His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0)

by Shelly Thacker

  But somehow, he seemed to know what she needed. His fingers stroked her intimately, his thumb finding a sensitive spot that sent the most delicious sensations rippling through her. He covered her mouth with his again, just in time to capture the cry of surprise and longing that tore from her throat. She raised her hips, arching against his hand.

  He kept brushing his thumb over that sensitive bud, softly at first, then more firmly. A trembling began deep inside her. Darach stroked the wet cleft between her thighs.

  Her every muscle tensed, drawing tighter, tighter still, until she thought she would faint.

  His thumb teased that swollen bud with fast, light strokes… while he slid one finger slowly inside her in a gentle thrust.

  In the span of a heartbeat, all the tension in her body broke as a spasm of pleasure shook her, a wave of ice and flame that swept from her toes to her fingertips. An astonishing sensation of release washed over her, stealing her breath. No sooner had the first wave receded than a second followed, even more intense, leaving her gasping.

  She went limp, sinking down into the furs, trembling. He drew her into his arms, gathering her close, and dusted kisses over her cheek, her hair. Wrapped in his embrace, Laurien closed her eyes, murmuring a sigh of exquisite satisfaction. A delightful drowsiness overtook her and she gave in to it, snuggled securely against Darach’s chest, lying on a stolen wolf pelt, in the hold on a ship of thieves.

  Chapter 12

  Darach still lay awake long after Laurien had fallen asleep, her breath a warm whisper against his chest.

  She looked so sweet and trusting in his arms, her cheeks flushed, her lips still slightly swollen from the intensity of their kisses. A light sheen of perspiration glistened on her skin.

  She had responded to him with a passion that had tempted him almost beyond his endurance. His body still burned with need for her, so strong it made thoughts of duty and promises fade into half-formed shadows.

  But he would allow himself no more than this: sharing the pleasure of her first release, holding her in his arms, having her beside him… for this short time.

  As he watched her, an unmistakable tenderness stole through him. If he could, he would tell her…

  What? What would he say if he were the sort of man who could say such words?

  That she was not like any other woman he had ever known. That she mattered to him. That he felt the need to watch over her, to protect her innocence… to protect her from himself.

  But for what? So that he could give her back to de Villiers in a matter of days?

  That thought was starting to tear him apart inside.

  He slipped away from her, and shrugged back into his tunic.

  Laurien rolled onto her stomach and sighed, a whispered accompaniment to a sweet dream. The sound cut into him as sharply as the crossbow bolt that had nearly taken his life.

  If he could, he would give her what she wanted: to return to her convent at Tours, to the peaceful, orderly life she loved.

  But without the alliance, Scotland would be in flames before year’s end.

  He lay beside her again, wanting to sleep. But instead of lulling him, the sound of the waves and the motion of the ship tormented him with memories of his first ocean crossing—ten years ago. When he had fled from Scotland, from his family.

  And from Sibylla…

  ~ ~ ~

  He was sixteen, a lanky whelp of a boy, still living at Malcolm’s keep. Half drunk, utterly exhausted, he stumbled down the tower steps to Sibylla’s chamber, his way lit only by the occasional flash of lightning.

  He flung open the door and sent her maids scurrying out.

  “Whose is it?” he sputtered, a flask still clutched in one fist. He kept his eyes fixed on a point above her head, trying to ignore the newborn cradled in her arms. The window shutters rattled with the violence of the November storm. “Tell me your lover’s name, damn you. I will cut the bastard’s heart out!”

  He had expected resistance, at least some effort to protect the man she had committed adultery with.

  Sibylla smiled at him. “The babe is Eamon’s.”

  The sound of his brother’s name sliced through Darach’s heart like a steel blade. “Sibylla, nay,” he whispered lamely, unable to find words bleak enough to hold his pain.

  “I love him. I have always loved him.”

  Darach stood speechless, the breath knocked out of him as if a battering ram had hit him squarely in the midsection. She hummed a lullaby and pulled back the swaddling to reveal the bairn’s tiny head, a dusting of blond hair, sleepy blue eyes. None would doubt that the boy was Darach’s own.

