His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0)

by Shelly Thacker

  “W-warning?” Her heart thudding hard, Laurien glanced from one of them to the other. “The comte recently lost his wife?” She knew almost naught of her betrothed, only what Louis had told her: that he was a man of great wealth and influence, a cousin to the king, and more than twice her age.

  “Comte de Villiers has had two wives before you,” Verel explained softly. “His second died only three months ago—”

  “An accident,” Fayette said.

  From the look the two serving maids exchanged, Laurien could tell that neither of them believed that.

  She felt as if a shard of ice had just slid down her spine. “What became of her? Please, you must tell me. No one has been willing to answer any of my questions about this man I am to marry.”

  Fayette turned away, humming, and began arranging the items from her basket on the table.

  “I will tell you, milady.” Verel pulled out a chair next to the table and gestured for Laurien to sit.

  Her breathing rapid and shallow, Laurien complied.

  “His last wife took a fall on the stairs,” Verel whispered as she began to comb Laurien’s long blonde hair. “At least, that is what he said.” She glanced over her shoulder at the door. “The comte imports more than spices from the East, milady. He is fond of a flower called an opium poppy that he has ground into a special snuff. It makes him… unpredictable.”

  “Everyone tries to stay out of his way,” Fayette added quietly, setting out perfumes and opening a small box that held a necklace of glittering gems. “He is furious one moment, almost giddy the next. He sometimes does not sleep for days. Of late, he has been worse than ever.”

  The knot in Laurien’s stomach twisted. She felt as if the stone walls were closing in on her. “Is there… is there another way out of this room?” She glanced at the enormous tapestries that decorated the chamber. “A hidden door? A secret passage of some kind?”

  The younger maid looked shocked at the question. “We cannot help you leave, milady.”

  “Impossible,” Verel agreed. “No one dares defy him.”

  Laurien could not catch her breath. “But I-I cannot wed such a man—”

  “Lady Laurien, we have all put our hopes in you.” Fayette regarded her with an earnest expression. “A new bride is just what he needs to calm him and bring him out of this vile mood. Especially a bride as beautiful as you, with such a lovely face and figure. He will be most taken with you.”

  “Aye.” Verel began plaiting Laurien’s hair. “I am sorry, milady, I did not mean to frighten you. We are merely… suggesting that you do all you can to please your new husband. And guard your tongue carefully. Like any good wife.”

  Laurien did not think she could do that.

  Nay, she knew she could not do that.

  Students, novices, and nuns in the convent at Tours were required to live by five rules: simplicity, humility, chastity, silence, and obedience.

  The first three had always been easy for her… the last two nearly impossible.

  “B-but I know naught of how to please a husband.” Her fingers tightened around the ornately carved arms of her chair. “And I do not wish to live as the chattel of any man. I will not make a good wife!”

  The serving maids exchanged a worried glance.

  Verel continued braiding Laurien’s hair, her voice a whisper. “You must not say such things aloud, milady.”

  “Of course you will make a good wife.” Fayette gave that nervous laugh again. “You have what all men want most in a bride: innocence and great beauty. Your hair is like spun gold, milady, and you have the prettiest green eyes—”

  “And you are one of the wealthiest heiresses in all the Loire valley,” Verel added.

  Laurien frowned. They were being overly generous with their praise for her appearance. But it was true what they said about her wealth. That, no doubt, was at the root of all of this.

  Her inheritance.

  Laurien had been nine when her beloved mother died after a long illness that had taken her with agonizing slowness. Her stepfather soon discovered that his late wife had willed to her daughter her own dower lands, rich tracts along the Loire. As long as Laurien remained unwed, he managed the holdings and kept the profits. But if she were to marry, her lands would pass into the hands of her husband.

  That, she knew, was why Louis had allowed her to remain in Tours and immerse herself in her studies, long after many of her fellow pupils had left to marry.

