“You are now man and wife

in the eyes of God and by the laws of the kingdom. You may kiss your bride, my lord.”

Raymond glanced at the man sharply. He didn’t want to kiss her. Not here, in the crowded hall, and indeed not ever.

Kissing reminded him too much of Allicia.

“It is to seal the promise, my lord,” the priest whispered nervously. “It is not strictly necessary, but the people will be disappointed if you don’t.”

He didn’t care if they were or not.

Suddenly his bride grabbed his shoulders, turned him toward her and heartily bussed him on the lips.

He couldn’t have been more surprised if she had drawn a knife and threatened to kill him.

She leaned close. “I want everyone to know I am wed to you of my own free will.”

Now what could he possibly say to that?

Praise for the recent works of USA Today bestselling author Margaret Moore

The Duke’s Desire

“This novel is in true Moore style—sweet, poignant and funny.”

—Halifax Chronicle-Herald

A Warrior’s Kiss

“Margaret Moore remains consistently innovative, matching an ending of romantic perfection to the rest of this highly entertaining read.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

The Welshman’s Bride

“This is an exceptional reading experience for one and all. The warrior series will touch your heart as few books will.”

—Rendezvous

The Overlord’s Bride
Margaret Moore

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Tracy Farrell,

who ten years ago made “the call”

that would change my life.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter One

“S top gawking like a simpleton,” Lord Perronet snapped, his hooked nose twitching with annoyance as he waited for his niece’s horse to come beside his. “Are you trying to look like a fool?”

Elizabeth tore her gaze from the castle ahead. The massive structure loomed out of the gray mist as if it were some sort of angry beast watching its prey come closer. “Given all the unexpected things that have happened to me in the past three days, would it be so surprising if my brains were addled?”

Her uncle’s eyes narrowed slightly as he surveyed her with obvious displeasure, as he had at intervals ever since he had come to the convent to take her away. “You’re still the same,” he muttered. “I was hoping the good sisters had tamed you by now.”

“They tried, Uncle, they tried.”

He grunted scornfully as he continued his dissatisfied scrutiny.

Elizabeth knew she was not pleasing to look upon. If she were, she would not have been sent to the holy sisters thirteen years ago, into that horrible living death. She would have stayed with Lady Katherine DuMonde to finish her education in preparation for marriage and her duties as the chatelaine of a castle. She would have married. She would have had children.

“You must make an effort to behave properly, as a highborn lady should,” he commanded.

“You wish I were more like my cousin Genevieve, no doubt.”

“That harlot? No, I certainly do not.”

Elizabeth kept the satisfied smile from her lips. Beautiful, ladylike Genevieve, her cousin, should have been making this journey to Donhallow Castle today. Instead, she had compromised her honor with a Welsh-Norman nobleman and married him, leaving her uncle with a terrible dilemma. He had already arranged a marriage alliance with the powerful Lord Kirkheathe and, rather than have it thwarted, had come to the Convent of the Blessed Sacrament to give Elizabeth the choice of remaining there until the day she died, or taking Genevieve’s place as Lord Kirkheathe’s bride.

As she had thought then, so she thought now: she had never had a simpler decision to make. A chance for liberty of some sort, or slavery and deprivation for certain.

“You have told me almost nothing of Lord Kirkheathe,” Elizabeth prompted as they continued toward Donhallow. Now she could make out a village huddled at the base of its walls, like peasants around a warm fire—a much more pleasing conceit than the first sight of their destination had engendered.

“What is there to know?” her uncle replied. “Kirkheathe is rich, respected, has friends at court and we should pray to heaven he takes you in Genevieve’s stead.”

“What will happen if he doesn’t?”

Her uncle turned his hard black eyes toward her. “Let us just say it will be better if he does. A man needs all the friends at court he can get.”

Elizabeth cocked her head to one side. “You do not trust the men at court who are supposed to be your friends?”

Her uncle’s face flushed. “I said nothing of the kind.”

“Why else seek a family alliance with Lord Kirkheathe? His lands are far from yours.”

