His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0)

by Shelly Thacker

Then he spotted Gaston, standing in the middle of the practice field, apparently fit and healthy, pointing at—

  “Iosa Criost!” A string of profanities tumbled from Darach’s lips as he took in the unbelievable image: Laurien, sword in hand and hair flying, leaping along the wall of the inner bailey, with one of Beauvais’s men at her heels! “What in the name of God is she doing out here?”

  The man behind her reached forward and caught her hair, savagely jerking her backward.

  Darach was already running toward them as fast as his chain mail would allow.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sir Anton de Moulin paced along the moat, his mood growing more foul with each step. He had expected this to be a quick assault, over in a day, two at most. But Varennes had many more warriors than he had counted on. His men were outnumbered at every turn, dying like dogs merely to satisfy Lord Beauvais’s idiotic need to settle his long-simmering feud with young Varennes. Beauvais had other, larger chateaux. Only vanity and pride made the old man keep fighting over this one.

  All day, Anton had been watching his best men fall—men he had honed like fine weapons from the time they were lads. It left a bitter taste on his tongue. If only he had been able to keep more of Varennes’s mercenaries from getting through.

  The scaling ladders seemed to be succeeding, at least. A score of his men had finally scrambled onto the wall-walk. They fought valiantly despite the odds, battling with swords, now, instead of arrows. Anton crossed the moat, striding over the boards they had hastily thrown down as a bridge, and grasped the lower rungs of one of the ladders.

  He gained the wall and quickly dispatched the man who came at him. He turned to take on another when a movement in the inner bailey caught his eye. A woman. Struggling with one of his men. And one of Varennes’s mercenaries was running toward them. The fool had thrown off his coif, exposing his head…

  It took only an instant for the memory to hit him: last night, a woman dressed as a lad, and the brawny, fair-haired man with her who had claimed to be a—

  “Pilgrim,” he snapped. He had let one of Varennes’s hirelings trot in right under his nose!

  Cursing himself, Anton whipped his crossbow from his back, loaded it, and pushed his way through the battling men along the curtain wall.

  He would correct this error personally.

  ~ ~ ~

  Laurien screamed in terror as the knight caught her hair and jerked her backward. The man grabbed her by the collar of her tunic, shaking her in his fury, blood from his wounded hand staining the cloth. He shoved her down. She tried to scramble away, backward, but he unsheathed his sword and raised it, smiling through the blood that dripped down his face.

  “To hell you go, wench.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. But to her amazement, the pain did not come. She heard the sound of metal scraping metal and looked up to see the Scotsman standing over her, his sword interrupting the stroke that would have sliced her through. With terrifying strength, he forced the man’s weapon up and away from her. Pushing his adversary backward, Darach stepped around her, silent, deadly. Undaunted, her attacker feinted, and the two locked in battle.

  Laurien froze in horror as the men struggled. This was nothing like the showy fighting she had seen at summer fairs as a child; this was a death match. Each man stood his ground, hacking and slashing, intent on killing the other. They balanced precariously on the scant yard of space that was the wall-walk. Beauvais’s man snaked out a leg to trip Darach but the Scotsman danced back, amazingly light despite his heavy armaments.

  Beauvais’s knight sliced in from every angle, again and again, trying to catch his opponent unaware, but Darach met and parried every blow. Then they suddenly came together, sword hilt braced against sword hilt, sinew against sinew. They looked as if they had gone still, like figures in a tapestry—until Beauvais’s man slipped, his back foot giving way just slightly. The Scotsman seized the advantage. With a hard shove, he sent his opponent backward over the wall. The man’s shrill cry rose over the other sounds of the battle, only to be cut short suddenly.

  Laurien lay where she had fallen, unable to move, scarcely able to breathe, watching the black lion on the back of Darach’s tunic rise and fall as he gasped for air. He turned toward her—and his expression choked the breath in her throat. His eyes glowed bright with a killing fire. Blood gleamed on his sword, his tunic, his cheeks. The angles of his face hard with anger, he strode over to her and extended a hand to pull her to her feet.

