His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0)

by Shelly Thacker

  They rode across and entered the bailey, and Laurien spotted an unexpected expanse of green at the rear of the keep. “You have a garden,” she said happily. “You did not tell me there was a garden.”

  “There is a garden,” he chuckled.

  They came to a halt at the foot of the steep stairs that led to the main entrance. A stable boy came to take their horse’s reins, and a tall man with red-blond hair greeted them.

  “’Tis good to have you home, Sir Darach.” He nodded to Laurien, showing a bit of surprise at her presence. “Milady.”

  “Thank you, Ranald.” Darach leaped down, then lifted Laurien from the saddle. “Laurien, this is my steward. Ranald, this is Lady Laurien d’Amboise. She will be staying with us…” He hesitated. “For a time.”

  Ranald bowed to Laurien. “Welcome, milady. If you have need of anything, please ask for it.”

  Laurien returned his polite greeting. “Thank you, Ranald.” He had a ruddy complexion and gentle gray eyes, and the ink-stained fingers common to stewards, who spent most of their days bent over their lords’ accounts.

  Darach started for the castle’s entrance. “Dispatch a rider to Lord Alsh’s keep. Ask him to come meet with me at once—I have an offer that he is going to want to hear. Has Sir Malcolm’s message arrived yet?”

  Ranald gave him a perplexed look. “You were expecting a messenger?”

  “Aye. He is here, then?”

  “She is in the solar.”

  “She?” Darach stopped suddenly.

  “A nun. She has come every day for the past se’nnight—”

  “What do you mean, a nun?” Darach glanced from his steward to Laurien with a look of confusion. “Malcolm would not send a… and he could not possibly have sent a message that many days ago.” Darach strode through the massive entry doors and into the great hall.

  “I told the woman we did not know when to expect your return,” the steward explained as he followed them. “She would not believe me.”

  Laurien glanced around her as they hurried through the hall. It was empty save for a single trestle table before the hearth and a few ancient weapons on the walls as decoration. When she gave Darach a curious look, he shrugged.

  “I spend little time here,” he said by way of explanation before continuing his questioning of Ranald. “What is this woman’s name?”

  “She would not tell us her name. She simply returned every day, and when she kept coming back, Mara and Catriona insisted on allowing her to stay. She said she will speak only to you, alone.”

  The three of them stopped outside the solar. Darach paused with his hand on the door, a worried frown creasing his brow. He looked at Laurien, who gave him a reassuring smile that neither of them found reassuring.

  If the message was not from Sir Malcolm, Laurien thought, she could take some comfort from the fact that Darach would not be leaving immediately. But what kind of message would a nun be bringing to him? And what news was so dire that she would speak only to Darach?

  “Have Mara prepare a meal for Lady Laurien,” Darach told the steward. “Then have one of the upstairs guest chambers made presentable for her. And ask Catriona to show her the gardens. Mara and Catriona are kitchen servants,” he explained to Laurien. “They have been here since I was a lad.” He gave Ranald a wry look. “And I have been away too long if they have started issuing orders.”

  ~ ~ ~

  As Laurien followed Ranald across the great hall, Darach watched her go. He did not like being parted from her for even a short time.

  But if such a brief separation was difficult, how was he going to endure what his life would be like after he sent her home to Tours?

  Turning, he entered his solar. Like the rest of his castle, it was somewhat lacking in decoration. The chamber held only a trestle table, a few candle sconces, and a pair of high-backed chairs lined with red velvet, the sole spot of color in the room. Shutting the door behind him, he looked in puzzlement at the woman on the other side of the chamber, sitting in his favorite chair.

  She sat before the window, her back to him, humming softly in the sunlight that streamed through the glass. A small woman, she was garbed in the simple, flowing black robes worn by novices and nuns in a convent. She was apparently huddled over a piece of needlework, for long strands of bright floss trailed over her black skirt. The woman did not even turn when he entered, she was so absorbed in her task.

