His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0)

by Shelly Thacker

  “I have no wish to hear tales of your exploits.” Laurien folded her arms.

  “Nay, milady, listen and you will see my point. This beautiful maid was most grateful to be saved from the enemy. She told Darach and I that she would give herself to whichever one of us had made the most kills that day.” He raised his eyebrows. “Me, of course. Darach disagreed.”

  “So you challenged him to fight, no doubt… over a woman?”

  “Fight we did.” Gaston nodded. “The better part of that afternoon. I simply could not best this arrogant swordsman from Scotland. Our skills were evenly matched. Finally, I declared that no woman was worth such effort, and conceded that he had made the most kills. We spent the rest of that night drinking, and the next four years fighting on the same side.” Grinning, he glanced over at Darach again. “I wanted to make certain I would never find myself facing the sharp end of his blade again. And he felt the same.”

  Laurien blinked in confusion as Gaston finished, seemingly done with his tale. “But what happened to the woman?”

  “Aye, the beautiful serving maid. Therein lies the lesson, milady. Darach slipped away at dawn and spent the better part of the next day and night with her. But I still believe, to this day, that I did make the most kills that day. And he knew it. He just wanted the woman.”

  Laurien furrowed her brow as Gaston rose to leave, unable to see what lesson she was supposed to discern from that.

  Gaston walked over and placed his hand beneath her chin, tipping her gaze up to meet his.

  “And he left the next day and never saw her again.” His dark eyes became serious. “You see, he was willing to fight for her, but not to keep her. Milady, I have seen too many maids cry too many tears, and feel I cannot leave you unarmed, so I give you at least a warning.” He nodded toward his friend. “Do not give this one your heart, for he cannot accept it.”

  She lifted her chin away from his touch. “I have no need for any warning, milord. The only feelings I have for Sir Darach of Glenshiel are… are…”

  When she could not find the words, Gaston chuckled softly.

  Then he bent down and kissed her, the briefest touch of his lips to hers. “Yon blond knave would have knocked me flat had I attempted that while he was awake.” He gave her a wink, grinning. “But it would have been worth it.” Gaston headed for the door. “Godspeed to you both, demoiselle. Au revoir.”

  As the portal closed behind him, Laurien rose and paced to the hearth. Do not give this one your heart. What gave him the absurd idea that she had any intention of doing such a thing?

  She might feel a certain—and quite understandable—gratitude that Darach had saved her life. But she certainly was not… she would never… nay!

  She was still pacing when a soft knock sounded at the door a short time later. “Come in,” she said.

  A dark-haired serving woman entered—Yolande, the kitchen maid who had gathered the herbs and brought the other supplies Laurien had needed to treat Darach over the past three days.

  At the moment, she carried a ewer of steaming water and a wooden bowl. She also had a length of amber-colored fabric draped over her shoulder. A younger maid of about fifteen came in with her, a trencher of food and a tankard of wine in her hands.

  “Good afternoon to you, ma dame,” Yolande said as the two of them curtsied. “This is Gabrielle. Milord said that you were tired and hungry, and asked us to bring you some fare from the kitchens.” She went to set the bowl and ewer on a small table in the corner.

  Laurien accepted the trencher and tankard gratefully. “Thank you, Gabrielle,” she said, sitting by the hearth.

  “You are welcome, ma dame.” The young maid curtsied again before leaving.

  Sampling a warm beef pastry, Laurien watched Yolande unfurl the length of cloth—which turned out to be a gown of amber velvet, trimmed with silky brown fur at the neck and cuffs.

  “This will be much more fitting for Sir Darach’s bride,” the woman said with a smile.

  Laurien almost choked on a mouthful of pastry. It was exasperating, the way everyone seemed intent upon linking her to the Scotsman. “I am not…”

  She stopped herself, remembering that Darach had called her his wife, for her protection. It might be best to let the story stand for now.

  Yolande looked puzzled, waiting for her to finish her sentence.

