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

by Claire Delacroix

  Erik awakened in a dark, dank cell, and could have guessed in which keep it was located. There was a flickering lamp left on the floor in the far corner and the wild dance of the flame made ominous shadows. His sword and dagger were gone, though that was scarcely surprising, and he ground his teeth at the recollection that he had willingly granted his father’s blade to Vivienne.

  No good deed was ever left unpunished, to be sure. Vivienne had said as much and in this moment, he could find no fault with her thinking. He supposed that he should have been glad that none of those rough mercenaries had been able to seize his hereditary blade, but knowing it was in the possession of the woman who had deceived him was no consolation.

  For Vivienne had deceived him, and done as much so well that Erik had never suspected her motives. He had thought her persuaded of his reasoning when she had accepted a handfast instead of a marriage. He had believed her when she professed a care for his welfare and had agreed with his plan to halt for the night.

  In truth, she had only ensured that they did not ride too far, the better that her family could retrieve her.

  She had not truly forgiven him, but had merely feigned as much. She had contrived that they halted close enough to Ravensmuir that they would be discovered by her kin. And there could be no doubt of her motives, for she had refused to wed him when granted the chance.

  Vivienne’s pledge to aid him was a lie, as was her apparent desire for him. Erik Sinclair and his meager charms clearly would not suffice for a lady the like of Vivienne Lammergeier.

  Which meant only that he, once again, had been fool enough to grant trust where it was unwarranted.

  Erik stared sourly at the lamp and acknowledged that she had undoubtedly suggested the seven couplings not out of lust for him, but to ensure that he slept like a corpse. Her family had been upon them before he had even heard them approach, so exhausted had he been by their lovemaking.

  Worst of all, he had been witless enough to believe that a beauteous damsel raised in wealth might find him alluring or his quest worth fighting. Beatrice should have taught him the full measure of his allure to such women, but nay, he was too much of a fool to have already learned his lesson from experience.

  His father would have reminded Erik that he had always seen the good in others before he spied the bad, no less that to do as much was a dangerous habit.

  That only made him realize that his father was dead, that William’s wry voice would never again be heard in Blackleith’s hall. And that was a truth that Erik could not face in this moment.

  He sat up quickly to avoid his thoughts and the chamber cavorted around him at the sudden move. His head throbbed. There was dampness on his temple, and when he touched it, his fingers were stained red. Indeed, that slight movement had set his head pounding so vigorously that he could almost forget the pain in his hip.

  He ignored both, pushed to his feet and crossed the cell to examine the lamp. There was no more than a vestige of oil remaining in the vessel, doubtless to ensure that he could make no mischief of note with it. The flame danced so vigorously because it would gut itself soon.

  Erik took advantage of the light now to survey his prison. It was square, the ceiling low enough that he could barely stand, its walls wrought of fitted stone and its floor of pounded earth. There was a drain hole in the floor, as well as the tip of the nose of the rat that peered out at him from that drain.

  The rodent seemed to eye him with a measure of assessment.

  Erik wondered whether he would be fed some fearsome slop, or whether he would be abandoned in the pending darkness for the rat and its comrades to feast upon. Neither were promising prospects.

  He turned his back upon the creature and paced, pausing to try the stout wooden door. The door did not budge, but then he had not expected it to.

  The course from this point was clear. Erik would face the laird sooner or later to answer for breaking his word. There was no possible verdict save ‘guilty,’ for he had not wed Vivienne. No happy compromise could be negotiated, now that the lady had spurned Erik before all.

  He glanced at the rat once more, irked that a similar charge had been cast against him—and unjustly—once again. Why was it that women chose to cast doubt upon his potency? He did not doubt that most of the men in Alexander’s company would have been glad to sate themselves with Vivienne, whether she had had her courses or not. He did not doubt that they jested in the hall over their ale at the impotence of the man imprisoned beneath their feet.

  Indeed, he could hear their merrymaking.

