The Overlord's Bride. Margaret Moore

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,