  Laurien gave her a smile. “I am not… so hungry anymore,” she said lamely, “thanks to this excellent meal.” She finished the beef pastry and tried a spoonful of grain pudding. “This is very good.” She finished the rich, almond-flavored delicacy in a few bites.

  The woman looked pleased. “Thank you, milady. When you are finished with your meal, I shall leave you to your bath.”

  “Bath?” Laurien coughed on a sip of wine, looking uneasily at Darach. “Here?”

  “Sir Gaston instructed that you are not to leave this chamber. He does not wish to tempt trouble, no doubt, with some of the men still about and Sir Darach unable to protect you.” Yolande hefted the metal ewer and poured steaming water into the shallow bowl, then walked over to hand Laurien a small cake of soap. “I am afraid this is all we can manage for now. But you will be much more comfortable.” She cast a critical gaze at Laurien’s tunic and leggings.

  “But I…” Laurien stood up. “That is, he…” She glanced at Darach again, the soap held awkwardly in her upturned palm.

  “A new bride, are you?” Yolande gave her a warm, understanding look. “The shyness will pass anon, milady.” She held out her hands expectantly. “I will have your garments washed for you.”

  Laurien hesitated. The hot water looked so tempting, and she could smell the light, spicy scent of sandalwood oil rising on the steam. She sniffed the soap and found it, too, smelled of bois de santal. And it would feel so good to wash away the grime of the last three days.

  “All right,” she said at last.

  A few moments later, Yolande was carrying out Laurien’s tunic and leggings, along with the empty trencher.

  And Laurien was left wearing naught but a thin linen towel wrapped around her.

  With another quick glance to ensure that Darach still slept soundly, she moved everything into the furthest, darkest corner of the room. She rubbed the soap until the basin frothed with bubbles, then closed her eyes and splashed her face. The hot lather felt so good, she could not hold back a soft sound of pleasure as she ran her hands over her cheeks and throat. Leaning down, she wet her hair and washed it thoroughly. Then she removed her towel, dipped a corner of the cloth, and scrubbed herself from head to toe until her skin was pink.

  With a sigh, she at last toweled herself dry, before she slipped the velvet gown over her head. The material felt delightfully warm and soft, and fell to the floor in a short train edged with gold embroidery. She noticed, however, that the velvet clung to her body in a rather provocative way, and the neckline dipped almost indecently low between her breasts, the fur trim tickling her skin.

  Had she a mirror, she realized she would present a rather scandalous image. What sort of ladies, she wondered, had enjoyed Sir Gaston’s hospitality in the past?

  Picking up a bone comb that Yolande had left next to the basin, Laurien settled on the furs before the fire and set about removing the tangles from her long hair. After she worked the last knot free, she tossed her head back and closed her eyes, running her fingers through her hair. She settled back against the hearth, sighing. It felt so good to be clean and warm and dry. She could almost imagine that she was safe at home, in Tours. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.

  Only to find herself looking into Darach’s intense blue gaze.

  The knave was watching her every move from where he lay on the bed!

  She started to speak but could not find her voice. His expression was startling, fierce in a way she had never seen before. Her breath escaping between parted lips, she remained still, pinned by that look, her heartbeat quickening. Heat flooded her cheeks. She silently chastised herself for giving i
n to the pleasures of a bath.

  She might be clean and warm and dry… but the Scotsman’s expression told her that she was not safe. Not at all safe.

  His heated regard traced over her hair, her face, then traveled to the depth of her bodice. Though he lay several feet away—wounded, unmoving—Laurien had the unsettling sensation that he was right beside her, touching her, tracing the fur-trimmed edge of her bodice with his fingertips.

  Her tongue refused to work, but her senses seemed to have sharpened. She was aware of the sound of her pulse rushing in her ears, the scent of bois de santal that clung to her hair and skin, the searing heat of his gaze lingering over every inch of her body.

  “H-how long have you been awake?” she managed at last.

  His voice was strained, husky. “Long enough.”

