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

by Claire Delacroix

  She remembered how he turned her face to his, she remembered how he warned her quietly not to scream, she remembered how he had coaxed her participation in their ritual kiss. She remembered that she had no fear of his touch—on the contrary, she hungered for the brush of his lips across hers. She remembered how an uncommon heat filled her veins, how his touch awakened a thousand apparent memories.

  Most disconcertingly, she would always recall how utterly certain she was that what they had just done was right.

  Then he had trussed the gag across her mouth anew, his expression inscrutable, and she feared that she had fallen into the hands of the devil himself.

  In no time at all, they were riding. The black stallions had been saddled and waiting in the shadows outside Abernye’s walls, so dark as to be shadows themselves. The last of the Hawk’s men had been waiting there, the reins in his grip, the stallions stamping in their impatience to gallop.

  The gate of Abernye had stood open, against all conventions. When they passed beneath the portcullis, Aileen saw the gatekeeper hale enough, snoring with his mouth open in his gatehouse.

  At least, he was not dead. Aileen told herself to be grateful for small mercies.

  She realized that all had been prepared with chilling precision. Aileen understood then that she should not underestimate her new spouse’s ability to anticipate any event—much less, to plan for it.

  She would need all her wits to escape this man alive.

  The Hawk’s men set their spurs to their steeds with nary a word between them, as if such thievery were habitual among them. She supposed it must be and feared anew what household she had been compelled to join.

  The Hawk’s company closed ranks around him, their ebony horses moving like the night wind. Aileen was trapped before the Hawk, bound and silent, the fluid movement of the horse forcing her against her husband’s heat.

  Husband.

  Over the Hawk’s shoulder, Aileen watched the waning moon rise over the squat towers of Abernye. Those familiar towers diminished in the dark shadow of distance until they were swallowed by the hills and lost to her forever.

  It was then that the truth chilled her blood. She was bound to this notorious warrior forevermore. She shivered then, despite the wealth of fur around her, and her husband caught her closer. He looked down at her then, his handsome features wreathed in shadows, and Aileen knew she saw him smile.

  The Hawk’s scheme, it seemed, proceeded precisely as he had planned.

  Thus far.

  Aileen was his and his alone.

  The Hawk was triumphant in his success. His plan had been executed perfectly. The miles fell behind them with no hint of pursuit and every step made him more certain that they would reach Inverfyre unchallenged.

  And there, there, he and Aileen would have a true nuptial night to celebrate. He could scarce wait.

  His bride sat stiffly before him for long hours that night, defying the Hawk’s every expectation. He had anticipated maidenly tears, but his bride had not shed a single one. He had feared an unholy fight in the chapel—or worse, her refusal to comply—but Aileen had agreed so readily that he was convinced that their thoughts were as one.

  Matters began most well.

  When she finally slept, he pulled her weight against him more fully. The night was silent save for the hoof beats of their galloping steeds. Wilderness surrounded them on all sides, for Abernye was far to the north. The Hawk unknotted the gag and eased it from his lady’s lips.

  She did not awaken. There was a mark upon her flesh from the binding and he caressed it tenderly, regretting that he had trusted her as little as he had. No doubt she would have simply taken his hand and agreed if he had asked, if he had not been so fearful of her refusal.

  He loosed the bonds that bound her, leaving her wrapped solely in the warmth of his cloak with his arm fast around her waist. The cloak fluttered in the wind and she started to sudden wakefulness, no doubt because of the chill that touched her flesh.

  He might have expected a sweet confession, or that she would have nestled close against him again in contentment, but Aileen straightened. She wasted no time on pleasantries, her tongue running quickly across her lips as she glanced at the darkness around them.

  “I assume that we are so far afield that no one could hear any cry for aid that I was fool enough to utter,” she said.

  The Hawk nodded assent, startled by the bitterness in her tone. Her conclusion was true, though it was not the sole reason he had loosed her fetters.

