The Overlord's Bride. Margaret Moore

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