The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch

by Shelly Thacker

  He had eyes of the palest blue, like a clear, cool lake reflecting a summer sky.

  And as he regarded her silently, the unnerving sensation she had felt upon first meeting him shimmered through her once more—a dazzling heat, as if the sun had tumbled from the heavens to fill every fiber of her being. The impact swept over her so suddenly, so powerfully, it robbed her of breath, voice, of her very senses.

  Even as she struggled to give the feeling a name, she sensed, somehow, that he felt it, too. Which only mystified and unsettled her all the more.

  Shaken, she managed to tear her gaze from his, and realized that he no longer wore the homespun tunic and cloak of a trader. He was garbed in naught but a pair of close-fitting brown leggings, leather boots, and a gold armband encircling one thick bicep. A sheathed sword and knife hung from his belt.

  Every hard plane and angle of his shoulders and chest and powerful arms was exposed to view. From his unyielding stance to the blunt tips of his fingers, he looked as strong and solid as the rocks that sliced up the sea below his keep.

  He moved away from the window, and a moment later the center of the room flared with the glow of fire, as he used flint and steel to light the candles in an iron candle-stand. The golden warmth flickered over his back and arms, casting every muscle and sinew in sharp relief.

  “Put the weapon down,” he said without looking at her.

  Avril shivered. It was not a suggestion but a command. He spoke in the same way he moved—with an air of authority. As if he owned not only this place, but everything in it.

  She felt renewed fear curl in her belly. But she did not comply. She tightened her hand around the blade’s hilt, ignoring the sting in her injured palm.

  Carrying one of the candles, he moved even closer to light a second candelabra. Avril held her ground—and, in the growing brightness, felt surprised to see that she was not in a bedchamber after all.

  There were cook pots, copper utensils, and a cauldron beside the hearth. A table for eating in one corner. Shelves that held linens and soaps for washing, next to a rain barrel. This odd dwelling seemed to be some sort of long, one-room home.

  Finished with his task, her abductor glanced toward her, mouth open as if he meant to issue another command. But then his gaze fastened on the revealing silk kirtle and skimmed down her body, taking in every inch of skin illuminated by the light.

  Those pale azure eyes suddenly darkened in a blaze of heat. Avril inhaled sharply, filled with feminine alarm at the obvious direction of his thoughts. Every instinct urged her to flee, yet she could not move. And could not understand the tingle that coursed through her limbs, holding her fast.

  “I left a tunic for you.” His voice sounded even deeper than before. A muscle flexed in his lean jaw. “Did you not see it?” He nodded toward the foot of the bed, where a garment of black velvet lay draped over a trunk.

  “I-I was more interested in finding a way out!” She tried to keep her voice from wavering, looked at the distant door. Wondered if she dared try to run past him. “Where am I?” she demanded, deciding boldness was her only choice at the moment. “Who the devil are you and what do you—”

  “Put down the blade,” he repeated with measured patience, “and we will discuss this”—he seemed to search for the appropriate word— “situation calmly.”

  “Calmly?” she sputtered. “I have been attacked by brigands, kidnapped, carried off to sweet Mary knows where, locked in a room, and now—”

  “Milady,” he said in soft warning. Without another word, he advanced toward her, his patience apparently at an end. She retreated only a step.

  Then she retreated three more.

  As he kept coming, she decided that discretion might be better than valor at the moment. She dashed toward the bed, snatching up the black velvet tunic on the way and clutching it in front of her. She tossed the weapon into the center of the rumpled sheets.

  “There. There, are you satisfied?” She kept moving, maneuvering around until the huge bed was between them. The sword was still within reach if she chose to lunge for it.

  But he seemed placated for now. He kept his distance, reaching out to close his fingers around one of the dragon-headed posts.

  “If I had meant you any harm,” he grated out, pronouncing each word distinctly, as if she were a slow-witted child, “if I had intended to kill you, or do aught else”—his gaze flicked over her body again—”I already had ample opportunity. You will have to trust me.”

