Meriel fought him in grim silence, not bothering to cry for help in her attacker's own castle. She twisted and clawed with surprising strength, and when he raised himself to unfasten his chausses she brought her knee up savagely, almost managing to smash him in the groin.
Adrian's battle-sharpened instinct saved him and he twisted away so that her knee hit his thigh. Before she could strike again, he threw his body over her so that she could not move, then struggled until with one hand he pinned both her wrists to the bed. "It will be easier for you if you don't fight me," he said, panting for breath.
"Never!" Meriel's voice was scarcely a whisper, but she was undefeated. Their faces were inches apart, and he saw that her blue eyes held an unholy blend of defiance and despair.
He reached down and caught the hem of her bliaut and raised it, along with her shift, then stroked her thigh, his hand gentling when he touched her silken skin.
As his hand moved upward, Meriel shuddered, but did not plead or beg or cry. Instead, her voice breaking, she gasped, "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death!"
To Adrian, her despairing words were like a knife in his belly. He wanted to force his mouth over hers, to silence her so that she could not waken his honor, but it was too late. Now when he looked in her face he saw not just the features of Meriel, but those of the sorrowing Virgin, the all-loving, all-forgiving mother who interceded with God on behalf of wicked mankind.
Though his body and soul burned with need and no one but Meriel could quench the fire that threatened to consume him, Adrian could not continue. With sickening clarity, he knew that rape would be more than an unpardonable sin against Meriel. It would also forever destroy the part of him that was capable of tenderness, and would condemn him to a hell beyond any hope of love or forgiveness.
Trembling, he released Meriel and stood. "Jesus Christ," he gasped, his voice a desperate prayer. "Sweet Jesus, help me!"
Words could not begin to relieve his madness. Convulsively he turned and grabbed the chest at the foot of Meriel's bed and hurled it into the stone wall with all his strength, his muscles straining to the limit, his voice a howl of wordless anguish.
The chest broke with a thunderous boom as the iron bands split. Then it crashed to the floor, bright fabrics spilling onto the rushes.
The destruction relieved a little of the tumult within him, but not enough, not nearly enough. Adrian turned and his gaze met that of Meriel, whose blue eyes were wide with shock and horror. "Forgive me," he whispered. "Forgive me, little falcon."
Then he swept from the room, automatically locking the door behind him. Earlier he had planned to spend the afternoon on the training ground, testing the skills of the older squires, but to do that now was out of the question. In his present crazed mood he would kill one of them.
To pray for peace was impossible. Only action might relieve his fury, so blindly he headed to the stables. Those members of his household who saw him took one look at the molten rage on his face, then stepped quickly from his path.
After saddling Gideon, Adrian rode out, barely managing to hold the horse's pace in until they were clear of the crowded bailey. Once they were free of the castle and village, he turned Gideon loose and they raced north, the horse responding to his master's madness with a wild, heedless gallop.
Adrian had no idea how long he rode, relying on the horse's instinct to save them both from breaking their necks, but when he finally slowed, Gideon was badly blown, his black coat lathered with foam, and Adrian himself was little better. His mind churned with horror and disgust at what he had done, yet even now, he was not free of desire.
He still wanted Meriel with an intensity that was pain. But everything he had done since they had met had pushed her further and further away. After today he doubted that he could ever induce her to trust him. God knew that he did not trust himself.
When the first wild fury had faded to weary self-disgust, Adrian pulled his horse in and looked for landmarks to determine how far he had come. It took him only a moment to realize that there had been a method to his madness, for he was within a mile of the home of Olwen, his former mistress.
Several times a year he would call on her when he was in the area. Though they had not been lovers since she had wed her miller, Brun, they had remained friends. Olwen was a woman with a gift for contentment. Happy in her marriage, she was always a pleasure to visit, a soothing contrast to his usual life.
Because she was a woman and Adrian trusted her, he could speak to her of things he would never mention to another man. Today of all days, he craved her wisdom and kindness.
The miller was an important man in the community, and Brun's cottage was larger than most and set at a distance from the village, near the mill itself but with no other buildings within sight. When Adrian rode up to the cottage, he was grateful to see Olwen working alone outside, with none of her stepchildren in attendance.
She was brewing, her brown braids falling forward as she leaned over the great kettle, but at the sound of his horse she looked up, then gave a broad smile of recognition. "Greetings, my lord," she said cheerfully.
Adrian had meant to behave properly, but that resolution went by the wayside at the sight of her affectionate welcome. Without speaking he dismounted, tethered Gideon, and took Olwen in his arms. At first she stiffened in surprise, but almost immediately she sensed that he sought not sex but comfort.
Her arms went around him. "Ah, lad, something's wrong, isn't it?" she said softly, then leaned her head against his.
For a long time it was impossible to answer. He simply held her close, needing her warmth and acceptance.
Olwen was almost as tall as he and had always been as plump and pretty as a young partridge, but as his chaotic emotions calmed, Adrian realized that she was rounder than usual. Loosening his embrace, he asked, "You are with child?"
"Aye," she said happily, patting her growing belly. "Who would have thought an old woman like me would finally learn the knack of it?"
