The Overlord's Bride

by Margaret Moore

  “Very amusing, niece,” her uncle replied sourly. “You should have been humble and dutiful in the solar. I could have lowered the dowry, I’m sure.”

  “Or paid more.” She cocked her head. “Tell me, Uncle, did you haggle with him over Genevieve?”

  He didn’t meet her eyes.

  “You didn’t, did you? He told you the terms, and you agreed because he is not a man you haggle with. It’s quite obvious. So why did you think you could bargain with him now? You might have ruined everything.”

  “Or I might have made better terms.”

  Elizabeth regarded him skeptically. “Better for you, you mean.”

  “And you are so wise in the ways of men? You know their sort by sight, do you?”

  “I know enough to keep quiet when I should.”

  Her uncle guffawed. “You, keep quiet? What was all that talk in there, then?” he asked, gesturing at the solar. “God’s wounds, woman, you talked plenty enough when you would have done better to keep silent, as befits a mere woman.”

  “If I had kept silent, I could be riding out the gate this very moment instead of getting married today. I meant, Uncle, that I know when to keep quiet, and when to speak.”

  “I hope so,” he muttered, “or it could go ill for you, even if he seems to want you now.”

  Elizabeth moved closer to him. “What do you mean?”

  “He may not have objected to your boldness today, but he might once you are his wife. You should remember that, Elizabeth. Lord Kirkheathe is not a kindhearted man, and there are things you do not know about him.”

  She stiffened. “What things?”

  Chapter Three

  Her uncle’s expression grew more guarded. “Nothing to prevent the marriage, I assure you.”

  “Because you want to be allied with him—is that it?” Elizabeth demanded, wondering if it was possible that she had misread Lord Kirkheathe completely. Perhaps she had been so determined not to return to the convent, she had seen in him what she wanted to see rather than the truth. “Is it that even if he is evil incarnate,” she continued, “you would overlook it for the sake of the connection between our families, yet you would generously spare a word of warning to the sacrificial bride?”

  “No, no, no!” her uncle protested. “I mean that you have a penchant for annoying people, Elizabeth, and you should not annoy him. You cannot deny that he is not exactly a friendly man. I meant nothing more.”

  “Yet there is something,” she insisted. “I can see it in your face.”

  “Would you rather go back to the convent?”

  She thought of the convent, and the pinched, yet satisfied look that would appear on the Reverend Mother’s face if she returned.

  Surely she had not been wrong about the man she was to marry. Even in the convent they heard tales of evil men, and Lord Kirkheathe had hastened to her aid when she had been overcome with relief. If he were a cruel or selfish man, he would not have done that.

  Nor had he quarreled about the dowry, although he would have been within his rights to do so.

  To be sure, he did not appear to be happy, but had she looked any happier to him?

  She knew better than to judge solely by outward appearances, too. She had learned that lesson bitterly and well only a few short months after her arrival at the convent, when she had told the pretty and oh so-agreeable Gertrude of her plan to steal some apples from the nun’s pantry. Gertrude had been quick to commend her, and even urged her on—only to go running to tell the Reverend Mother in a bid to gain the woman’s approval. The fate of her supposed friend had been far less important to Gertrude.

  Had there been a sign of Gertrude’s duplicity in her face or expression? Perhaps if Elizabeth had looked harder, or been wiser.

  She had looked carefully at Lord Kirkheathe, and she was wiser. “No, Uncle, I do not wish to return to the convent.”

  They heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs above, and Lord Kirkheathe appeared, bearing a bundle of dark blue cloth. “A wedding gift,” he said, shoving it into her hands. “I will send a servant to take you to my chamber to change. My lord, come with me.”

  Before Elizabeth could respond, he was already moving down the stairs. Without a word to her, her uncle immediately followed him, leaving Elizabeth alone on the stairs.

  She fingered the cloth. It was as soft as a rose petal.

  A grim, middle-aged maidservant quickly arrived, slightly out of breath. “I am to show you to my lord’s bedchamber.”