“Since when has a woman who has spent the past thirteen years in a convent understood anything of politics and alliances?”

“You think there are no politics in a convent? No alliances to be made or broken? No secrets to be kept? No power to crave? By our Lady, Uncle, I am not the simpleton if you believe that.”

“This is nonsense. All that matters is that Lord Kirkheathe accept you, and then all will be well, for you and for me.”

“If I am to confine myself to womanly subjects, Uncle, tell me about the man himself.”

“What is there to know beyond what I have told you?”

“Is he handsome?”

Her uncle made a scoffing laugh. “You are hardly in a position to care about the man’s looks.”

“Since I am no beauty, it has occurred to me that if he is not a fine-looking man, he may care less about my features.”

Once more her uncle scrutinized her. “You’d look better without that wimple. Indeed, you resemble Genevieve more than I ever thought possible.”

Elizabeth gave him a surprised look. It was impossible that she could look like Genevieve, with her perfect features and beautiful hair. True, Elizabeth had not seen Genevieve since she had left Lady Katherine’s care, but still…

“Has Genevieve been ill?” she asked, thinking that perhaps something had happened to ruin Genevieve’s looks.

“No. You have improved.”

As Elizabeth eyed him skeptically, she recalled every jeer and criticism the other inhabitants of the convent had aimed at her, the Reverend Mother’s most of all.

No, she was not pretty. Why even imply that she was? “He doesn’t know, does he?”

Her uncle started, making his horse whinny. “Who doesn’t know what?”

“Lord Kirkheathe doesn’t know about Genevieve, does he?”

“I never said that.”

Despite his denial, Elizabeth knew that she had hit the mark. “When do you intend to tell him who I am—before or after the wedding?”

Looking at the road ahead, her uncle didn’t respond.

“If he is an important man, you would not be wise to try to trick him. If he has friends at court, he will hear about Genevieve soon enough, and then it would go hard on you, Uncle,” Elizabeth said. “Besides, I will not let you. I have no desire to be married under false pretenses.”

“Would you rather go back to the convent?”

“No, I would not,” she said, meaning it. Life there had been a hell on earth, of near starvation and punishment and toil and cold. “But I will not begin a new life based upon a lie. I have done nothing wrong, and neither have you. Surely he will see that you are trying to keep your bargain. Or was he particular about Genevieve? He cannot have met her, or you would not even think of trying to fool him.”

“All Lord Kirkheathe cares about is that his bride be a virgin.”

“Well, in that, I am superbly qualified. I hadn’t even spoken to a man from the time I arrived at the convent until you came to get me. So, Uncle, I see no need to tell lies. Also, did she not marry into an influential family, too, even if they are Welsh?”

“Welsh with Norman blood,” her uncle clarified. “You are right, Elizabeth—so of course I wasn’t going to try to pass you off as your cousin.”

She didn’t believe that for a moment. “Just so long as we understand one another, Uncle.”

“I, um, I saw no need to tell him. A Perronet woman is a Perronet woman.”

“But I am not Genevieve. I am older than she, for one thing.”

“Trust me, Elizabeth.”

His words did not comfort her, for she still saw trepidation in his eyes. What if Lord Kirkheathe did not want her? What if he sent her away?

“I would not speak to him as you do to me, Elizabeth,” her uncle continued sternly. “I can assure you, a man of his rank and reputation will not stand for it.”

“I promise I shall be a very humble and dutiful bride, Uncle,” she vowed, determined to do almost anything rather than return to the convent. “The Reverend Mother was very diligent in her efforts to make me humble and dutiful.”

“I do not think she succeeded very well.”

“She taught me how to look and act humble and dutiful when it is necessary,” Elizabeth clarified.

“I wish you would act that way with me.”

She gave her uncle a sincere smile. “I have been myself with you, Uncle. Isn’t that better?”

“No!”

His harsh response stung her, but she had learned well how to mask her hurt feelings, too. “How old is Lord Kirkheathe?”

“That doesn’t matter either.”

“If he is not young, you might want to remember that I could be his widow one day, Uncle. A very rich widow, in charge of a great estate.”

