The Overlord's Bride Page 2

  “No, Uncle,” she replied, making no effort to speak softly. “This concerns me, so I should be a party to the discussion. I am not a piece of furniture or a block of wood.”

  “Elizabeth,” Perronet warned.

  Raymond raised an eyebrow. Lord Perronet instantly started toward him, trailed by his niece.

  A bold woman. Was that good—or bad? Allicia had not been bold, not until the last night of her life.

  Raymond again started toward the solar and heard them follow.

  “Is he mute?” Elizabeth Perronet whispered as they climbed the tower stairs.

  Raymond’s lips twisted into a smile as he waited for them at the door to his solar. He let her uncle pass into the room, then, when she was beside him, he answered.

  “No, not mute,” he said in a harsh rasp, all that was left of his once fine voice.

  Chapter Two

  Elizabeth had never heard anything quite like the soft hoarseness of Lord Kirkheathe’s deep voice. It seemed at once intimate and frightening, as if he were part beast and, at the same time, pure human male.

  A man might sound like that in the throes of fierce passion, whispering in her ear.

  She flushed at that thought, warmth blossoming within her comprised of both shame and excitement. She tried to subdue those emotions, for if ever she needed to keep her wits about her, it was now.

  Perhaps he was ill, although he certainly looked healthy. Indeed, he looked extremely fit for a man of eight and thirty, as well as tall, broad-shouldered and imposing, with long, savage hair to his shoulders, iron gray among the thick black. His black tunic, cinched about the waist with a simple leather belt, had swirled about his booted ankles as he strode ahead of her with long, athletic strides.

  Sidling in front of him to enter the room, she darted a nervous glance upward and saw the scar around his neck, a mottled, puckered thin red line of flesh.

  An injury would explain his voice, yet it was a strange scar, as if he had been hung by his neck with a thin leather band.

  She didn’t dare look at his face. Was he angry she was not the promised Genevieve? Would he accept her instead, a poor substitute, or would he send her back to the convent?

  A single torch in the sconce on the wall lighted the room, but not well enough to reveal the corners. In the center was a large wooden trestle table, as plain as the heavy chair behind it.

  Trying not to tremble, Elizabeth waited beside her uncle in an attitude of humility, staring down at the flagstones of the floor.

  It might take divine intervention to make her acceptable to this intimidating man with the intimidating dog that was, mercifully, still in the hall.

  Please, God, do not let him send me back. Let me stay, she silently prayed. I will be the perfect wife. I will be as humble and demure as I can be. This time, I promise I will. I will do everything I can to be pleasing to my husband—only do not send me back to the Reverend Mother, who detests me and will surely one day punish me to death.

  Her uncle shifted nervously. He was more angry than he was afraid. She had seen that in his eyes as he had chastised her; however, one look at Lord Kirkheathe, and she knew she must not lie to him. Not about who she was, or anything else.

  Lord Kirkheathe walked around the large table, so it was between them. The oak chair scraped against the floor as he sat.

  “My lord,” her uncle began in a penitential tone, “you must understand the predicament I was in. Genevieve disgraced us, and yet we had so agreeably decided to join our families. I wondered what I could do, how I could possibly keep my word to you, and then I thought of Elizabeth. I assure you, my lord, she is a virgin. She has been thirteen years in a convent where she never saw or spoke to a man.”

  “Never?” Lord Kirkheathe asked huskily.

  “Never, my lord,” she confirmed. “My uncle was the first man I saw in thirteen years.”

  She raised her eyes, to find his piercing gaze upon her. The torchlight made his face a bronze mask, the hollows beneath his prominent cheekbones dark with shadow.

  What did he think of her? Did he see some taint of the deprivations of the convent on her? Did he think her too homely to consider?

  He might have been carved from rock, for all she could tell. Then his lips twitched. In a smile? Or was it merely a flicker of the light?

  “I know she is not the woman you were promised, my lord,” her uncle wheedled, “but she stands in the same relation to me, and the terms of the marriage agreement need not alter.”

  “Yes, they should,” Elizabeth interjected. She had no idea what the terms of the marriage contract were, but she would not let her uncle’s greed rob her of her chance for liberty. “I am not the bride he was promised. That must be taken into account.”

  “Elizabeth, you forget yourself!”

  “No, Uncle, it is you who seems to forget that I am not Genevieve. For whatever reason, Lord Kirkheathe is not getting his promised bride. The dowry should be increased, or some other compensation granted.”

  “You are not the man’s wife yet, by God, to be haggling for him!”

