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

by Claire Delacroix

  “What nonsense,” Rosamunde retorted, then yelped and jumped backward, her hand over her face. “Something bit my nose!” Indeed, a red welt rose on the tip of Rosamunde’s nose with alarming speed.

  “Darg,” Elizabeth said, punctuating the information with a resounding sneeze.

  “Tell this Darg to leave me be,” Rosamunde demanded. “I have as much right to Ravensmuir’s hoard as she.”

  “She does not see the matter that way.”

  Rosamunde began to dance wildly, as if evading a swarm of angry bees. “It is down my shirt!” she shrieked. “Make it stop! Control your spriggan, Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth tilted her head to listen to something, asked a few questions, then nodded.

  Rosamunde stilled as the assault evidently halted, though she looked about herself warily. “Where is it?”

  “Upon your shoulder,” Elizabeth said. “Darg wishes to make a wager with you.”

  “Oh no.” Rosamunde protested. “The hoard cannot be returned. Everything that ever I have claimed has been sold, and even much of the resulting coin is gone.”

  “She will make a wager for a single piece, her favored piece.”

  Rosamunde’s eyes narrowed. “Which one?”

  “The silver ring you wear upon your left hand.”

  Rosamunde lifted her hand and Erik saw that a large silver ring did grace her index finger. It was a massive piece of silver, but its value was clearly more than that. Both sisters looked solemn at the mere mention of it and Padraig froze. The consternation of all of them was clear.

  It was clearly a sentimental piece, worth far more to Rosamunde than even its considerable value.

  Rosamunde’s features softened as she regarded the ring. “It was never part of the hoard,” she insisted. “There can be no wager for this ring, for your spriggan cannot have favored it.”

  Elizabeth spoke in an undertone, sneezed, then shook her head. “She desires it because it is precious to you. She calls it fit compense to demand what you value in exchange for what she valued.”

  Rosamunde laughed, though her merriment sounded forced. “I do not value this trinket!” she said, though she did not remove it from her finger.

  Vivienne and Elizabeth regarded her with sympathy. Rosamunde looked between the two of them, but when she spoke, it was of another matter. Erik guessed that the change of topic was no coincidence. “I will undertake the fool’s journey to Sutherland, though I cannot guess how long it will take us to find a favorable wind. I suppose you would prefer the port at Wick?” she asked of Erik.

  He shrugged. “Helmsdale would suit me better. Though it is smaller, it is also further south.”

  “I prefer small ports.” Rosamunde turned to Padraig, who supervised the workers once again. The cavern had been virtually picked clean while they spoke. “Padraig, you will take Erik and Vivienne to the ship, if you please, and await me there.”

  “But…” Vivienne protested.

  “I must fetch my companion,” Erik said. “I will not abandon him for he has served me faithfully.”

  “A man of honor,” Rosamunde said with a sigh, her manner mocking. Erik did not know whether she mocked herself or him, so he said nothing. “Why could you not be thirty years older, Erik Sinclair?”

  Rosamunde gave him no chance to reply before she strode toward the passageway that Erik and Vivienne had just left. Elizabeth sneezed once again, and Rosamunde seized her by the arm in passing, urging the girl to match her quick pace. “Come along, Elizabeth, you have need of a hot bath. You will not suffer so much as a cold beneath my care.”

  “But Darg…”

  “It is customary in all negotiations to leave each party time to consider his or her course,” Rosamunde said flatly. “I will find Erik’s companion more quickly than any of you might do. What is his name?”

  “Ruari Macleod. He is a good thirty years my senior,” Erik began, but managed to say no more before Rosamunde laughed aloud.

  “And that may be interesting enough. I shall see you shortly. Padraig, make all preparations to depart and ensure that no harm comes to my niece.” She seized a torch and marched Elizabeth into the corridor, even as that girl sneezed with vigor once again. The sisters called farewells to each other, then Padraig tapped Erik upon the elbow. He indicated the passageway that the men had followed, and the trio made their way toward the ship.

