His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0)

by Shelly Thacker

  “Impressive,” Darach said, “if you still own this chateau in two years. You have done naught but fight for it ever since you claimed it.”

  “True,” Sir Gaston admitted with a sigh, tucking the triangle of stained glass back into his tunic. “And this time, I have had to settle for what mercenaries I could find. Most of my liegemen have been called into service by King Philippe, and it seems our friend de Villiers has been gathering up every warrior for hire on the continent.”

  “De Villiers is gathering men as well as coin? It sounds as if he is preparing for war. But against whom?”

  “It bodes ill, I agree. And with most of my liegemen away, old Beauvais thought it an excellent time to renew his grudge. It seems he is still upset with the way I acquired my keep.”

  “Acquired it? You stole it from him.”

  “Untrue.” Sir Gaston glanced toward Laurien, who had been doing her best to finish a bowl of soup while ignoring them both. “Believe not what this knave tells you, milady. I won this chateau in a tournament.”

  “You cheated.” The Scotsman grinned.

  “Mere rumor and slander.” The dark-haired warrior gave Laurien another wink. “I unhorsed Beauvais in fair combat. A hundred saw it.”

  “And that potion you dropped into his drinking cup just before the match had naught to do with it?” Darach chuckled. “He was so muddled and drunk, had you not unhorsed him quickly, he would have fallen out of the saddle on his own.”

  “Any man foolish enough to wager a keep in a tourney deserves to lose it.”

  “Agreed. And so here you are—a landed lord.”

  “With a chateau and liegemen and all the local folk relying on me for protection.” The Frenchman shook his head as if in disbelief. “Relying on me.”

  “Next you will tell me you are taking a wife.”

  “God’s teeth, not until I am an old man—of at least thirty.” Sir Gaston smiled at Laurien again. “There are too many lovely demoiselles who have not yet had the pleasure of making my acquaintance.”

  The Scotsman’s laughter deepened. “It is good to see that you have not changed in every way.”

  “And what about you, mon ami? A noble champion now, fighting to defend those unable to defend themselves. I remember when you used to mock men who fought for any cause other than coin.”

  “That was…” Darach’s smile faded. “Before.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell over the table.

  Sir Gaston’s dark eyes reflected genuine regret. “I am sorry, Glenshiel, for all you have lost.”

  Darach nodded and changed the subject. “You expect Beauvais to attack soon?”

  “On the morrow. He sent another demand two days past which I, of course, rejected. My sentries have been reporting troops moving into the woods all day now. They will come at dawn.”

  Darach glanced at Laurien with a look of concern. “We need to keep her safe.”

  “She can stay in my chamber.” Sir Gaston nodded toward a door on the opposite side of the solar. “It is the best protected.”

  “Good. Malcolm will arrive in a few days. Is there any way you can bring him through their lines?”

  “You mean if I have not finished Beauvais by that time.” The dark-haired knight gave him a wounded look. “Aye, when I acquired this keep two years past, the first task I undertook was to start digging a tunnel. We have a secret sally port to the north.”

  Laurien had finished eating and sat with her head resting on one hand, feeling drowsy after the strain of the day, the long hours in the saddle, and the delicious meal and spiced wine. Her lashes had started to drift downward… but she was not so sleepy that she missed Sir Gaston’s answer.

  A secret sally port. She tucked that bit of information away in her memory, even as she gave in to a yawn.

  Sir Gaston hit his friend on the arm. “Glenshiel, you have run this poor demoiselle ragged. When will you learn that females are delicate creatures who need to be treated with care?” Ignoring the Scotsman’s muttered curse, he smiled at her warmly. “The lady needs rest. I will watch over her tonight. Come, milady, and let us retire. I will sleep on the floor, of course—”

  Laurien started to object, but Darach spoke first. “Nay, Gaston, I know you too well. I will stay with her.”

  Laurien had no chance to object to that, either, as the Frenchman replied, “But you are an unfeeling knave when it comes to women. She will be better off with me.”

  “Aye, if you consider bedded better off.”

  “What say we let the lady decide?”

  Both men turned expectantly toward Laurien, who had given up trying to squeeze a word into their conversation and sat thrumming her fingers on the table. “I say both of you can remain here and argue all night while I go and sleep,” she said, yawning again.

  Not giving any of them a chance for further debate, the Scotsman stood and scooped her into his arms in mid-yawn.

  She yelped in surprise and protest, but he was already heading for the door to the bedchamber.

  “She is, after all, supposed to be my wife,” he called over his shoulder. “I will see you at dawn, Varennes.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Too worn out to keep fighting him, Laurien allowed herself to be carried over the threshold of the bedchamber. It was almost as large as the solar, except that its window had shutters rather than glass. There was a large hearth, fur throws on the floor for warmth, and candle sconces on either side of the enormous bed. She almost sighed in longing when she saw how appealing the bed looked, with fine woolen blankets and down pillows.

  Darach kicked the door shut but gave no sign of releasing her.

  “You can let me go now, milord,” she said in annoyance.

