The Frost Maiden's Kiss

by Claire Delacroix

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Anyone who ever heard a tale at his nursemaid’s knee.”

  “Not where I was raised,” Rafael retorted. “It is this wretched country of yours. First fearsome cold, then spellbinding music, then demons gathering souls.” He shook his head. “We should have remained in France.”

  “You thought little enough of France when we were there.”

  “They would have finished the killing by now.”

  Malcolm shook his head at his companion’s misplaced confidence. “They will never finish the killing, not in any place.”

  “There is that,” Rafael acknowledged quietly.

  “Why do you stay if you dislike it so much?” Malcolm asked. He was quite certain of the answer, but he would have liked Rafael to admit it aloud. “You are not beholden to me. Take your steed and ride south whenever you so choose.”

  Rafael gave him a dark look. “You know I stay to try to save you from that fiendish wager. We have fought back to back long enough that I would not see you lose your soul.”

  “Perhaps it was lost already,” Malcolm replied.

  Rafael rolled his eyes at that. “You think too much of matters. Our labor was a simple exchange, expertise for coin. Each contract fulfilled and paid and done.” He put his cup down on the board heavily. “So, you have traded your soul for mine and we both escaped Hell for that. They, whether they be Fae or demons, mean to claim your soul for a tithe to Hell on Midsummer’s Eve. Where is it writ that you must surrender it?”

  “The Fae cannot be cheated.” Malcolm shook his head. “The agreement is made.”

  “Simply stay out of the caverns!”

  Malcolm gave him a dark look. “They will collect me, no matter where I hide myself.”

  “Then leave Ravensmuir.”

  “Never!”

  “You are cursed stubborn.” Rafael helped himself to another cup of wine.

  “Where should I go?” Malcolm demanded. “This is my holding. This is where I always knew I should die. If it must be sooner than later, so be it.”

  The other man’s eyes glinted. “I say there should be a way to sever the agreement.”

  “Then I invite you to find it.”

  Rafael looked even more grim, but he did not fall silent. “Ask the whore. She seems to think they can be outwitted, as you do not.”

  “Those are but tales!” While Catriona told of mortals triumphing over the Fae, Malcolm knew that to be a whimsy. He recalled Vivienne’s assertion that that Isabella had saved Murdoch from the Fae, but dismissed it, for he did not know the details of what had happened. Either of those sisters, with their fondness for tales, might shape the truth to fit their expectation of a better ending.

  “And the sole source of detail about these fiends I have,” Rafael said, his tone grumpy.

  “The bargain must be kept. Either I keep it, or you keep it. The Fae suffer none to break their word.” Malcolm knew how Rafael would respond to that.

  “I say ask her counsel.”

  Malcolm was not disappointed that his friend did not offer his own soul in exchange, for he had not expected it of him. “I say drink your wine and be glad of it.”

  “Aye, glad of it I am. The first wine I have had since riding north and most welcome it is. Frigid in winter, and now, this land is hotter than Hades itself in the day and so dry that we could be in the deserts of Araby.”

  “You can leave at any time.”

  “And leave your soul undefended? Not I!”

  “My soul.” Malcolm had heard enough of his comrade’s protests of innocence. “My soul has naught to do with your decision to remain.”

  “We are comrades!”

  “You will wait until the Midsummer’s Eve,” Malcolm predicted with confidence. “Like a hound awaiting scraps from the board, you will see what you can claim when I pay your debt.”

  “This hall you build could scarce be called scraps!” Rafael turned upon him with disgust. “That is a fine accusation to make of a man who saved your sorry hide…”

  “I know you, Rafael,” Malcolm said, interrupting him. “You will remain until Midsummer’s Eve, and if it is possible, you will defend my life and my soul.” He shook his head. “If it is not possible, and it will not be, you will claim whatsoever remains in my treasury, as your spoils of war, and head south.”

  Rafael appeared to consider the merit of denying this, then his smile flashed in concession. “It does appear that you know me well,” he said and Malcolm shook his head. “But even though you believe it to be futile, I will defend you to my last.”

  “And so you should, for it is you who both saved me years past and condemned me on the night of our arrival here.”

