Midnight s Bride Read online

  A MAN FOR ALL REASONS

  Mereck’s voice filled Netta with sensuous yearnings. The ties of his white shirt slid open, baring the hard planes of his chest. She stared as his powerful muscles flexed with his movements. Her pulse quickened. Would his bare skin feel hot to her hands? Would the hair on his chest tickle her palms? The room seemed hot. She sipped her watered wine. It helped not a whit.

  MIDNIGHT’S BRIDE

  SOPHIA JOHNSON

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  For my daughters, Valeri and Lorrie,

  who listened to my ideas for Mereck’s story

  and laughed when I told them of

  Netta’s cooking skills, him, or rather,

  the lack of them.

  From the first page, they declared

  Midnight’s Bride their favorite tale of

  the trilogy. They thought Mereck a sexy, Alpha

  hero, a man both savage and tender.

  What other medieval man

  would have had a wedding night like his?

  With many thanks to Della Jacobs,

  my ever-so-patient critique partner.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Blackthorn Castle, Scotland, 1050

  Young Mereck of Blackthorn spied the old crone bent nearly double by an unsightly hump on her back. She shuffled on gnarled feet and crooked limbs up to the gates of Blackthorn Castle and demanded entrance. ’Twas a surprising voice for one so misshapen, for it soared above the clatter of the crowd and the din of carts and horses’ hooves on stone.

  “Aiyee. Me name is Beyahita. I come to tell the tale of the Baresarkers.”

  Hearing the misshapen one’s words spread fearful shivers down Mereck’s neck and back. Though he longed to run, he edged close. She haggled with Lady Neilson, who oft sought ways to lighten dreary winter nights with tellers of tales. The wizened old Beyahita was keener than the most aggressive story teller as she bargained for food and shelter. Each night she proposed to tell a tale about the Baresarkers of Welsh legends, men who became part beast, neither truly human nor fully animal, when enraged.

  That moonless night, after everyone had supped in the great hall and the children were snug abed, Mereck stole from the room he shared with his half brother, Damron, and his three cousins. His teeth clattered together, and he hugged his small cloak about him. As he edged along the shadows of the great hall, Beyahita began her first tale. Given her wizened appearance and quavering voice, her eloquence was surprising.

  “A robust male child, aptly named Gruffyd, was born at midnight the last day of June, in the year 943. The bairn took his first, hesitant breath when his mother sighed her last.

  “’Twas soon found Gruffyd was as no other man. He could hear others’ thoughts.”

  She paused, her piercing gaze seeking Mereck in the darkest corner of the smokey room. She gestured with claw-like hands. Her voice strengthened.

  “Possessed of Lucifer’s temper, he would become so enraged he knew not what he did. He foamed at the mouth and howled like an animal. Those who witnessed his rages named him Gruffyd the Baresarker, after the cults of Odin’s horrific warriors.

  “Gruffyd grew to be a man larger than most. He took as his bride a fragile maiden named Elgin. She, too, gave birth on a moonless midnight. Soon after, she became brainsick, for she babbled that Gruffyd had stolen her mind. She refused to eat. She shuddered when he drew near. Her loving husband despaired. One day, when Gruffyd placed the babe named Aeneas to Elgin’s breast and turned aside, she shrieked and sprang from the bed. She raced to the top of the keep with the child. Her husband followed. When he reached her, she sought to hurl herself and their newborn son to the rocks below. Loving her mightily, Gruffyd strove to pull her back from the edge. With the strength of madness, she tore from his arms. He wrenched the babe from her grasp as she leapt to her death.”

  Mereck shuddered and pressed against the wall. All the hall’s inhabitants leaned forward as her voice dropped low.

  “’Twas soon whispered that by stealing her thoughts, Gruffyd thieved Elgin’s mind and left her crazed. Men who dared repeat the story vanished soon after they spoke of it.” She stared around her. Her voice rose with each word. “When they found the missing men, they saw they had been foully murdered, their tongue and body parts severed as if by a ravening beast.”

  No one noticed Mereck, bastard son of Donald Morgan and a captured Welsh woman, Aeneid ap Tewdwr, hidden in the dark shadows. Nor did they note the crone’s eyes gleam as her gaze fixed on him there. Mereck did.

  Each night, she spoke of another cursed generation. After Guffyd, she told of Aeneas and Fallon, Gilbride and Lienid. Each of the wives birthed their children on moonless midnights. All became brainsick and died after childbirth. Her gaze ferreted out Mereck, his body quivering with sick horror as he absorbed the legend.

  One night as rushlights spluttered and died, Beyahita began her last tale.

  “’Tis whispered on the wind that yet another son of Gruffyd’s direct line was born at midnight the last day of June, in the year 1043, a century from Gruffyd’s birth. This bairn was doomed to kill his mother in childbirth and is destined to destroy any woman he is so foolish to love.” She cackled like one demented and pointed a skeletal finger at Mereck.

  It was Mereck’s birth date. His mother that Beyahita spoke of. He buried his face in the heavy cloth of the tapestry. He did not want to be a Baresarker. He just wanted to be a boy. Like Damron, his half brother, loved by a mother and a father.

