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

by Claire Delacroix

  The warmth of the Hawk’s thumb landed upon Aileen’s lips, silencing her. “And you would have me see to their salvation, as a lord should do.”

  Aileen nodded.

  “You understand that my concern lies in risking the life of any man summoned to sing the services here. It is not fitting to have the blood of priests upon one’s hands.”

  “What of Father Gilchrist in my father’s hall? Would you or your men not have killed him?”

  The Hawk smiled. “I had hoped you would be so readily persuaded of the wisdom of wedding me that such a deed would not be necessary.” There was something hard in his eyes, though, something that told Aileen that the Hawk did not suffer obstacles to his desires easily.

  She looked at their hands again. “Your tactics were not encouraging.”

  “I strive to improve them,” he murmured, then kissed her behind one ear with such languor that Aileen shivered. “You must report diligently upon my progress.”

  “You seem to fare well enough,” she acknowledged, then pulled away. “But you evade the matter of a priest.”

  “The matter will be resolved in its own time,” the Hawk said, his voice low but firm.

  Aileen stared at him. “What manner of answer is this?”

  “The best one that you shall have on this night.”

  Aileen parted her lips to argue with him, then noted how avidly he watched her. Was this a test of her trust in him?

  “Fair enough,” she murmured. “I shall be patient, for a time.”

  A smile touched the Hawk’s lips at this and Aileen found herself smiling in return. Indeed, it seemed suddenly warm in her chambers, though she could not avert her gaze from the bright gleam of his eyes.

  “You should kiss me,” she whispered.

  The Hawk shook his head slowly, though his intent manner told Aileen he did not spurn her. “Do we not have an agreement? I fear you must kiss me first.”

  Aileen caught her breath. Her hand stilled within his grasp and she expected that he could feel the race of her pulse. He sat so still that he might have been wrought of stone.

  Aileen watched her husband for a moment that seemed to endure through eternity, a moment in which neither of them dared breathe, a moment during which she counted the beats of her own pulse.

  And then she squared her shoulders, letting the wolf pelt fall from her breasts. The Hawk caught his breath even as she rose to her knees and closed the distance between them.

  “You show your mettle, Aileen,” he whispered with approval.

  Aileen smiled, encouraged, pleased to hear him use her name. She lifted his hand in hers, and placed it upon the indent of her waist. She framed his face in her hands and fairly leaned her breasts against his chest.

  He swallowed and she watched, her own breathing quick.

  “We could consider this solely a test of the power of the visions,” she whispered.

  “We could.”

  “Although, it appears that you have some desire for me,” she mused playfully. “It is possible that the test itself could become forgotten…”

  “And entirely likely that it should do so.” The Hawk’s brow arched and his thumb stroked her waist. “For I have a most unholy desire for you. Are you prepared to take such a risk?”

  Aileen sighed in mock concern. “I suppose for the sake of knowing the truth, some risk must be incurred.”

  “Indeed.”

  “But I know so little of granting kisses.”

  “Even those that begin badly oft end well, perhaps not unlike nuptial nights.” He smiled encouragement, the sight making her feel invincible. “That is all you have need of knowing.”

  “It can only be so if both parties are willing,” she teased.

  He chuckled then. “I assure you that this party is most willing.”

  Aileen smiled, then sobered anew. She leaned against him and heard him catch his breath. She framed his face in her hands and half-feared he had ceased to breathe. She pressed her lips to his and his warm scent inundated her. He parted his lips, letting her proceed as she desired, and his deed snared her fully.

  Aileen arched demandingly against him, loving how he groaned when she slid her tongue between his teeth. He caught her closer and deepened their kiss as if he could do naught else. Desire roared within her and she closed her eyes, surrendering her all to this consuming embrace.

  A heat flooded through the Hawk beneath Aileen’s caress, his heart swelling as his bride embraced him willingly. He restrained himself with an effort, granting her time to conquer her uncertainty. His thumb worked back and forth against the softness of her flesh, for he could not hold back fully.