  He started to drop her and she threw her arms around his neck with a gasp of surprise.

  “I like a willing wench.” Grinning, he started for the bed.

  Laurien snatched her arms back. “Release me,” she pleaded, too weary to think of a clever retort. “Please.”

  “As you wish, wife.” He complied, laying her gently on the bed.

  “And you can stop teasing me.” She stretched out on her side, sighing, the pillow almost impossibly soft beneath her cheek. At least he was no longer as surly as he had been most of the day. Sharing a meal with his friend seemed to have lightened his mood.

  “Teasing you?” He took the other pillow and went to sit on the furs before the fire.

  “For what I said to those men in the woods, about you being my husband.”

  “You think that is why I claimed you as my wife?” He settled himself comfortably by the hearth, leaning back against the stone, placing the pillow behind his head. “Milady, that was for your protection from the men in the hall. To them, a woman alone is easy prey.”

  “Oh.” Laurien had not considered that. She might not like the idea of sharing a bedchamber with any man—especially him—but now she understood why it was necessary.

  When he spoke again, his voice had softened slightly. “You will be safe here, Camhanach. Most of those men know me, by acquaintance or reputation. They will not come near you if they think you are mine.”

  “Mmm.” Her lashes drifted downward. Her limbs felt like lead weights. Did he truly have such a reputation, that warriors who had never even met him would fear him?

  His friend had mentioned that the two of them used to be mercenaries… yet he called Darach a “noble champion” now.

  How had that come to pass?

  She doubted that the blond knight would explain if she asked. Observing him from beneath her lashes, she watched him remove his boots and recline against the hearth. He looked as if he had been sculpted from the same rugged stone.

  Despite the weariness that settled over her, she found herself unable to close her eyes, to stop looking at the broad, hard outlines of his muscles beneath his snug tunic… the way the firelight made his hair gleam like gold… the square shape of his jaw. She had seen men before, any number of men, but never had she fo
und the look of one… appealing was the only word that seemed to apply.

  It made no sense. But she could not deny that she felt drawn to him in some mysterious way.

  And he was not boasting about his reputation, she decided. Even at rest, he seemed tough, fearsome… not a man anyone would want as an enemy.

  All at once, a giggle bubbled to her lips unbidden.

  “What is so amusing, demoiselle?”

  “That you tried to pass as a pilgrim. Forgive me, milord, but I have never met a man who looked less like a holy pilgrim.

  “And forgive me, milady, but you little resemble a novice nun.” His gaze lingered over her, tracing from her legs to her long, tangled hair that spilled over the edge of the bed. “How is it that you have not even cut your hair?”

  She drew one of the woolen blankets over her. “I made my decision to join the order this summer. The ceremony of my novitiate will be next month, on the feast day of our abbey’s patron saint. Or… rather… it was to be next month.”

  Closing her eyes, she promised herself that, somehow, she would return in time.

  “Well, at least now there will be no need to cut your hair.”

  She lifted her head off the pillow, frowning at him. “If joining the sisterhood at Tours means I must cut my hair short, and wake before dawn for matins and lauds every day for the rest of my life, it is small price to pay.”

  He looked genuinely bewildered. “You would honestly choose to live a life apart, locked away in a lonely cell?”

  She pushed herself up on one elbow. “You seem to have some mistaken ideas about life in a convent, milord.”

  “Not at all.” That teasing grin curved his mouth again. “A convent is a place of peaceful refuge… for women not attractive enough to find a husband.” He paused. “What are you looking for?”

  “Something to throw at your oafish head.” Laurien settled for her pillow, launching it straight at him. “A convent is a refuge for women who love learning, and intellectual pursuits, and serving God and the needy—instead of living with overbearing, impossible males. Our community at Tours numbers more than three hundred nuns, novices, and pupils. My life there is hardly like being locked away in a lonely cell.”

  “Your aim needs improvement, milady.” He plucked the pillow out of the hearth before it could catch fire. “And you may be highly educated, but you are astoundingly naive about the way of the world. Your plan to remain at Tours ignores one important fact: you are a wealthy heiress. Your father may have been able to hide you away for several years, but it was only a matter of time before some lord sought to make you his wife.”

  “A husband is the last thing I have ever wanted.” She rolled onto her back, looking up at the stone ceiling overhead. “Marriage would put an end to my studies, my work—”

  “I understand that you enjoyed your life at the convent, milady. It was orderly, predictable, peaceful… but it is over.”

  “What gives you the right to decide that?”

  “Is there not something in the scriptures about a time to put away childish things?”

  “It is not childish to want to live in a place where I am needed and respected and… loved.”

  “That does not change the fact,” he said more gently, “that there is no going back.”

  Laurien turned away from him. “Tours is my home and those people are my family. I will not accept that I am never going to see them again.”

  He fell silent, apparently done arguing the point with her. She heard him stretching out on the furs, settling in to sleep.

