Then suddenly the contact was broken. He wheeled his mount and galloped over the drawbridge, across the causeway, and into the fields beyond. Laurien watched until he was a shadow against the hills.
And when she could see him no more, she had a sudden, unreasoning feeling that she would never see him again.
It nearly made her throw her vow to the wind and ride after him. She steeled herself against the impulse. She must prove herself worthy of Darach’s trust. Forcing herself to turn away from the bailey, she walked back toward the castle.
Her thoughts were so filled with love and hope and worry for Darach, she never considered the possibility that she herself might be in danger.
~ ~ ~
Malcolm only made it halfway to Castle Glenshiel before he collapsed. He managed to slip from his horse’s saddle before he fell, not wanting to reopen the wound that had been stitched and bandaged for him only hours before.
He had survived the fight against Balafre at the Bear’s Head Inn, but he had not escaped unscathed. Balafre had wounded him with a deep slash below his ribs. Then Malcolm had taken inspiration from Lady Laurien and surprised his opponent—by escaping out the window. Crofters gathered in the inn yard had protected him from the French mercenary, brandishing scythes and pitchforks. Balafre had taken a horse and fled before they could stop him.
Malcolm needed to reach Glenshiel, to warn Darach that the message he had written was a trap, and to warn Laurien that de Villiers was coming for her. But his head was swimming, his side burning with pain.
Dropping his horse’s reins, he sank down in a thicket by the side of the road, thinking only to rest a moment…
He did not awaken until he felt someone shaking him roughly by the shoulder. Opening his eyes, he saw that the sun hung low in the sky and a man was leaning over him. The man’s image doubled, tripled, then resolved into a single face that made Malcolm shut his eyes tightly.
“Merciful Mother of God,” he groaned. “The angels have come for me. I am dead.”
This was met with a laugh. “I am no angel, sir,” the young man said. “And I assure you, you are alive. It appears you have taken a fall from your horse. Are you all right?”
Malcolm opened his eyes experimentally, but he could not speak, his amazement was so great. If he was neither dead nor delirious, where could this vision have come from? He blinked, and the face did not disappear, but seemed entirely real.
It was a face he had seen only in his dreams, for twenty years. All the features were just as he remembered—the dark hair, the nose, the green eyes—yet recast in masculine form.
If this was not the ghost of his beloved Adelle, who in God’s name could it be?
The lad rubbed a large bruise on his chin, and a ring on his hand flashed in the late afternoon sun. Malcolm stared at the gem: a small emerald set in a broad silver band.
Exactly like the ring he had given Adelle before leaving on Crusade.
And the young man was speaking French.
“Alors, I would offer you assistance, sir, but I am in a hurry,” he said. “Allow me to help you onto your horse and I must be on my way.”
“Nay, wait,” Malcolm said urgently, grasping his arm. “That ring, where did you get it? What is your name, lad?”
The masculine version of Adelle’s face frowned at him. “It was given to me by my sister. Sir, I am not in the habit of—”
“Your parents,” Malcolm choked out. “What was your mother’s name?”
“What?” The young man looked at him as if he thought him delirious. “I think you may need to see a physician—”
“Your mother’s name!” Malcolm grabbed the lad’s tunic to restrain him from rising.
The young Frenchman seemed puzzled. “I will tell you what you wish to know,” he offered, “if you would be willing to give me directions to a place called Glenshiel—”
“What is your name?” Malcolm cried, his mind racing.
“I am Sir Henri d’Amboise, son of Louis d’Amboise. My mother was the Lady Adelle d’Evreux.”
Malcolm released Henri’s tunic and fell back upon the grass, convinced he had lost his mind. “This is impossible. It cannot be.” He closed his eyes.
“I assure you sir, I speak the truth,” the lad said in irritation. “Had I known I was to be insulted, I would not have stopped to play Samaritan. Now if you would do me the favor of telling me who you are—”
“Sir Malcolm MacLennan.” Malcolm raised himself to his elbows, staring at Henri and trying to sort through the volley of facts raining down on him. “D’Amboise, you said. That would make you… Lady Laurien’s brother? But they told me Adelle was dead.”