  The lady stretched slightly, then gathered the cloak more closely about herself. “And presumably you believe that I am not so addle-pated as to leap from the back of a racing steed?”

  The Hawk pulled her closer with proprietary ease. “Your wits are sufficiently keen that a man might cut himself upon them, lady mine.”

  She glanced up then, her gaze bright despite the darkness. He had the sense that she feared that he mocked her, so he held her gaze.

  “I like that you are clever,” he said, sensing her doubt.

  She frowned and eyed his company with undisguised curiosity. The wind lifted blond tendrils of her hair and drove them against his chest, the feminine softness of them feeding the Hawk’s possessive instincts. Ah, to be abed at Inverfyre already!

  “Did Blanche concoct this scheme with you?” she asked, her tone mild.

  “Blanche?” The Hawk knew that his astonishment showed.

  His bride’s lips tightened. “My stepmother would like to be rid of me.” Her mutinous glance flicked to him. “She would like even more to grant me to a man of such notorious repute that I might be raped and left dead in a ditch.”

  The Hawk perceived somewhat belatedly that his threat, intending only to ensure her silence, had been given greater credence than he had anticipated.

  “I made no scheme with your stepmother,” he insisted. “And it is not my intent that your days end so poorly as that.”

  She granted him a glance so dubious that the Hawk knew not what to say in his own defense. “What then is your scheme for me?”

  “You are my lady wife. You will sit upon my left hand in my abode, bear my sons and honor my hall with your presence. Surely you cannot imagine that I desire other than this?”

  Aileen made a small skeptical sound, then closed her eyes to end their conversation. The Hawk knew from her breathing that she did not sleep.

  He did not know what to say to ease her concerns, indeed, he could not have named what those concerns might be. He knew that it was right that they should be wedded. He knew that Aileen was the wife for him.

  He suddenly feared, however, that the lady was somewhat less persuaded of this truth than he.

  The Hawk pondered his course until the eastern sky turned rosy. He indicated to his companions that they should leave the road, and the four steeds trotted into the forest, merging with the shadows of the woods. A river gurgled ahead, and the Hawk let his steed pick their path toward the water. The stallion halted with his front hooves in the course of the river, then bent his head to drink.

  The Hawk dismounted, lifting his bride into his arms, and left the other men to dismount and water their steeds. He seized his saddlebag, then carried her into the woods, feeling her stiffen with every pace he took.

  Indeed, she caught her breath in a consternation that vexed him mightily.

  “Yesterday, you did not fear me,” he reminded her with some irritation. “Yesterday, you welcomed my kiss. Indeed, you encouraged it.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I had never been kissed afore!”

  “Then you show an innate talent that bodes well, lady mine.”

  “Had I guessed your wicked scheme, I would not have surrendered to your kiss,” Aileen retorted, color staining her cheeks. “You will not insist that this circumstance is my own fault!”

  “No, I will not.” He set her upon her feet, dropped the bag and bent to rummage within it. They were within a hollow, shielded from the view of the others yet sheltered
by the steep incline of the land around them.

  The ground was thick with brambles beneath the tall trees, and it was no accident he had chosen this spot. He felt her restlessness, fairly tasted her urge to flee and knew himself to be responsible.

  Instead of the triumphant suitor, he felt a knave.

  He heard Aileen took a step, then saw that she hastily pulled her foot back. When he glanced up at her face, her arms were folded across her chest, the voluminous cape wrapped around her, and her eyes were snapping with sapphire fire. Her hair had spilled from her braid and the sunlight had entwined itself within its length. He had a yearning again to touch her, but knew it would only feed her fear.

  “Yet again you scheme with surety. No soul alive would be witless enough to try to flee barefoot through such bracken,” she said, clearly irked with him.

  The Hawk merely nodded again, then offered her a white linen chemise of his own and a pair of dark chausses. “It is hardly feminine garb, but it is the best that can be managed afore we reach Inverfyre.” He granted her a glance. “You will appreciate that I did not ride to Abernye with the intent of claiming a bride.”