  Elizabeth nodded, then followed the woman up ward past the solar.

  “This is my lord’s bedchamber,” the woman said, opening the heavy wooden door at the top of the tower.

  Elizabeth entered the chilly room. A single plain oil lamp on a table near the bed provided some extra illumination, and the scent of sheep’s tallow hung heavy in the air.

  “I’ll light the brazier.” The woman moved swiftly to take the bundle from Elizabeth. She set it down on the large, equally plain bed made with plain linens and a worn fur coverlet.

  “Thank you…?”

  “Rual, my lady. My name is Rual.”

  Elizabeth hesitated a moment, then her curiosity compelled her to continue. “Have you been here in the castle a long time?”

  “I came here nigh on ten years ago, my lady.”

  “Lord Kirkheathe—is he a good master?”

  The woman shrugged as she took the lamp toward the brazier near the narrow window and proceeded to light the tinder beneath the coal.

  Elizabeth almost wished she hadn’t asked. She also remembered Lady Katherine’s admonition that a chatelaine should never get too friendly with the servants, lest they lose respect. Despite that advice, Elizabeth wanted to know more. “I would not wish to marry a cruel man.”

  “Nobody would,” Rual answered as she returned the lamp to its place on the table.

  It seemed Lord Kirkheathe’s servants were as reticent as the man himself. “I saw the scar around his neck. Was he injured? Is that what happened to his voice?”

  Rual went to the bed and picked up the bundle. “His throat was crushed,” she replied matter-of-factly as she shook out the fabric.

  A crushed throat. It sounded horrible, and she was amazed that such a thing had not killed him. But then, he looked to be a very strong and otherwise healthy man. “When did it happen?”

  “Before I came, my lady.”

  “And how…ooooh!” Elizabeth breathed as the bundle proved to be a gown of indigo velvet, the round neck and long cuffs richly embroidered with gold and silver thread.

  It was the most beautiful gown she had ever seen. “He has excellent taste.”

  The maidservant didn’t respond as she carefully laid it on the bed.

  Did Rual think his taste had failed him in the choice of wife, or that Elizabeth was expecting a compliment? At that thought, Elizabeth very nearly laughed aloud. The day she expected a compliment would be a day of miracles.

  But then, she thought as she glanced at the gown upon the bed, perhaps today was indeed such a day.

  Rual cleared her throat. “I believe we should not tarry, my lady.”

  “No, of course not,” Elizabeth replied. Especially since I was the one urging haste.

  She took off her cloak and gave the wet garment to Rual, who laid it over a chair that was as plain as the ones in the solar. Elizabeth removed the scarf and wimple she detested and rubbed her scalp for a moment before running her fingers through her hair to untangle it. Then she took off the plain gown of gray wool, the sort of garment she had been wearing ever since her arrival at the convent. Fortunately, her linen shift was dry enough.

  Despite the need to hurry, she approached the gown slowly, reverently, suddenly afraid to touch it, it seemed so rich and fine—too rich and too fine for her. “Here, my lady, I’ll help you,” Rual said, holding it up.

  Elizabeth stood still as Rual put it over her head and gently tugged it into place. She glanced down, to see the bodice gaping. />
  “It’s a little large,” Rual noted, “but I’ll pull the laces nice and tight—”

  “Not that tight!” Elizabeth gasped as the woman pulled hard. “I can’t breathe.”

  The gown loosened. Marveling still, Elizabeth ran her hands down the bodice, which now gaped only a little, and over the skirt. The fabric was so soft!

  “How do you wish to do your hair, my lady?”

  “My hair?”

  “Braided?” Rual suggested.

  Elizabeth considered the loose bodice. Her unbound hair might hide that defect a little. “No, no braids.”

  “Then I’ll comb it.” Rual headed toward a small table opposite the bed.

  No, no braids, nor scarf or confining wimple, either, Elizabeth thought, and this time, she did laugh.

  The maidservant started and looked back at her. “You sound very happy, my lady.”

  “Why should I not? It is my wedding day.”

