Читать книгу The Overlord's Bride - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 10

A fter Father Daniel blessed the feast, and keeping a wary eye on the huge hound who never strayed far from Lord Kirkheathe’s side, Elizabeth sat in the throne-like chair beside her husband and wondered how serious her several errors were. That her husband was angry, she did not doubt. A blind man could feel his cold wrath.

She obviously should not have kissed him, or spoken hastily in response to his shocked visage. And of course, she should have realized that with that husky voice, he might not be able to speak loudly enough to introduce her as the priest had.

Yet she did not regret the kiss, for it was as she had told him: she wanted everybody in the hall to know she wed of her own free will and choice. That way, they would not think to use her against her husband, or try to enlist her aid in their individual causes—something else Lady Katherine had warned against.

By our Lady, she thought as she ran her hand over the fine cloth spread upon the table, enjoying the sensation of the soft linen while surreptitiously watching the man sitting so aloof and still beside her, Lady Katherine had talked about almost everything a wife might need to know except how to deal with a man who didn’t speak and had no more expression on his face than an effigy.

Or had she? Hadn’t Lady Katherine explained over and over again that it was a wife’s duty to please her husband, to mold herself to his desires?

Maybe she would have to be silent, too.

Sweet heaven, she hoped not! Humble and demure she might be able to manage, but silent? She had had enough of keeping quiet. That had been harder for her to bear than the beatings.

The pantler entered with the bread and butter, and the toothsome aroma of hot bread, made of fine flour and browned to perfection, filled her nostrils. Her stomach, so used to the poorest fare, seemed to cry out in approval, growling so loudly, she quickly sucked it in and hoped nobody else heard.

Near her elbow stood a mazer, a drinking bowl made of beautifully polished wood and rimmed with silver.

For wine. She would be having wine tonight, and probably good wine, if what she had tasted in the solar and her uncle’s slightly inebriated state was any indication of the usual beverage provided by Lord Kirkheathe. Her uncle fancied himself an expert on wines, and if he thought what was offered terrible, he would merely sip as courtesy demanded.

Judging by the color of his nose, he found the wine superb.

Her mouth began to water as a maidservant, young and nervous, set down a perfect loaf of bread before her trencher. As she again breathed in the delectable aroma, she had to fight the urge to grab the entire loaf and bite into it.

And the butter! The butter looked excellent, too, smooth and pale yellow, churned to perfection and molded by a little press into dainty dollops.

But resist the urging of her stomach and her nostrils she must, for she must be dignified now as she had not been before, or who could say what her husband might do to express his wrath? Her uncle had implied that she had best be cautious, something she had forgotten at her wedding.

Nevertheless, she would lunge for the bread soon if Lord Kirkheathe did not break it in a moment, her determination to be careful wilting with the smell of it.

At last he moved, breaking off a piece of the loaf and handing to her. Quickly she took up the knife beside her plate to butter it, then bit into it. It was so good, she closed her eyes in rapture.

“What is it?”

Her eyes flew open.

Lord Kirkheathe regarded her with furrowed brow and serious mien. “You groaned.”

“Did I?” she said, feeling the heat of a blush steal over her face. “It’s the bread,” she explained, holding her piece a little higher. “It’s so good.”

“It’s bread.”

“I assure you, my lord, there is nothing like the taste of a fine loaf of warm bread. Indeed, I have rarely tasted anything so wonderful, and I believe I can feel the warmth down to my toes.” Saying so, she glanced down, to find the eyes of his hound staring up at her.

She pulled the bread away from him and shifted her chair away, too.

“He will not take it,” Lord Kirkheathe said. “Unless you drop it.”

“Oh.”

“You tremble?”

“My lord, I do not care for dogs, especially ones as big as that. The Reverend Mother had a large dog and he…” Her words trailed off as her husband continued to stare at her.

“Cadmus,” he said as he turned back to his food.

“I beg your pardon, my lord?”

“My dog’s name is Cadmus.”

“Oh.” She shifted her chair farther away from the beast, for she was not so willing to believe he would not grab her bread if she gave him half a chance, perhaps biting her in the process.

Another group of servants entered, all men, and all carrying jugs of what must be the wine. Still chewing on her bread, she watched as one of them filled her mazer.

Her uncle, she noted, immediately gulped his down.

Putting the wide mouth of the shallow vessel to her lips, she sipped.

The wine was even better than the bread, and as it moved down her throat, her whole body seemed to relax with the goodness of it.

She had never had such wonderful wine. Would everything served in Donhallow be as excellent tonight? And every day?

No, no, she thought as she drank more of the wine, tonight was special. A feast. Her wedding feast. With the husband she had not met until today, so grim and resolute beside her. Why, his dog was paying more attention to her than he.

Maybe she should have married the dog.

The mazer tipped as she giggled. She quickly tried to right it before she spilled wine on the beautiful white linen or her lovely gown. She might have succeeded, but a lean, familiar hand grabbed hold of it and took it away.

Lord Kirkheathe set it upon the table.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she whispered. “I haven’t had good wine in a very long time, either.”

He didn’t even glance at her. Wasn’t he a grim fellow—and on their wedding night, too! To be sure, she wasn’t Genevieve, but did he have to be so very serious?

“I apologize for kissing you, too,” she went on. “I didn’t think you would mind so much, or I wouldn’t have done it. I won’t do it again.”

Slowly—very slowly—he turned toward her and slowly raised his left brow.

For all the wine she had sipped, her mouth suddenly went dry. And just as suddenly, she regretted saying she wouldn’t kiss him again.

He deliberately pushed her mazer out of her reach with his long, strong fingers.

She swallowed hard and looked away. This was her wedding day, and soon it would be the wedding night. How her heart pounded! She could hear it in her ears and feel the heat of her blood racing through her body.

