“See that you remember that, lad. Now is no time to become befuddled.”
Darach lifted his tankard and took another drink. “You know me better.”
Only once, long ago, had he allowed himself to become emotional about a woman—when he was too young and foolish to know better.
Sibylla.
How many times in the past ten years had he used that name as a curse?
“No woman is going to interfere with my duty.” Darach emptied the last of his ale onto the grass. “This demoiselle is the shortest path to our alliance, no more.”
But even as he said the words, he could not stop thinking of the taste of her lips, the feel of her lush curves against his body, that tantalizing little moan she had made—a delicate, feminine sound of discovery and wonder.
Mhic na galla, he never should have kissed her. Why had he kissed her?
It had seemed entirely sensible at the time. A simple way to test the truth of her claim that she had lain with de Villiers. To show her that lying to him was useless. To make a point.
Instead, he had ignited a desire that burned him like none he had ever felt before.
He had expected Lady Laurien d’Amboise to be a timid little convent mouse. Quiet and passive and pliant. Easily manageable.
Instead she was outspoken and strong-willed… and stunning in a way he could not even describe.
An innocent beauty caught up in a deadly game that was none of her making.
But it was his duty to return her to de Villiers, regardless of what might happen to her after that.
An uncomfortable feeling curled in his gut, one he had never expected when he set out on this mission.
Guilt.
“… and the sooner we reach the coast, the better I will feel,” Malcolm was saying.
“Aye,” Darach agreed, trying once again to bring his mind back to the conversation. “But our journey will not be as simple as we thought, morair. She means to fight us the entire way.”
Malcolm rose to leave, chuckling.
“And what is there to laugh about?” Darach gave his jovial friend a dour look.
Malcolm stopped just long enough to do his best imitation of Darach. “’Simple. Kidnap one French lass, hold her for a fortnight, and return her to de Villiers after he meets our demands. Perfectly simple.’ Did not you say that only days ago?”
“Aye, well, ’twould seem there may be a few unexpected complications.”
“Duty before beauty, lad.”
“Thank you,” Darach said sourly. “I will have that added to the family coat-of-arms.” He tossed the empty wooden tankard to his friend. “Where would I be without you to remind me?”
Malcolm chuckled again as he turned to leave, pointing emphatically to the room above.
Chapter 3
The bright light of early morning filled the chamber, and Darach blinked at the vision before him. He had expected to find the demoiselle still wearing her wedding gown and showing defiance. For a moment, he thought he had stepped into the wrong room.
Lady Laurien stood beside the window, the first rays of dawn warming her face. Her unbound hair tumbled down her back in a riot of sunlit curls—and her wedding gown lay abandoned in a heap at the foot of the bed.
But the brown garments she wore revealed her feminine form in ways the dress had not. He’d had the clothes made in a small size, not expecting de Villiers’s bride to have such womanly curves.
The rough cloth clung to her full breasts, the loosely cinched belt emphasizing the shape of her waist and the swell of her hips. The snug-fitting sleeves revealed lean muscles—most unexpected in a lady of her rank. And in the daylight, he noticed for the first time that her skin was not pale, but sun-kissed from time spent outdoors. It made her green eyes all the more striking.
She was radiant. It was the only word for a woman who looked as warm as a midsummer day, her dark blond hair shimmering with lighter strands gilded by the sun.
“Camhanach,” he murmured.
For a moment, he forgot any other word but that one.
At the sound of his voice, she turned. “Good morn, milord.” She gave him a salute. “Do I pass? Do I make a convincing man?”
He coughed, twice, before he managed to form words. “Only from a distance, but that will do.” Aye, and he had best keep his distance.
God’s teeth, this was going to be a long day.
He walked over and handed her the hooded brown cloak and leather gloves he had brought. “These will help. Malcolm is waiting below with fresh horses.”
She wrapped the cloak around her. As she pulled on the gloves, he noticed her palms in the morning light—and they were not at all the pampered hands of an aristocrat. She had clearly spent her days working at something more demanding than prayers or embroidery.
He bent to pick up her discarded dress and mantle.
“Nay, they are ruined. Leave them.” She pointed to the aumoniere hanging from her belt. “I will take only my coins. They might be useful.”
He straightened. “My, but you are helpful this morn.”
“I have accepted that you are right. I have nowhere to run.” She shrugged, sighing. “And we women cannot choose our fate. Noble or commoner, we must make the best of what our men decide for us.”
Darach arched one brow, dubious of her sudden change of heart. “I see.” He was not about to leave behind a trail of clues. He would send Malcolm back for the garments. “We will leave them, then.”
She smiled, and the dawn light made stray tendrils of her hair almost seem to glow about her face.
He decided to let this angel catch herself in her own halo. “I am pleased that you have decided to cooperate, milady. A wise choice. Will you give me your word that you will not attempt to escape?”
“I give you my word—as a noblewoman,” she assured him. “You were right. I would be foolish to resist. I am better off going with you to… where was it you said we are going?”
“I did not say where we are going, Camhanach.”
