His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0)

by Shelly Thacker

  Where was she? What chamber might they be in? Had they gone to the left or the right? He had only moments to find her before the fire would make any search impossible. They would all be trapped.

  “Laurien!” he shouted.

  He heard a whistle coming from one of the chambers to the right, cutting clearly through the smoke-clogged air—the falconer’s whistle! He ran toward it.

  He threw himself against the door and it gave way beneath his shoulder. The room glowed an angry red color made of bright flames and dark smoke. De Villiers was in one corner, tugging madly at something on the wall.

  “You are finished!” Darach yelled hoarsely. “There is no further place to run! Give up before we are all dead!”

  De Villiers spun, pulling Laurien in front of him with one arm, shouting at Balafre. “Kill him!”

  The comte disappeared into the shadows, seeming to melt into the wall, pulling Laurien with him.

  Balafre turned, drawing his sword with one hand, his knife with the other.

  Darach did the same. Without preamble, they launched themselves at each other. They fought without grace, with naught but a silent desperation to finish each other before the fire could finish them both.

  They made no sound save the rasping of their breath and tight-lipped snarls of effort as muscle and sinew and bone and steel fought for supremacy.

  Darach’s arm began to ache as he warded off blow after ringing blow. Balafre tried to back him toward the door, to force him into the flames in the hallway beyond. Darach stood his ground, struggling forward a step for every step he was pushed back.

  The roar of the flames drowned out even the ring of steel against steel. The heat was unbearable. Sweat dampened Darach’s hair and made his garments stick to him. His hands became slick on the pommel of his sword. He could feel his grip slipping. With a lightning-fast feint, Balafre slashed in with his knife. Darach felt a hot stab of pain along his ribs. Ignoring it, he danced away, then came in again.

  Both had the disadvantage of breathing cinder and ash. They were well matched in experience, size, weapons. The fight might have gone on interminably, save for Balafre’s one weakness.

  Darach understood that weakness with sudden insight and wondered why it had taken him so long to recognize it.

  From the moment Darach had entered the castle, he had been thinking of Laurien and Aidan and the need to get them out before the flames brought the keep down around their heads.

  But Balafre’s mind was filled with this fight, this moment, this opponent. The man was a killer, trained and paid to deliver death. And that was his weakness. Darach could see it in his eyes—Balafre craved death, like a thirsty man craved water. At the moment, Darach’s death was the one thing Balafre wanted most in the world.

  So Darach decided to give it to him.

  He returned the blows more slowly, purposely warding off Balafre’s attack with less and less force. He breathed harder, for all the world looking as if he were tiring. He let Balafre start to back him toward the doorway, the hall of fire beyond.

  Balafre took the bait and fought harder, his eyes gleaming with confidence.

  Looking exhausted, Darach dropped his knife so that he could use both hands on the sword.

  With a smug, self-satisfied smile, Balafre did the same.

  And Darach made his last move. He stumbled and fell, flat on his back, leaving himself wide open. Balafre closed in for the kill.

  In that instant Darach’s hand shot out. With one swift movement, he snatched up his knife from the floor—and a flick of his wrist sent it straight into Balafre’s neck.

  Balafre, his sword raised in both hands above his head, staggered.

  Darach was on his feet in a heartbeat, leaping forward as Balafre fell back. With a quick lunge, Darach plunged his sword into Balafre and pulled it free.

  Balafre toppled to the floor, a look of astonishment frozen on his face as he breathed his last.

  Clutching his sword, Darach snatched his knife back and ran for the wall. His fingers found the latch that triggered the secret exit de Villiers had discovered. A loud click sounded and part of the wall swung inward, revealing the cramped passageway beyond.

  Darach stepped inside and started forward, wrapping one edge of his cloak across his mouth to keep out the smoke and ash that seared his throat. At the end of the hall was a single, small door. He threw his shoulder against it, but it held fast. He heard Laurien scream and he tried again. This time it gave way, tumbling him headlong into the chamber.

