His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0)

by Shelly Thacker

  “Aye.” All humor vanished from Malcolm’s expression. “I would not wish anyone into the hands of that duine bruideil.”

  “We will not have to deal with the greedy brute much longer. He will see reason—after we make the shortest pilgrimage in the history of Chartres.” Darach glanced at the sunlit spires that soared above the town, and made the sign of the cross with a flick of one hand. “Forgive us, Father, for we shall not be here long enough to tour Your fine cathedral. Or do penance.”

  “Darach,” Malcolm said, in the warning tone he had used years ago when Darach was his squire, “do you think it wise to mock the Lord, today of all days?”

  “I think the Lord lost interest in my affairs long ago.”

  “Untrue, lad. God is about to deliver into our hands a swift means to achieve our ends.”

  “Then I wish He would get on with it.” Darach nodded toward the wedding party assembled in the courtyard. “I wonder what causes the delay.”

  From their vantage point near the gate’s barbican tower, they had a clear view of the proceedings. De Villiers had appeared and mounted his white horse. Then, when there had been no sign of his bride, he had gone back inside the chateau. A short time later the scowling comte reappeared, and now stood talking to his guards.

  “Mayhap the lady has reconsidered,” Malcolm ventured.

  “Reconsidered a position as wife to the king’s most favored adviser? A life of comfort and ease, jewels and finery? Any female would give her front teeth for… wait.” Darach tensed. “There she is.”

  At last, de Villiers’s bride stepped into the courtyard. Clad in a fitted blue-and-white gown and ermine-lined mantle, she walked unescorted toward the waiting horses. As Darach watched her move, a low whistle of appreciation escaped him.

  It would have been a sin for curves like that to remain locked away in a musty convent, concealed under a habit. The lass fair glided, all softness and silk. She stood out among the glittering nobles like a graceful angel among gaudy statues.

  Darach frowned, wondering where that poetic thought had come from. Verse did not number among his talents.

  The girl’s throat and cheeks were hidden beneath a tightly wrapped wimple, her hair draped in a veil, and he caught only a glimpse of delicate features. She stopped when a quartet of burly guardsmen surrounded her, but she met each man’s gaze squarely. She did not demurely lower her eyes, and she did not curtsy to anyone, even her betrothed.

  When one guard offered to lift her onto her tall bay mare, she refused his extended hand, took the reins herself, and mounted in a single fluid motion.

  “Pray correct me if this is a mistaken impression,” Malcolm said, “but she does not seem like the timid, docile sort.”

  “Nay, she does not,” Darach agreed warily. “But naught we cannot manage. How much trouble could one girl be?”

  Comte de Villiers stood staring at her for a long moment, and his bride returned the look. From where Darach watched, he could not make out her expression. Finally, the comte mounted his horse and motioned to his guards. The party moved toward the street and the impatient, noisy throngs.

  Darach turned to Malcom. “’Tis time, morair.”

  “Aye. Away, lad, quickly.”

  “If I do not arrive within the hour—”

  “You will not fail. Alba gu brath!” Malcolm reined his dun-colored horse toward a side street.

  “Alba gu brath! For Scotland.” Darach’s jaw hardened as he added under his breath, “and for Galen.” He turned his black stallion and headed into the crowd.

  ~ ~ ~

  A breeze cooled Laurien’s face, chilling the sweat that trickled down her back as the wedding party rode through the chateau gates. The air was cold, but she felt as though she were suffocating, her fur-lined cloak an unbearable weight on her shoulders. Guards positioned along the route held back the cheering crowds as she passed into the street. She heard naught but the clop, clop, clop of her horse’s hooves on the dirt, felt naught but the slow thud of her own heart.

  The autumn sun glinted on gold and jewels as the long line of horses moved through the crowd, a stream of silk-clad ladies in purple and green and red, and knights in clinking chain mail. Laurien rode in the middle of the procession, boxed in by guards on either side, one in front, and one behind. Her numbed mind wondered why they rode in such an arrangement, rather than two before and two behind. She watched her betrothed, riding at the head of the line.

