sire to a fine, healthy babe, husband to a beauty that he did not doubt would someday make him the envy of half the kingdom.

Alana
…his life.

Alana
…his love.

She would share his life, bear his children. She roused a hunger in him unmatched by any other. He would have it no other way—by God, it would
be
no other way! She was his and would ever be so. Yet even as pride swelled his chest, a bitter despair seared his soul. Bleakly he wondered if she had truly put aside her hatred of him. Would she ever come to care for him? Would she ever
love
him?

He handed the babe back to Genevieve, then moved to the bedside. He knelt, reaching for Alana’s hand. He whispered her name.

Her lashes fluttered open. Cool fingers curled around his. She smiled, a sweet, serene smile that sent a whole new pulse of emotion sweeping through him. Her lashes closed, and he knew from the deep, even rise and fall of her breast that she slept. He kissed her fingers, the fullness of her lips, before he rose and stepped from the chamber.