  This would not end well, that much was for certain. Erik did not expect Vivienne to defend him, much less to reveal that he was not his brother Nicholas in timely fashion.

  He considered his fate with a frown. The punishment could vary. He could be disfigured, marked as an outcast for the rest of his days by the loss of an eye or the tip of his nose or one of his ears. That was not particularly troubling, given what he had already endured, though it would be painful. He stretched his leg and thought he could do with somewhat less pain in his life.

  He could be condemned to have a more significant part of his anatomy removed, namely the one at root of the issue. That was not a comforting prospect. If Erik survived that ordeal, he would neither be claiming a maidenhead again nor providing that male heir that the Earl of Sutherland had demanded for his aid.

  Of course, Erik might simply be executed. Alexander was sufficiently vexed to demand a harsh punishment. Erik supposed that prospect should have bothered him less, as he was already reputed to be deceased, but it was that chance that made him pound upon the wooden door in frustration.

  He was not yet prepared to die.

  His daughters still had need of him.

  Erik hammered his fists against the wood and shouted, knowing it was to no avail, pounded more loudly and bellowed for justice.

  There was no reply. If anything, the festivities overhead seemed to grow louder. He finally halted and leaned his brow against the wood. The rat, he noted, watched with some interest, as if curious as to whether he was weakening.

  “It is the girls,” Erik told the rat, as there was no one else likely to listen. “There will be no one left to defend them once I am as dust.” He grimaced at the portal and gave it one last kick. “Although I have done a poor job of that defense thus far.”

  The rat seemed to find this argument cogent. It appeared to nod several times, weighing the merit of Erik’s words, then it turned and disappeared down the hole. There was a faint sound of scuttling feet before silence pressed against Erik’s ears again.

  He supposed Ruari must be pleased to have his predictions proven aright. The man could not truly have wanted to be burdened with the task of aiding Erik, and now he would be free to make other choices. So, there was an advantage to Erik’s disappearance in that.

  Indeed, there were many. Nicholas would keep Blackleith uncontested; the children would forget about their rightful father; Vivienne had probably already found another suitor or three; Alexander would keep Erik’s coin and the Earl of Sutherland would not have to undertake a battle for which he had no heart. Truly, there would be none to mourn Erik if the Laird of Kinfairlie felt particularly vengeful on the morrow.

  Erik surveyed his prison, his fists clenching and unclenching in frustration. He would not surrender. He would fight for his children until his dying breath, and he would fight more fiercely when that last breath seemed closer.

  There was no way out of the cell but the single door which was securely locked against him. The drain was no bigger around than his wrist, so that offered no option for escape. Erik paced, willing his aches and pains to diminish. This might be the most dire circumstance in which he had ever found himself, but he would not abandon hope.

  Someone at some time would open that door.

  Erik had no weapon and he had no tool. The lantern sputtered and died in that moment. He also had no light. He had nothing but his wits—which were proving to be meager—and hi
s bare hands.

  But he had his anger and he had his determination. When some sorry fool opened that door, that man would learn what those few assets were worth. This might be destined to end poorly, but Erik would not accept his fate meekly.

  He crouched opposite the door and leaned his back against the wall. He placed his booted foot over the drain, for no rat could lift the weight of him and it would take a while for the creature to chew through his heavy soles. These southern boots had the advantage of being sturdy, at least.

  In that pose, he took what rest he could while he awaited his chance.

  To his astonishment, Erik’s thoughts turned unbidden not to all he had lost over the years, but the lady who had just betrayed him. He found himself wishing that he had one last chance to explain himself to Vivienne, one last chance to kindle a light in her marvelous eyes, one last chance to plant a son in her womb.

  And that only proved his wits useless indeed.

  Elizabeth nearly tripped on the hem of her kirtle, so anxious was she to return to Vivienne. She carried a pair of bowls of steaming venison stew, a loaf of bread that was yet warm, and a pitcher of ale. The crockery cup she carried for the two of them to share was stuffed into her belt, along with a pair of carved wooden spoons, and she felt the cup loosing itself with every step. She had not a spare hand to secure it, though, and the castellan’s wife had been too busy to grant her more aid than she had done.

