The Overlord's Bride. Margaret Moore

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