A fire was blazing in the hearth, and Elizabeth, wrapped in the bed cover, knelt before its warmth and began to dry her hair. There was too much to consider, too much to deal with, and Elizabeth felt overwhelming fatigue.

Lord Geoffrey found her in such an unguarded position. His eyes were tender as he leaned against the door and watched her. Elizabeth heard the door open but refused to acknowledge the intrusion. She adjusted the cover more securely against her bosom and continued to dry her hair. Had she turned, she would have glimpsed the gentleness in his gaze, the smile that came upon him when he watched her struggle with the cover. He thought she was the most beguiling, the most enchanting nymph, all soft and silky and smooth. The light from the fire cast a glow on her uncovered shoulders, giving her a golden look, but by her stiffly held frame he knew she was upset. The hint of defiance wanned him as much as her appearance. He considered that her anger, fully unleashed, could scorch a lesser man.

Elizabeth couldn't stand the silence any longer. "Are you going to stand there all night?" she asked. She turned and he saw that her face was flushed from the heat of the fire, her eyes a blazing blue.

"You are not eager for this marriage?" His voice was soft, his expression mocking to Elizabeth 's ears.

A lioness, Geoffrey decided, from the mane of rioting curls to the wild, wary expression in her eyes. He fought the urge to grab her, touch her.

"I have no feelings one way or the other," Elizabeth lied. She stood then, thinking that kneeling in his presence would give him the idea that she was of the submissive sort. Whether he be her lord or not, she would never cower before him.

Geoffrey acknowledged her comment with a nod and walked over to the window. He lifted the heavy piece of fur blocking the wind and gazed out. It was as if he had dismissed her, Elizabeth thought, wondering what she was supposed to do.

"You need not marry me, my lord. Your protection is enough," Elizabeth pointed out. "And you are in a position to marry anyone… to marry even for love."

He acted as if he hadn't heard a word she said, and Elizabeth continued to wait.

"Foolish men marry for love. I am not foolish." He hadn't bothered to turn to her but continued to look out the window as he spoke. Odd, but his voice, though forceful, was lacking any emotion.

Foolish, she repeated to herself. He thought love foolish. She didn't disagree with him. She could be as realistic as he. And he was right. It was unheard of to marry for love. It wasn't practical. And yet… there was a romantic corner of her mind that wished Geoffrey did love her and that she did love him. Aye, foolish indeed. Wasn't it enough that she was drawn to him? Found him physically pleasing? No, she admitted, physical beauty should have no importance in a lasting relationship. Her mother had taught her that. It was what was buried beneath the surface that determined a good match. Besides, Elizabeth was a little frightened by Geoffrey, and that wouldn't do at all! She hated being frightened. She had already glimpsed a stubborn inclination in his nature, larger than her own. No doubt the marriage would be a stormy arrangement, and after all the turmoil she had recently been through, the prospect of more was as welcome to her as a sore tooth.

Elizabeth realized that Lord Geoffrey knew very little about her, had no idea just what he was getting for his wife. What would he think when he learned that she was far better versed in hunting and skinning a rabbit than needlepoint and homemaking? How often had her father blamed her Saxon heritage for her wild ways? Blamed her mother's full Saxon father for encouraging her unorthodox behavior? It was the grandfather who gifted Elizabeth with the hawk and then the wolfhounds on his annual visits to the manor, all to irritate his daughter's husband. The two protagonists played goading games with each other. And it was Elizabeth who benefited from the friction between the two men. Grandfather boasted that his granddaughter was a throwback to their Viking ancestors, and he only had to point to her blond hair, her blue eyes, and her proud carriage to prove his statement.

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.