Julie Garwood - [3 Book Box Set] (9 page)

But if the grandfather was to blame for Elizabeth’s independence, so was her father. Had he not treated her as a son for many years?

How would her grandfather get on with Geoffrey, Elizabeth wondered, should they ever meet? Would the gentle giant play the same antagonizing games with Geoffrey that he had with her father? The thought of the chaos he could cause made Elizabeth smile. Geoffrey turned from the window in time to catch her smile. He wondered at its cause, frowning.

Elizabeth met his gaze and waited. She noticed then that he too had bathed, for his hair was wet and slightly curling around his collar. He had changed too, into a
tunic as black as midnight, with the design of his crest, in gold threads, upon his right breast. The fabric was tight against his powerful chest, and each and every time she saw him, his largeness appeared greater than before. She did not like feeling intimidated by him, but couldn’t continue to match his stare, for his hot gaze was so lustful that she feared he would soon see the terror she was trying so hard to hide.

“The priest is waiting,” he suddenly announced, his tone surprisingly gentle.

“Then you have not changed your mind?” Elizabeth asked, her voice no more than a whisper.

“Aye, I have not changed my mind. We will be married,” Geoffrey said. “Get dressed. The guards will escort you when you are ready. Do not keep me waiting,” he warned. He did not wait for her response but turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him with such force that the logs in the fireplace shifted from the wind that stirred them.

Elizabeth found herself hurrying to do his bidding. She would have the marriage over and done with! She dressed in a plain white gown, winding a gold chain around her waist as her only decoration. Her hair was damp and it was difficult to get order achieved, but she finally managed to secure it to the back of her head with a gossamer-thin strip of ribbon.

Her hands trembled as she opened the door and followed the guards down the corridor, toward her fate.

Geoffrey stood at the bottom of the stairway, his hand extended. Elizabeth placed her hand in his and walked with him into the great hall.

She was startled to see that all the men in the room were kneeling, their heads bowed. It was awesome to see so many show such respect.

The priest’s benediction turned her thoughts back to the vows she was about to exchange. He was asking her to pledge herself, body and soul, into the keeping of the man kneeling beside her.

It was all happening so fast. Elizabeth could not even remember kneeling. How had her hand gotten into his? Where had the ring come from? “To love and to honor, to cherish . . .” The priest’s monotone voice insisted, quietly demanded. I do not know if I love him, Elizabeth found herself thinking, even as she repeated the words, “I, Elizabeth Catherine Montwright, do hereby . . .” Her voice was a thread of a whisper, but the priest seemed content, merely leaning forward with a benevolent smile upon his leathered face as he listened to her replies.

“I, Geoffrey William Berkley . . .” His voice, proclaiming his many titles, was forceful and clear. And then it was over, and Geoffrey was lifting her to her feet. He gave her a firm kiss and then turned her, presenting both of them to his men. She heard his deep sigh just seconds before the hall was filled with a resounding cheer.

The noise and the shouts escalated in volume and intensity. Elizabeth saw her brother, standing next to the lord’s companion. She instinctively started to go to him, only to be stopped by her husband’s hand. “Wait,” he instructed, placing his hand on her arm.

He nodded to Roger and a path was cleared. Roger pulled Thomas to stand before the couple. The little boy only had eyes for Geoffrey, the worship there for all to see. He hadn’t given his sister so much as a glance. “I do not think he remembers you,” her husband said. “But that will change,” Geoffrey added when he noticed her distress, “for his voice has returned and he now talks constantly.”

Elizabeth nodded and smiled and then knelt before her brother so that they were at eye level. He ignored her as she softly called his name.

“Thomas, I am your sister,” she insisted for the second time. The little one finally turned when Roger nudged the back of his head.

“I am to be a knight,” he boasted. Then, remembering
his manners, he knelt down and bowed his head. “I will guard you, my lady, from this day forth.” He peeked up at Geoffrey to see if he had pleased his lord.

Geoffrey nodded and helped Elizabeth to her feet. She turned to take her brother’s hand but found that he was already halfway across the hall, following Roger.

Elizabeth turned back to her husband and allowed him to lead her toward the table and the wedding feast. “Where are Thor and Garth?” she asked as she sat down.

