Kitabı oku: «The Overlord's Bride», sayfa 2

“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, as befits a mere woman.”

“If I had kept silent, I could be riding out the gate this very moment instead of getting married today. I meant, Uncle, that I know when to keep quiet, and when to speak.”

“I hope so,” he muttered, “or it could go ill for you, even if he seems to want you now.”

Elizabeth moved closer to him. “What do you mean?”

“He may not have objected to your boldness today, but he might once you are his wife. You should remember that, Elizabeth. Lord Kirkheathe is not a kindhearted man, and there are things you do not know about him.”

She stiffened. “What things?”

Chapter Three

H er uncle’s expression grew more guarded. “Nothing to prevent the marriage, I assure you.”

“Because you want to be allied with him—is that it?” Elizabeth demanded, wondering if it was possible that she had misread Lord Kirkheathe completely. Perhaps she had been so determined not to return to the convent, she had seen in him what she wanted to see rather than the truth. “Is it that even if he is evil incarnate,” she continued, “you would overlook it for the sake of the connection between our families, yet you would generously spare a word of warning to the sacrificial bride?”

“No, no, no!” her uncle protested. “I mean that you have a penchant for annoying people, Elizabeth, and you should not annoy him. You cannot deny that he is not exactly a friendly man. I meant nothing more.”

“Yet there is something,” she insisted. “I can see it in your face.”

“Would you rather go back to the convent?”

She thought of the convent, and the pinched, yet satisfied look that would appear on the Reverend Mother’s face if she returned.

Surely she had not been wrong about the man she was to marry. Even in the convent they heard tales of evil men, and Lord Kirkheathe had hastened to her aid when she had been overcome with relief. If he were a cruel or selfish man, he would not have done that.

Nor had he quarreled about the dowry, although he would have been within his rights to do so.

To be sure, he did not appear to be happy, but had she looked any happier to him?

She knew better than to judge solely by outward appearances, too. She had learned that lesson bitterly and well only a few short months after her arrival at the convent, when she had told the pretty and oh so-agreeable Gertrude of her plan to steal some apples from the nun’s pantry. Gertrude had been quick to commend her, and even urged her on—only to go running to tell the Reverend Mother in a bid to gain the woman’s approval. The fate of her supposed friend had been far less important to Gertrude.

Had there been a sign of Gertrude’s duplicity in her face or expression? Perhaps if Elizabeth had looked harder, or been wiser.

She had looked carefully at Lord Kirkheathe, and she was wiser. “No, Uncle, I do not wish to return to the convent.”

They heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs above, and Lord Kirkheathe appeared, bearing a bundle of dark blue cloth. “A wedding gift,” he said, shoving it into her hands. “I will send a servant to take you to my chamber to change. My lord, come with me.”

Before Elizabeth could respond, he was already moving down the stairs. Without a word to her, her uncle immediately followed him, leaving Elizabeth alone on the stairs.

She fingered the cloth. It was as soft as a rose petal.

A grim, middle-aged maidservant quickly arrived, slightly out of breath. “I am to show you to my lord’s bedchamber.”

Elizabeth nodded, then followed the woman up ward past the solar.

“This is my lord’s bedchamber,” the woman said, opening the heavy wooden door at the top of the tower.

Elizabeth entered the chilly room. A single plain oil lamp on a table near the bed provided some extra illumination, and the scent of sheep’s tallow hung heavy in the air.

“I’ll light the brazier.” The woman moved swiftly to take the bundle from Elizabeth. She set it down on the large, equally plain bed made with plain linens and a worn fur coverlet.

“Thank you…?”

“Rual, my lady. My name is Rual.”

Elizabeth hesitated a moment, then her curiosity compelled her to continue. “Have you been here in the castle a long time?”

“I came here nigh on ten years ago, my lady.”

“Lord Kirkheathe—is he a good master?”

The woman shrugged as she took the lamp toward the brazier near the narrow window and proceeded to light the tinder beneath the coal.

Elizabeth almost wished she hadn’t asked. She also remembered Lady Katherine’s admonition that a chatelaine should never get too friendly with the servants, lest they lose respect. Despite that advice, Elizabeth wanted to know more. “I would not wish to marry a cruel man.”

“Nobody would,” Rual answered as she returned the lamp to its place on the table.

