Of course, her first reaction was denial. “W-why should I believe what you say?”
“It is the truth. He has a son named Aidan and a wife named Sibylla.” Fionna shrugged. “Ask anyone.”
To her credit, the demoiselle managed to keep her voice steady, her tone light. “What is that to me? Now you must excuse me. I find myself most fatigued. I wish to thank our host and retire for the evening.”
~ ~ ~
Aidan… Sibylla. Laurien turned and walked away with as much calm as she could muster, heading directly toward Sir William, who was speaking with two of his knights. Painful images flashed through her mind: Darach and that young boy talking together, smiling at one another, the affectionate way Darach had ruffled the lad’s hair.
She felt as if her heart would stop.
Laurien interrupted Sir William’s conversation, unable to speak even a word of greeting. The question tumbled out. “Tell me, Sir William, does Sir Darach have a son?”
“Pardon me, milady?”
She forced her mouth to form the words a second time. “Does Darach have a son named Aidan?”
One of the other knights politely answered when Sir William did not. “Aye, he does, milady.”
“Lady Laurien, have you met Sir Richard?” William asked. “He is the training master for my pages and squires. And this is Sir Toran, the captain of my guards.”
Laurien did not allow him to change the subject. Her heart was beating so hard it hurt. “Tell me, Sir William, does Darach’s wife yet live?”
“Does she yet live?” he echoed in confusion.
Laurien licked her dry lips and, to her own amazement, managed to speak without a stammer. “Aye, where is his wife, the Lady Sibylla? Did she die, in childbirth or… or some other way?”
“Nay,” Sir William assured her. “She did not. Now you must excuse us, milady, there are important matters which require our attention. Good evening and sleep well.”
Laurien stood frozen in place as they walked away. Her mind had gone completely blank. Fionna had spoken the truth. She could hear the woman’s voice like an echo. Aidan… Lady Sibylla of Glenshiel… his son…
His wife.
Lies and more lies—his whispered words, his tender caresses, his promise to keep her safe, all of it! Little wonder that he could discard her so easily. From the very first, he had intended naught more than bedding her.
He had finally found a most effective way to keep her compliant and cooperative.
And all the while, he had hidden his truth from her with astonishing ease. Even the two nights they had spent alone, the magic she had felt between them, must have meant naught to him but physical pleasure… and a means to an end.
She had allowed herself to be used, thoroughly.
Laurien felt her stomach lurch and knew she was about to be ill. Blindly, she turned and looked for the stairs.
~ ~ ~
Fionna watched the French girl leave the great hall. Lady Laurien moved with her back straight and her head held high, but Fionna did not miss the glaze of pain in her eyes, or the trembling hand Laurien placed against a wall to steady herself.
The demoiselle had not delivered the emotional scene Fionna had hoped for, but the surprise attack had at least managed to wound Darach’s beloved. That would have to do. For now.
Satisfied, she left the hall, snatched a torch from a wall sconce, and went outside. She headed for the stable, looking for James. The stable master was a skilled lover, and he had kept her amply amused in Darach’s absence. And Fionna felt like celebrating.
Many women would like to replace her in Darach’s life, women attracted by his wealth and his power—and by the challenge of piercing his nearly legendary armor of icy cool. Fionna had fought them all off.
She had even managed to keep Darach’s wife from coming back into his life. Fionna—and Fionna alone—knew the truth about Sibylla.
And as soon as she could devise a way to turn the information to her advantage, she would reveal it to Darach.
Surely, this French girl would not prove a difficult challenge. Fionna would find a way to be rid of the wench. And then Darach would turn back to her. There were not all that many wealthy, powerful noblemen to choose from in the Highlands. And at the age of five-and-twenty, she had little time left to secure a husband before her beauty began to fade.
Lost in her thoughts, Fionna did not notice the shadow that rose out of the darkness near the stables.
“Pardon, demoiselle, but I am in need of assistance,” a male voice called quietly in French.
Fionna stopped, making no move to go closer. “Who is there? Who are you?”
“I am seeking a girl recently arrived from France. The stable master, James, told one of my men that she is here.” He moved into the circle of torchlight. “And he also said you might be of some assistance.”
Before Fionna could decide whether to listen to him or call out for help, he grabbed her arm and pressed something into her palm.
Opening her hand, Fionna found herself staring at an enormous emerald. Her fingers curled around it instantly. She glanced up and offered the stranger an enticing smile. “Mayhap we can help one another, Sir… ?”
“Comte,” the man corrected, returning her smile. Garbed in black, entirely bald, he had the look of a raven, with dark eyes and black brows and cheekbones that stood out sharply. “Comte Jacques de Villiers.”
Chapter 19
Stumbling to her chamber, Laurien closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, covering her eyes with both hands.
Sibylla. The name Darach had called out in his fever, the one Sir Malcolm had warned her not to ask him about—the name was that of his wife!
Laurien had always thought of herself as intelligent, but she had been an utter, naive fool! She had swooned right into his arms, surrendered body and heart to a man for whom love was an illusion—and lovemaking a weapon to be wielded like any other, coolly and skillfully.