  Vivienne granted him a triumphant glance, as if tempting him to trust her anew. “We shall be at Blackleith more quickly this way,” she said. “How fortuitous that Rosamunde was here this night.”

  “It is not Fortune, but the new moon that brings her to this port,” Padraig said. “And the prospect of bounty to be had for the claiming.”

  “The new moon was four nights past,” Erik noted and the sailor granted him a bright glance.

  “It is new enough to serve. The wind cannot always be relied upon to do a man’s will.”

  Erik cast a wary glance at the lady and recalled her assurance that she did not bleed. If she did not lie, and she did carry his child, her circumstance would change for the worse if she found herself abandoned. Erik knew that he could not trust his urges with regard to Vivienne, so he resolved to remain in her company only until she bled again.

  That would show the truth of her circumstance. He would but wait honorably for nature to show what had been done. He would stand by whatsoever he had done thus far, though he would not touch Vivienne again.

  He would simply wait, and watch. Erik did not so much as look at the lady as he made his choice, for it would be simpler if she thought him vexed with her.

  She said she had bled two weeks past and he knew well enough that another fortnight would see her do so again, unless she bore his child. With luck, the seas would remain unruly and it would take them those two weeks to reach Sutherland. If she did not carry his son, he could leave her in the protective custody of her aunt with no regrets.

  Or at least, with so few regrets that Vivienne need know naught of them.

  What the trio did not realize as they made their way through the caverns to the small boat was that they did not travel alone. A spriggan—in fact, a spriggan who muttered curses against a certain woman—perched on Vivienne’s hood. That spriggan shivered and looked about herself balefully as they were rowed to the waiting and darkened ship. She quickly scampered over the decks and down into the hold, snickering as she hid herself in the only cabin to be found.

  Darg nestled into a fur-lined hood and cackled to herself in triumph, knowing full well who must occupy this sole cabin of luxury. She could wait for Rosamunde now and have her vengeance at leisure.

  Darg knew she would have that silver ring, as well, before all was done.

  The ship had long been loaded by the time Rosamunde returned to the caverns and the sea was rough as she was rowed to the ship. She raised a hand in triumph and indicated Ruari, whom she had clearly found in the caverns.

  Ruari himself was as pale as a bowl of milk by the time he climbed over the side of the ship, though any comment he might have made was snatched away by the wind. He clung to his saddlebag, as if it carried his salvation. Erik aided him to cross the deck, for the older man limped upon his injured ankle.

  The pair apparently had no need for Vivienne’s attentions.

  All three of them were dispatched to the hold on Rosamunde’s command as the clouds churned overhead. Rain slashed against the deck with sudden fury even before they reached that sanctuary and the waves lifted the ship like a small toy.

  Vivienne doubted that she was the only one to fear that they would be dashed upon the rocky shore. She looked back and saw Ravensmuir silhouetted against the rolling clouds, a dark shadow against the ominous sky.

  Then Rosamunde began to shout orders to her men. The wind was fierce, but it began to turn away from the shore as the storm unleashed its power. The sails were unfurled with haste at Rosamunde’s command and turned into the wind with considerable effort.

  The ship was pul
led out to sea, away from the rocks and into greater potential peril. Indeed, the sea and the wind threatened to tear it asunder, to cast the ship’s occupants into the fathomless black waters.

  Vivienne wondered whether her parents had endured such a storm before their ship had been sunk. Certainly, they must have known fear such as she felt now.

  But there was no one in whom she might share her fears on this night, let alone any soul who might offer her comfort. Erik folded himself into his cloak to sleep, as if oblivious to Vivienne’s very presence. Ruari hunkered down fast by Erik’s side and similarly buried himself in his cloak. The two men might have been alone together in some inn for all the attention they offered Vivienne, for all the concern they showed for the weather.

  Vivienne, meanwhile, sat awake, listened, and felt more alone than ever she had in all her days and nights.

  It was long indeed before Rosamunde retired to the hold, for the rudder demanded a stern hand that night.

