“And I have wits to know that you do not truly desire them.” Vivienne took the girls by their hands, and they looked up at her. Their cautious optimism fairly broke her heart, for they had been poorly served by recent events. She smiled for each in turn and squeezed their hands, encouraged when they returned that squeeze. “It is my hope to return them to their rightful father.”
“But he is dead, is he not, Henry? Beatrice said her first husband was dead, I am certain of it.”
“Then she lied to you, for he was not dead just yesterday.”
“The pin,” Mairi said, a glow in her voice. She stretched to her toes and Vivienne bent so that the little girl could brush the silver pin with her fingertips. “I remember the pin.”
“Yes, your father gave me his pin. Should Fortune smile upon us, we shall shortly see it back in his hands again.”
“But you cannot do this,” Arabella protested. “You cannot simply decree what shall be. You are merely a maid, albeit once recently come to my service. You should heed me!”
Vivienne stood straight and tall. “I am a noblewoman with as many rights as you hold. My name is Vivienne Lammergeier. If you have cause for complaint with my deeds, you are welcome to bring your plea to the court of my brother, Laird of Kinfairlie. Be warned, however, that he will see justice served.”
With that, Vivienne gathered her cloak and led Erik’s daughters into the first glimmer of morning’s sunlight. She turned their steps toward Blackleith, not caring how long it took her to walk that far.
To make the distance pass more quickly, she began to tell the girls the tale of Thomas the Rhymer.
Thomas had barely met his fairy queen before they heard hoof beats on the road behind them. Vivienne paused, uncertain who might ride before them, and then heard horses racing toward them from ahead as well.
She stood in the middle of the road, her hair unfurled, her boots wet, Erik’s pin upon her cloak, and his daughters holding fast to her hand. She saw the distinctive black hue of Ravensmuir’s stallions before she recognized her brother Alexander’s colors, before she saw her brother Malcolm fast by his side. Elizabeth rode another stallion, a trio of trusted men from Ravensmuir riding the last three. The black stallions fairly breathed fire as they raced down the road, their coats gleaming in the morning light.
Vivienne blinked back tears of joy at the sight of them. “It is my brother come to ensure my welfare,” she said to the girls. “We nothing to fear.” Then she pivoted and knew she had spoken no less than the truth, for Erik Sinclair rode towards her on a chestnut destrier. Ruari Macleod was fast behind him, but Vivienne had eyes only for Erik.
Erik dismounted with a leap and ran the last increment toward her. Mairi shouted in recognition and he lifted her high, then swung her around while she laughed. Astrid was more cautious, her memory shorter, though she reached out and tugged at the ends of his hair.
Then he stood, his children at his knee, his eyes shining a brilliant sapphire. “I have reclaimed suzerainty of Blackleith,” he said, evidently aware of Alexander’s gaze fixed upon him. “And my wife Beatrice is dead. I have little to offer, Vivienne, for my abode is more humble than what you have known, but I love you with all the vigor of my heart.” He stretched his hands out to her even as her heart soared. “Will you wed me in truth, Vivienne Lammergeier?”
There was such a lump in Vivienne’s throat that she could not summon a word in reply. She shook her head in wonderment, her tears falling at the movement, and saw Erik’s dismay. “I will,” she said huskily. “I will, with pleasure.”
And he laughed and caught her fast in his arms, kissing her with such ardor that she did not care who witnessed their embrace.
For against all odds, against even her own expectation, Vivienne’s quest had led her precisely to where she most desired to be.
* * *
It proved that Alexander and Malcolm had left Ravensmuir in pursuit of Erik and Vivienne on the morning after the trio’s escape. Tynan had declined to accompany the party, suggesting that it was time Malcolm assumed such responsibilities. Elizabeth had come in pursuit of Darg, as she was the only one who could see the fairy, and she was disappointed to announce that the spriggan was not in their company.
Erik had already guessed as much.
