The Nutcracker Reimagined
A Collection of Christmas Tales
Claire Delacroix, Kathryn Le Veque, Barbara Devlin, Suzan Tisdale, Eliza Knight, Hildie McQueen, Tina DeSalvo, Laura Landon, Emma Prince, Layna Pimentel
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
The Mercenary’s Bride Copyright © 2017 Deborah A. Cooke
Realm of Angels Copyright © 2017 Kathryn Le Veque
Once Upon a Christmas Knight Copyright © 2017 Barbara Devlin
Rodrick the Bold Copyright © 2017 Suzan Tisdale
Prelude to The Highlander’s Gift Copyright © 2017 Eliza Knight
Brash: Frederick Copyright © 2017 Hildie McQueen
Christmas at the Inn on Cloud Hill Copyright © 2017 Tina DeSalvo
One Mystical Moment Copyright © 2017 Laura Landon
To Kiss a Governess Copyright © 2017 Emma Prince
All She Wanted for Christmas Copyright © 2017 Layna Pimentel
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Dragonblade Publishing
Cover art by Dar Albert
Contents
The Mercenary’s Bride
by Claire Delacroix
Realm of Angels
by Kathryn Le Veque
Once Upon a Christmas Knight
by Barbara Devlin
Rodrick the Bold
by Suzan Tisdale
Prelude to The Highlander’s Gift
by Eliza Knight
Brash: Frederick
by Hildie McQueen
Christmas at the Inn on Cloud Hill
by Tina DeSalvo
One Mystical Moment
by Laura Landon
To Kiss a Governess
by Emma Prince
All She Wanted for Christmas
by Layna Pimentel
The Mercenary’s Bride
The Brides of Inverfyre #1
Claire Delacroix
Robbed of his possessions, wounded and left for dead, Quentin de Montgomerie has lost everything except his love for Mhairi, the daughter of the Hawk of Inverfyre—and he knows who is to blame for his fate. He vows to return to Inverfyre and take his vengeance from the Hawk, but arrives to discover that the fierce maiden in possession of his heart has blossomed into a beauty, and that her kiss has the power to give him hope for the future again. Can Quentin prove himself to the Hawk and win Mhairi—or will she spurn him for being less than once he was?
Prologue
Near Astorga, Spain—May 1432
The air simmered.
The sun was hot enough to burn, even early in the season, and Quentin was so parched that he could not recall the feel of water in his mouth. All the same, he did not rise from the road. He remained where he had been abandoned—beaten, robbed, and bleeding—and watched the carrion birds circle overhead. They were dark against the brilliant blue of the sky. The road was empty in either direction. There was no sound but the wind and the calls of the birds that soon would make a meal of him.
He did not know how many of his bones were broken or how much blood he had shed. Both counts must have been considerable, given how shattered he felt and how many assailants had attacked him. Whether his right eye was merely swollen or more damaged than that, he did not know. His magnificent destrier was gone, along with its trap, his armor, his sword, his money, his food, his water. He literally had the shirt on his back and no more.
He had lost everything, but worse, he had no hope. Quentin did not have it within him to fight any longer. Who would care if he died?
He would never return to England, much less Scotland.
He would never reach Seville.
He would never prove himself to the Hawk of Inverfyre. Anger rose within him at the memory of their final exchange and fury kindled within Quentin. What was his crime? He had loved the Hawk’s daughter, Mhairi, loved her for her ferocity and passion—and her determination to learn the arts of war. He had tutored her, openly at first and then in secret, believing his liege lord was wrong to keep his daughter from the knowledge she yearned to possess.
In truth, Quentin could not deny Mhairi. He would do any deed for her. He had ridden south and spent seven years as a mercenary, earning a fortune so that he could return and request the honor of her hand in marriage.
He rolled to his back and scowled at the birds. It was all lost, and his hope was replaced with anger. He would not even be in Spain without the Hawk’s challenge. He would not be injured. He would not be without the means to earn his way ever again.
He would not have lost Mhairi forever.
The birds cried to their fellows as they dipped lower but Quentin gritted his teeth. He was not dead yet, and as God was his witness, he would see Mhairi one last time.
He had made her a promise that was yet unfulfilled.
And he would have his vengeance upon the Hawk, if it was the last deed he did.
Chapter One
Inverfyre, Scotland—December 1432
Mhairi passed through Inverfyre village alongside her mother, the two women riding to hunt together. Mhairi carried her peregrine on her fist while her mother carried the gyrfalcon she had favored for hunting these past few years. Both women were dressed simply, with high boots and slit kirtles that allowed them greater movement. Both had braided their hair and would abandon their veils and circlets as soon as they left the village behind. Both had crossbows slung from their saddles and daggers in their belts. They wore leather jerkins and heavy gloves with long cuffs.
Their horses stepped high in anticipation of a run and perhaps because of the crisp snap of winter in the air. The hour was so early that the mist was still rising from the river and the day promised to be fine. Beaters ran ahead of them and dogs behind, and a trio of men followed to aid in bringing the kill back to the hall. They had jested about bringing a wagon, for these forays of Aileen and Mhairi were known to fill the larder. There would be a feast the night before First Advent, which was only days away.
