His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0)

by Shelly Thacker

  Could that be the name for these feelings she had for him? She barely had time to consider the question when he began a tantalizing exploration of her body, first tasting the light sheen of perspiration along her throat. His mouth, seeking, eager, moved to her breasts, arousing each in turn until they were swollen and tight beneath his lips.

  Laurien pressed one hand against his chest, sliding it down over his ribs, then lower, touching him as he touched her. His groan sounded almost painful when she caressed that part of him that was so hard and yet smooth as silk.

  Gasping in astonishment at the feel of him, she did not pull away. She gave in to her curiosity, exploring him intimately. He kept his cheek pressed against hers as she hesitantly caressed his shaft. When she grasped him more firmly, he sucked in a ragged breath, his whole body suddenly taut as a bowstring.

  His tongue swept along the pale, sensitive line of her jaw and settled at her earlobe, where he nuzzled and licked. His voice was a heated whisper. “I want to be inside you.”

  He shifted his weight, thrusting against her hand, the swollen tip of his arousal brushing her thigh. He kissed her again, a deep, urgent joining this time.

  She continued brushing her fingers along the length of his hardness, bolder now, intrigued by his response. He caught her hand, urging her to release him. She objected at first, lingering to tease him a moment longer, then finally let go.

  He touched the soft cleft between her legs and she moaned against his mouth, the sound deep with longing.

  Her breathing came fast and harsh and he tore his lips from hers, watching her as he stroked her. His thumb flicked against that swollen nub that was so sensitive, slowly and deliberately, then faster.

  Her eyes locked with his and she arched her hips, pressing against his hand, biting her swollen lower lip. Her moans and sharp gasps filled the chamber as his fingers teased.

  Laurien could feel Darach’s muscles growing rigid with desire as her own body softened in welcome. He shifted his weight, remained suspended above her for a moment, holding her absolutely still, kissing her temple, her cheeks, her chin. Laurien could feel his hard arousal brushing the softness between her thighs, and she moved against him, longing for him to end this sweet torment.

  She knew now what she wanted: to have him inside her, this blunt, velvety steel that was the most male part of him.

  Gently, he pressed her back into the furs, lowering his hips against her. The tender, intent expression on his face touched her more deeply than any words he could have spoken.

  At last she could see beyond his warrior’s armor, catch the barest glimpse of all the love locked away within his heart. She reveled in the branding fire of his kisses, the way passion darkened his eyes to a shade deeper than indigo. Moving her hands along his back, she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him closer. Her breasts flattened against the bristly hair of his chest.

  Covering her mouth with his, he fitted himself against the soft dampness between her thighs.

  Holding her tight, he arched his hips and thrust deeply inside her.

  Laurien instinctively tensed, making a small sound deep in her throat. But the twinge of pain was gone in an instant. Almost at once, her body began to adjust to the extraordinary sensation of having him inside her… the fullness, the friction as he began moving his hips.

  He threw his head back, squeezing his eyes shut, his mouth opening on a wordless sound of pleasure. The strong column of his neck arched away from her, and she reached up to touch his throat. She could feel his pulse hot and pounding beneath her fingertips, his damp, smooth skin a contrast to the curving muscles beneath.

  Trembling, she matched his slow strokes, moving her body in rhythm with his. Each time he withdrew almost completely, then slowly sheathed himself, deeper with every thrust.

  She tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled him down to her. Her mouth opened to accept his tongue even before their lips met. They moved together, rising and falling, sharing one breath, one body.

  She felt light, tingling, as if she were soaring with him. He took her higher, then higher still, the sensations building within her body until she was breathless with excitement, with something that felt like joy. Her hips rose to meet his, and he thrust harder, faster. She cried out at the astonishing feeling of his body, so strong, so powerful, embedded deep within hers.

  She felt lightheaded, as if she were looking down on the world from a dizzying height, far above the clouds. Laurien could feel her muscles tightening, tremors beginning deep inside, and she held on to Darach, feathering kisses over his shoulder.

