Samantha James (22 page)

“And if you value that blade of which you speak so proudly, I should let the lady go lest I decide you’ll have no further need of it.”

Merrick had appeared behind Raoul. His eyes were pale and glittering, his features a mask of stone. The color had drained from Raoul’s face. There was no doubt Merrick meant what he said, for the blade of a dagger even now lay snug against the side of Raoul’s throat.

Raoul released her so suddenly she stumbled back. “There is no need to draw your weapon against me,” he said stiffly.

Merrick’s teeth flashed white. “No? It seems the lady still does not favor you, Raoul—a fact that still escapes you.” The blade pressed harder, until a drop of blood shone fat and red. “I cannot think why.”

Raoul had gone utterly still. Beads of sweat popped out on his brow. “Nor can I, Merrick. I would seek your forgiveness, if…if only you allow it.”

“The lady is mine,” Merrick stated flatly, “and what is mine, I hold. Twice now I have warned you what will happen should you touch her again. I vow I’ll not be so considerate again.”

He lowered the blade. Raoul gave a nod and stepped back, clearly anxious to depart. When he had gone, Merrick turned to Alana.

Slipping his knuckles beneath her chin, he guided her eyes to his. “Did he harm you?”

Alana’s heart had lodged in her throat. Only now did she consider what could have been her fate had Merrick not come along. Merrick had said he’d once warned Raoul against touching her; mayhap Raoul had sought only to frighten her. Indeed, Merrick was not a man of idle threats. And surely Raoul was not so unwise as to risk Merrick’s wrath.

Wordlessly she shook her head.

His grip on her chin fell away. “You should not walk alone,” he chided gruffly. When Alana kept silent, he frowned. “What is it? Never tell me he has done this before!”

Alana swallowed. “Nay,” she said, her voice scarcely audible.

His expression had grown dark as a moonless night. “Would you have told if he had?”

She made no answer.

His scowl deepened. “Alana!”

Slowly she raised her head. “Would you have cared?”

His jaw clenched hard. “I cannot believe you would ask such a thing, Saxon! Did you not hear what I told Raoul? I will allow no man to claim what is mine!”

Her face wiped clean of all expression, she lifted her gaze. “Aye,” she said clearly. “Forgive me, my lord conqueror, but I did forget. I have food aplenty in my belly. A roof over my head far better than any I have known.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her. “Do you denounce my treatment of you?” If he was affronted, he couldn’t help it. “By the saints, woman, I’ve cared for you as I have cared for no other!”

“And will you discard me like all the others before me?”

Merrick was angered by her accusations, puzzled by her behavior, which was most peculiar. “By the Cross, woman, what madness is this? I’ve lain with no other since the day we met. I’ve wanted no other and you’ve no cause to believe otherwise!” He cursed vilely. “Is Raoul responsible for this? Did he seek to fill your head with lies about me?”

Alana struggled to maintain her composure. All at once she felt as if the world were shattering all around her. “Do not blame him. He
said nothing. Nothing but the truth. Nothing but what I have known all along.”

“And what is that?” he demanded.

She made no response but instead asked a question of her own. “What will happen to me when my babe is born?”

Merrick stared at her. Her words made no sense.
She
made no sense.

“Will you take him from me?”

“Nay!” he exploded, though some of his tension fled. Was this what was behind the strangeness of her moods of late—the fear that he would separate her from her child? A part of him was angry that she still thought so little of him, but he sought to reassure her.

“You need not worry, Saxon. All will be as it is now. You will remain here with me—and our babe—at Brynwald.” He started to reach for her, yet he sensed a curious distance in her manner. She regarded him unblinkingly.

“So,” she said at last. “All will be as it was. I will remain your whore.”

“Bedamned!” he swore. “You are not a whore!”

Alana could not look at him. She did not dare, for she was terrified the pain in her heart would show in her eyes.

Merrick’s hands came down on her shoulders. He drew her to him, his embrace warm and comforting. “Saxon! Look at me!”

Slowly her head came up. Her eyes grazed his. He spoke quickly.

“Alana, you need not worry. You will be
the mother of my child. I will care for you always.”

Tears glazed the beautiful emerald of her eyes, tears that cut his insides like a knife.