The group from Kinfairlie had lingered at the abode of the Earl of Sutherland, certain that Vivienne and Erik must pass that way or arrive there eventually. Alexander had also brought back the steeds that the Earl had lent to Erik and Ruari, which relieved Erik mightily. They all returned there, once reunited.
The Earl, it proved, was well pleased with Erik’s return, for he had numerous concerns about Blackleith’s administration. A party was dispatched to retrieve the bodies of Nicholas and Beatrice, to see them honorably buried, and to loose the two maids. Those women were delighted to have escaped the household of Henry and Arabella, and were quick to offer to serve at Blackleith.
And to the delight of all - and the particular approval of Alexander, Laird of Kinfairlie - the Earl of Sutherland saw fit to have Erik and Vivienne wed in his own chapel. The banns were waived by the priest and Erik overheard the Earl telling Vivienne that a son would be a welcome addition indeed.
* * *
On the morning after the celebration of his second nuptial vows, Erik Sinclair arose early. He sat for a long moment and watched the first sunlight caress Vivienne’s cheek, smiling at how deeply she slept.
They had loved long into the night before and he resolved to let her slumber late if she so desired. They need make no haste back to Blackleith.
He left their chamber, well-content, and checked upon his daughters. They slept curled together, Astrid still sucking her thumb. Mairi’s eyes opened as he watched them and she lifted her hands to him, as she had when she had been tiny. Erik picked her up, caring naught for her weight, and tucked her against his hip. She laid her head upon his shoulder, as trustingly as if he had never been gone, and the sweet smell of her nigh rent Erik’s heart in two.
He broke his fast at the Earl’s board, Mairi on his knee. There were few awake so early, and those who sat beside him said little. He accepted a few belated congratulations and shook the hands of a few men, both familiar and unknown to him.
Mairi was quick to steal his comb of honey, mischief dancing in her eyes at her own success, and Erik was content to let her have it.
When he rose from the board, the Earl’s cook came to his side. “The Earl has said as I should offer you some food, sir, both for your journey home to Blackleith and a wee bit for the winter ahead.”
Erik nodded, pleased to accept. “I have no inkling of the inventories we will find there, so your offer is most welcome.”
The plump cook beamed and flicked a finger beneath Mairi’s chin. “Winter will be at our doors soon enough, sir, and the bairns have need of a hot meal each day.”
“I can aid you,” Erik offered but the cook shook her head.
“I shall have it brought to you, sir, though you shall have to find a way to carry it. I have not a sack in this house that can be spared.”
“My saddlebags have little of merit in them. I will clean them out.”
The cook nodded and bustled away. Erik collected his saddlebags and sat in the corner of the hall. Mairi hunkered down beside him, examining each item that he removed, then waiting expectantly for the next.
The bag Ruari had taken on the ship had little enough in it, but the other, which had arrived with Fafnir, was still heavy. There were several wrinkled apples within it as well as a chunk of bread hard enough to be used as a weapon. The grappling hook was still there and might be of use in future. The ale in the leather bottle did not have a smell that invited a man to partake of it.
“What is this?” Mairi demanded, wrinkling her nose at the smell of some bundle. She turned it impatiently in her small hands, so persuaded was she that Erik must have brought her some treasure or trinket.
He wished he had done so but knew he had naught that
might intrigue her.
Erik echoed her expression, hoping to make her smile at least. “Very old cheese, perhaps more aged than you.”
“It smells.”
“Indeed it does. I doubt that even the Earl’s hounds will eat it,” Erik said and she laughed. She scampered across the hall then, unfurling the piece of cheese as she went, and presented it to one of the Earl’s hounds. That dog sniffed it but once, then glanced away with disdain.
Mairi returned undaunted and gave the piece of cheese back to Erik, who had no desire for it but accepted it anyway. “He does not like it,” she said. She dug in the bag and pulled out the second of the two chemises the Earl had granted to him. They wrinkled their noses in unison when she shook out the garment.
“We shall never get the smell of cheese out of that!” Erik said and Mairi cast it aside.