  Indeed, he clenched his other fist in the linens. He let her taste him, felt her tremble, let her fingertips dance over him. Like butterflies, they seemed hesitant to land fully upon him.

  Then she pressed her lips to his more firmly, questing and demanding. She was innocent, but she warmed to her task. She slipped her fingers into his hair, then tightened her grip. She pulled him against her, loosing the restraints he had wrought for himself. Her tongue slipped between his teeth, dueling with his own, and he could not help but catch her closer. They rolled across the bed, limbs entangled, passion enflamed.

  The moment was upon them, and to the Hawk’s thinking, it came not a heartbeat too soon.

  Then, in his mind’s eye, he suddenly saw again the image that Adaira had once conjured. Two plies of a rope twined through his thoughts, intruding in a most unwelcome manner, the plies twisting like a Celtic tattoo. Aileen’s kiss grew more bold and he could see the rope, see the plies entwined, see that it was stronger with the two plies than with one.

  Then the Hawk saw that the plies were two serpents in truth, their sinuous lengths entwined, their forms writhing about each other. He shivered in revulsion and a serpent seemed to slide down his spine, cold and wet.

  A serpent awakened by his lady’s embrace.

  The treachery he had feared was within Inverfyre’s own walls.

  Nay, it was within this very chamber!

  He broke their kiss and leaped from the bed. His breathing was heavy, his entire being disheveled. He certainly was not flushed with pleasure as Aileen seemed to be. She smiled at him and his innards clenched.

  She was triumphant.

  He had taken a sorceress to his bed, a viper to his breast, and she had treacherously slipped dark poison into his thoughts. With the oldest wiles known to mankind, she distracted him from his vigilant guard of the prize of Inverfyre. That Aileen was so pleased only fed the fear that had seized him.

  Who had told him of Aileen of Abernye? The Hawk could not recall, though he could not ignore who other than Tarsuinn would know of Adaira.

  Dubghlas MacLaren had been at the siege of Inverfyre. He had lurked on the borders for years now, seeking a chance to steal back what his family had stolen afore. And how had Aileen run all the day long but gone no further than Adaira’s old hut? Had she met with one of the MacLaren clan? Had she learned details that could be used against him? Why did she seduce him in this moment? The Hawk lunged to the window, seeking a hint of some dark event he had missed.

  All was tranquil.

  His gaze rose to the distant keep of the treacherous MacLaren clan, the last bit of Inverfyre’s soil he had yet to reclaim. Though all appeared calm, he knew that there was a taint in the air. He did not trust the evidence before his eyes. He had to walk the walls, he had to discern the breach he knew must be there.

  Aileen sighed contentment, seemingly oblivious to his distress. “There was no vision,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling in a most fetching way. “Can you command them so readily as that?”

  “This dark force is not beneath my command,” he snapped.

  Her eyes widened slightly at his harsh tone. Her gaze darted to his clenched fists and she must have misunderstood the reason for his anger.

  “Was I too bold?”

  “We will not speak of it.”

  She swallo
wed, then rose to her knees, letting the pelts fall to the mattress. “You are right. This is no time for chatter.” The flickering candlelight caressed her glorious curves again and she smiled so fetchingly that he was tempted. “I would welcome you to my bed this night, my lord.”

  The Hawk’s pulse leaped, but duty made him take a step back. He would not make an error guided by passion alone. If he consummated this match, it would be with full trust of his lady wife.

  Trust he did not possess in this moment.

  “I fear I have demanded your passion too soon,” he said with resolve, pivoting so that he would not have to see her response. The lady could melt his resistance with a glance, and he was too unsettled by her potent kiss to risk as much.

  He dared not be seduced to a fatal error. He could nigh feel the serpent within him, feel its cold slime, and he wanted naught other than to scrub himself fiercely from head to toe. He marched to the portal and paused there without looking back. He took a deep breath, though it did little to slow his raging pulse.