“What is wrong, sweet? I do not understand this—this melancholy sadness! You should be filled with joy, for you will bear a fine Norman son—”

She made a faint, choked sound. “Nay,” she said tonelessly. “I will bear a bastard.”

I
will bear a bastard
.

Long into the night, those words haunted Merrick. Alana’s mood remained bleak, and when at last she lapsed into sleep, Merrick slid from their bed. He dressed and made his way belowstairs.

The hall was deserted, which suited him well. He took his place alone at the trestled table, and there nursed a hearty cup of ale.

I will bear a bastard
.

Alana’s speech lent him no ease. The words resounded in his head, over and over. He felt guilty, though he knew not why. She shared his home, his hearth. She would bear his son, and share his life, and he would have it no other way! How could she not know this? He’d thought it mattered little to her that they were not wed. Surely she knew that he would take no other to his bed. Surely she knew he cherished her as he had cherished no other woman in all his days!

In truth, he’d given little regard to the fact their child would not be legitimate. After all,
Duke William was a bastard…and now he was king of all England!

Such was the bent of his mind as he chanced to glance up and find his sister before him. No sign of a welcoming smile broke his lips, for he suspected she was ever ready to stir trouble anew.

He stiffened at the touch of a gentle hand warm upon his shoulder. “What is wrong, brother? Can you not sleep?”

“There is much I must think on,” he said gruffly.

“What! Can you not think clearly with Alana beside you?”

Curling his fingers around his cup, he glared at her. She merely laughed, rousing his frustration even further.

“Why do you laugh? You find me so amusing?”

“What I find amusing is that a knight, so strong and so bold as you, is all adither because of one beauteous Saxon maid.”

He snorted. “A beauty she may be, sister. But she is hardly a maid—”

“Thanks to you, brother.”

His jaw clamped shut. “I am scarcely adither. I merely have much on my mind, and I would thank you to leave me to my business.”

Genevieve’s smile withered. She stated without preamble, “Marry her, Merrick.”

His eyes flickered. But he made no reply. He stared at her, his expression stormy.

The soft line of Genevieve’s lips tightened. “Why will you not consider it?”

“I did not say I would not consider it!”

“You will be a father before you are a husband. Does this not trouble you?”

He swore. “Genevieve, once again you trespass where you should not!”

“And you tarry when you should not!” she said sharply. “Is it not enough that her people call her witch? Must they call her wanton as well? Must they call her whore?”

His fist landed atop the table, sending a spray of ale spouting high in the air. “She is not wanton. Nor is she a whore,” Merrick exploded, “and I would kill any man who dares to call her one!”

Genevieve watched him closely. “Tell me, brother,” she said suddenly. “Would you take her to your bed and not your heart?”

His features had turned brooding. Holding her breath, Genevieve pressed on. “What of the child, Merrick? Will you claim this babe as your own?”

“Aye!” Merrick was furious that she might think otherwise. “I will. By God, I have!”

Genevieve nodded her approval. “If you would have others treat Alana as an equal,” she observed calmly, “then so must you. Aye, her mother was a peasant. But she is also the by-blow of a lord. And she has as much pride as you, brother.”

Merrick directed his gaze heavenward. “Blessed be,” he muttered. “Do you think I do not know that?”

Genevieve paid no heed. “Would you do to your son or daughter what Kerwain did to her?” she demanded.

I will bear a bastard
.

Merrick’s features were stormy. He had gone very still. Nay, he thought. He could not. He
would
not.

I will bear a bastard
.

He wanted his son to grow to manhood here at Brynwald. To take his rightful place. Genevieve was right. He did not want his child to spend his life ever the outsider…ever the outcast.

Something twisted inside him. The circumstances of her birth were scarcely her fault, yet still she suffered…Not long ago he had watched her…as she had watched the villagers indulge in games and dancing one eve. A faint wistfulness marring the smooth skin of her brow, she had stood from afar. Ever distant. Ever lonely. Ever apart…

Ever his.

Resolve flowed through his veins. By God, she
was
his. His alone. And so she would remain. Yet still…

He spoke without knowing it. “She despises all things Norman—the saints forbid that she should take a Norman husband.” He shook his head. “God above! What if she will not have me?”