Again she hit the target and when he looked at her, there was a hint of grudging respect. “He is, I think, eight and thirty—but you might have a son of age to inherit before he dies.”

“I hope we have many sons, and daughters, too. Has he other children?”

“No.”

“Has he been married before?”

Her uncle’s face reddened as he craned his head to look up at the gray sky. “Enough questions! I think it is going to rain. We had best make haste.”

He called an order to the leader of his men, and in the next instant, they were trotting toward the village, and the forbidding castle beyond.

Absently scratching the large head of his hound, Raymond D’Estienne, Lord Kirkheathe, sat upon the chair on the dais in his great hall like a king upon his throne. Around him, a bevy of servants stood waiting, too, tense and expectant, glancing at their lord, each other, or the door to the kitchen. Not a one of them dared to speak, or else they would be looked at by Lord Kirkheathe.

His notice was something they all wished to avoid.

Outside, rain splashed against the thick walls of Donhallow Castle, heavy enough to be audible above the fire crackling in the hearth nearby.

The wedding party was late. Perronet and his niece—and his bride—should have been here hours ago, Raymond thought with annoyance.

Perhaps something had delayed them yet again. He had been receiving messengers from Perronet for days, all bearing excuses for his tardiness.

If the man and his niece didn’t arrive today, that would be the end of it. He was not a beggar or a fish to be kept dangling on a line. To be sure, he needed the money promised for the girl’s dowry, but he could find another bride now that he had finally decided the time had come to marry again. As for the personal attributes of the woman herself, they were far less important than the money she would bring. For the past several years, Raymond had been trying to maintain his castle on the income from his estate, but Donhallow was ancient and in need of more repairs than he could afford without additional income. Rather than let it fall down around him, he would marry.

He also needed a marital alliance, lest his enemy garner more support than he at both the king’s court, and that of their common overlord, the earl of Chesney. Perronet and his friends could provide such support.

Raymond’s hands balled into fists as they always did when he thought of Fane Montross, his neighbor and enemy.

A cry went up from the wall walk and all the servants glanced nervously at their lord, who made no move at all.

As they had kept him waiting, he would wait here for them. He would not go out in the rain to bid them welcome.

The door to the hall banged open and Barden, the commander of the garrison, marched to a halt, water dripping from his cloak and helmet. “Lord Perronet and his party have come, my lord,” he announced.

Raymond inclined his head, and still did not move. Let them understand that he was angry.

Barden, who had begun his career as a foot soldier here, knew better than to wait for more of a response. With the brisk military efficiency he had always possessed, he turned on his heel and departed.

The door opened again a few moments later, and the familiar figure of Lord Perronet hurried into the hall. Behind him, likewise swathed in a dripping cloak, was a woman. The bride, no doubt.

As Raymond watched without any alteration of his expression, Lord Perronet approached and bowed, one wary eye on Raymond’s dog, Cadmus. “Forgive us the delay, my lord. The weather has been most unseasonable, as you are no doubt aware, and we had trouble with a lame horse. I cannot possibly say how pleased I am that we have arrived safe at last.”

He made a hopeful smile, which did absolutely nothing to appease Raymond; nevertheless, he finally rose and bowed in response.

“Allow me to present my niece, my lord,” Perronet said, turning and gesturing for the woman to come forward.

She did, walking neither slowly nor quickly, and as she did, she raised her arms and pushed back the hood of her soaking gray wool cloak.

Perronet had claimed his niece was a great beauty. Raymond had believed that to be a lie, or an exaggeration, something meant to increase the bride’s value.

Surprisingly, it was true.

Her slender face was surrounded by the severity of a wimple, but that only seemed to emphasize her lovely features. Large, brown eyes crowned with shapely brows shone in the torchlight. Her nose was perfect, mercifully different from her uncle’s, and her cheeks looked as soft as velvet. Then there were her lips, rosy and full, the bottom slightly more than the top. Lips made for kissing.