  Rafael sobered. “You did not need to offer yourself in exchange for me.”

  Malcolm fixed his companion with a hard look. “I owed you.” He lifted a brow. “Tell me you would not have done the same.”

  Again, Rafael smiled. “I hope I would have, but we know otherwise. Yours was an honorable choice.”

  “And they say there is no honor amongst thieves.”

  “We are not thieves, Malcolm,” Rafael said, his brow darkening. “Every coin in our possession was earned with blood.”

  “And now its price will be paid in blood,” Malcolm concluded, draining his cup. For that was the sorry truth of it. He would keep his word. He had no choice. And one of Alexander’s sons would step into a fine legacy.

  It should have consoled Malcolm that Ravensmuir was rebuilt, but he was not truly surprised that it did not.

  * * *

  Hamish Sewell was footsore by the time he reached Ravensmuir. Never mind that his belly was empty and his mouth so dry he might have been a hound returned from the hunt. Only Catriona would travel with those so fine as to ride horses, and she would do it to vex his pursuit—whether she had any notion of his presence or not. He had finally tracked her to Blackleith, only to learn that the laird, his lady and household had ridden south. There had been no sign of Catriona at Blackleith, so Hamish had guessed.

  It was her nature to flee.

  He had stolen a nag, which had served him poorly enough and finally thrown him that morn. He had left it behind, continuing on foot, and had never been so tired in all his days and nights. The prize would be worth it, though. Catriona had been a thorn in his side since her birth, and he would be gladdened to see her debt to him finally paid.

  She had cheated him, and he would see it made right.

  Hamish would have liked to have remained in the home he knew, to have had Catriona serve him as Aileen before her had served him. That situation had not lasted after Aileen’s death, as if she would vex him by dying before he did. Was it not writ that a woman should be her husband’s helpmate? But Aileen had died and left him with no woman to see his needs met. Catriona had cooked his soup and cleaned the simple hut, but she had not satisfied his other needs.

  He would never have suffered her to remain, but she had stolen from him and he meant to retrieve his rightful property. It was owed to him, that gem, whether she called it her legacy or not.

  He had tried to break Catriona a thousand times over the years, but the girl was wrought of ice. From the time she was small, when he raised his hand, she simply stared back at him. She was as defiant and cold as a wolf, no matter what he did to her. She neither wept nor begged for mercy, but accepted what he decreed to be her due.

  She had a heart of ice, to be sure.

  Indeed, her manner stole the satisfaction that could be gained from such exchanges.

  It cheated him in yet another way.

  This time, though, Hamish did not care if he had to follow Catriona to the ends of the earth to receive his due.

  He stumbled into the encampment of tents around this keep on the cliffs, hoping with all his heart that he had followed her course true. It was too dark and too late to travel any farther.

  “Aye? Who goes there?” demanded a gruff and burly man, who stepped forward with a hand on the hilt of his blade.


  “An honest man,” Hamish lied. “In search of honest labor, a meal and a place to sleep.”

  The man leaned closer to peer at him, then tugged Hamish into the light spilling from his tent. “You do not look so hale, my friend.”

  “I am stronger than I appear.” Hamish grinned. “Cursed stubborn, my wife used to say.”

  The man smiled a little in return. “There is labor aplenty here at Ravensmuir, but only for two more days.”

  “How so?”

  “We build a keep with undue haste for a laird with a fat purse and a will of iron,” the man confided. “He would send us on our way on Saturday, for he will be alone in his new keep on Midsummer’s Eve. ’Tis a whim but a well paid one. I should be so fortunate once in my days to be able to afford such a whim.”

  “Midsummer’s Eve is less than a week away.”

  “That it is, my friend, that it is. I will not jest with you. We labor from dawn to dusk, and oft beyond, but will be paid on Saturday. If you have the resolve, we welcome all hands at this point, for there is much yet to be done.”

  Two days. Hamish seldom worked, but he believed he could survive the ordeal for two mere days. Especially if it saw his ambition met and some coin to his name for a change.

