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

by Claire Delacroix

  “What of her? Surely she is content to remain in Ireland and leave us to our merrymaking.”

  So, the King of the Dead was unfaithful to his wife. Rafael could not find a shred of surprise within himself at that.

  Yet, this king coveted Elizabeth. It was clear that he wished her as a mistress, not a bride, which was an outrageous indignity for a lady of her birth and beauty. Rafael found himself bristling on Elizabeth’s behalf.

  The king continued. “I fear Una has invoked a great reckoning to ensure that I linger at her side alone.” The king grimaced even as his companion laughed.

  “She will not see that readily done. Has she not tried before?”

  “But not with such ardor as this.”

  “She has compelled the portals to begin closing?” The queen’s astonishment was clear, and Rafael guessed she had thought herself more powerful than this Una.

  “I see her hand in this, though I do not know the details. Who can say what she has wagered to see this done?”

  The queen was not reassured by this in the least. “But how long until the portals close? How much time have I to choose a mortal to keep as my own?”

  “You need not have one.”

  “I like their vigor and their fear.”

  The king inhaled deeply then exhaled slowly, as if he could smell the future or its truth was in the very air. “In seven years, all portals between the worlds will be gone, and all will be sealed forever on one side or the other, regardless of their kind.”

  “That is clear if there is not another tithe to be paid,” the queen snapped.

  In seven years, if this king did not take vengeance upon Elizabeth, she would be safe. It seemed overlong to Rafael’s thinking.

  The king straightened but did not give any other sign he had heard the queen. “I sense that the portals at Kinfairlie and Ravensmuir will close soon, for they seem less welcoming than once they did. Less tangible.”

  That was better news, to Rafael’s thinking. A part of him wished to ensure Elizabeth’s safety though he knew it was not his responsibility and doing as much would only encourage her expectations. If the portals would be closed soon, he could leave without much guilt.

  “This is why you sense Una’s influence,” the queen guessed.

  Rafael understood that this king had fancied mortal women in this vicinity before, that perhaps Una knew of the king’s plan for Elizabeth and did not find it appealing.

  The king looked around himself warily, and Rafael gave keen attention to the course of the brush over Rayo’s rump. He could fairly feel the king surveying him. “Certainly, much has changed in this abode,” the king murmured.

  “Change, I am told, is everywhere,” the queen said, her tone dismissive. “I see no reason why Kinfairlie and Ravensmuir should change sooner than other places. I like to cross through these portals!”

  “Did you never hear the old tale of Kinfairlie?” the king asked, taking the queen’s elbow and guiding her toward the last stall. Rafael could see the golden light emanating from that gap in the wall, but he narrowed his eyes and ignored its gleam. He listened intently. “They still tell it in that hall, for the women favor the notion of a maiden being stolen away by a lover of our kind, one who leaves naught but a red, red rose wrought of ice in exchange for his bride.”

  The queen laughed. “I remember it well, but I thought it merely a tale.”

  “A tale with its roots in truth,” the king replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  The king raised a hand. “It is of no import to you any longer.” When the queen might have argued that, he shook a finger at her. “What is of import is that these mortals neither fully believe the tale, nor know the rest of it.”

  “The rest?” The lady laughed lightly, clearly thinking the king but recounted a tale to amuse her. “What more can there be?”

  The king chuckled, even as they two progressed regally into that last stall. “I shall tell you all of it sometime. For the moment, you only need know that I, too, have not only a red, red rose that will prove itself to be made of ice, but that I have chosen the maiden who I will claim in exchange for it. Further, I shall do so before the portal to Kinfairlie closes forever, regardless of my wife’s ploys. Her scheme will only see my prize sealed in Fae with me forevermore.”

  Rafael froze, knowing with terrible certainty who that maiden would be.

  Just as surely as he knew the responsibility to defend her was not his own.

  “And then, I suppose, you will leave my court and return to your own in Ireland, just as Una desires.”

  “Of course, for I will have collected what I came to find.” The king chuckled. “Though Una will not be pleased to see herself outwitted.”

  Rafael glanced up at the king’s dark tone, for it filled him with foreboding. He saw the king step back into the corridor, his gaze sharp, and feared his curiosity would be observed. His heart skipped, but the king was looking down the length of the stables, past Rafael. A smile of satisfaction curved his lips at whatever he saw.

  “One last glimpse,” he murmured. “For the moment.”

  “She might not be willingly captured,” the queen said, her tone waspish.

  “On the contrary,” the king purred. “She will choose my court, and she will choose it soon.”

  “I do not believe it!”

