The Overlord's Bride. Margaret Moore
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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.
Her mouth began to water as a maidservant, young and nervous, set down a perfect loaf of bread before her trencher. As she again breathed in the delectable aroma, she had to fight the urge to grab the entire loaf and bite into it.
And the butter! The butter looked excellent, too, smooth and pale yellow, churned to perfection and molded by a little press into dainty dollops.
But resist the urging of her stomach and her nostrils she must, for she must be dignified now as she had not been before, or who could say what her husband might do to express his wrath? Her uncle had implied that she had best be cautious, something she had forgotten at her wedding.
Nevertheless, she would lunge for the bread soon if Lord Kirkheathe did not break it in a moment, her determination to be careful wilting with the smell of it.
At last he moved, breaking off a piece of the loaf and handing to her. Quickly she took up the knife beside her plate to butter it, then bit into it. It was so good, she closed her eyes in rapture.
“What is it?”
Her eyes flew open.
Lord Kirkheathe regarded her with furrowed brow and serious mien. “You groaned.”
“Did I?” she said, feeling the heat of a blush steal over her face. “It’s the bread,” she explained, holding her piece a little higher. “It’s so good.”
“It’s bread.”
“I assure you, my lord, there is nothing like the taste of a fine loaf of warm bread. Indeed, I have rarely tasted anything so wonderful, and I believe I can feel the warmth down to my toes.” Saying so, she glanced down, to find the eyes of his hound staring up at her.
She pulled the bread away from him and shifted her chair away, too.
“He will not take it,” Lord Kirkheathe said. “Unless you drop it.”
“Oh.”
“You tremble?”
“My lord, I do not care for dogs, especially ones as big as that. The Reverend Mother had a large dog and he…” Her words trailed off as her husband continued to stare at her.
“Cadmus,” he said as he turned back to his food.
“I beg your pardon, my lord?”
“My dog’s name is Cadmus.”
“Oh.” She shifted her chair farther away from the beast, for she was not so willing to believe he would not grab her bread if she gave him half a chance, perhaps biting her in the process.
Another group of servants entered, all men, and all carrying jugs of what must be the wine. Still chewing on her bread, she watched as one of them filled her mazer.
Her uncle, she noted, immediately gulped his down.
Putting the wide mouth of the shallow vessel to her lips, she sipped.
The wine was even better than the bread, and as it moved down her throat, her whole body seemed to relax with the goodness of it.
She had never had such wonderful wine. Would everything served in Donhallow be as excellent tonight? And every day?
No, no, she thought as she drank more of the wine, tonight was special. A feast. Her wedding feast. With the husband she had not met until today, so grim and resolute beside her. Why, his dog was paying more attention to her than he.
Maybe she should have married the dog.
The mazer tipped as she giggled. She quickly tried to right it before she spilled wine on the beautiful white linen or her lovely gown. She might have succeeded, but a lean, familiar hand grabbed hold of it and took it away.
Lord Kirkheathe set it upon the table.
“Forgive me, my lord,” she whispered. “I haven’t had good wine in a very long time, either.”
He didn’t even glance at her. Wasn’t he a grim fellow—and on their wedding night, too! To be sure, she wasn’t Genevieve, but did he have to be so very serious?
“I apologize for kissing you, too,” she went on. “I didn’t think you would mind so much, or I wouldn’t have done it. I won’t do it again.”
Slowly—very slowly—he turned toward her and slowly raised his left brow.
For all the wine she had sipped, her mouth suddenly went dry. And just as suddenly, she regretted saying she wouldn’t kiss him again.
He deliberately pushed her mazer out of her reach with his long, strong fingers.
She swallowed hard and looked away. This was her wedding day, and soon it would be the wedding night. How her heart pounded! She could hear it in her ears and feel the heat of her blood racing through her body.
Desperate in a new way, she reached out and took hold of the mazer, downing the last of the wine in a gulp. “I’m very thirsty, my lord,” she explained with quiet defiance, although she didn’t dare to look him in the eye. “And warm.”
“Are you?” he said, his harsh rasp of a voice a whisper.
“A little dizzy, too.”
“Then eat more.”
She nodded, and was thankful to see the servants bringing the main dishes. When the butler brought more wine, Lord Kirkheathe didn’t stop him from filling her mazer again, as she thought he might.
“You set a very fine table, my lord,” she offered as she enjoyed a venison pasty filled with meat and gravy. “Do you always eat so well, or is it because it is a feast?”
“Yes,” he replied, his gaze surveying the hall with a scrutiny the servants seemed both to expect and fear, for they kept glancing at him, and then acting very busy whenever he looked in their direction.
“You always eat so well? I am amazed neither you nor your men are plump, then.”
“It is a special feast.”
“Oh.”
He turned toward her.
“I’m sorry if I sounded disappointed,” she said hastily. “I’m sure you have a most excellent cook and kitchen servants. Indeed, my lord, I could live upon that bread alone.”
The corner of one lip jerked upward. “And the wine.”
She flushed. “I’m not a sot, I assure you, my lord. The wine at the convent was always sour and flat. We could barely drink it. But this, this is so good.”
She took another drink. Yes, indeed it was.
“It should be.”
“It was expensive?”
He