  “Aye, I would be glad of the labor.” Hamish let the man gesture him into the tent, his gaze falling immediately on the steaming pot of stew. Rabbit, he would wager, the rich scent making his belly growl. “Perhaps the laird plans a celebration for Midsummer’s Eve.”

  “I wager he does, for his kin have already begun to arrive.”

  “His kin?”

  “Laird and Lady of Blackleith arrived this very day, with their children and household, and remain in the hall this night.” The man gestured. “There has been singing and more merriment than we tend to hear from our patron.”

  Singing. Hamish smiled with such satisfaction that the other man’s glance lit with suspicion.

  “How fortunate a man he must be, this laird, to have the resource for a fine keep and his own family so close at hand.” Hamish pounded his fist on his chest. “It does a heart good to know that Dame Fortune can smile upon us, if she so chooses.”

  “Indeed. Have you a name?”

  “Hamish. No more than that.” When he was handed a bowl of the stew, Hamish feared he would slobber like a hound, so great was his hunger, but he managed to sit and eat it at a leisurely speed.

  Catriona was here.

  In this very hall.

  Not a hundred steps away.

  And the bastard had to be coming due. There would be some advantage Hamish could exploit, there had to be, and by Midsummer, he would have what he so richly—and had for so long—deserved.

  * * *

  As fascinating as the Laird of Ravensmuir was, Catriona forgot his mysteries and secrets for a moment when the Lady Vivienne drew her aside. In the corner of the solar, with a furtive glance at the children, the lady lifted the hem of her chemise so only Catriona could see.

  There was a smear of blood on her pale thighs. “I am certain it is naught,” the lady said, in a tone that indicated she feared otherwise.

  A cold hand might have clenched Catriona’s innards. She strove to reassure her lady. “It is not so much, my lady,” she insisted. “No doubt, you have simply done too much this day and have need of rest.”

  The lady grimaced. “Just as Malcolm and Erik suggested. Oh, I do not wish to hear Erik when he learns that he was right.”

  Catriona urged her lady to the pallet closest to the brazier. “I’m sure it will be fine, my lady. You have only to rest this night and all will be well on the morrow.”

  “Do you think so, Catriona?”

  “My mother was a midwife, my lady, and I saw much by her side.”

  “Truly? Why did you never confess this before?” Vivienne smiled a little. “I knew only that you had some skill with herbs, for Ruari complained far less of his aching knee this winter thanks to your salve.”

  Catriona shrugged, knowing she had deliberately revealed as little as possible about her past. “I did not think it of import, my lady,” she demurred, then spoke briskly. “I will make you a posset to ensure that you sleep, for that is the best choice now.” She always carried some herbs suited to ease women’s ailments, although at this time, she had thought that she might need them herself. She gave her lady a cloth to clean herself and reached for her satchel.

  The lady seized her hand. “Promise me, Catriona, that you will say naught to my lord husband.”

  “But…”

  “If all goes awry, that will be one thing, but if you are right and this is naught, he has no need to know of it.” Lady Vivienne’s voice dropped to an entreaty. “Spare him this worry and pledge it, Catriona. Pledge to me now!”

  Catriona glanced at the girls, then smiled at them, for they had noted their mother’s urgent tones. William was already sound asleep.

  “I vow I shall tell him naught,” she whispered to her lady, knowing she would speak if the situation worsened. She then spoke to the girls. “Do any of you need a posset to sleep this night?” Catherine yawned mightily and curled up against her mother’s side, falling asleep so quickly that her reply was clear. Euphemia was also dozing, her mouth working as she dreamed of milk.

  “Nay, Catriona,” said Astrid, leaping on to the pallet beside her mother.

  “Nay, thank you, Catriona,” said Mairi. She seemed somehow aware of her mother’s state, for she slipped beneath the fur-lined cloaks to nestle against that lady with less than her usual boisterousness.

  “But I should love one, if you would be so kind,” the lady said, her weariness more clear as she tucked the cloak around them all and kissed their brows.

  “Then I shall make you one, my lady.” Catriona ensured the pallets were piled thick and the braziers were stoked. She shook a finger at Mairi and Astrid. “I expect you to be asleep when I return.”

