The Stolen Bride

by Susan Spencer Paul

  “Kayne, you have no part in that. You were a soldier,” she murmured tenderly, setting a gentle hand against his bare chest, in the place where his heart beat most fully. “You did as a good soldier must do, and served your king with perfect obedience. No one can find fault with that, or blame you for doing as you were commanded. I will never blame you.”

  He set his hand over her own, pressing it hard against his chest.

  “You don’t know, Sofia.”

  “But I do,” she insisted. “Gwillym told me about the convent, about the mistake made by the man who’d taken John Ipris’s place. None of that was your fault.”

  He lowered his head. “I was the captain of those men. I led them. And I am the one who must take the blame for what occurred. I should never have trusted any man’s word apart from John’s. I should have made certain of the truth.” He closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut. “I hear them still, when I dream at night. The screams. So many children—screaming for someone to save them—and babies crying, and the nuns praying and weeping…”

  Sofia lurched forward, throwing her arms about his neck and hugging him tightly, not caring that the blanket fell to the ground, pooling about her bare feet.

  “Don’t think of it now. Don’t speak of it. I won’t let you.”

  “You can’t stop it,” he said harshly. “There’s too much darkness within me to stop it. Nay, Sofia.” Taking her shoulders in his hands, he gently pushed her away. “You cannot begin to know the half of it. Ten years I was in France. Ten years killing.” His hands slid from her shoulders to her wrists, and he gazed at her solemnly. “The memory of it will never go away, no matter how you or I or even my father may wish it. And without the knighthood, I am but a commoner, whom you can have no part of.”

  “I don’t believe that,” she told him. “I will not believe that.”

  “There can only ever be friendship between us. And if you cannot accept that, then I must leave Wirth.”

  Slowly, she shook her head, filled with both anger and pain. “I’ll not let you leave. You promised to be my champion against Sir Griel, and I will hold you to that promise until your dying day, may it be many long years in coming.”

  Kayne gave a solemn nod. “So be it. I will remain and be your champion, but you must no longer come to the smithy to speak to me, Sofia. I cannot seem to master myself when you are near, and therefore the temptation must not be placed before me. If I see you coming to me, even with custom, I will lock my gate against you.”

  “You would not!” she cried with disbelief.

  “I will, indeed. Now, set the blanket about you once more and I will fetch your shoes. ’Tis time for you to return to the manor.”

  Chapter Ten

  The trouble with Sofia, Kayne discovered within the following weeks, was that it was almost impossible to see her coming before she was already there. She was silent and sly and obviously had no care either for his insistence that she stay away or for the gossip that already spread like an unchecked fire throughout Wirth and the surrounding villages.

  He had thought, after the day he returned to Wirth, that his life would become what it had once been. Quiet, calm, peaceful—and lonely. But that was part of the penance he knew he must serve. What right did he have, after all, to the kind of happiness that other men might know—most especially with a woman?

  The day following his return from Vellaux, Kayne sent Gwillym to Lomas to make his vow of fealty to Senet, who would be a master worthy of such service, and the day after that he opened his gate to receive custom. A great deal of work was brought to his door and Kayne was glad to have it, for it kept him busy and left him little time to think of Sofia—though God knew he still did.

  She made no attempt to try to see him during the first week, and Kayne, telling himself that he wasn’t miserable for the lack of her or sorry that he’d forbidden her the smithy, let his life fall back into its regular pattern. He rose early each morn and, kneeling in his prayer closet, made his recitations to God. Then he washed and shaved his face and dressed in his working clothes before breaking his fast with a simple meal of bread, cheese and ale. Occasionally, if he had butter and a little sugar, he would boil a pot of oats to enjoy, instead. Afterward, he went out to the stable to begin his day of work.

