Stolen Brides: Four Beauty-and-the-Beast Medieval Romances

by Claire Delacroix

  “Who will aid you, now that your brother has had his due?” he demanded and there was an unappealing truth in his words. “You are mine, mine since your brother accepted my coin for his own.”

  She was no possession! “I belong to no man and I never will.” Vivienne stared furiously into the shadows of his hood. “You cannot compel me to do your will in this, for there is no bond between us.”

  His hand closed around her arm and he lifted her slightly off the floor. She could not miss the truth of how much larger he was than she and her confidence faltered.

  “Can I not?” he murmured, seemingly aware of her uncertainty. His thumb began to move against her flesh in slow circles, and even through the ruched sleeve of her chemise, Vivienne felt a treacherous desire awaken within her.

  But desire alone was not to be trusted.

  “I will not make the matter simple for you,” she said. “I will not be biddable!”

  “And you need not be trussed like a lamb meant for the slaughter,” he said with impatience. “It is clear that our paths lie together, and more clear that our course will be easier if you accept the truth of it.”

  Vivienne pulled her arm from his grip and stepped away, distrusting the power of his touch. “Show me your face. Tell me your name.”

  He stepped back then, ensuring she could not reach his hood. His determination to hide his face from her only made Vivienne more determined to see him truly.

  He could cede that much to her, at least!

  “It is better if you accompany me,” he said, speaking more gently. “What if you bear my child?”

  “After one night? That would be unlikely!” Though Vivienne scoffed, her spirit quailed.

  His tone hardened anew. “You have seven siblings, all born of the same woman, and your sister conceived quickly after her nuptials. I heard tell of it in the village. It would not be so uncommon for your womb to bear fruit quickly, particularly in a family so vigorous as your own.”

  Vivienne folded her arms across her chest. “Then I shall accept that prospect rather than departing with a stranger. The worst price of it would be shame.”

  “Your fate might be worse than merely shame, though that is harder to bear than you might believe,” he said with quiet persistence. “Your brother was quick to sell your hand—why should he not do so again?” He leaned closer, his words persuasive. “What manner of spouse will you win without your maidenhead? And what will such a man believe if your belly rounds too soon? What will he do when you offer him another man’s son?”

  To Vivienne’s horror, he made a dangerous sense. She marched back to the pallet, fastened her belt, knotted her garters and donned her boots. Tears veiled her vision but she would not let him see how he had disappointed her with his hard questions this morn.

  She much preferred the magic they had wrought the night before. Had she dreamed the man who had met her abed with such respect and affection? She spared a glance to the silent and hooded man behind her. Vivienne wished she could be certain which was his nature in truth.

  Fully garbed with her cloak cast over her shoulder, she pivoted to face him and made an impulsive offer. “If your aims are so noble, wed me then, and I will have no choice but to accompany you.”

  He shook his head. “There will be no nuptials between us.”

  Vivienne was shocked that he could consider treating her with such dishonor. “I am no courtesan and I will not become one.”

  “And I will cross the threshold of no chapel before all that is mine is mine once more,” he said. Vivienne had no chance to ask after his losses, for her offered her his right hand. “I will pledge to you in the old way, for a year and a day. If either of us finds fault with the other in that time, we shall be free to part and unbeholden from that point onward.”

  “And if I bear a child?”

  “It will be my son in truth, raised in my household and granted every advantage I can offer.”

  It was a meager offer compared to marriage, but with her maidenhead gone, Vivienne feared that she had little left with which to wager. She glanced at his hand, its strength gilded by a ray of sunlight. This was not how she had envisioned matching her path to that of a man, and she was not yet prepared to believe it was her sole choice.

  Vivienne tentatively put her hand in his, and was awed again by the way his fingers engulfed hers. When he offered his left hand, crossing it over the right one then turning up his palm, Vivienne pretended to reach toward it. Then she reached quickly for his hood, so quickly that he barely seized her hand in time.

