The Rose Red Bride JK2

by Claire Delacroix

  The ship was pulled out to sea, away from the rocks and into greater potential peril. Indeed, the sea and the wind threatened to tear it asunder, to cast the ship’s occupants into the fathomless black waters.

  Vivienne wondered whether her parents had endured such a storm before their ship had been sunk. Certainly, they must have known fear such as she felt now.

  But there was no one in whom she might share her fears on this night, let alone any soul who might offer her comfort. Erik folded himself into his cloak to sleep, as if oblivious to Vivienne’s very presence. Ruari hunkered down fast by Erik’s side and similarly buried himself in his cloak. The two men might have been alone together in some inn for all the attention they offered Vivienne, for all the concern they showed for the weather.

  Vivienne, meanwhile, sat awake, listened, and felt more alone than ever she had in all her days and nights.

  It was long indeed before Rosamunde retired to the hold, for the rudder demanded a stern hand that night.

  It was longer still before any soul noted that the silver ring of Darg’s desire graced Rosamunde’s finger no more.

  * * *

  The hour was late when the Laird of Ravensmuir climbed to his own chamber. Tynan had no taste for war, and less taste for war coming close to his young kin. He did not like to have mercenaries in his hall, even those in the employ of his nephew’s keep of Kinfairlie. He also did not like mercenaries fighting within his hall, even if they merely showed displeasure with a tale.

  At least, the storyteller had had the wits to make himself scarce and the hall had gradually quieted in his absence. Tynan would not rest himself until every last mercenary fell asleep. He had sat in the hall, sipping wine from the last keg that had been brought from Bordeaux, and had found himself regretting the loss of Rosamunde.

  It was no consolation to him that a storm had been rising, no less that it now beat against the stone walls. He and Rosamunde had loved most fervidly during storms, and as a result, he ached with mingled exhaustion and yearning as he climbed the stairs. He heard the wind whip at his pennant hung over Ravensmuir’s high towers, he heard the sea lash the shore.

  So potent was Rosamunde’s presence that night that Tynan could fairly see her. He easily envisioned the woman who had claimed his heart, a woman with red-gold hair and a bold smile, a woman with daring in her eyes, a woman he knew he would never see again. In his mind’s eyes, she kissed her fingertips in silent salute, as if bidding him farewell forevermore, then turned away, the dark cloth of her cloak spinning out behind her as she fled.

  He stepped into his chamber with a heavy heart. He set down his lantern, touched a piece of kindling to it and then to the wood stacked in the brazier.

  It was then, as the wood hissed and spat, that he smelled the exotic spice of Rosamunde’s perfume.

  Tynan started, then sniffed. The scent was not conjured from memory. It was real.

  Yet it was the dead of the night. Not a sound echoed from within his own keep, only the wind whistled between the stones carried to his ears. His chamber was cold, uncommonly cold. His heart thundered, as if he had heard some trespasser within the walls.

  There was a cold draft.

  The scent rode that chilly current of air. No common scent, that. It was the perfume that haunted his dreams and its summons had Tynan holding a lantern high, crossing the expanse of his chamber.

  The hidden door to the labyrinth beneath Ravensmuir hung open on the far side of his chamber. Tynan halted to stare, for he knew he had left it secured. The secret opening yawned wide and dark, the scent of the sea rising from its shadows. Wet footsteps stained the floor, and even though they dried, he knew the size and shape of that boot print well.

  Rosamunde had been here. He caught his breath at the tantalizing truth of it, though she was surely already gone. He had lingered below too long and inadvertently missed her.

  But Tynan had to know for certain. He was unable to decide whether he was more thrilled or irked by her presence. If nothing else, they would have a rousing argument in the caverns deep beneath Ravensmuir. He had granted six stallions from his own stables to ensure she never crossed his threshold again.

  But Rosamunde had returned.

  In the secret corners of his heart, the Laird of Ravensmuir was glad.