It seemed Lord Kirkheathe’s servants were as reticent as the man himself. “I saw the scar around his neck. Was he injured? Is that what happened to his voice?”

Rual went to the bed and picked up the bundle. “His throat was crushed,” she replied matter-of-factly as she shook out the fabric.

A crushed throat. It sounded horrible, and she was amazed that such a thing had not killed him. But then, he looked to be a very strong and otherwise healthy man. “When did it happen?”

“Before I came, my lady.”

“And how…ooooh!” Elizabeth breathed as the bundle proved to be a gown of indigo velvet, the round neck and long cuffs richly embroidered with gold and silver thread.

It was the most beautiful gown she had ever seen. “He has excellent taste.”

The maidservant didn’t respond as she carefully laid it on the bed.

Did Rual think his taste had failed him in the choice of wife, or that Elizabeth was expecting a compliment? At that thought, Elizabeth very nearly laughed aloud. The day she expected a compliment would be a day of miracles.

But then, she thought as she glanced at the gown upon the bed, perhaps today was indeed such a day.

Rual cleared her throat. “I believe we should not tarry, my lady.”

“No, of course not,” Elizabeth replied. Especially since I was the one urging haste.

She took off her cloak and gave the wet garment to Rual, who laid it over a chair that was as plain as the ones in the solar. Elizabeth removed the scarf and wimple she detested and rubbed her scalp for a moment before running her fingers through her hair to untangle it. Then she took off the plain gown of gray wool, the sort of garment she had been wearing ever since her arrival at the convent. Fortunately, her linen shift was dry enough.

Despite the need to hurry, she approached the gown slowly, reverently, suddenly afraid to touch it, it seemed so rich and fine—too rich and too fine for her. “Here, my lady, I’ll help you,” Rual said, holding it up.

Elizabeth stood still as Rual put it over her head and gently tugged it into place. She glanced down, to see the bodice gaping.

“It’s a little large,” Rual noted, “but I’ll pull the laces nice and tight—”

“Not that tight!” Elizabeth gasped as the woman pulled hard. “I can’t breathe.”

The gown loosened. Marveling still, Elizabeth ran her hands down the bodice, which now gaped only a little, and over the skirt. The fabric was so soft!

“How do you wish to do your hair, my lady?”

“My hair?”

“Braided?” Rual suggested.

Elizabeth considered the loose bodice. Her unbound hair might hide that defect a little. “No, no braids.”

“Then I’ll comb it.” Rual headed toward a small table opposite the bed.

No, no braids, nor scarf or confining wimple, either, Elizabeth thought, and this time, she did laugh.

The maidservant started and looked back at her. “You sound very happy, my lady.”

“Why should I not? It is my wedding day.”

A little wrinkle appeared between the older woman’s eyes, and her expression altered. “Indeed, it is, and aye, we should all be pleased. No doubt our lord craves an heir.”

“That is the dearest wish of my heart,” Elizabeth answered. She wondered what the maid’s guarded expression meant. “Is that so surprising?”

“I thought…”

“What? That I would not wish to do my duty as his wife?”

Rual hesitated before taking up the comb lying on the table. “You do not find him…” She seemed to search for the appropriate word. “Frightening, my lady?”

“Frightening?” To be sure, his voice was unexpected, but if there was anything frightening about Lord Kirkheathe, it was his very presence as much as his voice, Elizabeth decided. “No. Intimidating, perhaps. Does he frighten you?”

“No.”

Elizabeth was relieved to hear that.

She noted that the maidservant still had not picked up the comb. “Will he be angry if I use his things?” she asked.

Rual finally took up the comb. “I think not. You’re his bride, after all.”

Yes, she was his bride, Elizabeth silently concurred, so surely he would not begrudge her the use of a comb.

His dog again at his feet, Raymond sat on the dais of his great hall, his gaze pinned on the shifting shapes of the fire in the hearth. The priest, Father Daniel, stood patiently at his left hand, ready to say the words that would wed him to Elizabeth Perronet. A little farther away, Lord Perronet was slumped over one of the trestle tables already set up for the wedding feast, just as quietly getting drunk on Raymond’s wine.

At least it kept him quiet.