  Suddenly Laurien heard a hiss of something flying over her head, and Darach stumbled backward, as if a giant, invisible hand had slapped him. He staggered and sank to his knees, putting a hand to his chest. His look of anger dissolved, his jaw going slack with pain and shock.

  The end of a crossbow bolt stuck out from the front of his tunic, a bright crimson stain spreading around the wound.

  Chapter 6

  “Damn you, man, take it out!” the Scotsman rasped the words through clenched his teeth, his eyes glazed with pain.

  Laurien stood near the bed, shaking, horrified as the mercenaries’ barber-surgeon began to examine the crossbow bolt that had struck Darach in the chest. God’s mercy, had she not been out there in the middle of the battle, had he not been fighting to save her…

  Sir Gaston and his men had rushed to their aid and quickly gotten them out of the melee, carrying the fallen knight inside to the bedchamber next to the solar. But they could not seem to help him, could not even take off the heavy chain mail he wore or the leather tunic beneath, for fear of hurting him further.

  “The bolt has a barbed end made of steel,” the red-haired barber-surgeon said as he straightened, turning toward Gaston. “If we take it out, it may worsen the injury.”

  “But you must close the wound,” Laurien said. “If you do not, he could bleed to death!” She did not trust this man. He reeked of ale, and the first question he had asked was what star Sir Darach had been born under.

  “You summoned me for my assistance, milord.” The barber folded his arms over his bloodstained tunic. “And I say the best we can hope for is to make him comfortable until he—”

  “Nay.” Laurien would not allow him to give up so quickly. “Sir Gaston, I have spent half my life in the convent at Tours. I have treated patients in the infirmary there. My knowledge of healing—”

  “Milady,” Gaston interrupted, his voice low and taut. “Never before have I questioned the word of a barber-surgeon. They are well experienced in battlefield surgery—”

  “But he is saying that all you can do is watch your friend die,” she whispered.

  “Varennes…” the Scotsman’s voice was faint, his garments red with blood, his face drenched in sweat. “Take this accursed bolt out now or I will do it myse—” The rest was lost in a groan as he looked away, his features etched with agony.

  Laurien felt sick. This was her fault.

  Sir Gaston looked stricken as he watched his wounded friend suffering. He glanced from the barber to Laurien, a muscle flexing in his jaw.

  Then he strode toward the door. “Guard, we need your assistance! And you.” Laurien jumped at the ferocity of his voice. “Bring the ewer and bandages over here. And one of those.” He pointed to a pair of wooden candlesticks displayed above the hearth.

  He quickly had all of them arranged around the bed, the guard holding Darach’s legs, the barber holding his left arm, Laurien holding the right.

  The Scotsman opened his eyes, his gaze locking with hers as Gaston wrapped both hands around the short wooden crossbow bolt. She tried to offer a tremulous smile of reassurance, but could not quite manage it.

  Instead she took his hand in both of hers and returned his gaze steadily, thinking again how his eyes reminded her of the sheer glass of a cathedral window, strong yet breakable. Someone placed the candlestick between his teeth, and for a moment she saw a flicker of something most disconcerting in his gaze.

  He knew how badly he was wounded, she realized with sudden clarity, and he
did not expect to survive.

  “Courage, mon ami,” Gaston whispered.

  Laurien bit her lip to stifle her cry as Gaston pulled at the bolt. Darach’s eyes clamped shut, and he bit down on the piece of wood in his mouth as if he would snap it in two. A roar sounded from deep in his throat. His fingers interlaced with hers with bruising force, and his every muscle tensed in a convulsion of agony. The sudden burst of strength nearly pitched the burly guard across the room.

  At last the bolt came free. Darach slumped back into the pillows, the tension in his body gone. His eyes opened, sought hers, lingered there for a moment, then closed as he slipped into unconsciousness.

  Laurien exhaled, realizing that she had been holding her breath right along with him. She unlaced her fingers from his, trembling.