A soft knock at her back startled her. She turned and moved away from the door until she collided with the edge of the bed. Was it Fionna, come for another friendly conversation? “I have retired for the night,” she snapped. “Leave me be.”
The door opened even as she spoke.
And to her amazement, it was Darach who stepped inside.
She glared at him. “Get out of my room.” Her voice burned with fury. “Leave me in peace!”
He looked startled. “Laurien…” Reaching behind him, he closed the door. “I wanted to come and speak with you, to tell you that Malcolm and I—”
“Stay away from me!”
“What is wrong?” Looking concerned now, he came toward her. “If you saw me leave the hall with Fionna, I know what you must think but—”
“I do not care if you have a score of concubines!” She tried to shake him off when he reached for her.
“What has happened?” He cupped her cheeks in his hands. “Why are you so—”
“Is he yours?” she demanded. “The boy, Aidan, is he your son?”
Darach went still.
Laurien broke free of his touch, stumbling back a pace, waiting for him to confirm it. He might lie to her about Sibylla, but a man would not deny his own son.
“God’s breath,” he choked out. “Laurien, I—”
“Is… he… your… son?” she demanded.
“Aye,” Darach said at last. “Nay… aye.” He shook his head, turning away from her.
“Which is it?” she spat. “Or do you not know?”
He spun on his heel and returned her glare. “He is my son.” He said each word distinctly.
Laurien’s hurt came out in a rush of angry words before she could stop herself. “Tell me more. Tell me what became of the boy while you were whoring your way across the continent, you and your friend Gaston. Tell me how you left the lad to fend for himself—”
“Laurien,” Darach growled. “Enough.”
“You heartless cur, you deserted him! You deserted
them both—your son and your wife, Sibylla!”
He swore vividly, closing the distance between them, taking her in his arms. “You do not understand—”
“Do not dare deny it! Everyone in this keep knew about them. Everyone but me.” Laurien put her hands against his chest to push him away. Instead she found herself grasping his emerald green tunic. Her voice dissolved into accusing sobs. “You have lied to me all along. Tell me the truth for once. I deserve the truth.”
“Laurien—”
“One word will do. Is Sibylla your wife, aye or nay?”
“Aye!” he snapped. “Aye, she is my wife.”
As the echo of his voice faded, they stood staring at each other, their hands still locked on each other, neither willing to let go.
Until Laurien, suddenly aware that she had been holding her breath, exhaled shakily. What had she expected? Had she thought he would deny the truth once more?
Nay, she admitted to herself, but she had wanted him to.
Time seemed to stop as the fragile threads that had bound her to Darach unraveled.
She released her grip on his tunic. She stared at the two rumpled spots on the fabric, where her fingers had clung so tightly. How out of place the delicate wrinkles appeared on his hard-muscled frame. She held her hands awkwardly in front of her, unable to bear the thought of touching him again, unable to lower her arms because Darach still held her by the shoulders.
She was surprised to find that she felt no shock, no outrage at his admission. The wound was already so deep, she thought dazedly, it could be made no deeper. She felt naught but a numbness that settled over her heart.
“Release me.” Her voice was a whisper when she spoke at last. “Leave me alone.”
“Laurien, if you would give me time to explain… Camhanach—”
“Do not call me that. Ever again.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Please, just leave me alone.”
~ ~ ~
Darach was in shock, battered by emotion—anger at whoever had told Laurien his secrets, frustration that she had pushed him into answering. She had caught him unawares and forced him into a corner. How could he even begin to explain?
“Go,” she demanded.
It took every ounce of will he had, but he complied with her command, undone by the ice in her voice. He released her.
Then he turned and left her room, closing the door behind him.
For tonight, he would honor her wishes and leave her be. There was nowhere she could go, even angry as she was. Will had already raised the drawbridge and posted extra sentries. For tonight, Darach knew she was safe.
And in the morning, he would be back—for a long and difficult discussion. After she spent a night venting her fury, throwing things, and calling him every vile name she could think of, tomorrow, she was going to listen to him whether she wanted to or not.
He flicked a glance Heavenward as he started back toward his own room. “If You are actually up there,” he bit out, “I seem to need a little help when it comes to dealing with women.”
~ ~ ~
For several long moments, Laurien stood where he had left her. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling hot fury and icy numbness by turns.
And more alone than she had ever felt in her life.
A gentle heart is not an asset anywhere but in a convent.
She remembered Darach saying those words to her, not long after they met.
Well, he had certainly taught her that lesson, hadn’t he?
Never again would she trust a man with her heart. Never. She had made that mistake for the first and last time.
All she wanted now was to return to where she belonged—home. To her peaceful, calm, orderly life at Tours.
A place where there were blessedly few men.
Laurien turned and walked to a chair in the corner where Jane had thoughtfully left a cloak for her, in soft green velvet that matched her dress. Wrapping it around her, she opened the door and peered into the darkness of the hallway, seeing no one.
Quiet, hurried steps carried her down the back stair to the bouteillerie, then through the deserted kitchens. Her heart beat louder than the tabor she had danced to earlier.
She took a deep breath, and went out through the small door into the vegetable garden.