“Your child grows plumper with every day that passes, Merrick. Alas, this child may well be half-grown before you would take Alana to wife.” She gave a shaky laugh. “And then, my lord, I do believe she would not have you!”

She hesitated, then added quietly, “Alana has said naught to me, Merrick. Aye, she
may have hated you once, but no more. This I believe with all my soul. And if we Normans would make our lives here—if we would be one with the land, then we must be one with the people as well.” She bent and kissed his brow, her expression soft. “I will say no more, brother. Instead I will do as you ask, and leave you alone to ponder this matter.”

Merrick remained where he was, but in truth, there was little need to ponder long and hard.

He’d thought himself so much better than her people. But was he guilty of judging her as well? One question led to another. Had she been a lady born and true, would he have taken her as he had? He did not know. God help him, but he did not. So mayhap Genevieve was right. Mayhap he was no better than those who judged her so harshly.

But he could not set her free. Indeed, he could scarcely imagine his days without her. Aye, she roused his temper. But she also brought him pleasure as no other ever had…as no other ever
would
.

He wanted her trust, he realized. Her love. Her very heart…for she’d already captured his own.

And indeed, it seemed he need ask himself no more.

It was very late when Alana woke the next morning. She heard the shutters clack open, then brilliant sunshine poured into the chamber, bathing all with a golden yellow glow.

Genevieve flashed across her line of vision. When she saw that Alana was awake, she clapped her hands. “Up with you, Alana!” she said crisply. “So come now, and hurry, for your bath is ready.”

Alana gingerly propped herself on an elbow. ’Twas hardly Genevieve’s habit to wake her, let alone tend to her bath.

Genevieve was busy pouring a generous stream of oil from a small jar into the bath. The sweet, fragrant scent of roses wafted from the steaming water. “There, now!” she pronounced. “Doesn’t that smell heavenly? I adore this scent, don’t you? ’Tis my favorite!”

Alana frowned. Her eyes never left Genevieve as she flitted around the chamber. Was it her imagination? Or was there an air of joy about the Norman that could scarcely be ignored.

Genevieve continued to chatter. “The day is a glorious one, is it not? Why, I vow it shall prove most unforgettable! Aye, ’tis a fine day for…” She broke off abruptly, then smiled—ah, and verily! a most secret smile, Alana decided.

“A fine day for what, Genevieve?” Alana made the query slowly, more puzzled than ill at ease. Were it possible to be suspicious of the Norman woman, mayhap she was. For indeed, ’twas hardly like Genevieve to be anything but forthright.

“Oh, for just about anything, I should say.” Genevieve’s laughter rang out, light and tinkling. “For hunting. For riding. For dancing and feasting and celebrating all the world has
brought us.” She seized Alana’s hands and pulled her up. “Hurry now! Your bath grows cold!”

Alana allowed Genevieve to help her undress, then she slipped into the huge wooden tub. She prodded and probed as to why Genevieve seemed to find this day different from all others, but Genevieve merely laughed and laughed. Clearly she was pleased with herself and the world in general. And alas, Alana could scarcely begrudge her that.

At last she arose, a length of linen wrapped around her body. Genevieve held up a gown of deep, rich purple. “What do you think of this one, Alana?” Alana had no chance to answer, for already Genevieve was nodding her approval. “Aye, this is the one! Why, ’tis fit for…”

Alana glanced at her sharply, for again Genevieve’s words dangled—and again there was that unexplained smile. Indeed, her eyes were fairly sparkling.

“Genevieve,” she said slowly. “You must tell me. What is amiss? Why do you act so strangely?”

“Strangely! Alana, I am merely filled with gladness! Now come and dress,” she said briskly.

Alana sighed. She had learned long ago that there was little point in arguing with Genevieve once her mind was made up. She gave herself over into the other woman’s hands. Genevieve brushed her hair until it shone like a silvery waterfall down her back.
She did not bind it but left it loose and flowing gently around her shoulders and hips. Alana said nothing, but protested mightily when Genevieve draped an intricately spun silver girdle around her hips.

“Genevieve! Whatever are you thinking…I cannot wear this! ’Tis yours and—”

“And I will hear no more, Alana.” Genevieve pressed a fingertip against her lips, stifling her speech. “Wear it this day. Wear it and…well, you shall see.”