  Elizabeth hastened through the hall, artfully avoiding the grasp of many a man who assumed her to be a serving wench. Curse these breasts of hers! If ever a man looked her in the eye again—instead of looking rather lower than that—Elizabeth was certain she would wed him on the spot.

  Provided that he was handsome, rich and inclined to seek adventure, of course.

  She kicked a man who grabbed at her and he laughed even as he tried to tumble her into his lap. Had her burden been only her own meal, Elizabeth would have abandoned it to strike him, but she knew that Vivienne must be famished indeed. She avoided his outstretched leg and contented herself with a scathing glare in his direction before hastening onward.

  Elizabeth reached the bottom of the steps, breathless from her efforts, then eased slowly up them so as to not trip upon the hem of her gown.

  Cups were abruptly banged upon the board, urging the men to heed some announcement or another. Elizabeth paused on the steps and glanced back. The man who had tried to trip her leered in her direction, but she ignored him.

  Alexander stood and cleared his throat, looking as pompous as he possibly could. Elizabeth fairly ground her teeth at the change in her eldest brother, who had been so much more entertaining before their parents’ deaths. He had become a tedious old man, obsessed with honor and justice, before Elizabeth’s very eyes. She would never have believed it possible, had she not seen it herself.

  It was time enough, to her thinking, that one of the sisters played a prank upon him, just as he used to play pranks upon them. He was impossibly smug when he had his way, which irked Elizabeth beyond belief.

  “Here is a night in need of a tale, for we will none of us be quick to sleep this night, and here is a teller of tales in need of a cup of ale. I bid welcome to Ruari Macleod, a teller of tales arrived in most timely fashion, a man come to our door in the moment we have greatest need of his talent.”

  A stocky man stood before the head table, where he had obviously made his offer of a tale for a meal. He bowed to the company with clear trepidation, a large saddlebag at his feet. He was older, his hair an unruly russet thatch, his garb rough and his face growing redder by the moment. He looked around the hall, not nearly so at ease to be the focus of attention as one might expect of a storyteller, and cleared his throat a good dozen times.

  A serving woman topped up his cup of ale, clearly thinking that was the issue. He nodded at her, then bowed in gratitude, doing so with such clumsiness that he spilled the ale. The assembly laughed, thinking this a jest, but the man’s face only reddened to a deeper hue. His uncertainty grew more apparent as the expectant silence stretched ever longer. He stood mute, looking at them, and shifting his weight from foot to foot.

  Elizabeth darted up the stairs to find Vivienne pacing in a most uncharacteristic manner. Vivienne pivoted and must have seen that the cup was about to fall. She quickly lifted the two bowls out of Elizabeth’s grip and Elizabeth pulled the cup out of her belt just as it worked itself loose.

  “Just in time!” Elizabeth said with triumph.

  Vivienne did not share her smile. “Is Darg here?”

  “Of course. She prefers smaller chambers to the hall and remained here to dance on the rafters while I was gone. Mark my words, she will descend upon the ale if we do not drink it quickly.”

  Elizabeth poured the ale, and heard Darg’s cry of delight. “Can you not hear that?” she asked, but Vivienne shook her head. She pointed, sensing her sister’s disappointment, as Darg swung from the rafters on a doughty cobweb, screaming all the while.

  The fairy jumped at the precise moment that would ensure that she landed upon the handle of the pitcher. “Some ale for you but more for me; a finer taste there cannot be,” she said, smacking her lips. She leaned down to put her mouth to the ale, intending to drink like a dog and doubtless drink it all.

  Elizabeth swatted at the fairy and nearly spilled the ale. Darg dodged the blow, scurried around the lip of the pitcher, then squatted on the rim.

  “Pest!” Elizabeth cried, pushing the fairy aside. Darg jumped to her shoulder, clucking and complaining, as Elizabeth managed to pour ale into the cup she and Vivienne would share.

