The Overlord's Bride. Margaret Moore
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She did, walking neither slowly nor quickly, and as she did, she raised her arms and pushed back the hood of her soaking gray wool cloak.
Perronet had claimed his niece was a great beauty. Raymond had believed that to be a lie, or an exaggeration, something meant to increase the bride’s value.
Surprisingly, it was true.
Her slender face was surrounded by the severity of a wimple, but that only seemed to emphasize her lovely features. Large, brown eyes crowned with shapely brows shone in the torchlight. Her nose was perfect, mercifully different from her uncle’s, and her cheeks looked as soft as velvet. Then there were her lips, rosy and full, the bottom slightly more than the top. Lips made for kissing.
Pure, raw desire, a sensation last felt so long ago as to be nearly forgotten, hit Raymond, as strong as the blow of an enemy’s fist. A need suddenly burned in his blood and sent it throbbing through his body, reminding him of the emptiness of his days. And nights.
Even as these sensations sprang to life, Raymond told himself they were feelings he did not want. The yearning coursing through him was but a weakness—a weakness he had fallen prey to once, and never would again.
The woman came to a halt beside her uncle. She glanced at Perronet, then turned her remarkably intelligent eyes back onto him. “I am Elizabeth Perronet.”
Her voice was as unexpected as her face, musical and very pleasant—and very determined. Yet it was not the unexpected nature of her voice that made Raymond frown.
He was supposed to wed Genevieve Perronet.
“My lord,” Lord Perronet began placatingly after giving the woman a swift and censorious look. “This is my other niece. Genevieve has, um, unfortunately proved herself unworthy of your lordship and the honor of being your bride. Elizabeth, however, is equally suitable—and of course, the dowry remains the same.”
Whatever was going on, Raymond realized, they didn’t need an audience. They could discuss it in the privacy of the solar. He gestured for Cadmus to stay, then looked pointedly at Lord Perronet before turning toward the tower that held his solar.
The man spoke quietly to his niece. “Wait here. I shall settle this accordingly.”
“No, Uncle,” she replied, making no effort to speak softly. “This concerns me, so I should be a party to the discussion. I am not a piece of furniture or a block of wood.”
“Elizabeth,” Perronet warned.
Raymond raised an eyebrow. Lord Perronet instantly started toward him, trailed by his niece.
A bold woman. Was that good—or bad? Allicia had not been bold, not until the last night of her life.
Raymond again started toward the solar and heard them follow.
“Is he mute?” Elizabeth Perronet whispered as they climbed the tower stairs.
Raymond’s lips twisted into a smile as he waited for them at the door to his solar. He let her uncle pass into the room, then, when she was beside him, he answered.
“No, not mute,” he said in a harsh rasp, all that was left of his once fine voice.
Chapter Two
E lizabeth had never heard anything quite like the soft hoarseness of Lord Kirkheathe’s deep voice. It seemed at once intimate and frightening, as if he were part beast and, at the same time, pure human male.
A man might sound like that in the throes of fierce passion, whispering in her ear.
She flushed at that thought, warmth blossoming within her comprised of both shame and excitement. She tried to subdue those emotions, for if ever she needed to keep her wits about her, it was now.
Perhaps he was ill, although he certainly looked healthy. Indeed, he looked extremely fit for a man of eight and thirty, as well as tall, broad-shouldered and imposing, with long, savage hair to his shoulders, iron gray among the thick black. His black tunic, cinched about the waist with a simple leather belt, had swirled about his booted ankles as he strode ahead of her with long, athletic strides.
Sidling in front of him to enter the room, she darted a nervous glance upward and saw the scar around his neck, a mottled, puckered thin red line of flesh.
An injury would explain his voice, yet it was a strange scar, as if he had been hung by his neck with a thin leather band.
She didn’t dare look at his face. Was he angry she was not the promised Genevieve? Would he accept her instead, a poor substitute, or would he send her back to the convent?
A single torch in the sconce on the wall lighted the room, but not well enough to reveal the corners. In the center was a large wooden trestle table, as plain as the heavy chair behind it.
Trying not to tremble, Elizabeth waited beside her uncle in an attitude of humility, staring down at the flagstones of the floor.
It might take divine intervention to make her acceptable to this intimidating man with the intimidating dog that was, mercifully, still in the hall.
Please, God, do not let him send me back. Let me stay, she silently prayed. I will be the perfect wife. I will be as humble and demure as I can be. This time, I promise I will. I will do everything I can to be pleasing to my husband—only do not send me back to the Reverend Mother, who detests me and will surely one day punish me to death.
Her uncle shifted nervously. He was more angry than he was afraid. She had seen that in his eyes as he had chastised her; however, one look at Lord Kirkheathe, and she knew she must not lie to him. Not about who she was, or anything else.
Lord Kirkheathe walked around the large table, so it was between them. The oak chair scraped against the floor as he sat.
“My lord,” her uncle began in a penitential tone, “you must understand the predicament I was in. Genevieve disgraced us, and yet we had so agreeably decided to join our families. I wondered what I could do, how I could possibly keep my word to you, and then I thought of Elizabeth. I assure you, my lord, she is a virgin. She has been thirteen years in a convent where she never saw or spoke to a man.”
“Never?” Lord Kirkheathe asked huskily.
“Never, my lord,” she confirmed. “My uncle was the first man I saw in thirteen years.”
She raised her eyes, to find his piercing gaze upon her. The torchlight made his face a bronze mask, the hollows beneath his prominent cheekbones dark with shadow.
What did he think of her? Did he see some taint of the deprivations of the convent on her? Did he think her too homely to consider?
He might have been carved from rock, for all she could tell. Then his lips twitched. In a smile? Or was it merely a flicker of the light?
“I know she is not the woman you were promised, my lord,” her uncle wheedled, “but she stands in the same relation to me, and the terms of the marriage agreement need not alter.”
“Yes, they should,” Elizabeth interjected. She had no idea what the terms of the marriage contract were, but she would not let her uncle’s greed rob her of her chance for liberty. “I am not the bride he was promised. That must be taken into account.”
“Elizabeth, you forget yourself!”
“No, Uncle, it is you who seems to forget that I am not Genevieve. For whatever reason, Lord Kirkheathe is not getting his promised bride. The dowry should be increased, or some other compensation granted.”
“You are not the man’s wife yet, by God, to be haggling for him!”
“Uncle, it is only fair—”
“Fair?” he cried, turning on her. “Fair would have been for that slut Genevieve to stay pure and not jump into bed with the first good-looking fellow she could find! Fair would be for you to know your place! Fair would be—”
“Go,