“But there is no reason not to tell me. I have given you my promise that—”
“Aye, and that leads us to an equally important promise. You will, without question, follow my orders. You will…” He used his most commanding voice for last two words. “Obey me.”
He caught the faintest twitch of a muscle in one smooth cheek, and it took a long moment before she managed to answer.
“Aye,” she agreed, her voice and manner meek.
As he looked down at her, he could not fight the grin that tugged at one corner of his mouth. At least the day would be entertaining. “Then, milady, let us begin our journey.”
~ ~ ~
He was every inch a warrior, from the worn soles of his boots, to the weapons concealed beneath his cloak, to the way he carried himself. In command. Unyielding. Strong.
She had spent little time in male company, Laurien thought as she followed him down the stairs and out of the inn. That must be why everything about this rugged Scotsman overwhelmed her senses. Even the cadence of his deep voice unsettled her nerves.
And after his kiss last night, spending another day riding in his lap would be more than she could bear—not to mention that it would interfere with her plan to escape.
So when they reached the stables and she saw only two horses waiting, she stifled a groan. She waited silently, doing her best to appear the docile and obedient female, while Sir Malcolm handed his friend a bundle of food.
“Safe journey,” the older man said. “Keep an eye for de Villiers’s guards. The roads are likely full of them by now.”
“Aye, and remember to heed your own advice,” Sir Darach replied.
Laurien walked over to the horses, trying to adjust to the unusual sensation of wearing men’s garments for the first time in her life. The tunic was rather comfortable, as were the boots. But the leggings felt so… odd.
“How long do you think it best to wait before I return to Chartres?” Sir Malcolm was saying.
She turned toward him. “You are returning to Chartres?”
Neither of the men paid her any heed.
“I think we can allow de Villiers to sweat for one more day,” the blond knight said. “But do not tarry here overlong—lest he lop off your head when you bring him our demands.”
“I will leave tomorrow afternoon.” Sir Malcolm nodded. “And meet you at Varennes’s by the end of the week.”
“See that you arrive in one piece, morair.”
“And see that you have a flask of Varennes’s finest wine waiting for me.” Sir Malcolm grinned, then looked at Laurien. “And make certain that this lady comes to no harm—of any kind—while she is with you two rogues.”
Sir Darach clasped the older knight’s forearm, his voice solemn. “Gaston and I will keep her safe.”
Laurien’s heart gave an odd flutter as she absorbed all of this. She would have her own horse today after all, which was a very good thing.
But she would be traveling alone with Sir Darach, which was not.
And apparently they would be staying with some friend of his, though she noticed they had been careful not to reveal exactly where that might be.
The two Scotsmen spoke quietly in their native tongue for a few moments. Then her captor bid his friend a last farewell and came toward her.
“He is not accompanying us?” Laurien asked.
“Do not worry, milady.” He tied the bundle of food to his horse’s saddle. “You will be entirely safe in my care.”
“I have no doubt,” she said lightly, mounting the other horse without waiting for his assistance. Truly she should be relieved. She had her own horse. And it would be easier to escape from one captor than from two.
But as she followed the fair-haired warrior into the forest, she could not banish the uneasy, fluttery sensation in her middle.
~ ~ ~
The midmorning air held the smell of damp leaves and grass, crushed beneath the horses’ hooves as the two of them rode swiftly along a broad path through the trees, side by side.
They had been riding nearly two hours before Darach allowed them to slow to a walk to rest the horses. He offered the demoiselle his water flask, and she accepted it, a few drops spilling over her chin as she drank.
His whole body tensed as he watched the droplets glide downward and make her shiver as they headed for the warm hollow of her throat.
She wiped them away with a gloved hand and handed his flask back to him.
“You need not watch me every moment,” she said, looking up at the branches that arched over their heads. “I will not vanish into the air.”
He could not seem to keep himself from watching her: the graceful shape of her long legs, no longer concealed by a skirt… the way the wind played through her hair… the blush in her cheeks whenever she caught him looking at her the way he was now.
This was torture, pure and simple, and getting worse by the hour.
“Until I return you to de Villiers,” he said at last, “it is my duty to watch you every moment, Camhanach.”
“You called me that before.” She slanted him a suspicious look. “What does it mean? Is it a disparaging term for ’woman’ or some such?
He grinned. “Or some such.”
“Very well, Monsieur Pot de Chambre.”
“Did you just call me a chamber-pot?”
She shrugged. “Or some such.” Stretching one arm overhead, she plucked a leaf from a low-hanging branch and studied it.
“A souvenir?” he asked lightly.
“Mmm.” She looked at the leaf closely a moment longer, before turning her attention to the trees on the other side of the path. “Our destination is Calais, is it not?”
Darach choked out a laugh. “What makes you think that?”
“We traveled north all day yesterday, and now we are riding directly west. Calais is the closest port to Scotland…” She paused a moment, as if thinking it through. “You want to hasten me out of France, rather than remain here and risk that de Villiers’s men will pick up our trail.”
He laughed again. “Nay, milady, you have it all wrong. Keep trying, though. Your version is most amusing.”
