The Bride Quest II Boxed Set

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The Bride Quest II Boxed Set Page 68

by Claire Delacroix


  He held it up between them, his gaze compelling her to believe him. “Because it reminds me of the lady who shed it, however angrily, and the brightness of her spirit. She is a woman whose heart is filled with hope, a woman of rare determination and of a character more generous and beauteous than any woman’s face could be.”

  Angus watched Jacqueline so intently that she felt pinned to the spot.

  “But I have discovered that the reminder will not suffice,” he continued. “This hair, however beauteous, cannot laugh. It cannot find the good within the wicked, it cannot jest, it cannot even be curious.”

  Angus placed the hair deliberately within her hand and closed her fingers over it. “But all the same, for being a reminder of a lady who oft does all of those things, it has been a talisman for me. I thank you for the gift, for this and this alone has helped me banish the shadows that tormented me.”

  Jacqueline regarded him in surprise, trying to ignore the way her mouth went dry now that his hand was folded around her own. “You have no more nightmares?”

  Angus shook his head. “Not a one. Thanks to you.”

  Jacqueline fingered the hair. Gratitude was more than she had expected from him and yet so much less than she desired. “So you came to give your thanks to me?”

  “Nay, I came because I have missed you,” he said softly. “I miss both your laughter and your certainty that all will come aright. Be assured, Jacqueline, that I began for this convent a hundred times, but I had vowed to give you your choice as other men did not.” He smiled ruefully. “I am weak, though, for I could not resist the opportunity to ask you to reconsider your choice afore ’tis too late.”

  She parted her lips but he set his thumb across them, silencing her.

  “When we parted, I had no right to seek a bride. I did not dare to anticipate that Airdfinnan would be ceded to me again, though the archbishop has done that very thing. The crops were good this year and will be better next, primarily due to the aid of those at Ceinn-beithe. That feud is long behind us. Though Father Aloysius had hoarded coin, ’twas not his to hold. The tithes were long overdue and treaties had to be confirmed with such gifts that my treasury is nigh bare”

  He took a breath, again not permitting her to interrupt. “Though my circumstances are humble, I could ensure your comfort. Know that I would defend you with my own life and that I have the coin to appease the abbess. I have Duncan’s permission to seek your hand and your mother’s blessing, the most important agreement is yet lacking.”

  Jacqueline did not dare to interrupt this inventory. She watched Angus, knowing she had never seen him show the least uncertainty before.

  But he was uncertain of her.

  “If you say nay, I shall not trouble you again. If this is your choice, ’twill be unchallenged by me.” His gaze burned into her own as though he would will the truth from her lips. “You told me once that you would willingly share my bed. Does that mean that you would willingly wear my ring, that you would be my lady?”

  “That depends upon why you ask,” she said, her voice husky.

  “There is only one reason to ask such a thing,” he declared with resolve. “Because I love you.”

  Jacqueline blinked back her tears of joy. “All I ever wanted of you was your love, Angus.”

  “And in the end, ’tis the only offering which I can guarantee.” He smiled and caught her shoulders in his hands, flexing his fingers around her as though he needed reassurance that she truly stood before him. Jacqueline smiled up at him, knowing she looked like a besotted fool and not caring a whit. She heard her mother sniffle happily.

  Then Angus conjured a silver ring, richly encircled with a knotted design. He held it an increment before her left hand. “’Tis the ring with which my parents pledged their troth. My mother entrusted it to me for good fortune in this quest.”

  “You had no need of such fortune,” Jacqueline whispered, lifting her hand.

  Angus frowned slightly as he slid the ring over her knuckle. “She said the token of a Celt might fill the deficit of your lineage as it did her own, though I cannot guess her meaning. She refused to say more.”

  Jacqueline laughed. “It matters not.” When the ring was securely upon her finger, she looked up at him, certain all the love within her shone in her eyes. “You knew I would accept you,” she whispered.

  “I hoped, my Jacqueline.” He caught her close and smiled down at her. “I had naught but hope, though ’twas you who taught me that hope could oft be enough.”

