bond of marriage. Very quietly and slowly— with much control—he spoke, “I have said nothing of your looks nor of my reaction to them.”
“I am aware of that fact. Certainly you do not wish to wed me for myself, but for Camrose and the king’s favor.”
“My motives for marrying you are none of your concern.”
She laughed at him without humor.
“Do not worry yourself over the consummation, my lady. I promise you our marriage will be consummated so often the servants will have no time to change the bed linen.”
“Ha!”
There it was. The one word that could make his blood boil. His anger was so strong it almost clogged his throat.
He stood barely a foot away from her and fixed his darkest look on her defiantly upturned face. “One more word from you, mademoiselle, and I will consummate our union against this castle wall.”
Chapter 12
“I’m glad to find you surrounded by peace and quiet, my friend.”
Merrick jerked his black gaze away from Clio at the sound of Roger FitzAlan’s amused voice.
Roger stood in the shadow of an archway, a shoulder resting against the wall of the gate tower and one foot propped casually on one of the stone steps that led to the tower parapet.
He stepped out of the shadows and looked at Merrick with a wry gleam in his eye and an irritating smile that broke too brightly through his neatly clipped red beard.
Merrick glanced down at Clio. She was standing toe-to-toe with him, glaring at him the same way he had been glaring at her. To anyone watching they must have looked like two angry bulls ready to butt heads.
His anger had been so consuming that he had not thought of where they were or who was near. He had been that angry.
Yet all around them were the sounds and motions of the castle’s renovation. Men shouted orders to workers while guards directed the building materials and supplies in an endless line coming into the castle.
Blacksmith’s hammers rang in the distance and sounded like war swords clashing together on a battlefield. Rope winches with gears that needed oiling squealed loudly, and heavy tubs of lime mortar were raised to the upper battlements, where freshly hewn stone girded with long iron posts made the new walls at Camrose stronger than those of any other castle on the Marches.
Supply carts squeaked and rumbled through the gates, their teams goaded by men who whistled the oxen forward. Broad and sturdy stone wagons with long lines of huge draft teams lugged stacks of smooth square slate tiles that would line the new arrow loops. As those wagons rolled over the old wooden bridge that spanned the newly emptied moat, the studded cart wheels made constant creaking and tapping sounds.
Roger closed the distance between them and clapped Merrick on the shoulder. “All you need now are the Welsh.”
There were times when Roger could be damned obnoxious; this was one of them.
Roger turned to Clio, gallantly taking her small hand and bowing low over it while he praised “the beauty of the rose-petaled flush in her lovely cheeks,” Pinning her with a heated look, Roger slowly raised her fingers to his lips, kissed them, then turned her hand, and kissed her palm.
Merrick had seen his friend perform this same gesture whenever his mind was bent on a sly seduction. He also knew Roger well enough to know he did this with a purpose in mind. Something that had nothing to do with Clio and everything to do with goading Merrick into a spate of jealousy.
It was working.
Merrick had the sudden urge to plant his boot on Roger’s leather-covered ass and shove. Hard.
Clio smiled brightly the way she seldom smiled at him, completely taken in by Roger’s romantic ways, which did nothing to cool Merrick’s temper.
Then she sweetly asked Roger to join her for late mass and their supper meal following.
Roger looked at Merrick over the top of her blond head and winked.
Since Merrick had arrived at the castle late that first night, he had yet to take any meal
“I am aware of that fact. Certainly you do not wish to wed me for myself, but for Camrose and the king’s favor.”
“My motives for marrying you are none of your concern.”
She laughed at him without humor.
“Do not worry yourself over the consummation, my lady. I promise you our marriage will be consummated so often the servants will have no time to change the bed linen.”
“Ha!”
There it was. The one word that could make his blood boil. His anger was so strong it almost clogged his throat.
He stood barely a foot away from her and fixed his darkest look on her defiantly upturned face. “One more word from you, mademoiselle, and I will consummate our union against this castle wall.”
Chapter 12
“I’m glad to find you surrounded by peace and quiet, my friend.”
Merrick jerked his black gaze away from Clio at the sound of Roger FitzAlan’s amused voice.
Roger stood in the shadow of an archway, a shoulder resting against the wall of the gate tower and one foot propped casually on one of the stone steps that led to the tower parapet.
He stepped out of the shadows and looked at Merrick with a wry gleam in his eye and an irritating smile that broke too brightly through his neatly clipped red beard.
Merrick glanced down at Clio. She was standing toe-to-toe with him, glaring at him the same way he had been glaring at her. To anyone watching they must have looked like two angry bulls ready to butt heads.
His anger had been so consuming that he had not thought of where they were or who was near. He had been that angry.
Yet all around them were the sounds and motions of the castle’s renovation. Men shouted orders to workers while guards directed the building materials and supplies in an endless line coming into the castle.
Blacksmith’s hammers rang in the distance and sounded like war swords clashing together on a battlefield. Rope winches with gears that needed oiling squealed loudly, and heavy tubs of lime mortar were raised to the upper battlements, where freshly hewn stone girded with long iron posts made the new walls at Camrose stronger than those of any other castle on the Marches.
Supply carts squeaked and rumbled through the gates, their teams goaded by men who whistled the oxen forward. Broad and sturdy stone wagons with long lines of huge draft teams lugged stacks of smooth square slate tiles that would line the new arrow loops. As those wagons rolled over the old wooden bridge that spanned the newly emptied moat, the studded cart wheels made constant creaking and tapping sounds.
Roger closed the distance between them and clapped Merrick on the shoulder. “All you need now are the Welsh.”
There were times when Roger could be damned obnoxious; this was one of them.
Roger turned to Clio, gallantly taking her small hand and bowing low over it while he praised “the beauty of the rose-petaled flush in her lovely cheeks,” Pinning her with a heated look, Roger slowly raised her fingers to his lips, kissed them, then turned her hand, and kissed her palm.
Merrick had seen his friend perform this same gesture whenever his mind was bent on a sly seduction. He also knew Roger well enough to know he did this with a purpose in mind. Something that had nothing to do with Clio and everything to do with goading Merrick into a spate of jealousy.
It was working.
Merrick had the sudden urge to plant his boot on Roger’s leather-covered ass and shove. Hard.
Clio smiled brightly the way she seldom smiled at him, completely taken in by Roger’s romantic ways, which did nothing to cool Merrick’s temper.
Then she sweetly asked Roger to join her for late mass and their supper meal following.
Roger looked at Merrick over the top of her blond head and winked.
Since Merrick had arrived at the castle late that first night, he had yet to take any meal
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