“Sir Malcolm!” Aidan shouted.
His warning came an instant too late. The blow knocked Malcolm to the ground.
Aidan never had a chance to call out a second time. A gloved hand closed over his mouth, cutting off his cry of alarm before he could even draw the breath.
Chapter 20
As the morning sun rose, the castle’s servants began their day’s work, preparing breakfast, tending the fires in each chamber, and lighting candles in all the sconces. After a sleepless night, Darach already stood before Laurien’s door, still wearing the garments he had worn at supper. He had told himself he should wait until a decent hour before returning to her chamber, but after pacing his room all night, he could not bear this any longer.
She deserved the truth. All of it. And it was time for him to face her wrath and tell her the whole painful, sordid tale.
Sibylla had once again risen up to lay waste to his life. He had dared to think that Laurien might care for him. She had at least begun to trust him. Now even that tiny spark had been snuffed out.
But regardless of how much she might despise him, he owed her an explanation. And there was no point in putting this off any longer.
Running a hand through his freshly cropped hair, he knocked on her door.
There was no reply.
“Laurien.” He knocked again. And still received no answer.
He felt a twinge of foreboding even before he opened the door. Swinging it wide, he looked around in disbelief.
The chamber was empty, the bed not slept in.
She was gone.
One heartbeat passed. Two.
“Criost!” He somehow knew that he would not find her at breakfast in the great hall.
In the middle of Scotland, with her home half an ocean away, she had run off. But how could she have gotten past the drawbridge? Where could she have…
He went to the window and threw open the shutters. A trio of pigeons burst from the ledge, squawking at him as they flew away. The drawbridge was down. In the distance, the rising sun warmed the thatched rooftops of Kincardine.
The only village for miles.
Where de Villiers’s men had been asking questions about her only yesterday.
Swearing savagely, Darach ran from the room, not even pausing to close the door, shouting for Will to gather his men.
~ ~ ~
This was not, mayhap, the most intelligent thing she had ever done.
That was Laurien’s first thought upon awakening in a corner of a stable in Kincardine. She stood and stretched, her muscles stiff from a night spent curled up on a pile of hay. Picking bits of straw from her hair, she brushed in vain at the mud on her green velvet gown and gathered the matching cloak more tightly around her. Her stomach growled. She wished fervently that she had eaten more at the feast last night. Or that she had thought to take some food as she ran through the kitchens. Or that she possessed a single coin to her name.
Had she not been so furious at a certain fair-haired knight, she thought irritably, she would have considered such practical matters.
Cautiously, she stepped out of the stable and into the street, raising the hood of her cloak. Without money, without any way of reaching the coast or securing passage on a ship, how could she ever get back to France?
And how could she even inquire about where the nearest convent might be, when she did not speak a word of Gaelic? The Scottish nobles had spoken French with her, but the townsfolk could not seem to understand her.
She wiped at her dirt-smudged cheeks, determined not to cry, having already spent the better part of the night at that.
Squaring her shoulders, she started down the street. She had succeeded in escaping her captors. She would succeed in finding some safe place to go into hiding.
Kincardine’s shopkeepers were already prepared for the day’s business, their shutters folded upward to form awnings and downward to provide display counters. Inside, they and their apprentices bent over their tasks, leaving their work the instant a customer approached.
As she arrived at the village’s market square. A peddler stepped into her path.
“Muicfheoil paidh?” He waved a golden-brown pork pastry toward her. “Teth is ana-bhlasta.”
Laurien shook her head in regret, her mouth watering at the spicy scent. She moved on quickly.
Observing the crowd of servants, peasant women, vendors, and artisans, she also wished she had changed clothes before fleeing the castle. Her emerald velvet garments could not help but attract attention. Unescorted and unarmed, she might draw the notice of all manner of knaves.
She found a shadowed corner of the market and sat on an upturned cart, trying to think. The peddlers kept up a steady din calling out the merits of their wares, while women haggled with vendors or chatted with friends as they strolled the marketplace, their baskets laden with cheeses, wine, bread, tarts.
Her stomach growled again. She had, she decided, two choices: stealing or begging. Neither thought appealed to her. But for anyone in need of charity… the best place to find it would be at a church. Studying the town’s thatched roofs, she could not see any spire or bell tower, but there must be a church somewhere in Kincardine. The priest there could also tell her where she might find sanctuary in a convent.
Standing, she set out to look for the local church.
As she moved, a figure on the other side of the market square caught her eye—because he was matching her pace step for step. Though a deep hood concealed the man’s face, Laurien had the uncomfortable feeling that his eyes were trained intently upon her. And he was garbed in a cloak so voluminous Laurien was not even certain whether its folds concealed a man or a woman.
Her first thought, accompanied by a groan, was that Darach had found her. But what reason would he have for concealing himself? Darach would not observe her this way—he would seize her and haul her back to the castle.
No sooner had she begun to wonder at the person’s identity than the mysterious cloak disappeared into the crowd.