  Darach cleared his throat and spoke quietly. “I am told you are anxious to speak with me.”

  The petite woman nearly jumped out of her chair, then sat frozen in place for a moment. Then, very slowly, she set her needlework on the table beside her and stood, turning to face him.

  As he recognized her, a single word escaped Darach—an oath choked with astonishment and the bitterness of uncountable angry days and nights.

  “Sibylla.”

  If not for her eyes, he might not have known her. Those shining blue eyes were just as he remembered, but all else about her had changed. Her luxuriant hair was hidden beneath a tightly wrapped wimple. Her flawless complexion had been marred by lines that bespoke years spent in worry. She smiled at him, tremulously, and when she spoke, her voice held only a wisp of its former strength.

  “I-I have finally gathered enough courage to face you myself.”

  Darach finally snapped out of his shock. “Courage?” He crossed the chamber in two strides, clenching his hands on the back of the chair to keep them from around her throat. “How dare you taint that word by saying it! You come here after ten years and speak to me of courage?”

  She backed away, keeping the chair between them. “I-I explained all of it. In the missives I sent—”

  “I received no missives from you. Not a word! I thought you were dead! I hoped you were dead.”

  She regarded him with what appeared to be genuine confusion. “But I have been sending letters to you for months now. When you would not respond, I-I knew I must come and face you—”

  “I will not stand here and listen to your lies. I have received no messages. I have rarely even been here these past months. There has been no one here but the guards and servants and—”

  He stopped himself abruptly. Fionna.

  Fionna had been here while he was away negotiating the French alliance. She would have had ample opportunity to sneak a look at any messages that arrived for him. And she would have felt no qualms about concealing missives from Sibylla—if they contained information Fionna wanted to keep to herself.

  His anger cooling only slightly, he let go of the chair and curtly motioned for Sibylla to take a seat again.

  When she complied, he paced to the opposite side of the table, trying to control his fury. “Tell me, then. What is it that you explained in these messages? How could you possibly have an explanation for what you did to me—and for abandoning your own child?”

  Sibylla stared at her hands, clutched in the folds of her robes. “I-I knew you would be like this,” she began, her voice wavering. “That is why I tried to explain by writing to you—”

  “Explain what?”

  “That we are not married.”

  “What?” Darach stared at her in shock. “What did you say?”

  Sibylla flinched at his volume. “Darach, please, I know I have done a terrible thing, but you must allow me to explain. We are not married. We were never married.”

  The room seemed to tilt crazily before Darach’s eyes. For a moment he had the disturbing sensation that this was a nightmare and he was being dragged deeper into it. He shook his head to clear it. “We were never married? Have you taken leave of your senses, woman? I was there. I spoke the words before the priest. We took vows—”

  “But they were not binding. You see, wh-when we took those vows, I was already wed to another.”

  Darach stared at her, his mind reeling. “Who?” he choked out, the answer already half clear to him.

  Sibylla stared at her hands again. “Eamon.”

  Darach felt a f
lood of anger and disbelief that robbed him of his voice.

  “I was but sixteen, and I was in love with Eamon, and I thought he loved me,” Sibylla explained. “I knew my father would oppose the match, because he had already told me of his plans to betroth me to a wealthy lord from Edinburgh. But I knew that if… if Eamon and I lay together, Eamon would have to marry me. We rode to Kilwinning and found a priest willing to marry us in secret. It was only after, when we went to face my father, that the trouble began.”

  Darach sank into the chair across from her, numbly taking it all in.

  “I could not face my father’s wrath, so I sent Eamon alone to tell him the news. But Eamon was no braver than I. Instead of telling him of our marriage, he asked for my hand. Father refused, for he had already signed my betrothal papers. But he was not about to let so powerful a lord as Sir Eamon of Glenshiel get away easily,” she said bitterly. “He offered Eamon the hand of my sister, Eda, along with a generous dowry.”

