“Like Aphrodite, the gyrfalcon you released,” he said.
I took the last step between us and placed my hand upon his jaw. My touch seemed to soften his resolve and I felt the tension ease from him. “You killed to see me live,” I reminded him. “I know the import of that.”
“Three I killed that night,” Gawain admitted with a shuddering breath. “And Alasdair as well. Still, it was not enough.” He touched my cheek. “I feared you lost, my lady fair.”
I turned and kissed his palm. “But I am found and I am here.”
“Will you stay here?” he asked with uncharacteristic urgency. “Will you stay, Evangeline, if I pledge to return to Inverfyre with our son twenty years hence that he might claim his legacy?”
I fought against my smile. “You seek the challenge of stealing it from whosoever might claim it in the interim.”
Gawain smiled, then sobered anew. “It would be unfitting for a man destined to be laird to sully his hands with any dark deeds. I will do this for him, that he might nobly claim his birthright. I will do this for you, that you might fulfill your parents’ expectation of you.”
I cupped his face in my hands and leaned against him, well content with what he offered. “I accept your wager, Gawain, but you should know the exchange in full.”
“What is this?”
“Wheresoever you dwell, Gawain Lammergeier, there is my home. In claiming my heart, you are entrusted with it for all time.”
“I believe I can accept your terms.” Gawain grinned mischievously, then cupped my chin in his hand. His voice dropped low, his eyes gleamed with affection. “Will you always challenge my expectations so?”
I laughed. “I hope so.”
“As do I.” He bent to kiss me then, all the confirmation of his own love resplendent in his kiss. Our wager was sealed, and I was well content.
Or perhaps matters were not as fully resolved as I thought. Perhaps my beloved scoundrel had yet one more surprise in store for me.
I awakened when the evening’s cool air touched my brow. The silk curtains around my bed fluttered in the breeze, their gold and red hues shimmering in the light cast by a dozen candles. The windows were open to the stars and that curious warmth of a southern night. I rose from my bed, drawn to the window by the sound of women singing, and looked out upon a sea of stars.
No, not stars, candles. I looked again and saw the faces of unfamiliar woman, all touched with the gold of the candles that they carried. There were hundreds of them, their lips curved in smiles, their burning candles and glowing faces reflected in the pool beneath the palace windows. I could not discern their words, but their joy was evident.
I turned and spied a length of cloth that gleamed with the same shimmer as my bed curtains. Something gleamed atop the array of sapphire silk and a note was perched there.
I called out but no one answered, the house silent but for the singing of the women beneath the window. I crossed the chamber and caught my breath to find my mother’s amber crucifix glinting in the light. Gawain had claimed it, for me, before leaving the chapel. God in heaven, but I loved this man!
I read the note, my heart in my throat.
There is a matter left unfinished between us, my lady fair.
I glanced back to the window, to the gem, to the note, and smiled in understanding. I donned the silken dress, feeling as resplendent as a queen, put the crucifix around my neck and wrapped a golden veil over my hair. I slipped on the fine stockings and slippers of red leather, arranged the folds of silk over my belly and took a deep breath before I left the chamber.
I descended into the sea of stars. The women laughed and smiled, they caught at my hands. We did not speak the same tongue, but it was no obstacle between us. They led me down the hill like a tide that cannot be denied, their jubilation making my heart sing.
A lump rose in my heart when I saw Gawain, waiting with the priest on the steps of the cathedral. Tarsuinn and Malachy stood beside him, beaming with pride; Anna bounced Rosamunde; the rest of the crew stood in ranks on either side.
I had eyes only for the man I would wed. His hair was golden in the candlelight, his tanned features glowed with vitality. He was garbed richly, in black and gold, like a man attending great festivities.
He offered his hand and I laid mine within his palm’s warmth, loving how his fingers closed over mine with surety.
“It is tradition here that women escort the bride to her nuptials with song and candlelight,” he informed me quietly. “My mother was escorted thus, and it is a custom that I find most enchanting.”