Pure, raw desire, a sensation last felt so long ago as to be nearly forgotten, hit Raymond, as strong as the blow of an enemy’s fist. A need suddenly burned in his blood and sent it throbbing through his body, reminding him of the emptiness of his days. And nights.

Even as these sensations sprang to life, Raymond told himself they were feelings he did not want. The yearning coursing through him was but a weakness—a weakness he had fallen prey to once, and never would again.

The woman came to a halt beside her uncle. She glanced at Perronet, then turned her remarkably intelligent eyes back onto him. “I am Elizabeth Perronet.”

Her voice was as unexpected as her face, musical and very pleasant—and very determined. Yet it was not the unexpected nature of her voice that made Raymond frown.

He was supposed to wed Genevieve Perronet.

“My lord,” Lord Perronet began placatingly after giving the woman a swift and censorious look. “This is my other niece. Genevieve has, um, unfortunately proved herself unworthy of your lordship and the honor of being your bride. Elizabeth, however, is equally suitable—and of course, the dowry remains the same.”

Whatever was going on, Raymond realized, they didn’t need an audience. They could discuss it in the privacy of the solar. He gestured for Cadmus to stay, then looked pointedly at Lord Perronet before turning toward the tower that held his solar.

The man spoke quietly to his niece. “Wait here. I shall settle this accordingly.”

“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

E lizabeth 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.

“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?”

Chapter Three

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?”

“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.

He had the ruins of his voice to remind him of that for as long as he lived.

The bride’s uncle staggered to his feet, and there was no mistaking the smug triumph on his face.

Raymond told himself he should have demanded that Perronet increase the dowry, instead of being so impressed by his bride. It had been a long time since anyone had dared to argue in front of him. He hadn’t realized the energy that sort of disagreement could provoke, especially in a woman. How passionate she had been!

How passionate could she be?

That was unimportant, so long as she gave him an heir. He had no intention of feeling anything for his wife beyond a certain tolerance. As he would trust no woman, he would never love one again, either.

“Have you a ring, my lord?” Father Daniel asked softly.

Raymond took the one that had been his mother’s from his little finger and handed it to the priest as Elizabeth came to stand beside him. Father Daniel made the sign of the cross over it, then handed it back.

Raymond turned to face her. He lifted her hand and placed the ring on the fourth finger of her left hand. Without looking at her face, he proceeded to push it slowly downward while Father Daniel intoned, “In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost, you are now man and wife, in the eyes of God and by the laws of the kingdom. You may kiss your bride, my lord.”

Raymond glanced at the man sharply. He didn’t want to kiss her. Not here, in the crowded hall, and indeed, not ever.

Kissing reminded him too much of Allicia.

“It is to seal the promise, my lord,” the priest whispered nervously. “It is not strictly necessary, but the people will be disappointed if you don’t.”

He didn’t care if they were or not.

Suddenly his bride grabbed his shoulders, turned him toward her and heartily bussed him on the lips.

He couldn’t have been more surprised if she had drawn a knife and threatened to kill him.

She leaned close. “I want everyone to know I am wed to you of my own free will.”

What could he possibly say to that, except, “Come to the table.”

She took his arm again, touching him in a way that felt too much like a caress. “Will you introduce me to your servants and tenants?”

“No.”

He didn’t look to see if she was upset by that response or not.

As they took their places at the high table, he nodded at Father Daniel.

“Bid welcome to your new chatelaine and mistress of Donhallow Castle, Lady Elizabeth,” the priest called out, his voice carrying to the back of the hall as Raymond’s could not.

Chapter Four

A fter Father Daniel blessed the feast, and keeping a wary eye on the huge hound who never strayed far from Lord Kirkheathe’s side, Elizabeth sat in the throne-like chair beside her husband and wondered how serious her several errors were. That her husband was angry, she did not doubt. A blind man could feel his cold wrath.

She obviously should not have kissed him, or spoken hastily in response to his shocked visage. And of course, she should have realized that with that husky voice, he might not be able to speak loudly enough to introduce her as the priest had.

Yet she did not regret the kiss, for it was as she had told him: she wanted everybody in the hall to know she wed of her own free will and choice. That way, they would not think to use her against her husband, or try to enlist her aid in their individual causes—something else Lady Katherine had warned against.