  He first cared for the horses and other livestock, milking his one cow and setting the covered buckets in the shade outside his smithy gate. His nearest neighbor, Mistress Kading, would fetch them within the hour and turn the top cream into sweet, fresh butter, which she kindly shared with Kayne. Having fed his cattle, Kayne next drew plenty of fresh water from the small well in his yard to keep all of them, and himself, through the day, and then he opened his gate for custom. He spent several minutes standing in the doorway, looking first in the direction of Ahlgren Manor, then back toward the village, before turning into the darkness of the stable and heading directly to his forge to stoke the coals until they were red-hot.

  Horses that had been brought for shoeing were cared for first. Afterward he saw to repairs that affected the livelihood of any who had come to him, such as plows or scythes. Last of all came those items that were of lesser importance, pots, kettles, ladles, nails, latches, knives and the like. If he had a moment of leisure, Kayne gave way to his personal pleasure and used his own stock of fine, expensive metals to fashion plates, cups, pitchers and tall vases. This was very much like the elegant and exacting work that his master, Sir Justin, had trained him and the other fostered boys in, during those days when they had learned in the smithy, rather than in the fields, practicing for battle.

  Sir Justin’s own favorite pastime had been the making of choice swords and daggers, and his skill in this was rare, indeed. The jeweled dagger that Kayne sometimes carried at his waist had been a precious gift from Sir Justin, as had the exquisite sword that he’d carried through France. Kayne cherished them both and knew their value, and, yet, he could not bring himself to fashion like weapons, though he believed he had the skill. He had made the attempt a time or two since he had taken up smithing, only to find that his nightmares haunted him even more fiercely. He had finally given way, knowing that he could not be a man who fashioned instruments that might lead to death. He had already caused far too much of it in his life.

  He returned often to his gate during the course of the day, usually to accept custom or deliver finished work to one of the villagers who had rung the large bell hanging there. Occasionally his purpose was merely to gaze up and down the village road. But there was never a sign of Sofia, nor of her father or any of the servants from Ahlgren Manor. A time or two during that first week Kayne thought that he should send a missive to the manor, only to make certain that Sir Griel and his men had been leaving Sofia in peace. He hadn’t well considered that he could not keep a very close watch over her if she was barred from his presence. But, then, he’d not thought well or clearly that day by the river at all. It had been one of the worst hours of his life, telling Sofia the truth of what he was, and of why they could not come together. He could not think of it without feeling again the loss and pain.

  In the afternoons, when it was time to take his midday meal, Kayne would go into the village for fresh eggs and bread and, if his shelves were bare, more wine and ale and cheese. When his simple repast was complete, he would take a few moments before returning to his labors in the smithy to consider what he might have for his evening meal. In his larder he kept a good supply of salted meats and fish, and if he found vegetables for sale in the village during his afternoon visit he would set a pot of stew to simmering over the coals in his hearth so that it would be ready for him later.

  The afternoon hours were long and wearying, and Kayne’s hands and arms and shoulders ached from the never-ending hammering he did. During those few—and far too brief—moments when he stopped to refresh himself with a draught of cool water and to wipe the sweat from his body, he would wish, sinfully, that Sofia might suddenly appear to take some of his misery away. He had used t
o live in anticipation of such visits, though he was careful never to let her know how much. Now, thanks to his own foolish stubbornness, he would never have the pleasure of them again.

  When darkness began to fall, Kayne set his work aside. He banked the fire in his forge and added fresh coal to feed it through the night so that enough heat and embers would be present in the morn to start the fire anew. He cleaned his tools and washed the smithy down with several buckets of water, and then gave his attention once more to his animals. Once they had been fed and watered and cared for, he at last tended to himself, going to a large tub in the yard behind his dwelling to scrub the filth of his daily labors away. His hair, face, arms and chest were given equal care, for he had never been able to abide sleeping while covered with soot from a coal fire.