“She died many years ago, when I was only six. Did you know my mother? And how is it that you know my sister?” Henri’s brow furrowed.
Malcolm absorbed the news that his gentle Adelle was dead, but strangely felt no fresh surge of grief. For twenty years, he had believed her lost. Even as his mind was reeling, his heart was gladdened to find some part of her still alive, in Henri… and in Laurien.
Merciful Mother of God! “How old is your sister?” he asked suddenly.
At the urgency in Malcolm’s voice, Henri answered quickly, his own eyes lighting with realization as he looked at Malcolm more closely. “Twenty, come spring… God’s breath, you could not be… she has hoped and searched for so many years—”
“Did your mother have a knife? Like your ring—a silver blade with an emerald in the hilt, and an inscription in runes?”
“Aye.” Henri nodded. “Mother gave Laurien the knife and this ring before she died. Laurien gave the ring to me and has carried the knife with her ever since—”
Malcolm’s cry of joy and shock interrupted him. It was true. His sweet, beautiful Adelle had given him a daughter. “She is mine,” he choked out, overcome by emotion. “My own daughter! They told me Adelle had lost her life bearing our child, and the babe with her. But they lied. They sent her to marry a French lord… and the child lived.”
“But how is it that you know Laurien?”
A sudden, urgent fear stifled all of Malcolm’s other emotions. He hesitated, then decided honesty would be best at the moment. “I am one of the men who abducted her from Chartres. But there is no time to explain all of it to you. She is in great danger.”
“From the blond knave who kidnapped her?”
Malcolm chuckled painfully. “She is with him, but believe me when I tell you he is no threat to her. He loves her.”
Instead of arguing as Malcolm had expected, Henri nodded. “That would explain why she was willing to risk her life to save him when I lunged at him with my sword.”
“They are both in danger. De Villiers means to lure Darach to his death and take Laurien from Castle Glenshiel.” Malcolm looked at the sun hanging low on the horizon. “And ’tis too late to reach the castle in time to stop Darach. I must ride to Strathfillan, before he arrives there—”
“Nay, Sir Malcolm. You are in no condition for a hard ride. Tell me the way and I will go.”
Malcolm started to protest, then studied the Frenchman. He was young, but he had the same spirit and heart as his sister… as Adelle.
Not hesitating another moment, Malcolm knelt in the road and drew a map in the dirt. He quickly explained how he and Aidan had been captured, and told Henri about the note and the ambush de Villiers planned for Darach.
“Follow this road until you come to another that forks to the south, in this direction.” Malcolm pointed. “Ride south until you come to Strathfillan Abbey. But be careful, lad. De Villiers’s men will be there in hiding.”
Henri studied the map, then rose. “Are you sure you will be all right?”
“Do not worry about me. Find Darach and tell him what has happened. Then ride back to Glenshiel as fast as you can. I will try to get there ahead of you.”
Henri paused. “I have already met this Sir Darach, and we did not part on the best of terms.” He rubbed his bruised chin again. “How can I
be sure he will trust that the message I bring is from you?”
Malcolm thought quickly. “Do as I do.” He placed two fingers in his mouth and demonstrated the falconer’s whistle. “He will know by that signal that I have sent you.”
Henri imitated him, then mounted his horse and raced away at a gallop.
Malcolm managed to pull himself back into his own saddle, setting off at a pace that jarred his wounded side. But he hardly felt the pain, his mind on protecting Laurien… his daughter.
He had to reach Castle Glenshiel before de Villiers.
~ ~ ~
The very last light of day gave way to darkness as the two horses cantered around the edge of the loch. Fionna felt her heart begin to beat faster as they came within sight of Castle Glenshiel. She pulled her mount to a stop and turned to de Villiers’s guardsman.
“Do you remember the directions I gave you?”
The man nodded, dismounting to remove his cloak and boots.
“Good,” Fionna continued imperiously. “Ready one of the boats you will find at the edge of the loch, then make your way to the back stair and await my summons. I do not know how long I shall be.”