  “I would see your eyes while you make such a vow,” she protested. “No man of merit fears as much.”

  “You will not look upon me.”

  “Whyever not?”

  “Because I forbid it,” he said, his tone allowing no argument.

  Vivienne chose to argue despite this. “You might be an outlaw, or a man whose repute I know well,” she said. “You might be a man who has assailed me in the past, or a man I loathe.”

  “I assure you that I am none of these.”

  “Your word will not suffice. You cannot expect so much of me in exchange for so little.” Vivienne sensed his hesitation and took advantage of it, pulling her hand from his and snapping back his hood with haste.

  He stared at her, his expression impassive, his eyes an uncanny blue.

  To her relief, he was a stranger, not some fiend whose advances she had spurned before. She supposed she should not be so relieved to have his name remain a mystery to her, but his steady gaze instilled confidence in her.

  His scarred face should have done the opposite. His hood hung around his neck like a cowl, leaving his features bare. The early sunlight caught the puckered flesh of a scar. That marring line began at his temple, compelling the end of his brow to tilt upward, narrowly missing the corner of his eye, slashed across his cheek, tugged at the corner of his mouth, then ended in the midst of his chin, perhaps deepening a dimple that had always been there.

  Vivienne was haunted by a feeling that he was vaguely familiar, as if she had met some of his kin before, but even that sense was far from strong.

  He did not so much as blink as she surveyed this wound, and she sensed that he expected her to recoil in horror. Vivienne granted the injury a leisurely perusal, then met his gaze unswervingly once she had seen the whole of it. She savored her conviction that he was surprised by her response.

  “You thought that I would reject you on the basis of this injury alone,” she charged softly. “But I have wits enough to know that a man’s face is not the measure of his worth.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, either incredulous or skeptical. His eyes became a more vehement blue and Vivienne wondered what he was thinking. She was keenly aware of his hand closing protectively around her own and swallowed when he captured her other hand once more. His thumb moved across her flesh in a slow caress, though she could not have said whether he did as much apurpose or not. The tower chamber seemed to warm around her.

  Even his presence changed the air, even the sound of his breath made Vivienne’s flesh tingle. She was aware of him as she had never been aware of another person in all her days. His steady regard softened her resistance to him in a most troubling way.

  “Then what is the measure of a man?”

  “His deeds,” she said softly. “Though yours show little merit this morn.”

  A shadow touched his eyes and she knew that she did not imagine that his expression darkened for a moment. “Then let this be a better deed.” He clasped her hands with gentle resolve, then met her gaze so steadily that she could not look away. “And so I swear to you, Vivienne Lammergeier, that I shall treat you with all honor for a year and a day, that I will defend you and honor you, that any children you bear me will be raised as my own, that at the end of that year and a day we both shall have the choice of whether to remain together or nay.”

  He loosed her right hand and his fingertips landed upon her cheek. They were warm, his to
uch as light as that of a butterfly upon a flower. Vivienne found herself turning, so that her lips touched his palm, found herself seduced anew by the reverence in his touch. His fingertips eased over the curve of her cheek, across her bottom lip, then he cupped her chin in her hand. Vivienne looked into his eyes and the last of her defiance dissolved.

  The truth was that this man could have raped her the night before, but he had shown her tenderness. He had ensured she found pleasure on her first taste of lovemaking. Even now, he was concerned for the future of any child she might bear, and noted rightly that Alexander might make a worse match for her now that her maidenhead was gone. Even now, he eased closer, his eyes darkening with his intent to kiss her.

  And Vivienne was weak enough to want nothing less.

  He was wary, to be sure, but no man could bear such a violent and fresh scar without possessing some fear of his fellows. The wound had been wrought by a blade, it was clear, and she shivered inwardly at what he must have borne.