  The small space was as hot as an oven. He scrambled to his feet and saw that the staircase in one corner had collapsed, along with part of the floor, destroying any hope of a way out. A writhing column of fire shot up through the opening.

  “Stay back!” De Villiers clutched Laurien against his chest as a shield. His every step carried them closer to the flames. “If I die, I take her with me!”

  Laurien struggled and kicked—and suddenly twisted to one side. Taking quick aim, Darach threw his knife. It struck de Villiers in the chest and the comte screamed, the sound shrill against the roar of the flames. He stumbled backward, hitting the wall, still holding Laurien by one arm.

  Suddenly the wall gave way under de Villiers’s weight. He grabbed for the skirt of Laurien’s gown as he fell, dragging her with him. Darach leaped forward and caught her around the waist. De Villiers teetered at the edge, gripping the silk with both hands. The skirt ripped. He bellowed in pain and rage.

  The sound was suddenly cut short as the delicate fabric gave way and he plunged into the column of flames.

  The door, the hallway, and more than half the chamber were now a solid wall of fire. Darach desperately pulled Laurien toward the window, their only hope of escape. They embraced, both trembling, for a moment that was all too brief. Then Darach pushed open the shutters and they leaned out, gasping in what air they could as smoke poured over their heads and into the night sky.

  The tops of the distant trees were far below. Even farther below, they could see the fire reflected on the waters of the glassy-smooth loch.

  Darach turned to her, and she laid a hand on his face, caressing his cheek, which was smudged with soot and streaked with blood and sweat.

  He gave her the slightest flicker of a grin. “You have experience in this sort of thing, do you not?”

  She shook her head wildly. “We are much too high, Darach—”

  He silenced her with a hard, deep kiss. The next instant he lifted her onto the window ledge, jumping up beside her. He covered her hand with his.

  She looked at him one last time.

  Then they jumped.

  Laurien’s scream was the only sound in the sudden silence. Darach’s stomach was in his throat. Yet his thoughts were startlingly clear. He felt the exquisite coolness of the air, Laurien’s hand grasping his—and then just as suddenly the wrenching impact of his body striking the water. The pain was so great he thought for an instant they must have hit the ground instead of the lake.

  But then he felt the dark, cold waters of the loch pulling them down and closing over their heads.

  Chapter 27

  The air felt delightfully fresh, clear, and most of all, cool.

  The sheets were soft against her naked skin, and sleep felt best of all. But thirsty for a draught of that precious air, Laurien inhaled deeply. She came awake all at once, coughing. Smoke, she remembered. She had breathed in a great deal of it. Opening her eyes and sitting up, she found herself in Darach’s chamber, in his bed. Alone.

  Where was he? she wondered in sudden panic. God’s mercy, what if he had been killed! And her father and Aidan—

  Then she heard the knocking. “Come in.” She quickly clasped the covers against her, her voice rasping in her dry throat.

  The door opened, and Aidan entered timidly. Thank God he was alive. He bowed to her and smiled hesitantly. “Good morn, milady.” He was dressed in a white silk surcoat with the Glenshiel falcon embroidered on it, over a green tunic an
d leggings. “I was told to let you sleep as long as you like, but the others are waiting.”

  “Waiting?” She turned her head, realizing from the sun pouring in the window that it must be late in the day. The fall must have knocked her unconscious. She turned back to Aidan. “Is everyone all right, Aidan? Your father and Sir Malcolm—where are they?”

  The lad smiled. “They are all well. But where they are is supposed to be a secret. If you will dress, milady, I will await you outside.” He indicated with a nod a gown draped over the foot of the bed. Bowing again, he closed the door behind him.

  Laurien felt a wave of relief and quickly slipped from beneath the sheets. Her eyes still stung and her every muscle ached, but she found to her surprise that she had not suffered much damage in the fall. She picked up the gown. It was lovely, all of emerald green silk, the bodice embroidered with silver threads—in a pattern of flowers and leaves and vines, with a Scottish thistle over the heart.