  It was longer still before any soul noted that the silver ring of Darg’s desire graced Rosamunde’s finger no more.

  The hour was late when the Laird of Ravensmuir climbed to his own chamber. Tynan had no taste for war, and less taste for war coming close to his young kin. He did not like to have mercenaries in his hall, even those in the employ of his nephew’s keep of Kinfairlie. He also did not like mercenaries fighting within his hall, even if they merely showed displeasure with a tale.

  At least, the storyteller had had the wits to make himself scarce and the hall had gradually quieted in his absence. Tynan would not rest himself until every last mercenary fell asleep. He had sat in the hall, sipping wine from the last keg that had been brought from Bordeaux, and had found himself regretting the loss of Rosamunde.

  It was no consolation to him that a storm had been rising, no less that it now beat against the stone walls. He and Rosamunde had loved most fervidly during storms, and as a result, he ached with mingled exhaustion and yearning as he climbed the stairs. He heard the wind whip at his pennant hung over Ravensmuir’s high towers, he heard the sea lash the shore.

  So potent was Rosamunde’s presence that night that Tynan could fairly see her. He easily envisioned the woman who had claimed his heart, a woman with red-gold hair and a bold smile, a woman with daring in her eyes, a woman he knew he would never see again. In his mind’s eyes, she kissed her fingertips in silent salute, as if bidding him farewell forevermore, then turned away, the dark cloth of her cloak spinning out behind her as she fled.

  He stepped into his chamber with a heavy heart. He set down his lantern, touched a piece of kindling to it and then to the wood stacked in the brazier.

  It was then, as the wood hissed and spat, that he smelled the exotic spice of Rosamunde’s perfume.

  Tynan started, then sniffed. The scent was not conjured from memory. It was real.

  Yet it was the dead of the night. Not a sound echoed from within his own keep, only the wind whistled between the stones carried to his ears. His chamber was cold, uncommonly cold. His heart thundered, as if he had heard some trespasser within the walls.

  There was a cold draft.

  The scent rode that chilly current of air. No common scent, that. It was the perfume that haunted his dreams and its summons had Tynan holding a lantern high, crossing the expanse of his chamber.

  The hidden door to the labyrinth beneath Ravensmuir hung open on the far side of his chamber. Tynan halted to stare, for he knew he had left it secured. The secret opening yawned wide and dark, the scent of the sea rising from its shadows. Wet footsteps stained the floor, and even though they dried, he knew the size and shape of that boot print well.

  Rosamunde had been here. He caught his breath at the tantalizing truth of it, though she was surely already gone. He had lingered below too long and inadvertently missed her.

  But Tynan had to know for certain. He was unable to decide whether he was more thrilled or irked by her presence. If nothing else, they would have a rousing argument in the caverns deep beneath Ravensmuir. He had granted six stallions from his own stables to ensure she never crossed his threshold again.

  But Rosamunde had returned.

  In the secret corners of his heart, the Laird of Ravensmuir was glad.

  Tynan gripped that lantern and stepped into the darkness. He shivered on the top step, as always he did, then descended with purpose into the hidden caverns. There was a veritable labyrinth beneath his ancestral estate, a labyrinth that had once held a fearsome treasury of religious relics and treasures. The most precious had been auctioned, for Tynan had no desire to continue what had once been his family trade, and he had thought the rest unworthy of attention.

  It soon became clear that Rosamunde believed otherwise. Tynan halted and held his lantern high to examine a small chamber. It was empty, and he knew that it had contained at least one ancient crate when last he had come this way.

  Tynan hurried down the stairs, his footsteps falling more and more quickly as he discovered more empty chambers. The caverns beneath his keep had been pillaged while his gaze had been turned away.

  Tynan reached the largest cavern and halted, aghast. Here there had been a number of crates, their contents unknown and untroubled. They had not been of an appearance to tempt a second look, for they had been old and broken, their wood stained from water and mold. It had been easy to believe Rosamunde’s assertion that they were empty or nearly thus, that it was not worth the trouble to be rid of them.

