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

by Claire Delacroix

  All within a dozen heartbeats. He takes a step backward, troubled by this uncanny event.

  The maiden plucks the fruit, her gaze locking with his as she bites into it. Juice beads on her lower lip, and she touches it with her tongue, enflaming him with a single gesture. His body knows that she is the only one who will ever fire his yearning with such haste, his soul knows she was wrought for him and he for her.

  Yet he will wed another. He knows that he dare not squander all he has earned, all he has wrought. Magnus needs a son and Anna cannot give him one. It is not her fault, just as the madness that glints in her eyes is not her fault. Neither change his affection for her; neither change his decision; neither make him blame her for her bitterness.

  To Magnus’ thinking, she should not blame him for his good sense.

  She silently offers the fruit to him and he thinks it a gesture of peace. The Hawk feels an uncommon urgency to make amends with this woman, feels Magnus’ yearning to couple with her one last time, even as uncertainty roils within him. There is a force between them, one he will deny by wedding another, and he cannot fully shake himself of the notion that he errs.

  He stares at the apple’s wound, stare at the bite she has taken of it. The skin of the apple is brilliantly red against the white of inner flesh, making him think of blood on snow. He sees it clearly, drops of blood as bright as rubies on pristine snow, though he cannot imagine why.

  She pushes the fruit closer, coaxing him to partake, though she remains silent. She draws the lace from her garment with her other hand, her eyes filled with sensuous promise. He seizes the apple with Magnus’ impatience, anxious to couple with her even if it is to be the last time.

  He bites into the fruit and she laughs, laughs with such triumph that his ardor chills. The fruit seems to take life in his mouth, its sweet juice summoning potent visions. Before his own eyes, she is the maiden Anna, she is Adaira, she is a red-haired Celt in crude garb, she is the Hawk’s own Aileen. Her eyes alone remain the same—fathomless blue, tinged with distrust and disappointment.

  He has seen them filled with passion and knows that he alone is responsible for the change.

  Before he can speak, something stirs in his mouth. He spits out the piece of apple, horrified to see the tail of a serpent slithering within it. He spies the rest of the vile creature in the apple itself and flings it across the hut in disgust. He spits with a vengeance and wipes his mouth, recoiling from what wickedness she has wrought.

  The maiden laughs all the while. She is Adaira then, the old hag Adaira with her bewitching kiss. She reaches for him, offering her sagging breasts and withered charms, clutching at him with her yellowed nails.

  She laughs and he sees that her teeth are long gone, sees the wildness that has claimed her eyes.

  He tries to flee, but the portal is sealed against him. The branches that grew across it are too stout to be snapped. He shouts and beats his fists upon the walls. He bellows with all his might.

  But Adaira corners him readily. She pins him against the wall, not nearly so frail as she might appear, her strength that of a hundred men.

  And she smiles as she shoves the viper-filled apple back between his teeth.

  “Eat what you have wrought, Magnus Armstrong,” she whispers, holding his jaw closed with fingers like talons. He is powerless to spit out the fruit, even the serpent writhes anew.

  The Hawk awakened with a shout, sweat coursing down his back. His fists were clenched, his heart racing, his breath coming in great gasps.

  His chamber was silent and dark; there was no apple in his mouth.

  He spat into the rushes all the same.

  He rose with a shudder and poured himself a cup of wine. The richness of it was wondrous balm to his throat. He stood nude, welcoming the chill of the floor through his feet and stared out the window at the silent forest.

  He had been right about his dreams, though not about their content. He shivered again, though not because of the cold. What had summoned this dark vision? He tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling, wishing he could see through the wooden beams and into the heart of the lady he had taken to wife.

  Worse than awakening his demons, she had breathed life into the seed that Adaira had buried in his thoughts all those years ago.

  The Hawk shivered and bent to feed the last glowing coal in the brazier.