Saint’s blood, she had followed the path of his reasoning flawlessly.
And she did not appear convinced by his denial. Smiling, she reached up and picked another leaf, holding the two side-by-side, as if comparing them.
“Are you able to read leaves, milady?” He regarded her curiously. “Do you tell fortunes as well?”
“It is not soothsaying, it is science.” She gestured to the trees on their left. “The elm leaves on that side of the path are already turning color. The ones on this side are not, because they receive more sun—which tells me they are facing south. That means we are traveling west.”
He shook his head in surprise. “You do have mystical powers.”
“Not at all.” She twirled the leaves in her fingertips. “I simply know plants. I have worked in the gardens at Tours since I was a child.”
“You learned all of this from tending vegetables in your convent garden?”
“Vegetables are hardly all we grow,” she informed him. “Our convent is one of the largest and most prosperous in France. We are renowned for our gardens, and for the healing remedies and balms we create from the flowers and herbs. We have fields of valerian, lavender, hyssop, yarrow—”
“That explains it, then.”
“Explains… what?” She blinked at him.
“You look as if you have spent time in the sun, demoiselle.”
She made a dismissive gesture with one gloved hand. “I am aware that it is considered proper for a lady to be pale. I do not care what is considered proper for a lady.” She turned to look back toward the east, her expression troubled. “I only wish I had been able to leave instructions about preparing the herb beds for winter. And to visit little Marie-Louise one last time—a baby born too early we have been treating in the infirmary. My… father took me away so quickly, I scarcely had time to say farewell to anyone.”
Darach felt that uncomfortable knot in his stomach again. “The sisters at your convent care for people as well as plants?”
“We have an infirmary for the poor, and for travelers who come from the Loire provinces and even beyond to purchase our remedies.” She faced forward again, her lips curving. “And then there are local villagers, like sweet old Bertrand, a tanner who comes every week with some new ache or pain. I had just created a new salve for him… on the day I left.” Her smile faded.
“Sweet old Bertrand most likely came to see you every week because he enjoyed the company of a pretty lass.”
She frowned at him. “Not every man thinks constantly of… of…”
Darach grinned. “Aye, they do, demoiselle. Every man, from the time he is about ten until the day he dies, thinks frequently of that.”
Blushing, she looked away.
“But I am glad to hear of your skill at making healing salves.” Darach rubbed his right thigh, which still ached like Satan’s fire after his jump out the window last night. “An old arrow wound. I imagine you could make something that would help…?”
“I do not have the plants I would need on hand at the moment. Although,” she added lightly, “if you would allow me to go to Tours, I would promise to send you something. I would not even ask you to pay for it.”
“Nay, demoiselle,” he said dryly, “I will not be setting you free to go to Tours. I will have to endure without your tender care.”
“I wish I knew how little Marie-Louise is enduring without my tender care.” She dropped the crumpled leaves, letting them fall to the forest floor, her expression somber. “I hope she is all right.”
“Everyone you left behind in Tours will have to learn to manage without you. You will likely never see any of them again.”
She did not reply.
After they had been riding in silence a few moments, Darach glanced over—to see her wiping at her eyes with her gloved f
ingers.
His comment had made her cry.
It hit him like a punch to the gut. Yesterday, in all that mayhem, she had not cried, not once. But the idea of never seeing Tours again—the gardens she loved, the people she helped—brought her to tears.
The guilt he had felt last night twisted another notch tighter. And she was not playacting, or trying to win his sympathies.
She was trying to hide it, lifting the hood of her cloak to conceal her face. As if she were too proud to allow her vulnerability to show.
Which only tore at him even more.
But he offered no words to ease her hurt. He could not allow himself to be concerned about her feelings—or her future.
Too many lives depended on him keeping his attention on his mission.
“We need to keep moving, milady.” He touched his heels to his horse’s flanks, the tension in his gut making his voice sharper than he intended. “We have done enough chattering for one day.”
As the morning wore on into afternoon, they ate dried fish and venison from the inn rather than stopping for a meal. And Lady Laurien finally spoke again, after being silent for hours.
“I can hear the sounds of a stream off to the left,” she said, sounding weary. “Could we stop a moment?”
“What do you require?” He gazed at her quizzically. When she did not reply, he became impatient. “Milady, we have a long way to go before dark. Find your tongue.”
“I have to… it has been a long time…” She stumbled over the words.
“If you need to relieve yourself, there are any number of trees to choose from right there.” He pointed to the elms surrounding them. He was in no mood for games. Now that she had puzzled out their destination, she had obviously thought of somewhere to run.
Her eyes widened, her cheeks suffused with color. “At least allow me to go down by the stream, milord.”
“Very well.” He dismounted. “But I shall accompany you.”
“I have no need of your assistance.”
“You have two choices. Either sit your horse until we arrive at our destination, or accept my escort.”
She sighed and dropped her reins. Swinging to the ground, she strode into the woods, Darach following at her heels. She found a small stand of bushes next to the stream and worked her way into the center.
His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0) Page 6