  Cleaned and dried, Kayne took an extra moment to wash the shirt he’d worn—or not worn, as was his more usual state while working—and took it back into the stable to toss over the gate of Tristan’s stall, where, God willing, he would find it dry enough to wear again come morn. Once each week he took all of his dirty garments to the village laundress, and gladly paid to have them properly cleaned. His own efforts were ever woefully lacking.

  Having done this, and satisfied that all was well with both animals and smithy, he made his way into his home and went directly abovestairs to fetch a fresh, clean shirt before sitting down to his evening meal.

  When the last remnants of his repast had been cleared away and the dwelling was in order, Kayne would take out one of his precious books and sit by his fire to read for an hour before retiring, or perhaps he would bring out ink and costly parchment to write missives to those he held dear, Sir Justin and his wife or Senet, John and Aric. Some nights, when he felt most restless, he would put on his heavy cloak, saddle Tristan, and ride out into the dark night, striving to weary himself beyond all thoughts of Sofia or France or his dying father.

  His father, Lord Renfrow, whose face and voice and touch he now knew, and who he could not force from his mind despite every effort.

  Their first meeting had not been in the least what Kayne had expected, and had unsettled him far more than he’d believed it would. Ten years of killing in France had hardened Kayne to a diamond strength, but he’d felt almost as a child again upon meeting the man who was his sire—a man he’d hated his whole life as he’d never hated anyone else. The experience was etched fully in his mind, as were the two days he’d spent in his father’s company, and could not be chased from his thoughts regardless how hard he might push Tristan in the cold darkness of night. Just as thoughts of Sofia could not be chased away.

  It was almost two full weeks before Kayne felt that peculiar tingling along the length of his spine that spoke of Sofia’s presence in his smithy. He’d felt it too many times before to mistake the sensation. He was in the midst of shaping a horseshoe, but the hammer in his hand fell silent almost of its own accord. His entire body fell still. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, and then straightened, opened his eyes, and turned to see her standing only a few feet away.

  She was beautiful—a sight to bring pleasure to both the eyes and the soul. He was torn between sorrow at how strong the bond between them was, that it should pull her back to him despite the certain destruction it offered, and pure joy to simply be with her again.

  Somehow he forced himself to move, to make himself presentable for her, as he ever did when she arrived at the smithy without warning. He set his work aside and washed his face and sweat-covered chest, then dried himself with a cloth and put his shirt on. Then, ordering his overlong hair with his fingers, he turned to face her once more.

  “Mistress Sofia,” he said, distressed to hear how thin and wobbly his voice was. It was only by the greatest resistance that he held back from leaping forward to gather her up in his arms and hold her body against his own.

  “Master Kayne,” she greeted with what sounded to him like perfectly cool reserve. In her hands, she held a long-handled basket, which she swung back and forth with a small, quick motion of her fingers. She lifted her chin. “I’ve brought your midday meal.”

  Kayne knew that he shouldn’t accept it. If he did, he would also have to ask her to share it with him, as propriety demanded.

  “You are very kind,” he said, striving to breathe more normally. “Thank you. Will you…join me in partaking of it?”

  “Nay, I thank you,” she replied so primly and readily that Kayne felt his whole being contract with disappointment. She set the basket upon the ground near her feet. “I am wanted in the village. Pray, sir, enjoy the meal.”

  With that, she turned and departed, not looking back, leaving Kayne gazing longingly after her. If she had wanted to punish him, she could have thought of no better plan. He took the basket up, gazed at the contents within—a roasted breast of pheasant, delicate cheese tarts, a wonderfully light cake smelling of almonds, and a skin of what he knew must be excellent wine from her father’s cellar—and found no pleasure in them.

  It was the same for the next thirteen days, sparing the Sabbath. Sofia arrived unannounced, always very proper and always bearing a basket filled with fine foods and delightful wines. Each day she was more beautiful than the day before, if such a thing was possible, and each day he felt as if he had been gifted with but a taste of her delicious presence—enough to be fully hungered, but never sated.

