The Frost Maiden's Kiss

by Claire Delacroix

  Malcolm’s fury grew with every morsel of this tale and he strove to hide his reaction from his lady wife. It was no wonder that she feared the violence in men, and he was glad she had had the strength and the wits to survive. “I guessed before that you conceived when Inverness was sacked.”

  “And my father made a silver penny by selling a virgin to three mercenaries.”

  “Catriona!”

  “Ian tried to intervene, my brave little brother, but he was too small to be any match for them. They were drunk and raucous. They bound him to the bed to compel him to watch. They said it would make a man of him.” She spoke quickly, and it was more horrific to hear the tale recounted with dispassionate speed. “Then they claimed what they had bought, one after the other, two holding me down while one took his pleasure. I do not even know how many times they spilled their seed. I do remember that Ian cried out and one took exception to the noise.” Catriona’s throat worked. “He slit my brother’s throat, for he disliked the sound and there was naught I could do to save him.”

  “And I showed you to kill a man thus. I am sorry, Catriona.” Malcolm found himself shaking with rage as he held his wife close. “I would avenge you and gladly.”

  “I know. I feared all men were of my father’s ilk, but you have taught me that ’tis not so.” Catriona looked up at him, a trust in her gaze that humbled him. She sighed, then finished her tale. “I saw Ian buried as was right and good, and then I left home forever. I took only the garments upon my back and the token my mother had given to me. I wanted only to be as far from my father as could be, for I had no doubt he would return again.”

  “And glad I am that you came to Blackleith,” Malcolm said, bending to brush her lips across his.

  “As am I.” Catriona leaned closer, inviting his caress.

  “We could have named him Ian,” Malcolm said gently. “Indeed, his name could yet be changed.” He respected anew all that Catriona had endured and her strength in surviving it. He wiped the tears from her cheeks with his fingertips, then tipped her chin that she looked into his eyes.

  “Not yet,” she said. “It is too raw. I could not say his name a hundred times a day, not yet.” She smiled at him, resilient and beautiful. “Perhaps our next son might be named Ian.”

  Malcolm bent to kiss her sweetly. It was time to ensure the future they both desired. “Now, lady mine, I will tell you why I believe I will die and soon.”

  Catriona’s eyes shone with pleasure. “I like that you never forget a wager, Malcolm.”

  “My father said a kept vow was the mark of a man of honor.”

  “I think I would have liked your father well.”

  Malcolm kissed her fingertips. “I know he would have been most pleased to see me wedded to you, lady mine,” he said and knew that it was true.

  Monday, June 21, 1428

  Feast Day of Saint Maine and Saint Eusebius, Bishop of Caesaria.

  * * *

  Chapter Thirteen

  Catriona was pleased beyond all that Malcolm would confide in her. No matter what truth he confessed to her, she was sure that eliminating secrets between them could only bode well for the future. She knew what his trade had been, and braced herself for whatever he might share.

  “First I must ask why you told this last tale?” he said.

  “Because it told of two friends, one good and one wicked.”

  “You do not like Rafael.”

  “I am not assured he deserves your friendship.”

  “But I owed to him a debt, and six months ago, I took a vow to see it paid.” Malcolm twined his fingers in Catriona’s hair. “The debt comes due on Midsummer’s Eve.”

  She twisted in his embrace to regard him, certain he could not mean what she feared he did. “So soon?”

  Malcolm nodded. “The night the Fae pay their tithe to Hell,” Malcolm agreed.

  Catriona pushed away from him, needing to see his expression better. He appeared to be completely serious, which was troubling. “I recounted a children’s tale, Malcolm,” she said gently. “The Fae are not real.”

  “Are they not?”

  “Nay!”

  He eyed her, his manner cautious. “I thought you had the Sight when you chose to share that one.”

  Catriona’s heart chilled. He could not believe in the Fae, not truly, not this man who had earned his fortune with his blade. “Nay, not I. It simply seemed the right tale to tell.” But watching her husband, Catriona wondered. She had never known an adult who believed in the Fae before, save for a few older women who had lost some of their wits.

