All's Fair in Love and War: Four Enemies-to-Lovers Medieval Romances

by Claire Delacroix

  There were so many matters that could not be undone. Erik had married to suit his father’s ambitions, not his own. He had surrendered the best of himself to a woman who cared nothing for him and only now, when it might be too late to mend matters, did he see the fullness of the price he had paid.

  Exhausted to his very marrow, content in Vivienne’s embrace, Erik let a single word of regret pass his lips, a word that would cost him dearly.

  “Beatrice,” he murmured, then sighed at the empty promise of his nuptial vows.

  He fell asleep then, but he was not destined to slumber for long.

  Beatrice!

  Vivienne’s eyes snapped open and she stared at the man slumbering half atop her. Beatrice! How could Erik have mistaken her for any other woman, after they had conjured such pleasure together?

  Had he been thinking of Beatrice while they made love?

  Had he imagined that she was Beatrice?

  The very prospect was revolting beyond belief. How dare he?

  Erik slumbered now, his brow upon her shoulder, a man untroubled by his deeds. His hair fanned over his shoulders, the hair upon his chest tickled against Vivienne’s breasts. She could feel the weight of his legs atop her own, and the tickle of the hair upon them, as well. Though he still braced most of his weight upon his forearms, Vivienne was trapped beneath him.

  That was precisely where she did not wish to be.

  In normal circumstance, she might have wished to leave him slumbering, but Vivienne was not inclined to consider Erik’s wishes in this moment. She placed her hands upon his shoulders and pushed, to no discernible effect.

  He did not so much as stir.

  Vivienne pushed harder and Erik sighed, then rolled to his side with a murmured apology. His leg was still cast across hers, his heat fast by her side. His hand twined in her hair and there was a rare contentment in his expression.

  Vivienne refused to be beguiled. He probably dreamed of his beloved dead wife! She snatched her hair from his fingertips and shoved aside his leg. He blinked that she moved so abruptly and stirred finally, his manner that of a man waking from a dream.

  “Cur!” Vivienne cried as she leaped to her feet. “Knave, blackguard and wretch!” Erik blinked at her, apparently confused. “You know well enough what you have done,” she said, shaking her finger at him. “Do not pretend otherwise. I will not be swayed by your guile.”

  She found her chemise and hastily drew it over herself, seeing already a gleam of desire in Erik’s eyes. She left the buttons upon the sleeves unfastened, and the sleeves hung comically long as a result. “Dream all the night long of your wife, if you so desire,” she bade him. “For you will never lay a hand upon me again.”

  She turned her back upon his surprise and gathered her scattered clothing. The night sky was indigo now, the stars gleaming in the firmament, and the wind had turned chill. Vivienne’s hands shook so in her anger that she had trouble fastening the garters on her stockings. The cursed sleeves of the chemise were in her way, and she wished heartily that one of her sisters had stolen it. It helped little that she felt Erik watching her clumsy attempts to dress, helped even less that he seemed confused by her manner.

  He could at least have protested his innocence, she fumed in silence. Though she would have known it to be a lie, it would have soothed her that he cared for her annoyance.

  “Were you not pleased?” he asked finally and Vivienne cast a shoe at him in vexation.

  “How well pleased were you to invoke your wife?” she demanded. “Beatrice!” she mimicked, then spun in a sweep of skirts. “How sweet to know that I am indistinguishable from your wife abed.”

  Erik got to his feet with a haste uncommon to him. “I did not do as much.”

  Vivienne propped her hands upon her hips. “You most certainly did. Do not be so fool as to accuse me of being deaf! I know what I heard, and I heard your wife’s name slip from your lips.”

  Erik shoved a hand through his hair and frowned, then donned his own garb with efficient gestures. It appeared he would say no more, the very prospect of that making Vivienne’s blood boil. She glared at him, infuriated beyond belief and unwilling to leave the matter be.

  Erik seemed to take uncommon care in fastening his belt and ensuring his weapons were as he desired.

  “This is a fine reward you grant to one pledged to aiding your quest,” Vivienne said when she could keep silent no longer.