  On the fourteenth day, he was waiting for her, already cleaned and dressed and combed, determined that there would be an end to such foolishness once and for all.

  But she did not come herself. Instead, one of the menservants from Ahlgren Manor arrived with a short missive. Kayne waited until the young man had taken his leave before breaking the wax seal and reading the contents.

  “Meet me in the forest, beside the river. I await you there—Sofia”

  Kayne frowned and gazed at the missive with a measure of disbelief. How could she tempt fate in such a manner? Simply coming to the smithy each day had been enough to fuel every manner of gossip in the village, but this…God’s mercy, if he went, and if any heard of it…her very reputation might be ruined. Aye, even beyond what it had already suffered since all that had occurred on and after Midsummer Day.

  He would send another missive, he decided at once, folding the delicate parchment note. Mistress Kading’s youngest boy would run to the forest and deliver it for him. ’Twas without doubt that Sofia would be full angered, but mayhap that was for the best. Mayhap then she would cease coming to the smithy every day and tormenting him. If she did not, he could not answer for what love and desire might press him to do.

  Determined upon this course, he made his way into his dwelling in search of ink and parchment.

  It was a beautiful afternoon, and not too warm for August. A soft but steady breeze coursed through the forest trees, bringing the scent of the nearby river and cooling the day.

  Sofia stood and gazed down at the food she had arranged on a large square cloth laid upon the forest floor. There was fresh herb bread, still warm, and moist salmon smoked in apple wood to a delightful sweetness, and fresh goat’s cheese, soft and tangy. Cook had included several of her famed meat pasties, and enough tiny fruit tarts to feed a small army. And there were two wineskins filled with her father’s best wine, and goblets set nearby. A wonderful feast, she thought with satisfaction. Now all it needed was Kayne’s presence to make it complete.

  Sofia wasn’t entirely certain that he would come. Indeed, she’d been sure of nothing since the last day they’d spent together in almost this very same spot. But one thing she did know—she could not allow matters to go on as they were. She was miserable, and Kayne clearly was, too, if his looks over the past many days during her visits to the smithy were anything to go by. More than once she’d thought he might even lunge at her, so hungry and desolate he had appeared. And if he had, Sofia would have gladly given way to him. She was hungry and desolate, too.

  She had never known such wretchedness. Each day, when she’d gone t
o the smithy with an offering—fully humiliated at the awful need that drove her to do so—she had suffered at the mere sight of him.

  But she knew herself well. She was far too stubborn to put him out of her life, or to let him refuse her. Love was too rare and precious a thing to be treated so lightly, and today she meant to make him understand that. She was ready to compromise, if he was. Surely they could find the way together, if they both desired it enough, as she believed they did. And apart from that, her arguments and proposals for the matter would leave him little room for sway. He had told her that he loved her, and that, coupled with her determination, would be enough.

  The sound of horse’s hooves made her look up expectantly toward the open field, from which Kayne would approach. Listening, she frowned. There was more than one horse coming. Indeed, it sounded as if there must be three or more. But surely Kayne would bring no one else with him—at least, she prayed that he would not, after she had gone to so much trouble to be fully alone with him, having sent even her maid back to Ahlgren Manor to await her return.

  Was that the sound of a hawk overhead? she wondered, casting her gaze upward, searching through the few slivers of blue sky to see such a bird. She was certain that she had recognized the cry of the bird, even if she could not see it.

  She understood at once, with sinking clarity, what it meant. A hunting party was about to enter the forest in search of prey, following the bird’s course, and would very likely trample right over the meal she had so painstakingly set out.

  Only moments later the hunters came, black figures on horseback charging into the trees at the forest’s edge a short distance away. Sofia’s hopes rose as the riders checked their progress in deference to the thickening foliage, looking for the best way through the trees, and accordingly changed course to head toward the river and the bird’s resounding cry. They did not even appear to see her…until the very last moment, when they had nearly ridden out to the riverbank.