Good, Malcolm thought. Any concern that de Villiers might not care to bargain for the lady disappeared.
With a quick glance, Malcolm assessed the two men who flanked the comte. One seemed to be an adviser of some sort, with graying hair and an elegant tunic of cream-colored linen.
The other was apparently a personal guard—one hired directly from Hell. Dressed all in black, he was a giant of a man, wearing a cloak of wolf fur, his neatly clipped beard an odd contrast to the dark hair that hung in a shaggy mass to his shoulders.
De Villiers motioned the two men forward. “I do not know who in Satan’s name you are, but you are about to learn that I deal harshly with those who steal from me.”
Before Malcolm could reply, the hulking, bearded man jerked him from his chair and threw him backward into the hearth, pinning him against the stone.
“Call your mongrel to heel,” Malcolm demanded once he caught his breath, “if you value your bride’s life.”
“Fear not, I will send you back to your friends,” de Villiers replied silkily. “In several pieces.”
“Send me back unharmed or find yourself a new betrothed.”
“You will tell me exactly where she is. A bit of torture will loosen your tongue—”
“If you could get the information from me, ’twould be too late.”
De Villiers hesitated. “If your friends kill her, they would have naught left to bargain with.”
“Meet our demands quickly, else we may simply kill her out of spite.” Malcolm hoped he sounded suitably ruthless. “Believe me when I tell you that we will show her no mercy.”
De Villiers went quiet, running one hand over his smooth, hairless head.
“You cannot marry a dead woman, milord,” Malcolm added ominously.
He glared at the savage-looking warrior who still held him pinned. The man’s eyes were pale gray, the color of shadows and ice. Malcolm felt a chill wash over him, as if Death himself had just swept into the chamber on a January wind.
Finally, the comte sat in a chair on the far side of the table. “Release him, Balafre.”
The silent, hulking warrior complied and went to stand behind de Villiers’s chair.
Malcolm smoothed the front of his brown homespun tunic, feeling a great deal of relief, not a speck of which he allowed to show.
The elegantly clad adviser, who had watched the scene with a look of silent amusement, glided into a seat at the comte’s right.
“Let us begin with your name,” de Villiers growled.
Malcolm reclaimed his place in the high-backed chair. “Sir Malcolm MacLennan.” He leaned back and put his booted feet up on the table. “Of Scotland. I am here to inform you that you will not be receiving the ten thousand in silver you demanded of us.”
De Villiers’s face, which had been flushed with anger, now drained completely of color. “Good Christ—”
“Allow me to put it plainly. We want the alliance between Scotland and France signed, quickly. If you choose not to help us, the Lady Laurien d’Amboise will meet an untimely end. If you wish to have her returned, you will sway your King Philippe—”
“I am a member of the royal court.” De Villiers surged to his feet. “I will not be ordered about by the likes of—”
“Aye, you will. Sway your king quickly to favor our request. You have already impressed upon us the influence you hold. Now use it. When the alliance has been signed and sealed by Philippe, send word to Strathfillan Abbey in Scotland.” Malcolm swung his feet to the floor and stood. “You have a fortnight. No more. The brothers at the abbey will know how to locate us.”
“And what assurance do I have that you will hold to your end of the bargain? How do I know you have her at all?”
“As soon as the alliance is signed, she will be returned to you at once.” Malcolm picked up a bundle from beside his chair and pushed it across the table. This last bit of dramatics had been Darach’s idea. “Consider this a token of our intentions. Do as we say or the lady will suffer the consequences.”
De Villiers untied the rope and unwrapped the bundle.
Inside were the tattered remains of Laurien’s wedding gown.
The comte’s black eyes fastened on Malcolm again. “I will have her back within a fortnight?”
“Aye.” Malcolm picked up his cloak and gloves, signaling that the matter was not open to further discussion.
“She will be returned to me untouched,” de Villiers hissed. “Do not dare to soil what belongs to me.”