“Who?” her husband asked.

“My dogs,” Elizabeth explained. “They are called Thor and Garth. My grandfather named them,” she added with a small smile. “I was wondering if perhaps little Thomas remembered them.”

“The dogs are locked in the quarters below,” Geoffrey answered. “Your brother is afraid of them.”

“But that cannot be true!” Elizabeth exclaimed. She had reached her limit for surprises in one day. “He saw them raised from pups.”

“I do not lie.” Geoffrey’s voice was quiet but firm. Elizabeth studied him while he settled himself at the table beside her, but could tell nothing from his expression. It was as if he wore a mask to keep his emotions carefully concealed from her. Yet, even so, she decided that she might have offended him.

“I believe you,” she replied. “I was not suggesting that you lie,” she qualified, “it was just a surprise.”

Her explanation pleased her husband and he favored her with a smile that showed beautiful white teeth. The smile was almost boyish but the scar that marked his cheek canceled any suggestion that he was a playful youth. That, and the way he looked at her, Elizabeth thought with a shiver of nervousness. His eyes held a sensual promise of things to come.

“The boy hides behind Roger whenever the dogs are about. The animals obviously remember your brother,” he said, “and are constantly trying to nudge him
into play. The future heir of Montwright lands wailed until Roger could not stand the sound another second. If his fighting arm is as strong as his lungs, your brother will be a mighty warrior when he grows up.”

It was Elizabeth who now felt like wailing. Tears filled her eyes and she squeezed her hand into a fist, only then realizing that Geoffrey was holding it. She promptly relaxed her grip, lest he think she was being overly emotional. “He never used to be afraid of anything or anyone,” Elizabeth said. “Father worried that he would never develop any common sense.” Sadness underlined her explanation.

Geoffrey seemed unaffected by her distress. “He has seen much to change him.” He handed her a cup filled with sweet red wine before adding, “In time your brother will mend. It is the way of things.”

And will I mend? Elizabeth asked herself. Will time make the memory of my mother’s screams fade into insignificance? Will time make the murders less an atrocity? And if healing includes forgetting, then perhaps the wounds should stay raw and bleeding. I cannot put the hate aside, Elizabeth thought, not until Belwain is dead.

“Congratulations, my lady.” The softly spoken words and the familiar voice shocked Elizabeth. Her head jerked up and she met the stare of her mother’s elderly servant, Sara.

“Sara,” she exclaimed with a smile. “I thought you dead.” Elizabeth turned, the smile still in place, and said to her husband, “My lord, may I present my mother’s most loyal servant, Sara. Sara,” she said, turning her gaze back to the white-haired woman, “my father’s overlord, Baron Geoffrey William Berkley.”

“Nay, Elizabeth,” her husband contradicted against her ear, “no longer your father’s overlord but your husband.”

Elizabeth blushed slightly and nodded at the gentle reprimand. She would correct her error now. “My
husband, Sara . . .” she began. Her attention was distracted by the number of familiar-looking servants carrying platters of food into the hall. “Where . . . how . . . ”

“They have all returned, now that you are here,” Sara said, folding her hands in front of her. She was looking at Elizabeth but sensed the Baron’s frown and quickly amended her sentence. “When word was told that your husband had rid our home of the defilers, then we returned.”

The servant glanced at the lord and then lowered her eyes with respect. “With your permission, my lord, I would help my lady prepare for bed this evening. Her serving girl was slain during the raid.”

Geoffrey nodded his consent. The servant smiled, reached out her hand as if to pat Elizabeth, and then thought better of it. Elizabeth caught the action and it was she who patted the servant. “Thank you, Sara, and praise God that you are well,” she said.

When the servant had returned to her duties, Elizabeth turned back to her husband. There were tears in her eyes.

Geoffrey was amazed at her composure. There was a fragile strength about her. She was not like other women he had known, but he had recognized that fact from the beginning. A quiet dignity radiated from her. Her temper was quick to flare, Geoffrey knew, but the tears were closely guarded.

He wished to see her smile again. “And do you wail as loud as your brother?” he asked her.

Elizabeth could not tell if he was teasing or not. “I never wail,” she said, shaking her head. She thought then that her boast sounded terribly prim.

