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 me to present my niece, my lord,” Perronet said, turning and gesturing for the woman to come forward.
She did, walking neither slowly nor quickly, and as she did, she raised her arms and pushed back the hood of her soaking gray wool cloak.
Perronet had claimed his niece was a great beauty. Raymond had believed that to be a lie, or an exaggeration, something meant to increase the bride’s value.
Surprisingly, it was true.
Her slender face was surrounded by the severity of a wimple, but that only seemed to emphasize her lovely features. Large, brown eyes crowned with shapely brows shone in the torchlight. Her nose was perfect, mercifully different from her uncle’s, and her cheeks looked as soft as velvet. Then there were her lips, rosy and full, the bottom slightly more than the top. Lips made for kissing.
Pure, raw desire, a sensation last felt so long ago as to be nearly forgotten, hit Raymond, as strong as the blow of an enemy’s fist. A need suddenly burned in his blood and sent it throbbing through his body, reminding him of the emptiness of his days. And nights.
Even as these sensations sprang to life, Raymond told himself they were feelings he did not want. The yearning coursing through him was but a weakness—a weakness he had fallen prey to once, and never would again.
The woman came to a halt beside her uncle. She glanced at Perronet, then turned her remarkably intelligent eyes back onto him. “I am Elizabeth Perronet.”
Her voice was as unexpected as her face, musical and very pleasant—and very determined. Yet it was not the unexpected nature of her voice that made Raymond frown.
He was supposed to wed Genevieve Perronet.
“My lord,” Lord Perronet began placatingly after giving the woman a swift and censorious look. “This is my other niece. Genevieve has, um, unfortunately proved herself unworthy of your lordship and the honor of being your bride. Elizabeth, however, is equally suitable—and of course, the dowry remains the same.”
Whatever was going on, Raymond realized, they didn’t need an audience. They could discuss it in the privacy of the solar. He gestured for Cadmus to stay, then looked pointedly at Lord Perronet before turning toward the tower that held his solar.
The man spoke quietly to his niece. “Wait here. I shall settle this accordingly.”
“No, Uncle,” she replied, making no effort to speak softly. “This concerns me, so I should be a party to the discussion. I am not a piece of furniture or a block of wood.”
“Elizabeth,” Perronet warned.
Raymond raised an eyebrow. Lord Perronet instantly started toward him, trailed by his niece.
A bold woman. Was that good—or bad? Allicia had not been bold, not until the last night of her life.
Raymond again started toward the solar and heard them follow.
“Is he mute?” Elizabeth Perronet whispered as they climbed the tower stairs.
Raymond’s lips twisted into a smile as he waited for them at the door to his solar. He let her uncle pass into the room, then, when she was beside him, he answered.
“No, not mute,” he said in a harsh rasp, all that was left of his once fine voice.
Chapter Two
E lizabeth had never heard anything quite like the soft hoarseness of Lord Kirkheathe’s deep voice. It seemed at once intimate and frightening, as if he were part beast and, at the same time, pure human male.
A man might sound like that in the throes of fierce passion, whispering in her ear.
She flushed at that thought, warmth blossoming within her comprised of both shame and excitement. She tried to subdue those emotions, for if ever she needed to keep her wits about her, it was now.
Perhaps he was ill, although he certainly looked healthy. Indeed, he looked extremely fit for a man of eight and thirty, as well as tall, broad-shouldered and imposing, with long, savage hair to his shoulders, iron gray among the thick black. His black tunic, cinched about the waist with a simple leather belt, had swirled about his booted ankles as he strode ahead of her with long, athletic strides.
Sidling in front of him to enter the room, she darted a nervous glance upward and saw the scar around his neck, a mottled, puckered thin red line of flesh.
An injury would explain his voice, yet it was a strange scar, as if he had been hung by his neck with a thin leather band.
She didn’t dare look at his face. Was he angry she was not the promised Genevieve? Would he accept her instead, a poor substitute, or would he send her back to the convent?
A single torch in the sconce on the wall lighted the room, but not well enough to reveal the corners. In the center was a large wooden trestle table, as plain as the heavy chair behind it.
Trying