  Gaston tossed the bolt and candlestick aside and the men hurried to remove his chain mail and the leather jerkin beneath and the rest of his garments, covering him with blankets. Laurien felt another wave of guilt at the sight of all the blood. The strangely metallic smell filled the air.

  Using fresh linen and water from the ewer, she quickly cleaned his wound and examined it more closely. The bolt had plunged through both layers of his protective garb to make a jagged hole, no bigger around than her thumb, but deep.

  Two inches to the right and the crossbow would have done its job perfectly. “W-we have no time for a needle and thread.” She looked at Gaston. “You will have to use your sword.”

  Nodding in understanding, he drew his weapon and crossed to the hearth, heating the blade in the flames.

  “If you are going to attempt that,” the barber said with a critical air, “it is best to first apply powdered stag’s horn or ground pearls.”

  Laurien glanced over at the guard. “Could you please escort this man elsewhere?”

  The guard looked to his lord in uncertainty, but Sir Gaston was already moving back toward the bed. Laurien turned away as he lowered the flat of his sword over the wound. She placed a hand over her mouth as a soft hiss filled her ears. Thank God, she thought, that the Scotsman was no longer awake.

  “The bleeding has stopped,” Gaston said quietly.

  He stepped back and Laurien moved in to quickly bandage the wound with soft linen. She bound it tightly as the three men watched.

  “He still may develop infection,” the barber commented. “Or fever.”

  “Why is he still here?” Laurien asked in irritation.

  “You will want to bleed him later, milord,” the man continued, ignoring her. “I shall gather my instruments.”

  “You would bleed him, when he has already lost so much blood?” Laurien asked in disbelief. “It will kill him!”

  “It is necessary to purge any poisons in his blood.” The man glowered at her, color creeping into his cheeks at her affront. “In order to balance his humours.”

  “Milord, you cannot listen to this,” Laurien appealed to Gaston. “I have seen the results of such treatment before. It harms far more than it heals.”

  The barber’s face turned an even angrier shade of red. “I will not be insulted by a woman!”

  “Sir Gaston, please, I can help him.” She thought quickly of what she would need. “It is September, so all the summer herbs would be in your larder. Yarrow, elder flower, valerian—”

  “Milord, are you going to trust this female and her potions over myself?”

  “Cease this, both of you!” Gaston shouted. “I must return to the battle. I do not have time for your arguments.” He looked down at Laurien. “But bleeding has always seemed to me a senseless way to help a wounded man…”

  As he studied her intently, she realized just how spent she must look, her face pale from the day’s ordeals, her skin streaked with soot, her brown homespun garments stained with Darach’s blood. But she met his harsh gaze without wavering.

  He gave her a grudging nod. “A lesser woman would have crumpled into useless tears by now, but you seem to have a spine of steel, milady. You have tried to save him, without hesitation. And if you are experienced at healing—”

  “I can help him,” she repeated softly.

  Gaston looked at the barber-surgeon. “You will withdraw to tend your other patients below. Return here at nightfall to see how Sir Darach fares. If aught is amiss, summon me.”

  The red-haired man pursed his mouth tightly, as if he had just swallowed a lemon. He gave Sir Gaston a tight bow. With a withering glance at Laurien, he stalked from the room.

  “Return to the solar,” Gaston ordered the guard. “Stand watch and ensure that milady does not leave this chamber.”

  As the guard obeyed his command, Gaston pinned Laurien with another stare. “Since you managed to make quick work of a bolted door this morn, I will not leave you unguarded. I will send a woman from the kitchens to find whatever herbs you may need and bring them to you. I will return as soon as I can.”

  Reaching out, he tilted up her chin, his voice as hard as his gaze. “I have never known a friend more loyal or more courageous than that man.” He gestured toward the bed. “If he dies at your hands, woman…”

  He left the sentence unfinished, but his meaning was clear: the consequences would be dire.

  Without another word, he released her and left, closing the door solidly behind him.

  Alone with Darach, Laurien inhaled a shaky breath, feeling dizzy and hot. Saints’ breath, Gaston had placed full responsibility squarely on her shoulders. Now she must prove equal to the task.