“Aye, milady.” He led his horse into a thicket at the edge of the lake. A moment later, Fionna heard a soft splash as the guard waded into the freezing water.
Smiling with satisfaction, she rode on. She liked giving orders and having them so quickly obeyed. Soon, as de Villiers’s queen, she would be able to experience the feeling all the time. She guided her horse onto the causeway that led to the castle’s main entrance, one hand wrapped around the tiny flask hidden deep in the folds of her cloak. She hoped she could remember all the comte’s directions about how to use the potion.
Too much could be deadly, and ’twould be such a shame for Laurien to die too quickly.
~ ~ ~
It was long past midnight by the time Malcolm reached the end of the causeway, galloping beneath the gate. Darach’s sentries greeted him as he rode into the bailey and dismounted, sharp pain in his side. Touching his ribs, he felt fresh blood seeping through the bandage and his tunic. He swore, pressing his arm to the cut, and started up the stairs into the keep.
“Greetings, Sir Malcolm.” Ranald came down to welcome him, his smile fading as he drew near. “You are wounded. What hap—”
“Never mind that. Rouse the guards. Has anyone attempted to enter the castle? Is the Lady Laurien within?”
“She is asleep upstairs,” Ranald responded quickly, following him into the great hall. “I have seen no strangers enter or leave since Sir Darach rode out this morn.”
Malcolm digested this news with some relief, saying a silent prayer of thanks that Laurien, at least, was safe. Now if only Henri could get to Darach in time…
“Let me help you, sir.” Ranald tried to support Malcolm as he started up the steps to the upper floors.
“I am fine,” Malcolm insisted, shaking him off. “Show me to Lady Laurien’s chamber. I will rest after I see her.”
Frowning, Ranald led him down the hall. Malcolm knocked hesitantly at Laurien’s door, knowing he had much to discuss with her and not at all sure how to begin.
There was no reply. He knocked again. When there was still no response, he opened the door to find an empty chamber.
“Where is she, Ranald?”
“But… sir, she was here,” the steward replied in confusion. “She dined with Mara and Catriona in the hall, then retired early. The Lady Fionna arrived shortly after and asked to speak with her—”
Malcolm swore and hurried back toward the stairs. “Summon the women. And rouse the guards! Find out if anyone has seen her.”
After an hour of searching, one thing was clear.
Laurien was nowhere to be found.
Chapter 25
Something was horribly wrong. Laurien knew that with certainty as she fought against the grogginess that clouded her mind. Even through her fogged senses, her knowledge of healing told her what the problem was: someone had drugged her.
She could feel the motion of waves beneath her and suddenly realized what had brought her awake. Her hand was trailing in water that was wintry cold. She tried to pull it away and found she could not. Opening her eyes, she discovered that she was lying on her back, the blackness of night surrounding her, tiny pinpricks of light shining above… stars.
She was in a small boat, being taken across the loch. She struggled to sit up and instead lurched sideways, her arms and legs refusing to respond to her mind’s orders.
Her heart began beating wildly and beads of perspiration broke out on her forehead. She fought back waves of dizziness and panic. What strange elixir was this, that made her muscles limp but left her mind keen and clear?
“Sit still, you fool, or you will tip the boat!”
Laurien blinked into the darkness and felt a surge of anger as she saw who shared the boat with her. Fionna! Laurien could not make her lips form the sharp reply that came to mind. The only sound she made was a piteous moan. Fionna laughed and turned her back.
Mercy of Mary, what was happening? As Laurien’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out the figure of a man pulling steadily at the oars. Though she could not see the color of his garments, the pattern and style were familiar. It was one of de Villiers’s guards!
Fear shot through her half-numbed body. She had no idea how Fionna had come to be in league with de Villiers’s men, but she knew it was a dangerous pairing. She could not sit up, but managed to raise her head. They were in the middle of the loch, quickly approaching the far shore and the abandoned castle Darach had pointed out to her earlier.