  He bent and kissed her soundly, ignoring the consternation of the arriving abbess and priest.

  * * *

  In due time, the joyous party left both chapel and convent, but not before Jacqueline retrieved her hidden token of heather. Angus noted it with a smile, and tucked it into his purse with nary a word between them.

  Indeed, they shared a smile so warm that the abbess clucked her tongue.

  Jacqueline was not surprised to see Lucifer grazing beyond the walls, nor two palfreys from Ceinn-beithe and two other smaller steeds. A pair of squires tended the steeds, purple thistles embroidered on their tabards.

  A dainty mare stood beside Lucifer, so lovely that Jacqueline caught her breath. She seemed fragile in her grace, for her ankles were uncommonly slender and her gait elegant. The horse was of the hue of deepest chestnut. Her mane and tail were darker still and hung long and silky.

  “From Persia,” Angus supplied. “Sent as a gift to the Templar master, who offered her to me when I expressed my admiration. I have always thought the Saracen horses most beauteous.” The steed nickered at him as though she appreciated the compliment. “This one is cursedly quick of wit and fleet of foot. She escaped four squires and an ostler on her first day at Airdfinnan and granted them a merry chase.”

  He turned a smile upon Jacqueline. “I thought my intended bride might have need of a mount of her own, especially one which she might so readily understand.”

  Jacqueline laughed, thanked him, then stepped closer. The mare tugged at her reins, straining in inquisitiveness, her nose working as she sought to come closer to Jacqueline.

  “I thought to name her Vixen, if you approve,” Angus suggested with an innocence of manner that made Jacqueline laugh again.

  “She is beautiful and I think the name most fitting.” Jacqueline greeted the creature, scratched her ears and made a conquest in short order. Angus beckoned to the boys, but she waved them off. “I would not ride her this day, Angus.”

  “Whyever not?”

  “After all these days apart and on our nuptial day, I would ride only with you, husband of mine.”

  Angus laughed, a rich and merry sound all the more precious for its rarity. He lifted her into his saddle, then swung up behind her, clamping one arm around her waist to draw her close.

  Jacqueline waved farewell to her parents, then turned to look up at him. “Be warned, Angus MacGillivray, that I am not destined to be so dutiful a wife as one might hope.”

  He looked skeptical, though there was a warning twinkle in his eye. “Indeed.”

  “Indeed. You told me the truth of it yourself.” Jacqueline counted her shortcomings on her fingers. “I am not obedient.”

  Angus chuckled. “Nay, you are not.”

  “I fear ’tis a talent I will never conquer.” Jacqueline sighed in mock consternation. “And Airdfinnan, I suspect, is not impoverished.” She glanced up and, when Angus shook his head, she grimaced. “So I shall not manage a vow of poverty.” She frowned as though much troubled by this.

  “And?” Angus prompted mischievously.

  Jacqueline knew he was well aware of the last of the trio of pledges made by a bride of Christ.

  “Perhaps I shall endeavor to be chaste,” she said solemnly, not in the least surprised when he tightened his grip upon her.

  “Then I shall endeavor to keep you from succeeding,” he said with equal solemnity.

  “Is that a pledge, my lord?”

  Angus grinned wickedly.
“Aye, my lady. It most certainly is. Indeed, you have my word upon it.”

  He kissed her once again with vigor, oblivious to the chattering squires, and Jacqueline returned his embrace in kind.

  She had the word and the love of a man of honor, and indeed, Jacqueline could have chosen naught better than that.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Ready for more of the Bride Quest?

  Read on for

  The Temptress

  The Temptress

  Book 3 in the Bride Quest II series

  “I will not wed a man who thinks to own me.”

  Furthermore, Esmeraude of Ceinn-beithe declares that she alone will name the winner of her heart. To the knights gallant who ride from afar to do her bidding, she issues a challenge: a riddle that is both quest and test. And then she flees, daring her suitor to follow. Thus begins the Bride Quest of Bayard of Villonne, to compete for the hand of a woman he has never seen...