The news was a shock. Olwen had thought herself barren, not having conceived in her first marriage or in her years as Adrian's mistress, but apparently Brun had succeeded where the other men had failed. For the first time Adrian wondered if he himself was incapable of fathering a child. It was a painful thought in a day that was already disastrous.
But for Olwen, who was over thirty and had long despaired of having a babe of her own, the event was one of great joy. He smiled and kissed her lightly on the forehead. "Congratulations. I am very happy for you."
"You mustn't think 'twas your fault I never conceived," she said, direct as a blade. " 'Tis obvious I'm a mare that is not easily bred."
He had to laugh. "Olwen, I hope you never change." In spite of the time that had passed, she knew him better than anyone. "If you wish, I will stand godfather to the child."
Her first reaction was pleasure, but then she frowned. "'Twould be a great honor, but people might get the wrong idea."
"Perhaps you should discuss it with Brun," Adrian agreed. "Even if you prefer that I not be godfather, you know I will be pleased to look after the child's interests as it grows."
"Aye, I know." She gave a fond smile. "Brun's eldest, the one you helped into the abbey at Shrewsbury, has become such a scholar. You'd not know he was just a village boy."
"He's an intelligent lad and deserved the opportunity to study. Perhaps in time he'll return to the village as priest."
"Ah, that would be something, wouldn't it? But it's early days yet, he is but a student." She turned her head at a bubbling sound. "Will you excuse me for a moment, my lord? The water is boiling and I must pour it in with the malt."
"Let me do it," he offered.
" 'Twould not be fitting, my lord," she said, scandalized. "I'm no delicate lady who cannot lift a pot."
Adrian chuckled and helped anyhow, carrying the hot water to the kettle and pouring it slowly under her direction. Olwen stirred the mixture with her besom, explai
ning that this particular clump of broom was responsible for the fact that she made the best ale in the whole village of Shepreth, for she'd been using it for years.
To prove her claim, she poured two tankards from her last batch, and they settled companionably on a crude wooden bench that Brun had built under a chestnut tree. Olwen kept an eye on her brewing while they talked easily of things that didn't matter.
His former mistress was the reason that Adrian spoke English so well, for a bed made a fine schoolroom. More than language, from her he had also learned much about how the common folk thought and felt. That knowledge had made him a better lord than if he had stayed only within the circle of Norman nobility. Perhaps now she could give him some insight into Meriel.
Though his mood eased, Adrian was unable to broach the subject of his distress until Olwen said, "You looked sore troubled when you arrived. Might it have something to do with the maid you have at the castle?"
He shot her a startled look. "How do you know about Meriel?"
"The lord's doings are of interest to everyone." Olwen chuckled. "One of the Shepreth girls serves at the castle and she told everyone about your new mistress when she visited her family a few days hence. She has long hoped you would take her to your bed, and it's jealous she is. A pretty wench, but vain."
Adrian sipped his ale thoughtfully. He tended to forget how visible his doings were. Or perhaps he preferred not to think of it. "Meriel is not my mistress."
"And that is the problem?"
He looked up, his rueful gaze meeting her hazel eyes. "You know too much."
"I know very little, my lord, just a bit of gossip, and likely most of that wrong," she remarked.
"Do you think you can forgo calling me 'my lord' for a little while?" he asked, thinking it would be easier if they recaptured some of their old closeness.
"Very well, Adrian," she said quietly. "Will you tell me about your Meriel?"
"She's not my Meriel, though it's not for want of trying." He gazed into the tankard, as if divining the future in its amber depths. "I know almost nothing of her. She has the look of the Welsh and speaks their tongue, but she speaks English equally well. I doubt that she's a serf—perhaps she is daughter to a Welsh smallholder or a merchant. She is not from this part of Shropshire, for I made inquiries throughout the area and no one knew of her. Yet no one remembers seeing her at the abbey where she claimed to have stayed while journeying from Wales. She has told me very little, and even that seems to be lies."
"What is she like?"
He shrugged. "Small. Black hair as straight as rain, blue eyes to drown in. Not beautiful, but very..." He searched for the right word. "Winsome."
Olwen shifted on the bench and rubbed her back. "I didn't mean what she looks like, but what she herself is like."
Adrian sighed and leaned back against the chestnut tree. "That is harder. Intelligent. Lively. Sweet and good-natured, except when I am abusing her."
"You've abused her?" Olwen asked, startled.
He swallowed hard, the tendons in his throat tautly visible. "Olwen, earlier this afternoon I almost raped her. It was so close, so very, very close. And though I stopped in time, I did terrify her, which is almost as bad."
He closed his eyes, shuddering, then went back to the beginning. "I found her in the forest with a falcon and a game bag and used that as an excuse to hold her in the castle. When I told her I wanted her as a mistress, she was appalled. I thought that she would reconsider in time—she claimed to have no sweetheart or close family, nothing that would call her elsewhere."
He sighed and kneaded his temples with one hand. "I tried to move slowly, to let her come to know me better, but the more I saw of her, the less I could bear the thought of losing her. As a result, the more I bullied her. She is like a... a madness in my blood. Yet the fault is not in Meriel, she is innocent. The madness is in me."
