“You tremble,” he murmured
“There is no reason, Glenys. Can you think I would ever bring you harm?”
“Nay,” she said weakly, hearing how badly her voice shook, “but I am not…I have no…skills or…knowledge. I know nothing.”
“And I know everything,” he said softly, rubbing his thumb lightly across her lips. “We are not well matched. I vow I wish I could be as you are again, but ’tis impossible.” He lifted his other hand, sliding his fingertips slowly down the side of her neck. “Have you ever been kissed, Glenys?”
“N-nay,” she whispered, filled with both terror and anticipation.
He smiled. “Good. ’Tis most selfish of me, but I confess that I am glad to be the first.”
With his thumbs he carefully tilted her face upward, leaning toward her slowly…so slowly…until he was but a breath away….
Praise for Susan Spencer Paul’s previous work
The Captive Bride
“Like a sorceress Ms. Paul enchants her readers and carries them on a magical journey into the past.”
—Rendezvous
Beguiled
“A charming, sweet, emotionally satisfying read.”
—Romantic Times Magazine
The Bride Thief
“A thoroughly researched tale of passion and pageantry in the Middle Ages. THE BRIDE THIEF will steal your heart.”
—Bestselling author Susan Wiggs
#588 THE QUEST
Lyn Stone
#589 THE MAIL-ORDER BRIDES
Bronwyn Williams
#590 SARA AND THE ROGUE
DeLoras Scott
The Prisoner Bride
Susan Spencer Paul
Available from Harlequin Historicals and
SUSAN SPENCER PAUL
*The Bride’s Portion #266
*The Heiress Bride #301
*The Bride Thief #373
*Beguiled #408
*The Captive Bride #471
*The Stolen Bride #535
*The Prisoner Bride #587
Dedicated with love to my wonderful uncles
Richard Alton Walls
Who, even when I was very young, encouraged me to follow my dream of being a writer
Charles Yancy Walls
Whose support these many years has meant more than I can put into words
Alton Emmett McQueen
The true writer in our family, who taught me a great deal about my craft and saved me from making many embarrassing mistakes in my earliest books
And, finally, in memoriam, to Morris Neil McQueen
Whose letters still inspire me in so many ways, and whom I miss even more greatly with each passing day
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Prologue
London, May, 1440
“I’ll not kill the girl, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Nay, nay, of course not,” Sir Anton Lagasse assured his guest at once. “You misunderstand me completely. I love Glenys, and she loves me. I should never want any harm to befall her. I only want her taken and kept fully safe until her family agrees to let us marry.”
Sir Anton looked about nervously at the depraved assortment of villains filling the tavern, and prayed that he’d not have to remain much longer before his business was concluded. The Black Raven wasn’t the sort of place he normally visited. It was, however, a favorite haunt of thieves, whores, and murderers—all of whom could be found here and hired for a price. Withdrawing an expensive handkerchief from his tunic, he mopped his sweating brow before turning back to the man who sat opposite him at the table, a man who was as comfortable among these people as Sir Anton was uncomfortable.
“Against her will, you said,” his guest replied, setting his tankard aside with slow deliberation. “A woman who loves a man would willingly be secreted away in order to marry him. I can but wonder at how greatly this Glenys of yours cares for you if she must be taken by force and imprisoned until you come to fetch her.”
Sir Anton considered his companion with care. Kieran FitzAllen was well known as a man who could be trusted to complete unpleasant tasks for pay and afterward keep silent, but he was also known to be particular about the work he accepted. He was willing to steal, thieve, thwart intentions and fight like the very devil, but he refused to harm women. Though that was hardly to be wondered at. FitzAllen was a handsome knave, and women, young and old, married and unmarried, pure and impure, had an unfortunate tendency to throw themselves at him. He repaid such adoration with equal admiration, mainly of a physical nature, or so Sir Anton understood it. Kieran FitzAllen, it was rumored, had lain with more women in his twenty-nine years than most men could hope to merely meet in a lifetime. Nay, he would never harm a woman, not even for a fortune in gold. Sir Anton knew he must find the way to convince this man of his sincerity.
“Glenys’s family is what lies between us,” he told him, leaning forward, “and what keeps her from coming to me freely. ’Tis difficult for any who are not acquainted with the Seymours. She fears death if she tries to leave them.”
“Death?” Kieran FitzAllen regarded him with suspicion. “How so? You do not mean that they would kill the girl for wedding you?”
Sir Anton sighed and nodded. “’Tis what Glenys believes, no matter how I strive to reassure her. Her family has chosen another for her to wed, and will not even let her see or speak to me. But such is the measure of our love that she, in turn, has refused the marriage they have arranged.”
“This would seem a foolish course,” Kieran FitzAllen told him, taking up his tankard to drink from it once more, “since the family has turned your suit aside.”
“But you do not understand! They have only refused me because I have not yet come into my inheritance. But my uncle, the Duc d’Burdeux, is very ill, and not expected to live long. I have been called to Normandy to attend him until his death, and once he has gone to heaven and I have gained the title and lands, I am certain the Seymours will agree to let Glenys become my wife.”
