His brother Galen’s blood soaking the English soil.
Darach looked again into Lady Laurien’s puzzled eyes. “I was the only one who returned.”
“But what happened to the others?”
“Slaughtered, milady,” he said harshly. “Every last man. Edward had assassins lying in wait for us. To send a message to Balliol that his defiance would not be tolerated.”
“God’s breath,” she whispered.
Darach raked his fingers through his tangled hair. “As soon as it could be arranged, a handful of us were sent here, to France. To meet with your King Philippe and negotiate an alliance. By summer, we thought we had secured the agreement. We returned to Scotland. Then we received a missive from one of Philippe’s advisers—Comte Jacques de Villiers.”
Lady Laurien flinched visibly at the name.
Noting her odd reaction, Darach paused a moment before he continued. “The message was a demand for a bribe. Five thousand silver marks, or de Villiers would oppose the treaty. As I am sure you are aware, your betrothed has the king’s ear. We had no doubt that he would make good his threat, and our chances would be ended. We paid.”
“But the comte is already wealthy. Why would he demand such a sum?”
“’Twas not the end. After we paid what he asked, he demanded more. Another ten thousand.” Darach shook his head. “Scotland’s nobles do not have the funds to fill his coffers. And we do not have time to waste. King Edward has begun to garrison English troops on our border. They will attack our lowland castles, soon, unless we have French support.”
Holding her gaze evenly, he leaned closer. “Then, a few weeks ago, we heard through our friends here in France that de Villiers planned to marry again, a lady from the Loire Valley, a wealthy heiress—”
“Wait a moment… weeks ago?”
“Aye.”
She blinked, and could not seem to speak for a moment. “Even you have known about my betrothal longer than I have. I was only informed of it a few days ago.”
“De Villiers has been pursuing the match for some time, milady. And he wanted the wedding to take place as soon as possible.”
Understanding dawned in her lovely eyes. “And so you thought—”
“And so the leader of the Scottish patriots, Sir William of Lanark, sent Sir Malcolm and I back to France—but this time on a different mission. By holding you hostage, we intend to ensure de Villiers’s quick cooperation. You will come to no harm, and within a fortnight, you will be back with your betrothed and your wedding can proceed as planned.”
The lass regarded him with disbelief. “You are trying to secure an alliance of peace by using force?”
“I am not asking your opinion of our plan. I require only an answer to my question: will you cooperate?” He held up the rope again. “Or would you prefer to spend the next fortnight bound and gagged?”
Those emerald eyes flashed her reply before she spoke the words. “I will not be your pawn. I hope you will be able to find some way to obtain your alliance and assure your country’s freedom. But I want no part of this.”
“You already are part of this. And we have no other way to secure the alliance, and no more time. King Edward means to crush the Scots the same way he did the Welsh—burning villages and committing atrocities you cannot even imagine.” Darach swore, frustrated that she could not seem to understand. “The English have every advantage, milady. Their cavalry ride so heavily armed that the ground shakes when they charge into battle. Their archers have bows as long as a man is tall. They can shoot arrows three hundred yards, with enough force to pierce armor. We need the French, and we need them now.”
“I understand why you need the alliance. I understand that your freedom is important to you—because mine is important to me.” She returned his gaze evenly. “I will not marry Comte Jacques de Villiers.”
Darach straightened, taken aback. “You would refuse King Philippe’s own cousin?”
“The Comte de Villiers is the most vile, brutal man I have ever met! He rules his people by terrorizing them. I have known him less than a day and I never want to spend another moment in his company.”
“Milady,” Darach said slowly, “we must return you to de Villiers. Our alliance depends on it.”
She shook her head. “I will not go back to him. He has already buried two wives. I have no wish to be next!”
“You will be living in a royal chateau,” Darach pointed out in exasperation. “You will have jewels, silks, ample food to eat. An army of servants to wait on you. Guardsmen to protect you. Your chances of survival would seem to be excellent.” He stood, flinching at the ache in his right leg. “That is more than I can say for my people if the English invade Scotland.”
She stood, facing him squarely. “My chances of survival are excellent?” Reaching up, she unfastened her veil and unwrapped the silk wimple that covered her cheeks, pulling both of them off. “You are certain of that?”
“Criost,” Darach swore, shocked at the sight of the vivid bruises on her cheek, her throat.
“The comte was displeased because I kept him waiting this morn,” the lass explained quietly. “So he knocked me to the floor with his fist. Then he threw me against a wall, so hard I am surprised the stone did not crack. Then he put his hand around my neck and nearly choked me into unconsciousness. And he promised more of the same after we are wed.”
Darach looked away, something twisting in his stomach at what she had suffered. He now hated de Villiers even more, if that were possible. Any man who would abuse a woman in such a way deserved to be spitted and roasted.
But none of that changed the mission Darach had been sent here to complete, the duty he must carry out.
“It does not matter,” he said evenly.
“It… does not matter to you that de Villiers did this and promised more? That he vowed to break my will by force—”
“That is none of my concern.” Darach returned his gaze to hers. “I was not the one who arranged your marriage, milady. You have your father to thank for that.” He walked away from her, heading for the door. “And it seems you have made your choice. When we leave here on the morrow, I shall be forced to keep you bound.”