Mhairi’s peregrine, Freya, was restless on her fist, perhaps feeling some of Mhairi’s own anticipation. The jesses bound the bird’s ankles there and she was yet hooded, but at the very least, Freya anticipated that she would soon be set free to do what she did best.
Mhairi loved to hunt almost as much as Freya. She and her mother were so similar in their thinking and strategy that they spoke little on such forays, yet worked in perfect harmony. It was a relief to be away from the expectations of others, even for part of a day, and Mhairi also liked to make a tangible contribution to Inverfyre and its occupants. All would eat well after she and her mother returned home.
The Hawk, her father, often joined them, but on this day, he was occupied with his ledgers. Mhairi knew he would have preferred to abandon them in favor of the hunt. It was only after enduring the stern reminder of his steward with regard to the taxes owed to the king at the end of the month that he had surrendered the battle and agreed to remain at the hall. Her older brother, Nigel, had been compelled to remain with the Hawk to learn yet more about the administration of Inverfyre. Henry, the cas
tellan, would also witness the balancing of the ledgers. Nigel was a good hunter, but as oldest son, had more responsibilities than that.
One blessing was that Evangeline would not be accompanying them. Mhairi’s older sister could not be silent, even in a forest, and certainly not while game was being stalked. If Evangeline had joined them, she would have torn a hem, broken a nail, chattered endlessly and they would have returned with significantly less for the larder. Better she lounged in the hall, pretending to embroider but truly reviewing the names of her admirers.
When word passed through the village of their venture, more villagers came out to watch them ride past. Mhairi was always astounded by how quickly tidings could pass from one house to the next. She rode to the left and slightly behind her mother, letting Aileen proceed first as Lady of Inverfyre.
“Bring us a hart, my lady!” shouted the smith. “Time it is for venison stew, to my thinking.”
Aileen laughed. “To mine, as well,” she replied. “We shall see what crosses our path this day.”
“A good hunt to you,” called the miller’s wife. “I say take the hares. There are too many of them in my garden, to be sure.”
“Perhaps we will set some traps,” Aileen called and Mhairi smiled. She knew her mother hoped to take at least one deer. This time of year, the cook liked to salt some meat for the months ahead, in case stores were not abundant or the weather poor.
Mhairi watched her mother, admiring her combination of resolve and grace. She waved and smiled, confident and so very kind. Mhairi’s chest tightened as she thought of the love between her mother and father, and she hoped ardently that she, too, could find such love.
Although with Quentin banished from her life forever, it seemed unlikely.
He had probably forgotten her, a young girl enamored of the arts of war. He had probably dismissed her interest as whimsy or a phase. He had probably found another post with a baron or a duke, and had married well. It had been seven years, and though Mhairi recalled every detail about her father’s former Captain of the Guard, she doubted that Quentin recalled her at all.
Or perhaps he thought of her with the affection a man might reserve for a young cousin.
If he had been haunted by the memory of her, surely he would have returned? There had not been a word from him since her father had cast him from the gates for daring to defy his command.
They passed through the gates, followed by the villagers. Aileen’s gyrfalcon, Skuld, flapped and cried, agitated by some movement or other. Mhairi saw her mother murmur to the bird as a boy training with the falconer reached to take her. No sooner had he gripped Skuld’s jesses and the bird loosed her talons from Aileen’s glove than a man in a heavy wool cloak broke out of the crowd. He hurled himself at the Lady of Inverfyre before any could stop him.
“My lady!” he roared, even as Aileen was shoved from the saddle beneath his weight.
Guards shouted. Villagers gasped. The hunting birds screamed and flapped. Mhairi cried out as her mother fell to the ground. But before anyone could, an arrow sliced through the air. It had been aimed at Aileen, and missed her only because she was no longer in her saddle.
It buried itself in the wall of the opposite hut, quivering there.
Mhairi spun to look for the archer while all the others crowded around her mother. A man with a long bow stood just outside the village walls, smirking. He had a tangle of ginger hair and watched with undisguised pleasure as Aileen fell.
He raised a fist. “Justice for the MacLarens!” he cried. “The line of Magnus Armstrong must die!”
Mhairi had dropped the reins as soon as she saw the arrow.
“My lady!” said the falconer’s boy, right by Mhairi’s side. He clearly anticipated her reaction for he raised his fist to take Freya.
By the time the rebel cried out, she had already loaded a bolt. She fired her crossbow while he was in the midst of his cry. She moved quickly and decisively, just as Quentin had taught her. The bolt nicked the man’s shoulder just as the last word crossed his lips and sent him spinning backward. He swore with vigor, dropping his own bow and clapping his hand to his injured shoulder. Mhairi saw the blood flowing between his fingers.
She muttered a curse beneath her breath that her aim had been off. She had hoped to strike him in the throat. She loaded another bolt, but he ducked into the forest.
“You!” he shouted at her. “You and all your kin will be slaughtered!”