  A little wrinkle appeared between the older woman’s eyes, and her expression altered. “Indeed, it is, and aye, we should all be pleased. No doubt our lord craves an heir.”

  “That is the dearest wish of my heart,” Elizabeth answered. She wondered what the maid’s guarded expression meant. “Is that so surprising?”

  “I thought…”

  “What? That I would not wish to do my duty as his wife?”

  Rual hesitated before taking up the comb lying on the table. “You do not find him…” She seemed to search for the appropriate word. “Frightening, my lady?”

  “Frightening?” To be sure, his voice was unexpected, but if there was anything frightening about Lord Kirkheathe, it was his very presence as much as his voice, Elizabeth decided. “No. Intimidating, perhaps. Does he frighten you?”

  “No.”

  Elizabeth was relieved to hear that.

  She noted that the maidservant still had not picked up the comb. “Will he be angry if I use his things?” she asked.

  Rual finally took up the comb. “I think not. You’re his bride, after all.”

  Yes, she was his bride, Elizabeth silently concurred, so surely he would not begrudge her the use of a comb.

  His dog again at his feet, Raymond sat on the dais of his great hall, his gaze pinned on the shifting shapes of the fire in the hearth. The priest, Father Daniel, stood patiently at his left hand, ready to say the words that would wed him to Elizabeth Perronet. A little farther away, Lord Perronet was slumped over one of the trestle tables already set up for the wedding feast, just as quietly getting drunk on Raymond’s wine.

  At least it kept him quiet.

  Ignoring the bustle of the servants as they put out plate and linen, paying little heed to the delicious smells wafting from the kitchen, Raymond thought back to his other wedding day, nearly twenty years ago. He had been so proud and happy! Allicia had been beautiful, charming, graceful—everything a young man could want in a wife.

  He had been too young to see that her beauty and charms were fleeting, and her vanity the only thing likely to last.

  Elizabeth Perronet had beauty, aye, yet of a different sort. As lovely as her features were, it was the piercing fire in her eyes, the keen intelligence as she faced him, the determination to be heard, the pride even when she begged him to take her that struck him. No simple creature she, governed by whim and conceit.

  Nevertheless, he could not deny that Allicia had other qualities besides form and figure. She had been incredibly loving, until that fateful night when, unusually drowsy, he had felt the bite of leather across his neck, the growing pressure that cut off his breathing, the pain, the blood….

  Allicia, dead upon the floor.

  Cadmus growled beside him, and it was only then that Raymond realized his hands gripped the arm of his chair so hard, his knuckles were white.

  And that his bride stood at the bottom of the tower stairs, waiting as patiently as Father Daniel.

  He rose with all the majesty he possessed, and watched her approach.

  Her waving chestnut brown hair flowed over her shoulders as if it had a life of its own, the curls catching the light from the candles, torches upon the walls, and the hearth. Yet no light in his hall blazed brighter than her glowing eyes, and the sight of her brilliant smile warmed him more than the burning logs nearby.

  He thought of her words in the solar. Did she truly not know how beautiful she was? Had the nuns instilled that much modesty in her? She had certainly sounded sincere enough—about that, and other things.

  The gown he had given her looked well on Elizabeth Perronet, too, and gave no hint of its age. He had bought it in London, a gift for Allicia.

  He had thought of burning it a hundred times; at present, he was glad he had not. As his hungry gaze traveled down Elizabeth’s voluptuous body, the full measure of the perfection of her figure was far more obvious than in that drab gray gown.

  Cadmus lumbered to his feet and lifted his head for a pat.

  Tearing his gaze away from his bride, Raymond looked down at his faithful hound and reminded himself to trust no one, and no woman most of all, no matter how she smiled or how lovely she looked.

  He had the ruins of his voice to remind him of that for as long as he lived.

  The bride’s uncle staggered to his feet, and there was no mistaking the smug triumph on his face.

  Raymond told himself he should have demanded that Perronet increase the dowry, instead of being so impressed by his bride. It had been a long time since anyone had dared to argue in front of him. He hadn’t realized the energy that sort of disagreement could provoke, especially in a woman. How passionate she had been!