“How can you be so cold?” Her voice wavered with anger. “How is it possible that you are able to breathe and speak and walk when you do not possess a heart?”
Darach paused near the door. “My heart is in Scotland, demoiselle. With my people, and what is left of my family.” His glanced back at her. “I will do whatever I must to protect them.”
He closed the door sharply behind him.
~ ~ ~
Surprised by his sudden exit, left with no target for her outrage, Laurien stared at the door. This Scotsman was just like all other men: overbearing, unfeeling, demanding that she bend her will to his.
Never mind his noble motives for taking her hostage. He was perfectly willing to use brute strength and force to achieve his ends.
Glancing at the window, she noticed that he had not closed the shutters. But she did not want to risk a second escape that way. Her ribs still ached from her first jump.
Bending down, she fished through the rushes. He had not even bothered to take her knife. She found it near the hearth and slipped it back into her aumoniere. Did he think her so weak and powerless against him?
Did he not realize that she meant to fight him at every turn until she gained her freedom?
Moments later, the door opened and her captor returned, carrying an armful of clothing.
“I know these are not the sort of garments you are accustomed to, milady. But they are necessary for our disguise.”
“Our disguise?” She watched as he set each piece on the bed. All matched the brown homespun that her captor and his friend wore: a pair of leggings, a long tunic, a belt, and dark leather boots.
“Those searching for us will be looking for a pilgrim traveling with a finely dressed lady,” he explained, “not three pilgrim men returning from their journey to
Chartres.”
“Clever,” she said tartly. “But I have already said I will not help you.”
Sighing, he sat on the bed next to the garments, rubbing his eyes. “Milady, I will not argue any more this night. ’Twould be so much easier if you would cooperate—”
“Easier for you.”
“Think on it,” he snapped. “You would be foolish to try and escape. De Villiers has every one of his guards out searching for you by now. You would stand no chance on your own. And you do not even know where you are. Even if you did, where could you go?”
She stiffened. “You do not know where I might run. And I am certainly not going to tell you.”
“I wager you would go straight to Tours,” he said coolly, “to the convent where you have lived since you were nine.”
Laurien stifled an exclamation, surprised and irritated that he knew so much about her. When he had abducted her from the wedding procession this morn, she had assumed that this man was an unthinking knave, all muscle and brawn.
But his intelligence was as sharp as the wicked blade hidden in his boot.
“You have planned this in every detail,” she said in frustration.
“You would do well to remember that, demoiselle. Be warned, if you attempt to escape, you will not get far.” He rose from the bed, grabbed the rope he had left on the floor, and stepped toward her.
This time Laurien did not back away from him.
“So you at least trust me that much. You are safer with me than you would be out there alone, and you know it.” He reached for her hands. “Shall I trust you as well? If I left you unbound tonight, you would be better able to sleep.”
She lifted her chin and returned his unyielding gaze. “Do what you will.”
His blue eyes darkened to the color of a moonlit sky. “You should be careful, milady, about issuing such an invitation.” He lifted one hand to stroke her unbruised cheek. “Did de Villiers take you after the betrothal last night?”
Laurien gasped, not sure which shocked her more—his gentle touch or his blunt question.
But she knew it was not uncommon for a groom to claim his bride after the betrothal, rather than waiting for the wedding night.
Which gave her an idea.
“Aye,” she said quickly. “Aye, he did, and I was a terrible disappointment. He will not want me back. I doubt he will go to any trouble at all to reclaim me. He is probably glad that I am gone. There are other heiresses in France for him to choose from. He will find himself a better bride. You might as well release me. At once.”
She stopped herself, realizing she had perhaps said a bit too much. She never seemed to know when to stop talking.
The abbess had always said it was her greatest fault.
Sir Darach regarded her with curiosity, amusement… and something more. The look in his eyes brought an odd flutter to her stomach.
Then, to her astonishment, he tilted her head up and kissed her.
He covered her mouth with his—and she felt as if she had suddenly been enveloped in a cascade of sparks. The tingling warmth from his touch did not compare to the sensations that whirled through her as his lips moved over hers. It was as if every part of her body had at once become brilliantly alive.
His beard was a startling, silky roughness against her skin. His other hand came to rest at her waist, drawing her in tight, and her body seemed to meld to his hard, lean lines, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her thoughts scattered. A sound escaped her, soft and deep, unlike any sound she had ever made in her life.
Then his tongue touched her lower lip and she gave a startled little squeak.
He suddenly lifted his mouth from hers, his eyes midnight blue, his voice husky. “You have never even been kissed before, leannan. You are as innocent as the day you first set foot in the convent.” He did not let her go, his hand still at her waist. “De Villiers did not take you after the betrothal, did he?”
She felt dizzy, as if she had drunk a tankard of honeyed wine all in one gulp. “Nay,” she admitted, her mind spinning, the truth spilling out. “I-I am a maiden still. I claimed illness to avoid spending any time in his company.”