“Then tell them what you have told me,” Kieran FitzAllen advised, “and ask them to wait. I do not see why you should want the girl kidnapped and held against her will if she has already refused the other suitor, and if you are but weeks from obtaining your goal.”
“But her family will force her to wed this other man,” Sir Anton insisted. “You cannot begin to know what they are like. Glenys is terrified of them, and I cannot make her understand that I can keep her safe, that they will not even know how to find her once you have taken her away.”
“If I take her,” Kieran FitzAllen corrected. He lifted a finger to summon one of the serving maids to refill his tankard. The girl, who with every other woman in the tavern had been staring at him without ceasing, rushed to fulfill his bidding. Her reward was a lazy smile and a pat on her ample behind, which nearly made the foolish girl drop the heavy pitcher she carried. Sir Anton felt slightly ill as he watched Kieran FitzAllen’s dealings with the maid. He would probably take the filthy, sluttish creature upstairs and tumble her the moment their business was completed. He looked to be the kind of man with just such lowly appetit
es.
“You have not yet explained why your beloved must be held against her will,” Kieran said once the girl had gone away and he had turned his attention back to Sir Anton. “If I tell her that you have sent me to take her away and keep her safe, she should become instantly agreeable—if all that you say is true.”
Sir Anton gaped at the man sitting across from him. “Do you accuse me of speaking falsely?” he demanded.
“Not in the least,” Kieran FitzAllen replied easily. “Do you accuse me of being a fool? For only a complete lackwit would accept such a tale without some manner of reasoning. Tell me plainly why you wish me to take this woman against her will.”
“I have told you already that she fears her family,” Sir Anton said, struggling to contain his anger at such insolence. “Even if you tell her that you have taken her at my command, she will never believe that she can be kept safe from them. But there is, I admit, another reason. Glenys is…I suppose you might say she is on a quest.”
Kieran FitzAllen looked amused. “A quest?”
“Aye,” Sir Anton said wearily, nodding. “Her family—the Seymour clan—is Welsh, and descended from a noble Celtic lineage. This is their greatest pride, and they yet cling to many of the old beliefs, strange and profane as that may be. The head of the family, Lord Aonghus Seymour, who is Glenys’s uncle, even claims to possess certain powers.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Mystical powers.”
Kieran FitzAllen seemed unimpressed by this. “And does he? Possess such powers?”
“Of course not!” Sir Anton replied, much flustered. “He’s half madman. The whole lot of them are—all of Glenys’s strange uncles and aunts. She’s the only sane member of the family, despite her insistence upon regaining the Greth Stone at all costs—even that of her own life.”
“Greth?” Kieran repeated. “’Tis the ancient word for grace, is it not?”
“Aye, and that is just what it means. The Stone of Grace. ’Tis a ring that has been in Glenys’s family for many generations, most beautiful, with a large, dark sapphire set in the midst. To see it, one would admire the ring’s beauty, but for all that ’tis merely a common family heirloom. I have seen many rings possessing far greater loveliness and value. But the Seymours will have it that the Greth Stone is blessed with great powers—more of their foolishness about all things mystical—and they crave its return to them. It was stolen some months ago by a man named Caswallan, and taken back to Wales. Glenys is determined to find this knave and have the ring again, but Caswallan has not been heard of since he took it. No one knows where he is, or what he has done with the ring. ’Tis a foolish quest she follows, and a dangerous one, but she is set upon it. And I,” Sir Anton added, sitting back in his chair, “am determined to keep her safe, even from this. But I confess…she will not like it.”
Kieran FitzAllen emptied his tankard for the third time that day and set it aside. Wiping his lips with his fingers, he said, “So. You desire that I steal Mistress Glenys and take her to…”
“A small keep that I hold in York. ’Tis an insignificant dwelling, uninhabited for many years now, but stout enough that you can surely keep her well and secure. And her family will never find her there.”
His guest gave a curt nod. “And you want me to keep her there—against all her protests and fears of her family and her desire to follow her quest—until…”
“Until I am able to come for her,” Sir Anton replied. “’Twill be no more than a few months—mayhap weeks, for I vow that my uncle is gravely ill. You will have enough gold to supply all your needs even for a year, if need be, and to keep Glenys in every comfort.” Looking about the tavern to see whether any watched what he did, he reached into an inner pocket in his tunic and pulled out a leather bag. “I have come ready to make part payment, you see. Fifty pieces of gold now, fifty pieces on the day you take Glenys, and a hundred when I come for her.”
He had expected Kieran FitzAllen—or any knave like him—to leap at the chance to earn so much gold, but the other man merely sat in his chair, looking at him thoughtfully.
“A year is a long time to hold an unwilling woman prisoner, regardless the payment. I am not yet certain ’tis even necessary. Her family must be odd, indeed, if they will not even wait a few weeks for your uncle to die so that you may be deemed suitable.”
“I’ve already told you they’re half-mad,” Sir Anton said with a growing sense of desperation. If this man wouldn’t accept the task of stealing Glenys, he’d have to find someone far less becoming. The thought of having to endure any more time in such places as this was truly distressing. “Even her brother, Sir Daman, is a vicious lunatic. He’s tried to kill me—twice—simply for meeting Glenys in secret…”
His guest leaned forward, fully attentive now.