  Tynan supposed he should have been more vigorous in ensuring that they were checked, that they contained nothing of value, but Rosamunde—who knew these chambers better than he—had dismissed their contents as worthless rubble.

  He had trusted her, and he had been deceived.

  He had been robbed.

  He had been a fool.

  Tynan cursed and kicked a stone. His yearning was replaced by anger. The stone clattered against the wall, then fell through a doorway. He heard it bounce down another staircase, then land with a splash.

  If there had been value here, he could have used it to secure Ravensmuir’s future in these dark times.

  Now it was gone.

  Tynan cursed anew. Since the death of George, the Earl of March, the year before, many blades had been raised to challenge the regional authority of Archibald Douglas. The death of Tynan’s brother Roland had not been timely, for it had left his inexperienced nephew Alexander as Laird of Kinfairlie just when their family lands had faced their greatest challenge.

  Tynan had expended much coin and effort in keeping war from the gates of both Ravensmuir and Kinfairlie, hoping that they might ride out the storm until stability reigned anew.

  But stability had proven elusive and the army in his employ—the one that kept marauding forces from Douglas, Dunbar and Abernethy from his portcullis—had proven expensive. To his shame, Tynan found himself wishing for the lost revenue of relics, even of relics of dubious provenance.

  His treasury was nigh bare and Rosamunde had taken the last chance of replenishing it. Even if she had known that Ravensmuir itself hung in the balance, Tynan doubted that she would have cared. She had always mocked his affection for what she called an old pile of stones, had accused him at the end of caring more for Ravensmuir than for her.

  But Ravensmuir was his legacy and his responsibility, the repository of his family’s heritage. The holding was something he had been taught to value.

  He had sacrificed everything to that responsibility, and for naught. The treaty that rested unsigned in his treasury, the treaty that made his very blood boil, made a mockery of his sacrifice. It would cost him the remainder of all he held dear.

  Tynan had been a thorn in the side of Archibald Douglas too many a time for that man to have any inclination to offer palatable terms. By the treaty’s terms, Ravensmuir would be left standing, but the lairdship would be stripped of authority. When Tynan had protested the terms, Douglas had made them worse.

  The lairdship would continue if and onl
y if Tynan got a son upon the Douglas bride to be chosen for him.

  But Tynan had made his nephew Malcolm his legal heir to secure Ravensmuir’s succession. For Ravensmuir, he had been prepared to wed a Douglas bride, but he was not prepared to deny his nephew’s legacy for any price. He had surrendered Rosemunde for no gain.

  He cursed his own folly and pivoted, marching back to his chamber. He could have used even the smallest measure of coin to mitigate the terms of this agreement, but thanks to Rosamunde, it was gone.

  The caverns were silent, the source of the beguiling perfume fading with every moment. Tynan climbed the stairs back to his chamber. He closed the secret portal in his room, leaning back against it as he considered the fire in the brazier, the comfort of this chamber.

  It was then that Tynan spied what he had missed earlier. Within the sanctuary of his curtained bed, something glimmered. It looked like a star, spinning captive within the shadows of the bed, but it could be no star.

  Suspicious beyond all, Tynan stepped closer. He lifted his lantern higher and the object sparkled, as if tempting him onward. It was silver, it was round, it glimmered against the indigo silk.

  It was a ring.

  But not just any ring. It was the ring he had given to Rosamunde. It was the ring Tynan’s father had put upon his mother’s hand, the ring Merlyn had granted to Ysabella as a sign of his protection.

  There could not be two rings such as this in existence. It was silver, large enough to fill a woman’s knuckle. It was graced with three stars and three names, the names of the three kings who had visited the babe Jesus in Bethlehem.

  Rosamunde had worn it on her left index finger.

  It was the sole gift Tynan had ever given to her. There had been precious little he could offer to a woman who roamed the seas and claimed the most elegant goods for herself, but he had given her this and he had believed that she had realized the import of his gesture.

  Perhaps she had understood, for she had taken no small risk to return it to him thus, to spurn him thus.