  Only the two of them knew that Sibylla had not lain with him since their wedding night almost a year ago.

  “Sibylla, why… what have I done that you could do this to me?” Tears burned his eyes, threatening to spill over. He forced them back. “My God, how could you do this to Eda, to your own sister?”

  She shrugged. “You have been gone so often. Eda insisted I accept her hospitality. I was lonely here.”

  “So lonely that you would lie with Eamon?” He shook his head in denial. “I asked you to come with me to Edinburgh. I should have insisted.”

  “I care not for the annual tourneys.” She yawned. “The city is too hot and crowded to spend the summer there.” The baby began to fuss, and she set him beside her on the bed.

  “And when I was nearly killed by Sir Fergus’s lance, fighting for my life,” Darach whispered accusingly, “you were with Eamon. You were already carrying my brother’s babe…” His voice broke, and he could not continue.

  “You had the king’s physician himself to see to your comfort. And Malcolm. You did not need me by your side for the entire summer.”

  “What a fool I was.” When Darach could find his voice again, his words sounded small, easily swallowed by the noise of the wind raging outside the keep. “I did not understand why you would not come to me. I hastened home because I feared you were ill.”

  She gazed at him unblinking, her blue eyes cool. Even the strain of childbirth had not lessened her beauty. Only one who knew her well would note the lines of fatigue marring her skin, the tendrils of dark hair in disarray.

  How proud he had been to make such an alluring woman his wife. Since the night he met Sibylla at Eamon and Eda’s wedding, he had been like an overeager puppy trotting at her heels. When she consented to wed him, he had envisioned a life filled with joy. He was still squire to Malcolm, but he had made plans to win his knighthood and build a keep that he and his new bride would fill with laughter, with children.

  “Sibylla, you told me that lovemaking was too painful for you. You said that you loved me, that you only needed time…” Darach hung his head, suddenly more weary than he could ever remember being. As young and inexperienced as he was, he could understand that, somehow, she had planned to hurt him this way. She had wanted him to know the bairn was not his.

  As he stared at the floor, his vision blurred. His spurs, silver-bright in their newness, shone against the dark brown of his boots. He hadn’t taken the bits of metal off since he arrived home three days ago. He hadn’t done much but drink to numb his shock at seeing his wife, her belly swollen with another man’s babe.

  He hated the spurs suddenly. He had nearly gotten himself killed in his eagerness to win them. Now he wanted to rip them off and throw them against the wall.

  “How could you lie to me?” he choked out. “Why?

  “I have told you what you wanted to know. If you wish to learn more, I suggest you speak to Eamon. Will you not leave me to rest now?”

  Darach raised his head and looked at her in stunned silence a moment. Not taking his eyes from hers, he reached up and untied the long piece of fabric knotted around his right sleeve. He held it out to her. When she made no move to retrieve her favor, he let it slip from his fingers, and it fell to the floor in a tiny pool of green silk.

  He strode from the chamber to seek his brother.

  Outside t
he keep, the wind nearly tore his cloak away. Rain and ice pricked his skin like needles as he made his way toward the stables in the darkness. Lightning stabbed out of the sky, making the sleet glow with a silvery light.

  His destrier followed the familiar path from Malcolm’s keep to Castle Glenshiel with little guidance from him. Nearly numb by the time he arrived, Darach ignored the guards’ greeting. Later he would not remember dismounting or entering the keep or taking down the twin Norse blades from the hearth in the great hall. He found himself standing in his brother’s bedchamber.

  Eamon slept soundly, curled beside his wife, Eda.

  The ancient steel felt cold and heavy in Darach’s hand. He dropped the second blade on the floor. The clatter startled his brother and sister-in-law awake.

  Eamon quickly soothed his wife. “Go back to sleep, my love. My brother has chosen an odd hour for one of his pranks.”

  Eda smiled sleepily and snuggled back into the covers. Darach stared into his brother’s knowing eyes. “Outside,” he said, and turned on his heel without awaiting a reply.

