He did not trust Robert, and half-expected that the man only feigned death. Rhys dared not expose Madeline to another threat, not until he could be fully certain that she was safe.
But the lady leaned against him, her chest against his back. He felt the wet of her chemise soak his own garb, felt her curves against him. He felt her sigh of relief, he felt the trembling that still claimed her. Her hands slipped around his waist, as if he alone kept her upright, and she held fast to him.
Rhys hoped she wanted more from him than warmth. Some tension eased out of Rhys when Alexander confirmed that Robert was truly dead. Madeline whispered Rhys’ name and the exhaustion in her voice tore at his heart.
Rhys claimed Madeline’s left hand with his own, and interlaced their fingers. His ring still graced the middle finger of her hand, the silver ring he had taken from his own smallest finger all those days ago at Miriam’s abbey. The sight of it, the fact that she had not removed it and cast it aside, granted him hope.
After all, she was here.
Rhys held Madeline’s cold hand captive against the pounding of his heart, flattening it beneath the heat of his own palm. Perhaps she truly would remain by his side.
She sneezed, then leaned her cheek against his back with a sigh. The fingers of her other hand knotted into his own chemise, as if she would hold him fast.
“Anwylaf,” she whispered and a lump rose in Rhys’ throat.
With that one word, Madeline told him all he had need of knowing. Rhys understood not only that she would stay at Caerwyn, but why.
He lifted her hand to his lips, intending to kiss her palm, then recoiled at the smell. “Anwylaf, you have need of a bath,” he said sternly. Madeline laughed, then sneezed three times in rapid succession. Rhys caught her up in his arms and bellowed for hot water. He would not lose her through illness now!
“I have no maid,” Madeline said, her eyes dancing with mischief.
“I shall see you well served,” Rhys retorted, then grinned down at her. “You need have no fear otherwise.”
The lady laughed and curled against his chest. “I love you, Rhys FitzHenry,” she said, her eyes shining.
“And I love you, my Madeline.” Rhys tightened his hold upon her, more relieved than he could declare in words. “It seems that we have much to celebrate this night.”
“Sons,” Madeline said with resolve. “We have sons to conceive this night.”
And Rhys FitzHenry laughed aloud, for the first time in years, much to the evident delight of his wife.
Epilogue
Rhys had called for a feast, for all those abiding at Caerwyn and his neighbors besides to meet his new wife, but it took a fortnight for the feast to be arranged. Of course, there were tales to be shared, for Rhys had not known about Ellyn and everyone had to share the tale of their adventures on the journey from Kinfairlie, as well as of their role in the recapture of Caerwyn.
There were funerals to be planned, for Robert Herbert and Nelwyna. The mercenaries also had be to be buried and there was some consultation between the priests of Caerwyn and Harlech as to the spiritual status of those fighting men. Few in the end were buried in Caerwyn’s consecrated ground.
The neighboring lords had to be invited to the festivities and arrangements had to be made for the feast itself. There were friendships to be made and Caerwyn itself to be explored. Alexander and Vivienne and Elizabeth went hawking and hunting with Rosamunde and Adele, accompanied by an extensive party of Caerwyn’s men. The feast was the excuse for their hunt, for the kitchens had need of meat, but they had a merry time. Alexander resolved to tell his uncle, the Hawk of Inverfyre, that falcons would be a fitting gift for the newly wed couple.
Madeline had continued to sneeze throughout that night, for she had been chilled to her very marrow. Rhys had undertaken her care himself, and they had remained locked in the solar for six days and nights. Rhys had opened the portal only to receive food and had made an enigmatic comment about sons.
The others oft heard him singing or the pair laughing. Adele had reported that both of the solar’s occupants looked hale enough when she took them a meal, but no one was inclined to oust them from the solar.
There was a further delay when they finally rejoined the company, as Adele insisted upon fussing over Madeline’s garb for the feast.
To the great relief of all, an old missive was found within a trunk of Nelwyna’s. This missive had been dispatched by King Henry V in 1416—it declared that Rhys had been pardoned, along with his fellows, on the condition of future loyalty to the crown. Only Nelwyna had ever laid eyes upon the missive, for she had hidden it away, though all of Caerwyn rejoiced to know Rhys to be safe from the king’s wrath, after all.
Rhys himself dispatched a missive to the crown regarding the suzerainty of Caerwyn, and the response came with astonishing haste. The king, it seemed, had heard tell of Rhys’ competent stewardship of Caerwyn beneath his uncle’s direction. The king considered Rhys to be reformed and laudable, and well deserving of Caerwyn’s seal.
Madeline suggested that the king was busy with other matters and that Dafydd had spoken aright. Prompt payment of tithes and a lack of rebellion had indeed turned the king’s eye to other concerns.
In commemoration of Rhys’ title, Madeline and her sisters insisted then upon modifying his insignia. He had worn only the mark of his homeland for years. It was time, Madeline insisted, that Rhys have colors to call his own.
He did not protest overmuch.
Books by
Claire Delacroix
The Jewels of Kinfairlie
THE ROSE RED BRIDE
Vivienne surrenders to a mysterious lover
only to discover that he has an agenda of his own.