  The long sleeves were wide at the wrist to reveal a white satin lining. There were slippers to match. And someone had been thoughtful enough to provide a hairbrush. Her curiosity thoroughly piqued, Laurien hurriedly donned the gown and slippers, and quickly brushed her hair.

  She paused only to splash her face with water from the bedside basin and take a soothing drink, then stepped into the hall.

  She was surprised to find Aidan gone. “Aidan?” she asked softly. Where had he gone?

  Going below to the great hall, she again found herself alone. A fire burned brightly on the hearth, but there was no sign of anyone. Even Ranald and Mara and Catriona were absent. Mayhap when Aidan had said “outside,” he had meant outdoors. She went out the doors and down the stairs into the bailey.

  There she found the lad, waiting beside a creamy white mare, bedecked with satin fittings on the bridle and saddle, a garland of flowers around its neck.

  “She is yours, milady,” Aidan explained, fairly beaming. “My father has told me to take you wherever you wish to go… or you can follow where I will lead you.”

  Without hesitating, Laurien accepted his help in mounting. She smiled down at him. “Lead on, then, sir.”

  He eagerly led the horse at a trot through the castle gates, over the causeway, and into the fields beyond. There, he turned from the path and into the woods. A short journey brought them to a clearing in the forest.

  A number of tents had been set up, their colors like bright green and white flags against the muted browns of the autumn trees. She could see people milling about—Darach’s men, his servants, townspeople. And out of the crowd came Darach himself, striding forward to meet them.

  He was dressed in an outfit that matched Aidan’s, and as he drew near Laurien, his smile rivaled the sun for brightness.

  “Well done, my son.” He gave Aidan an affectionate pat on the back. “Now if you hurry, you might get some of the food before Sir Malcolm eats it all.”

  The boy set off at a run, and Darach turned his gaze to Laurien. She returned his warm smile in full measure. Reaching up, he swept her down from the saddle and held her to him.

  “Thank God you are not hurt,” she said. Then she stood back to look him up and down. “You are not hurt, are you?”

  “I am quite fit—”

  “What is that?” She touched a rather angry-looking bruise on his chin. “Is it from our fall?”

  “’Tis naught.” He winced despite his words and pulled her hand away, holding it in his.

  “And Malcolm and Henri—they are safe?”

  “Your brother and your father are well.” He nodded when Laurien looked at him in surprise. “Aye, Malcolm told me. I am glad for you, Laurien. And for me.”

  “For you?”

  “’Tis one more reason for you to stay in Scotland.” He grinned. “As for your brother, he turned out to be quite a hero. Malcolm and Aidan were halfway down the passage out of the prison cell when it became blocked. Henri freed them and got them to safety.”

  Satisfied that everyone was unharmed, Laurien threw herself into Darach’s arms and hugged him tightly. “Darach, I was so afraid. When the floor collapsed and the whole chamber was afire, I thought it was the end for all of us—”

  “Shhh, ’tis over now.” He stroked her hair. “Between de Villiers’s guards and Fionna, we were able to piece together the comte’s real plan. He meant to take the French throne, and Scotland’s as well. But we have put an end to all of that. His guards—the few left after my men finished with them—told us that the alliance has been signed already. De Villiers had it with him when he left France. We found it in his travelling chest. It needs only Balliol’s signature to be complete.”

  “Then Scotland is safe?”

  “Aye, for now. We have not heard the last of the English. But at least we will have a fighting chance.”

  “And Fionna?”

  “We have turned her over to Balliol’s justice. Mayhap he will be merciful and simply banish her from Scotland forever.”

  Laurien looked up at him, feeling such a mixture of relief and joy and love that she did not know what to say next. She frowned at him with mock ire. “When I awoke alone, I feared that you were…” She could not bring herself to say it.

  “I am not so easy to get rid of.” He chuckled. “After Mara and Catriona assured me you were not hurt, I came here to start this.” He indicated the tents. They started to walk toward the waiting crowd.

  “You were that certain I would come with Aidan, rather than ride off to faraway places and adventures unknown?”