  Darach muttered an oath. “And Eamon, selfish as he was, accepted without saying a word about you.”

  Sibylla nodded, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I was furious when I found out. Eamon did not come to face me. He came straight back here and began to make plans for his wedding.”

  “But you could have stopped it! One word from you would have ended his betrothal to Eda.”

  She shook her head. “I was so angry, I was not able to think. When I saw that he could hurt me so easily, that he could abandon me without a word, I no longer wanted him. I set my mind to making him pay, and I kept my secret to myself. I went to the wedding, appeared to be the good sister, happy for the new couple… and there I met Eamon’s brother.” She looked up at him, tears falling now. “Young Darach, so sweet, so handsome—”

  “So gullible,” Darach finished for her.

  “Nay, you were very chivalrous. When you fell on your knee and proposed, ’twas just the excuse I was looking for. You gave me the reason I needed to stay near Eamon and have my revenge.”

  “And how did you convince your father to allow us to marry? What became of your betrothal?”

  She chewed at her bottom lip. “I told Father that you and I had been trysting in secret for months and I was already carrying your child.”

  “A thighearna, you planned all of it!” Darach felt a surge of disgust that overwhelmed even his anger. “That was why you would not lay with me after our wedding night. You planned to lure Eamon to your bed when I was gone. So that he would get you with child and I would know it was his.”

  She nodded. “I knew you would be angry enough to kill him. I never wanted Eamon’s child—”

  “Aidan,” Darach bit out. “Your son’s name is Aidan.”

  Sibylla winced, closing her eyes, her face etched with pain. She said the name softly. “Aidan. The night he was born, and you came to my chamber… ’twas the first time that I saw what I had done. That I realized I was hurting others as well as Eamon. It was like waking up from a nightmare. I have never been brave, Darach. You were angry enough to kill Eamon—and angry enough to kill me. I did the only thing I could think of. I fled.”

  “If you regretted what you did, why did you not confess then? How could you keep silent for so long?”

  “I was afraid. I feared that you might hunt me down and kill me. I took refuge in an abbey in Arbroath under a false name.” She wiped her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. “I have had a great deal of time to think, to relive every one of my sins over and over—”

  “And now you have come seeking forgiveness?” He did not believe himself capable of granting her any favors.

  Sibylla shook her head. “I do not expect you to forgive me. I deserve naught but your scorn. I only wanted… I needed to at least try and set things aright. The sisters have accepted that my repentance is true. They have agreed to let me join their order. But I could not withdraw from the world with this on my conscience. Now that I have told you the truth, I-I want only peace. I cannot ask for more.”

  She rose, trembling. “The abbess of Arbroath spoke with the priest who married… who thought he married us. He asked to hear my confession.” She reached into her voluminous robes with shaking fingers and pulled out a roll of parchment, which she handed to Darach. “This is proof of our annulment.”

  He unrolled the paper and looked at the illuminated lettering and elaborate signatures. It was real. She spoke the truth.

  His heart seemed to be beating too hard. “And what of Aidan?” he asked harshly.

  “I-I do not wish to cause any more pain than I already have. I am certain he is much better off with you than he ever could have been with me. When he is old enough to understand, explain it to him. Tell him that…” Her voice faltered. “Tell him I never wanted to hurt him.”

  She moved to the door and stopped, waiting—wanting, he knew, some kind of absolution from him.

  He had hated her for so many years, but now his hatred turned to dust.

  It was senseless—all of it, the suffering she had inflicted, the fear that had kept her from coming forward with the truth. Time had punished her more severely than he ever could. Years of worry and regret had crushed the once-regal Sibylla into a trembling shadow of herself.

  She had risked much in coming here. And she had gone to great effort to right the wrong she had done him. And shown courage in facing the one thing she feared most in the world—the truth.

  Could he find no scrap of mercy in his heart?

  It was time to let go of his bitterness and anger before they consumed any more of his life.

  “I grant you my forgiveness.”