  They reached the peak, hovered there for an exquisite instant, then plunged toward the earth, together. Her head tipped back as pure, shimmering ecstasy swept through her, each wave stronger than the last, crying out as she surrendered to it. Darach shouted her name in the same moment, pressing his head against her shoulder, his entire body shaking with the force of his release.

  His weight pressed her down into the furs, and Laurien threaded her fingers through his hair, his name a whisper on her lips. In that moment, she named this feeling that overwhelmed her, that made her ache at the thought of being parted from Darach, three small words that held all she felt for him.

  I love him.

  Chapter 15

  Balafre’s humor had worsened steadily since crossing the channel. The accursed English weather drenched him with an unceasing downpour from the moment he landed in the port of Hull and stepped onto the dock. He had hired a swift sailing vessel to bring him and a company of de Villiers’ guardsmen to England, suspecting the worst when his partner Kenton failed to return to Calais with the comte’s bride.

  The only question left in Balafre’s mind was whether to kill Kenton quickly or slowly. He had begun to favor the latter idea by the time he approached the Englishman’s small keep, a dozen of de Villiers’ guardsmen riding behind him.

  A scene of frantic activity greeted them. Kenton was shouting orders, his voice rasping as if he had spent the entire morning yelling. His men stumbled and slid through the mud, carrying weapons and supplies and saddling their horses—though there seemed to be more men than there were horses. The flurry of activity came to a halt as Balafre’s group rode through the gate.

  Kenton, occupied with saddling his own mount, remained oblivious. “Be quick there, you lackwits! They have not had time to get far. We will…”

  He seemed to finally notice the murmurs of surprise around him. Glancing up, he froze.

  “You will what?” Balafre stopped his horse in the middle of the bailey, his men arrayed behind him. “Where is the Comte de Villiers’s bride, old friend?”

  “Balafre! There was no need for you to… to come and fetch me.” Kenton returned to his task. “You were supposed to wait in Calais.”

  “And you were supposed to return at once.”

  “The weather,” the Englishman said with a shrug. “An immediate return was impossible. I thought it best to wait out the storm. But I am pleased that you are here, Balafre. We will be glad to have your assistance.” He glanced nervously at his men.

  They remained where they were, looking uncertain about whose orders to follow now.

  “Where is de Villiers’s bride?” Balafre did not like to repeat himself.

  “I am afraid you have just missed her,” Kenton said lightly. “Those Scots have disappeared with her. But I am certain they are bound for the border. If we—”

  “And how is it that the Scots are still alive?” Balafre dismounted but remained beside his horse. “Your orders were to kill them.”

  “A misunderstanding, be assured. All of this will be naught but a brief delay. I will fetch my cloak and we can be off.” Finished saddling his horse, the Englishman turned to walk back to the keep.

  Balafre reached for a crossbow lashed to his saddle.

  Then he started to load it.

  Apparently hearing the click, Kenton spun around.

  “It will be a long ride,” the Englishman said
. “You do not have to load your weapon just now.” He looked again at his men.

  They were backing away, clearing the area.

  Balafre fitted a bolt to the stock.

  “There is no need for dramatics.” Kenton crossed his arms over his chest. “If it is an apology you want, I apologize.”

  Balafre raised the crossbow.

  The Englishman’s eyes widened. “Do not try to frighten me, old friend. You need me! You would not begin to know how to conduct this search.”

  Balafre walked forward, silent, the weapon balanced on his shoulder.

  “You surely do not mean to let my one impulsive act end our partnership?” Kenton began to back away. “After all the years we have spent so profitably together?”

  “The delay you have caused will make the comte furious.” Balafre took aim. “But I will clean up the mess you have made, as I always have.”

  Kenton turned to run as Balafre fired.

  The bolt hit Kenton in the calf, knocking him to the ground. Sputtering curses, he rolled onto his back. “Damn you, you vicious…” He clutched at his bleeding leg. “Very well, you have made your point! Now help me get this blasted thing out, so we can get on with our search.”

