She sniffed derisively. “How can I believe that?”
“Because I give you my word.”
“And if I should refuse you your rights in the bedchamber?” she challenged, certain she had found one thing he would insist upon.
“I would expect you to tell me why, so that I may remedy the situation.”
She backed away from him. She didn’t dare stay close, not when he was looking so incredibly virile, and making such astonishing, seemingly sincere concessions. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I…I have things to do.”
It was a pathetic excuse and she felt like a coward, but it was that…or kiss him.
THE WINE FOR THE MAY DAY feast was the best Constance had ever tasted, and Gaston had outdone himself with the food. Dish after dish of soup, stew, meat with rich sauces, pasties, greens and bread came and went, ending with sweetmeats and fruit both cooked and fresh. Afterward, a minstrel entertained with songs of Arthur and his knights, making references to Tintagel, home of Arthur’s mother and now one of Richard of Cornwall’s strongholds. Other musicians played tunes for dancing on lute and tabor, and of course there’d been more wine. After one particularly lively round dance with Henry as her partner, Constance had removed her veil because she was too warm and taken out the pins that held her coiled braids tight against her head.
Henry was really a very amusing fellow, and as he and Ranulf bantered about the relationship between Arthur, Guinevere and Lancelot—Henry maintaining Arthur must have been so busy looking for grails and otherwise “dashing about” that he’d neglected his wife, and Ranulf claiming Lancelot was an immoral fellow whose battle prowess had gone to his head—she laughed so hard, she could scarcely draw breath. Even Merrick had chuckled, a surprisingly pleasant rumble of amusement. Beatrice giggled until the tears ran downher cheeks and her father, with a look of disapproval, sent her off to bed.
Constance smiled indulgently as Beatrice wove her way toward the stairs, helped by Demelza. Her father wasn’t paying much attention to her progress; he had returned to a lively discussion about hounds and their merits with Lord Algernon.
She felt free and delightfully happy, even with Merrick beside her, looking handsome in his black clothing and his long, thick, waving dark hair. And splendid features. And well-cut lips. If he were to take her hand now, she might even welcome that attention.
“God save me, it’s warm in here!” she murmured to no one in particular as she held out her goblet for more of the rich red wine.
Merrick plucked her goblet from her hand.
Since she was in a good humor, instead of being angry, she gave him a saucy smile as she tried to get it back. “I’m thirsty, my lord.”
He held it up just out of her reach. “Have you not had enough wine to slake your thirst, or is your throat still dry from all the cheering you did today?” he asked, one brow raised in query.
“I was cheering for you, my lord,” she protested, recalling the sight of the lord of Tregellas, half-naked, his long hair flying, running after the inflated pig’s bladder with the grace of a deer. He had, without a doubt, the finest body in Cornwall, perhaps even England. “You were really quite magnificent. No doubt the garrisonwould have lost without you. I never thought you’d play, though. I could more easily imagine you commanding the bladder as if it were one of your men.” She lowered her voice to an imitation of Merrick’s deep growl and pointed an imperious, if slightly wobbly, finger at an imaginary ball on the floor. “Bladder, come here! Bladder, I command you to cease rolling! Bladder, obey me or I shall pierce you with my trusty blade!”
Amused by her jest, she started to giggle. “And your good friend Sir Ranulf would say, “Bladder, my friend, what the devil are you doing? You weary me with all this rolling,” while Sir Henry would no doubt try to charm it into stopping with smiles and gentle pleading. “Please, pretty bladder, come back to me….” And it probably would, too. He’s a very charming fellow, your friend.” She waggled a warning finger at Merrick. “I shall have to keep my eye on him.”
Merrick didn’t seem the least bit amused. “I think it’s time you retired, my lady.”
She opened her eyes wide, both to display her surprise and the better to focus on his somewhat blurry face. “The night is young, my lord.” She gave him her very best smile. “And there may be more dancing.”
“Not for you, I think.”
Constance leaned over him to address her uncle, her breasts pressing against Merrick’s forearm. The sensation was quite pleasant. Exhilarating, even.
“He says I must retire, Uncle,” she complained, interrupting their debate about the bloodlines of their respective hunting hounds. “Tell him I’m old enough to decide for myself when I go to bed.”
To her chagrin, her startled uncle looked to Merrick before he answered. “I believe, my dear, that you’ve had quite enough excitement for one day.”
“I have not.” Determined not to be sent from the hall like an errant child, she again smiled at Merrick. “Don’t you want to dance with me, my lord?”
She couldn’t quite read the expression on his face, but he might have been amused. “Not when you’re in this condition. Come, my lady, retire before you make a fool of yourself.”
She bristled at both his words and the laughter lurking in his eyes and the corners of his shapely lips. “I never make a fool of myself.”
“There’s always a first time.”
Affronted, Constance rose to her feet with all the dignity she could muster, in spite of the wine. “Very well, my lord, since heaven forbid you should be ashamed of me, I’ll retire.”
Unfortunately, the floor seemed to have become somewhat unstable during the meal. She reached for the back of her chair to steady herself—and instead found herself swept up into Merrick’s arms. She gave a little screech of protest and clamped her arms around his neck so she wouldn’t fall.
“Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us,” he said to the uncles and his friends at the high table.
She was not so far gone with drink that she thoughtthis acceptable, even if it was rather…delightful. “Put me down!”
