The Frost Maiden's Kiss

by Claire Delacroix

  Catriona had no idea what to expect from these vandals who seemed intent upon destroying all they could see. Her heart was pounding in terror and Ian was huddled against her chest, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. He was tired and hungry and only three years of age. He understood even less than she, but he had wept all his tears of frustration.

  The sounds of slaughter became louder in the lane beyond the door and Catriona tightened her grip upon him. She touched her fingertip to his lips even as a mighty crash sounded from the lane. Orange flame was visible through the slats of the shuttered window and he cried out in fear.

  “Shh!” Catriona advised, trying to hug him tightly. He kicked her in the stomach and in the instant that her grip was loosened, he broke free of her.

  “In here!” shouted a man and something pounded at the door. “Just as we were told!”

  “Catriona!” Ian bellowed, as a battering ram hammered at the wooden portal.

  “Ian!” Catriona whispered, trying to beckon him to her side. The boy ignored her plea, though, and darted to the far side of the door. The door crashed open then, hanging limply from one hinge and emitting the smoke and fire of the town beyond.

  A trio of men stood in the doorway. Their faces were blacked with ash and their hands were red with blood. They were unrecognizable, but there was a lust in their eyes that made Catriona shrink into the shadows. One seized the young boy, who hollered in frustration and then in pain.

  Even knowing how it would go, Catriona could not keep silent, not even in her dream.

  “Ian!” she cried and all three of them looked upon her with an intent that nigh stopped her heart.

  Catriona awakened with a pounding heart, uncertain where she was. There was no hint of the fire and smoke she had smelled just moments before, no stone floor beneath her cheek, no blood on her face and no men in the doorway of her home.

  Certainly there was no sign of Ian.

  Catriona’s hands were clenched so tightly that her nails dug into her palms. Her breath was quick and sweat trickled down her spine. She closed her eyes, seeing Ian as she had seen him last, and tasted her own tears.

  She had failed her younger brother so badly.

  “Catriona,” a man murmured and her eyes flew open in terror.

  The Laird of Ravensmuir was there, standing motionless at the top of the stairs, his eyes glittering in the darkness, his hand on the hilt of his blade.

  She was at Ravensmuir.

  Catriona exhaled and tried to still her racing heart. “But a dream, my lord,” she whispered and he nodded. He waited until her breathing returned to its normal state, watchful and cautious. When she nodded to him, he nodded in return, then disappeared down the stairs again.

  Catriona clutched her cross and said a prayer for Ian, liking very much that the laird stood guard, even over her.

  * * *

  Who was Ian?

  Catriona’s nightmare distracted Malcolm from his own. He returned to the hall below, her anguish vivid in his thoughts. He had thought her so cold when first they had met, but it was clear she was filled with passion.

  Who was Ian?

  What had happened to him?

  And why did he haunt Catriona’s dreams?

  Malcolm wanted very much to know. He could well imagine that Ian might be the man she had loved in truth, the one who had died and left her alone, even the one who had abandoned her. Whatever the tale, it was clear from her anguish that Ian was a man Catriona had loved.

  To his surprise, that realization tormented Malcolm even more than the memories awakened by the Fae.

  Friday, June 18, 1428

  Feast Day of Saint Mark and Saint Marcellian.

  * * *

  Chapter Six

  Erik could have done without this sojourn to Ravensmuir, however brief it might ultimately be. In fact, he would have much rather remained home, but it was difficult to deny his beloved wife anything she asked of him with such passion. He understood her close relationship with her family and had no desire to compromise the connection with Kinfairlie.

  Ravensmuir, however, was another matter.

  Erik believed he was a temperate man in most matters, but the fact that Vivienne’s brother had become a mercenary did not sit any better with him than it did with Alexander. That Malcolm was Vivienne’s favorite brother and that she was inclined to accept his deeds without so much as a whisper of protest was irksome, as well. That his children and his wife slept in the solar, where he was clearly unwelcome, was nigh enough to keep Erik awake all the night.