  He spared her a glance. “You look as alluring as the Valkyrie must do,” he said. “Indeed, it is some prize you surrender to me with such a sight alone.” An unexpected twinkle lit his eyes, and though Vivienne blinked, it lingered there. “It might be worth vexing you again in future.”

  “What is that to mean?”

  “That you look like a warrior maiden who will not be denied her due.” He inclined his head slightly and shook his head. “Though their price is not small.”

  Vivienne did not know whether to be insulted or flattered. She regarded Erik warily, feeling the lure of a tale she did not know. “I know nothing of these Valkyries,” she said, as coldly as she could manage.

  “They are the servants of Odin, the great god, and sent by him to lead fallen warriors to their eternal reward at Valhalla.” Erik studied Vivienne for a moment. “They gather men’s souls, though be warned that I am not keen to surrender mine as yet.”

  Vivienne shook her head. “I have no desire for your soul.”

  “Do you not? I thought it the desire of all women to claim men’s souls, and you do not appear to be a woman prepared to accept half her due.” He cast his cloak over his shoulder with that graceful gesture she so admired, and Vivienne did not know whether he meant to challenge her or flatter her. “Surely you at least desire to infect a man’s thinking, persuading him to acknowledge unseen forces, for example, when he knows there to be none.” He offered his hand to Vivienne, though she did not yet take it.

  “And what manner of force was Beatrice?”

  “One you need know little about.” Erik glanced to the sky, to his horse, which now stood expectant, then back at Vivienne. “It is time we ride.”

  Vivienne folded her arms across her chest and did not step toward his outstretched hand. “Why did you say her name?”

  Erik looked away. “It is not of import.”

  “I say it is.”

  “You shall have no answer from me.”

  “Then I shall not travel with you.”

  “We have made a wager,” he said, his tone somewhat sharper. “You have no choice.”

  He had the wits, this time, to not call her chattel, though Vivienne guessed he thought it.

  “There is always a choice,” she asserted. “Though some choices are harder than others, and there are always wagers broken. I could prove as much to you, as well as the existence of the unseen realm of fairies, if I chose to recount to you the tale of Thomas of Erceldoune.”

  “And do you so choose?”

  Vivienne glared at him, thinking the query deserved no answer.

  Erik shoved a hand through his hair and frowned at the coast, then impaled her with a bright glance. “Mine was an unwilling utterance.”

  “How do I know as much?”

  “Because I swear it to you.” He held her gaze then, his own bright with surety, and Vivienne found her determination faltering. “And I apologize for it, though it was unwittingly done.”

  “It must not happen again.”

  “Be assured that it will not.” He lowered his voice to the intimacy of a whisper, he looked at her as if she alone existed in all the world for him. His eyes gleamed with intent and something else, something that made Vivienne’s traitorous heart leap.

  “Ride with me, Vivienne,” Erik urged, her name a caress upon his tongue. “Ride with me, bear my son in due time, and meanwhile tell me of this Thomas of Erceldoune.”

  The chance to recount a favored tale was an invitation Vivienne could not refuse, or so she told herself.

  The truth wa
s that Erik Sinclair, with a plea in his eyes, was hard to resist.

  Before she considered her choice, she put her hand within Erik’s. Her heart skipped at the warmth of his flesh, at the way his fingers closed possessively around her own. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, as eloquent an apology as she could desire, and she knew herself powerless against his allure.

  It was dangerous to let him convince her of his innocence, it was dangerous to ride pressed against his strength, it was treacherous indeed to have pledged to bear his son. But she had made that vow and she would keep it.

  A thousand tales had taught her that, no matter the consequences of a promise, breaking one’s word led to far worse consequences. Those tales had taught her a number of other lessons as well and she dared to hope that Erik might be persuaded in his turn of some of the beliefs she held so dear.

  Erik was still shaken by the near price of his error. When she had turned upon him with flashing eyes, he had been certain that Vivienne would spurn him, thought that she would turn her back upon him forevermore. The prospect had struck fear to his very marrow.