  How passionate could she be?

  That was unimportant, so long as she gave him an heir. He had no intention of feeling anything for his wife beyond a certain tolerance. As he would trust no woman, he would never love one again, either.

  “Have you a ring, my lord?” Father Daniel asked softly.

  Raymond took the one that had been his mother’s from his little finger and handed it to the priest as Elizabeth came to stand beside him. Father Daniel made the sign of the cross over it, then handed it back.

  Raymond turned to face her. He lifted her hand and placed the ring on the fourth finger of her left hand. Without looking at her face, he proceeded to push it slowly downward while Father Daniel intoned, “In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost, you are now man and wife, in the eyes of God and by the laws of the kingdom. You may kiss your bride, my lord.”

  Raymond glanced at the man sharply. He didn’t want to kiss her. Not here, in the crowded hall, and indeed, not ever.

  Kissing reminded him too much of Allicia.

  “It is to seal the promise, my lord,” the priest whispered nervously. “It is not strictly necessary, but the people will be disappointed if you don’t.”

  He didn’t care if they were or not.

  Suddenly his bride grabbed his shoulders, turned him toward her and heartily bussed him on the lips.

  He couldn’t have been more surprised if she had drawn a knife and threatened to kill him.

  She leaned close. “I want everyone to know I am wed to you of my own free will.”

  What could he possibly say to that, except, “Come to the table.”

  She took his arm again, touching him in a way that felt too much like a caress. “Will you introduce me to your servants and tenants?”

  “No.”

  He didn’t look to see if she was upset by that response or not.

  As they took their places at the high table, he nodded at Father Daniel.

  “Bid welcome to your new chatelaine and mistress of Donhallow Castle, Lady Elizabeth,” the priest called out, his voice carrying to the back of the hall as Raymond’s could not.

  Chapter Four

  After Father Daniel blessed the feast, and keeping a wary eye on the huge hound who never strayed far from Lord Kirkheathe’s side, Elizabeth sat in the throne-like chair beside her husband and wondered how serious
her several errors were. That her husband was angry, she did not doubt. A blind man could feel his cold wrath.

  She obviously should not have kissed him, or spoken hastily in response to his shocked visage. And of course, she should have realized that with that husky voice, he might not be able to speak loudly enough to introduce her as the priest had.

  Yet she did not regret the kiss, for it was as she had told him: she wanted everybody in the hall to know she wed of her own free will and choice. That way, they would not think to use her against her husband, or try to enlist her aid in their individual causes—something else Lady Katherine had warned against.

  By our Lady, she thought as she ran her hand over the fine cloth spread upon the table, enjoying the sensation of the soft linen while surreptitiously watching the man sitting so aloof and still beside her, Lady Katherine had talked about almost everything a wife might need to know except how to deal with a man who didn’t speak and had no more expression on his face than an effigy.

  Or had she? Hadn’t Lady Katherine explained over and over again that it was a wife’s duty to please her husband, to mold herself to his desires?

  Maybe she would have to be silent, too.

  Sweet heaven, she hoped not! Humble and demure she might be able to manage, but silent? She had had enough of keeping quiet. That had been harder for her to bear than the beatings.

  The pantler entered with the bread and butter, and the toothsome aroma of hot bread, made of fine flour and browned to perfection, filled her nostrils. Her stomach, so used to the poorest fare, seemed to cry out in approval, growling so loudly, she quickly sucked it in and hoped nobody else heard.

  Near her elbow stood a mazer, a drinking bowl made of beautifully polished wood and rimmed with silver.

  For wine. She would be having wine tonight, and probably good wine, if what she had tasted in the solar and her uncle’s slightly inebriated state was any indication of the usual beverage provided by Lord Kirkheathe. Her uncle fancied himself an expert on wines, and if he thought what was offered terrible, he would merely sip as courtesy demanded.

  Judging by the color of his nose, he found the wine superb.