Margaret Moore - The Overlord's Bride

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 inclined his head in assent.

“Oh.” Her uncle had led her to believe Lord Kirkheathe was rich. If he begrudged her drinking it, perhaps he was a miser, too. Maybe that was what her uncle had been about to tell her. That would also explain why there was no music, or minstrel, or troubadour telling tales for their entertainment.

She pushed the mazer away.

“Eat,” he commanded, eyeing the food still left in her trencher.

“I would like to, but my stomach may burst,” she said with genuine regret. “It is not used to such varied and rich fare, and I would not like to have indigestion tonight.”

His brows lifted as if she had said a scandalous thing, and she blushed as the image of him taking her in his arms burst into her head.

She rose unsteadily. “I believe, my lord, if there is no entertainment, I shall retire.”

“The evening is young.”

“It has been a long and tiring day. Please stay with your men. Rual can help me.”

His brow lowered a fraction and the hall grew quiet, except for her uncle, snoring, with his head on the table.

She didn’t know what more to say or do; all she wanted was to be alone a little, away from his piercing eyes and the visions he inspired, to gather her thoughts and prepare for…what was to come.

She turned and the room seemed to shift. She grabbed the back of the chair to steady herself—and just as before, she felt his arms about her.

Only this time, he swept her right off her feet and into his arms.

“My lord!”

He said nothing, and his face betrayed nothing as he marched toward the tower steps. Shocked and giddy, she looked over his shoulder. His dog was right behind.

“Good night!” she called out, feeling a need to make some sort of farewell.

Lord Kirkheathe said not a word.

What must they be thinking in the hall? If he thought her kiss and her drinking undignified, what was this?

Enthusiasm?

Emboldened by that hope, she wound her arms about his neck as he carried her up the stairs. “When I was a little girl,” she confessed, “I used to dream of being swept off my feet. I didn’t think it would really happen, though, and if you had described this to me a fortnight ago, I would have said you were mad.”

Her husband didn’t reply.

“I think we both forgot our manners today.”

Still no response. He just marched stoically upward.

“You could have let me go with Rual.”

“You might have fallen.”

“I’m not drunk,” she protested.

“No?”

“Absolutely not. I told you, it was the rich food.” She leaned her head against his broad chest, the wool slightly rough against her cheek. “And perhaps the wine—a little. Don’t be angry with me, please, my lord. I promise I will do better tomorrow. It has been a very strange day.”

Was he laughing?

She drew back and studied him. No, she must have been mistaken.

They reached the bedchamber and he pushed open the door with his foot, then waited as Cadmus trotted into the room.

“Does he sleep here, too?”

Her husband nodded. “Guards the door.”

“Can he not do that from outside?”

“He looks for intruders.”

Elizabeth struggled out of his arms. “You have intruders?”

“I am cautious,” he said. He steadied her as her feet touched the ground.

“Oh.” The tower seemed very cold when she was not in his arms.

Cadmus appeared at the door, panting.

“I suppose that means it is safe?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that is a relief, I must say. Although I think a man would have to be mad to try to attack you in your own castle.”

“A man might be,” he agreed as he walked into the room ahead of her.

She followed him, noting that now a candleholder bearing several beeswax candles illuminated the room. The sight of his back and the realization he was undoing his wide leather belt made her hesitate on the threshold.

He glanced back at her over his shoulder. “He won’t bite.”

“I hope not.”

His lips twitched. “I will not, either.”

She smiled, albeit warily, as she sidled farther into the room. To avoid the big dog on her right, she would have to go toward the bed. Or toward her husband, who was even now tossing his belt on the chest near the narrow window. What a choice!

She shouldn’t have insisted on getting married today. Tomorrow would have done just as well, and given her more time to get used to the idea….

What in the name of the saints was wrong with her? she thought, suddenly annoyed with herself. One more day wouldn’t have made a difference in her feelings, and another day might have seen her sent back to the convent.