  His lips closed over hers, his kiss resolute as he claimed what he believed to be his due. Vivienne knew that a more sensible maiden would have rejected his embrace, would have stepped back from him until all of his mysteries were revealed. But Vivienne found herself welcoming his embrace, found her arms twining around his neck, found herself reveling in the marvel of his kiss.

  She rose to her toes, for though she was tall, he was taller. His hand slid into the tangle of hair at her nape, her hands landed on his shoulders, her breasts collided with his chest. She closed her eyes and there was nothing but his kiss, nothing but him and his desire that she depart with him.

  Nothing but the desire he awakened within her. He caught her closer and Vivienne almost forgot all she knew to be true.

  But not quite.

  Vivienne tore her lips from his and he released her, his steady gaze fixed upon her. She retreated, her thinking becoming less addled with every step she put between them. She looked away from him and fought to find her reason.

  Kisses and promises should not be enough, not from a man who would not even surrender his name to her, a man who had tried to hide his face from her.

  Vivienne wished she had never seen his scar. She knew too many tales of men served false who sought justice, of a fearsome face masking a heart wrought of gold. She knew too many tales in which a bold woman and her love were the salvation of a man who had lost all. It was too simple to see herself within such a tale, too simple to forget that impulse had oft served her false.

  It had been a tale, after all, and her belief in it that had led to this circumstance.

  “Make haste,” he said softly. “We must depart immediately.”

  “No. I cannot go.” Vivienne’s words fell quickly in her determination to make a sensible choice. “I cannot leave with you, not so soon. You must show me more reason to trust you than this. You must meet me here again this night.”

  “Be not afraid, Vivienne,” he said.

  Even with the use of her name, he made her conviction fade! She held up three fingers, hating how her hand shook. “Three nights the tale pledged.”

  He shook his head and took a step closer. “The tale, whatever it was, was not true. We depart immediately.”

  “I will have three nights courtship and a red rose wrought of ice,” Vivienne insisted stubbornly. She knew it was a mad demand, but she needed time away from him to consider her course. She needed to speak to Alexander, to find out why he had made this wager, she needed to think without her lover’s compelling blue gaze fixed upon her.

  “There is no time,” he said.

  “There must be time.” Vivienne hastened to the portal, intending only to flee. Did she choose aright? She did not know, she could not reason with the taste of him upon her lips. Surely caution was never rewarded poorly? She had so little experience with it that she could not be certain.

  She knew, however, that impulse could steer her false.

  A cock crowed then in Kinfairlie village, though she ignored both it and her companion’s muttered curse. Vivienne did not hear his footstep, did not guess that he had moved until his arm locked around her waist. She cried out, but he cast her over his shoulder with dangerous ease.

  “Not yet!” Vivienne struggled against him, but he granted her no chance for escape.

  “I have pledged myself to you, you have surrendered yourself to me and your brother has accepted his price.” He crossed the chamber, untroubled by her protest. “The wager is wrought, for better or for worse, for a year and a day.”

  “I said not yet!”

  “And I said that you had no true choice,” he said, even as he stepped to the sill of the window. “We have wasted too much time this morn already.”

  Vivienne saw the ground far below them and panicked anew. “No!” she cried, fully aware of what he meant to do.

  Undeterred, he seized the rope yet hanging outside the window and swung them both out into the early morning air with a bold confidence Vivienne could not echo.

  Indeed, she buried her face in his tabard, clutched his shoulder, and prayed as her stomach roiled in protest. He planted both feet on the wall with surety.

  “Hold fast, for I need both hands for the rope,” he commanded.

  Vivienne had little choice, for she did not wish to plunge to her death. She seized him, knowing that her fingers dug into him like claws, and did not care. She did not remain silent, though she guessed he would have preferred as much.

  “Help!” she screamed. “Awaken, sentries of Kinfairlie! Be of aid to me!”

  “Be silent!” growled her captor, but Vivienne was no more inclined to heed his words than he had been to heed hers. She screamed with vigor and was delighted when an answering shout carried from Kinfairlie’s bailey.