  He would never give his heart to a woman. Never love.

  For now Mereck knew why his mother had died.

  He had killed her.

  Chapter 1

  Wycliffe Castle, England, 1073

  Lynette glared at the man who stood before the fireplace. Shorter than she, his dirty breeches bagged over scrawny bones. His tunic, stained with the food he had eaten in the past several days, drooped off one narrow shoulder. Baron Thomas of Durham had mayhap a dozen gray hairs on his head, even fewer teeth, and could not hear past the width of the table.

  “Blessed Mary! He is older than you, Father,” Lynette cried. “I thought I would lose my morning meal when he touched my hand. I cannot bear to think of him as husband to me. Nay! I’ll not do it.”

  “Aye. You will.” Baron Wycliffe’s jaw set, his eyes glared his hatred. “Pretending to be great with child will not change it,” he said as he stabbed a finger into the bulging pillow hidden beneath her clothing. “This is your tenth suitor in as many months. Your sisters tire of waiting for you to find the perfect spouse. The man does not exist.” He slammed a fist on the table. Spittle flew from his lips with his bellowed words. “Hateful girl. You are all of eighteen summers. You will soon be too old to tempt even such a man as Baron Durham!”

  “He is as skinny as James of Hexham was fat.” Lynette rolled her eyes in disgust. “Every time he looks at me he droo
ls through the few black teeth he has in his head. Hmpf! He tries to squeeze my breasts and asks if they are soft as a plump kitten.”

  The doddering old man leered at her through watery eyes. She glared back at him.

  “I’ll stay in my room until he is gone. I’ll not marry him. Not now. Not ever.”

  “Aye. You will. Refuse and you will feel my stick across your back,” her father shouted. “You will have naught but water and stale bread until you come to your senses.”

  He yanked her out of her seat, near toppling her to the ground. As if they performed a play for his amusement, her intended groom beamed with delight.

  “I relish spirit with me bed-sport,” Durham said. “Show the girl we mean business, milord. We’ll have our weddin’ soon as she drops the babe.” He cackled with glee, but his toothless grin faded when the baron grasped her hair and dragged her from the great hall.

  At her bedchamber, he shoved Lynette through the doorway then slammed the door behind her. The heavy key grated in the door’s lock. It was not the first time he had done such. He ordered it placed there after her first suitors bolted from the castle. Each time she sent a man sprinting across the drawbridge, her father beat her and tried to force her hand. He did not reckon with her strong will.

  The sun had started to wane when Lynette’s stepsisters unlocked the door. Watching her handmaid and servants carry a tub and buckets of hot water into the room, Lynette was instantly on guard. Her father had never before allowed her to bathe after he confined her. ’Twas part of her punishment.

  “We hope to bring you comfort while you think on marrying the baron tomorrow.” Priscilla spoke in such a prim and proper manner as to make the shortening of her name apt. “Here is your favorite soap to soothe your spirits,” she said as she placed a small vessel of heather-scented soap on the stool.

  “And I brought a tray of cheeses, bread and wine. Father seeks to force your hand, and we wished to help you through this trying time.” Elizabeth patted Lynette’s shoulder, but she failed to hide the glitter of malicious excitement in her eyes.

  “Two goblets? Who will share with me?” Lynette studied their faces. Why would either girl do anything pleasant? They forever wailed and complained, urging their father to marry her off without any thought of her feelings. Though she distrusted them, she welcomed the hot bath and was grateful for it. She was even more thankful when they left the room.

  She undressed and stepped into the tub, willing the hot water to relax her. If she could stifle her anger, surely she would think of a way to escape the morrow’s horrible event.

  “Mayhap I can pretend to have a wasting sickness? No sane man would wed a woman who cannot keep food in her stomach.” She raised her brows at her handmaid and waited for her reply.

  Mary shook her head. “Nay, lady. How could ye lose a meal if ye have naught but bread and water?”

  “Oh, aye. That will not work.” Lynette soaped her hands until small bubbles formed, then admired the colors reflecting there. “If we put droplets of mud on my face, and when it dried, colored it with berry juice, would it not look like I had a pox? Surely Father would fear catching it. For certs, after a day or two his anger will cool and he will change his mind.”

  “Huh. ’Tis more likely the baron will swathe yer face in veils, hurry the weddin’, then toss ye both through the gates.” Mary took Lynette’s arm and urged her to rise.

  While the handmaid poured fresh water over her, the door again creaked open.

  Lynette turned and gasped, for unseen hands pushed a wobbling Baron Durham into the room. His eyes glittered with anticipation. Now she knew why her stepsisters had brought the food, wine and two goblets.

  “Oh, me pretty,” Durham crooned. “Water drips from yer pretty, pink tits. I will lick them dry for ye.” He smacked his sunken lips together as he shuffled across the room.

  “Get out, or I’ll have Father throw you from the castle,” Lynette shouted and pointed toward the door. Folding her arms over her breasts, she plopped down in the water to hide the rest of her body from his greedy stare.