Her husband grinned with delight. “And do you never smile at your husband?” he inquired against her ear.

The sweet, warm breath against her earlobe felt like a gentle stroke and Elizabeth found she had to pull
away before she could answer. “ ’Tis too soon to tell,” she tried to tease, though her voice sounded like a husky whisper to her ears, “I’ve only been married a few short minutes, my lord.” She lifted her gaze to his then, her eyes sparkling with mischief, and Geoffrey was struck speechless by their intense color. She continued to become more magnificent, more desirable, and he wondered how that was possible.

“And are you pleased to be married?” he asked when he could find his voice.

“It will be a most difficult adjustment,” Elizabeth said, her voice serious. She continued to meet his stare and added, “My husband is not well known by me and the stories about him are terrible indeed.”

Geoffrey was taken aback. He thought she might be jesting, the sparkle in her eyes told him that, but her expression was neutral and her voice most serious. He found he didn’t know how to reply. No one had ever spoken to him in this manner. “I am your husband,” Geoffrey said, frowning. “What stories have you heard about me?” he demanded.

“Too many to count,” Elizabeth replied, trying not to laugh.

“I will hear them all!” His voice increased in volume, keeping pace with his escalating temper. As soon as he snapped the order, he wished he had not. He did not wish to frighten his bride on this their wedding night, but he obviously had. Elizabeth had turned her head away from him, shielding her face from his view. Now, as awkward as it might be, Geoffrey would try to soothe her. The problem, of course, was that he wasn’t quite sure how to go about it.

He slammed his goblet down on the table to vent his frustration and then turned Elizabeth’s chin toward him with the tip of his finger. He decided that he would simply smile at her and then she would know that she was still in his good stead.

He was totally unprepared for the smile that formed
her expression, the soft lilting laughter that reached his ears. “I was teasing, husband. Please do not frown. I did not wish to upset you,” Elizabeth said, trying to control her smile.

“You are not afraid?” He found himself asking the absurd question and had to shake his head.

“You do not like to be teased?” Elizabeth answered his question with one of her own.

“I do not know if I like this teasing or not,” Geoffrey said, trying to sound stern and failing miserably. Her smile was like the sun entering the damp, candle-casted room, warming him. “Unless
I
am the one to tease,” he admitted with a grin.

Elizabeth laughed again and said, “Then this marriage—”

“A toast!” The command came from Roger, in a loud, forceful voice. Elizabeth glanced up and saw that the vassal held a goblet high above his head. Balanced somewhat precariously on one shoulder was little Thomas, giggling while he held on to the knight’s head of hair with both hands.

Geoffrey found himself irritated with the interruption. He had enjoyed the easy banter with his wife and wondered what she was about to say. He forced himself back to the festivities but first whispered to Elizabeth, “Later, wife, you shall tell me these terrible stories about my character later.”

Keeping her stare directed on Roger and her brother, Elizabeth answered in a soft voice, “Perhaps, my lord. Perhaps.”

A sense of rightness settled over Elizabeth with each sip of the warming wine. In fact, she felt warm all over, inside and out. “Where have you found this wine, my lord? We are unaccustomed to such quality,” she said.

“Even when you celebrate?” Geoffrey asked with surprise.

“We drank ale on every occasion,” Elizabeth replied.
“And shared from each other’s trenchers,” she added, referring to the wooden plates the servants were placing on the table.

“Your father was a wealthy man,” Geoffrey stated.

“Aye, but frugal,” Elizabeth said. She laughed then and leaned toward her husband, her hand casually resting over his. “My grandfather used to tease my father something fierce over his tight purse,” she confessed in a conspiratorial voice.

“You have a fondness for your grandfather, don’t you?” Geoffrey asked, smiling at her behavior.

“Yes, we are very alike,” she acknowledged. She took another sip of her wine and smiled at her husband over the rim of her goblet.

“Enough,” Geoffrey decreed, removing her goblet. “I want you awake on our wedding night.”

His indelicate reminder of what was to come removed Elizabeth’s warmth. The smile faded and she lowered her gaze to her plate. She had eaten but a fraction of the quail pie and none of the swan or the wildberry tarts prepared for the celebration.