Claire Delacroix (3 page)

Merlyn’s voice hardened as he crossed the chamber. “Who did you tell of what you knew?”

“No one. Why?”

He seized my arm, compelling me to meet his gaze. “No one?”

“What ails you, Merlyn?” I fussed, but his intent matter unsettled me. “Who would I tell?”

“Swear it to me,
chère
,” he insisted. “Swear to me that the tale never crossed your lips again.”

He was serious, more serious than ever I have seen him. A goose crossed my grave and I shivered. “What has happened, Merlyn?”

“I doubt that you truly wish to know.” His gaze was unwavering. “Swear it.”

I held his gaze for a long moment, startled not only by his intensity but the fear he awakened in me. “I told no one.”

“Not even your sister, Mavella? Or your mother?”

“My mother died shortly after we left Ravensmuir,” I said, though I immediately wished that I had not.

Merlyn released my arm and a lump rose in my throat at the compassion in his gaze. “I am sorry,
chère
. I know that you were close.”

I nodded, embarrassed at my tears. I pushed up my sleeves and made to strain the wort, for I could not linger over the task any longer, and I would not have Merlyn believe that his presence changed my routine a whit.

Merlyn moved with astonishing speed to seize my left wrist. He turned it so that light played along the ravaged flesh of my inner arm. I have a scar from wrist to elbow, one that I oft forget now that the wound is healed, but one Merlyn had never seen before.

“What is this? Who did this to you?” To my surprise, his voice shook with rage.

“The wort must be strained from the brew while boiling hot. I have seen worse injuries than mine.” I tried to shake off his grip without success. “It is nothing.”

Merlyn’s eyes narrowed. “Does it hurt?”

“No longer.”

He ran a gentle fingertip along the considerable length of puckered flesh and awakened a most unwelcome sensation. “Did you have care for it?”

I scoffed with feigned impatience. “A witch should know to heal herself.”

I had his attention now, though I would have preferred otherwise. “What is this? Who has called you a witch?”

“It is nothing of import. Our lives are no longer entwined, Merlyn, and what happens to me is of no import to you. Your steed awaits you, as do your unholy relics and comely wenches. I have labor to do - if you will excuse me.”

He watched me grip the pot. “You drained the mash alone once before and it spilled,” he guessed.

I straightened to regard him sternly. In truth, I did not trust myself to do this deed beneath his eye. “The silversmith’s wife did not come to aid me as she had promised, which is not uncommon as you can see. The brew would have spoiled if left any longer and the cost of the ingredients would have been mine to bear. I had no choice but to act alone, as I intend to do now.”

“So, you will inflict another wound upon yourself. How then, will you and your sister survive? You are too proud,
chère
. You should ask for aid.”

“My patroness does not oblige.”

“You should have come to me for aid.”

“Oh yes, that I could blacken my soul with some trade in disreputable relics.” I snapped at him, stung that he who labored in such sin dared to criticize me. “That would solve all my woes.”

“I make no jest.”

“Nor do I!” I shook a finger at him. “It is a raw wager to be born a woman in this world, to be poor, to be scorned, to be denied the truth. The sins of Eve and the taint of womanhood are mine to bear simply for the crime of being born a woman. I have made my choices and survived as best I could...”

“By letting your neighbors believe you to be a witch?” he demanded, then arched a brow. “You could be burned alive for the accusation alone.”

“I did not begin the rumor of my otherworldly powers, though it is true that I did nothing to deter the lie,” I admitted. “There has been a time or two that I lifted my fingers in that ancient hex sign to perpetuate the tale.”

Merlyn leaned against the table. “Would this be a lie,
chère
?”

“It is true that I have been called a witch, and it is true that I never corrected the assertions made against me. But they are rooted in nothing at all. If I have permitted a lie to taint my life, it is because my sole alternative was to die.”

He clutched his heart. “I bleed for your pain,
chère
.”

That he should mock me was beyond infuriating. “And so you should! If I, protector and provider of my small family should perish, who then would ensure the welfare of my sister and brother? Who would feed them? Who would make ale to sell so that they had at least bread to eat each day? Who would clothe and shelter them? Who would take them in?”