By our Lady, she thought as she ran her hand over the fine cloth spread upon the table, enjoying the sensation of the soft linen while surreptitiously watching the man sitting so aloof and still beside her, Lady Katherine had talked about almost everything a wife might need to know except how to deal with a man who didn’t speak and had no more expression on his face than an effigy.

Or had she? 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 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.

God’s rood, this marriage was the best thing that had happened to her. What kind of silly little fool was she becoming, to be so coy and shy? Even if this man was a stranger to her, he was a very thrilling stranger.

With new determination, she briskly untied the lacing at the sides of the beautiful gown and drew it off. She boldly marched past her husband, and with care, laid the garment on the chest beside his belt. Then, clad in her thin shift, she climbed into the bed.

And watched the groom disrobe.

Chapter Five

E lizabeth Perronet was undoubtedly the strangest woman he had ever met, Raymond decided as he purposefully ignored her. It was as if she had no idea of what she was doing, or how her actions might be interpreted by those around her.

More importantly, it was as if she had no concept of dignity and the respect due to him, her lord and her husband.

Kissing him like that, for one thing, he silently grumbled as he tugged off his long tunic and threw it over the chest on top of the velvet gown and his leather belt. He didn’t want her to kiss him, not then and not ever. Tonight he would take her as swiftly as he could, and with as little intimacy as possible.

She didn’t want people to think she had been forced to marry him? What in the name of God did it matter what his people thought? He was their lord, their governor and protector. That was all they needed to know and remember.

Then to get nearly drunk! By God, she had just about fallen in the hall. There was no excuse for that. He had to pick her up and carry her away before she disgraced him entirely.

Half-naked, he washed his face with the cold water in the basin.

His body had, of course, reacted to the sensation of her body in his arms. It would to any woman in a similar situation. And when she leaned her head against him as if she felt safe with him—

He didn’t want her to feel safe with him, just as he would never feel safe with her, lest she betray him, too.

God save him, how could he forget that harsh lesson, even when she spoke so winningly as he held her, her casual observation that it had been a “strange day” actually making him chuckle?

Then take her and be done, his mind commanded. Consummate the marriage as if it were any other bargain. Why hesitate? Why not simply go to bed?

He whirled around—to find Elizabeth unabashedly staring at him as she sat in his bed, his covers pulled up over her breasts, her long, waving hair flowing about her, her bright eyes gleaming. “You’ve got a lot of scars,” she observed.

Suddenly, he felt more than half-naked, which was utterly ridiculous. He was no youth with his first woman!

He strode to the bed, sat on it and yanked off his boots.

He jumped when she ran a finger along one of the scars on his back. “Don’t!” he snarled.

He heard the ropes creak as she moved back.

He rose and removed his breeches, dropping them on the floor. He turned around, facing her.

“I’ve never seen a naked man before,” she whispered, staring at him. “Are they all like you?”

Without answering, he lifted the sheets and got in. He moved on top of her and shoved her shift out of the way.

Then he closed his eyes and imagined the first woman he had been with, an accommodating serving wench. He had been fourteen. Gildred had been very accommodating.

He remembered that day with Gildred in the orchard, when he had learned a mouth could do more than eat and drink and speak and kiss.

His bride was moist, but there was a barrier. So, she was indeed a virgin. Good.

He slowed a moment, then pushed. He heard a gasp, but no other cry. He started to thrust, slowly at first, then faster, and Elizabeth began to move in rhythm with him.

Gildred’s mouth.

Elizabeth’s parted lips. Her panting breath hot on him.

Gildred’s lips upon him.

Elizabeth beneath him, her legs wrapped around him, eagerly pulling him closer. Her soft moans. Her hands clutching him. Her low groan of desire.

Not Gildred. Elizabeth.

Elizabeth…Elizabeth…Elizabeth.

With a low growl, he climaxed.

Panting, he opened his eyes, to find his wife’s wide-eyed gaze upon his face.