  “Then let us make a small wager...” In the blink of an eye, the king and queen were gone. The music faded steadily and the demons in the rafters scampered down to the last stall with remarkable haste. It was clear they feared to be left behind.

  The golden light diminished, then was extinguished abruptly. A door might have been closed, for Rafael could not hear the music any longer. It even felt warmer in the stables than it had.

  But Rafael did not care for their departure, for he had followed the king’s gaze.

  Elizabeth was striding toward him, her eyes alight and her rosy lips curved in a smile. Her cheeks were flushed and her smile broadened at the sight of him.

  Rafael could not believe she would choose that other realm over this one, whether she called it Fae or Hell. He could not believe that she would be the one to place the rose that was the bride price on the threshold. He could not believe that the dark king was right.

  That should have reassured him. It should have given him the confidence to leave Ravensmuir and Scotland, convinced that she would live long and be well.

  But he knew that she owed that monarch a boon, for she had broken the rules of his court, and that the dark king had some hold over her besides. It was from her home, Kinfairlie, where maidens were said to choose suitors from this dark realm and trade their futures for a red, red rose wrought of ice.

  Elizabeth was not his concern, but in that moment, Rafael wished she might be.

  That was the peril of encountering an angel: it made a man wish for what he could not claim as his own.

  Rafael watched Elizabeth duck into the stall where her mare was tethered, unable to shake his fear that she would be lost. He heard her murmur to the magnificent mare, clearly of the fabled lineage of Ravensmuir’s black destriers. The beast had been bestowed upon her as a gift, if not an entitlement, while he had paid for Rayo with hard coin, earned by his own sweat and blood.

  Elizabeth was a nobleman’s daughter, raised in privilege and advantage, a childhood as different from his own as could be.

  There was the key to it all. Rafael realized then that it was no accident that it had been Franz who haunted him, or that Franz had reminded him of Ursula.

  Ursula, too, had been a nobleman’s daughter. Ursula had believed herself in love with Franz and had been convinced that he loved her. Against her father’s express permission, Ursula had left the life she had known to follow the Sable League and be with her beloved.

  It was like a tale told by a troubadour, save that Franz had been no gallant hero. He had been what he was, a mercenary and a rough man of war, a man of simple pleasures and robust appetites. Perhap
s he had loved Ursula, but he had been incapable of making her happy.

  Instead, Franz had destroyed her.

  Rafael frowned as he brushed down Rayo with new vigor. He would never forget how the light had died in Ursula’s eyes, how she had come to realize that their rough circumstances were not a situation to be endured for the moment, but would be the fact of her entire life. He recalled her dismay when Franz had gone to the whores after she conceived his child. He saw again her despair when Franz arrived late and drunk at the tent after she had struggled for two days in childbirth, then passed out beside her. Rafael recalled her slow and silent tears, and though it had been said that Ursula died in the birthing of her child, Rafael knew she had died of a broken heart.

  She had lost the will to survive, when Franz showed his truth and her babe died, both in the same night.

  The choice between himself and Franz had been an easy one, after Ursula’s demise.

  Better you than me, indeed.

  Rafael would not see Elizabeth so destroyed. He would not do the same disservice to this alluring woman. He would not see Elizabeth lose her spirit and her hope, much less see her caught in the mire of war and battle camps. It would be better, far better, that she thought him indifferent to her, better to do her heart a minor injury now so that she could choose another man after he was gone. He would not leave her pining for his return, or hoping for what could never be. He knew he could not frighten her, but she was not slow of wit. He would persuade her, holding back no ugly truth that might aid his cause.

  It would be for the greater good, if not the honorable choice, to ruin her regard for him. It was only a matter of time, after all, before she turned from him in disgust. They had naught in common, after all, this bold daughter of a nobleman and he a mercenary of no lineage.

  Save an ability to see these demons she called the Fae, but Rafael thought that no real endorsement.

  Why not hasten the process of eliminating her interest in him? He was certain he could manage the deed on this day.

  And the sooner Rafael left Ravensmuir, the better for both of them.

  Rafael’s expression changed as Elizabeth approached, and she knew he tried to hide his thoughts from her. She had glimpsed his surprise and pleasure that she stepped into the corridor and knew that to be the truth of his reaction. It was interesting that she had thought him utterly inscrutable just a day before, but now she saw the nuances of change in his expression.

  Her understanding of him could only improve with time.

  She spoke to Demoiselle, reassured that the mare was both well-tended and seemingly content. The horse nibbled at Elizabeth’s braid, then returned to her feed with satisfaction.