  He recalled the maiden’s features melting into Aileen’s and quaffed another cup of wine to quell his revulsion. If nothing else, his dream offered a warning. He should beware of whatever temptation his wife offered until he could be certain of her motives.

  Like Eve in the garden, her gift could lead to the Hawk’s downfall, even if she offered it unaware of its price.

  Aileen dreams that she is in that verdant corridor again. She lays her hand upon the wall of entwined vines, knowing full well what they are. She avoids the thorns of the hazel and takes care to not crush the blossoms of the honeysuckle as she follows the course of the path, running her hand along the thick wall of growth.

  She approaches the bend she had spied. It is impossible to not note that the vigorous growth falters as she draws nearer to this corner. Both plants are unhealthy, both have dark marks upon their bark. Both emerge from the corner as mere shoots, defying an illness that should have caused their demise.

  Aileen pauses to examine them more closely. Here, just before the corner, the hazel grew with such lust that its roots nearly consumed the space occupied by the roots of the honeysuckle. And similarly, here the honeysuckle twined so tightly around the hazel that it nearly choked its partner.

  “Their true natures were nearly their undoing,” counsels a woman’s voice. Aileen peers around herself, but sees no one. “Each showed concern only for itself, disregarding the partnership already forged and nigh destroying a mutually beneficial union.”

  “I do not understand,” Aileen says.

  “The hazel claims turf with a vengeance, but must cede some ambition to allow the honeysuckle to survive.”

  “And the honeysuckle?” she asks when the voice falls silent.

  “You know what the honeysuckle must battle,” advises the voice, its tone warm with affection. “Balance is the key, child.”

  “Mother?” Aileen spins in the leafy corridor, seeking her mother’s familiar form. There is no other soul near her, no movement other than the leaves lifting in the breeze. “Mother!” she cries, her voice rising. “Reveal yourself to me, please!”

  But no woman steps from the shadows, and the voice does not carry to her ears again. Aileen shouts and shouts, knowing it is to no avail but unable to stop herself.

  In the darkest hour of the night, Aileen heard a male roar of satisfaction echo in the chamber below her own. There was no mystery as to its import.

  Guinevere! Aileen leaped to her feet, furious and frustrated, her dream scattering like pollen in the wind. How dare the Hawk spurn his wife only to take a whore to his bed?

  Aileen paced her chamber, vexed as she had not been before. There was no question of her sleeping again. Indeed, she tired of the Hawk’s game. As with the hawk and the hare, her husband’s jest was at her own expense. Why had he feigned rape, then rejected her welcome to her bed? Why had he wed her, then refused to consummate their match?

  Worse, she feared these visions and dreams. What whimsy conjured her mother’s voice, after all this time, even in her sleep? To see visions was one matter; to speak with the voice of the dead was quite another.

  What if she was mad?

  Long hours later, the horns blew and Aileen watched the hunting party stream through Inverfyre’s gates. Her husband was garbed in leather and wool as dark as the midnight sky, but he did not ride his black destrier. He and all of his men rode smaller palfreys, perhaps to ensure greater agility in the woods, though Aileen heard the stallions stamping with displeasure in the stables.

  A hooded peregrine perched upon the Hawk’s fist and his mail gleamed. Alone in the company, he looked neither mer
ry nor sleepy. His countenance was grim, Aileen could see as much even from this distance, and she fancied that he spared a hot glance for the high tower.

  Did his whore wait abed for his return? Or had she too left him unsated?

  In her irked mood, Aileen did not move from the window. Let him see that she watched him. Let him realize that she too was awake, that she too met the morn with a sour visage. Let him know that she had heard his triumphant roar abed and that she knew what he had done.

  The Hawk looked at Aileen’s window, as if he could hear her accusations.

  She thought for a moment that he might halt, that he might turn back and come to her side, and she very nearly raised a hand to him in salute.

  Then he spurred his horse and urged it to greater speed. The palfrey leaped the river and galloped into the forest, away from Inverfyre, away from their cold marital bed, away from Aileen.