“Whose is it?”
“It was mine. The Earl lent it to me.”
“Shall I give it back to him?”
“I think not,” Erik said and they shared a smile. “Let him think it lost.”
“It will be our secret,” his eldest daughter informed him solemnly, unaware of how precious such secrets were to her father. She turned her attention back to the bag, but found little more of interest.
Indeed, everything in the bag was redolent of old cheese. Erik left it open for the moment, hoping the smell would diminish before the cook brought the food for him.
“But what of this one?” Mairi demanded, having turned her attention to the first bag.
“There is naught left in there,” Erik said, and fanned the flap of the redolent saddlebag optimistically. It appeared to make no difference in the smell.
“Of course there is,” Mairi insisted, then held out her hand. “What is this?” Something smooth and red gleamed against her palm, its resemblance to a drop of blood nigh stopping Erik’s heart in fear.
But it was not blood. It was a gleaming droplet, to be sure, and one as red as fresh blood. But it was hard, like a jewel, and as cold as ice.
“What is it?” Mairi asked again when Erik turned it in his hands.
“It looks like a gem,” he said. “Though I have never seen it before.”
“Perhaps it was given to you while you were not looking,” Mairi suggested, eyes alight. “Perhaps someone hid it in your bag so that you could give it to me.” She smiled then, fully persuaded of her notion.
And Erik had an idea then of what his daughter had found. The gem was cold, after all, and of a red red hue. He closed his hand over it while he thought and when he opened his hand to consider it again, the drop had grown.
It looked now like the bud of a flower, and Erik smiled. The fairy Darg must have granted him a boon in exchange for saving her life in the cavern, for she alone could have given him the red red rose wrought of ice that he needed to grant his new wife her every desire.
“What is it? I think you know,” Mairi accused with childish conviction.
Erik smiled. “I think I do.” He picked up his daughter, holding the fairy gem fast in his hand. “Let us get Astrid, and go to Vivienne, and she will tell us a tale.”
“Is it the tale about Thomas the Rhymer?”
Erik smiled, for his daughters already pestered Vivienne to recount that tale again and again. “Nay, not that one.”
“Is it a tale about the red drop?”
“It is that and more.” He tapped Mairi’s nose with a fingertip. “And if you are very good and listen very intently, it may well be that this magic stone - for that is what it is - will do something very special.”
“As a gift for me?”
“As a gift for all of us, and a reminder that there is much we cannot see or explain.”
In moments, they were all together in the chamber he and Vivienne had shared, the girls tucked into Vivienne’s fur-lined cloak and their expressions expectant. Erik laid the gem upon the floor before them and pulled all three of them into his embrace. Vivienne laid her head upon his shoulder, her smile telling him that she too had guessed the import of the gem.
“Once upon a time, there was a distant keep known as Kinfairlie,” she began. “And that keep was burned to the ground. It was rebuilt by the Laird of Ravensmuir, a tall and handsome man whose wife was the sole surviving descendant of Kinfairlie, and he had her legacy rebuilt, it is said, merely to see her smile.”
“A nice man,” Mairi said, nestling deeper into the cloak.
“A kindly man indeed,” Vivienne agreed, sharing a smile with Erik. He watched his daughters, knowing that Vivienne already held them in thrall with her tales, and knowing that they would come to think of her as their true mother in little time. He leaned back and watched the red gem, which had already begun to sprout another petal.
“Kinfairlie had a castellan to mind its halls and storerooms while the laird and lady were not there, a castellan who held the keys to every door in the keep,” Vivienne continued. “And that castellan had both a wife and a daughter, a beautiful daughter, a daughter who loved to play in the castle. As it was newly built and it was assumed that she could find no trouble within its walls - and truly, it must be said, because she had more than a measure of persuasive charm - she was allowed to go wheresoever she would within Kinfairlie’s walls.”
The red gem already had a greater resemblance to a bud, though the bud was yet small. Erik saw that his daughters’ eyes were closing, that Vivienne concentrated on the telling of her tale, and he savored the promise of their surprise.