I advanced upon Merlyn and poked him in the chest with one finger. “You? I suspect not. It has suited me to be known as one with arcane powers, only because that has kept a certain kind of wolf from our door.”

Merlyn’s eyes were glittering and I sensed the anger coiled within him, though I could not guess the reason for it. “You blame me for this.”

I knew I tickled the dragon’s belly, but I did not care. “And why not? What choices had I?” I flung out my hands. “I was neither maiden nor widow nor wife. I was without the legal comforts of marriage but denied the opportunities that would have been mine otherwise. I could not have my own license to brew, as an unwed woman might. I could not wed again. Worse, I was shunned and less likely to receive charity from our fellow villagers. To be called a witch was the least offensive of choices I did have. I could have become a thief or a beggar, I could have abandoned my family, I could have become a whore.”

Merlyn’s eyes narrowed. “It was you who chose to leave Ravensmuir,
chère
.” His lips drew taut. “And interestingly, it is you who calls me a liar.”

I could have struck him. Instead, I drove my finger into his chest again. He did not so much as flinch. “I do blame you. I blame you utterly for my circumstance. Had you not been the rogue you are, I would have remained by your side for all of our days, Merlyn. A nuptial pledge such as we exchanged is no small thing.” I took a shuddering breath. “I abandoned you only because I feared for my soul in being wed to a criminal. I left you because a woman of any merit would have no other choice.”

Merlyn folded his arms grimly across his chest. “So, here we stand. Rogue and witch.”

“I am no witch!” I replied hotly. “Look at me! What manner of witless fool would not expect a witch to change the contributing factors of her family’s misery? Why would a witch not summon riches for herself, or coax the return of a suitor for her sister, or conjure a meal for her starving brother?” I glared at Merlyn, expecting him to refute me, but his eyes narrowed.

“What brother?” he demanded with such ferocity that my breath caught.

“The brother my mother died bringing into this world!” I turned my back upon him, choking on an unwelcome tide of emotion. “Good day, Merlyn.”

I stirred my wort, furious that it cooled, furious that Merlyn was responsible, furious that I responded to him as vigorously as ever I did.

He did not leave.

I had not truly expected him to. I refused to acknowledge him, though the kitchen was thick with the tangle of emotions left between us.

“I came to seek your aid,
chère
,” he said quietly.

“You shall not have it. I want no part of your crimes.”

“Even if I give you my word to share the truth with you?”

I shook my head impatiently. “Merlyn, you cannot discredit a lie with another lie.”

“How is it that Gawain - a man occupied in the same trade as myself - is given more credence by you than I am?” Merlyn’s words were tinged with bitterness.

I turned, my voice faltering. “You have never given me your word.”

“Because you never had the courage to make your charges to me!”

“I could not believe whatever you said to me now.”

Merlyn’s eyes flashed. “Even if it was the truth?”

“I doubt that it would be.”

He made a sound of frustration and I glanced back to find his expression grim. He closed the distance between us with one step and caught my chin in his hand. His voice was unexpectedly hoarse. “What if I were to reform my ways? What if I were to pledge to you that I would abandon my father’s trade?”

My mouth went dry. I wanted to believe him and my lips parted before I recalled that I had been fool enough to be deceived by Merlyn’s lies five years ago. “Prove it to me.”

“I give you my pledge.”

“It is not enough, Merlyn. Not now.”

He studied me, seeking some encouragement that I hoped he would not find. Disappointment slowly filled his gaze, the myriad stars that always lurked in his eyes dimmed, and I felt a wretch for having denied him his will.

No doubt as he intended me to do.

“I hope you do not regret this choice,
chère
,” Merlyn whispered, then kissed me with possessive ease.

I nearly melted against him in my surprise. A thousand yearnings awakened by his presence nigh betrayed me, but I recalled suddenly that he meant to bend me to his will.

And a man with nothing to lose and no ethics to steer his course would use any weakness against another. I let him kiss me, and managed just barely to hold myself aloof.