  “What changed your plan?” she asked, her annoyance clear.

  He stepped forward and caught her chin in his hand. “This did.” He brushed his lips quickly across hers and heard her catch her breath. It was but the barest taste of her, but enough to make his desire rage.

  She shivered beneath his embrace, unable to hide her intuitive response to his touch, and he knew again the sense of his command over himself slipping away. He repeated his gesture, unable to resist the softness of her lips. He wanted to bed her on his cloak, here in the forest, not a dozen paces away from his men.

  The woman wrought a madness within him with her kiss, a madness he would welcome when they were alone together.

  As they were not yet.

  Reluctantly, the Hawk broke their embrace and stepped back. He sealed her lips with his thumb and held her gaze. “Or perhaps I should say that you did.”

  The lady’s lips twisted wryly. “No man has ever lost his wits over desire for me.”

  The Hawk nigh smiled. “I count myself fortunate that these hills are full of blind men.”

  Aileen took a step away from him, her wariness such that he let her go. “You will turn your back,” she insisted, twin spots of color staining her cheeks. “For you are not blind and I will not relieve myself beneath your eye.”

  The Hawk straightened, giving her a stern look that spoke volumes.

  “Where would I run?” she demanded, flinging out one hand. “Where would I hide that four warriors could not find me?”

  Her frustration made him recall an old jest that what a woman desired most was her own will. Was his lady annoyed with him because he had granted her no choice in this? But how could he have done so? Though he was not averse to risk, he had been in no mood to risk losing her.

  And he would not lose her now. The Hawk turned so he could see her from the corner of his eye, folded his arms across his chest and waited.

  “Will you not turn further away?”

  The Hawk shook his head. “No.” He met her outraged gaze. “This or I watch you openly.”

  The lady inhaled sharply, her eyes sparkling in her indignation. She was infinitely desirable in her fury. “You are a barbarian,” she muttered and he grinned.

  “You are fetching when you are irked. Calm yourself, lady mine, or we shall consummate our match here and now.”

  Aileen glared at him. She pivoted without another word, lifted his cloak so it did not brush the ground, and squatted.

  Content that there was indeed no chance she could get far even if she did try to flee, the Hawk watched the sky turn blue overhead. It would be a bright day, and one in which they would have to move carefully so as to avoid being noticed. He was tempted to whistle, for he was much encouraged that the lady cared enough about his presence to be annoyed with him.

  His mother, after all, had long said that hate and love are but a whisker apart.

  A moment later, the Hawk felt the weight of his fur-lined cloak pressed against his arm. His heart thumped with the import of that—his bride was nude and near his very side.

  “I cannot keep it from the forest floor while I dress,” Aileen said. “Please do not look.” He accepted its burden, knowing she would not welcome his urge to gaze fully upon her. He examined the cloak’s hem with apparent interest, fully aware that Aileen was not two paces away from him and that his imagination had probably not done her justice.

  He ached to look. The shadows in the lady’s chambers had hidden her too well, to his thinking, and he was cursedly curious. A mere glance would have sated him—perhaps not, but that was what he told himself. He knew that in her current mood, though, she might despise him forever for stealing a glance.

  She doubtless thought he had stolen too much already.

  All the same, he heard the draw of every lace, even over the thunder of his heart. He heard the slide of linen against her bare flesh and believed his gallantry was hard won. He noted the flick of her hair as she pulled it from the chemise.

  “Have you a comb?”

  “A wooden one, unfit for a lady,” he said by way of apology, but retrieved it from his saddlebag all the same. He could not keep himself from watching as she shook out her golden tresses. Her hair fell to her waist and was more curly than he had expected, its tangled mass inviting his hands to trail through its length.