Laurien wanted to scream in frustration. She was being taken away from Darach and was powerless to stop it. For once, she had obeyed his orders and stayed put—and still she would be gone when he returned. The irony of it nearly wrung a laugh from her lips.
She must find a way back to Castle Glenshiel. She peered over the edge of the boat, briefly toying with the thought of throwing herself over the side and trying to swim to shore. She just as quickly discarded the idea. In her present condition, she would surely drown.
She tried again to speak to Fionna. “Wh-where…” was all she could manage.
“Where are we taking you?” Fionna smiled over her shoulder. “To your wedding, of course. You are almost a fortnight late for the ceremony, milady—and your groom has become most impatient.”
Laurien’s eyes widened, and she felt a rush of nausea that had naught to do with Fionna’s potion or the choppy current.
Fionna continued, seeming quite happy to carry on a one-sided conversation. “’Twas ridiculously easy to get inside the castle. Ranald knows me well, and he had no reason to suspect my real purpose. Not after I told him that I had traveled such a long way to visit with my dear friend Laurien. I told him not to announce me because I wanted to surprise you. Did you not enjoy your surprise?” She laughed and turned her back again. “Once I was inside, ’twas not difficult to conceal myself in your chamber and wait for you to retire.”
Laurien knew the rest. Exhausted from a day spent worrying about Darach, she had fallen asleep quickly, only to awaken upon feeling hands around her throat. She had started to cry out, but someone—obviously Fionna—had forced a burning, bitter liquid past her lips. She had been able to struggle only an instant before losing consciousness.
But how had Fionna gotten her out of the castle? De Villiers’s guard had probably helped carry her. If they had snuck down the back stair and out to the loch, they would not have aroused any alarm—and no one would know Laurien was gone until morn.
By then, Fionna and the guard could have her on a ship bound for France. Bound for de Villiers.
Laurien steeled herself against that thought. She was not going back to France and, by Blessed Mary, she was not going to marry the comte! They could not keep her drugged all the way to the coast, lest they risk killing her. She would find some way to slow their journey, some way to fight them un
til help could arrive.
The tiny craft was drawing closer to the far shore. Laurien could see a ribbon of sand, glowing white in the moonlight, and the craggy outline of the ruined castle just beyond. A figure stepped from the shadows of the abandoned fortress.
Had she been capable of screaming, Laurien would have rent the night with her cry. De Villiers! She could almost feel his malice radiating toward her.
In the same instant, she knew with certainty what his plan for her would be. He would not give her another chance for escape. He would not even wait to return to France.
He meant to perform the ceremony here.
The boat came within a few feet of the shore and the guard leaped out, splashing into the shallows and dragging the small craft forward until it ground upon the sand. De Villiers approached, ignoring Fionna’s outstretched hand. “Are you not glad to see me, my betrothed? I have rescued you from your captors.”
He hauled her roughly out of the boat and onto the shore. She fell to the sand at his feet.
“This is how I have longed to see you,” he said silkily. “Upon the ground before me, begging forgiveness for all the trouble you have caused me. It is how you will spend what little is left of your life.”
Laurien glared up at him, telling him with her eyes what Fionna’s elixir made it impossible for her to say. She was not beaten, would never beg, would never submit to him as long as she lived.
De Villiers clucked his tongue. “I can see by your expression that you have yet to accept your fate. You still hold some hope of rescue. I am afraid I must dash those hopes. Fionna wanted to tell you but I reserved this pleasure for myself.”
He bent down so that his face was only inches from hers. “They are dead, milady. Both men who abducted you are dead. My man Balafre killed MacLennan this morning. And your Sir Darach has been cut to pieces by now.”
Laurien felt her heart slam against her ribs. It could not be true! De Villiers was lying to make her give in to him. She at last found her voice. “N-nay. You lie!”
De Villiers laughed. “It is the truth, I assure you. The message your lover received this morning was a lure that drew him to his death in an ambush. Twenty of my men were waiting for him. I gave them orders to kill him slowly. And trample what was left into the ground.”
His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0) Page 30