Olwen watched him with pity. She was a simple woman and had never really understood the complicated depths of Adrian's nature, but she knew that he was a man who asked much of himself, always forcing his body and mind to the limit to achieve what must be done, more forgiving of others than of his own human weakness. Years of such demands had taken their toll on him.
Now it seemed that a little Welsh girl had pierced the walls he had built around himself and found her way into his heart. "Is it just that you want to lie with her?" she asked, testing her theory. "Might another wench do as well?"
"If only that were true." He ran his fingers through his bright hair distractedly. "That kind of desire I can control well enough. No, I want more than that from her."
"In other words, you are in love with her."
"In love? I don't want to write songs about how I languish for her glances." He spoke slowly, trying to define something new and alien. "From the first moment I saw her, I felt that... that she was a missing part of me. That I would never know peace again unless she was near." He laughed bitterly. "Instead, I haven't known a moment's peace since I met her."
"That sounds like love to me, Adrian. You have never found time for much love in your life, which is why it hurts so much now." She sighed, a little envious of this young woman who affected him in such a way. He had never pined for Olwen like this. "There is an easy solution, my dear. Marry her."
"Marry her?" His head swiveled around in astonishment.
"Aye. There is no law against marrying a common-born woman, you know." Olwen's gaze was challenging. "You already have great wealth and power. Do you really need a wife who will bring you more?"
There was a long silence while Adrian weighed her words, his light eyes blank and unreadable. "You must think me a fool not to have seen such an obvious answer."
"No more a fool than most men." She tilted her head back to empty her ale pot. "Marriage is a practical business. Even the poorest serf weighs what the other will bring to the match. Having been raised to consider your obligation to your name and family, it's not surprising that you forgot to consider your obligation to yourself. But if the lass brings you peace of mind, that is a dowry beyond price."
His expression darkened. "I'm not sure that offering marriage will persuade her to accept me. Meriel may no more want me for a husband than for a lover."
Olwen's gaze drifted down Adrian's lean frame, from gilt hair to well-muscled legs, recalling what it had been like when all of that beautiful masculine strength had been focused on and in her. At the thought, she felt a little shiver of remembered delight. It was quite impossible to believe that any poor girl would turn down a man who was handsome, wealthy, powerful, and mad for her as well.
"Ask her and find out. I guarantee that offering marriage will make a difference in her opinion. A modest godly girl with sense will hesitate to become a mistress, but to be a wife is very different. An offer to wed is a much greater compliment than a simple invitation to lie with you."
"Meriel is not a woman like any other." His smile was crooked. "She hates me, I think, and with good reason."
"Has she always acted as if she hated you?"
Adrian thought back over the times he and Meriel had been together. "No, there have been moments of ease and amusement when she seemed not ill-pleased to be in my company.''
"There you are, then, a basis to be lovers and friends." Olwen nodded approvingly. "Didn't St. Paul himself say that it is better to marry than to burn?"
Adrian laughed, feeling lighter and freer than he had in years. "He did indeed. Lord knows I've been burning, and the prospect of wedding Meriel seems like heaven itself in contrast."
Olwen grinned, but added more seriously, "You know that your own kind, the Norman lords, will think you have run mad if you marry a common English girl."
"I know. But none save the empress have any right to censor my actions, and she needs my support more than I need hers." He leaned forward and impulsively kissed his companion. "You're a marvel, Olwen. Thank you."
He glanced up and saw that the miller was just returning home from his work. Br
un halted at the sight of the earl, his expression wary and sullen.
Adrian stood without haste, understanding the miller's resentment. A poor man had no recourse if the lord came after the man's wife. While Adrian had no reputation for seducing his tenants, Olwen was different, for everyone knew what they'd been to each other. "Good day, Brun. I was congratulating Olwen on her condition. It seems you're a better man than I."
The miller was too cautious to comment directly, but his expression eased at the earl's self-deprecating remark. "Aye, we're all pleased, especially my youngest, who looks forward to having someone smaller than her." He glanced fondly at his wife. "Did you wish to speak to me, my lord?"
"No, I just called to say hello to Olwen. Take good care of her, Brun." Adrian swung up onto the stallion. "Good day to you both." Then he rode off, wondering what was the best way to offer marriage to a woman whom one has gravely wronged.
* * *
After Lord Adrian stormed out of her room, Meriel curled up on her bed, her chilled body shaking and her breath coming in rough gasps. She had secretly thought that virgin martyrs who had chosen death before dishonor were a little unreasonable, particularly Saint Catherine, said to have turned down the emperor Maxentius' offer of honorable marriage. If all women chose virginity, what would happen to mankind?
But now Meriel understood that the true horror was not loss of virginity in itself, but the violation of spirit that accompanied the rape of the body. And there was a special horror in the fact that the earl was not a wholly evil man. There was a bright, endearing part of him that fascinated her, but the dark side of his nature was stronger.
Lord Adrian was mad, possessed of the devil, and the madness was growing stronger every day. A small part of Meriel could still find compassion for him. It must be a foretaste of hell to feel one's will and honor shredding away, overcome by one's own wickedest impulses. She had seen that from the frantic pain in the earl's face before he had left.