The Overlord's Bride. Margaret Moore
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“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.”
Now what could he possibly say to that?
Praise for the recent works of USA Today bestselling author Margaret Moore
The Duke’s Desire
“This novel is in true Moore style—sweet, poignant and funny.”
—Halifax Chronicle-Herald
A Warrior’s Kiss
“Margaret Moore remains consistently innovative, matching an ending of romantic perfection to the rest of this highly entertaining read.”
—Romantic Times Magazine
The Welshman’s Bride
“This is an exceptional reading experience for one and all. The warrior series will touch your heart as few books will.”
—Rendezvous
The Overlord’s Bride
Margaret Moore
To Tracy Farrell,
who ten years ago made “the call”
that would change my life.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter One
“S top gawking like a simpleton,” Lord Perronet snapped, his hooked nose twitching with annoyance as he waited for his niece’s horse to come beside his. “Are you trying to look like a fool?”
Elizabeth tore her gaze from the castle ahead. The massive structure loomed out of the gray mist as if it were some sort of angry beast watching its prey come closer. “Given all the unexpected things that have happened to me in the past three days, would it be so surprising if my brains were addled?”
Her uncle’s eyes narrowed slightly as he surveyed her with obvious displeasure, as he had at intervals ever since he had come to the convent to take her away. “You’re still the same,” he muttered. “I was hoping the good sisters had tamed you by now.”
“They tried, Uncle, they tried.”
He grunted scornfully as he continued his dissatisfied scrutiny.
Elizabeth knew she was not pleasing to look upon. If she were, she would not have been sent to the holy sisters thirteen years ago, into that horrible living death. She would have stayed with Lady Katherine DuMonde to finish her education in preparation for marriage and her duties as the chatelaine of a castle. She would have married. She would have had children.
“You must make an effort to behave properly, as a highborn lady should,” he commanded.
“You wish I were more like my cousin Genevieve, no doubt.”
“That harlot? No, I certainly do not.”
Elizabeth kept the satisfied smile from her lips. Beautiful, ladylike Genevieve, her cousin, should have been making this journey to Donhallow Castle today. Instead, she had compromised her honor with a Welsh-Norman nobleman and married him, leaving her uncle with a terrible dilemma. He had already arranged a marriage alliance with the powerful Lord Kirkheathe and, rather than have it thwarted, had come to the Convent of the Blessed Sacrament to give Elizabeth the choice of remaining there until the day she died, or taking Genevieve’s place as Lord Kirkheathe’s bride.
As she had thought then, so she thought now: she had never had a simpler decision to make. A chance for liberty of some sort, or slavery and deprivation for certain.
“You have told me almost nothing of Lord Kirkheathe,” Elizabeth prompted as they continued toward Donhallow. Now she could make out a village huddled at the base of its walls, like peasants around a warm fire—a much more pleasing conceit than the first sight of their destination had engendered.
“What is there to know?” her uncle replied. “Kirkheathe is rich, respected, has friends at court and we should pray to heaven he takes you in Genevieve’s stead.”
“What will happen if he doesn’t?”
Her uncle turned his hard black eyes toward her. “Let us just say it will be better if he does. A man needs all the friends at court he can get.”
Elizabeth cocked her head to one side. “You do not trust the men at court who are supposed to be your friends?”
Her uncle’s face flushed. “I said nothing of the kind.”
“Why else seek a family alliance with Lord Kirkheathe? His lands are far from yours.”
“Since when has a woman who has spent the past thirteen years in a convent understood anything of politics and alliances?”
“You think there are no politics in a convent? No alliances to be made or broken? No secrets to be kept? No power to crave? By our Lady, Uncle, I am not the simpleton if you believe that.”
“This is nonsense. All that matters is that Lord Kirkheathe accept you, and then all will be well, for you and for me.”
“If I am to confine myself to womanly subjects, Uncle, tell me about the man himself.”
“What is there to know beyond what I have told you?”
“Is he handsome?”
Her uncle made a scoffing laugh. “You are hardly in a position to care about the man’s looks.”
“Since I am no beauty, it has occurred to me that if he is not a fine-looking man, he may care less about my features.”
Once more her uncle scrutinized her. “You’d look better without that wimple. Indeed, you resemble Genevieve more than I ever thought possible.”
Elizabeth