  Lightning danced along the earth, illuminating the practice ground where Darach waited. He felt terribly calm as Eamon walked toward him. His brother was three years older, at least two inches taller, and had the advantage in weight and experience. And he had not spent the last three days emptying wine flasks.

  But Darach felt a searing rage beneath his thin layer of calm, mingling with a hurt sharper than any he had known. His blood burned with the need for retribution.

  Eamon had sheathed the sword. The chemise and leggings he had donned were already soaked. He approached with his palms lifted in a pleading gesture. “Darach, please,” he shouted above the storm, “allow me to explain.”

  Darach brandished the blade to warn him away. “Tell me but one thing, damn you. Is it yours?”

  “1 never thought this would happen. She is not what you think—”

  Darach slashed the air and stepped closer. “Mhic na galla, is it yours?”

  Eamon stopped moving away. His hands still outstretched, he looked like the image of a saint from a church window. An eruption of thunder drowned the roar of the rain spattering across the cobblestones. As the sound retreated, Eamon nodded. “Aye.”

  With a cry filled with fury and anguish, Darach launched himself at his brother. The rain and sleet blinded him and he slashed out madly. Eamon leaped clear and slipped on the slick cobbles. Darach was on him in an instant. Eamon drew his sword to fend off the blow. Their blades met, scraping together with a metallic screech. Eamon pushed upward, his greater strength sending Darach tumbling.

  Darach leaped to his feet and charged again, driven by a rage as cold as the sleet. His brother parried. Darach sliced his blade down, right, in again, seeking an opening and finding none. He drove forward with a flurry of blows. His woolen garments were sodden, but he moved like a warrior born, every muscle in his body tensed for the battle at hand.

  He kept his eyes focused on the sword in his opponent’s hand. He felt a prickle of pain on his skin—then a slash along his left cheek. He ignored them, not caring what wounds he received this night, not caring if he died here. His need for blood could only be quenched by death.

  But he could not score a hit, could not break through his adversary’s defenses to draw blood. Finally, fatigue and too much wine took their toll. He was slowing down, leaving himself open, once, twice, a third time. But never did his opponent use the advantage to deliver a mortal blow. Darach stumbled and fell to his knees. He struggled to rise and slipped again.

  He looked up, expecting to feel a blade biting into him. Instead he saw his brother standing a scant yard away, gazing down, shoulders slumped. Though he was uninjured and showed little sign of tiring, Eamon threw down his sword.

  Darach sat gasping for breath, taking in as much water as air, blood mixing with the rain that ran down the left side of his face. At last, he heaved himself to his feet, the sword still in his hand. A flash of lightning lit the sky, and Darach saw the look of utter sorrow in his brother’s eyes, the haggard cast to the features so like his own. He saw a man lost in regret.

  Darach at last blurted the question that had driven him into the night. “Do you love her?”

  Eamon shook his head, a sad smile on his lips. “Nay. I love Eda.”

  Even before he heard the answer, Darach knew that his blood lust had cooled. He shivered, feeling suddenly chilled. The madness that had driven him lifted. He dropped his sword. “Go to Eda, then.”

  The need to hunt had been replaced by a much stronger desire to flee. Darach backed away from his brother, then turned and ran, into the wind. With the last strength left in his body, he found his horse and hauled himself into the saddle, urging the stallion into a gallop.

  Darach rode blindly through the glens and hills. The rain had ebbed to mist and morning was a blue line along the horizon when he found himself at Malcolm’s keep again. As he dismounted, he felt a stab of pain on his ankle. Looking down he saw that his left spur had bent into a misshapen triangle. He slipped it off, then the right one, holding them in his open hand.

  The gleaming bits of metal had represented the greatest possible honor to him, a badge of chivalry that would win the heart of his lady fair.

  But she had twisted and ruined what was noble and good.

  The hard-won skills of knighthood, however, were still his. All the sweat and blood that had gone into earning these. He closed his fist over the cold pieces of metal and felt an equally cold resolve settle over his heart. There were battles to be fought—far from here—and causes more worthy than winning the heart of a woman.