  “Uncle, it is only fair—”

  “Fair?” he cried, turning on her. “Fair would have been for that slut Genevieve to stay pure and not jump into bed with the first good-looking fellow she could find! Fair would be for you to know your place! Fair would be—”

  “Go, Lord Perronet.”

  The low voice of Lord Kirkheathe cut through the air like a knife. Instantly, her uncle faced him. “Forgive me, my lord,” he pleaded. “It has been a long and difficult journey and I fear I lost my temper.”

  “Leave.”

  “Perhaps Elizabeth is right, and some suitable increase in the dowry is called for—”

  Lord Kirkheathe slowly rose, and her uncle darted out the door.

  Confused and uncertain, Elizabeth watched as Lord Kirkheathe resumed his seat. Was this a good sign, or not?

  She waited a moment, but when he did not speak, she broke the silence. “Forgive my impertinence in speaking without your leave to my uncle, my lord,” she said in what she hoped was a suitably demure and humble voice.

  Surprisingly, it was much easier to speak humbly and demurely here than it had ever been when she was with the Reverend Mother. “However, I believe it is right to adjust the dowry.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I am not Genevieve.”

  “Why?” he repeated.

  “Why am I not Genevieve?”

  He shook his head. “Why is it right?”

  “Because I am not the bride you expected when you made the agreement,” she replied. “I am not her equal.”

  “No?” Now she was certain there was a hint of a smile playing about Lord Kirkheathe’s lips.

  Was he laughing at her? Did he find her desperation amusing, or the fact that she was homely?

  He took a deep breath. “I also want to know why you wish to marry me.”

  Her brow wrinkled with puzzlement at his request, and sweat trickled down her back as she tried to think of a suitable answer. Her whole future might depend on what she said. “My uncle made an agreement with you. Genevieve is not available, and I am.”

  He raised his left brow.

  “My uncle fears what may happen if he breaks the agreement.”

  Lord Kirkheathe’s brow rose a little more.

  “I want to be married, my lord.”

  The brow fell, and both lowered ominously.

  “My lord, if you do not marry me, he will send me back to the convent, and I do not wish to return. It is a miserable life.” She approached the table, clasping her hands together like the supplicant she was. “If you marry me, my lord, I promise I shall be a good wife. I shall not complain, or ask for anything.”

  She colored and fell silent.

  “You would ask for something?”

  She looked directly into his dark, inscrutable eyes. “I would ask for just one thing, my lord.”

  He tilted his head questioningly.

/>   “Children. It is the dearest desire of my heart to be a mother.”

  Another smile, as faint and fleeting as the first.

  What she would give to know what he was thinking!

  “I know I am not pleasing to the eye,” she continued, a note of desperation creeping into her voice, “so if you wish to take a mistress, I shall not fault you for that.”

  His left brow rose again, and she blushed beneath his steady gaze. “I will keep to my household duties, and never seek to interfere with your governance of the estate.”

  The brow rose a little higher, and she wracked her brain for other things her former foster mother, Lady Katherine, had told her charges they should do in order to ensure a happily married life. Or if not happy, at least free of conflict.

  “I will welcome all your friends and family, and seek to make our home comfortable for them, and you, and any guests.”

  His expression altered ever so slightly, puzzling her. Did he not want her to be hospitable?

  “Fetch your uncle.”

  Not an acceptance, or a dismissal. Just a command.

  She knew there was no reason to hesitate, or to plead. He was a warrior, a commander of men. He had made his decision, and she could not change it.

  In that, he was like the Reverend Mother, who had decided upon her arrival at the convent that Elizabeth was trouble in human form, and had never altered that conviction, no matter how Elizabeth had tried.

  Hopelessness seized her, yet she could not give up. Not yet. Not without one more effort.

  “Please, my lord,” she pleaded, “if you accept me, and unless you are an evil man, I will be the most dutiful and faithful wife a man could wish for.”

  He regarded her steadily. “How do you know I am not evil?”

  “I don’t,” she confessed. “Yet I do not think you are, or even in the convent, we would have heard of you. Tales of men’s base acts travel faster and better than the good a man may do.”

  “You have never heard of me?”

  “Not until my uncle came to the convent.”

  She thought he sighed. “Fetch him.”

  “My lord, please, do not send me back! I would rather die!”

  “Or be married to me.”

  “Yes!”

  The moment the word left her lips, she cursed herself for a fool.

  What chance had she now as he gestured at the door?

  Hopeless, then. She was going back. Back to the frigid quarters and frozen water in the washbasins. Back to the Reverend Mother’s colder eye and sharp tongue. Back to the bread she had to pick maggots out of, and thin soup.