  She turned her back upon the morning, her eyes stinging with unwelcome tears. Aileen heard a footstep on the stairs and cast back her braid, brushing the tears from her eyes, just as Nissa rapped on her door.

  She knew with sudden clarity what she must do. She must solve the riddle of Anna and Magnus herself, using her wits and the evidence of this world to better understand the mysteries presented to her in the visions. She was Lady of Inverfyre—no door should be closed to her.

  In the end, she could neither ignore the visions nor dismiss them. Interpretation was her only chance to save herself from madness.

  It might well be her chance to win the Hawk’s respect, not to mention the legendary love promised by the visions.

  Aileen could only try.

  The Hawk found small consolation in the fact that he had predicted his morning mood aright.

  The dawn had seemingly taken a lifetime to pinken the eastern sky. He had considered a hundred times whether he should ascend to his wife’s chamber, whether Aileen might offer him solace, whether he cared at her motivation for doing so.

  In the end, he sat alone and watched the stars fade, loath to awaken her, loath to confide his secrets in her, loath to give voice to his nightmares.

  He might not spurn risk, but there were dangers a wise man knew were best left unexplored.

  He summoned his men early to the hunt, earlier than they might have preferred. He was impatient to undertake some deed and hunting would have to suffice.

  Ewen and Alasdair he left in command of the gates, Reinhard was left to guard the prisoner. Fernando was elusive, and the Hawk assumed some urgent business regarding his mustache was at root.

  Ahearn was sitting downcast in the bailey, doubtless having been less successful in amorous pursuit the night before than was his wont, and was quickly recruited.

  Sebastien was brushing down his steed in the stables and more than amenable to joining the hunt, though a mischievous twinkle seemed to dawn in his eye when he spied Ahearn. Tarsuinn and his boys brought a number of peregrines, including the Hawk’s favored huntress which he carried upon his fist.

  His men did not trouble themselves overmuch with him, even Ahearn uncommonly silent, but no doubt they had discerned his mood. Over the years, even the most simple of them would have come to understand that little could change the Hawk’s foul temper on those rare days that it claimed him.

  The beaters ran faster than usual, perhaps in an effort to please their laird, and as a result, the hunting party took partridges and quails in astonishing quantities in the morning. The Hawk found himself amazed yet again at the wealth of his lands and the bounty of its wildlife. The dogs barked and circled the party, well pleased with the excursion and gleeful to have such a run. The day was overcast after the rosy smudge of the dawn, so the peregrines did not cast shadows. By midday, as a result, they had a brace of rabbits and ducks, as well.

  It was all empty for the Hawk. He should have been jubilant that they found such success and he knew it, for they would have meat in both hall and village for more than a week. It would be more than welcome in the village so late in the winter when the meat of the pigs and chickens had been long eaten. It should always be a triumph to feed the men beneath one’s hand well, but on this day, the Hawk found no joy in his accomplishment.

  He found no joy in the quietude of his borders, either. The MacLarens would seem to be yet asleep for the winter. The Hawk dispatched men in every direction, suspicious but finding nothing to justify his trepidation.

  He thought of Aileen. The recollection of her consumed him. He thought of the tear upon her lashes, so quickly blinked away, when she confessed her fear of madness. He thought of her dismay when he had rejected her, and again he felt a cur.

  His courtship made a poor beginning, by any measure.

  He thought of his responsibility to her, for he had compelled her to come to Inverfyre. He considered her potential treachery and found the evidence against her cursedly thin.

  But what of the warning of his dream?

  He acknowledged that a lack of sleep did little to improve either his reasoning or his mood. His gut warned him, but he could not determine of what it would advise him to beware.

  They hunted longer and further from the hall, as a result. The men became tired, the hounds panted, but the Hawk pressed on, driven by some compulsion he could not name. He suspected that he merely avoided another troubling confrontation with his lady wife, for he knew not how to proceed, but he refused to give credence to that prospect.