  Blinking hard against the burning in her eyes, she curled up on her side. “I belong to no man and I never will,” she said vehemently. “No husband would have allowed me the freedom to spend the summer as I did, exploring the fields and forests to hunt for rare plants and roots—”

  “Alone? Nay, no man with any sense would allow that. God’s teeth, it is a miracle you are still alive to talk about it.”

  “I am always careful, and I carry my knife. Only a knave would accost a woman wearing the garb of the cloister.”

  “There is an abundant supply of knaves in the world,” he pointed out. “And that knife of yours would be useless against any creature larger than a squirrel.”

  Still refusing to look at him, she extended a hand in his direction. “May I have one of my pillows back?”

  “Spoils of battle. I have the right to keep all projectiles flung in my direction.” He sighed. “You have a great deal to learn about the world beyond the walls of your cloister, milady. It is a dark, cold, harsh place—and if you want to survive in it, you must stop being so trusting.”

  “In other words, I must become cold and harsh… and heartless?”

  He clearly caught her meaning. “A gentle heart is not an asset anywhere but in a convent.”

  “That is not true,” she said softly. “God wants us to feel love. Each of us, all of us. ‘And now abideth faith, hope, love, these three. But the greatest of these is love.’”

  He made a scoffing sound.

  “You do not believe in any of that, do you, milord?”

  “I believe in what I can see with my eyes and hold in my hands, demoiselle. With all your talk of love and hope, you remind me of—”

  He cut himself off.

  “I remind you of what?”

  His voice became taut. “My younger brother, Galen. He also had a gentle heart. And he believed in hope.”

  “But now he is older and more harsh, like you?”

  “Now he is dead, milady. Killed by King Edward’s longbowmen, in the ambush that was supposed to be a peace negotiation. Galen hoped and dreamed of peace—and the English murdered him. When he was only a year older than you.”

  “Mercy of Mary,” she whispered, turning toward him, seeing clearly the grief in his expression. “I am sorry,” she said with genuine feeling.

  The glimpse of his sorrow lasted only a moment before he glanced away, cool and controlled once more.

  But she realized, for the first time, that he was capable of caring. Despite his hard edges and rough ways… Darach did have a heart.

  And he was not merely following orders and fulfilling his duty. His cause was far more personal to him than that. He wanted to protect his people, secure their freedom—and find justice for his brother.

  Sinking down onto the bed, she closed her eyes and silently began to offer her evening prayers… including one for the brother he had lost.

  “Do you always sleep fully clothed?” Darach asked softly.

  Laurien did not open her eyes. “Do you always ask such impertinent questions?”

  “I only thought that if you do not need all the blankets, you might give one to me.”

  “You have the fire. And the furs.” She opened one eye. “It is colder over here.”

  “We could negotiate a trade,” he offered. “A blanket for a pillow?”

  “You truly cannot survive the night without a blanket?”

  “My old wounds,” he said with an earnest look, rubbing at his ribs. “They bother me on cool nights such as this.”

  Sitting up, she gathered one of the woolen blankets and walked over to where he lay before the fireplace. “Very well.” She extended her arm stiffly, holding it out toward him.

  “Thank you, milady.” He reached for it.

  But instead of the blanket, he grabbed her hand, pulling her toward him. She gasped in surprise as he tumbled her into his arms.

  “Do you see? You are far too trusting.” He rolled her beneath him, onto the furs. “Your kind heart makes you vulnerable to all manner of knaves.”

  “You would exasperate a saint!” She pushed at his shoulders, but it was like trying to move a mountain.

  “I am no different from all the other men you will encounter, demoiselle, out here in the dangerous world beyond your cloister.”

  “It is scoundrels like you who make women seek the cloister in the first place!”

  She placed a hand in the middl
e of his chest.

  But all at once, she became aware of his heart beating hard and fast against her palm, the taut planes of muscle beneath her touch, the firelight in his blue eyes.

  Any hint of teasing faded from his expression.

  And her own heart seemed to match the rhythm of his.

  “Men like me,” he said quietly, “take what pleasure we can, when we can. Because we have learned from experience that tomorrow may not come.” He levered his weight off of her, releasing his hold on her.

  She could break free of him now, easily.

  But she did not.

  “That… that is all you want from women?” Her breathing was rapid and shallow, her entire body afire from the close contact with his. “Pleasure?”

  He brushed her tangled hair back from her face. “Oh, lass…” He lowered his head, resting his cheek against hers. “You do not even begin to know how much that word can mean.”

  The silky roughness of his beard made her shiver.

  His voice became a husky murmur. “You have never wished for a man to hold you in his arms? Never imagined what this might be like?” He nuzzled her throat, her jaw.

  Her thoughts seemed to come all unraveled as his lips traced a tantalizing path to her ear. Nay, she had never imagined this before.

  But she found it unspeakably tempting now. She made a sound low in her throat, but it was not a protest.

  It was that soft, deep sound she had made before, when he kissed her.

  “I-I have been perfectly happy without a man,” she insisted, her voice wavering. “I will continue to… be perfectly happy… without a man.”