  Trust him? Trust him! Avril choked back a biting retort and quickly pulled the tunic over her head. It was obviously one of his, the sleeves much too long, the hem falling to her ankles. But at least she no longer felt as exposed as she did wearing only the ridiculous scrap of silk.

  “Where am I?” she repeated more calmly once she was dressed, trying not to provoke him again. “How far are we from Antwerp? How long was I asleep?”

  “You were asleep …” He paused, clearly choosing his words carefully. “A short time. I brought you here early this morn. That gown was the only female garment I had at the time. I have brought you some others, along with some additional female trappings you might require.” He nodded toward a pair of sacks he had left on the far side of the room. “As for where you are, this is Asgard Island. I bid you…” He paused again, sighing tiredly. “Welcome.”

  Despite the greeting, his attitude was hardly hospitable. Naught that he was saying made any sense. The man had kidnapped her, yet he did not seem to want her here.

  “Asgard Island?” she echoed, searching her memory for all the names of places she had read about, all the places Gerard used to describe when he spoke of his travels. “I have never heard of it.”

  Those blue eyes met hers again. “I know.”

  Somehow that simple comment was more terrifying than aught else he could have said. “Who are you?” she whispered. “And what do you want with me?”

  Buy this book now: Timeless: The Asgard Warriors

  Bonus Content:

  Sneak Preview Excerpt from the upcoming revised edition of FALCON ON THE WIND

  (Historical Romance, a prequel to the Stolen Brides Series)

  Dear Reader,

  I’m currently working on an all-new edition of my first novel, revising it from first page to last. The upcoming second edition of Falcon on the Wind will feature special bonus content, including deleted scenes never before published.

  Set in 1295, five years before Forever His takes place, Falcon on the Wind introduces us to a charming scoundrel named Gaston de Varennes for the first time, when he offers refuge to a friend who’s on a dangerous secret mission.

  Enjoy this exclusive, advanced sneak peek of the novel-in-progress, as our hero and heroine, Connor and Laurien, meet for the first time.

  ******

  Kidnapped from her royal wedding – by her groom’s most dangerous enemy

  Betrayed by a treacherous French ally, Sir Connor of Glenshiel kidnaps the knave’s betrothed, heiress Laurien d’Amboise, from the steps of Chartres Cathedral on her wedding day. She is a hostage to be bartered for the freedom of Connor’s beloved Scotland—but the clever, defiant lady has plans of her own. From a besieged French castle to the Scottish Highlands, they’re swept up in dangerous secrets, wild adventure, and a love to last a lifetime.

  “A compelling, memorable romance. Shelly Thacker’s Falcon on the Wind joins the ranks of the finest medieval captive/captor stories along with those by Elizabeth Stuart and Johanna Lindsey. A new star of medieval romance is on the rise. 4 I/2 stars (highest rating).” Kathe Robin, Romantic Times

  Chartres, France, 1295

  Connor nodded toward the wedding party assembled in the courtyard. “I wonder what causes the delay.”

  From their vantage point near the gate’s barbican tower, he and Malcolm had a clear view of the proceedings. De Villiers had appeared and mounted his white horse. Then, when there had been no sign of his bride, he had gone back inside the chateau. A short time later t
he comte reappeared, and now stood talking quietly to his guards.

  “Mayhap the lady has reconsidered,” Malcolm ventured.

  “Reconsidered? A lofty position as wife to the king’s own cousin? Jewels? A life of comfort and ease? Any female would give her front teeth for…Wait.” Connor tensed. “There she is.”

  Clad in a fitted blue-and-white gown and ermine-lined mantle, de Villiers’s bride stepped into the courtyard, walking unescorted toward the waiting horses. As Connor watched her move, a low whistle of appreciation escaped him. ‘Twould have been a sin to keep curves like that locked away in a musty convent, hidden under a nun’s habit.

  Gliding through the crowd, a wisp of softness and silk, she stood out among the glittering nobles like a graceful angel among gaudy statues.

  Connor frowned, wondering where that poetic thought had come from. Verse did not number among his talents.