  He had been prepared to say nigh anything, to make any pledge, to ensure that she rode forward with him. He dared not consider why he was so determined that this woman should think well of him, though he reminded himself sternly to allow himself no tender feelings for her as yet. Fondness for Vivienne would only make any choice he might be compelled to make all the more difficult.

  Instead of concern at his own fear of losing her, Erik felt a certain satisfaction at having persuaded Vivienne to continue their journey. He savored the sweet curve of her in his lap and a sense of triumph as well. He reasoned that it had only been the possibility that she had already conceived his son that had prompted his ready words.

  There could be no other sensible reason for his desire to reassure her.

  Vivienne spared him a glance over her shoulder, her eyes already sparkling with the prospect of sharing her tale, and he marveled anew at how readily she could lighten his mood. Though formidable challenges lay ahead of him, he had not felt such a sense of promise in years.

  He had never yet felt that his quest had any chance of success, simply that it was a duty he could not evade. He thought now of Mairi and Astrid, of seeing them again, of hearing their laughter once more, and his heart swelled at the prospect.

  “It is said that this tale is true, that there was a Thomas of Erceldoune but a hundred years ago,” Vivienne said. “He was reputed to have been laird of the holding of Erceldoune, which was then near the meeting of the Leader and the Tweed rivers. Melrose Abbey is in that vicinity, as well.”

  “I have heard tell of that abbey,” Erik acknowledged. Vivienne fastened the buttons of her sleeves with care, her head bowed. He wished that he could see her features and watch the curve of her lips as she recounted the tale. Erik sated himself—for the moment—by fitting his hand into the indent of her waist.

  She took no apparent note of his gesture, as if his hand rightly belonged there, which suited him well indeed.

  “He was also called Thomas the Rhymer, and True Thomas, for both the rhymes of his tales and the veracity of his prophecies. He saw the future while in the fairy realm and told of it upon his return to the mortal world. After his second departure and with the passage of time, his prophecies were proven aright. In this, I think, is your proof that matters unseen are true.”

  A shadow separated itself from the darkness ahead, sparing Erik the need to debate this assertion. He would not be so readily persuaded of whimsy as that, but neither did he wish to mar the camaraderie between himself and Vivienne.

  Erik recognized the stocky silhouette of Ruari. “I did not ride so far as you bade,” that man said gruffly, the way he twisted the reins in his hands revealing that he was not entirely certain what response his disobedience would merit. He cleared his throat when Erik said nothing. “You see, I thought it would be better to turn west here, rather than ride past the high tower ahead. I thought to keep the horse fresh, by awaiting you here, rather than proceeding and having to ride back.”

  Erik was not truly surprised to find Ruari so close at hand. He had known even while arguing with the older man that he would not be easily rid of his presence. His father had oft commented on Ruari’s steadfast reliability.

  “Your counsel is good, Ruari, as so oft it is,” he said and watched the older man’s tension ease. “One can never be certain what eyes are open.”

  “Especially at Ravensmuir,” Vivienne said.

  “Aye, Ravensmuir,” Ruari muttered, casting a look over his shoulder to the keep. “It can be no good portent to invoke the name of that keep with such frequency, and less good it is to linger in its proximity. I have heard tell that the Laird of Ravensmuir can hear the fart of a mouse at the other end of Christendom, no less that he could command a peregrine to bring him that very mouse for his dinner, if he should so desire it, and that his will would be done.”

  “Nonsense, surely,” Erik said, biting back a smile.

  “Nonsense, indeed,” Vivienne agreed. “My uncle has sharp hearing, though not so sharp as that. And the birds beneath his command are ravens, not peregrines. It is at the abode of my other uncle, at Inverfyre, that one finds falcons beneath the laird’s command.”

  Ruari paused in the act of mounting his steed to regard Vivienne with horror. “Inverfyre and Ravensmuir both! Surely you cannot be kin with them all!”

  “Surely I am.”

  “But they are said to be sorcerers with unholy powers, men who can summon the tide and invoke demons to serve their will!”

  Vivienne laughed. “What folly!”