Ignoring the bustle of the servants as they put out plate and linen, paying little heed to the delicious smells wafting from the kitchen, Raymond thought back to his other wedding day, nearly twenty years ago. He had been so proud and happy! Allicia had been beautiful, charming, graceful—everything a young man could want in a wife.

He had been too young to see that her beauty and charms were fleeting, and her vanity the only thing likely to last.

Elizabeth Perronet had beauty, aye, yet of a different sort. As lovely as her features were, it was the piercing fire in her eyes, the keen intelligence as she faced him, the determination to be heard, the pride even when she begged him to take her that struck him. No simple creature she, governed by whim and conceit.

Nevertheless, he could not deny that Allicia had other qualities besides form and figure. She had been incredibly loving, until that fateful night when, unusually drowsy, he had felt the bite of leather across his neck, the growing pressure that cut off his breathing, the pain, the blood….

Allicia, dead upon the floor.

Cadmus growled beside him, and it was only then that Raymond realized his hands gripped the arm of his chair so hard, his knuckles were white.

And that his bride stood at the bottom of the tower stairs, waiting as patiently as Father Daniel.

He rose with all the majesty he possessed, and watched her approach.

Her waving chestnut brown hair flowed over her shoulders as if it had a life of its own, the curls catching the light from the candles, torches upon the walls, and the hearth. Yet no light in his hall blazed brighter than her glowing eyes, and the sight of her brilliant smile warmed him more than the burning logs nearby.

He thought of her words in the solar. Did she truly not know how beautiful she was? Had the nuns instilled that much modesty in her? She had certainly sounded sincere enough—about that, and other things.

The gown he had given her looked well on Elizabeth Perronet, too, and gave no hint of its age. He had bought it in London, a gift for Allicia.

He had thought of burning it a hundred times; at present, he was glad he had not. As his hungry gaze traveled down Elizabeth’s voluptuous body, the full measure of the perfection of her figure was far more obvious than in that drab gray gown.

Cadmus lumbered to his feet and lifted his head for a pat.

Tearing his gaze away from his bride, Raymond looked down at his faithful hound and reminded himself to trust no one, and no woman most of all, no matter how she smiled or how lovely she looked.

He had the ruins of his voice to remind him of that for as long as he lived.

The bride’s uncle staggered to his feet, and there was no mistaking the smug triumph on his face.

Raymond told himself he should have demanded that Perronet increase the dowry, instead of being so impressed by his bride. It had been a long time since anyone had dared to argue in front of him. He hadn’t realized the energy that sort of disagreement could provoke, especially in a woman. How passionate she had been!

How passionate could she be?

That was unimportant, so long as she gave him an heir. He had no intention of feeling anything for his wife beyond a certain tolerance. As he would trust no woman, he would never love one again, either.

“Have you a ring, my lord?” Father Daniel asked softly.

Raymond took the one that had been his mother’s from his little finger and handed it to the priest as Elizabeth came to stand beside him. Father Daniel made the sign of the cross over it, then handed it back.

Raymond turned to face her. He lifted her hand and placed the ring on the fourth finger of her left hand. Without looking at her face, he proceeded to push it slowly downward while Father Daniel intoned, “In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost, you are now man and wife, in the eyes of God and by the laws of the kingdom. You may kiss your bride, my lord.”

Raymond glanced at the man sharply. He didn’t want to kiss her. Not here, in the crowded hall, and indeed, not ever.

Kissing reminded him too much of Allicia.

“It is to seal the promise, my lord,” the priest whispered nervously. “It is not strictly necessary, but the people will be disappointed if you don’t.”

He didn’t care if they were or not.

Suddenly his bride grabbed his shoulders, turned him toward her and heartily bussed him on the lips.

He couldn’t have been more surprised if she had drawn a knife and threatened to kill him.

She leaned close. “I want everyone to know I am wed to you of my own free will.”

What could he possibly say to that, except, “Come to the table.”

She took his arm again, touching him in a way that felt too much like a caress. “Will you introduce me to your servants and tenants?”

“No.”

He didn’t look to see if she was upset by that response or not.

As they took their places at the high table, he nodded at Father Daniel.

“Bid welcome to your new chatelaine and mistress of Donhallow Castle, Lady Elizabeth,” the priest called out, his voice carrying to the back of the hall as Raymond’s could not.

Chapter Four

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.