him to be reasonable. To hear Gaston tell it, they debated for hours.”
“Lord Merrick debated?”
In answer to her incredulous response, Alan gave her a wry smile as he crooked his elbow and leaned against one of the large butts of ale. “I think we can both guess how it went. Gaston made his suggestions, Lord Merrick shook his head, Gaston made more suggestions, Lord Merrick shook his head, Gaston was finally reasonable, and Lord Merrick nodded his head.”
Constance had to smile at that probably accurate description. “Yes, I daresay you’re right.”
Alan’s gaze wandered to the shelf holding smaller casks of English wine across the room. “A lady could do much worse for a husband than Lord Merrick,” he reflected.
Although Alan was a trusted friend, and she’d often turned to him when there was trouble with the tenants, Constance wasn’t about to share her innermost feelings with him. And a man who impressed a steward wouldn’t necessarily be a good husband, even if he’d also apparently impressed the garrison commander, the soldiers and the servants in the time since he’d arrived.
“What of the fodder for the wedding guests’ horses?” she asked, trying not to shiver.
“Well in hand, my lady,” Alan said. “All we’ve invited have already sent notice they’ll attend.”
She hadn’t expected their potential guests to respond so swiftly. “Including Sir Jowan and his son?”
“Yes, my lady. I believe they plan to visit before the wedding, too, to pay their respects to the new overlord of Tregellas.”
“They haven’t far to come,” Constance replied, keeping any hint of dismay from her voice, although the last thing she needed or wanted was the distraction of Sir Jowan’s son.
Beatrice burst into the buttery as if propelled by a gust of wind. She skittered to a halt in a most unladylike way, her face flushed and her eyes bright with excitement. “Demelza said I’d find you here. Have you heard? Lord Merrick has decided there should be a foot ball game as part of the celebrations for May Day. The garrison against the men of the village. Sir Henry says the garrison is sure to win, but I told him not to be so confident. Some of the villagers are very good. He said Merrick was going to choose a Queen of the May, too.”
He was going to—what?
As Constance and Alan exchanged shocked and dismayed looks, Beatrice frowned, her enthusiasm somewhat dimmed. “What’s wrong?”
How was she going to tell Beatrice the reason for their horror at this news? Her cousin wasn’t ignorant of some of Wicked William’s abuses; nobody who lived within fifty miles of Tregellas could be. But she’d always tried to shield Beatrice from the worst.
“I’m sure he’ll pick you for the Queen of the May, Constance,” Beatrice ventured, as if Constance’s silence was based on a worry far different from the one she was actually experiencing. “After all, he’s going to marry you.”
“It’s not that,” Constance replied. She searched for an explanation that wouldn’t require her to go into sickening detail. “Being a new-made lord, Merrick probably doesn’t appreciate all the complications that may arise from such events. I shall have to enlighten him. Right away. Good day, Alan. Until later, Beatrice,” she finished as she hurried to the door.
She carried on quickly through the kitchen, nodding briefly to Gaston and the busy servants, then through the corridor to the hall, where she looked for Merrick. At least—since she wanted him to hate her—she need not couch her words with care. That held some danger, too, but she was on her guard now. Just let him try to kiss her!
Servants trimmed the torches and added wood to the hearth. Sir Henry and Sir Ranulf were playing chess, Sir Ranulf studying the board with care while Sir Henry laughed and said something about making a move before night fell. The uncles, deep in discussion, sat near the central hearth.
Merrick wasn’t there.
She didn’t want to ask anyone where Merrick was; Lord Algernon would smirk as he had lately taken to doing, her uncle would ask her why she wanted to know, and his friends would regard her with that unnerving curiosity.
The bailiff came scuttling down the steps from the solar. He looked even more pale than usual and licked his lips as if he wanted a drink.
“Ruan!”
He checked his steps and then, smiling in that obsequious way that he had, rushed toward her.
Everything about the man reminded her of a crawling, slimy thing—his pale skin, as if he’d just climbed out from under a rotting piece of wood; the way he stood with his head thrust forward as if he was either about to bow or just rising from one; his clasped hands that would have done credit to a shy maiden; the pleading tone of his voice, as if every utterance was made with regret and against his better judgment; and especially the shrewd gleam in his watery blue eyes that, in spite of his posture and manner, betrayed a clever and, she was sure, devious mind. “Is Lord Merrick in his solar?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Has he told you of his plans for May Day?”
Ruan’s eyes shone with curiosity. “Yes, my lady. Didn’t he tell you?”
A blush heated her face. “How do you think the villagers will take the news?” she asked, not answering his question.
Ruan frowned and ran his hand over his moist lips. “I think they’ll be wondering if they’ve got to hide farther back in the woods when he chooses the Queen of the May.”
That was what Constance was thinking, too.
“I’m sure he’ll want to please you, my lady,” Ruan said quietly, and in a way that seemed to imply all manner of unsavory things. “If you tell him—”
“Good day, Ruan,” she interrupted, turning toward the stairs to the solar.
“Good day, my lady,” he muttered under his breath as he watched the beautiful, haughty lady hurry on her way.
They thought themselves so fine and clever, all these lords and ladies.
Well, he was clever, too.
CONSTANCE RAPPED SHARPLY on the heavy wooden door to the solar, then entered without waiting for Merrick to answer. “I understand you have made certain plans for May Day.”
The lord of Tregellas sat at the trestle table, which was now covered with scrolls. As the wind howled outside the walls, the tapestries swayed in the draught that made its way through the linen shutters that couldn’t keep out the rain. Droplets ran along a jagged path across the sill, then trickled down the wall to puddle on the floor.
“I have,” he said gruffly as he raised his head to look at her. The flame of the plump tallow candle on the table flickered, altering the shadows on his face. The planes of his cheeks. His brown eyes, so dark they were nearly black.
She took a step back, then berated herself for acting like an addlepated ninny. The lord of Tregellas was, after all, just a man.
He gestured