  Moving to the bed, she drew another blanket over her patient and placed a hand to his forehead. His skin was cool, clammy. It sent a chill through her. He lay so quiet and still, the only sign of life the slight rise and fall of his chest. His tanned skin looked deathly pale. The muscular arms that had wielded a sword in her defense today—and held her close all through the night—now lay powerless.

  She felt another rush of guilt, followed by fear that she might not be able to save him. Healing a badly wounded warrior was not the same as treating a newborn with a stomach ailment, or a seamstress with the ague, or a plowman who had injured his ankle.

  Dipping a length of fresh linen in the ewer, she smoothed back Darach’s damp hair, her throat tight. Coughing, she glanced at the window and saw tendrils of smoke from the battle drifting in the open shutters.

  She hurried over to push them closed, but paused, her hand on the window ledge.

  Through the swirling gray smoke, she could see that the walls and bailey were deserted. Sir Gaston’s men had burned Beauvais’s siege towers to cinders earlier. Two still stood, their blackened skeletons smoldering in the late afternoon sun. The attackers had given up trying to climb over the wall and moved around to the back of the chateau, attempting to dig their way underneath.

  But what caught her attention was the scaling ladder, just one, that someone had pulled up onto the wall-walk. Mayhap a contingent of Beauvais’s men had wanted to ensure a way to escape in case the battle did not go their way…

  Her mind and heart began to race.

  She could climb out the window, use the ladder to escape, and vanish into the forest. The guard outside the door had not been instructed to check on her—only to keep her from leaving through the solar. Even the smoke would work to her advantage. It was a chance at freedom!

  Her hand gripping the window ledge, she looked back at Darach and her elation melted away.

  He looked so vulnerable. His wound was deep, and he had lost a great deal of blood. He might develop an infection, a fever. The next few hours would be crucial.

  But she had a clear chance to escape at last. A chance to save herself—not only from her captors but from de Villiers. Shouldn’t she take it?

  But he saved you, a small, quiet voice whispered at the back of her mind. You came close to death today. You saw that blade slicing down to end your life—and he interrupted the blow.

  He had his own reasons, she thought, closing her eyes. He had to save her because she was a valuable hostage. A pri
ze to be bartered.

  But if you had stayed in this chamber as he asked, you would not have been in danger. And he would not now be lying—mayhap dying—in that bed.

  Laurien looked out the window again, trying to ignore the tug of her conscience, to concentrate on the scaling ladder instead of the wounded knight. Her throat had gone dry. She swallowed hard.

  She might never get another chance at freedom.

  But if you leave him to that barber-surgeon, the man will surely bleed him to death.

  “Saints’ breath,” she said aloud, knowing she had already lost the battle. “I cannot go.”

  Quickly, before she had time to change her mind, she pushed the shutters closed. She lowered the bar to shut out the smoke—and any thought of escape with it.

  “I may well regret this,” she whispered, turning to the fair-haired warrior. “But I will not leave you.”

  Chapter 7

  “Why should I not have you killed this instant?”

  Malcolm did not turn around as Comte Jacques de Villiers, bellowing, strode into the great hall at the Chateau de Chartres.

  Lounging in the high-backed chair at the head table, Malcolm stretched his legs toward the warmth of the fire that crackled on the hearth. When he had told the chateau steward what he was here to discuss, he had been quickly ushered inside.

  “Greetings, milord,” he replied coolly as the footsteps of several men drew near.

  “You whoreson!” De Villiers slammed his fist on the table. “You are either a madman or an idiot to have come here without escort. You will not leave alive—”

  “As you wish, milord.” Malcolm turned toward him at last, smiling. “But if I fail to meet my companions within two days, you will never see your bride again.”

  De Villiers straightened, fists clenched, his black gaze boring into Malcolm. His pale skin was marred by dark circles under his eyes. It had been three days since Lady Laurien’s abduction, but he looked as if he had not slept, the royal blue-and-white garments he wore stained with sweat around the collar. He appeared to be an extremely distraught bridegroom.