  The lady’s throat and cheeks were hidden beneath a tightly wrapped wimple, her hair draped in a veil, and he caught only a glimpse of delicate features. She stopped when a quartet of burly guardsmen surrounded her, but met their gazes squarely. She did not demurely lower her eyes, did not curtsy to anyone—even to her betrothed. When one guard offered to lift her onto her tall bay mare, she refused his extended hand, took the reins herself and mounted in a single fluid motion.

  “Pray correct me if this is a mistaken impression,” Malcolm said, “but she does not seem like the timid, docile sort.”

  “I may have been wrong on that score,” Connor agreed warily. “But how much trouble could one woman be?”

  De Villiers stood staring at his bride for a long moment, and she returned the look. From where Connor watched, he could not make out her expression. Finally, the comte mounted his horse and motioned to his guards. The party moved toward the street and the impatient throngs.

  Connor turned to Malcolm. “‘Tis time. Away, quickly. And remember, if I dinna arrive within the hour—”

  “I am off to Calais, aye. Alba gu brath!” Malcolm maneuvered his dun-colored nag toward a side street.

  “Alba gu brath! For Scotland!” Connor’s jaw hardened. “And for Galen.”

  He turned his black stallion and headed into the crowd.

  ***

  A breeze cooled Laurien’s face, chilling the sweat that trickled down her back and under her arms as the wedding party rode through the chateau gates. The air was cold, but she felt as though she were suffocating, her fur-lined cloak an unbearable weight on her shoulders. Guards positioned along the route held back the cheering crowds as she passed into the street. She heard naught but the clop, clop, clop of her horse’s hooves on the dirt, felt naught but the slow thud of her own heart.

  The autumn sun glinted on gold and jewels as the long line of horses moved through the crowd, a stream of silk-clad ladies in purple and green and red, and knights in clinking chain mail. Laurien rode in the middle of the procession, boxed in by guards on either side, one in front, and one behind. Her numbed mind wondered why they rode in this unusual arrangement, rather than two before and two behind. She watched her betrothed at the head of the line.

  De Villiers had that false smile in place as he regarded the crowds, waving occasionally, glancing over his shoulder now and then to fasten those black eyes on her. Laurien stared blankly at him, at the scene about her, feeling as if she had become only a player in someone else’s strange dream.

  They passed tiny buildings, clustered about the edge of the chateau like children clinging to their mother’s skirt. She looked across a sea of haggard faces, open mouths with missing teeth forming a soundless, gaping O as the spectacle moved past. Hundreds of pairs of eyes stared, filled with … What was that look? Jealousy? Envy?

  They would not envy her so, Laurien thought, if ever they chanced to spend a few moments alone with the comte in his chambers.

  The procession passed into the marketplace at the town’s center, and the sea of peasants went on, all clothed in gray fustian or sackcloth colored with yellow and green vegetable dyes. Pilgrims dotted the crowd in their hooded brown cloaks and wooden cross necklaces. She knew Chartres and its cathedral was a popular destination—many did not want the risk and expense of a trip to the Holy Land. But she had never seen so many pilgrims in one place.

  And there were children everywhere. Some stood on upturned carts, others sat on their parents’ shoulders for a better view. One little girl, wailing, caught Laurien’s attention. She had apparently hurt her knee, but her father quickly scooped her up and cuddled her, kissing away her tears. Then he kissed her knee, as if to take away the pain.

  Laurien swallowed hard and dropped her gaze, wondering what it was like to have such a loving father. To know that feeling, even for a moment, she would gladly trade places with a peasant girl.

  The passage narrowed on the way out of the market and the wedding party squeezed through a street of timber-framed hovels, where more onlookers leaned out of windows. The air seemed to grow thick with the smells of roast meat, spilled ale, and the refuse that lined the streets. She tugged at the gold chain fastening her mantle, wanting to throw it off, trying to breathe. The movement only made her painfully aware of the bruises around her throat.

  The cathedral loomed before her.