Malcolm thought of the girl’s bruised face and tried to keep a note of sarcasm from his voice. “She will be as perfect as the day she left.”
“She had better be.” De Villiers grasped the wedding gown in one fist. “You have an agreement, then, MacLennan. I will secure the alliance at once.”
“Excellent, milord.” Malcolm nodded a curt farewell and headed for the door. “Do not try to have me followed, I warn you.”
“Wait,” de Villiers called before he could reach the exit.
Malcolm turned.
The comte was still seated at the table. “Know this before you depart, Scotsman—my enemies live very short lives.” He looked over his shoulder, eyes burning with frustrated rage. “And you have made an enemy this day.”
Malcolm returned the look without flinching, then glanced at the adviser and the hulking guard in turn. “You have a fortnight, milord,” he said as he strode from the hall, his voice booming with a cheerful confidence he did not feel. “Mark it well.”
~ ~ ~
As MacLennan left, Jacques de Villiers remained seated at the table, staring at the torn wedding gown in stunned silence. No sooner had the Scotsman departed his great hall than another angry voice sounded at the entrance.
“Milord, it has been three days now. I must ask again what you are doing to find my sister.”
A young knight with black hair and green eyes stalked into the chamber—Sir Henri d’Amboise, Lady Laurien’s brother. The man gave new meaning to the word “pest.”
Jacques glared at him. “As I have told you, repeatedly, my best men are searching for her.”
“Your best men,” d’Amboise said with a look of disgust, “could not even protect her in your wedding procession.”
“Then ask your father to send out his own guards. I grow weary of your harping!”
“My father has been in hiding the past three days, for fear that you would seek him out to break the betrothal. At the moment, he is interested only in drinking.” D’Amboise glanced at the two other men seated at the head table. “And since no one among your liegemen seems capable of rescuing my sister from whatever lawless bastards have abducted her, I intend to search for her myself. I have come to tell you that I am leaving.”
“Go, then,” Jacques snapped at him.
D’Amboise muttered a curse. “What a mistake I made not helping her when I had the chance.” He turned on his heel and stalked out of the hall.
Jacques did not know what he meant by that, and did not care. The hotheaded young knight would no longer be a thorn in his side. Good riddance.
Resting his head in his hands, Jacques stared down at his bride’s tattered wedding garb.
And then he began to laugh.
“The Scots!” he chuckled. “And to think I worried it was some lunatic carrying her off. And they wish to force my hand on the alliance! If only they knew…” His laughter came harder and faster, until he could barely breathe. “That I want the alliance as much as they!”
Indeed, their alliance fit neatly into his plans. He had been persistently urging Philippe to sign, almost to the point of irritating the monarch, a thing he never risked.
“I doubt your mercenaries will find it so humorous, milord,” Kenton said in his clipped English accent, flicking at a piece of dust on his cream-colored sleeve. “They are waiting for the ten thousand in silver you promised them.”
Jacques straightened, half choking on his own laughter. The echo of it seemed to mock him.
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Kenton regarded him in complete calm. The Englishman was one of his two best assassins—and as always, he cut straight to the heart of the matter. “Since you will not be receiving the money from the Scots, where do you plan to obtain it?”
Jacques uttered a vicious oath. He had several thousand warriors for hire waiting in the south, ready to move at his command, and they were a notoriously impatient lot. They demanded payment in coin.
Balafre, the other of his best assassins, offered a rare opinion, his voice rumbling like a winter storm. “You have brought us here to deal with the thieves who took your bride. Leave them to us. In time—”
“I have no time! Everything is already in place.” Jacques pushed his chair away from the table as he rose, sending it tumbling. He paced to the hearth. “And I have waited too long to have what I want.”
Far too long. Growing up as Philippe’s cousin, Jacques had existed on the fringes of the court, close enough to see the grandeur, but granted only crumbs of royal wealth, power, glory.