  Love was naught but a jest. But muscle and steel would never desert him.

  Stalking into the keep, he went straight to his wife’s bedchamber, trailing mud up the stairs. He pushed the door open.

  But the room was empty.

  Her belongings were gone, her chest of garments, the fine gold plates and candlesticks she liked to display. Only a few pairs of shoes remained, apparently discarded in her haste.

  And the baby. The boy lay sleeping in the center of the bed.

  One of Malcolm’s retainers rushed in behind him.

  “She has left, Sir Darach. She gathered her lady’s maids and fled! Naught that we said could stop her. And she would not say where she went, or for how long.” He looked helplessly at the newborn. “We did not know what we should do.”

  Darach observed the wee bairn. Eamon’s son had wakened at the commotion and was crying lustily, struggling to kick free of his swaddling.

  Sibylla had left. It only made things simpler. He did not care where she had gone or what became of her. He certainly was not going to batter what was left of his pride by chasing after her.

  “Find a wet nurse for the child. Ask in the village.” He turned and started for the stairs.

  The guardsman followed him. “But, Sir Darach, what of Lady Sibylla? And what am I to tell Sir Malcolm when he returns from Edinburgh?”

  Darach stopped when he reached the great hall. This had been a place of great happiness for him. Now he only wanted to escape it. Sibylla’s lies had twisted his memories into a mockery. “Tell Sir Malcolm that I have left Scotland. I do not know when I will return. As for the Lady Sibylla, I doubt you will see her again soon.”

  The man stopped him again as he headed for the door.

  “But, sir, your son… by what name are we to call your son?”

  Darach turned in the door, a sarcastic retort on his tongue, but he stopped himself. Why should the boy be made to suffer for his mother’s sins? Sibylla obviously did not want her child. And Darach doubted that Eamon would step forward to claim the bairn and thus trumpet his adultery to all. The boy would have no one.

  But if Darach were to claim him, no one would ever question that the boy was his own. Nor would anyone question his leaving. Many younger sons went to seek their fortunes as mercenaries.

  “My father, Sir Ronan, and Sir Malcolm will see
that the child… that my son is well cared for,” Darach said at last. “You are to call him…” He paused, then decided upon his grandfather’s name. “My son is to be called Aidan. Mayhap he will grow to be a man of honor one day.”

  And with that, he left…

  ~ ~ ~

  Darach gazed into the flickering flame of the lantern that illuminated the hidden cabin in the bow of the Venetian ship. In the ten years since that night, Sibylla had never returned. He had not heard from her once, or been able to locate her or a single member of her retinue. Or received any word of her death.

  Sibylla’s silence was her final cruelty, because it condemned him to a life alone—for unless he could prove that Sibylla no longer lived, the Church still considered him married. He could not take another wife.

  He looked down at Laurien sleeping beside him, the firelight turning her skin to gold, and he tried to quell the longing he felt, the desire that warmed him—and the gentler emotions he had no right to feel for this sweet, daring, stunning lady.

  She deserved more than to be just another of his brief dalliances. She deserved the kind of promises he could never offer her.

  For so long, he had given himself over to a life of physical violence and physical pleasure. Tried to forget that he possessed either a heart or a soul. Lived in a world where only strength and ruthlessness mattered.

  Eamon had died while hunting wolves at the age of five-and-twenty, without ever claiming his only son.

  But Aidan had thrived in the care of Darach’s father Ronan, his brother Galen, and Malcolm. From afar, Darach had watched him grow into a fine lad that any man would be proud to call his own. Yet always, Darach had kept his distance…

  Until two years ago. When their father passed away after an illness, Galen had sent a letter: Darach was now lord of Glenshiel—and needed in Scotland. His hard-won skills and experience would be of great value against the English. Galen’s words had been filled with hope and faith and the noble cause of freedom.

  Darach might have ignored the message… except that Galen had shrewdly enclosed a token from Aidan: a small knight carved out of wood the boy had made for him.