  Surely, her husband had not lost his?

  But the continuation of his confession did not reassure her that was so.

  “When we arrived in December, we took shelter in the stables, which were intact at one end. We had only just settled the horses when there came the sound of music.” He frowned in recollection, then sighed. “Beautiful music.”

  He believed this to be true. Catriona stared at him in horror.

  “Rafael had not heard the tales of the Fae, so he did not know it was folly to listen. He leapt ahead of me and joined the dance. By the time I caught up with him, there were holes in his boots.”

  “Now you will tell me that he could not cease to dance, for he was enchanted.” Catriona closed her eyes.

  “They said they would keep him captive until Midsummer’s Eve, and then would use his soul to pay the tithe to Hell, the one they pay every seven years. And because he had saved my life once, I intervened. I traded my soul for his.”

  “To be paid on Midsummer’s Eve.” Catriona said, uncertain how to proceed. His choices made such sense to her, now that she understood the conviction that drove him. How could she dissuade him of such a tale, though? She supposed that when his soul was not collected by the Fae, he would be compelled to believe it untrue. “And so you built the keep, to leave a legacy, and so you found a bride and an heir to continue in your absence.”

  “Just so,” he admitted quietly. “And truly when I made my vow, I thought little of trading my life for Rafael’s. I feared my life had no value, my soul so tainted that it was a fitting choice.”

  “And since then?”

  “I have heard the music nightly, Catriona. It awakens my memories of all I have done, and I feared it would drive me mad.”

  Catriona bit her tongue at that.

  Perhaps this was how he made his peace with whatever horrors he had experienced in his years as a mercenary. Perhaps this was part of his process of healing, and returning to the life of a nobleman who did not ride often to war.

  Malcolm sighed and she wished to ease the concern from his brow. “It is only in the ruins of Ravensmuir that I have found peace, for it seems my uncle’s presence is near. I thought only to survive these months until I kept my vow.”

  Catriona folded her arms across her chest, a curious trembling claiming her body. “And what of now? Has your view changed?”

  “Greatly. Completely. You gave me hope and purpose, Catriona. I would do whatsoever is necessary to live more days than these in your company. Until last night, I did not imagine it could be done. I had heard only tales of how tricking the Fae went awry.”

  Perhaps hope could make the difference to his recovery.

  Perhaps love could do so.

  Malcolm drummed his fingers, glancing to the window. “I returned to the tunnel last eve that I might think clearly, and there it was that I realized there would be no crooked man to grant me advice.” He smiled. “Instead, it could be the woman I would live to remain beside.”

  “I would do whatsoever I could to help you, Malcolm,” Catriona said, meaning every word.

  “You will not trade your life for mine,” he said.

  “Not if you forbid it,” she acknowledged. She put her hand upon his, her gesture tentative but a mark of the trust he had won from her. “I can only help you, though, if that is your desire as well. If you wish to die, I cannot save you.”

  He caught her
face in his hands and bent to brush his lips across hers. “Then save me, lady mine,” he said, his words thrilling her. “Save me, and I will cherish you for all the days and nights that I so gain.”

  There had to be a way to see this accomplished. It could not be that so much goodness would come to Catriona’s life because of this man, only for it all to be snatched away as he lost his wits. Nay, it could not be.

  She would not allow it to be.

  Or at least, she would fight for him, and love him with all her heart and soul. Catriona nestled in Malcolm’s embrace, praying that her devotion could make the difference.

  * * *

  Mercenaries in the hall and assassins in the night! Ruari could not wait to be away from Ravensmuir. He was awake before the dawn, dressed and at the portal. Indeed, he had to nudge Louis awake with his foot that he might be allowed out of the place.

  The sky was only faintly light over the sea as he hastened to the stables. He did not like to leave Vera in this place, but he would return, if not with the Laird of Kinfairlie himself, then alone.

  For the sake of his Vera, he would risk a return even to this cursed keep.

  Ruari only hoped it would not be the last deed he did.

  * * *

  Elizabeth was almost certain that the Fae conspired against her.