  De Villiers had that false smile firmly in place as he waved to the crowds, glancing over his shoulder now and then to fasten those black eyes on her. Laurien stared blankly at him, at the scene around her, feeling as if she had become only a player in someone else’s strange dream.

  They passed tiny buildings, clustered about the edge of the chateau like children clinging to their mother’s skirt. She looked across a sea of haggard faces, their mouths open as the spectacle moved past. Hundreds of pairs of eyes stared, filled with… what was that look? Jealousy? Envy?

  They would not envy her so, Laurien thought, if ever they chanced to spend a few moments alone with the comte in his chambers.

  The procession passed into the marketplace at the town’s center, and the sea of people went on, all clothed in gray fustian or sackcloth colored with yellow and green vegetable dyes. Pilgrims dotted the crowd in their hooded brown cloaks. She knew that Chartres and its cathedral was a popular destination—many did not want the risk and expense of a trip to the Holy Land. But she had never seen so many pilgrims in one place.

  And there were children everywhere. Some stood on upturned carts, others sat on their parents’ shoulders for a better view. One little girl, wailing, caught Laurien’s attention. She had apparently hurt her knee, but her father quickly scooped her up and cuddled her, kissing away her tears. Then he kissed her knee, as if to take away the pain.

  Laurien swallowed hard, wondering what it was like to have such a loving father. To have known that feeling, even once in her life, she would have gladly traded places with a peasant girl.

  The passage narrowed on the way out of the market and the wedding party squeezed through a street of timber-framed hovels, where more onlookers leaned out of windows. The air seemed to grow thick with the smells of roast meat, spilled ale, and, over all, the refuse that lined the streets. She tugged at the gold chain fastening her mantle, wanting to throw it off, trying to breathe. The movement only made her painfully aware of the bruises around her throat.

  The cathedral loomed before her.

  They approached from a hill to the east, and the midday sun shone through the huge windows, making the luminous reds and blues and violets seem to dance. She had read about what many said was France’s most beautiful cathedral—but at the moment, she could not recall a single fact from her history lessons. Inside that church, her fate would be sealed.

  They were close enough now that she could see the outlines of the statues above the doors.

  A commotion in the crowd made her glance to her right. A lone rider mounted on a black stallion was jostling for position on a side street. He wore the simple brown homespun and hood of a pilgrim, but something made the milling throng give way around him.

  He quieted his horse, looked up—and Laurien suddenly understood why the crowd had given him a wide berth.

  He looked dangerous. Like a man who should be on a battlefield somewhere, doing violence to well-armed enemies. Or brawling in an alehouse. From his broad shoulders to the scar that slashed along his left cheek, he was all male power and icy sang-froid. A thatch of blond hair tangled over his eyes, and he had a slightly darker beard, but neither softened the hard angles of his face. He did not seem at all like a peaceful worshipper on a holy quest.

  He seemed like an outlaw intent on stealing something.

  And he would have to be a bold thief indeed, Laurien thought, if he meant to steal jewels from any of the nobles in the wedding procession.

  But he was not watching nobles in the procession, she realized ab
ruptly.

  He was watching her.

  Every instinct urged her to turn away, but his gaze held hers. Her heartbeat quickened as they studied one another, his eyes the most vibrant blue she had ever seen, blue like the sheer glass of the cathedral windows. Those eyes held a look of unyielding determination—and though she wore no gems of any kind, she sensed that all of his fierce determination was directed at her.

  An unsettling sensation flashed through her, searing her as if she had stepped too close to a fire.

  One of the guards noticed her stare and broke out of line to question the man. But when Laurien craned her neck to watch what happened, she saw that the rider had melted away into the crowd.

  The sight of the blond outlaw shattered her grim mood. Clearly, de Villiers did not dominate everyone in this city. The thought made her sit taller in the saddle, the anger and fear she had felt earlier flooding back. She was not going to give her betrothed the opportunity to subject her to any more of his abuse.