“As do I. This is magical.”
Gawain bent and kissed my hand. “Wed me, my Evangeline, as you agreed to do once before. Wed me and we shall ensure together that our son fulfills the prophecy of his birth.”
The babe stirred within me then, as if he too agreed with this scheme. I seized Gawain’s hand and pressed it over my belly that he might feel his son’s activity as well. We shared a smile, marveling at what we had wrought, then Gawain sobered anew.
“I love you, Evangeline. I love the vigor with which you greet every challenge afore you and I would share my days and nights with you for all time.”
I leaned closer to him. “I love you, Gawain, though you are less a scoundrel than I had believed.” I pressed the seal of Inverfyre in its chamois sack into his hand and smiled when his eyes widened in surprise. “One might expect as much of the Laird of Inverfyre.”
He snorted even as he tucked a tendril of hair behind my ear. “Only a lady wrought of surprises such as you could have awakened a slumbering nobility within me,” he teased, “though, in the end, it is you, Evangeline, who have proven to be the more agile thief.”
“Me?”
Gawain chuckled. “Yes, you, for you have stolen the heart that no other even guessed I possessed. That was a feat indeed.”
I might have laughed but the priest cleared his throat, recalling us to the celebration at hand. We exchanged our vows hand in hand, stars above and candles around, our hearts filled with a glorious variant of the song that filled our ears. We made our version of tradition, as I guessed we oft would in years ahead, and it was far far better than ever I might have hoped.
And when Gawain kissed me soundly, setting a thousand fires alight within me, I knew those thousand fires would burn through all eternity. This love was the fate I had been born to feel, and I welcomed it with all my heart and soul.
An Excerpt from The Warrior
Book #3 of the Rogues of Ravensmuir
Dear Reader:
Alluring and dangerous, the Hawk of Inverfyre came to rest at my father’s house, his motives unknown. His seduction was breathtaking. I resisted him, this enigmatic warrior, but his kiss transported me to a time and place where his relentless pursuit and my passionate surrender made perfect sense.
’Twas then I erred. My defenses harried, I was tricked into marriage by the Hawk and taken by force to his lawless castle. I have vowed to flee: The grounds abound with rogues and whores, and the servants whisper of murdered wives. And yet, his dizzying touch hints that we have lived here before—he as the castle’s intrepid founder and I as his betrayed lover.
Am I the bride who will break the spell of Inverfyre? Or have I been captured by a scheming sorcerer, only to be ravished and discarded like so many before?
–Lady Aileen of Aberny
Excerpt from The Warrior
Copyright 2004, 2011 Claire Delacroix, Inc.
Inverfyre, Scotland—November 1390
His father had been right.
Every step Michael took into the forests of Scotland made it more impossible to evade the astonishing truth. He had always assumed that his father’s tales of Scotland had been whimsy, heavily embellished with a nostalgia that his mother would find appealing. Gawain Lammergeier was not above stretching the truth, especially when his tall tales prompted Evangeline’s laughter.
But all of those tales had been true. The land was so beautiful as to l
eave Michael breathless and it could be as mercilessly cruel as a beauteous woman with a heart of ice. What he had not expected was his growing sense that these lands were not quite earthly. He might have stepped into the domain of the fey. Michael was uneasy with this awareness, for he had never heeded such tales and knew not what the rules of this land might be.
There had been frost this morning when his company awakened, and all the trees were etched with silver filigree so fine as to rival the work of a master jeweler. The sky was a blue so bright as to hurt one’s gaze, but the shadows in the forest yielded their secrets to none. Michael surveyed his surroundings constantly as they rode, unable to dissuade himself of the conviction that they were being watched.
And not by mortal eyes.
Certainly not by friendly eyes.
He urged the party onward, fighting to ignore the oppressive feeling that the forest disapproved of his intrusion. He was the seventh son of Magnus Armstrong, the heir of Inverfyre, the warrior destined to fulfill an old prophecy, and the son of the greatest thief in Christendom besides.
Fortune would not dare deny him his due.