Suddenly, as he looked down into her eyes, his manhood still within her, he wanted to press his lips against hers, to kiss her passionately and hold her close.

“Is that all?” she whispered.

Raymond abruptly withdrew and rolled off her, to the farthest edge of the bed, his back to her. “Yes.”

“I hope we made a child,” she said with a happy sigh as she pushed down her shift.

God’s wounds, she was so ignorant she didn’t realize he had taken her with all the finesse of a drunken soldier with a cheap whore.

“Sleep well, my lord,” she murmured as she turned on her side.

He didn’t answer.

Nor did he sleep well.

Elizabeth opened her eyes to find a hound of hell panting in her face.

She tried to scream, but no sound would come.

“Cadmus!” her husband barked.

She should have realized she was not having another nightmare back in the convent, because she was warm and well covered. And sore. Feeling foolish, she gingerly sat up.

Lord Kirkheathe, dressed in that same long, black tunic, regarded her from near the door, his dog at his side.

Was it possible for a dog to smirk?

At least her husband wasn’t. “Don’t be afraid of him.”

She pulled the heavy coverings up under her chin, enjoying the comfort of their warmth. “I’ll try not to be, but I was bitten very badly once,” she explained.

He was going to see the scar sooner or later, she thought with resignation, so she untied the drawstring at the neck of her shift and eased it off her left shoulder, revealing the ugly red and puckered mark made by the Reverend Mother’s pampered brute of a dog.

His eyes narrowed as he approached the bed. “A dog did that?”

She nodded.

He leaned even closer, examining her naked skin. Embarrassed by his scrutiny and mindful of what else he might see, she quickly pulled her shift back into place.

“Those other scars?”

She supposed he would have seen them sooner or later, too. Nevertheless, she couldn’t meet his steadfast gaze. “I stole things at the convent and was duly punished.”

“You, a thief?”

She shrugged. “We were always hungry and the little girls would weep so…”

“You stole food?” He sat beside her on the bed.

She raised her eyes, but could not tell if he approved, or was disgusted by her dishonesty. It was a very grave sin to steal from holy women, although in her heart she did not regret it for a moment. “All I could get, whenever I could get it,” she admitted.

“For others?”

It was very tempting to tell him she never touched a morsel, but she could believe this man, with his intense and penetrating gaze, would know if she lied. “I ate of it.”

He picked up her hand. His calluses felt rough against her skin as he examined her thin arms. “Not much.”

“Enough,” she whispered, half-afraid to speak in case it made him stop holding her.

His gaze met hers. “Cadmus will sleep on the other side of the door.”

She couldn’t help the sigh of relief that escaped her lips. “Thank you. I shall try to get used to him, my lord, so that he doesn’t have to be exiled forever.”

He smiled a little and heat trembled along her limbs.

Then noises from the courtyard caught his attention. He dropped her hand and went to the window to look outside.

Feeling bereft and thinking it must be getting near time for mass, she threw back the covers, then shivered as the cool air hit her body.

“Stay,” her husband ordered as he faced her, in much the same way he commanded his dog.

“My lord?” she asked warily.

“Stay in bed.”

“It is so late in the day already,” she replied. She gasped as her bare feet touched the stone floor and wrapped her arms about herself as she continued. “Surely there are things I should be doing. The servants will think I am lazy. That would a terrible way to begin.”

“No one will disturb you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Stay in bed as long as you like today. Call for Rual when you are ready.”

She couldn’t say what shocked her more: the notion that she could climb back into that warm, soft cocoon of a bed, or that he had said so much at once. “But mass—”

“Is over.”

“For certain?”

He nodded.

“You do not fear the servants will think me slovenly?”

He shook his head.

Of course, she thought, he would not fear the servants.

And neither, Lady Katherine would say, should she. So why not take advantage of his offer and indulge herself?

She scrambled back into the bed and, snuggling down into the featherbed, gave him a delighted smile. “Thank you, my lord. I cannot say how many times I imagined such a luxury as this.”

“You will sleep?”

“Sleep? Oh, no, for then I would not know what I was enjoying.”