  Solitude would grant him time to muster his thoughts, to reclaim his sense, to assess what had just occurred. It would allow him the chance to be certain whether she was part of a conspiracy to distract him in a critical moment.

  And the frivolity of a hunt might coax the confidence of the MacLaren clan yet higher.

  “I shall hunt on the morrow,” the Hawk said crisply, deciding as much in that very moment. The hunt would give his party a chance to confirm that the borders were secure. “You need not concern yourself with my presence. Nissa will show you the keep. I ask that you do not leave the hall before my return.”

  Silence filled the chamber and the Hawk knew that his rejection of his bride’s charms had stung. Still, he could not force the serpents from his thoughts, nor could he quell his revulsion of them.

  “Of course,” Aileen said finally, sharpness creeping into her tone. “My lord’s will is my command.”

  He glanced back. She still sat upon the mattress, her nipples pert in the evening’s chill. She was a fetching sight, even though her lips were set and her eyes snapped with anger.

  “I would not have matters so formal between us,” he suggested, not liking that he was responsible for her mood but unable to return to the bed as she clearly desired. “You need not address me as your lord when we are alone.”

  “Shall I call you Magnus?” She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Or Michael?”

  His smile was thin. “The choice is yours, lady mine.”

  “Then I shall call you Hawk,” she said with a defiance that nigh dismissed his trepidation. She folded her arms across her chest and held his gaze stubbornly. “For your repute seems to fit your nature well. Does the hawk not tear out the heart of what it kills, then leave the rest as carrion?”

  That the lady was vexed with him was most clear.

  “I would not know,” the Hawk said with a temperance he did not feel. “I do not hunt with hawks, but with peregrines.”

  “Are they not the same manner of predator?”

  The Hawk shook his head. “The peregrine is said to hunt with rare grace.” The lady snorted, but before she could speak, he left her chamber.

  He hesitated but a moment before he turned the key in the lock behind him. Indeed, he dared do naught else. He heard her swear in a most unladylike manner at the audible tumble of the lock and his own frown deepened.

  Had he erred in this? The Hawk could not be certain, but he dared not risk trusting Aileen too much too soon.

  Even if he felt a cur for rejecting the feast she offered.

  He descended the stairs, feeling a weight settle over his shoulders. He would dream this night and he knew it well. He would dream of the carnage that had accompanied his claiming of Inverfyre, he would dream of bloodshed, he would be tormented that it had not yet been enough. He would be haunted by a vision of the original site of Inverfyre’s keep, of the burned foundation stones, of the soil his forebears had walked and of the turf he had yet to make his own.

  All of those he had cut down would visit him this night, point their rotted fingers at him and remind him that he had failed.

  Had he been so foolish as to slumber with his bride this night, she would have found the horror of Inverfyre, of his violent nightmares, abed with her. There are men who might have found that a fitting punishment for her Jezebel’s kiss, but the Hawk still could not so convict his bride. She might be a treacherous spy, but he could not make her suffer the presence of the demons she had roused.

  Morning would find him tired and surly, he knew. Woe to any prey that dared to cross his path on the morrow’s hunt, woe to any spy of the MacLaren clan fool enough to be caught. The Hawk would not be merciful—it was better that he hunt in such a mood. It would be a long day and the board in the kitchens would groan from his labors. He would eat none of the meat, he never did, for he was always repulsed by the darkness the nightmares summoned from deep within him.

  Perhaps his lady’s moniker for him was a fitting one, after all.

  Liar and scoundrel! Knave and blackguard!

  Aileen could think of no accusation base enough to suit her spouse.

  Indeed, she nigh wore a trough in the floor of her chamber, so agitatedly did she pace. How dare he encourage her to behave as a wanton, then reject what she offered? If that was his manner when he was amenable to intimacy, she should have hated to try to seduce him when he was reluctant to meet abed.

  What did he want from her? Surrender was not enough. Compliance was not enough and defiance did not suit him either. Aileen fairly spat in her frustration. The man deserved every foul thing rumored to be true of him. How could she burn with desire for such a man?