Or so he told himself.
At least, Michael was not alone. Tarsuinn had been invited to join this journey, his half-sister Rosamunde had not, but they both rode behind him all the same. (He knew that he should have anticipated that Rosamunde would have her way.) Sebastien and Fernando, two good friends from Sicily who had proclaimed themselves in dire need of an adventure, accompanied him, as well. A dozen stalwart men from his father’s household and ship comprised the rest of the group that had sailed north.
Michael might have stolen his father’s vessel—a feat he did not doubt his father savored—but he was not fool enough to embark on a quest without information. He had commanded the crew to drop anchor at the Lammergeier stronghold of Ravensmuir to seek the counsel of his uncle, Merlyn. But Merlyn and his wife Ysabella had been away—in lieu of Merlyn’s counsel, Michael’s cousins Tynan and Roland had insisted upon accompanying the party to Inverfyre, along with their trio of squires.
The company comprised more than twenty in all, but the sound of their passing was almost naught. The young squires had ceased their chattering as soon as the shadow of the woods closed around them. By the time Stirling had fallen into the forgotten distance, none of them dared to make so much as a whistle.
Just the day before, Michael would have counted it a blessing if Rosamunde and Tynan could have ceased their bickering over every inconsequential detail. On this day, he had the urge to provoke them, if only to hear mortal voices at normal volume. He felt that they trod close to a sleeping demon whom they dared not awaken.
Yet not all slumbered, for something surveyed their progress. Michael halted suddenly and knew without glancing back that the rest of his party stopped behind him. Stillness settled on all sides, the shadows seemed impenetrable, the cold of pending winter chilled his marrow. The forest breathed on all sides, watching, waiting.
He shivered involuntarily and his heart quailed. It seemed suddenly to be tremendous folly that had brought him here, that he could never accomplish his objective, that he had made a fatal error.
Nonsense! He would not be defeated by silence!
“Are there wolves in these woods?” Michael demanded of his cousin.
Tynan shrugged. “There are wolves in all the forests of Christendom. They are not more numerous here.”
“Are they more malicious?” Rosamunde asked as she eased her steed closer to the pair.
Tynan snorted. “Have you amiable wolves in the south?”
Rosamunde lifted her chin and glared at her cousin. “Are they especially vicious in this barbaric land?”
“All predators are vicious, particularly those willing to prey upon men.” Tynan turned to scan the forest, excluding Rosamunde with his manner.
Michael did not miss the hot glance his half-sister cast at their inattentive cousin.
Rosamunde was a willful beauty, unused to any man showing disinterest in her charms. Michael and Rosamunde were of an age, but Tynan was some eight years their senior. Further, he was tall and dark and given to dismissing Rosamunde in a manner she clearly did not appreciate.
“What observes our progress, then?” Michael asked.
Tynan smiled. “I could tell you a thousand tales of ghosts and specters, each and every one of them purportedly true. One seldom feels alone in our woods, though I have never felt another presence so strongly.”
It was on Michael’s lips to ask how close they were to Inverfyre, but a cloaked figure stepped out of the forest ahead of them and silenced his query before it was uttered.
He saw her and he knew, he knew with unwavering certainty that he stood already upon his hereditary holding.
But how could he be so certain? They had passed no boundary marker, indeed they were not even upon the road.
He blinked and looked again at this unexpected figure. Indeed, he could not have said that this soul truly stepped from anywhere—it was more that the figure had appeared where it had not been before. He might have thought that he imagined its presence, but Rosamunde whispered a prayer and crossed herself. Tynan lifted a hand to stay him, suddenly as watchful and silent as a predator himself. Roland caught his breath, as if he bit back a warning.
Michael understood then that they, too, felt the uncanny power of this stranger.
“Do you shirk what you cannot see, heir of Magnus Armstrong?” the figure shouted, her voice revealing her gender. “Or is the blood of Magnus’ lineage so diminished that his heir has not the boldness of a babe?”
