The Overlord's Bride. Margaret Moore

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