  No, he would hunt, as was his right and his responsibility and leave his lady to her own resources for the moment. How much trouble could she find or make within the walls of Inverfyre?

  “My lady?” Nissa’s voice was clearly recognizable through the wood. “I have brought hot water, if you would care to rise.”

  Aileen crossed the floor with purpose. “I would indeed, Nissa, though the portal is locked from your side.”

  “But the key is here, my lady.” The lock complained as the key was turned, then Nissa’s friendly smile appeared in the opening. The maid bustled into the chamber, setting down her various burdens. She cast a gown of glorious green samite across the bed, the fabric glistening with the luster of silk. Aileen fairly gaped at the wealth of it.

  Nissa then pulled fine stockings and an embroidered belt out of her own belt. She heaved a sigh and smiled pertly. “Those stairs are steep! I brought you a fine tabard, as well, my lady, and I hope it suits your favor.”

  Aileen shook her head in wonder. “It is beautiful.”

  “My lord’s mother has been bringing silken garments upon her visits here. She has filled two chests with finery, and always comments that my lord should take a wife afore the moths eat them to ribbons.” Nissa giggled and Aileen managed to smile. “But then, I suppose a mother is always concerned with nuptial matters. My own mother sent word to me last Yule asking when I would wed and have bairns of my own.”

  Aileen caught the maid’s quick glance and wondered at its import. “And what did you tell her?”

  Nissa sighed elaborately. “What could I tell her, my lady? Ours is a hall filled with knights and warriors, who take their pleasure where they may and never intend to wed. A maiden must be clever to maintain her purity here.” She mixed the pail of hot water with cold and ran her hand in the water to check it. “I believe it is just warm enough, my lady.” She hastened to help Aileen out of her chemise, then offered the cloth and soap.

  “You learn your tasks quickly,” Aileen commented with a smile.

  Nissa flushed. “Gunna told me what to do, although I would do otherwise if you preferred, of course.”

  “This is more than fine, Nissa.” Aileen washed herself, then recalled the thread of their conversation. “And have you managed to be sufficiently cunning?”

  “Of course! There are several of us who barricade ourselves in a storeroom in the kitchens when the men revel overmuch.”

  “Surely you jest!”

  The maid shook her head. “It is safer to sleep this way, and there are whores enough to sate the men in
the hall. Oh, let me comb your hair. I can braid it high so that it holds your veil and circlet better.”

  “Veil and circlet?”

  Nissa clicked her tongue. “My lady, even I know that only a maiden may leave her hair unbound. I found a fine veil for you and a silver circlet. Look. Is it not pretty?”

  Aileen accepted the circlet and studied it as Nissa braided her hair. It was wrought of two strands of silver, each fashioned to look like a vine or plant. One was adorned with flowers, the other with thorns.

  Aileen smiled. “The honeysuckle and the hazel,” she murmured, tracing the endless loop of the circle with her fingertip.

  “I suppose,” Nissa acknowledged with a shrug. “Now, I cannot wait to see this hue of emerald upon you and then, you can tell me what you would see of the keep this day. My lord bade me show you all of it, or whatsoever you wished to see of it…”

  “Where did you find the circlet?”

  Nissa halted her chatter and glanced up with surprise. “It was within the trunk of goods destined for my laird’s lady wife, whosoever she might prove to be.” The girl smiled. “Is it not pretty enough?”

  “No, it is a marvel. I wondered only where such finery might have been crafted,” Aileen lied, unable to cease running her fingers over the ornate design.

  “Sicily, no doubt!” Nissa declared. “Oh, Lady Evangeline brings the finest marvels! She will arrive at midsummer this year, and Lord Gawain at her side, of course. They come each year, though this year, she will be delighted to discover your presence here.” The maid winked. “Especially if you are round with child by then!”

  Nissa smiled sunnily and Aileen suppressed a tremor of uncertainty. Would the Hawk’s mother approve of her? Who could say? And how could she beget an heir if the man lavished his attentions upon his whore?