If she displeased him, would he behave as Francis of Ferrant had done, send her home discarded, humiliated, lost to all use?  Maudlin of Bruster had no more value to her father as a way to form or strengthen an alliance; no noble would marry another’s castoff wife.  Indeed, the Brusterian princess would never marry again.  No man would knowingly wed a barren woman. 

Elbish and Brusterian women were by no means as reserved as Valenian ladies; they were trained, and were expected, to aid their husbands:  to give him counsel unmixed with flattery, to watch the lords in court and notice trouble brewing before it came, to run his household with efficiency and ensure his safety within it.  But those roles, important and influential as they were, were predicated upon having a husband.  What was there for an unmarriageable princess, as Maudlin of Bruster had become? 

Nothing.  Elsbeth had heard the whispers, the voices wondering why the Brusterian princess did not kill herself and at least redeem her family from the shame that her rejection had brought upon them.  For her, it was assumed, there was no future at all. 

Elsbeth found herself growing angry.  Why should it be so?  She had not chosen Douglas of Elbany.  She did not even know him.  Yet her life was is his hands.  He could, if he chose, make her existence miserable.  Or worse, find some reason to discard her, and ruin her altogether. 

Douglas turned his head.  Startled by her observation, he met her gaze, and surprised by his glance, she held it.  Some of her sudden resentment must have shown in her eyes.  His eyes narrowed a fraction, as if surprised by and wondering at what he saw. 

Then Elsbeth heard her name, and jerked her gaze away. 

“Your brother will have to find his own bride,” her father was saying.  “Elsbeth has just been betrothed to Douglas, son of the Roth.”  He indicated both Elsbeth and Douglas with a sweep of his hand. 

Murrow’s gaze turned towards her for the first time since he’d entered the hall.  “My lady Elsbeth.  I…hadn’t realized.” 

That voice…

Elsbeth tried to greet him politely without meeting his eyes.  The anger was gone from hers, she was certain, but what she feared had taken its place would be far worse for him to see. 

He stepped forward and knelt.  “My lady.  If I had recognized you, I would have greeted you before now.  Pardon my rudeness in neglecting an old friend.”  He took her hand, and lowered his forehead to its back, gesture of apology matching his words. 

It was hopeless. 

She met his gaze, and saw, an instant later, his eyes widen slightly.  He had not known, before, how deeply she loved him.  He did now.