  He had slept, against his own expectation, though his dreams had been troubled. He awakened feeling unsettled and more than ready to be away from this cursed place.

  And that was before Ruari began to lament.

  “No good will come of it,” that man said as soon as Erik opened an eye. “Mark my words, boy, our night here will cast a long shadow.”

  “We will leave this morning, Ruari,” Erik said. “Fear not: you will be at Kinfairlie before midday with more than ample opportunity to ensure that Vera’s affections have not changed before this evening. Never mind that Alexander is certain to have ordered some of that ale you so enjoy from the Kinfairlie’s brewster.”

  “You think my concern is for my own pleasure?” Ruari was more indignant than Erik could have managed at this hour of the morn. It was barely light, the first touch of daylight just sliding along the floor of the stables. “Did you not hear the music?”

  “I heard the rain. It was quite a storm.”

  “No wonder for there was Fae music!” Ruari whispered, his tone filled with horror. “They were dancing all the night, making their merriment, playing their fiddles. In all likelihood, they summoned the storm!”

  Erik granted his loyal companion a severe look, but it made as much difference as he might have expected.

  “I could not force the melody from my dreams, though I put my fingers in my own ears.”

  “From whence did it come?”

  “Everywhere. Nowhere!” Ruari flung out his hands. “It was beneath the earth, the very floor of the stable humming with the tune.” His fingers tapped against his thigh, marking out the tune that Erik had not even heard.

  Or perhaps it was responsible for his own troubled dreams.

  “I count myself fortunate that you were not convinced to dance, Ruari.”

  “And so you should be. You would be alone then, and me lost for a hundred years,” the older man said, his tone dour. “If not forever.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Look at the marks upon my arm! I have been pinched in the night by those fiendish creatures.”

  Erik did not note that Ruari could have simply rolled in his sleep and gotten the bruises, for he knew the older man would not be convinced. “So, the affection appears to be mutual.”

  Ruari pointed to Erik’s arm. “I am not alone in being punished by their thieving fingers.”

  Erik was surprised to see bruises rising on his own flesh, just as if tiny fingers had pinched him hard and repeatedly. “I must have rolled over my knife,” he said. Though the explanation made little sense, Erik preferred it to the notion of the Fae plucking at him while he slept, unaware of their pranks.

  Ruari scoffed. “Believe what you need to believe. I know what is what in this place.” The older man made his way to the trio of goats tethered in a stall closer to the keep itself, and in his absence, Erik had a better look at the bruises rising on his skin.

  They were all over him!

  “More mischief!” Ruari declared. “The goats are dry this morn, though their teats should be hanging low.”

  “Perhaps someone has been from the keep already to milk them.”

  “Perhaps you create explanations rather than face the truth.” Ruari returned to the stall, folding his arms across his chest as he faced his laird. “We cannot be away from Ravensmuir soon enough, my lord. Even with the ravens gone, it remains a strange and dangerous place, one where no man of merit should linger.”


  Erik would have liked to have argued the merit of his wife’s brother, but found he could not.

  “Oh, the laird is gracious enough,” Ruari muttered, needing little encouragement to continue one of his tirades. “But what has he done to amass such wealth as could pay for this? He has sold his own soul, upon that you can rely, committed all manner of evil, and his taint has only made Ravensmuir more foul than ever it was.” He spun to face Erik as he had a thought. “Perhaps it is the Fae music that enchanted him. Perhaps the sound of it beguiled the laird and hardened his heart so that he could do the deeds he did.”

  “Perhaps we should tend the horses, if our party means to depart this morn.”

  Ruari granted Erik a dark look, then made a sound of disgust as he began to groom the palfreys. “See the Fae mischief? Knots in manes and tails, and a mess made of the trap.” It was true. The manes and tails of the horses were in as tangled a state as the trap, and Erik knew it had not been left that way the night before.