* * *
THE SNOW WHITE BRIDE
Alexander's sisters get even with him by finding him the perfect bride—
whether he wants one or not.
About the Author
Deborah Cooke sold her first book in 1992, a medieval romance that was published in 1993 under her pseudonym Claire Delacroix. Since then, she has published more than fifty romance novels and numerous short stories. As Claire Delacroix, she has written historical romance, romance with fantasy elements, fantasy with romantic elements and future-set urban fantasy romance. As Deborah Cooke, she has written paranormal romance and paranormal young adult fiction. She also wrote briefly as Claire Cross—the time travel and paranormal romances originally published under that name have been re-released as Claire Delacroix books, while the contemporary romances have been re-published as Deborah Cooke books. She tends to include fantasy and paranormal elements in her stories and likes to write linked series of books. Her stories include a blend of action, adventure, romance, humor and deep emotion.
The Beauty by Claire Delacroix, part of her successful Bride Quest series, was her first book to land on the New York Times List of Bestselling Books. She has been nominated for numerous awards (as Claire and as Deborah), including Publisher’s Weekly’s Quill Award, and has won some, including the Booksellers’ Best Award. In 2009, she was the writer-in-residence at the Toronto Public Library, the first time the library has hosted a residency focused on the romance genre. In 2012, she won the RWA PRO Mentor of the Year Award for her support of aspiring and new writers. Her blog, Alive & Knitting, includes her weekly column on the changing landscape of publishing called Wild West Thursdays and a post each Friday about her knitting.
She makes her home in Canada with her family, too many books and too much yarn.
Connect Online
Deborah Cooke’s website
Claire Delacroix’s website
Deborah’s blog Alive & Knitting
Deborah’s Facebook Page
Claire’s Facebook Page
Deborah’s Monthly Newsletter
Book List
Links will take you to the author’s website
for excerpts, copy and buy links.
Claire Delacroix titles:
; Historical Romances
The Rose Series:
THE ROMANCE OF THE ROSE
THE SORCERESS
ROARKE’S FOLLY
The Moorish Series:
HONEYED LIES
THE MAGICIAN’S QUEST
The Unicorn Series:
UNICORN BRIDE
PEARL BEYOND PRICE
UNICORN VENGEANCE
The Sayerne Series:
MY LADY’S CHAMPION
ENCHANTED
MY LADY’S DESIRE
The Bride Quest:
THE PRINCESS
THE DAMSEL
THE HEIRESS
The Bride Quest II
(also called The Scottish Bride Quest):
THE COUNTESS
THE BEAUTY
THE TEMPTRESS
The Rogues of Ravensmuir:
THE ROGUE
THE SCOUNDREL
THE WARRIOR
The Jewels of Kinfairlie:
THE BEAUTY BRIDE
THE ROSE RED BRIDE
THE SNOW WHITE BRIDE
“The Ballad of Rosamunde”– a short story
The True Love Brides:
THE RENEGADE’S HEART
THE HIGHLANDER’S CURSE (upcoming)
Time Travel Romances
(Originally published under the name Claire Cross):
ONCE UPON A KISS
THE LAST HIGHLANDER
LOVE POTION #9
THE MOONSTONE
Short Stories and Novellas:
Amor Vincit Omnia
(digital only)
An Elegy for Melusine
(in TO WEAVE A WEB OF MAGIC)
The Kiss of the Snow Queen
(in THE QUEEN IN WINTER)
The Ballad of Rosamunde
Urban Fantasy Romances:
The Prometheus Project:
FALLEN
GUARDIAN
REBEL
Deborah Cooke Titles
Paranormal Romances:
Dragonfire
KISS OF FIRE
KISS OF FURY
KISS OF FATE
WINTER KISS
HARMONIA’S KISS
WHISPER KISS
DARKFIRE KISS
FLASHFIRE
EMBER’S KISS
The Dragon Legion Novellas (upcoming)
Paranormal Young Adult:
The Dragon Diaries:
FLYING BLIND
WINGING IT
BLAZING THE TRAIL
Short Stories:
The Leaves
(digital only)
Coven of Mercy
Contemporary Romances
The Coxwell Series:
THIRD TIME LUCKY
DOUBLE TROUBLE
ONE MORE TIME
ALL OR NOTHING
The MacKinnon's Bride © Tanya Anne Crosby
All rights reserved by the author.
No part of this publication may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronically, in print, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both Oliver-Heber Books and Tanya Anne Crosby, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For my beautiful mother, Isabel, who gifted me with a love for storytelling.
Prologue
Chreagach Mhor, Scotland 1118
Iain, laird of the MacKinnons, descendant of the powerful sons of MacAlpin, paced the confines of the hall below his chamber like an overeager youth.
So much hope was affixed upon this birth.
Now, at last, thirty years of feuding with the MacLeans would come to an end. Aye, for how could auld man MacLean look upon his grandbairn and not want peace? After a year full of enmity from his bonny MacLean wife—a year of trying to please her only to meet with stony disapproval and wordless accusations—even Iain felt burgeoning hope for how could she look upon their babe, the life they’d created together, and not feel some measure—some small measure, of affection?