  Tynan gripped that lantern and stepped into the darkness. He shivered on the top step, as always he did, then descended with purpose into the hidden caverns. There was a veritable labyrinth beneath his ancestral estate, a labyrinth that had once held a fearsome treasury of religious relics and treasures. The most precious had been auctioned, for Tynan had no desire to continue what had once been his family trade, and he had thought the rest unworthy of attention.

  It soon became clear that Rosamunde believed otherwise. Tynan halted and held his lantern high to examine a small chamber. It was empty, and he knew that it had contained at least one ancient crate when last he had come this way.

  Tynan hurried down the stairs, his footsteps falling more and more quickly as he discovered more empty chambers. The caverns beneath his keep had been pillaged while his gaze had been turned away.

  Tynan reached the largest cavern and halted, aghast. Here there had been a number of crates, their contents unknown and untroubled. They had not been of an appearance to tempt a second look, for they had been old and broken, their wood stained from water and mold. It had been easy to believe Rosamunde’s assertion that they were empty or nearly thus, that it was not worth the trouble to be rid of them.

  Tynan supposed he should have been more vigorous in ensuring that they were checked, that they contained nothing of value, but Rosamunde - who knew these chambers better than he - had dismissed their contents as worthless rubble.

  He had trusted her, and he had been deceived.

  He had been robbed.

  He had been a fool.

  Tynan cursed and kicked a stone. His yearning was replaced by anger. The stone clattered against the wall, then fell through a doorway. He heard it bounce down another staircase, then land with a splash.

  If there had been value here, he could have used it to secure Ravensmuir’s future in these dark times.

  Now it was gone.

  Tynan cursed anew. Since the death of George, the earl of March, the year before, many blades had been raised to challenge the regional authority of Archibald Douglas. The death of Tynan’s half-brother Roland had not been timely, for it had left his inexperienced nephew Alexander as Laird of Kinfairlie just when their family lands had faced their greatest challenge.

  Tynan had expended much coin and effort in keeping war from the gates of both Ravensmuir and Kinfairlie, hoping that they might ride out the storm until stability reigned anew.

  But stability had proven elusive and the army in his employ - the one that kept marauding forces from Douglas, Dunbar and Abernethy from his portcullis - had proven expensive. To his shame, Tynan found himself wishing for the lost revenue of relics, even of relics of dubious provenance.

  His treasury was nigh bare and Rosamunde had taken the last chance of replenishing it. Even if she had known that Ravensmuir itself hung in the balance, Tynan doubted that she would have cared. She had always mocked his affection for what she called an old pile of stones, had accused him at the end of caring more for Ravensmuir than for her.

  But Ravensmuir was his legacy and his responsibility, the repository of his family’s heritage. The holding was something he had been taught to value.

  He had sacrificed everything to that responsibility, and for naught. The treaty that rested unsigned in his treasury, the treaty that made his very blood boil, made a mockery of his sacrifice. It would cost him the remainder of all he held dear.

  Tynan had been a thorn in the side of Archibald Douglas too many a time for that man to have any inclination to offer palatable terms. By the treaty’s terms, Ravensmuir would be left standing, but the lairdship would be stripped of authority. When Tynan had protested the terms, Douglas had made them
worse.

  The lairdship would continue if and only if Tynan got a son upon the Douglas bride to be chosen for him.

  But Tynan had made his nephew Malcolm his legal heir to secure Ravensmuir’s succession. For Ravensmuir, he had been prepared to wed a Douglas bride, but he was not prepared to deny his nephew’s legacy for any price. He had surrendered Rosemunde for no gain.

  He cursed his own folly and pivoted, marching back to his chamber. He could have used even the smallest measure of coin to mitigate the terms of this agreement, but thanks to Rosamunde, it was gone.

  The caverns were silent, the source of the beguiling perfume fading with every moment. Tynan climbed the stairs back to his chamber. He closed the secret portal in his room, leaning back against it as he considered the fire in the brazier, the comfort of this chamber.

  It was then that Tynan spied what he had missed earlier. Within the sanctuary of his curtained bed, something glimmered. It looked like a star, spinning captive within the shadows of the bed, but it could be no star.