  As long as she had a horse under her and her wits about her, she had a chance.

  The comte stood in front of the cathedral doors now, already greeting the priest. She would have to be quick. If she could break out of the procession and push her way through the crowd, she could be away before anyone had a chance to react. She would ride to Tours. Betrothals could be broken. The abbess and Sister Emeline would help her. They could seek assistance from the bishop. They would find a way. She had to get away from here, from that animal.

  She looked again at the four guards surrounding her—and realized now why they were there: not to protect her, but to keep her in. She could kick one, grab his reins… but nay, these men-at-arms would be more than able to fend off her attack. She would need to think of something…

  Her aumoniere.

  Laurien wore an embroidered pouch at her waist to carry alms for the poor, as was the custom among novices, nuns and noble ladies alike. But her purse held more than coins. It also held a small silver blade, with a glimmering emerald in the hilt and an inscription in ancient runes. The knife had once belonged to her father—her real father.

  Her mother had pressed it into her hand, along with a matching ring, on that night when Laurien was only eight and Henri was six and they’d curled up on her bed beside her, one last time. They had clasped hands with their beloved maman as she revealed a secret she had kept too long: Laurien, Louis d’Amboise is not your father. Your real father is a kind and loving man. He would want you to have these…

  She had died before she could reveal any more.

  Laurien did not know her real father’s name, or even if he was still alive.

  She had given the ring to Henri as a token of her love and loyalty. The knife she kept close, always. ’Twas all she had of the father she had never known.

  Her hand moved to the bag hanging from the silken rope that girdled her waist. She had concealed the broken pieces of her cross necklace in it, to give her strength.

  And she could feel the sharp outline of her silver blade.

  Stabbing the guard would not work, but she could nick his horse. She did not want to hurt the animal, but if she could just make it rear, mayhap toss its rider, she would have an open path to freedom. It was her only chance.

  She started to open the bag and slip her hand inside when she heard a surprised shout on her right that rippled through the crowd. She turned—and what she saw stopped her breath.

  Laurien froze in shock as the blond outlaw on the black stallion came charging straight toward her.

  The guards at her side spun their mounts to face the thief a moment too late. He plunged out of the crowd, caught her around the waist with one muscular arm, and plucked her right out of the saddle.

  Laurien screamed as she felt herself pulled in tight against the brigand’s side. The crowd scattered with cries of terror. From the direction of the cathedral, she heard a roar like that of an animal pierced by a huntsman’s arrow.

  The blond outlaw shifted her to an awkward position over his lap, and she could see stunned faces watching as the stallion bolted toward a side street. One of the guards managed to wheel his mount and block their path, his weapon ready. She heard the metallic ring of a sword being pulled free of its scabbard.

  The horse reared, and she screamed again as she heard the clash of steel on steel just above her head. After only a few blows, the guard was gripping a bloody wound on his shoulder and falling from his horse, and they were racing down the street.

  Behind them she heard another bellow that could only be the comte, then the sound of dozens of hooves pounding after them. Terrified peasants flattened themselves against buildings as the horse thundered past.

  They rounded a corner and she could see two guards pushing a haycart into their path. She screamed again as the lunatic spurred his neighing mount onward. She felt the stallion’s muscles bunching and straining. Then its hooves left the ground—and she was suddenly looking down into the guards’ startled faces and at the street rushing up to meet her.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable impact, but instead had the wind knocked out of her by the outlaw’s knees as they landed. He urged the horse onward and they raced through the streets, scattering chickens and pigs from their path. They quickly reached the edge of town and sped across the open fields, a half dozen guards only an arrow’s flight behind.

  She heard the airy whoosh of a crossbow bolt, then another. The rider hunched down over the horse’s neck, covering her body with his. Despite her thick cloak, she was far too aware of the hard muscles of his chest pressed against her back, and the feeling of her breasts flattened against his thigh. She gasped short, terrified breaths, watching flying hooves and meadow grass rush by several feet below. Lather from the horse’s shoulder flecked her garments.