  But this summer, with the encouragement of the abbess, she had decided to join the order. To her surprise, Louis had given his consent—even though it meant that her lands would go to the Church after she completed one year as a novice and took her holy vows.

  Why her stepfather would prefer to see her holdings go to Comte de Villiers instead, she could not fathom.

  “We women cannot choose our fate,” Fayette said with a sigh. “Noble or commoner, we must make the best of what our men decide for us.”

  “I disagree,” Laurien said hotly. “God did not put us on this earth to be men’s pawns and playthings. We are meant for better than that.”

  The women looked at her as if she had spoken in a foreign tongue.

  “It is true,” Laurien insisted. “Why would God give us hearts if we were not meant to follow them, and minds if we were not meant to use them? At the very least, we are allowed to choose between marrying and taking the veil—and I have made my choice.” She crossed her arms. “I cannot simply bow my head and curtsy and meekly accept that my decision has been unmade!”

  An uneasy silence fell. Verel shook her head slowly. Fayette chewed at her lower lip.

  Laurien realized it was pointless to argue with them. And she did not want to get them into trouble with the comte.

  Sighing, she closed her eyes and decided to practice holding her tongue. “You may continue your preparations.”

  Working quickly, the maids finished the elaborate plaits in her hair, washed her face and arms with the gentlest wood-ash soap, and applied a perfumed balm to soften her hands. Laurien was too distracted to name the plants used in it, though she caught a strong note of rosa provincialis. She doubted it would be strong enough to smooth her skin: she had been working in the convent’s gardens from dawn to dusk for a fortnight. Fall was harvest season.

  And no matter how vigorously the maids scrubbed, they could not remove the ink stains from Laurien’s right thumb and fingers. For months, she had spent her evenings making meticulous copies of Historia Plantarum by Theophrastus of Athens and Materia Medica by Dioscorides, so fascinated by his illustrations of medicinal herbs and roots that she had often fallen asleep with the quill still in her hand.

  Nor was she as pale as a fashionable lady should be. Not after she had spent much of the summer outdoors, hunting for samples of the plants mentioned in the books.

  Despite the maids’ kind words about her appearance, she did not imagine that the king’s cousin would find her the least bit pleasing.

  Verel wound the last strands of her hair into place, then secured the plaits with netting and a slim gold circlet. Then Fayette lifted the necklace from its box, the rubies and sapphires sparkling in the morning light.

  “I-I do not…” Laurien reached up to touch the delicately carved wooden cross she wore on a simple leather string. It had been a gift from Sister Emeline, her favorite tutor. “I have worn this since I was ten. I do not want to replace it with… that.”

  “Leave it, Fayette.” Verel carried over the gown. “We must hurry.”

  Laurien rose from her chair, turning to face her. That accursed gown.

  Her stepfather had shown it to her yesterday, in the mistaken belief that it would please her. The costly dress was plain evidence that Louis d’Amboise had been planning her wedding not for days, but for weeks—without bothering to inform her.

  He had hired the best seamstress in the Loire Valley to make it of the finest silk, in the royal colors—azure and white—in what he explained was the latest style:
a fitted bodice, a flared skirt that trailed along the ground in full folds, and long, tight sleeves. He had ordered a mantle of matching silk with an ermine lining. He had ordered both embroidered with the de Villiers coat of arms.

  And then he ordered me to wear them, she thought bitterly.

  Well, she was not going to be the main course at Louis’s little feast.

  Fayette was about to help her out of her nightdress when Laurien suddenly turned her back and walked away.

  “Milady?” the maid asked, clearly startled.

  “I am… I am ill,” Laurien said. “Tell milord that the ceremony must be postponed.” The lie had worked last night. The comte had not had the opportunity to even meet his bride yet, as an unexplained illness had kept her away from the betrothal celebration.

  The serving women made no move to leave.

  Verel still held the wedding gown. “We c-cannot tell the comte you are ill, milady. H-he will be displeased—”

  “I am already displeased!” a male voice announced from the doorway.