  Suspicious beyond all, Tynan stepped closer. He lifted his lantern higher and the object sparkled, as if tempting him onward. It was silver, it was round, it glimmered against the indigo silk.

  It was a ring.

  But not just any ring. It was the ring he had given to Rosamunde. It was the ring Tynan’s father had put upon his mother’s hand, the ring Merlyn had granted to Ysabella as a sign of his protection.

  There could not be two rings such as this in existence. It was silver, large enough to fill a woman’s knuckle. It was graced with three stars and three names, the names of the three kings who had visited the babe Jesus in Bethlehem.

  Rosamunde had worn it on her left index finger.

  It was the sole gift Tynan had ever given to her. There had been precious little he could offer to a woman who roamed the seas and claimed the most elegant goods for herself, but he had given her this and he had believed that she had realized the import of his gesture.

  Perhaps she had understood, for she had taken no small risk to return it to him thus, to spurn him thus.

  Tynan swallowed and reached out to take the ring, letting its considerable weight settle into his palm. He fancied that it was still warm, though that was impossible. Only when he held it did he see that it hung suspended from a single long red-gold hair.

  He stood, heart seared. Rosamunde had given back the only gift that he had granted her and in exchange had taken the legacy from the caverns that he had forbidden her to claim. In so doing, she ensured the end of Ravensmuir.

  How dare she?

  What else had she dared?

  Tynan’s fist closed tightly around the cold silver of the ring as fury erupted within him and he snapped the hair loose of its mooring. He stormed back down the stairs to his dungeon on a suspicion and found his suspicion proven aright.

  His prisoner, Erik Sinclair, was gone. Tynan would have wagered that his niece Vivienne was also gone, for Rosamunde could not have lost her ability to make trouble so readily as that. He ground his teeth in frustration. This was beyond revenge, this was beyond retaliation for his harsh words.

  This was a taunt that could not pass unchallenged.

  Tynan returned the ring the smallest finger of his left hand, where it had ridden for years until he had granted it to Rosamunde, feeling more alive than he had in weeks.

  For all was not yet resolved between himself and Rosamunde. So long as she had the relics, there was a chance that he might retrieve them from her.

  Tynan fairly walked into Elizabeth, so unexpected was her presence on the stairs. The maiden halted at the sight of him, flushed, and pivoted to run to the women’s chambers.

  “Halt!” Tynan roared in a tone that brooked no disobedience. Elizabeth stopped, her expression wary. Tynan beckoned her with a single finger. “You will tell me what has happened in the labyrinth this night.” She opened her mouth to protest, but Tynan shook his head. “Do not deny that you know of it. You are afoot too late to be in ignorance of Rosamunde’s visit.”

  An increasingly familiar defiance lit the eye of Tynan’s youngest and favored niece. “Darg is missing. I have to find her first.”

  “The spriggan can see to her own welfare for the moment, as she has done for several hundred years.” Tynan glared at Elizabeth, knowing the power of his glance. “You, however, will come immediately with me and tell me all that you know.”

  He turned and strode to the chamber he used to manage Ravensmuir’s affairs, knowing full well that his niece would follow. He heard Elizabeth’s sigh of annoyance, then halted suddenly when she called after him.

  “I will not tell you about Rosamunde,” she said.

  Tynan pivoted to find his niece looking stubborn. “Whyever not?”

  “Because you have been cruel to her, and she has always been kind,” Elizabeth said with the blunt manner that was becoming characteristic. “She loves you and you said too much in anger. I do not blame her for vexing you, for she is due an apology.”

  With that declaration and a toss of her hair, Elizabeth strode into the women’s chambers and shut the door fast behind herself.

  She had never before defied him.

  Tynan stared at the portal in shock as the tumblers fell and a door in his own abode was locked against him by a maiden who had seen only twelve summers.

  Worse, he knew that Elizabeth was right.

  * * *

  Chapter Thirteen

  Vivienne was still awake when Rosamunde climbed down into the hold, a fact which the older woman noted immediately. She beckoned to Vivienne, coaxing her up onto the deck.