  Balafre walked toward him, still holding the crossbow. Kenton extended a hand in truce.

  Instead of reaching down, Balafre loaded a second bolt.

  “God’s blood!” The Englishman scrambled backward, his face turning white. But he could find no purchase in the mud.

  “Your weakness for women has caused us trouble for the last time.” Balafre planted one booted foot on Kenton’s chest to hold him still. He aimed the weapon.

  Kenton held up a hand. “Balafre, wait—”

  “De Villiers does not like to wait.” Balafre balanced the crossbow just over Kenton’s heart.

  Then he released the bolt.

  Every man present had gone utterly silent.

  Bending down, Balafre yanked both bolts free, cleaned them on the dead man’s elegant tunic, and replaced them in his quiver.

  Turning, he looked at the half-dozen guards who had been under Kenton’s command. “Are there any questions?”

  There was a hasty shaking of heads.

  “Then be grateful that you have time to devise an explanation for your mistakes that is more believable than the weather.” Balafre slung the crossbow over his shoulder and started toward the keep. “I sent a message to the comte before I left Calais—and when he arrives here, I assure you he will not be in a forgiving humor.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Laurien awoke to the warmth of the fire beside her and Darach’s arm around her waist. “If you hold me any tighter,” she protested with a drowsy grin, “I will not be able to breathe.”

  They lay curled side by side on the bed of furs, huddled beneath the blankets against the chill of early morning.

  He relaxed his arm, brushing a kiss through her hair in apology. Then he kissed the sensitive spot just beneath her ear… then her bare shoulder.

  “Darach…” Laurien sighed, rolling onto her back. “I am hungry.”

  “So am I.” He ducked underneath the blankets and kissed a particularly sensitive spot that made her gasp.

  “I meant for food.”

  His voice was muffled by the blankets. “But that would require that we leave the bed.”

  He reappeared, his hair tousled from his foray. Laurien smiled, reaching up to trace her fingertips over the angles of his jaw, the firm shape of his lips. He had made love to her hour after sweet hour last night, awakening every part of her, arousing her in ways she had never imagined possible, until she could no longer think, or speak, or do anything but lose herself in all that she felt for him.

  Morning had chased away the night too soon.

  She was as reluctant as he to break the spell they had woven around them.

  “Leaving the bed,” he continued, pausing to tease her fingers, taking one into his mouth and sucking it gently. “Would mean putting on clothes.”

  Laurien was about to give in to the hunger in his darkening eyes when her stomach rumbled most inconveniently.

  “However,” Darach amended, “I suppose we must have nourishment if I am to keep up my—” He flashed her a wicked grin. “—strength.”

  He sat up and Laurien moved to join him, but he tucked the blankets around her. “Nay, keep warm. I will see what I can find among our supplies.”

  She curled up on the furs while he moved to where their garments lay drying over some small casks of wine and ale. He pulled on his tunic and leggings, glancing over his shoulder with that wicked grin as if daring her to watch.

  Which she did.

  She should feel shocked, she knew, by the idea that she might find pleasure in observing him while he dressed… but shock was not what she felt. Watching him—the way his muscles shifted and flexed as he moved, the glorious body God had given him—she felt utterly brazen. And unashamed.

  How was it possible that she had changed so much, in so short a time?

  Only a fortnight ago, she had been living an entirely different life: working in the gardens at Tours, concerned about preserving the fall harvest, staying up late into the night copying the ancient herbals by Theophrastus of Athens and Dioscorides. Her days had been peaceful, orderly, quiet.

  And chaste.

  She looked down at her right hand. The last of the ink that normally stained her fingers and thumb had worn off.

  All of it had been left behind. She wondered if that other Laurien, so innocent of the world, would even recognize the woman she was becoming.

  Now fully dressed, Darach added another log to the fire, then foraged through the sacks of supplies. He returned to spread out their meal on one of the blankets.

  Laurien sat up. “Did you bring a change of clothes with the other supplies?”