  The three of them turned to find the lord of the chateau regarding them with fury in his eyes.

  “Out!” He gestured at the servants with a snap of his arm. “Both of you!”

  Fayette scurried past him. Verel dropped the gown over a chest at the foot of the bed, giving Laurien a backward glance. She mouthed the words be careful before she hurried after her friend.

  Alone, Laurien faced her husband-to-be for the first time.

  Comte Jacques de Villiers was tall, in his middle years, and had not one hair on his head. Which only made his black brows and dark eyes stand out all the more. His skin was almost unnaturally pale. His cheekbones stood out sharply, giving him the look of a raven. He stood glowering at her, fists clenched. His blue-and-white silk tunic and leggings matched her wedding gown.

  Laurien tried to cover herself with her hands, acutely aware that she was wearing only her sheer nightdress. Mortified, she kept her gaze on the royal crest embroidered over his heart, daring to hope that she might be able to reason with him.

  “M-milord.” She belatedly remembered to curtsy. “I apologize, but there has been a mistake. I… I cannot wed you.” The rest came out in a rush. “I am to take my holy vows next year. My dower lands are to go to the Church. It has all been arranged. My f-father agreed—”

  “Enough!” De Villiers stalked across the chamber.

  Before she could understand his intent, he struck her across the face with the back of his fist, so hard that he knocked her to the floor. Pain exploded through Laurien’s jaw. Her startled cry echoed through the room.

  Never in her life had anyone struck her. She lay in the rushes, stunned, cradling her hot cheek with one hand.

  She could feel the imprint of his royal signet ring in her skin.

  “It seems to have escaped your attention,” de Villiers snarled, towering over her, “but your agreement with your father has changed. I made him a more appealing offer!”

  Laurien stared up at him. “I-I will not wed you!” She tried to gather her courage and sound brave, but her heart was running a frantic race. “I refuse—”

  “What makes you dare to think you have a choice?” De Villiers grabbed her arm and jerked her to her feet. “You willful little fool, I will not tolerate your defiance!”

  He shoved her into the wall behind her, the impact making her eyes sting with tears.

  Pressing her back into the stone, he leaned close, his eyes glittering with malice, his pupils so large that his eyes appeared entirely black. “Last night, you refused to appear at the feast I held in your honor and now this? You do not seem to possess the slightest idea of how a proper maiden conducts herself.” He reached for her cross necklace and yanked it from her neck, breaking the leather string. “Once we are wed, I shall teach you better manners.”

  He held the cross in his fist until she heard the delicate wood snap, then he threw it to the floor.

  Terrified, Laurien tried to push free of him but his strength rendered her helpless. She hated the feeling. Hated that muscle and brute force made her will subordinate to his.

  He was close enough now that she could smell him, and she wanted to retch. His breath reeked. And his garments had been scented with some expensive, overwhelming perfume.

  Reaching up, he traced the mark that his ring had left on her cheek. “You shall say your vows, my dear. Willingly. Because I wish it, and because your father wishes it. But most of all, because I can convince you how unwise it is to resist.” His hand suddenly shifted to her throat.

  Laurien gasped as his fingers closed around her neck. She struggled against his hold but he only squeezed harder. Panic and outrage made her keep fighting but she could not break his grip.

  For the first time in all of her twenty years, she felt afraid for her life. Mercy of Mary.

  He abruptly released her. She coughed, dragging air into her lungs, scarcely able to remain standing.

  “Lady Laurien,” her betrothed said calmly. “You will find, as others have found, that it is best to grant me what I ask. Otherwise, I become… unpleasant.” He smiled at her, looking at the nightdress that had slipped down her shoulders, his gaze raking over her body. “Such beauty. Such softness. It would be a shame to see you suffer permanent damage.”

  Laurien’s anger welled up and overcame her fear. “You are an animal.” She was trembling now, not from fright, but from the idea of spending the rest of her life under the control of such a man.

  He struck her again, a stinging slap. This time she bit her tongue to stifle her cry.