  Ruari wagged a finger at him. “The Fae were displeased that we did not come to dance, that much is certain.” He made his way to the destriers, his scowl deepening. “And look at the glisten on the hides of these two. They have had a run in the night, unless I miss my guess, a wild hunt with the Fae.”

  “The horses were here all the night long, Ruari.”

  “So you think, but the Fae are cursed deceptive. I say these destriers have run and that they have run far.”

  The beasts did seem warm from exertion and the flesh of his stallion quivered when Erik put a hand upon the beast’s rump. There was a glint in the horse’s eye and his ebony mane was filled with knots that had not been there the night before.

  Erik would have liked to have called Ruari’s words nonsense, but once he looked upon the horses he could not.

  Did it not figure that the Fae, widely reputed to adore fine horses, should have chosen these two black destriers as their mounts?

  Were the steeds of Ravensmuir’s line so fine because of the Fae? A shiver slipped down Erik’s spine at that. He had to get his family away from this holding with all speed.

  “A fine thing it is that Kinfairlie is not far,” Ruari said. “For if you had a long journey this day, it would be cruel to so push the steeds.”

  “A fine thing indeed,” Erik replied, tugging on his tabard and his boots. “If you might see the horses saddled and the cart prepared, Ruari, I shall rouse my lady wife. I would be at Kinfairlie before midmorning.”

  “Aye, lad, that may be the wisest decision that ever I have heard you make.”

  * * *

  With one glance out the window of the solar, Catriona knew the weather would be even less pleasant than the day before. The sea was still dark and churning, as dark as a tarnished silver buckle, and the clouds in the sky were of a hue to match. Though it had rained mightily in the night and there was standing water on the ground, the skies appeared to have more to loose. The wind tore through the windows of the new keep, chilling the stone and making it difficult to kindle a fire on the hearth.

  She wondered if the elements were always thus at Ravensmuir.

  Or was the weather a portent of doom?

  Certainly, the babe in her belly had awakened with a vengeance. Between its motion and her nightmare, she had slept precious little.

  Unexpectedly, it had been curiosity about the laird himself that had occupied her thoughts as she lay awake. Catriona found herself wondering what he did in those ruins, why he entered them, and how often.

  She wondered if he would confide her.

  She wondered if she dared to ask.

  Catriona left the solar and her sleeping lady just after the dawn to collect embers from the hearth in the hall below. She could not help that note the absence of the laird in his own hall, though his companion was rolled in his cloak in one corner, snoring softly. The cask of wine that had been opened the night before appeared to be empty, which explained Rafael’s state well enough. She heard the laborers calling to each other in the bailey and smelled fires burning as the men roused themselves to work anew.

  Laird Erik came into the hall with Ruari just as she was climbing the stairs. “Catriona, we shall leave with all speed for Kinfairlie, if you would tell my lady as much. I would reach there by mid-morning.”

  Catriona recalled her lady’s state and wished she could ensure that Lady Vivienne slept longer. “But the children are sleeping so deeply, my lord.”

  “They can sleep at Kinfairlie,” he said, slapping his gloves against his palm with an impatience to be gone. “The steeds are saddled already. Please bid my lady wife to make haste.”

  What could she do? Catriona dared not break her pledge to her lady, but ducked her head and hastened up the stairs. Her footsteps faltered when she heard the voice of the Laird of Ravensmuir. She lingered out of sight, listening, hoping one laird could convince the other.

  “Will you not remain another night?” the Laird of Ravensmuir asked, his tone gracious.

  “I think not.” Laird Erik was formal to the point of being cold. “We are expected at Kinfairlie.”

  “And they already know that you linger here, for they sent provisions for your comfort.”

  “All the same, I would continue with haste.”

  “I throw myself at your mercy, Erik,” the Laird of Ravensmuir said, to Catriona’s surprise. “I have not seen my favorite sister these eight years. Might I not savor one more day of her company?”

  Catriona bit her lip, glad beyond belief that the laird tried to keep his word to her, without betraying her trust.