Laurien’s throat had gone dry. She moved along quickly, trying to lose herself in the throng.
At the edge of the market square, some impulse made her dart a look over her shoulder. Her heart took a nervous skip as she saw the hooded figure once more: like a shadow, moving with her step for step. A rain of icy pinpricks chased down Laurien’s back. He was following her! And it must be a man. Her pursuer was too tall for a woman, and broad of shoulder.
And anyone who would disguise himself that way did not have good intentions.
All at once, the cloaked man quickened his pace, heading directly toward her. She turned and darted down the nearest alleyway. Dashing past a long line of shops, she turned onto another street.
When she chanced a look around the corner, the cloaked figure was there, at the head of the street. And it was most definitely a man—because she could see the point of a sword’s scabbard, just below the hem of his cloak.
Her heartbeat doubled. She rushed down the street, turned a corner, then another. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that he followed her still. She broke into a run.
His commanding voice rang out—shouting at her in French. “Arretez! Stop!”
He called her name.
She raced away from him, but her legs became tangled in her heavy skirts and she fell. The man caught up to her, grasping her arm to pull her to her feet. Screaming, she came up fighting.
He fended off her attack. “Laurien—alors!—enough!”
The familiar voice shocked her into silence. Even as he lowered his hood, she could barely believe what she was seeing.
The young man had black hair, bright green eyes, and a thoroughly irritated expression.
She was staring up at her brother.
“Henri!” It was all she could think of to say.
“God’s breath, Laurien, that is some poor greeting after what I have been through to find you.” He held her shoulders. “I have come to take you back to France.”
Chapter 21
Laurien could only stare at her brother, her mouth forming an O of disbelief. “B-but,” she sputtered, “w-what… how—”
“You are alone? What became of your captors?”
“I escaped. Henri, how did you—”
“And you are not hurt?” His voice gentled as he looked at her with concern. “They did not… harm you?”
Laurien looked away, a blush warming her cheeks. She understood what he meant, but was uncertain how to answer truthfully. “Nay, they did not… he… I have not been abused.”
“Thank God.” Henri enfolded her in a hug. “I would never have forgiven myself had you come to any kind of harm.”
Laurien returned his embrace and lay her head against his chest. Though Henri was two years younger than her, he was a few inches taller. The cloth of his brown homespun garments felt rough beneath her cheek, his arms safe and welcoming.
Just as quickly, she withdrew and looked up at him in annoyance. She could think of a great deal of harm she might have avoided—if only Henri had not stopped her from leaving de Villiers’ chateau in Chartres and evading her betrothal in the first place!
“Henri, how in the world did you come to be in Kincardine? What do you mean you have come to take me back to France?” She regarded him suspiciously. “You do not plan to return me to de Villiers—”
“Why would I spend all this time following de Villiers’s guards, disguise myself so that they would not recognize me, and track you all the way to Scotland only to hand you over to him again?”
“Because you are a man.”
He looked toward Heaven. “Sweet Lord above, save me from female logic.”
“I asked for your help before, in Chartres—and you refused.”
“Laurien, if a bit of gratitude is too much to ask, at least save your suspicions for later. We need to leave here, as quickly as possible.” He hurried her along the street. “I have seen de Villiers’s men about.”
“De Villiers’s guardsmen? But how did they… Henri, how did you find me? For that matter, why did you come after me at all?”
He chuckled at her flurry of questions. “It would appear, ma soeur, that your adventures have not tamed your fiery spirit a whit. I have a horse in a stable nearby. I will tell you everything as soon as we are on our way.” He propelled her along beside him.
When they reached the stable, Henri spoke briefly with the stable boy. As soon as his dappled horse was saddled, he gave the lad a coin and mounted, holding out a hand toward Laurien.
His silver and emerald ring—the token of love and loyalty she had given him years ago, after they lost their mother—flashed in the sunlight. “Trust me, ma soeur, I have no dire intentions.”
Sighing in exasperation, she reached up and allowed him to pull her into the saddle behind him. Henri guided the stallion swiftly through the streets. As soon as they passed beneath the town’s east gate, he urged the horse into a gallop that quickly carried them far into the forests that surrounded the village.
Laurien held on to his waist, remembering all the times they had ridden together at home in Amboise, when they were children. In spite of everything, she found Henri’s presence comforting.
The day had turned unseasonably warm, the sun shining on green grasses and the darker hues of moss and ivy that blanketed the hills and vales. Pines, oaks and elms spread their branches toward the sun, and thickets and weeds clogged the road at every turn. Only patches of stone and white-blue streams broke through the emerald Scottish landscape.
“Henri,” she said after they had been riding for some time, “have we come far enough from the town for you to stop and explain yet?”
He relented and reined the horse to a halt alongside a brook. “Aye, I suppose we merit a rest.”
Laurien slid to the ground and waited while he dropped the reins and set the animal free to drink. The two of them sat beneath a tree nearby.