  A sentry bellowed from his post and an arrow flew past them, embedding itself in the wall.

  Vivienne’s lover cursed, and descended with greater haste.

  “Help me!” Vivienne cried. “I am the laird’s sister Vivienne and this man means to capture me!”

  Her captor halted his descent long enough to swing her around and shove one of his leather gloves into her mouth. “You will waken the entire village,” he said, anger making his eyes snap with sapphire fire.

  Vivienne protested, but her words were muffled by the glove. She did not dare to loosen her clutch upon him to remove it. She was cast over his shoulder once again, no more troublesome apparently than a sack of grain.

  Mercifully, the sentries had already seen her and she had made her circumstance clear.

  Her captor would not get far.

  But, to Vivienne’s surprise, no second arrow followed the first. She dared to look and spied a trio of Kinfairlie’s sentries conferring in the mist of the morning. They did nothing to intervene, though they could not have been forty paces away.

  Indeed, they leaned on their bows to watch.

  What was this?

  Her captor reached the ground, swung her around into his arms. He clamped her knees tightly and her elbows fast against her side, and she saw the annoyance in his expression. He strode through the village with purpose and she noted now that he limped. He still set an impressive pace and her struggling did little to deter him. Still the sentries did nothing to aid her.

  He glanced down and must have noted her surprise, no less guessed the reason for it.

  “You have been bought,” he informed her as he marched toward one of the crumbled walls. “And your fate is sealed by that. Your brother ensured that I could scale the tower unobserved and it is clear that his men have been commanded to not intervene. You need no further sign of his endorsement than that.”

  Vivienne ceased to fight at his words. Indeed, she could think of no other explanation for events. Alexander must have given the sentries directions not to interfere with her capture.

  Her grim captor did not say something else which Vivienne also knew must be true: Alexander would not have made such an arrangement without complete confidence in her futur
e with this man.

  Alexander must have known something to her captor’s credit in order to accept his uncommon suit. She could not imagine that Alexander would wed her to a man who meant to do her injury. Her brother loved a jest, but he was not cruel.

  Who was this man?

  Her captor was disinclined to confide his secrets in this moment. He cast her across the saddle of a horse hidden beside the crumbled wall. Vivienne managed only to sit up before he swung up behind her, caught her fast against him and gave the steed his spurs.

  Vivienne was not so foolish as to leap from the back of a racing horse, though her captor held her so tightly that she had little chance of doing so. Kinfairlie’s chickens scattered before them, a pair of goats bleated, and Kinfairlie’s sentries leaned upon their blades to watch the destrier’s departure with indifference.

  “All is well!” one shouted as the church bells rang the first hour, though Vivienne most assuredly would have disagreed. She wished with sudden vigor that she knew whatever Alexander had known.

  She doubted, however, that the man behind her would tell her much.

  Elizabeth, the youngest of the siblings of Kinfairlie, was awakened early by some ruckus in the bailey. She heard the sentries shout that all was well, so settled back into the warmth of her pallet. She tried desperately to return to sleep and failed.

  Elizabeth was cursed with the ability to see fairies. Actually, Elizabeth felt herself cursed that she was able to see one particular fairy, a spriggan named Darg, who had a talent for matchmaking and had developed a fondness for Elizabeth since that maiden had saved that spriggan’s life.

  On this particular morning, Elizabeth did not share that affection, for it was Darg who kept her awake. Darg was excited about some matter and insisted upon dancing on Elizabeth’s chest.

  In fact, Elizabeth was wondering just what had compelled her to save the spriggan from drowning in that pitcher of ale. On this morn, it seemed that having left well enough alone would have been a better choice.

  Surprisingly, that near-demise had not lessened Darg’s taste for ale. It was true that Darg had an unholy taste for mortal ale, though it affected her even more strongly than it affected mortals. Perhaps that was the root of her fondness for the brew.