The Overlord's Bride. Margaret Moore
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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
A fter 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