He handed her his water flask. “First, Laurien, about the way we parted,” he began slowly. “I know you were angry with me—”
“Henri, if you had not stopped me from leaving de Villiers’s chateau that night, none of this would have happened.” She took a long drink and handed the flask back.
“It was a royal match,” he said defensively. “And Father had already signed the betrothal papers. It seemed clear to me that it was your duty as a woman to accept his decision—”
“My duty.” She crossed her arms. “Why is it that men always seem to have the rights and women the duties?”
“Ma soeur…” After he drank, he corked the leather flask and tossed it on the ground. “I thought it would make you happier to have a husband and family of your own, rather than spending the rest of your life in a convent.”
She looked away, watching the water flowing along the banks of the stream. The breeze felt soft against her cheek. A husband and family of her own…
“There is… there is naught that I have ever wanted more than to spend the rest of my life in the convent at Tours,” she insisted.
But even as she said the words, she was not entirely sure they were true anymore.
“I am sorry that I did not help you when I had the chance.” Henri’s voice was full of regret. “Once I met de Villiers, I knew what a mistake I had made. I could not imagine you spending your life with such a brutal man.”
“So you set out to rescue me, alone?”
“I had to do whatever I could to help you. It was my fault that you landed in all this danger and mayhem—”
“Nay, do not blame yourself, Henri.” She reached out to take his hand. “It was wrong of me to snap at you, when you have come all this way to save me. Forgive me, mon frere?”
He grinned. “If you can forgive me, Featherwit, I can certainly forgive you.”
The familiar nickname wrung a smile from Laurien. “Then count yourself forgiven, Pudding-head.” She punched him in the shoulder with mock ire. “Now tell me how you managed to find me. And then… then we must decide how we will make our way back to France.”
Henri sighed, as if only now feeling how arduous his journey had been. “I followed de Villiers’s guards, bought one of them too many drinks, and persuaded him to tell me where they were searching for you. He told me there had been news of you in the Highlands. I soon learned that a company of men had been dispatched to look for you in the towns near Strathfillan Abbey. I arrived in Kincardine only yesterday, and this morn I went to the village market to buy some food—”
“And proceeded to scare the wits out of me.”
“I could not believe you were there! And at first, I was not sure if you were alone. I did not want to call out to you or reveal myself, for fear of bringing down either your captors or de Villiers’s men on us. I did not mean to frighten you.”
“It is all right, Henri. By this morn, one moment of mayhem more or less could do me no harm.” Laurien shook her head ruefully. “Mercy of Mary, I cannot believe you went to all this trouble for me.”
“I only have one sister.” Henri squeezed her hand. “And I love you.”
Laurien’s lower lip trembled. “I love you too, Henri.”
“And this may not make up for all the rest, but I brought something for you, from France. From your friend, Sister Emeline.”
Laurien looked at him in surprise. “What is it?”
He rose and went over to the horse, rummaging through his pack. “A package she sent to Amboise, after Father took you away from your convent so suddenly. I think she meant for it to be a wedding gift for you. I brought it with me when I left.”
“Henri, do not keep me guessing.”
“I do not know what is in it.” He came back and sat beside her in the grass, handing it to her.
The gift was wrapped in white linen and bound with red silk ribbons, sealed with wax that bore the symbol of the convent at Tours. Laurien felt dampness in her eyes as she ran her finger over the familiar mark. “Oh, mon frere, thank you.”
“Open it
,” Henri urged. “I am eager to know what I have been carrying with me all this time.”
Laurien broke the seal, untied the ribbons, and opened Sister Emeline’s gift.
“The books!” she whispered. “Henri, these are the herbals I spent all summer copying—Historia Plantarum by Theophrastus of Athens and Materia Medica by Dioscorides. That was very generous of her.”
There was also a letter. She unfolded it and began to read.
My dearest Laurien, the note began in Sister Emeline’s neat hand. We had so little time to say goodbye when you left us. I wanted to send you a word of encouragement, and my good wishes for your wedding. Even though your future will be different from the one you had planned, sometimes God sends us His greatest blessings in the most unexpected ways. You would have made a fine nun, my Laurien… but you will make an even better wife and mother.
Laurien’s vision suddenly blurred with tears. She wiped at her eyes and kept reading.
I know how much your work means to you, so I send these books to you. Becoming a wife and mother does not mean that you must stop being who you are, and doing what you love. Be true to the talents God has gifted you, as you make room in your life for His unexpected blessings.
May the Blessed Mother watch over you. And may you always remember what I have ever told you: that through love, you will find the strength to rise above all limitations.
All of us send you our love and our wishes for much happiness.
Yours, Emeline
“Henri, thank you for bringing me this. It… it means so much.” Laurien handed the letter to her brother, turning away to dry her tears on the green velvet of her cloak.
Henri read the letter, then wrapped her in a hug. “You will be back among them soon,” he promised. Sitting back, he studied her with a serious expression. “Ma soeur, I will understand if you do not want to speak of it, but… would you tell me what happened, after you were taken from Chartres?”
His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0) Page 25