The Overlord's Bride

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?”