  Someone had to be alerting her family just before she managed to slip away each time. It might as well have been the Fae, whispering in their ears or in their dreams. A dozen times she had made it to the threshold, even to the stable, only to be called back at the last moment.

  She had hoped to slip away the day before, but had been vexed in her attempt to accompany Ruari, then later in her effort to take a horse from the stable herself. Then Rosamunde and Padraig had arrived, a merry surprise to be sure, not to mention all the gifts they brought from the south. It had been impossible to evade Rosamunde’s attention, and indeed, had Elizabeth not burned to go to Ravensmuir, she would not have wanted to.

  The only detail of merit was that she had had time to recall that Isabella had made a potion from wild thyme to allow her to see the Fae for a short period of time. Elizabeth hoped that Malcolm could see what was afoot at Ravensmuir, but perhaps he could not. She gathered some wild thyme to take with her on her visit to his abode, believing herself well prepared.

  The trick was to escape Kinfairlie. Every time Elizabeth turned around, another family member called her for this deed or another, to attend to this whim or another, to admire this trinket or another. Rosamunde even followed her to her chamber and talked to her through most of the night while Padraig dozed outside the door. She was uncommonly glad to see her aunt again and to hear her tidings, but wished this exchange could have occurred at a different time.

  At dawn, Elizabeth awakened to find herself alone and saw her chance. She dressed in haste, certain that she would be foiled again. She opened the portal, convinced that Padraig would still be there, but he and Rosamunde had retired together. She heard the sounds of slumber from the chamber her brothers had once shared and guessed it to be Rosamunde and Padraig. She tiptoed past the door, fearing they would awaken, but made it safely to the stairs. She peered upward to the solar, expecting Alexander or Eleanor to call out, but there was only silence.

  In the hall below, only one hound wagged its tail at her. The men continued to sleep, unaware of her presence. When Elizabeth showed no inclination to go to the kitchens or to feed the dog, it went back to sleep with a sigh of disappointment. She was out the portal without having seen Anthony, and raced to the stables on fleet feet. She found her mare, Demoiselle, and saddled her with haste. She put her hand over Demoiselle’s nose and led her from the stables, fearing the horse would awaken the ostler.

  The gate on the stables creaked, and Elizabeth froze in place. Then the bell rang out from Kinfairlie’s chapel and she hastened onward. She pulled herself into the saddle and coaxed Demoiselle to a trot. She avoided the gates, cantering the mare around the back of the keep, then urged her to leap the wall where it was low and crumbling. Demoiselle raced across the fields toward Ravensmuir even as the eastern sky was tinged with pink, and it was only then that Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief.

  Her mood did not last.

  A party rode towards Ravensmuir, approaching on the road that led due west and was far north of Kinfairlie. Elizabeth winced in recognition of the colors of the Earl of Douglas. Why was he afoot so early in the day? He must be riding to Ravensmuir, for that road had no other destination. And who travelled with him?

  The earl raised a hand to beckon to her and Elizabeth knew there was no avoiding his party now. She continued toward them, meeting the party some distance from Ravensmuir’s gates.

  “I thought that was a Ravensmuir steed,” the earl said, with the false heartiness Elizabeth associated with him. The shadow of death was not close by him, which meant her brothers would be compelled to treat with him for some time yet. “It is Elizabeth, is it not? The youngest of the Kinfairlie girls?”

  “Aye, sir. I am Elizabeth Lammergeier.”

  “And the sole sister unwed,” said his companion with a tight smile.

  It was remarkable to see Jeanne Douglas in this place and at such an hour, though her red hair was braided perfectly and her garb fit for a day at court. There were pearls stitched to her bodice and rich embroidery on both her kirtle and her shoes. Elizabeth wondered what festivities the other woman meant to attend. Last she had heard, Ravensmuir was occupied solely by Malcolm and his comrade, his new wife, her child and Vera. At the earl’s gesture, Elizabeth joined their party, riding on the earl’s opposite side from his niece.