Genevieve would say no more, shaking her head as she draped a sheer wimple over Alana’s hair. By all the saints, Alana did not know why Genevieve should take such care with her appearance—nor did she understand why Genevieve insisted she wear her girdle—and such a fine one yet!

At last, Genevieve circled around her, then stopped. She clapped her hands with delight. “Oh, Alana, you are truly a vision. Truly!”

It was Alana’s turn to shake her head. “Genevieve—” she began, her eyes beseeching.

Genevieve grasped her elbow. “Come,” she said crisply. “Else all below will think you intend to laze abed until noontide.”

Alana sighed. By now she’d deduced there was little point in pursuing the matter further. And indeed, why should this day be different from any other?

Her mind thus preoccupied, Alana descended the winding stair next to Genevieve. When at last she raised her head, a frown knit the smooth skin of her brow. The instant
she stepped within the hall, a sudden quiet descended. All eyes came to rest upon her, and it spun through her mind that the others present were also dressed in their finest. Even the kitchen boys stood like small soldiers, their faces scrubbed clean as could be.

Merrick stood before the hearth, dark and striking, his shoulders as wide as the horizon. And it was Merrick who commanded her attention as no other…Merrick…and the man who stood beside him.

Father Edgar.

Her gaze skipped back to Merrick’s, and then she couldn’t tear her eyes from his. Behind her, Genevieve gave her a gentle shove. “Go,” she whispered.

Alana’s heart skipped a beat. Then another, and still another. Bold as you please—bold as ever!—Merrick crossed to stand directly before her. The breadth of his chest eclipsed her view of the others.

All at once she was trembling like a leaf in a storm. Nay, she thought dazedly. This could not be what it appeared. She was afraid to hope. Sweet Jesus, afraid to even dare think!

Her lips would not work properly. “Merrick—” She spoke, though the sound seemed to come from a very great distance away.

He extended a hand. “Methinks we need a priest, Saxon.”

A priest
. Alana stared as if struck dumb. Her knees went weak. How she remained upright, she knew not. ’Twas surely a dream, but of a certainty one she did not fear or dread.

Her breast felt near to bursting, yet the sound that escaped was not what she expected. “Why?” she heard herself say. “Why would you do this?” Her hand came to rest unknowingly on the swell of her belly. “Because of this? Because of the babe?”

He had yet to withdraw his hand. “Aye, I want my son.” He paused for the space of a heartbeat. “But I also want you, Saxon.”

Alana felt like weeping with relief. She could scarcely speak for the huge lump in her throat. “And you would…marry me?” Her voice was but a breath. She had to hear it aloud, for only then would she know this was real, and not some desperate dream conjured up from the depths of her being…

A half-smile lurked about his lips, but his eyes were solemn. “I would,” he vowed softly. “I would have you as my wife. This day. By God, this night and every other.”

She searched his features…the very depths of her heart, which knocked so wildly in her breast. This was what she wanted. Above all else, she longed for her babe to bear his father’s name. It no longer mattered that Merrick was Norman. He would not forsake her. Indeed, he had believed in her when no one else did.

But it still seemed so unreal. She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep, fortifying breath. When they opened, Merrick was still there before her, tall and strong, as handsome as ever.

“’Tis not my way to beg or plead, Saxon, and so I would ask…Will you wed me?”

Alana quivered. Ah, but it was just like him to do this! True, he did not ask or plead, but commanded, as if it were his due! And then he did the one thing she did not expect.

“The choice is yours, Saxon.” His tone was gruff but his eyes were tender. “Say aye or nay, but say it now.”

Her mind was all awhirl. Sweet heaven, he wanted her to marry him…!

She could do no less, she realized. And alas, she could
ask
for no more…

“Aye,” she said breathlessly. “Aye, I will marry you, Norman.”

Shyly she placed her hand in his. His palm, callused and strong, engulfed hers. Then she was tugged near and caught up against his side. He turned and started across the hall.

Now that the time was nigh upon them, Father Edgar had grown nervous. When Merrick beckoned to him, he approached. His eyes darted between Merrick and Alana. He leaned close and whispered, “Forgive my boldness, my lord. But are you certain this is what you wish to do?” His gaze slid to Alana, a reflection of his disapproval.