He might have said more, but two villagers with scythes headed in pursuit. He took one look at them, snatched his bow, then fled like a rabbit into the undergrowth of the surrounding forest. Hooting and laughter was heard from the woods.
“The MacLarens,” Reinhard said and spat at the ground in disgust. He was an old comrade of her father’s and had been made Captain of the Guard after Quentin’s departure. “They are the ones who should be hunted to the ground and slaughtered. They could not keep a holding, but neither can they abandon the pursuit of it.” He nodded at Mhairi. “A fine shot, my lady.”
“Thank you, Reinhard, but I wanted to kill him.”
“It might be better that you did not,” the older man said with a frown. “He grows bolder, which is worrisome.”
Mhairi turned to her mother, who sat on the ground surrounded by villagers and servants. Mhairi dismounted quickly, noting that guards had seized the man who had pushed Aileen from her saddle.
Aileen’s white gyrfalcon was held by the boy still and flapping wildly. Guinevere, the healer, pushed her way through the ranks of villagers, her expression grim, and her son Talbot followed her. He murmured to Skuld, taking the peregrine from the other boy’s glove gently. He had brought a piece of raw meat and the bird almost snatched it from his hand in her flustered state. The feathers on her hood shook with her agitation, no doubt exacerbated by her inability to see. The bird calmed quickly beneath Talbot’s care and it was not the first time that Mhairi thought the boy understood the language of predatory birds.
Freya smelled the meat and began to cry for a piece of her own, even as Mhairi crouched at her mother’s side. “Are you injured?” she asked, but her mother shook her head.
“Startled. Perhaps bruised.” Aileen smiled. “But it would have been infinitely worse without that man’s intervention.” She pointed to the stranger restrained by the guards.
“But my lady, he assaulted you,” protested Reinhard.
“He did as much to save me,” Aileen countered. “Mhairi, you must have followed the trajectory of the arrow.”
“It would have gone through your throat, Maman,” Mhairi confessed and a ripple of shock passed through the gathered company.
“And a bruise, no matter how black, is better than that,” Aileen concluded, accepting Guinevere’s inspection of her wrist. Aileen had put her hand out to brace herself against the fall and a bruise was already rising there. There was a bustle from the keep and Mhairi knew without a glance that her father was charging toward them.
“Help me to my feet,” her mother said with quiet heat. “If he finds me like this, I will not be able to leave my chamber before spring.”
“If then, my lady,” Reinhard said.
There was a chuckle of acknowledgement at the truth in their words, and Aileen was standing by her horse by the time the Hawk arrived. His gaze was avid and his lips tight as he heard the tale from a dozen sources. He glanced several times to Mhairi to verify that he was being told the truth, and she nodded that he was.
“And you made a fine shot in retaliation,” the Hawk said to Mhairi, pride in his voice at her achievement.
She could not help but bristle, for he had not always thought well of her skills.
“I had a good teacher,” she said with a measure of defiance, knowing that her father would not be pleased by the reminder. He caught his breath, then he pivoted to the cloaked man who had unhorsed Aileen and was still being held captive.
Mhairi was certain that her father had not abandoned the point, but that he would
pursue it in private.
She would wait.
“And who are you?” the Hawk demanded of the man. “And how is it that you guessed the intent of the MacLarens beyond the walls? Are you one of them?”
“Not I,” the man said and something about his voice caught Mhairi’s ear. It was deep and resonant, and his words were slow. It seemed familiar, but she was certain it could not be. Then he cast back his hood and her heart stopped. “As for who I might be, I understand that I have been a good teacher.”
His face was marred and he wore a patch over his right eye, but it was Quentin de Montgomerie as surely as it was December at Inverfyre.
And he was looking at her, with something that might have been admiration.
Mhairi could not utter a sound.
Indeed, her heart had stopped.
Quentin!
“’Twas a fine shot,” he acknowledged, then shook off the grip of those who had been holding him. “The angle was less than ideal, yet your speed did not diminish your accuracy. You let your instincts guide your bolt, which is best.” He gave a little bow, grimacing as if it pained him. “I am most impressed.”
At the Hawk’s nod, the guards released Quentin and he fumbled for a walking stick. It was only when he had it and straightened, that Mhairi saw the rest of the change. He limped now and was bent instead of tall and straight. He had lost weight, for his face was gaunt. He was less powerful as well, for the vigor with which he gripped the head of the walking stick showed his reliance upon it. He was garbed more simply than once he had been and more poorly. His cloak was rough dark wool and his boots looked to be nigh worn through. He was dirty from the road, as the knight she had known would never have tolerated, but he had no belongings so she knew he had no choice.
Quentin’s fine armor and trappings were as gone as his good looks, as evidently was his horse. He was still taller than her, still a man who steadily met her gaze. Quentin had never been one to flirt or tease—he listened, he considered, and he acted with resolve. When he laughed, it was with merriment, not at the expense of another. Mhairi had always admired those traits but she saw a new anger simmering in his eyes. It startled her for he had always been temperate and loyal, and she wondered how long it had been since he had laughed.
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