  How could she be so persuaded that they were destined for each other, when the Hawk clearly did not share her conviction?

  How could she be so certain that his ardor alone would sate her?

  How could she convince him to join forces with her and see an old wrong redressed?

  Aileen thumped the pillows, she tossed and turned. She stared out the window at the thirteen ghostly trees, then at the beacon of the keep far beyond. She slept nary a wink, unable to fathom either his mixed messages or her own similarly muddled response.

  What could she have done, in this life or another, to earn the fate of being wedded such a vexing man as this?

  IX

  The Hawk stands in the woods of Inverfyre, listening, his footsteps halted by the sounds of a creature fleeing through the bush. It is dark, darker than dark, the shadows ominous and deep. He realizes that he stands near Adaira’s hut in the same moment that he sees a flicker of movement in its portal.

  He pursues his prey, stepping with care so as to not make a sound.

  Silence accosts his ears, silence heavy with portent. He reaches the portal and eases around it, hoping to surprise whatever or whoever is within.

  His efforts are to no avail.

  The maiden awaits him, she of the dark hair and blue blue eyes, she who held the heart of Magnus Armstrong in thrall. She smiles in greeting, unsurprised by his appearance despite his efforts to be stealthy. The Hawk knows that he wears Magnus’ skin, for he feels the heat of his forebear’s ardor for this woman as keenly as if it were his own.

  She steps toward him, her ardent expression kindling the fire in his blood.

  “No, Anna, I am betrothed,” he protests, knowing that his forebear’s words fall from his lips, knowing that Magnus yet hopes to persuade this woman to his cause. He relives a moment that was lived by Magnus, though he knows not why. “There can be naught between us, not any longer.”

  She slaps him with astonishing vigor.

  He takes the blow, feeling it is her due to be angered.

  “You vowed you would wed me,” she whispers, the thrum of fury in her words.

  “I would have, were you not cursed to be barren.”

  “You cannot know that to be true.”

  “All know it,” he reminds her as gently as he can.


  She averts her face, but this answer will not suffice.

  “Do you deny what is whispered?” he asks, his tone more forceful. “Grant me evidence that it is not true, Anna.”

  Her lips purse, granting him all the answer he needs. He makes to leave but she seizes his chin with alarming speed and holds him in an unholy grip. “How much will you sacrifice for Inverfyre?” she demands, her eyes narrowing. “What price will you find to be too high?” She half-laughs. “I doubt there is one.”

  “I have to wed her,” the Hawk argues, mouthing the words Magnus had uttered long afore.

  The maiden shakes her head. “You are not so compelled. You choose to wed her for your own advantage. You abandon your pledge to me because it no longer suits you to keep it. Do not fatten your crime by lying to me as well.”

  He bows his head, guilty yet not prepared to change his plans. The Hawk understands that Magnus believes himself to be right. “It was a mistake to meet you here,” he says and turns again to leave.

  “You will not depart so readily as that,” she mutters, but he ignores her.

  She cries a word that he does not know. The walls of Adaira’s hut writhe, the branches alive as they were not in the Hawk’s time. He halts to stare. It seems not only that these walls are wrought of living trees, nor even that they are verdant—the trees grow with unholy vigor. They spread before the Hawk, winding their greenery across the portal and sealing him within the chamber.

  Forever.

  He pivots to find the maiden’s eyes bright.

  “Have you underestimated the potency of your foe?” she whispers.

  A blossom erupts in the wall beside her, the hut filling with the sweet perfume of its scent. The smell is heavy, exotic, intoxicating and wicked. He stares at it, dumbfounded that it could sprout so quickly, even as autumn’s chill wind stirs the deadened leaves outside the hut.

  Anna smiles knowingly as his blood runs cold.

  The blossom withers, the flower distorting as it changes to fruit with horrifying speed. An apple forms as he watches—it grows rounder and plumper, bends the branch upon which it hangs, blushes red on one side.