The gem fattened, as a bud will before it opens.
“But what the castellan and his wife did not know was that there was an old tale about Kinfairlie, a rumor that Kinfairlie was a portal between the realms of fairy and that of men,” Vivienne said and both girls opened their eyes at that to regard her with awe. “Further, it had been known to happen that a fairy suitor spied a mortal lass through that portal and lost his heart utterly with a single glance. It was said in the village that such fairy men courted their mortal sweethearts for three nights, then captured them forevermore, leaving a bride price of a single red red rose wrought of ice.”
* * *
So they passed a good portion of the morning, the sunlight playing upon the hair of Erik’s wife and his daughters, Vivienne’s tale holding them ensnared within a cocoon of myth.
And when the last word of the tale had crossed Vivienne’s lips, Erik indicated the gem with a single gesture. He savored the wonderment of his three companions, for they had been so enthralled with the tale that they had not noted its transformation.
The gem had become a red red rose, one so cold that it might have been wrought of ice, and when Vivienne lifted it in marvel, Erik saw the glimmering puddle it left upon the floor.
“You brought me this,” Vivienne said, her smile all the thanks that he could ever need.
“Your bride price,” Erik said, his words uncommonly hoarse. “Though I am no fairy suitor, and I would offer you more than three nights of courtship.”
Vivienne laughed. “The rose tells no lie, all the same. We are destined lovers...”
“And our paths entwined forevermore,” Erik agreed, just before he claimed Vivienne’s lips with a kiss.
For that was a good portent indeed.
* * *
Ready for more of the Jewels of Kinfairlie?
Read on for a taste of
THE SNOW WHITE BRIDE,
the third book in
the Jewels of Kinfairlie trilogy.
* * *
Excerpt of THE SNOW WHITE BRIDE ©2005, 2011 Claire Delacroix, Inc.
Kinfairlie, Scotland - December 24, 1421
The snow was falling fast and thick, the starless sky was darker than indigo, and it was well past midnight when Eleanor knew that she could flee no further. The small village that rose before her seemed heaven-sent: it was devoid of tall walls and barred gates. She did not believe that it truly could be this peaceful anywhere in Christendom, but the town’s tranquility was seductive all the s
ame.
She did not know its name and she did not care. She spied the church and decided immediately that this sleeping town, with its quiet surety that the world was good, would be the place she chose to rest.
The night would not last much longer, for darkness already gave way to dawn’s light. Eleanor did not know where she would go from here, but knew she could make no decision when she was so exhausted.
The church portal was unlocked, and Eleanor sighed with relief as one last fear was proven groundless. She stepped into its embracing shadows and let the door close heavily behind her. She waited, half-expecting the illusion of tranquility to be shattered, but only silence reached her ears. She stood on the threshold and inhaled deeply of the scent of beeswax candles, the air of prayer and devotion, the aura of a holy place.
Sanctuary.
There was a single small glass pane over the altar, and the light cast by the snow illuminated it and the chapel’s bare interior. It was a humble church, to be sure, for she could see its emptiness even in the shadows. The altar was devoid of chalice and monstrance, evidence that even this community believed that treasures should be locked away.
Eleanor spied the bench near the altar, perhaps one used by the priest, and eased herself onto it. She sat down and stopped running for the first time in what seemed an eternity.
Then she listened, fearing the worst.
There was no sound at all beyond the pounding of her heart. No hoof beats echoed in pursuit. No hounds bayed as they found her scent. No men shouted that they had spied her footprints.
The rapidly falling snow might prove a blessing, for it would quickly hide her path and disguise her scent. She sat, intending to wait the necessary interval until she knew that she was safe.
Eleanor felt every ache in her exhausted body, and she realized only now how cold she had become. She could not feel her fingertips, so she crossed her arms and pressed her hands into her underarms. She supposed that her belly must be empty, but she was too numb to be certain. She had a keen thirst, to be sure.
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