  To Vivienne’s surprise, it was morning. She had lost track of the passage of time in the darkened hold. The sky was still overcast, though the clouds had the smooth patina of a pewter platter, and the wind was light. There was a promise of rain, but for the moment there was none. The sea still churned, though she could not see the silhouette of land in any direction.

  Rosamunde must have sensed her distress at that. “It is safer to be away from the rocks and shoals of an unfamiliar shore during a storm,” she said in a consoling tone, then smiled ruefully. Vivienne could see shadows beneath her aunt’s eyes, which were no surprise given the night they had experienced, though the faint lines of age on Rosamunde’s face revealed in this light shocked Vivienne.

  Rosamunde had always seemed so young and vital, though now Vivienne realized that her aunt must be some thirty summers her senior. Age seemed to have settled suddenly upon Rosamunde’s features.

  Rosamunde smiled ruefully. “Though I did not expect to be blown quite this far out to sea.”

  “Where are we?”

  “I am not entirely certain,” Rosamunde said, more untroubled than Vivienne could possibly be. “The North Sea is vast. We can chart a course after seeing the stars this night.”

  Vivienne cast a glance at the clouds above. “What if they are obscured?”

  “Then we shall wait until we can see them.” Rosamunde granted Vivienne a keen glance. “You do understand that it is better to be far from the shore, do you not?”

  “I suppose there is sense in that.”

  Rosamunde slipped an arm around Vivienne’s shoulders. “You must have been thinking of your parents last night, and their unfortunate demise. Recognize that I know the seas better than most who ply their trade upon them. I have survived a thousand storms, many far worse than what we endured last night, and I will survive a thousand more.” The gleam of determination in Rosamunde’s eyes persuaded Vivienne of the truth of that, as little else might have done.

  She stood at the rail beside her aunt, soothed despite herself by the rhythm of the sea’s undulation. She was exhausted in truth, perhaps more so than Rosamunde might have been.

  “I had thought I might find you abed with Tynan’s prisoner,” Rosamunde mused finally.

  Vivienne shrugged. “As perhaps, did I.” She did not precisely know why Erik had spurned her. Vivienne suspected that there was a d
eeper root to his rejection than exhaustion, that he still did not trust her, and that given his choice, he would have left her at Ravensmuir.

  So dejected was she by that possibility that she wondered whether her quest was doomed to failure. She had already promised her all to him, she had told him the truth, but apparently to no avail. The man had too many secrets for her to be certain.

  On impulse, she pulled Erik’s dagger from her belt and offered it to Rosamunde. “What can you tell me of this blade? It has an inscription upon it.”

  Rosamunde took the dagger and turned it in her hands, studying the hilt with care before she pulled the blade from the scabbard. The stone in the hilt seemed to command most of her interest, and she turned it in the light with apparent fascination.

  “It is his?” she asked, though her tone indicated that she had concluded as much.

  “A family heirloom.”

  “Of course.” Rosamunde indicated the gem. “This is an old sapphire, for it has been cut with a remarkable ingenuity that could not be copied in our times. Did you note the inscription?”

  “ABRAXAS?”

  Rosamunde nodded. “Said to be the name of God, though there are many such names, most notably JHVH for Jehovah. This is a Greek word, claimed to be a charm for protection by many.” She glanced up. “The Greek letters that compose the word ABRAXAS have a sum of 365, which is said to be a mark of the potency of the word.”

  “That is the number of days in a year,” Vivienne said, thinking of her handfast.

  Rosamunde nodded again. “And the number of eons in God’s creation, the number of ranks of angels, the number of bones said to be in the human body.” She smiled. “It is said to be a strong number, represented time and again in the world shaped by God’s hands.” She shrugged. “Or it might merely be a number.” She tapped the stone again. “This gem was carved at least a thousand years ago, and has been reset time and again for its value.”

  “Then it is older than the blade?”

  “Of course. His family has had some wealth in their time, if they could afford to not only hold such a gem but to keep it.” Rosamunde smiled as she watched the light play in the gem. “But then, a sapphire is rumored to be a noble gem, suitable for kings and queens, one that can reputedly break the stoutest iron fetters.”