Now he was mere days away from claiming it all.
Philippe had made his fatal error last year, entrusting Jacques with a most useful post: head of the army. Then only months later, the Scots began to pursue an alliance.
Now all the pieces were nearly in place. Jacques had called all of the king’s liegemen into service. He meant to send the troops to Scotland, on pretense of defending France’s new ally from the English.
Paris would be left vulnerable—and his mercenaries would overrun the city.
In the chaos, Philippe and his infant son would be easy targets for Jacques’ hand-picked assassins.
And after their tragic deaths, he, Comte Jacques de Villiers, would gallantly step forward to claim the crown and restore order. His first command would be to have his troops seize the Scottish throne.
But his mercenaries were still in the south, waiting for ten thousand silver marks he did not have.
“The girl is the key,” Kenton said calmly. “Once you have her wealth, your plan will work. Money is the only obstacle.”
“The only obstacle?” Jacques snapped. “I was depending upon the profits from her lands and the ten thousand to cover my debts!”
He threw himself into a chair and stared up at a faded tapestry on the wall above the hearth. Money had been a problem from the start. When he began to assemble the mercenaries, he had found his coffers almost empty. He had sorely neglected his trade in the east while looking after his interests at court. That was when he had decided he must marry again. Not merely any girl, but an heiress.
He had set out to claim the wealthiest demoiselle in this corner of the realm, the beautiful maiden of Amboise. Her father had eagerly agreed to the match—once Jacques promised him a generous portion of her lands after the wedding.
A promise he had no intention of keeping.
“I must get her back, at once,” he told his men. “As soon as she is my wife and the profit from the autumn harvest on her lands is mine, I can pay my mercenaries and send the army to Scotland—where I will order them to raid the treasury. I will force the accursed Scots to pay ten times ten thousand!”
He looked at his two assassins. In all the tasks Kenton and Balafre had undertaken for him, they had never failed. Kenton had the mind of a master chess player, Balafre the heart of a hunter.
In the end, they always ran their quarry to ground and dispatched it with ruthless efficiency. “I want the girl back within a se’nnight.”
“Seven days?” Kenton raised an eyebrow. “To find her so quickly will be difficult. And costly—”
“I will give you whatever you want. Jewels, opium, women.”
A jackal’s grin curved the Englishman’s mouth as Jacques said this last word. “I am told the Lady Laurien is a great beauty.”
“Jewels,” Balafre added.
Jacques glanced at Balafre’s ring, a ruby large enough to make the heart of a queen beat faster. That payment had been well earned.
“Done,” he agreed. “After I am wed, and the throne is mine, you will both have what you ask. But until then, Englishman, you will not touch her, do you understand?” He picked up Lady Laurien’s ruined wedding gown. “Now go, both of you. Bring me my heiress.”
Kenton, still smiling, rose and bowed deeply, then walked toward the door.
Balafre paused before following his partner. “And her abductors, the Scotsmen?”
De Villiers carried the tattered silk dress to the hearth. He threw it into the flames, watching it curl and blacken. “Kill them.”
Chapter 8
“Aidan?”
Laurien awoke with a start, realizing she had fallen asleep. She sat next to the hearth, had closed her eyes for only a moment. The fire blazed beside her, a cauldron of bubbling water suspended over the flames emitting warm steam, heavily scented with evergreen oil, that swirled about the chamber.
By the light of the candle sconces on either side of the bed, she could see that Darach had managed to throw off his blankets again.
He whispered that word again.
“Aidan…” He groaned, a low sound of torment. “Sibylla.”
Laurien rose and went to the bed, covering him with the blankets up to his chin, and the heavy fur as well. A full day had passed since he had been entrusted to her care, but his condition had not improved. In truth, she realized worriedly, he seemed to be getting worse.