Tarsuinn gasped. “God in heaven, it cannot be.”
“Who is she?” Michael demanded.
“An old crone of the woods. I thought her dead years past.” Tarsuinn peered at the distant figure, shaking his head as he marveled. “But it is she. This one was of aid to your parents once, though she is unpredictable. I advise caution, his lord.” He eased his steed forward and raised his voice. “Adaira? Do you yet occupy these woods?”
“Tarsuinn Falconer,” she replied haughtily. “I would know your voice in any land, though the birds have spoken of your pending return.”
This made little sense to Michael, but before he could ask, the crone lifted one hand. She pointed a gnarled finger toward the clouds. Four birds cried and flew overhead as if she had summoned them. Their distinctive silhouette made the company gasp.
“Peregrines!” Tarsuinn whispered in awe, craning his neck to follow the course of the birds.
Another trio followed, crying as they flew. One had a fresh kill and the others tormented it, trying to steal the meat.
They were all snared by the sight and Michael knew his heart was not the sole one to soar with the birds. His forebears had made their fortune by training and selling the finest peregrines in all of Christendom. When his mother had been forced to leave Inverfyre, the peregrines’ numbers had been diminished to scarcity.
But nigh on twenty years had swelled their numbers, just as all had fervently hoped. These birds seemed uncommonly vigorous and he took encouragement at the majesty of their flight.
Tarsuinn, son of the old falconer, smiled and tears shone in his eyes. “How many, Adaira?” he demanded, his words husky with hope. Indeed, he had come to Inverfyre despite his age in the hope that he might see the cliffs thick with his beloved birds. “How many have returned?”
“The falcons are plentiful in numbers at Inverfyre again, Tarsuinn Falconer. They tell me that they await your hand. Long has the alliance betwixt the peregrines and the blood of Magnus Armstrong prospered, after all.”
Tarsuinn’s delight was nigh tangible. “My lord, this is the finest news for which we might have hoped…”
Adaira’s voice hardened. “I have no business with you on this day, Tarsuinn Falconer, and the falcons have not waited so long that they cannot wait longer. It is the boy I have come to greet.”
Michael felt the hair rise on the back of his neck when she pointe
d a calloused finger at him. How could she know who he was? Tynan, Roland, and Rosamunde eased their steeds to his one side, Sebastien and Fernando to the other, but Michael raised his hand to stay them.
“This matter is mine to resolve.” He urged his destrier to step forward alone. It was a magnificent black stallion, granted to him by his father upon his eighteenth birthday—along with the seal of Inverfyre that reposed in his purse. Lucifer was afraid of naught, tall and strong, and just the sight of him made men halt to stare.
But the old woman stood her ground as Michael approached. Strangely, her eyes seemed to glow within the shadows cast by her hood. “Aye, boy, I come to parlay with you and you alone.”
“And I am here. Say what you must.”
When he halted the steed several paces from her, she cackled with laughter. “Are afeared, boy? You will not recapture Inverfyre if you cannot even approach an old woman!”
One of the squires snickered, but Michael was already swinging from his saddle. He cast the reins aside with impatience and doffed his gloves. Tynan said something cautionary but he strode away, making his way directly to the crone. She was smaller than he had guessed, the top of her hood below the middle of his chest. She watched him approach, her eyes gleaming, though he only saw why they shone so oddly when she suddenly cast back her hood.
Her gaze was veiled with the pale blue sheen of cataracts. Her tanned skin was as wrinkled as old leather, her features so shrunken that the flesh was tautly stretched over her bones. Her teeth were gone, her hair as white as fresh snow, her pose defiant. He recoiled and she laughed beneath her breath.
“What is your name, boy?”
“You seem to know as much already.”
“Tell me!”
“I am Michael Lammergeier, son of Gawain Lammergeier and Evangeline Armstrong, Laird of Inverfyre.”
She chuckled. “You are not laird yet.”
“I have the seal and the bloodright…”
All's Fair in Love and War: Four Enemies-to-Lovers Medieval Romances Page 64