  She turned away from him, the spell broken by their voices. “You might have told me.” She stood and retreated to the corner, trying to appear busy with tidying up.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Aye,” Darach replied belatedly, still shaken by the sight he had awakened to.

  At first, he had been grateful to awaken at all, surprised and pleased to find himself still alive. Then it had taken him a full minute to realize that the soft sound of pleasure he had heard—and the sensual vision before him—were real and not another half-fevered dream.

  Stunned, he had watched Laurien at her bath… her naked curves warmed by light from the fire, her limbs glistening with water. He had watched the droplets trickling down over her skin, the rosy tips of her breasts peeking between wet strands of her long hair.

  At the memory of it, desire shot through him again, more painful than the throbbing of his wound. Every sinew of his being needed her. Now. In his bed, warm and yielding. He wanted to feel her body beneath his, wanted to lose himself in her softness. He shut his eyes, a low groan escaping his throat.

  Laurien came to his side instantly. “Is the pain very bad?”

  Blinking up at her, he almost laughed at her look of concern. “Nay,” he assured her hoarsely. “Naught that I cannot manage.” When she perched on the edge of the bed, he tried to ignore her enticing scent—and the pale skin revealed by her low bodice—and force his mind back to more pressing matters. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “It has been three days since you were wounded… but you have been awake now and again,” Laurien said slowly. “How much do you remember?”

  He tried to sort through the shadows that floated through his memory, the nightmares and dreams. Most of it was clouded with agony—hot needles radiating through his chest, a fire that seemed to burn him from within. Endless darkness. He could remember being awake, and talking, but he was not even sure which language he had been using.

  It was like being lost in a cave, listening to echoes but unable to tell who was speaking, or from which direction.

  But one clear image struck him: Laurien, running along the curtain wall, sword in hand…

  “You were there, out in the bailey.” Anger flooded him as the images rapidly fit together—the lass running, the warrior chasing her, the crossbow bolt that came from nowhere as Darach bent to pull her to her feet. “God’s teeth, woman, were you so intent on escape that you would rush headlong into a battle?”

  “Nay! That is not what happened. I was trying to get away from Beauvais’s knight. He found me in the bouteillerie when I was looking for…” She hesitated. “Very well, I was trying to escape. But when you were wounded, I stayed to help. I had a chance to escape then, but I stayed.”

  “You gave up an opportunity to escape?” he asked dubiously, “to help me?”

  “Aye,” she insisted. “I have been here every moment these past days. You were talking to me. You were…” She blushed and suddenly stood, turning her back on him. “You do not remember?”

  Darach was wondering what made her blush that way, when another memory snapped clearly into place.

  A soft presence beside him, holding him, soothing him when he believed himself lost in that endless night of pain and heat and darkness.

  A voice whispering, forbidding him to die.

  Laurien’s softness, Laurien’s voice.

  She was telling the truth. She had stayed by his side, saved his life—despite any chance she may have had to escape. He tried to summon words to express his gratitude, started to reach toward her…

  And then he noticed an object on the table just beside him: the small knight he always carried, hidden in his left boot. Aidan’s knight.

  God’s teeth, how much had he told her? Had he shared even that? Offered up every agonizing detail of his past?

  Staring at the wood carving, he withdrew his hand, reminded vividly of those who were depending on him. The mission he still had to complete. His duty to protect his kinsmen and women… and children.

  Whatever Laurien had done for him, it did not matter. He could not allow himself to feel anything for this gentle demoiselle who had healed him and cared for him. Not even gratitude.

  He could not allow his heart to soften toward her in any way.

  Laurien turned to him with questioning eyes when he did not answer her. “You do not remember?” she repeated.

  Darach tried to convince himself that the lie he was about to tell was for the best, but that did not keep him from feeling like the lowest sort of knave.

  “I cannot remember any of it,” he said gruffly.

  “That is not possible! You must—”

  “I do not remember. If you are the one who saved my life,” he said, his words all cool indifference, “I give you my thanks.”