  “Yes, Catriona,” they replied in unison.

  “I might well be asleep, as well,” the lady said with a yawn. “Perhaps you should not trouble yourself, Catriona.”

  “But I will.” She smiled for her lady. “For once made, the posset can be reheated on the brazier in the night, if needed. I think it wise to have one at hand on this night.”

  Catriona chose the herbs from her satchel, then considered how best to administer them. Wine was a poor choice, and water a worse one. Ale had its merits but milk would be best and goats had been brought from Kinfairlie. The children had drunk milk at the board, but perhaps some remained in the hall.

  Of course, the laird was in the hall, as well. Catriona refused to consider what he might decide she sought in leaving the solar. She told herself not to let her past compromise her service to her lady and that this was a time to be courageous. All the same, her heart pounded as she descended and she hoped that Laird Erik was yet at the board.

  Catriona paused at the base of the stairs when she heard her own name. The laird and his companion spoke so bluntly to each other that Laird Erik clearly was gone. She knew she should reveal herself immediately, but their words induced her to linger in the shadows a moment longer.

  Catriona had long been told that eavesdroppers hear no good of themselves, and it was small consolation to learn that saying was correct.

  * * *

  “The first woman to cross this threshold in half a year, and she is bursting with child.” Rafael sighed and drank heartily of his wine. “It is cursed poor fortune, to be sure. Never mind that she is as cold as a winter night in this forsaken country. A man could lose his prick to frostbite in sampling her.”

  The wine seemed to have loosened Rafael’s tongue even more than usual, though he had never been one to keep his opinions to himself.

  “You are vulgar beyond belief,” Malcolm muttered.

  Rafael eyed Malcolm. “Does she not remind you of another?”

  “Nay,” Malcolm said flatly. It was a lie, and he knew Rafael heard as much in his tone. “But the
n, all women look the same to you.”

  The other man scoffed. “’Tis more than that, and you know it.”

  “I see little resemblance.”

  “Ha!” Rafael laughed aloud. “But you do, else you would not know who I mean.”

  Malcolm granted his companion a dour look and sipped his wine. He would not speak of Ursula, much less of his failure to keep his pledge. Like Tam Lin, he knew his soul would pay the tithe: unlike Tam Lin, he believed that was because his sins had put his soul beyond redemption.

  Rafael had clearly imbibed sufficient wine to be fulsome. “Oh, the winsome beauty of Ursula. So soft and flushed, and beautiful, so oblivious to Franz’s true nature. Hair of gold and eyes of blue, like a veritable angel. You did not see how she watched you, Hellhound—” Malcolm winced at that title “—slyly through her lashes, like a hungry cat.”

  “She did not,” Malcolm protested, though he wondered if it were true. If so, his failure to save her was even more horrific.

  “You could have had her,” Rafael whispered. “She would have done any deed for you.”

  “She was with Franz!” Malcolm rose to pour himself another cup of wine.

  Rafael leaned back, his gaze falling to the ring Malcolm yet wore. “He believed the child was yours.”

  “Liar!” Malcolm’s voice rose as seldom it did. “She was his, and I do not take what is not my own.”

  “You could have this serving wench,” Rafael insisted. “Though she is haughty and cold, she watches you as intently as you watch her.”

  “That is because she fears men.” Malcolm gave his companion a dark look. “She trusts neither of us.”

  “And so she is wise in that.”

  “How so?”

  “A whore in the hall of a man with blood in his veins and a decided lack of female companionship is clever to be vigilant, lest she surrender her wares at too low a price.”

  “You are vulgar!”

  Rafael laughed, unrepentant. “Think of it: the Hellhound and the whore. Perhaps you would make a fine match.”

  “You cannot know that is her trade. She said she was abandoned.”

  “Are they all not abandoned when ripe?” Rafael accepted more wine himself. “She bears a child, but has no spouse or man. She spurns attentions now, only because she cannot supply what she might promise.” Rafael’s dark eyes glinted. “Tell me that it was coincidence she told this tale of a Fae knight courting his mortal lady and leaving her with child.” He rolled his eyes.