  Their party was completed by a dozen men and half a dozen maids, some riding palfreys and others in the trio of carts that were heavily loaded with trunks. Did they go to visit Malcolm? Elizabeth could not imagine why they would do so, much less why Malcolm would have invited them. Her family had never been fond of the Earl of Douglas and his kin, for they sought only to secure their own advantage, regardless of any price to others.

  “How do you fare, Jeanne?” Elizabeth said, inclining her head slightly. She did not like Jeanne Douglas any better than that woman’s uncle.

  “Well enough, after being roused so early,” Jeanne said, giving her uncle a disapproving look. “But I suppose a prize is worth some effort to claim.”

  “A prize?” Elizabeth asked, not understanding.

  Jeanne’s smile was proud. “I am to be Lady of Ravensmuir, on this day or the morrow.”

  It was on the tip of Elizabeth’s tongue to say that Malcolm was already wed, but she caught herself in time. The earl would take poorly to such news, to be sure.

  “But how can this be?” she asked, as if merely surprised by the tidings.

  “Surely you know that Jeanne is to wed your brother, Malcolm?” the earl said with gusto. Jeanne smirked. “They were betrothed several months ago, at my suggestion.” He nodded with satisfaction and Jeanne beamed at him. “You shall be well pleased with the new keep, my Jeanne. It is a fitting setting for such a rich gem as yourself.”

  Elizabeth blinked for she had heard no such detail. Did Alexander know of this betrothal? She could not imagine that he knew and did not speak of it.

  How could Malcolm have taken Catriona as his a bride if he were betrothed to Jeanne?

  Either the earl fabricated a tale, perhaps to see some advantage of his own served, or Malcolm had never had any intention of wedding Jeanne. Perhaps the two men had misunderstood each other. Elizabeth decided to keep silent, for she would not have minded seeing the Earl of Douglas and his niece disappointed.

  “They are destined to wed when Ravensmuir’s new keep is complete,” the earl continued. “And I have just had tidings that it is done.”

  “Is it?” Elizabeth asked mildly. “I did not hear as much.”

  “Perhaps you do not listen as keenly as my uncle,” Jeanne said.

  Perhaps Elizabeth did not have as much to gain.

  “You are l
ooking rather wan, Elizabeth,” Jeanne noted, her tone arch. “And once you were such a beauty. Do you pine for a lost suitor?” She smirked then, savoring what she saw as her triumph over a maiden who had once attended the same dances in pursuit of a husband as she.

  “Indeed, I do,” Elizabeth said, unable to keep herself from needling Jeanne. “He is a prince of the Fae, so finely wrought and ardent in his admiration for me that no mortal man can compare.”

  The other two looked at her. “Indeed?” Jeanne said. “Why then are you parted?”

  Elizabeth sighed. “I can only be with him in his own realm, and I could not bear to leave my family.”

  “Not even for love and happiness?”

  “I fear my family is key to my love and happiness.”

  Jeanne scoffed. “Perhaps your Fae prince is not so comely after all.”

  “Perhaps he does not exist,” the earl contributed. “I have never seen the Fae myself.”

  “It is a gift,” Elizabeth said. “And a curse, as well, as you can see.” She patted the purse hanging from her belt and noted Jeanne’s interest. “I always carry a measure of the herb that allows those without the gift to see the marvels of the Fae realm.”

  Jeanne bit her lip. “I hear they drink sweet mead from cups of gold, and are garbed in all manner of richness.”

  “They are indeed. This realm is dull and dead in comparison to their riches.” Elizabeth saw the jealousy spark in Jeanne’s eyes, and was wicked enough to enjoy it. “I have not seen Malcolm in so long,” she said with a polite smile. “This is a happy situation that I chose to ride to visit him on this day, the same day that you would visit.”

  Alexander, Elizabeth knew, would not see the matter the same way.

  She might have worried about her brother’s reaction more if they had not arrived so close to the new keep that she could see the astonishing number of Fae gathered there.

  The Fae were not just plentiful at Ravensmuir, but gleeful.

  “A fine new keep,” the earl noted with satisfaction. “And a new gatehouse, too. It will suit you most well to be lady here, my dear.”