His lips jerked into another little smile. “As you wish.”

She sighed rapturously. “First the beautiful gown and now this! My lord, I thank you from the bottom of my heart, and I bless you for marrying me.”

Lord Kirkheathe didn’t answer as he strode from the room.

Sighing again, Elizabeth pulled the covers even tighter and contemplated her unusual husband. Seeing him smile, though it be a little one, made her want to laugh.

No doubt he had many cares, being such a rich and powerful lord. She would do what she could to lessen them, especially if she could see him smile more often.

Maybe a child would make him happier, too.

She climbed out of the bed, noting the dried blood on the sheet as she knelt.

“Dear God,” she prayed, wishing she had gone to mass, the better for her prayer, and also that she had been a more humble, obedient person and thus more deserving, “let me be with child. If not already, soon!”

Fearing she had sounded too demanding, she added, “If it be Your will.”

Shivering, she got up. Outside, the sound of horses and jingling harness took her to the window.

Her husband sat upon a mighty stallion. Behind him was a troop of mounted soldiers. She watched as Lord Kirkheathe raised his hand and moved toward the massive gates, his well-equipped men following.

He had not called out an order, merely raised his gloved hand and gestured. All was done with purposeful silence—and the instant obedience of well-trained and disciplined men.

With a grin, she realized the Reverend Mother would surely approve of her husband, and just as surely think he had made a poor choice of bride.

But the Reverend Mother was far away, and she was married, and soon—please, God, soon!—she might be a mother, looking after her children with love and kindness, as her parents had raised her before their deaths from fever when she was but eight years old.

Sighing, she blocked out the memories that came after that, of traveling from relative to relative, never really wanted or cared for. Of the brief respite at Lady Katherine’s, who was strict, but fair.

Then the horrid years at the convent.

She turned and looked at the inviting bed, but there was no point now to go back. Nor did she wish to give the servants any cause to disparage her, despite her husband’s remarks on that point. She might as well dress and go to the hall.

Besides, if breakfast was half so good as the feast…

She slipped her feet into her shoes beside the bed and ran eagerly to the door. “Rual!”

The woman appeared so quickly, Elizabeth thought she must have been waiting on the stairs for her summons. “My lady?”

“I was to call for you when I was ready,” she said jovially. “Well, I am ready. Do you know where my other dress has gone? I cannot wear the velvet gown today.”

“Your old dress is in the chest beside the bed,” Rual said as she came into the room.

“And all my other goods?”

“There, too.”

“They don’t take up much room, do they?” Elizabeth noted as she opened the chest.

“Shall I fetch warm water, my lady?”

“Do not trouble yourself. I am used to cold.” No lie, that, Elizabeth thought ruefully as she put on her warm stockings and then her gray woolen gown. With the speed of years of familiarity, she tied the laces while Rual began to gather up the bedding.

Thinking of the dried blood, Elizabeth hurried to wash her face and hide her silly blush. After all, Rual was a grown woman. She would know what had happened.

Everybody would know.

She splashed the water over her face, again and again, until she felt the heat diminish.

She picked up the small square of linen beside the basin and wiped off her face.

It smelled of him, her husband, Lord Kirkheathe….

“By our Lady,” she muttered. I don’t even know his first name.

“Do you need anything else, my lady?” Rual asked, holding the big bundle of cloth against her broad hip.

“No…well, yes,” she confessed as she went to the chest and found her scarf and wimple. She didn’t want to appear ignorant, but wouldn’t it be worse not to know? “I fear in all the hurry yesterday, I didn’t ask my husband’s Christian name,” she said as she put the scarf over her head and attached the wimple beneath her chin.

“Raymond D’Estienne is his Christian name, my lady, like his father before him.”

“Did you know his parents?”

“No. They both died well before my time here.”

“What do they say about them?”

The maidservant shrugged. “His father was reckoned a good man, although basely born.”

“How did he come to have such an estate then?”

“It was taken from another and given to him by the earl of Chesney.”

“You do not think he deserved it?”

“That is not for me to say, my lady. The earl thought he did.”

“And his mother?”