  Newly returned from the Crusades, Bayard has warned his family of a pending attack upon their estate. When they pay no heed to his message, he swears to protect the family holding himself... even if its price is a marriage of convenience. It seems a simple matter to win the hand of a rural maid in a barbarian contest—until the chase begins.

  Esmeraude's challenge makes her far more intriguing than Bayard had dared to hope. But when he follows her across the waters and rescues a tattered, ravishing damsel in disguise, he knows he has found her. Recklessly, she offers herself to the handsome stranger. But not even a passion that touches both their souls can win her hand. For Esmeraude will settle for nothing less than total surrender of the crusader’s worn and weary heart... a treasure Bayard is determined to keep shielded forever.

  Prologue

  Château Montvieux

  February 1194

  The old fortress was shrouded in fog when Bayard arrived at its gates. If anything, the cloak of mist and fine rain made it look even more formidable and ancient than he recalled.

  Montvieux had stood since the dawn of time, or at least for as long as anyone could remember. Its stone walls had been smoothed by expert craftsmen and polished by years of rain, stained by the blood of would-be conquerors. They seemed to be one with the earth of the holding, soil that had been tilled in the name of the lords of Montvieux for centuries.

  For the lords of Montvieux had been in this place longer than even the château itself. ’Twas said that their line was older than the lineage of the kings of France, or even of the kings before these. They had been among Charlemagne’s hosts, they had proven themselves even in those days to be bolder, stronger, and more valiant than any other warriors.

  And their noble seed sprang from here, was nurtured here, was rooted here no matter how far any one of them wandered. Bayard halted his destrier and stared, struck by the vigor of the resonance this place awakened within him.

  He had been certain that his origins were of import to him no longer. He had known that he was naught but the sum of what he had done since his departure. He had believed that he was a man who needed only his blade and his steed. Montvieux proved him wrong. The truth shook him to his core.

  He loved this place.

  He had missed this place.

  And not just the cold stones themselves. He had missed the family that drew their power from within it. Bayard was of this place, as he would never be of any other place he conquered or defended. He carried Montvieux’s blood, he bore the burden of its legacy. And the very sight of it made his heart beat faster with what might have been pride.

  Pride. Yearning. Two sentimental traits Bayard thought long behind him.

  But truly, was it not sentimentality that brought him back here now?

  “’Tis a remarkable holding, sir,” said Michael, the elder of his two squires, with the prim conviction he oft thought fitting of his role. ’Twas five years that the boy had ridden with Bayard and soon now he would gain his own spurs. That pride flared in Bayard’s chest again, though for a different reason.

  “’Tis incredible! I have never seen the like!” crowed Andrew, who, truth be told, found much of the world astounding. His very manner oft prompted a man to look again at what he might otherwise have missed.

  Bayard remained silent, caught in the turmoil of his own response. His gaze slipped over the wet walls and gates and turrets, the bedraggled pennants, the fields beyond the château, the river and the forests. Memories deluged him, happy memories of a surprisingly joyous boyhood spent here in these fields and gardens and halls and riverbanks.

  His grandmother’s proud voice, so long unheard that he would have thought it forgotten, now echoed in his thoughts so clearly that she might have sat beside him:

  Never conquered.

  Envied by many but entrusted to few.

  And of course, her most favored claim of them all:

  The prized seat of warrior-kings.

  Warrior-kings of which Bayard was one. ’Twas a fact that his grandmother had always underscored to him, evidently unaware or uninterested in the existence of Bayard’s younger brother, Amaury. Montvieux should be Bayard’s, by virtue of blood and of battle, at least by Margaux’s reckoning.

  Even if she had granted its seal elsewhere. In the wake of her battle of wills with Bayard’s own father—the battle Margaux had lost—she had cast the seal to Bayard’s uncle. Bastard-born Rowan carried not a drop of the blood of Montvieux, being the product of Margaux’s husband and a dancer, but Margaux had raised Rowan as her own. Montvieux’s seal was now destined for the hand of Bayard’s cousin and Rowan’s son, Nicholas.