Despite the past hostilities between their clans, his own resentment dissipated in the face of this momentous occasion, and though he couldn’t say he’d loved her before this moment, he thought he might now, for she lay abovestairs, struggling—and a heinous struggle it was—to gift their babe with its first wondrous breath of life.
She was havin’ his bairn.
Och, but he was proud of her.
As difficult as the birth was proceeding, she’d borne her pain with nary a scream, nary a curse, though he’d never have begrudged her either. In truth, her shrieks might have been far easier to bear. Her silence was tormenting him. He couldn’t help but be nerve-racked by the thought of his young wife in the throes of her labor, for his own mother had died just so, giving him life. Guilt over it plagued him still.
Iain lengthened his stride.
What if the birth killed her?
What if he killed her?
’Twas a fear he’d borne from the first day he’d lain his hands upon her in carnal pleasure, and it wouldn’t be eased now until he saw her face once more. God’s truth, but he would welcome even her sullen glances this moment. He’d bear them for the rest of his days if only she’d live through this punishing birth! In fact, he swore that if his touch was truly so unbearable for her, he’d touch her no more. He’d grant her anything her heart desired—anything—and if she desired him not, then so be it.
If she died... where, then, was their peace?
Damn MacLean, for he’d as lief be—
The glorious sound of a babe’s newborn wail resounded from above, a rapturous siren that froze Iain in midstride.
He found he couldn’t move, could do little more than stare at the stone steps that led to his chamber, joy and fear holding him immobilized.
It seemed forever before he heard the heavy door above swing open, and then the hastening footsteps.
Maggie, his wife’s maid, appeared on the stairwell. “A son, laird!” she exclaimed, shouting down happily. “Ye’ve a son!”
Those beautiful words freed Iain from his stupor. Yelping euphorically, he bolted up the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time in his haste to see his wife and a first glorious glimpse of his newborn son. “A son!” he said in marvel, passing Maggie as she hurried down to spread the news. She nodded, and joy surged through him. He wanted to kiss her fiercely—aye! Even Maggie!
Not even the midwife barring him entrance at the door diminished his spirits.
The woman who had so long ago helped to deliver him unto the world thrust out her arms to keep him from entering his chamber. “She doesna wish to see you, Iain.” The piteous look that came over her face sent prickles down his spine. “No’ as yet, she doesna.”
He braced himself to hear the worst. “Is she—”
“As well as can be expected. The babe didna wish to come, is all.” She lowered her eyes, averting her gaze.
The babe was no longer crying.
“What is it, Glenna?” Fear swept through him. Unable to help himself, he seized her by the arms and fought the urge to thrust her aside, to see for himself. “What o’ the babe?”
She tilted him a sympathetic glance. “Dinna y’ hear him, lad? Your son is a fine wee bairn! Listen closer,” she bade him.
He did, and he could hear the babe’s soft shuddering coos.
His gaze was drawn within the darkened chamber.
The midwife must have felt his tension, his indecision, his elation, his confusion, for she stood firm when he tried to nudge her aside. “Iain... nay,” she beseeched him, “ye dinna wish to see her as yet... Gi’ her time.”
Iain released her and reeled backward, numb with misery. “She loathes me still?”
&n
bsp; “Her labor was difficult and long,” Glenna explained. “’Twill pass. Go now, wait below stairs. I’ll come t’ fetch ye anon... ye’ve my word.” He hesitated and she added more firmly, “Do her this one kindness, Iain MacKinnon, for she doesna seem to be herself just now.”
Iain was torn between wanting to grant his wife this favor, no matter that it pained him that she didn’t wish to see him, and needing to hold his son. The desire was nearly tangible. “She truly doesna wish to—” His voice broke. “See me?”
The midwife shook her head.
“I... had hoped...” His jaw worked.
“Och, but ye canna expect her to come aboot so soon, Iain! Gi’ her time. Gi’ her time!”
“Verra well.” His jaw turned taut. “But I’ll no’ wait long,” he assured her. “I intend to see my son, Glenna! She cannot keep me from him forever!”
The midwife’s eyes slanted with understanding. “’Tis all she asks o’ ye, lad.”
Iain could not speak, not to assent, nor to refuse.
He turned and made his way belowstairs, cursing whatever prideful act had kindled the accursed feud all those many years ago between her da and his own. He didn’t even know, nor did anyone else seem to recall, what heinous crime had engendered such animosity. Like as not, it was naught more than the simple fact that his father’s hound had pissed upon old MacLean’s boot. Stubborn auld fools!
He didn’t have long to wait. For that he was grateful. Glenna needed only call him once and he was there at the door, shocked to find his wife standing in the middle of the chamber with their babe cradled in her arms, face wan, her hair disheveled. He thought she wavered a little on her feet, but she came forward, her face without expression, to place their infant within his arms. The gesture moved him so that any protest he might have uttered over her being out of bed fell away as he embraced his child.
He stared down in wonder into his child’s wrinkled little face.
Mayhap there was hope after all?
“’Twill be all, Glenna,” Mari said.
Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels) Page 114