Merlyn’s gaze was flinty when he lifted his head, his disappointment nearly tangible. “You should have spoken to me before you left,” he insisted, what might have been hurt in his tone.

He held my gaze for a long moment, and I felt the odd sense that I had failed him. I knew very well that it was the other way around, but beneath his regard, my conviction faltered.

Had I given Merlyn a chance? Had there been an explanation that might have exonerated him? Had I been unfair?

Did he truly mean to change his ways?

Before I dared voice my doubts, Merlyn turned on his heel and walked away. He donned his gloves as he went, leaving the door open behind him. He crossed the square without a backward glance, a telling choice to my thinking. He swung up into his saddle, gathered the reins in his gloved fist and gave his spurs to the destrier. The beast tossed its dark head and galloped away.

I, in my weakness, clung to the edge of the door and watched Merlyn go. A thousand doubts assailed me and I just barely restrained myself from calling after him. In fact, I might have done so, if the village boys had not drawn closer.

They had gathered to stare at the steeds, and now circled closer as the sound of hoof beats faded.

One bold and gangly boy who imagined himself on the lip of manhood swaggered toward me. “Ysabella,” he taunted, then leered. “Ysabella, I have a missive for you from your spouse. He says you have need of a reminder of your nuptial night!” He grabbed his crotch and made a lewd gesture as the other boys hooted my name.

I slammed the portal and leaned back against it, my anger at Merlyn fed once again. How could I forget his cruelty so readily as that? How could I dismiss the crimes he had wrought against me?

“Curse you, Merlyn Lammergeier!” I cried to the empty kitchen. “Curse you for your careless cruelty! And a pox upon my own self for forgetting your wiles.”

I returned to my wort in poor temper - though in truth, I was more angry with myself for failing to learn from experience, than with my spouse for persisting in being the rogue I already knew him to be. I wrestled the cauldron back to the fire, knowing that Merlyn would haunt my dreams.

I was not to be disappointed. The man could be relied upon in some matters, at least.

* * *

It is market day in Kinfairlie village some five years past, a fine spring day. The sun is glorious, the wind filled with warmth. May Day is nigh upon us and there is frolic in the air, as there so oft is when spring shows her face after an arduous winter. All the village is merry. It is a day filled with possibilities, a day when any dream could ripen unexpectedly. I am but eighteen summers of age and my footstep is still light.

I hear the nobleman before I see him. The horse could belong to no other, its shod hooves and proud gallop revealing its value, size and lineage.

The nobleman has ridden his destrier through the throng and between the stalls as his ilk so oft do. The sound of that massive stallion’s hooves carry over the chatter of the market. Conversations fall silent at the familiar sound, the villagers fearing what toll a nobleman will take of us now.

This one has not come for coin.

I feel the nobleman’s presence, feel his gaze upon my back, feel my cheeks heat with the awareness that I have been chosen. Dread rises within me. His is a stare so burning that it cannot be ignored. I try desperately to do so, nonetheless.

I am not so young that I do not know what happens to a peasant girl who snares a laird’s desire, let alone one who boldly meets his eye.

Indeed, I know my own assets. To be red of hair is not so much of a liability, not if one’s hair is long and thick and curly as mine. I am tall and strong, though not without a few curves. I know that I have become desirable, by whatever measure was used by men, but I do not intend to give away what meager advantage I have.

Marriage is my sole chance of better circumstance, but marriage is not what noblemen offer to village wenches who arouse their lust.

He walks the horse not two steps behind me, but says nothing. Though I know my color rises, I do not acknowledge him. People halt to watch, some nudging and smiling, some whispering, some shaking their head with disapproval. As I hasten my errands, and he patiently stalks me, I know the dread of a mouse cornered in the kitchen. Are noblemen not said to adore the hunt above all else? I hope against hope that this lord will choose more willing prey.

Had I known more of Merlyn then, I would have understood the futility of this hope. Merlyn never sways from winning his desire. He is the most patient man ever born, or perhaps the most determined one. He always has a surety that he is right, and that certainty ensures that he never sways from his objectives.