  She smiled, her expression filled with both surprise and sadness. “Thank you, Darach.” She opened the door. “May God bless you and keep you in His care.”

  Long after she was gone, Darach sat staring into the beams of afternoon sunlight that streamed through the solar’s glass window. His mind was still reeling with shock.

  And as his anger and bitterness began to lift, other emotions flooded in. Relief. Wonder. Then stronger than all the rest, unnerving in the way it swept over him, came a feeling he had not experienced in years.

  Hope.

  ~ ~ ~

  Hours later, Laurien found Darach sitting at the edge of the lake. Sunset painted golden ribbons along the loch, bringing the water alive with color while leaving the trees and hills beyond in dusky shadow. He stared out across the still surface, his back rigid.

  After his visitor had gone, he had left the castle without pausing to explain. Laurien had somehow felt his need to be alone. Even as she burned with curiosity, she had spent the afternoon touring the castle and grounds with Mara and Catriona, then bathing, eating a meal with them, and listening to them tell tales of Darach’s childhood.

  But he had been out here for hours now, and the evening was growing cold. Though she respected his need for privacy, she felt a stronger need to offer comfort, to share whatever burden had befallen him.

  As she approached along the edge of the loch, he seemed unaware of her presence. Never had she seen him so completely absorbed.

  “Darach?” she asked softly.

  He glanced toward her, and as he recognized her in the day’s last light, his hard expression softened to a look she could not describe. It was almost the way he looked just before they made love—full of longing and fire. But this time his gaze held something else, an emotion so strong it made renewed hope steal through her.

  When she did not come closer, he rose and opened his arms in invitation. She crossed the distance and he met her halfway, enfolding her in the warmth of his cloak and his embrace. She slipped her arms around his back and rested her head against his chest.

  She quelled the impulse to deluge him with a flurry of questions. She simply held him, the thrumming of his heartbeat and the gentle waves of the loch the only sounds in the silence.

  After a moment, she unlocked her arms from around him and gave him the surprise she had brought.

  “What is
this?” His brow furrowed as he looked down at the small earthenware jar she placed in his hand.

  “Some salve I made for you—since we lost the other one when we lost our pack in Calais. It has rosemary, arnica leaf, and clove oil, to help when your injuries bother you. Catriona has been showing me the garden.” She smiled. “She is quite knowledgeable about Scottish flora. We had a fascinating discussion about thistles and heather. And this,” she said, pointing to the bell-shaped pink flower she had picked earlier and tucked into the chain of her mantle, “is called a Twinflower, linneae borealis. And did you know you have comfrey, valerian, and hyssop in your garden?”

  She had succeeded in lightening Darach’s mood. The corners of his mouth curved as he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Nay, I did not know that.”

  “Well, you do. Although you do not have any lavender, angelica, or lady’s mantle, which you truly should. They would do quite well in your Highland weather, and Cat agrees with me that there is certainly room to add them…” She looked at the fields that stretched in every direction.

  “I see. And where would I find someone to help me with the task of expanding my gardens?”

  Laurien looked down at the ground. She had become so excited, talking to Cat, that for a while she had almost forgotten…

  But she would not be here long enough to even begin any of it.

  She quietly changed the subject. “Who was your visitor, Darach?”

  It took him a long moment to reply.

  “Sibylla,” he said at last.

  Laurien felt her heart skip a beat. Shock overwhelmed her, then an unreasoning fear that she had just lost something more precious than her own life. She looked up at his unreadable gaze, unable to think of what to say. “What… w-what did she… how—”

  Darach raised one hand to her cheek and kissed her before she could put her fear into words. Surprised, Laurien went still at first, then slowly relaxed against him. His lips moved gently over hers, questing, possessive, and Laurien’s doubts faded under the warmth of his passion. She responded with all the love she felt for him, leaning into his chest, her arms circling his neck. It was so like him, she mused when his lips finally left hers, to reassure her with a kiss rather than with words.