  “Aye.” He grinned.

  “I am becoming entirely too predictable. I must remember to be troublesome now and again, else you are going to be impossible to live with. And by what magic did you find the gown and the horse?”

  “Scottish fairy magic.” His grin widened.

  “Do you mean that fairies are real in Scotland?”

  “Lass, as a Scot, you must believe. I have traveled far, and I can tell you, there is magic in some corners of the world,” he assured her. “But I sent Ranald scouring the countryside to buy just the right horse. And Mara and Catriona worked into the morning on the gown.”

  She smiled wryly. “They all know how impatient you can be.”

  Darach stopped short, turning suddenly serious. “It is true, Laurien. I can be difficult to live with. I am not always patient, and I do not say ‘please’ very often, and I can be too demanding. And I might forget, more often than not, to say that…” He looked away, then turned back to her and held her gaze. “To tell you how much I love you. But I want you to be my wife.” His voice became strained. “Camhanach, will you marry me?”

  Laurien had not realized until this moment just how much Darach truly loved her. What he was asking was so important to him—she was so important to him—that his eyes were shining with unshed tears.

  She smiled up at him, and gave him the only possible answer, the one word that filled her heart, her mind, and her soul.

  “Aye.”

  With shout of elation, he swept her into his arms. By the time her feet finally returned to the ground, she was laughing and breathless, filled with pure, complete joy. She placed her hand firmly in his, and they walked together into the waiting crowd, who cheered as they entered the circle of tents. Henri came forward, and Laurien hugged him.

  “Oh, Henri, I am so relieved that you are safe!”

  “I have only just been able to breathe again, ma soeur. If you keep squeezing me so tightly, you will rob me of what little air I have managed to inhale.”

  “Men!” she huffed, releasing him. “You cannot stand the least show of affection, any of you.”

  He grabbed her as she started to pull away. “Alors, hug me then.”

  “Henri,” she said, turning serious when he let her go. “I have a gift for you.”

  “On your wedding day you are to receive gifts, not give them. Which reminds me, I have your gift from Sister Emeline—the plant books? They are still in my pack.”

 
; “Thank you, Henri. I shall have need of them, for the new gardens at Glenshiel.” She smiled at Darach. “And mayhap a new infirmary as well.”

  “Infirmary?” Darach arched one brow.

  “Aye, while Cat was showing me your gardens, she mentioned that the nearest infirmary is at a convent in Inverness, a very long distance away. So I thought… since we are responsible for all the people who live on our lands, there should be an infirmary for them.”

  Darach sighed indulgently. “Apparently, I will need to write to my friend Gaston for advice on hiring a good master stonemason.”

  Laurien beamed at him before she returned her attention to her brother. “Now then, mon frere, I have a gift for you—and I can think of no one more deserving of it. My lands, Henri, I give you my lands. When you inherit Louis’s lands, unite them with our mother’s estates, and raise a family of your own there. A happy family.”

  “Laurien…” He looked stunned. “It is too generous a gift. Might you not wish to keep those lands, for your own children?”

  Laurien glanced at Darach, then shook her head, smiling. “My children and I will have all that we need, all we could ever want, here in Scotland. This is my home now.”

  Henri nodded, his eyes filled with gratitude. “I accept your gift, then. But I might not be returning to France just yet. I find much that is attractive about this Scotland of yours.” He smiled at a pair of young ladies on the edge of the crowd. One returned his smile while the other blushed and giggled. “If I may impose upon your hospitality?”

  Laurien looked at Darach, who frowned and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  “What is that bruise on your chin?” she asked with concern. “Does it pain you?”

  “No more than mine did, I imagine,” Henri explained before Darach could reply. “That is my fault, Laurien. I repaid him for that little tap he gave me in the forest.”

  “I allowed you to repay me,” Darach corrected.

  “You let Henri hit you?” Laurien asked, at first surprised, then pleased and proud of Darach for his sense of fair play. “’Twas most generous of you.”