  Drool trickled off his chin leaving wet trails down his tunic. He lurched to a stop a pace from the tub. He looked like she had turned him to stone. She wished she had. He clutched his chest. His eyes bulged, and he coughed violently.

  “Begone!” She stabbed the air and glared all the harder.

  Finding a spurt of strength, the baron shouted, “Uncover that which is now mine,” followed by an obscenity she had never afore heard. A leer spread over his wizened face. The final shout that burst from his lips must have drained him of his last energy. He listed sideways. His arms flew out, grappling for balance. He tottered a moment. He gasped loudly for air, then slithered to the floor like a cracked egg.

  Her screams, and those of Mary, no sooner sounded than her father and stepsister charged into the room. Lynette scrambled from the far side of the tub and grabbed her chamber robe. Her family had arrived too quickly for them to have been anywhere but lurking outside her door.

  Her stepsisters spied the old lecher’s body on the floor. Their shrieks bounced off the stone walls, the shrill sounds mingling and tangling like knots, till Lynette’s ears rang. The baron slapped first one face then the other.

  “Oh, my beautiful skin,” Prissy wailed and grabbed her smarting cheek. “’Tis your fault, Lynette. You made Father angry apurpose.” Tears gushed from her eyes as she bolted for the door.

  Elizabeth screamed, “You killed that old man to spite us.”

  Seeing her father’s arm rise again, Elizabeth wrapped her arms around her head and sprang forward. Too fast. She slammed into Prissy’s back and propelled her through the doorway. They fought like two chickens, squawking and scratching until their father’s roar sent them running.

  A burly servant arrived to drag the dead man like a discarded sack of grain from the room. He was not out the door before the baron and Lynette started to argue. As in all their disputes, she ended with the same plea.

  “Why can I not go to Wales?” She thrust out her chin and clinched her hands on her hips. “Caer Cad-well is mine. If you release my dowry to me, I will hire knights for my protection.”

  “Ha! And will they protect you from the werewolf Baresarker specters of Caer Cad-well? From the howling spirits of their crazed wives?” He rubbed his hands with glee.

  Tremors of fear shuddered through Netta. On dark, stormy nights, she could hear her stepmother’s voice whispering in her ears. Ye think ’tis the wind that wails on dark nights? Nay, ye foolish girl. The new Baresarker howls his need for another mate. Brutal he is in his bed-sport. A wife lasts but one night. Mayhap two. He leaves them aside the gate, broken and bloody. Not a spark of life in them. Do ye hear him? He waits, hidden, for you. One night he will crush you in his arms and spirit you away. At this point, she would shove Netta into a storage room as dark as a pit in hell, then lock her in.

  “’Tis naught but a legend! There is no Baresark.” Netta swallowed and lifted her chin, determined to believe this chant she had oft repeated to ward off their spirits.

  “You will wed,” her father bellowed. He raised his walking stick and rained blows over her back. She ducked under his arm and leaped to scramble across her bed. The oak stick slammed against the wooden tub and broke in half. Pulsing veins bulged on his forehead and neck as he hopped with rage.

  “See what you have done? See?” He spluttered as he stared at the splintered wood floating in the water. “Stupid woman. You think to hire knights to protect you? Hah! You have no skill to command a force of savage Welshmen. I’ve had my fill of you. You seduced the baron to excitement apurpose. You killed him, displaying yourself in such a manner.”

  “Displaying myself? I was in my bath,” she shouted, pointing to the soapy water. “You shoved him into my chamber then lurked outside. I’ll not marry a doddering old fool, a filthy young one or any horrid man you pick.”

  “Oh, yes you will. The next man to come through the castle barbic
an will be your husband. Be he knight or swineherd with warts on his lips and hair growing from his ears like a forest, I care not. And that, accursed girl, is an end to it.”

  He stomped so hard leaving the chamber the floor timbers shook. In his rage, he neglected to lock her door.

  Afore full light the next morn, Netta listened, her ear against the door’s crack. Hearing her maid’s footsteps draw near, she whipped the door open, grabbed her arm and yanked her inside so fast the girl flew like a stone shot from a catapult.

  “Ackk!” Eyes rounded with surprise, Mary wobbled and grabbed a bedpost to steady herself. “I came fast as I could, milady.”

  “Blessed saints, be quick!” Netta flicked the backs of her fingers at Mary and then removed her own tunic. As her head cleared the material, her black curls fell over her eyes. She shoved them away to see the maid still hesitated, biting her lips.

  “Well?”

  “What?” Mary leaned closer and whispered, puzzled. “Be quick about what?”

  “I need your clothes.”

  “Me clothes?”

  Netta grasped the hem of Mary’s tunic and whisked the garment over her head. Mary yelped in surprise, her arms flapping like a fowl’s wings. Before her arms settled, Netta disappeared beneath the folds of the garment.

  “’Tis him. I heard the gatekeeper raise the portcullis.” Netta’s voice was muffled as she fought the coarse cloth. “Surely ’tis a knight who brings many warriors? Their horses clattering over the drawbridge echoed like thunder.” Popping her head through the opening, she wriggled the garment down over her slender body.