  The arrows soon stopped. Laurien realized that the guards were falling behind as the outlaw raced into the forest. He straightened as they left the path, charging through the trees. She could hear the guards crashing into the underbrush far away. She struggled to sit up.

  He slowed just long enough to right her so that she was sitting astride in front of him, her back against his chest. She opened her mouth to plead for her life when he brought out a piece of cloth from his tunic and whipped it around her mouth as a gag, tying it behind her head. Rendered mute, she could only hold on and pray for God’s protection as he spurred the stallion onward.

  They gained speed again, galloping through the woods. Branches whipped past, tearing at her veil and dress. Her abductor encircled her with his arms, pulling her closer against him, shielding her. He was so much taller than her that the top of her head fit beneath his bearded chin. Surrounded by hard muscle and his male scent, she grew more frightened as they rode deeper into the forest. The gloom thickened around them, the sun only occasionally breaking through the branches overhead. What plans did this blond madman have for her?

  It flashed through her head that, for the first time since she had arrived in Chartres, she was free of de Villiers. But the idea only struck new fear into her heart as she pictured what he might find after searching the forest: her body, raped and bloodied, hidden beneath a tangle of underbrush.

  Her eyes locked on the sword still in her abductor’s hand, the red-stained blade resting across her knees. Though her mouth was bound, she screamed, drenched by a cold wave of fear.

  The outlaw kept changing directions, turning left, left again, right, then back along their own trail until she no longer heard the sounds of other horses. She wished she could close her eyes and awaken in her small room at the convent, to find that all of this was only a nightmare.

  Instead, she was intensely aware of her captor’s every move as they galloped through the forest. She felt his powerful thighs easily guiding the charger. Felt the pounding of his heart against her back—or was that her own heart? He even filled her every breath, that unfamiliar, spicy maleness sending her senses reeling.

  Would there be much pain whe
n he took her? Would she faint? She had only begun to imagine what horrors possibly lay ahead when the ride came to an end as suddenly as it had begun.

  He slowed the horse to a trot and gave an unusual whistle. A moment passed, then she heard an answering whistle rise eerily from the trees to their left. The stallion turned toward the sound. A few paces further on, her captor stopped, eased her to the ground, and moved off.

  She felt disoriented, breathless, and could barely see in the gloom. Her trembling legs threatened to give way. She reached out to brace herself against a tree, but a gloved hand took hers and steadied her. A masculine voice rumbled from the shadows. “Och, seo an ar cobhartachd.”

  Laurien spoke several languages—Latin, Greek, English—but his words were utterly foreign to her ears. He stepped toward her and she found herself looking not at her abductor, but at a second man, also garbed as a pilgrim: older, almost as tall, and just as heavily built. He had light brown hair and a grizzled beard.

  The hint of a smile curved his mouth as he looked at her. “Alainn.” He glanced toward his partner. “An iad lean, caraid?”

  She looked to her left and saw the fair-haired outlaw adjusting the saddle on a fresh mount. “Air chall iad gu sealach, morair.”

  The older man reached toward her face. She tensed, but he merely untied the cloth that gagged her. She spat out a mouthful of damp fuzz, looking from one of them to the other.

  “Who—what—who are you?” she sputtered. Then she realized that these brigands might not understand her. “Whoever… you… are,” she said, speaking each word slowly, pointing to her coin purse to explain her meaning. “My… family… will… pay… a… large… ransom… for… my… safe… return.”

  She hoped that was true.

  Both men burst into laughter.

  “We speak your language, demoiselle,” the blond outlaw replied in lightly accented—and perfectly fluent—French, as he easily swung up on his new horse. “’Tis not your family’s money we want.”

  “Our apologies, milady.” The older man also mounted a fresh horse. “There is no time for formal introductions. My friend here tells me that he has lost our pursuers for the moment, but we had best not linger. I am Sir Malcolm MacLennan. And this rogue”—he indicated his friend with a nod—“is Sir Darach of Glenshiel.”