  Ruari then eased his steed closer. “Erik, lad, upon the grave of your sire, I feel compelled to warn you that this path can only lead to woe…”

  “All paths lead to woe for me in this moment, Ruari,” Erik said, his light tone belying his words. “I but attempt to choose the least dire fate.”

  “And you make a poor task of it, lad, that much is certain.”

  “I thank you for your counsel.” Erik’s words were so unwelcoming that Ruari heaved a sigh. “Are you prepared to ride onward? We shall take the road west upon your advice.”

  Ruari was clearly not content even to have had his suggestion accepted. The horses matched pace, settling into a steady gallop, but the older man shook his head ruefully. “Stories I have heard of Ravensmuir that are fit to curdle a man’s blood and freeze his very marrow. Aye, I have heard tell of the ravens loosed from Ravensmuir’s tower, no less that they are sent forth as spies for the laird or to pluck out the eyes of his enemies.”

  “What folly!” Vivienne said, laughter brimming in her voice. “No raven has ever plucked the eyes from a foe, to my knowledge.”

  “And even greater witchery,” Ruari declared with a raised finger. “I have heard that the laird talks to such birds!”

  Vivienne chuckled. “How else would he gather tidings from afar?”

  “With messengers and envoys, perhaps, as most men of property do,” Erik suggested and Vivienne granted him a bright smile.

  Her next words chilled his heart though. “It is true that knowledge of the ravens’ language is passed from father to son,” she said, clearly at ease with this uncommon detail. “And that secrets are exchanged between laird and bird.” She looked back at Erik, eyes twinkling. “But surely a man who grants no credit to matters unseen would simply believe this to be a fable, and thus not worrisome in the least.”

  A glance to the high shadowed tower looming behind them revealed tiny specks against the night sky. They might well be ravens, circling the tower, and their very presence was unsettling.

  “Surely so,” Erik said with a resolve he did not quite feel.

  Vivienne’s gaze glinted with merry mischief. “I think you believe more of this tale than you admit you do, and I shall prove it to you.”

  Erik scoffed. “You cannot do as much.”

  Vivienne arched a russet brow,
then turned her back upon him once more. To his astonishment, she emitted a piercing cry and raised her fist skyward.

  “What in the name of God is that?” Ruari demanded, crossing himself with vigor. “You could stop a man’s heart with such a scream, lass, upon that you can rely! Do you think we have need of waking every soul hereabouts to our passage?”

  Vivienne ignored him, so avidly did she watch the sky. Erik was certain that she merely teased him, but then there came a flutter of wings. An answering cry rang from the heavens above, one so loud that it nigh rent their ears. Erik’s horse shied and he turned his attention then to soothing the beast. He stroked Fafnir’s side and spoke firmly to the stallion, holding the reins tightly while he calmed the horse.

  A shadow darker than the night sky descended with awesome grace and Vivienne cried again, nigh ensuring that the horse bolted in truth. Erik swore softly and held the reins fast, but she was oblivious to their danger. Her face was alight with joy as she furled her cloak over her arm and, against all expectation, stretched it out in fearless invitation.

  “Mother of God!” Ruari cried.

  The raven landed so heavily that Vivienne’s arm dipped low beneath the burden of its weight. Fafnir whinnied in terror at the unfamiliar rustle of feathers so close behind his head, folded his ears back and began to run. Erik locked his arm around Vivienne’s waist and bent his attention upon soothing the horse.

  The horse was disinclined to heed him.

  Half an eternity and several fields later, Fafnir settled more or less to his previous gait. The steed still tossed his head and trotted sideways for a few steps, discontent with the addition to their entourage. Erik knew that the skittishness in the destrier’s step meant that if the bird did not remain still, Fafnir would bolt again.

  Vivienne released a shaking breath. “Surely your steed is trained?”

  “Surely you are mad to have summoned this bird,” Erik snapped. “Can you not see that you have endangered all of us with this folly?”

  She looked slightly guilty. “It was not my intent to do as much. Every horse I have ever ridden has been well accustomed to birds.”