  Bayard had never cared particularly. It had been enough for him that Montvieux was held in the family, that ’twas tended and respected. Now, the competition between kings had changed his perspective.

  Whatever the disputes that had parted him from his family, they were his family, all the same. Bayard’s liege lord, King Richard of England, had defined Montvieux as a key asset in his conflict with the King of France. Richard had been prepared to besiege it, as so oft he claimed.

  Richard, of course, had been delighted at the kinship link. He had not realized Bayard’s association with Montvieux, since Bayard used his mother’s estate in his name. Thirsty for blood, Richard had even proposed to make Bayard lord of Montvieux in his uncle’s stead, once the keep was captured.

  Had Bayard been a more ambitious man, or even a man as cold as he preferred others to believe, he might have accepted the king’s offer. Instead he argued the matter, at not inconsiderable risk to his position in the royal household.

  Instead he advised diplomacy to Richard. He appointed himself to persuade his uncle Rowan to surrender the allegiance of Montvieux to Richard’s hand. He had insisted ’twould be less costly in terms of manpower, denying the suggestion that he felt any tenderness for his estranged family.

  Tenderness was a weakness. Sentimentality was a weakness. And weaknesses, as Bayard had seen time and time again, could be readily exploited and cost a man dearly. A wise man hid any sentiment he was fool enough to feel, locking it away from those who coveted whatsoever he held.

  Bayard clicked his tongue decisively and the destrier trotted proudly forward, tossing its mane so that the myriad silver bells upon its bridle jingled. He blew his horn and the sound echoed off the stone, then he blew it again, as if impatient with the waiting.

  “Who comes to the gates of Montvieux?” bellowed an unseen sentry. Bayard knew where the guard’s hole was secreted, for he had played there as a boy. He turned toward the opening that was only the barest shadow from this side of the moat.

  “I am Bayard de Villonne,” he roared, “son of Burke de Villonne and nephew of your lord Rowan de Montvieux.”

  “What business have you here?”

  “I come to visit my kin.”

  There was a delay. ’Twas a considerable delay and Bayard did not doubt that his name was known and that the lord had been consulted. The boys exchanged a glance. The rain fell more steadily, a drizzle that
soaked through their clothes and chilled their flesh.

  Bayard did not move, he did not flinch. He stared unswervingly at the shadow, daring his uncle to deny him entry. He showed only impatience and expectation, nary a doubt that his request would be granted.

  And it worked, as so oft it did. Andrew sighed with relief when the hinges on the great gates groaned. They opened slowly, revealing a formidable portcullis.

  Rowan was silhouetted behind it, hands propped on his hips. Typically, Bayard’s uncle was not garbed for war. He wore naught but a chemise, cut full of white linen, dark chausses and tall boots. His russet hair was shot with silver and there were lines in his tanned face that had not been there all those years before. His gaze held a new shrewdness though, or perhaps Bayard had been too young to see that his uncle possessed more than a playful side.

  Bayard urged his steed forward, and the beast tossed its head with disdain as it trotted along the muddied road to the gates. He halted before the portcullis, closer than many a man would have come, the steam of the steed’s breath nigh dampening Rowan’s chemise. “Greetings, Uncle.”

  “So, you have returned.” Rowan’s tone was harsh. “Does your father know of it?”

  “I have naught to say to my father and I doubt he would welcome any news of me.” Bayard spoke dispassionately, that part of his life far behind him. “Will you grant me entry or nay?”

  Rowan studied him warily. “What do you want here?”

  “Can a man not visit his family without suspicion?”

  “Nay, he cannot, not if he is you. What do you want of us?”

  “I would speak with you,” Bayard said carefully.

  “So that you might sway me to your view against your sire? ’Twill not work, Bayard.”

  Anger crackled within Bayard though he strove to hide it. “Are you so enamored of my father in these days then? Time was you defied your own father, or so I have heard told.”

  “My father was a bloodthirsty wretch devoid of decency.” Rowan lifted one brow. “Time was you remembered as much.”

 

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