  “Merci, noble sir,” she retorted. “I could have saved myself! I could have been free. Instead, I stayed here to save you.” She went to the window, opening one of the shutters, her expression full of longing and regret.

  Darach found her actions as troubling as her words. Laurien had gone out a window—twice now—in her attempts to escape. If she tried again, he would not be able to stop her, not in his present condition.

  And if she stayed here with him, in this bedchamber, with her tantalizing scent and her velvet-wrapped curves and her soothing touch, he would not heed his reason much longer. He knew himself too well.

  She would be in his bed—and they would both surrender to the desire that had been simmering between them from the beginning.

  “Summon Gaston,” he growled.

  Laurien dismissed his order with a wave of her hand. “Sir Gaston is gone. When the fighting ended, he went to Arras to negotiate the peace with Beauvais.”

  “Then call for one of the guards.”

  “Why—”

  “Call for a guard.”

  She apparently knew him well enough by now to recognize that tone. Clearly annoyed at being so sternly silenced, she stalked to the door in a swirl of amber velvet, muttering under her breath about overbearing, impossible males.

  When she came back with the guard, Darach did now allow himself to look at her again. “Are any of the upper chambers in this keep without windows?”

  “Nay, sir,” the guard replied in puzzlement.

  Darach cursed under his breath, hating what he was about to do. “Then take Lady Laurien to one of the upper chambers and tie her—”

  “Nay!” she gasped as the guard took her elbow. “You cannot mean to do this!”

  “You have my thanks for helping me, but nothing has changed,” Darach said tightly. “I cannot allow you another chance to escape. Did you think that I would simply open the door and set you free?”

  For a moment, she seemed beyond words. “Nothing has changed,” she echoed softly. “You are right, Scotsman. Clearly I am still nothing to you but a pawn in your scheme. And you are still cold and heartless, you ungrateful cur.”

  He clenched his jaw. She could not know how much he ached to keep her here with him and damn the consequences. He wanted her close, wanted her in his arms, wanted…

  He savagely motioned for the guard to take her away.

  L
aurien’s voice was sharp with anger and hurt. “I will not forgive you for this!”

  Chapter 10

  Laurien guessed the hour to be late when the sound of voices outside the door of her small chamber made her sit up. She had been curled on her pallet beside the fire, trying to loosen the ropes the guard had tied her hands with yesterday afternoon.

  To her surprise, it was Sir Malcolm who stepped inside.

  “Good ev’ntide, milady. Your guard was most unwilling to open the door.” He put the torch he carried into a sconce on the wall. “He seemed to think you might slip away if he but cracked it an inch.”

  “Have you not heard? I am a fearsome threat. I make full-grown knights and well-armed guards quake in alarm.”

  “Your quick wit is certainly fearsome,” he said lightly, stopping at the hearth to stoke the flames.

  “And what is the word from the comte? Did he agree to your demands, or has he already found himself another wealthy heiress to take to wife?”

  “He agreed,” Malcolm told her quietly, adding another log to the fire.

  Laurien felt a cold wave of nausea roll through her. She had dared to hope that de Villiers would simply replace her and tell the Scots that she was no longer of any value to him.

  Unfortunately, it seemed she was still useful to both sides in this deadly game.

  Now that the room had a bit more light and warmth, Malcolm walked over to her. “I no sooner arrived here than Darach sent me to check on you.”

  “Did he?” She lifted her chin. “You can tell milord that I am fine, no thanks to him. Also, he had best not let me out, because I have thought of all manner of mayhem which I would like to see befall him.”

  “And would you like to tell me your side of this tale?”

  “To what end? Your hostage is secure, Sir Malcolm. That is all that matters to either one of you.” She nodded toward the window on the other side of the chamber. “This room is so high above the ground, the only way I could escape would be if I sprouted wings and flew.” She lifted her tightly bound hands. “I will not be going anywhere.”