The night wind felt cold on her cheeks. She gulped in bracing gasps of the autumn air, forcing herself to assume a slow, casual pace as she passed the brewery, mill, and granary. Nearing the castle gates, she tried to think of how she might talk her way past the sentries.
She stopped when she arrived at the curtain wall, surprised to find no guardsmen on duty, and the drawbridge lowered. Looking at the tower above, she saw that the sentries had apparently left their post.
She thought it odd but was not about to stop and ponder any scrap of luck thrown in her path. She hastened across, darting a glance behind her, half afraid this was some sort of trap.
The road curved away toward the south. She considered a moment what direction she should take, then started toward the twinkling lights of Kincardine.
When she was well clear of the castle, she turned and looked behind her.
The fortress was now no more than an enormous shadow against the darker black of night. No one had followed her, watched her, noticed her.
She was completely alone.
“Adieu,” she said under her breath. “Farewell, Scotsman. Forever.”
As she turned toward the village, the tears she had held back all night began to fall, and she broke into a run.
~ ~ ~
The darkened chamber was stuffy with smoke from the hearth and scent of the moldering rushes on the floor. Fionna lay on the bed, trying to catch her breath as the comte finally heaved himself off of her.
Never had she been handled so roughly. This was not what she had had in mind when she had agreed to accompany him to the Bear’s Head Inn in Kincardine. But one did not spurn a man who could hand out egg-sized gems as if they were sweetmeats.
De Villiers poured himself a goblet of wine. “It is important that you relate naught of what I have told you to anyone.”
“Aye, milord.” Fionna nodded. This was a man who would not be trifled with, a man who would not be weakened by an emotion like love. And soon, he would sit on the thrones of both France and Scotland—if he could indeed carry out the plans he had described. “You have not yet told me, milord, how I may assist you in this.”
“You will bring her to me, tonight.” De Villiers finished his drink and began to get dressed. “One of my men, Balafre, is dealing with the gate sentries and the drawbridge. You will enter her chamber and use this.”
He dropped a small sack onto the bed beside her. Fionna opened the drawstrings to find a fine white powder inside. “I do not understand.”
“It is a powerful drug.” De Villiers smiled. “It will numb her sufficiently so that you may lead her from the castle and bring her to me here.”
“But, milord, why do you not simply go in yourself and take her? If, as you say, she is your betrothed, do you not have the right to do so?”
“I prefer not to make my presence in Scotland known, just yet. They would fight to protect her, and a public battle does not suit my plans. What I need is for her to become my wife, at once. When I am in possession of the d’Amboise lands, I can pay my mercenaries and take the French throne.”
“And once you have the French throne you will use the alliance to take the Scottish throne,” Fionna said, feeling a thrill of admiration at his unfettered ambition. “And what will be my reward if I assist you? If you are to become king of France, I imagine ’twould be within your power to grant a great many things.”
De Villiers caught her chin in his hand. “How would it please you to be my queen?”
Fionna gasped. A queen! To think that she had been ready to settle for a Highland lord.
How satisfying it would be, to look down upon those who once spurned her.
“But, milord,” she said, a small co
mplication cutting short her excitement. “What of your new wife? What of Lady Laurien?”
De Villiers’s smile broadened. “My man Balafre had given me loyal service. He merits a reward. When I tire of Laurien, I will give her to him… and I do not expect she will live long under his hand.”
Fionna wet her lips with her tongue. How utterly perfect. She herself would be wed to one of the most powerful men in the realm… while Laurien suffered and died.
“For now,” de Villiers continued, “the only Scots who will know that I am here will be the two who kidnapped my betrothed. I have already made arrangements for them.” He offered her his hand to help her to her feet.
Fionna looked up, hesitating. He would kill them. She could hear it in his voice.
Darach was going to die.
She hesitated a moment. Darach had been good to her during their time together…
Then the painfully fresh memory of a door slamming in her face blotted out everything else. She did not allow herself to think further on his fate.
Smiling up at the comte, she placed her hand in his. “Let us proceed, milord, without delay.”
~ ~ ~
Dawn was only a wisp of pale gray along the horizon as Aidan hurried toward the stable, his breath rising in puffs of steam against the darkness. He noted that he and Sir Malcolm were awake even before the stable hands. He grinned. ’Twas a fitting time of day to begin an adventure.
He felt a bit disappointed when he saw that Sir Malcolm had saddled a small bay horse for him, rather than a destrier. But he was not about to let that dampen his spirits.
“There you are, lad.” Malcolm returned his smile. “Good. We must be away.” He finished adjusting his saddle and nodded to Aidan to mount.
“I thought it best to secure a weapon from Sir William’s guardroom before I left.” Aidan fastened his pack and his small crossbow to the bay’s saddle.
Malcolm eyed the little crossbow, chuckling. “It is always good to have a well-armed traveling companion.”
Aidan looked up to explain that the small weapon was actually quite powerful—only to be startled into silence. A figure loomed out of the darkness from behind the stable: an enormous man, his face wreathed in shaggy hair, raising a club behind Sir Malcolm’s head.
His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0) Page 24