Desperate in a new way, she reached out and took hold of the mazer, downing the last of the wine in a gulp. “I’m very thirsty, my lord,” she explained with quiet defiance, although she didn’t dare to look him in the eye. “And warm.”

“Are you?” he said, his harsh rasp of a voice a whisper.

“A little dizzy, too.”

“Then eat more.”

She nodded, and was thankful to see the servants bringing the main dishes. When the butler brought more wine, Lord Kirkheathe didn’t stop him from filling her mazer again, as she thought he might.

“You set a very fine table, my lord,” she offered as she enjoyed a venison pasty filled with meat and gravy. “Do you always eat so well, or is it because it is a feast?”

“Yes,” he replied, his gaze surveying the hall with a scrutiny the servants seemed both to expect and fear, for they kept glancing at him, and then acting very busy whenever he looked in their direction.

“You always eat so well? I am amazed neither you nor your men are plump, then.”

“It is a special feast.”

“Oh.”

He turned toward her.

“I’m sorry if I sounded disappointed,” she said hastily. “I’m sure you have a most excellent cook and kitchen servants. Indeed, my lord, I could live upon that bread alone.”

The corner of one lip jerked upward. “And the wine.”

She flushed. “I’m not a sot, I assure you, my lord. The wine at the convent was always sour and flat. We could barely drink it. But this, this is so good.”

She took another drink. Yes, indeed it was.

“It should be.”

“It was expensive?”

He inclined his head in assent.

“Oh.” Her uncle had led her to believe Lord Kirkheathe was rich. If he begrudged her drinking it, perhaps he was a miser, too. Maybe that was what her uncle had been about to tell her. That would also explain why there was no music, or minstrel, or troubadour telling tales for their entertainment.

She pushed the mazer away.

“Eat,” he commanded, eyeing the food still left in her trencher.

“I would like to, but my stomach may burst,” she said with genuine regret. “It is not used to such varied and rich fare, and I would not like to have indigestion tonight.”

His brows lifted as if she had said a scandalous thing, and she blushed as the image of him taking her in his arms burst into her head.

She rose unsteadily. “I believe, my lord, if there is no entertainment, I shall retire.”

“The evening is young.”

“It has been a long and tiring day. Please stay with your men. Rual can help me.”

His brow lowered a fraction and the hall grew quiet, except for her uncle, snoring, with his head on the table.

She didn’t know what more to say or do; all she wanted was to be alone a little, away from his piercing eyes and the visions he inspired, to gather her thoughts and prepare for…what was to come.

She turned and the room seemed to shift. She grabbed the back of the chair to steady herself—and just as before, she felt his arms about her.

Only this time, he swept her right off her feet and into his arms.

“My lord!”

He said nothing, and his face betrayed nothing as he marched toward the tower steps. Shocked and giddy, she looked over his shoulder. His dog was right behind.

“Good night!” she called out, feeling a need to make some sort of farewell.

Lord Kirkheathe said not a word.

What must they be thinking in the hall? If he thought her kiss and her drinking undignified, what was this?

Enthusiasm?

Emboldened by that hope, she wound her arms about his neck as he carried her up the stairs. “When I was a little girl,” she confessed, “I used to dream of being swept off my feet. I didn’t think it would really happen, though, and if you had described this to me a fortnight ago, I would have said you were mad.”

Her husband didn’t reply.

“I think we both forgot our manners today.”

Still no response. He just marched stoically upward.

“You could have let me go with Rual.”

“You might have fallen.”

“I’m not drunk,” she protested.

“No?”

“Absolutely not. I told you, it was the rich food.” She leaned her head against his broad chest, the wool slightly rough against her cheek. “And perhaps the wine—a little. Don’t be angry with me, please, my lord. I promise I will do better tomorrow. It has been a very strange day.”

Was he laughing?

She drew back and studied him. No, she must have been mistaken.

They reached the bedchamber and he pushed open the door with his foot, then waited as Cadmus trotted into the room.

“Does he sleep here, too?”

Her husband nodded. “Guards the door.”

“Can he not do that from outside?”

“He looks for intruders.”

Elizabeth struggled out of his arms. “You have intruders?”

“I am cautious,” he said. He steadied her as her feet touched the ground.

“Oh.” The tower seemed very cold when she was not in his arms.

Cadmus appeared at the door, panting.

“I suppose that means it is safe?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that is a relief, I must say. Although I think a man would have to be mad to try to attack you in your own castle.”

“A man might be,” he agreed as he walked into the room ahead of her.

She followed him, noting that now a candleholder bearing several beeswax candles illuminated the room. The sight of his back and the realization he was undoing his wide leather belt made her hesitate on the threshold.

He glanced back at her over his shoulder. “He won’t bite.”

“I hope not.”

His lips twitched. “I will not, either.”

She smiled, albeit warily, as she sidled farther into the room. To avoid the big dog on her right, she would have to go toward the bed. Or toward her husband, who was even now tossing his belt on the chest near the narrow window. What a choice!

She shouldn’t have insisted on getting married today. Tomorrow would have done just as well, and given her more time to get used to the idea….

What in the name of the saints was wrong with her? she thought, suddenly annoyed with herself. One more day wouldn’t have made a difference in her feelings, and another day might have seen her sent back to the convent.

God’s rood, this marriage was the best thing that had happened to her. What kind of silly little fool was she becoming, to be so coy and shy? Even if this man was a stranger to her, he was a very thrilling stranger.

With new determination, she briskly untied the lacing at the sides of the beautiful gown and drew it off. She boldly marched past her husband, and with care, laid the garment on the chest beside his belt. Then, clad in her thin shift, she climbed into the bed.

And watched the groom disrobe.