  He shook his head. “When Malcolm and I stopped here on our way to France, we were moving quickly. There was only time to think of the essentials.”

  She glanced over at the supplies. “Food, ale, wine, and weapons. These are all the essentials, to a male mind?”

  “Aye, leannan.” He grinned as he sat beside her. “They are all a man needs… along with one other thing.”

  Laurien resisted a smile. “I believe I am learning more than I want to know about men.” Sighing, she rose, gathering the blanket around her. She would have no choice but to put on the threadbare lavender gown with the torn skirt.

  “Nay.” Darach caught her hand, stopping her. “Stay as you are.”

  Laurien looked down at him. She understood why he did not want to see her in the gown the Englishman had given her. But despite this new, more brazen side of herself she had discovered, she found it uncomfortable to walk around entirely nude, especially while he was fully clothed.

  As if sensing her distress, Darach stood and went to fetch the length of woolen fabric he had worn last night. “Here, milady.” He gestured for her to lift her arms and let go of the blanket. “We will garb you like a Highland lass.” He wrapped the fabric around her securely, tucking in the end at her back.

  She ran her hand over the soft red cloth, with its pattern of crossed black and violet-hued stripes. “I have never seen such intricate weaving before. What is it called?”

  “A plaide.” He shrugged. “’Tis simply a type of woven cloth, common here for many generations.”

  He drew her down beside him as he sat by the hearth. She settled into his arms, her back against his chest, and he rested his chin on the top of her head.

  “’Tis warmer this way,” he whispered, wrapping one arm around her waist, handing her some smoked fish and small cakes.

  “A most pleasant way to spend breakfast,” she agreed, smiling. “But see that you do not get crumbs in my hair, milord.” She relaxed against him, liking the feel of the soft cloth she wore, and the strength and gentleness of his arms. She sampled one of the cakes.

  “They are oat cakes,” Darach explained. “A favorite among
we Scots.”

  “Lucky Scots. They are very good. And I think…” She paused, trying to remember. “I have had them before, when I was very young. Before I lost my mother.”

  “You were very young when you lost her?” he asked gently.

  “When I was eight. I can still picture her—she was so beautiful, with black hair and bright green eyes. My brother Henri is the very image of her.” She finished the cake and sampled the smoked fish. “It was after she died that my stepfather took me to Tours.”

  “Your stepfather? Do you mean Louis D’Amboise is not your father?”

  “Nay, he is not.” Laurien saw no reason to keep that secret anymore, when she had shared so much with him. “My mother told me just before she died. She said that my real father was a gentle and kind man. I think she loved him very much… but she could not marry him. I do not know why. She had to marry Louis instead.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I suspect Louis always knew that I was not his. And when I was nine, he took me to the convent. He unwrapped my arms from around his neck, told me to dry my tears, and left me there among strangers.”

  Darach tightened his arm around her. “But then you came to love your life there.”

  “At first, I hated it,” she confessed. “I missed Henri. I could not sleep. I did not understand why matins and lauds must be so early. And there was the rule of silence… and then the fire.”

  “The fire?” he asked curiously.

  “A very small fire,” she said in her defense. “1 was late for vespers and I knocked over a sconce and a pew caught fire—”

  He chuckled.

  “Do not laugh at me.” She nudged him in the ribs with her elbow.

  “I am not laughing at you—I am laughing at those poor nuns. They had no idea what awaited them when you came into their lives.” He lightly kissed the top of her head. “I have a certain understanding of how they felt.”

  “Aye, well, the abbess soon ran out of ways to correct my behavior. One day, she sent me out to weed the gardens in the summer heat. I am certain it was meant as punishment… but it turned out to be the greatest blessing instead.” She smiled at the memory. “I met Sister Emeline, who is charge of all the gardens at Tours. She began teaching me about the different plants and herbs, how we grow them, how we use them to make healing remedies. It fascinated me, in a way none of my other studies did. Sister Emeline became a dear friend as well as my tutor. She was…” She paused. “It was almost like having a mother again.”