Last night he had been quietly asleep when the barber returned to check on him, still intent on bleeding him. Laurien had placed herself at the Scotsman’s side and refused to move, calling the barber a drunken, half-witted butcher and saying he would have to bleed her first.
The man had finally given up and stormed out, yelling that she would pay the price for her insolence—when Darach died.
“Nay, you will not die,” Laurien whispered fiercely, staring down at her patient as if her will alone could make him well. His tangled hair stood out in pale contrast to his flushed skin, sheened with sweat, and the light brown of his beard.
She felt his forehead, concerned when she found his skin hot beneath her fingers. Throughout the day, he had been sleeping, occasionally mumbling in his native language. She had managed to get him to take only small sips of water, and a fortifying tea of burdock root and nettle leaf she had made him.
Now, as night fell once again, he had begun tossing restlessly—and it seemed her worst fear was coming true.
Fever.
She poured fresh water from the ewer and dipped a clean cloth, bathing his face, neck and shoulders. Her worry deepened when she saw that his skin was flushed all the way down his chest. She checked the poultice she had placed over his wound. The bleeding had stopped, and the fragrant balm of yarrow and elder flower should help prevent infection.
And yet he was fevered.
Frustrated, Laurien tossed the cloth into a wooden bucket of damp rags by the bed. She had no more answers. For a day and a half now she had concentrated her best efforts on the Scotsman. She was exhausted, had barely slept, and though she wracked her brain, she could not think of what else to do for him.
Mayhap he was meant to die.
She put her hands over her eyes, unable to explain why that thought brought sudden tears. She blamed it on fatigue. This was so pointless. She had given up her one chance to escape, to be free. And he was going to die anyway.
Laurien balled her hands into fists and glared at him, wanting to shake him—to somehow force him to respond to her ministrations. “Die, then!” she railed. “Die if you insist, you accursed Scotsman. I do not care. It does not matter to me!”
She rose from the bed, turning her back on him, and gave in to her tears. Even as she stood there, crying and angry at herself for crying, she knew she had not spoken the truth.
It did matter to her what happened to him.
He was her captor, the man who had taken her hostage. By all rights she should hate him… but that particular emotion did not number among the confusion of feelings s
he had for him.
Wiping away her tears, Laurien turned back toward the bed. She did not have time to think about any of that.
Bending down, she picked up Darach’s well-worn boots from where they lay under the bed. Last night, when setting his garments aside, she had discovered something odd. His right boot held that wicked-looking knife he always used, concealed in a hidden sheath… but the matching sheath in his left boot held something quite different.
She pulled it out again: a small wooden carving, in the shape of a knight. Like a child’s toy.
Was it some kind of warrior’s talisman of protection? A charm meant to bring good fortune? It did not look very old.
Last night, she had put it back where she found it, feeling like she was intruding upon something private, since he kept it hidden.
But now, she took it out again, setting it on the small table beside the bed, where he would see it if he awoke.
It was obviously important to him. It might inspire him to fight for his life… something he had clearly done before, judging by the numerous scars that marred his heavily muscled frame.
Turning back to the bed, she tried to think of some other way to help him. Some way to…
Suddenly he shivered, a violent frisson that made her heart sink.
“Fuar,” he murmured, his voice a dry whisper. “Fuar…” A second shiver coursed through him.
Laurien felt the first pangs of true despair. Fuar? Did the word mean cold? The bedchamber was almost stifling, and she had covered him with two woolen blankets and the fur. Yet he was shivering with cold.
There was only one other way she could think of to try and warm him, but the idea brought a flush of color to her own cheeks.
When he shivered again, she stopped hesitating, telling herself she was being foolish. With fever clouding his mind, he would likely remember none of this.
She moved to the far side of the bed, her pulse thrumming in her ears. Before she had a chance to change her mind, she slipped under the blankets and eased herself down beside him.
Slowly, she edged closer, admonishing herself all the while that there was no reason to be nervous. The man was unconscious.
His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0) Page 11
