Margaret Moore - The Overlord's Bride

“I came here nigh on ten years ago, my lady.”

“Lord Kirkheathe—is he a good master?”

The woman shrugged as she took the lamp toward the brazier near the narrow window and proceeded to light the tinder beneath the coal.

Elizabeth almost wished she hadn’t asked. She also remembered Lady Katherine’s admonition that a chatelaine should never get too friendly with the servants, lest they lose respect. Despite that advice, Elizabeth wanted to know more. “I would not wish to marry a cruel man.”

“Nobody would,” Rual answered as she returned the lamp to its place on the table.

It seemed Lord Kirkheathe’s servants were as reticent as the man himself. “I saw the scar around his neck. Was he injured? Is that what happened to his voice?”

Rual went to the bed and picked up the bundle. “His throat was crushed,” she replied matter-of-factly as she shook out the fabric.

A crushed throat. It sounded horrible, and she was amazed that such a thing had not killed him. But then, he looked to be a very strong and otherwise healthy man. “When did it happen?”

“Before I came, my lady.”

“And how…ooooh!” Elizabeth breathed as the bundle proved to be a gown of indigo velvet, the round neck and long cuffs richly embroidered with gold and silver thread.

It was the most beautiful gown she had ever seen. “He has excellent taste.”

The maidservant didn’t respond as she carefully laid it on the bed.

Did Rual think his taste had failed him in the choice of wife, or that Elizabeth was expecting a compliment? At that thought, Elizabeth very nearly laughed aloud. The day she expected a compliment would be a day of miracles.

But then, she thought as she glanced at the gown upon the bed, perhaps today was indeed such a day.

Rual cleared her throat. “I believe we should not tarry, my lady.”

“No, of course not,” Elizabeth replied. Especially since I was the one urging haste.

She took off her cloak and gave the wet garment to Rual, who laid it over a chair that was as plain as the ones in the solar. Elizabeth removed the scarf and wimple she detested and rubbed her scalp for a moment before running her fingers through her hair to untangle it. Then she took off the plain gown of gray wool, the sort of garment she had been wearing ever since her arrival at the convent. Fortunately, her linen shift was dry enough.

Despite the need to hurry, she approached the gown slowly, reverently, suddenly afraid to touch it, it seemed so rich and fine—too rich and too fine for her. “Here, my lady, I’ll help you,” Rual said, holding it up.

Elizabeth stood still as Rual put it over her head and gently tugged it into place. She glanced down, to see the bodice gaping.

“It’s a little large,” Rual noted, “but I’ll pull the laces nice and tight—”

“Not that tight!” Elizabeth gasped as the woman pulled hard. “I can’t breathe.”

The gown loosened. Marveling still, Elizabeth ran her hands down the bodice, which now gaped only a little, and over the skirt. The fabric was so soft!

“How do you wish to do your hair, my lady?”

“My hair?”

“Braided?” Rual suggested.

Elizabeth considered the loose bodice. Her unbound hair might hide that defect a little. “No, no braids.”

“Then I’ll comb it.” Rual headed toward a small table opposite the bed.

No, no braids, nor scarf or confining wimple, either, Elizabeth thought, and this time, she did laugh.

The maidservant started and looked back at her. “You sound very happy, my lady.”

“Why should I not? It is my wedding day.”

A little wrinkle appeared between the older woman’s eyes, and her expression altered. “Indeed, it is, and aye, we should all be pleased. No doubt our lord craves an heir.”

“That is the dearest wish of my heart,” Elizabeth answered. She wondered what the maid’s guarded expression meant. “Is that so surprising?”

“I thought…”

“What? That I would not wish 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.