  They approached from a hill to the east, and the midday sun shone through the huge windows, making the luminous reds and blues and violets seem to dance. She had read much about what many said was France’s most beautiful cathedral—but at the moment, she could not recall a single fact from her history texts. Inside that church her fate would be sealed.

  They were close enough now that she could see the outlines of the statues above the doors.

  A sudden commotion made her glance to her right. A lone rider mounted on a tall black stallion was jostling for position on a side street, his broad shoulders nearly filling the space between buildings. He wore the brown cloak and wooden cross of a pilgrim, but something made the milling throng give way around him.

  He quieted his horse, looked up—and Laurien immediately understood why the crowd had given him a wide berth.

  He looked like some kind of brigand. Dangerous. The sort of man who should be brawling in an alehouse somewhere or doing violence in a dark alley. From his muscular frame to the scar that slashed along his left cheekbone, white against his tanned skin, he was almost alarmingly … male. And menacing. A thatch of blond hair tangled over his forehead, and he had a slightly darker beard, but neither softened the hard angles of his face. Despite his garb, he did not look at all like a penitent worshipper on a holy quest.

  He looked like an outlaw intent on stealing something.

  And he must be the boldest of thieves, she thought, if he meant to steal jewels from any of the nobles in the wedding procession.

  But then, he was not watching the procession, she realized suddenly.

  He was watching her.

  Every instinct urged her to glance away, her heart beating harder, but his gaze held hers fast. He studied her, his eyes the most vibrant blue she had ever seen, blue like the sheer glass of the cathedral windows, eyes held a look of … unyielding determination. And somehow, though she wore no gems of any kind, she sensed that all of his fierce determination was directed at her. An unfamiliar and unsettling sensation flashed through her body, searing her as if she had stepped too close to a fire.

  One of the guards noticed her stare and broke out of line to question the man. But when Laurien craned her neck to watch what happened, she saw that the rider had melted away into the crowd.

  The odd encounter with the outlaw shattered her grim mood. Clearly, de Villiers did not dominate everyone in this city. The thought made her sit taller in the saddle, the anger and fear she had felt earlier flooding back. She would not give her betrothed the opportunity to subject her to any further abuse.

  As long as she had a horse under her and her wits about her, she had a chance.

  The comte stood in front of the cathedral doors, already g
reeting the priest. She would have to be quick. If she could break out of the procession and push her way through the crowd, she could be away before any would have a chance to react. She would ride to Tours, to Sister Emeline. Betrothals could be broken. They would find a way. She had to get away from here, from him.

  She looked again at the four guards surrounding her. Realized now why they were there: not to protect her, but to keep her in. She could kick one, grab his reins. Nay, these men-at-arms would be more than able to fend off her attack. She would need to think of something…

  Her aumônière.

  Laurien wore an embroidered bag at her waist to carry alms for the poor, as was the custom among nuns and noble ladies alike. But her purse held more than coins. It also held a small silver blade, with a glimmering emerald in the hilt and an inscription in ancient lettering. The knife had once belonged to her father – her real father.

  ‘Twas all she had of him, and she kept it close, always.

  Her hand moved to the bag hanging from the silken rope that girdled her waist. She felt the outline of sharp metal.

  Stabbing the guard would not work, but she could nick his horse. She did not want to hurt the animal, but if she could just make it rear, mayhap toss its rider, she would have an open path to freedom. It was her only chance.

  She started to open the bag and slip her hand inside when she heard a surprised shout on her right that rippled through the crowd. She turned, and what she saw stopped her breath.

  She froze in shock as the blond outlaw on the huge black stallion came charging straight toward her.

  The guards at her side spun their mounts to face the thief a moment too late. He plunged out of the crowd, caught her around the waist with one muscular arm.

  And plucked her right out of the saddle.

  Laurien screamed as she felt herself snatched into the air and pulled in tight against the brigand’s side. The crowd scattered with cries of terror. From the direction of the cathedral she heard a roar like that of an animal pierced by a huntsman’s blade.