  She offered her sister the cup and found Vivienne regarding her with confusion. “I will assume that you have not been struck mad,” Vivienne said with a smile. “But that you aim to keep the fairy out of the ale.”

  “Darg likes mortal ale overmuch, and is a cursed amount of trouble once she has had some.” To foil the fairy, Elizabeth knotted a handkerchief over the top of the pitcher. Darg crawled across it, peering through the weave at the ale beneath, then whimpered.

  Vivienne was no more cheerful than the fairy. She seemed concerned about some matter, perhaps overly disappointed that she could not see the fairy. Despite the fact that she must be hungry, Elizabeth watched her sister push the stew around the bowl.

  “You have not taken a bite. I thought your bowl would be clean by now,” she teased, and gained only a tiny smile.

  “I am not that hungry,” Vivienne said and put the bowl aside. The shadows in her eyes were undeniable, though Elizabeth guessed her sister was not ready to speak of what troubled her. Vivienne had a merry heart, by nature, and was impulsive of tongue. Her inclination to silence this night was one that Elizabeth thought should be respected for its rarity.

  They had time aplenty to share tales, for Elizabeth doubted that Vivienne would wed soon. Indeed, she was of an age that might preclude her marrying at all.

  “A storyteller has arrived,” Elizabeth said, hoping to cheer Vivienne, who so loved tales. “He is not a very good storyteller, at least not thus far, for he seems most troubled about making a beginning. And he is old enough that one would think he would have had years to conquer his fear of a large company. Perhaps he is not truly a storyteller at all.” She shrugged and ate some of her stew. “We could sit on the steps, out of sight, and listen.”

  Vivienne straightened and her eyes brightened. “How old is he?”

  Elizabeth considered as she chewed. “Maybe he has seen fifty summers, or maybe he has seen forty that were challenging. I cannot say. He is old, to be sure.”

  She managed to speculate no more, for Vivienne darted down the stairs. Elizabeth trailed after her with her meal and found her sister’s face alight as she peered around the corner of the wall.

  “You know this man,” she guessed.

  “His name is Ruari Macleod,” Vivienne said with certainty.

  “Do you know where to begin, old man?” cried some stout soul in the company. “Your tale
is thin soup thus far!”

  The men roared and murmurings of discontent grew.

  “Once upon a time!” Vivienne shouted.

  Elizabeth peeked and she saw the older man’s relief at this encouragement. He waved a heavy finger in the direction of the stairs. “Aye, there would be the beginning of the tale. Once upon a time, there was a man and there was a woman…”

  “We know this tale, old man,” a man said in the crowd and a coarse laugh echoed through the hall.

  Ruari rounded upon the man with annoyance and jabbed that finger in the heckler’s direction. “You do not know this tale, you cannot know this tale, for I am here to tell it to you. It is my tale and my gift, though it was lived by another man.”

  “Then begin it in truth,” cried the unrepentant man.

  This Ruari squared his shoulders and his voice grew so loud that it filled the hall. “Once upon a time, there was a man who lost his heart to a woman of Norse lineage, a woman with hair as fair as flax and eyes as blue as the sea. She was not so lovely that wars were fought over her favor, and she was not so finely wrought that she might have been confused with a fairy queen. She was simply a woman, a fine woman with a good heart, a woman with a clear brow and vigor in her limbs, a woman who would bear him sons and love him as fervently as he loved her.”

  “I am needing such a woman myself,” another man jested, though his companions nudged him none-too-gently to silence.

  “And so this man confessed his admiration to the lady and asked her to put her hand into his. And she agreed, despite the fact that he had little to his name save his honor and his blade. He was the youngest son of five sons born to an old Highland family, and his family could grant him only their blessing. The lady loved him well enough to accept his suit and so they were wed.”

  Elizabeth sank down on the step, quietly eating her stew as she listened. She watched Vivienne, who heeded this Ruari’s tale with unexpected interest.