The Scotsman brushed his thumb lightly over her chin. “I thought as much. A French demoiselle who has never even experienced a kiss in the French fashion.” He chuckled. “Only an innocent would be so shocked at the slightest thrust of my…” He left the rest unsaid, releasing her and stepping away a pace. “He will want you back, milady. No man would find you a disappointment, not in any way. There may be other heiresses in France—but the comte will want you back.”
He cleared his throat, then slung the rope over his shoulder, his voice turning brusque and commanding again. “For tonight, I will leave you unbound, so that you may sleep—but I will spend the night below your window, and Sir Malcolm outside your door. And when I return at first light, I suggest you be dressed in your new garments.” He held her gaze a moment more. “Because if you do not wish to change, I shall be willing to help.”
Stalking past her, he left the room.
Her mind whirling, Laurien remained rooted in place, blinking in bewilderment.
Slowly, she reached up to touch her mouth with her fingertips. She had never realized that her lips could feel so sensitive.
For eleven years, she had been a student in the convent at Tours, studying the sciences, history, mathematics… but one subject had been entirely absent from her education.
Kissing.
Was it always like that? So… startling and powerful and… hot. So potent.
She did not understand the first thing about it, or any such intimacies between men and women.
Except that, for a young woman who aspired to take the veil, all of it was forbidden.
Suddenly, she wiped at her mouth with a corner of her silk sleeve. Why had she… how could he… despite his compelling appearance, she never should have…
Infuriating man! How could he coldly demand her obedience one moment, then seem gentle and concerned about her the next? His moods were as hard to follow as the twisting forest pathways they had ridden earlier, and left her feeling equally lost.
Laurien returned to the pallet bed and sank down on the straw mattress. She heard a small tearing sound as she did so and looked at the side of her gown—and her bleak mood almost dissolved into laughter. The expensive silk gown, embroidered with the de Villiers crest, was stained with dirt from the roads and sweat from Sir Darach’s horse, and torn in a hundred places from the branches along the forest paths.
Somehow, it gave her a sense of satisfaction to have utterly ruined the accursed garment.
Laurien closed her eyes, remembering how desperate she had been this morn in Chartres, how she had prayed for divine intervention to stop her wedding.
She had never expected that intervention to be riding a black horse and wielding a sword.
“He is not what I had in mind, Lord,” she whispered, glancing Heavenward.
At the moment, however, she was in no position to be choosy. Looking at the garments piled next to her on the bed, she touched the rough brown cloth.
And a plan began to form in her mind.
~ ~ ~
“The miller went where?” Darach turned to Malcolm, blinking, realizing his friend had been speaking.
“Nay, I said the miller’s two daughters took the traveling minstrel by the hand and…” Malcolm sighed, wrapping his cloak tighter against the night wind. “Never mind. ’Tis a jest, and you are obviously in no mood.” Malcolm finished his bowl of broth and followed it with a draught of ale. “Greasy broth and weak ale. I shall have the stomach ills tonight, I tell you. Would not feed this to a cat. I knew I should have bought some extra mutton from that vendor in Chartres when I had the… You have not heard a word I’ve said, have you, lad? Darach? Twenty English riders are coming over the hill.”
“What about the mill?” Darach turned to him again. “Sorry, Malcolm. I am tired. Or mayhap ’tis the food they s
erve in this place. You should have bought some extra mutton from that vendor in Chartres.” He looked down into the wooden tankard of ale in his hand, frowning.
Malcolm laughed, keeping his voice low so as not to waken the lady above.
Since they had not heard a loud crash, they assumed her to be abed. Malcolm had balanced a large serving platter borrowed from the kitchen against her door and joined Darach for a quick meal below Lady Laurien’s window before resuming his guard.
“My friend…” Malcolm kept chuckling. “I have seen you tired, and I have seen you drunk, and I have seen you addled over many a pretty face—and this is definitely the latter. I remember the first time you bedded Sybilla, you were like this for a…” He suddenly thumped down his tankard and regarded his friend with a look of alarm. “Darach, tell me you did not—”
“Nay, morair,” Darach assured him. “She is a maiden still, and will stay that way until she is returned to her betrothed.”
“Good.” Malcolm stretched out his legs and settled back against the inn wall, still regarding Darach with suspicion. “De Villiers will expect the lass back in the same condition in which she left, or the whole thing will be off.”
“Fear not, she is untouched—except by de Villiers’s hands.”
“He took her after the betrothal?”
“Nay… but he beat her nearly senseless.” Darach turned his head and spat in the dirt. “That was where he went this morn, when he disappeared from the courtyard for a time. He left bruises.”
“Mhic na galla,” Malcolm swore. “Trust that vile whoreson to beat a woman. An innocent from a convent, no less. How could…” Malcolm paused with his tankard halfway to his lips. “Wait a moment, how do you know she has bruises when she is swaddled in silk from head to toe?”
“She showed them to me. Oh, leave off, Malcolm,” Darach said in annoyance at his friend’s suspicious look. “She is a woman, no different from any other woman. I am not going to risk our entire mission by allowing myself to be… befuddled by a pretty face.”
His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0) Page 5
