The Overlord's Bride. Margaret Moore
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my lord,” he pleaded. “It has been a long and difficult journey and I fear I lost my temper.”
“Leave.”
“Perhaps Elizabeth is right, and some suitable increase in the dowry is called for—”
Lord Kirkheathe slowly rose, and her uncle darted out the door.
Confused and uncertain, Elizabeth watched as Lord Kirkheathe resumed his seat. Was this a good sign, or not?
She waited a moment, but when he did not speak, she broke the silence. “Forgive my impertinence in speaking without your leave to my uncle, my lord,” she said in what she hoped was a suitably demure and humble voice.
Surprisingly, it was much easier to speak humbly and demurely here than it had ever been when she was with the Reverend Mother. “However, I believe it is right to adjust the dowry.”
“Why?”
“Because I am not Genevieve.”
“Why?” he repeated.
“Why am I not Genevieve?”
He shook his head. “Why is it right?”
“Because I am not the bride you expected when you made the agreement,” she replied. “I am not her equal.”
“No?” Now she was certain there was a hint of a smile playing about Lord Kirkheathe’s lips.
Was he laughing at her? Did he find her desperation amusing, or the fact that she was homely?
He took a deep breath. “I also want to know why you wish to marry me.”
Her brow wrinkled with puzzlement at his request, and sweat trickled down her back as she tried to think of a suitable answer. Her whole future might depend on what she said. “My uncle made an agreement with you. Genevieve is not available, and I am.”
He raised his left brow.
“My uncle fears what may happen if he breaks the agreement.”
Lord Kirkheathe’s brow rose a little more.
“I want to be married, my lord.”
The brow fell, and both lowered ominously.
“My lord, if you do not marry me, he will send me back to the convent, and I do not wish to return. It is a miserable life.” She approached the table, clasping her hands together like the supplicant she was. “If you marry me, my lord, I promise I shall be a good wife. I shall not complain, or ask for anything.”
She colored and fell silent.
“You would ask for something?”
She looked directly into his dark, inscrutable eyes. “I would ask for just one thing, my lord.”
He tilted his head questioningly.
“Children. It is the dearest desire of my heart to be a mother.”
Another smile, as faint and fleeting as the first.
What she would give to know what he was thinking!
“I know I am not pleasing to the eye,” she continued, a note of desperation creeping into her voice, “so if you wish to take a mistress, I shall not fault you for that.”
His left brow rose again, and she blushed beneath his steady gaze. “I will keep to my household duties, and never seek to interfere with your governance of the estate.”
The brow rose a little higher, and she wracked her brain for other things her former foster mother, Lady Katherine, had told her charges they should do in order to ensure a happily married life. Or if not happy, at least free of conflict.
“I will welcome all your friends and family, and seek to make our home comfortable for them, and you, and any guests.”
His expression altered ever so slightly, puzzling her. Did he not want her to be hospitable?
“Fetch your uncle.”
Not an acceptance, or a dismissal. Just a command.
She knew there was no reason to hesitate, or to plead. He was a warrior, a commander of men. He had made his decision, and she could not change it.
In that, he was like the Reverend Mother, who had decided upon her arrival at the convent that Elizabeth was trouble in human form, and had never altered that conviction, no matter how Elizabeth had tried.
Hopelessness seized her, yet she could not give up. Not yet. Not without one more effort.
“Please, my lord,” she pleaded, “if you accept me, and unless you are an evil man, I will be the most dutiful and faithful wife a man could wish for.”
He regarded her steadily. “How do you know I am not evil?”
“I don’t,” she confessed. “Yet I do not think you are, or even in the convent, we would have heard of you. Tales of men’s base acts travel faster and better than the good a man may do.”
“You have never heard of me?”
“Not until my uncle came to the convent.”
She thought he sighed. “Fetch him.”
“My lord, please, do not send me back! I would rather die!”
“Or be married to me.”
“Yes!”
The moment the word left her lips, she cursed herself for a fool.
What chance had she now as he gestured at the door?
Hopeless, then. She was going back. Back to the frigid quarters and frozen water in the washbasins. Back to the Reverend Mother’s colder eye and sharp tongue. Back to the bread she had to pick maggots out of, and thin soup.
So be it, then.
Mustering what dignity she had left, she turned and went to the door, opened it and discovered her uncle pacing outside. “He wishes to see you, Uncle.”
His eyes widened hopefully, but she gave him no sign, for good or ill. She glanced back over her shoulder, at the man she did not know, and now would never know. “I shall leave—”
“Stay.”
Another command.
If he didn’t want her, would he make her stay to hear his rejection from his own lips, in his own harsh voice?
Was she a piece of stone to be ground under his heel? Was she a worm to be trod upon?
Whirling around, she marched back into the room and faced Lord Kirkheathe. She raised her chin defiantly, steeling herself for what was to come.
Barely acknowledging her presence, her uncle hurried to stand before Lord Kirkheathe. “My lord?”
“I will marry her.”
He would have her. Dear sweet heavenly Father, he would take her. She did not have to go back.
Elizabeth bowed her head, willing herself to remain on her feet. She had felt faint many times in her life, but that had always been from lack of food and long, sleepless vigils during which she was to contemplate the nature of her terrible sinfulness. Never before had she been dizzy with relief.
And then a pair of strong arms were around her, helping her to a stool she had not noticed in the shadows.
She had not seen a man in thirteen years, and it had been longer than that since a man had touched her.
Nor had any man ever held her like this, even if it was only to help her.
Clutching Lord Kirkheathe’s forearms, her fingers gripped the solid muscle beneath the coarse black wool of his tunic. Her pulse started to race as she inhaled his male scent, so different from the scent of women, or her uncle, with his oriental taste in perfumes.
She wanted to lean her head