“She died giving birth to him. His father did not marry again, like he did.”

Elizabeth tried not to look shocked, but she suddenly felt off balance and unsteady, as if she were trying to cross a raging river on a fallen tree trunk.

Yet why should she be so surprised, she reasoned. He was not a young man. Of course he might have been married before, perhaps more than once. “How many wives has he had?”

“Just the one, other than you.”

That was something at least. “Did she die in childbirth, too?”

“No, my lady.”

“Was it an illness?”

“No, my lady. He killed her.”

Chapter Six

E lizabeth didn’t want to believe she had heard aright. “What did you say?”

“He killed her, in this very room.”

Elizabeth went to stand face-to-face with Rual. “Why?”

“He said she tried to kill him, my lady.” Rual shifted the bundle to the other hip. “The tale I heard, he claimed she drugged his wine and when he slept, she put a leather strap around his throat and tried to strangle him. He pushed her off and she fell and struck her head and died.”

“That is why he has that scar around his neck,” she murmured, “and sounds as he does.” Her eyes narrowed as she regarded Rual. “You don’t believe his explanation?”

“He has a temper.”

“Was he brought before the king’s justice for murder?”

“No.”

“So what he said must be considered the truth.”

“He is a lord.”

“There is still punishment for a lord who kills his wife,” she reminded Rual. “Had he struck her before?”

“There were no marks on her, my lady—at least none that people ever saw.”

Which did not mean they were not there, beneath the woman’s gown, or that he was not cruel to her in other ways. “Was he harsh with her?”

“Not that I’ve heard, my lady.”

Again, that only meant not in public. However, considering the open nature of a lord and lady’s life, the servants would know if things were seriously amiss between them. “He has his scar and ruined voice for proof that he was attacked.”

The woman flushed and remained silent.

“Why did she want to kill him?”

“I don’t know,” the woman mumbled.

“Rual, if you don’t believe my husband’s explanation, you must have some reason to think he wanted her dead.”

“Perhaps he suspected her of infidelity.”

“With whom?”

Rual shrugged.

“Does anybody hazard a guess?”

“No, my lady.”

Elizabeth sighed with relief. If there had been infidelity, or more than the merest suspicion of it—or any other hint of a motive on Lord Kirkheathe’s part for wanting his wife dead—rumor and gossip would have flown from one part of this castle to the other. She had learned that well enough.

Rual shifted nervously. “My lady, I think I had best get these linens below.”

“Thank you, Rual,” Elizabeth replied, seeing the wisdom of Lady Katherine’s admonition never to listen to the gossip of servants, no matter how tempting. “Has my uncle eaten this morning?”

“He and his men departed at first light on my lord’s orders.”

Elizabeth stared at her incredulously. “He is already gone?”

“Once Lord Kirkheathe got the dowry, he sent him off, with his men grumbling all the while. Your uncle felt so sleepy and poorly from the wine, he could barely keep his seat.”

“But Lord Kirkheathe was here when I awoke.”

“Came back, that’s all.”

“I didn’t hear a thing.”

Rual smirked. “You were sleeping sound, I expect.”

“I suppose,” Elizabeth replied, paying little heed to Rual’s expression as she wondered how long he had been there, watching her.

“Have you no warmer gown, my lady?”

“No. The hall will have a fire, will it not?” Elizabeth answered.

“Aye, a good one. Lord Kirkheathe insists upon it.”

“Then I shall go there and get warm,” Elizabeth said. “And when you are done with the laundress, will you come back and show me about my new home?”

“Aye, my lady.”

“There, my lord, do you see?” Aiken said, pointing at the footings of the bridge. “It’s rotting. The bridge’ll collapse come spring.”

Holding his tunic up out of the mud of the riverbank with one hand, Raymond noted the decayed wood.

Thank God, he had the money to pay for repairs. Or, to be more precise, thank Elizabeth’s uncle, who had no notion of just how desperately Raymond needed money, or he would have haggled the dowry lower. Now, however, Raymond could afford much-needed repairs to various buildings, roads and bridges on his estate.

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