  His chausses fit her snugly through the buttocks, emphasizing her curves, and she had rolled the hems up for they were too long. She had pushed up the sleeves of the chemise and tied the neck lace tightly in an attempt to disguise her charms. The morning sunlight, though, silhouetted the curve of her breasts beneath the linen, and the sight tightened the Hawk’s own chausses.

  Aileen noted his glance and quirked a brow as she braided her hair, securing its glory once again. “Your garb is not so large as to be overwhelming. It has long been said that I am a woman wrought cursedly tall.”

  The Hawk snorted. “Tiny women are oft sickly or too coy in their manner.” He slanted her a telling glance. “I cannot fathom why a man would take such a creature like your stepmother to his bed.”

  Aileen froze in the midst of knotting the tether for her braid. “You did not find her alluring?”

  He arched a skeptical brow. “I would not turn my back upon such a viper, not if I had any token of value she desired.”

  The lady’s smile was all the more beguiling for being unexpected. The Hawk lifted his hand, intending to touch her cheek as he marveled, but she abruptly sobered.

  Her manner changed as if she recalled that she had no reason to smile.

  Or as if she feared his touch. He swung the cloak around her shoulders again, and deliberately fastened it at her neck. He lingered over the task, reveling in the scent of her and the softness of her so close at hand.

  She watched him with that same wariness in her eyes. “Is our match no more than a jest between you and your fellows?”

  He met her gaze in surprise. “We exchanged vows, and a vow is not to be broken. I intend this to be a marriage in truth, lady mine.”

  She licked her lips, clearly choosing her words with care, and her gaze flicked away from his. Still, she voiced the question that plagued her and he admired her determination. “Will you beat me?” She swallowed. “I know a man has the right…”

  If this was her fear, he would see it dismissed this very moment!

  “Never,” the Hawk declared with such resolve that she could not doubt his intent. “No man of merit beats a woman.”

  There was a welcome glint of amusement in her eye, though still she did not smile. “But I have heard you are not a man of merit.”

  He chuckled despite himself. “Nonetheless, I pledge this to you.”

  She tilted her head to regard him. “And of what value is your pledge, then, if you are not a man of merit?”

  The Hawk sobered. “It is
of every value, and I shall prove it to you. Indeed, lady mine, I shall prove to you that the evidence of your eyes is more compelling than the rumor gathered by your ears.”

  She studied him, her expression inscrutable, and he could not keep himself from asking. “I thought you wished to wed and be away from Abernye,” he suggested cautiously. “I thought you did not find my touch offensive.”

  “I thought a man asked a woman’s father for her hand.”

  “The end is the same, lady mine,” he reminded her. “And there is no delay in this. I have little taste for loitering when my decision is clear.”

  “And what of my decision?” she murmured. Before he could reply, she sighed and glanced into the forest, a small frown marring her brows. Resignation claimed her then, and her shoulders drooped, though he would never have imagined that she would surrender any battle so readily.

  “I forget myself. If you do not intend to beat me, then I suppose my lot is more fortunate than that of most women. One way or the other, we shall make a match of this, I suppose.” Aileen granted him a smile so sad it fair tore his heart in two. “I should have liked to have been courted, but God knows, I must be content with what has been granted to me. A thousand women would likely be pleased to take my place.”

  The Hawk feared she might weep, but his wife brushed past him and headed back to the horses, stepping with care around the worst of the brambles. The Hawk watched her, feeling more a cur than ever he had.

  A courtship, to his thinking, could be arranged.

  Especially if the prize was his lady’s favor.

  Aileen cursed herself for the remainder of the day. What impetuousness had claimed her, that she had matched wits with the man? It was too tempting by half to talk to him, especially when he spoke to her as if she was someone possessed of intellect. Yet each time she bantered with him, she revealed more of herself and undoubtedly dissuaded him of the notion that she was passive and amenable.

  And trustworthy. Aileen gritted her teeth at her own susceptibility to the man’s charm. She could not take the words back—she could only hope that she was more successful in future.