  So be it, then.

  Mustering what dignity she had left, she turned and went to the door, opened it and discovered her uncle pacing outside. “He wishes to see you, Uncle.”

  His eyes widened hopefully, but she gave him no sign, for good or ill. She glanced back over her shoulder, at the man she did not know, and now would never know. “I shall leave—”

  “Stay.”

  Another command.

  If he didn’t want her, would he make her stay to hear his rejection from his own lips, in his own harsh voice?

  Was she a piece of stone to be ground under his heel? Was she a worm to be trod upon?

  Whirling around, she marched back into the room and faced Lord Kirkheathe. She raised her chin defiantly, steeling herself for what was to come.

  Barely acknowledging her presence, her uncle hurried to stand before Lord Kirkheathe. “My lord?”

  “I will marry her.”

  He would have her. Dear sweet heavenly Father, he would take her. She did not have to go back.

  Elizabeth bowed her head, willing herself to remain on her feet. She had felt faint many times in her life, but that had always been from lack of food and long, sleepless vigils during which she was to contemplate the nature of her terrible sinfulness. Never before had she been dizzy with relief.

  And then a pair of strong arms were around her, helping her to a stool she had not noticed in the shadows.

  She had not seen a man in thirteen years, and it had been longer than that since a man had touched her.

  Nor had any man ever held her like this, even if it was only to help her.

  Clutching Lord Kirkheathe’s forearms, her fingers gripped the solid muscle beneath the coarse black wool of his tunic. Her pulse started to race as she inhaled his male scent, so different from the scent of women, or her uncle, with his oriental taste in perfumes.

  She wanted to lean her head against his broad chest, to feel even more protected, but she didn’t dare.

  “Wine?” he asked as he helped her to sit.

  “No…yes…”

  “Wine, Perronet, there.” Lord Kirkheathe pointed into another dim corner, and her uncle fetched a wineskin.

  Lord Kirkheathe took it from him and handed it to her.

  “Are you ill?”

  “No, my lord,” she said before she took a drink. She gulped down the cool and excellent wine, then wiped her lips with the back of her hand. She looked up into his angular, unreadable face. “I am happy.”

  He stepped back as abruptly as if she had spilled the wine on him, then turned on his heel and returned to his seat.

  She had spoken too hastily. Again.

  Lord Kirkheathe looked at her uncle, then pointed to one of the dark corners, and Elizabeth saw another chair. Her uncle hurried over and dragged it to the table. “I have the agreement here all ready to be signed, and a duplicate, of course,” he said, pulling two rolled documents from within the leather purse attached to his belt. “Now, about the changes to the dowry—”

  Elizabeth felt rather than saw Lord Kirkheathe’s swift, sharp glance in her direction. “No changes.”

  She raised her head, but he was not looking at her. He glared at her uncle, who was obviously as puzzled as she.

  “Let it be as it was,” Lord Kirkheathe said.

  “But I am not Genevieve,” Elizabeth protested, rising.

  “I think Lord Kirkheathe is more than aware of that fact by now,” her uncle said through narrowed lips. “I see no need to keep harping on it.” He faced Lord Kirkheathe and to her horror, Elizabeth saw greedy speculation dawn upon his face. “The harvest was not as fine as I had hoped this year—”

  “When will the wedding be?” she interrupted, determined to put an end to her uncle’s attempt to alter the terms in his favor, as was surely his intent. If he angered Lord Kirkheathe—!

  “Tomorrow. At the noon.”

  “Excellent, my lord,” Lord Perronet declared. “The sooner the better. No need to wait any longer. And if that horse hadn’t gone lame—”

  Elizabeth hurried forward. “Why wait until tomorrow? The agreement is here, prepared to be signed. I see no need to wait—unless there is no priest nearby?”

  “Donhallow Castle has a priest.”

  “Well then, my lord, why do we not marry today?”

  “Elizabeth, be quiet. You heard Lord Kirkheathe. He has fixed tomorrow for the day and it is not for you to—”

  Lord Kirkheathe held up his hand to silence him. For a moment, her uncle stared at his open, callused palm, until Lord Kirkheathe made an impatient gesture indicating he wanted the marriage agreement. “We will marry today.”

  Elizabeth sighed with satisfaction.

  Lord Kirkheathe looked up from the document for an instant, yet long enough for their gazes to meet.

  He wanted her. She saw it in his dark, mysterious eyes. Because of all she had said, or was there something more? She could not be sure, and yet…and yet she did not doubt that if he did not, there was no power on earth that could have compelled him to accept her.

  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.