  “I did not know that you understood much of mercy,” Laird Erik replied. “And truly, I would not expect many to show you any.”

  The silence from the hall was charged then, and Catriona feared the laird would reply with heat.

  When the Laird of Ravensmuir spoke, there was a quietude to his voice. Catriona guessed that his green eyes glittered, as they did when he was concerned with a matter. “I suppose you will tell me that I am welcome at Kinfairlie, even though that is not quite true.”

  “A man cannot expect his deeds to cast no shadow.”

  “But surely a man can expect his own family to grant him an opportunity to repent.”

  “If repentance is your desire, Malcolm, I suggest you send for a priest,” Laird Erik retorted. “Indeed, I cannot help but notice that there is no chapel at Ravensmuir, much less a priest. How long has it been since you confessed your sins?”

  “Long enough, it is true, though it is out of kindness that I do not burden Father Malachy with such fearsome tales.”

  Catriona heard Laird Erik slap his gloves on his palm again, a sound that communicated his impatience. “We will be gone, as soon as Vivienne and the children have broken their fast.”

  “And no reciprocal invitation for me to visit Blackleith,” the Laird of Ravensmuir drawled. “Your manners surprise me, Erik.”

  Again there was a charged silence and Catriona imagined the men glared at each other. Laird Erik would be stiff and angry, Laird Malcolm apparently amused, but intent.

  “Tell Vivienne that I await her in the bailey,” Laird Erik said.

  Catriona grimaced as he left the hall, slamming the portal behind himself. She jumped when the Laird of Ravensmuir appeared at the foot of the stairs, his gaze upon her again. He looked haggard on this morn, but then she knew he had not slept more than she. The stubble on his jaw made him appear dangerous, but his raised eyebrow told her of his concern for his sister. Catriona shrugged, uncertain of the lady’s state. The laird frowned and nodded once, his fingers drumming on the wall as he thought.

  Catriona dared to slip down the stairs again to his side. “She must tell him,” she whispered. “It is the only possible course, though I thank you for not revealing me.”

  The laird’s gaze swept over her face. “You did not sleep.”

  Catriona touched her belly. “Once awakened, neither did the child.”

  “What of your dream?” he
murmured.

  Catriona dropped her gaze. “It was naught. A mere nightmare.”

  “And Ian?”

  She forced a smile. “A ghost destined to haunt me,” she said, keeping her tone brisk.

  He did not smile in return. “Then we have more in common again, Catriona, for I am haunted by ghosts as well.” She might have asked for more detail, but he continued with a frown and the opportunity was lost. “I shall try to change Erik’s thinking, but I fear it cannot be done,” he admitted. “If Vivienne would confide in him, that might be best.”

  “I will try to convince her.”

  The laird’s sudden smile made her blink, though it vanished as quickly as it appeared. “I know, Catriona. My sister is fortunate in having you by her side.”

  His words launched a tide of heat within her that was sufficient to make her dizzy. Catriona spun and hastened up the stairs, slowing her pace when he cleared his throat pointedly. She glanced back to see him shake a finger at her, feigning sternness at her speed, and even as her heart leapt, she smiled that he was consistent in his concern.

  It was not all bad having a fierce mercenary argue the side of her unborn child.

  * * *

  It was a losing battle and Malcolm knew it well. He could not change the thinking of Erik without Vivienne admitting the truth to her husband. Catriona’s minute shake of her head when the family appeared in the hall made it clear that his sister was adamant.

  He, of course, could not argue with Vivienne about her choice without revealing that Catriona had shared her secret. Although Catriona had not pledged him to silence, he did not wish to jeopardize her place in Vivienne’s household.

  She might, after all, bear a daughter.

  He might never know if she bore a son. Should he take a chance and ask for her hand before the party departed this morning? Catriona would think him mad, no doubt, as would all of his family, and that would only worsen if Catriona’s babe was a daughter. Would Malcolm’s family challenge his own will, if Catriona was his wife and her daughter his heir when he died?