“Sir Daman Seymour? He is your lover’s brother?”
“Aye. Do you know him?”
“Of a certainty, I do.” The smile on Kieran FitzAllen’s face slowly became feline. “So, ’tis his sister you want me to steal, eh? I believe I suddenly understand why you are loath to do it yourself. Daman will kill the man who dares such a thing. Or attempt to, anywise.” He laughed in a way that made Sir Anton shiver. “You should have mentioned his name before now,” Kieran told him, “and our business would have been concluded the more quickly.” Reaching out, he pulled the leather bag from Sir Anton’s trembling fingers. “I agree to do as you ask. And soon—within the week. My manservant, Jean-Marc, will let you know the day. Make certain that you have the second payment ready, as you have promised, and give him directions to your keep in York. If all goes well, Mistress Glenys Seymour will be ensconced within its walls before a fortnight has passed.”
Chapter One
“Uncle Aonghus?”
Glenys lifted the cellar door a bit higher, peering through the dim candlelight in the room below. Fragrant blue smoke, sparkling with whatever chemicals her uncle had mixed, wafted upward into the hall. Glenys waved the substance away and called more loudly, “Uncle Aonghus?”
“Mayhap he’s drunk one of his potions again,” Dina, Glenys’s maid, suggested, her eyes widening at the thought. “Do you not remember what happened when last he did such a thing?”
“May God forbid,” Glenys said fervently, remembering the event—and all the others that had come before it—all too well. “Here, hold the door and I will go down.”
The steps leading down to the hidden cellar were both narrow and short, and Glenys tread them with care, lifting her heavy skirts high to keep from tripping.
“Uncle Aonghus? Are you well?” The moment she gained the floor she made for the long table where he kept all of his powders and potions. Furiously waving sparkling blue smoke aside with both hands, she said, “You promised me faithfully that you’d never drink any of your experiments again. And thank a merciful God you’ve but made more smoke this time, and not caused another explosion.”
She coughed as the smoke grew heavier near the table, and heard an answering cough coming from somewhere behind it. Uncle Aonghus, she discovered, was lying on the floor, arms splayed wide as if he’d been knocked back by a large fist.
“God’s mercy!” Glenys cried as she knelt beside the elderly man, setting her hands on his shoulders. “Uncle Aonghus!”
He coughed again and, with her help, sat up. “I’m well,” he insisted. “I’ve come to no harm.”
“No, stay there a moment,” she said, holding him still when he would have risen. “I’ll fetch a glass of wine. Only rest until you’ve recovered.”
Moving quickly, Glenys gained her feet, but found that the smoke was thicker than before, and glittering more violently. A few sharp sparks nipped her face and hands, irritating but not painful. A short search revealed the source of the mischief to be a small glass jar set upon her uncle’s worktable.
She quickly put a lid over the jar, bringing an end to the smoky outpouring. Then, blindly feeling the tabletop with seeking hands, she at last found another jar of equal si
ze and unlidded it. Scooping up a small handful of the cool, crystalline mixture within, Glenys reached back and flung it into the air. More sparkles filled the chamber, purple and white this time. Almost at once the smoke began to dissipate, and within moments was gone altogether. Behind her, she heard Uncle Aonghus give a sigh of relief.
“I was so close this time,” he said. “I wish I knew what element is missing. I’m so very close.”
Glenys had already moved to another table to pour her uncle a glass of wine from the decanter set there.
Returning to kneel and give it to him, she replied, “I’m certain it will come to you soon, Uncle, but you must use greater care. If ’tis reported to the sheriff that more colored smoke has been coming from the chimneys, we will find ourselves in great difficulty. I do not know how I can explain it again in any reasonable manner.”
Uncle Aonghus drained the cup she’d given him and handed it back to her. He smiled and patted her hand, saying, “Such a good girl you are, Glenys. If not for you, we’d all have been burned at the stake years ago.”
“Nay, that is not so,” she assured him at once, though her heart knew that he had spoken the truth. She was twenty years of age, and had spent many of those years keeping her aunts and uncles safe. They were as harmless as could be, but so very strange in their ways that she had no doubt they would readily be burned as witches and warlocks if any of those ways became known. She would have kept them all at their ancestral estate in Wales throughout the year, if she could, for in Wales they were always safe. But they insisted upon accompanying Glenys to London for six months out of each year while she took care of the many Seymour businesses. And in London, her aunts and uncles were as vulnerable as newborn rabbits to skilled hunting hawks.
Glenys had only two defenses in keeping them safe while at Metolius, their palatial dwelling on London’s Strand. The Seymour family was wealthy enough to buy favor from both the church and crown, which Glenys made certain to do. And her brother, Daman, who was a famed knight of the realm, rode throughout the country with his army, gaining goodwill and setting the Seymour name in a favorable light. As long as both the tributes and Daman’s good works continued, the Seymour family was safe, but Glenys was the first to admit that it was a most wearying task. She often longed to be free of it, knowing full well that ’twould never be. She and Daman had long since devoted themselves to the good of the Seymour family name, regardless of what it cost them.
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