Margaret Moore - The Overlord's Bride

And she was just as certain that she wanted to feel his arms about her again, to lay her head against him, to have him caress and touch her.

To give her children.

He returned to reading the document, and she let her eyes feast upon him as if he were a painting in the convent chapel. She had had ample time to study the works of art during her many vigils, but none of those works had been as fascinating as Lord Kirkheathe’s lean fingers, the sinews taut as bowstrings.

He laid down the first parchment and got to his feet. He went to a cabinet and returned with a clay vessel and a feather. Then, as her uncle chewed his lip in anticipation, he signed his name. With equal deliberation, he read the second, and signed it, too.

Only after all this, did he look at her again. “Come.”

“But my lord, the ink is not yet dry.”

Lord Kirkheathe ignored her uncle. He held out his hand toward Elizabeth, and with gratitude and hope and not a little trepidation now that the marriage was about to happen, she took it and let him escort her from the room.

Elizabeth hardly knew what to say, if anything, or where to look. At him? Not at him?

She surveyed the stairwell, taking in her surroundings as she had not before. This tower was made of huge stones like the rest of the castle, roughhewn and gray. A handrail had been carved into the stone, and the steps were worn. Donhallow was not newly built, or at least this part of it was of ancient creation.

So full of such thoughts was her mind, she failed to feel a sneeze coming. Too late, she covered her mouth.

“Wet wool always makes me sneeze,” she explained as they halted abruptly.

He ran his gaze down her body, still clad in her damp cloak. “Wait here.”

He went back, past the solar and up farther into the tower, leaving her on the stairs.

At least he hadn’t gone into the solar, to her uncle and the documents. The marriage was going to happen. She didn’t have to go back to the convent. Surely whatever marriage might hold, it could not be any worse than what she had already endured.

Her uncle came out the door of the solar, saw her standing alone and hurried toward her. “What in the name of the saints have you done now?” he demanded.

“I sneezed.”

“You what?”

“I sneezed, that’s all,” she repeated. “Wet wool always makes me sneeze. Then Lord Kirkheathe told me to wait here, so I’m waiting—humbly and dutifully,” she couldn’t resist adding.

“Very amusing, niece,” her uncle replied sourly. “You should have been humble and dutiful in the solar. I could have lowered the dowry, I’m sure.”

“Or paid more.” She cocked her head. “Tell me, Uncle, did you haggle with him over Genevieve?”

He didn’t meet her eyes.

“You didn’t, did you? He told you the terms, and you agreed because he is not a man you haggle with. It’s quite obvious. So why did you think you could bargain with him now? You might have ruined everything.”

“Or I might have made better terms.”

Elizabeth regarded him skeptically. “Better for you, you mean.”

“And you are so wise in the ways of men? You know their sort by sight, do you?”

“I know enough to keep quiet when I should.”

Her uncle guffawed. “You, keep quiet? What was all that talk in there, then?” he asked, gesturing at the solar. “God’s wounds, woman, you talked plenty enough when you would have done better to keep silent, as befits a mere woman.”

“If I had kept silent, I could be riding out the gate this very moment instead of getting married today. I meant, Uncle, that I know when to keep quiet, and when to speak.”

“I hope so,” he muttered, “or it could go ill for you, even if he seems to want you now.”

Elizabeth moved closer to him. “What do you mean?”

“He may not have objected to your boldness today, but he might once you are his wife. You should remember that, Elizabeth. Lord Kirkheathe is not a kindhearted man, and there are things you do not know about him.”

She stiffened. “What things?”

H er uncle’s expression grew more guarded. “Nothing to prevent the marriage, I assure you.”

“Because you want to be allied with him—is that it?” Elizabeth demanded, wondering if it was possible that she had misread Lord Kirkheathe completely. Perhaps she had been so determined not to return to the convent, she had seen in him what she wanted to see rather than the truth. “Is it that even if he is evil incarnate,” she continued, “you would overlook it for the sake of the connection between our families, yet you would generously spare a word of warning to the sacrificial bride?”

“No, no, no!” her uncle protested. “I mean that you have a penchant for annoying people, Elizabeth, and you should not annoy him. You cannot deny that he is not exactly a friendly man. I meant nothing more.”

“Yet there is something,” she insisted. “I can see it in your face.”

“Would you rather go back to the convent?”

She thought of the convent, and the pinched, yet satisfied look that would appear on the Reverend Mother’s face if she returned.

Surely she had not been wrong about the man she was to marry. Even in the convent they heard tales of evil men, and Lord Kirkheathe had hastened to her aid when she had been overcome with relief. If he were a cruel or selfish man, he would not have done that.

Nor had he quarreled about the dowry, although he would have been within his rights to do so.

To be sure, he did not appear to be happy, but had she looked any happier to him?

She knew better than to judge solely by outward appearances, too. She had learned that lesson bitterly and well only a few short months after her arrival at the convent, when she had told the pretty and oh so-agreeable Gertrude of her plan to steal some apples from the nun’s pantry. Gertrude had been quick to commend her, and even urged her on—only to go running to tell the Reverend Mother in a bid to gain the woman’s approval. The fate of her supposed friend had been far less important to Gertrude.

Had there been a sign of Gertrude’s duplicity in her face or expression? Perhaps if Elizabeth had looked harder, or been wiser.

She had looked carefully at Lord Kirkheathe, and she was wiser. “No, Uncle, I do not wish to return to the convent.”

They heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs above, and Lord Kirkheathe appeared, bearing a bundle of dark blue cloth. “A wedding gift,” he said, shoving it into her hands. “I will send a servant to take you to my chamber to change. My lord, come with me.”

Before Elizabeth could respond, he was already moving down the stairs. Without a word to her, her uncle immediately followed him, leaving Elizabeth alone on the stairs.

She fingered the cloth. It was as soft as a rose petal.

A grim, middle-aged maidservant quickly arrived, slightly out of breath. “I am to show you to my lord’s bedchamber.”

Elizabeth nodded, then followed the woman up ward past the solar.

“This is my lord’s bedchamber,” the woman said, opening the heavy wooden door at the top of the tower.

Elizabeth entered the chilly room. A single plain oil lamp on a table near the bed provided some extra illumination, and the scent of sheep’s tallow hung heavy in the air.

“I’ll light the brazier.” The woman moved swiftly to take the bundle from Elizabeth. She set it down on the large, equally plain bed made with plain linens and a worn fur coverlet.

“Thank you…?”

“Rual, my lady. My name is Rual.”

Elizabeth hesitated a moment, then her curiosity compelled her to continue. “Have you been here in the castle a long time?”