  “Laurien,” he said in mock surprise, his smile still in place. “What a vile thing to say about your husband-to-be. We are late, my dearest. Now put on that gown and come along at once. The wedding party awaits you.”

  He stalked toward the door. With his hand on the latch he turned to face her again, all trace of false mirth gone. “You have bruises on your cheek and neck, beloved. See that they are covered before you leave this chamber. And do not make me come back here a second time.”

  He slammed the door closed behind him.

  Laurien stood in stunned silence for a moment.

  Then her knees gave way and she sank to the floor, shaking, dazed. She could taste blood in her mouth from where she had bitten her tongue.

  How could this be happening? There must be a way—some way—out of this nightmare.

  But no one would help her. Not her stepfather. Not her brother. Not the servants. No one.

  Never in her life had she felt so alone.

  Searching through the rushes, she found the broken pieces of her cross necklace. She clutched them in her fist, her eyes burning with tears.

  Then she took a deep breath and forced herself to stand. She walked over to where her brightly colored wedding gown lay across the chest at the foot of the bed.

  Slowly, she reached for it with one trembling hand, and began to get dressed.

  ~ ~ ~

  The throng of spectators spilled into the castle courtyard and lined the street leading to the cathedral, grumbling among themselves as the morning wore on with no sign of the bride. Vendors made the most of the delay, offering roast legs of mutton, sweetmeats, dark bread, and cups of ale to cheer the milling townspeople. Jugglers and mimes earned a few extra coins, and cutpurses found the pickings good.

  Near the castle wall, two men in particular attracted attention despite their best efforts to avoid it. Like many in the crowd, both wore the rough brown broadcloth and hoods of pilgrims. The older of the two sat on a dun-colored horse that would have been called a nag in even the poorest of families.

  But the other man, the tall one, was mounted on a huge black stallion that pranced impatiently.

  Darach tightened his hand on the reins and frowned as yet another child paused to stare at his horse.

  When the boy looked up at the black stallion’s rider, his excited smile froze on his little face. “Maman!” He turned and ran in search of his mother.r />
  Sir Malcolm MacLennan chuckled, nudging Darach in the side with a leg of mutton. “You truly have a way with children, caraid.”

  Darach turned the frown on his friend. “I did not say a word this time.”

  “Aye, you have been restraining yourself admirably.” The wrinkles around Malcolm’s eyes deepened as he grinned. “Though a smile might help, lad.”

  Darach gave him a smile.

  Malcolm almost choked on a mouthful of mutton. “Nay, that is not much better. Forget that I mentioned it.”

  They both returned their attention to the castle courtyard.

  “’Tis these French,” Malcolm said, chewing. “They are a people of delicate sensibilities.”

  Darach could hear the genuine affection in his voice. Malcolm had spent time in France on his way to the last Crusade, before he fought beside Darach’s father to rout the last of the Norse out of Scotland. He was a skilled swordsman, a man of deep honor, and there was no one alive Darach respected more.

  No one else he would want by his side as they attempted to carry out this dangerous mission.

  Darach cleared his throat. “I regret that you had to be part of this, morair.”

  “Lad, you are six-and-twenty. And in truth, you outrank me now. You no longer need call me sir or milord.”

  “Habit,” Darach explained, a grin tugging at his mouth.

  “As for my being part of this, I am the only one familiar with the roads in this area. Chartres, Touraine, Evreux…” Malcolm’s voice became quiet. “But all of that was long ago. So leave it be.” He finished his repast and tossed the bone in the dirt.

  Darach reined in his nervous charger as a dog dashed out of the crowd to snatch up the bone.

  Malcolm gave an annoyed sigh. “I told you to choose a less spirited mount.”

  “I would prefer to rely on a fast horse today, rather than a sharp blade.” Darach patted his back, where he had a sword lashed beneath his cloak. “I do not wish to find myself a wedding guest in de Villiers’s dungeon at day’s end.”