The Overlord's Bride. Margaret Moore

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      “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 СКАЧАТЬ