  When she left the stall, Rafael was out of sight, although she could hear that he was brushing down a steed. She walked toward him, not hiding the sound of her progress, and paused at the end of the stall to watch Rafael tend a large chestnut stallion.

  Since it was a destrier, she assumed it was Rafael’s own warhorse. Rafael’s hair was still damp on his collar and he had changed his garb after bathing. His sword was gone, only the dagger in his belt, and his boots were buffed to a shine again. His chemise looked brilliantly white against his skin and he had pushed up the sleeves. The lace at the neck was untied, as if he had dressed in haste, and he wore a dark tabard with that same bit of gold embroidery over his heart.

  His expression was wary when he glanced up at her, but she did not care. He might have doubts of his own merit, but Elizabeth knew she would prove him to be mistaken. He returned to the task of brushing his steed, and she knew it was no accident he turned his back upon her.

  Nor was she deterred.

  Even if she had not seen the ribbons entangled overhead, she would have known there was a bond between they two that could not be denied. Since meeting Rafael, Elizabeth felt fully alive for the first time in years. The world seemed filled with color and heat, as it had not since Finvarra had beckoned to her.

  If winning the love of Rafael was the way to break the Fae king’s hold over her, Elizabeth was doubly determined to succeed. It would be like an old tale, one in which mortal love triumphed over all obstacles, as if she and Rafael were destined to twine their lives together. The notion thrilled her as much as his kiss had done.

  “I thought you might have departed already,” she said when he did not speak. His destrier was not so dark as the stallions of Ravensmuir, with a white blaze on his brow. She stoked his rump and he nickered.

  “You should pretend that I have, for I will be gone soon enough.” The horse, to Elizabeth’s thinking, was already brushed down thoroughly and in no need of further attention. Its coat gleamed even now and it nosed at the bucket of feed, swishing its tail in contentment. Still Rafael brushed it.

  “Do you not mean to remain in service to Malcolm?”

  Rafael shook his head. “It is not my nature to remain in one place.”

  “But I heard that some of the others would stay.”

  “It will not last,” he said, his tone pragmatic. “We are too accustomed to journeying all the time. Ranulf may stay, for he has lost part of his hand.” He straightened as if to consider this. “It will not be easy for him to earn his way with such an injury.”

  “Will you not linger to ensure his wound heals?”

  Rafael shot a glance at her. “I am certain there are other healers in this land.”

  “What of your own injury? Should you not rest to see it healed?”

  “I never have so catered to a wound yet, and they have all healed.” He frowned, considering the horse, then bent to check the beast’s hooves. They looked to be in fine condition and the shoes were perfect.

  “He is a fine steed,” Elizabeth ventured to say.

  “Not of the ilk of the destriers of Ravensmuir, but Rayo is a fine stallion.” Rafael stood and patted the horse’s rump, murmuring to him as he passed to the other side and checked the other hooves. “He has served me well.”

  “Rayo,” Elizabeth echoed, trying to say the name as Rafael did. “Is that in your mother tongue?”

  “It is Castilian,” Rafael acknowledged. “For ‘lightning.’”

  Elizabeth smiled. “He is so fast as that, then?”

  Rafael nodded, his pride in his horse undisguised. Elizabeth knew then that they had something in common, for she was mightily fond of horses.

  “Then you know of the destriers of Ravensmuir?”

  Rafael shot a glance at her. “All know of them. I was surprised to find that they were not here.”

  “Malcolm brought them to Kinfairlie before he departed, so they could be stabled there. My mare, Demoiselle, is of the lineage.”

  “I thought as much.”

  So, he had noted her steed. Elizabeth felt ridiculously pleased. “She has born three foals now, all fine stallions.”

  “So your brother continues to breed them at Kinfairlie?” There was suspicion in his tone that Elizabeth could not explain.

  “Alexander manages the pedigree in Malcolm’s stead.”

  “Perhaps he means to keep them.”

  “He keeps them in trust and breeds as he believes Malcolm would.”

  “But Malcolm is returned to Ravensmuir and has not his legacy of the steeds.”

  Elizabeth bit her lip, feeling caught between her brothers. “I believe Alexander awaits Malcolm’s request.”

  Rafael met her gaze over the back of his destrier, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So, a man must request the return of what is legally his own? How odd that the Laird of Kinfairlie rode out the first week after our arrival to return Ravensmuir’s seal to Malcolm. I thought it might have burned his hand to hold it so long as he had. And yet, the horses, of far greater value, remain at Kinfairlie.” He held her gaze for a moment, then returned to his labor.

  Elizabeth frowned, disliking the sense that Alexander had been unfair, in Rafael’s view. “They have been estranged,” she began, wanting to defend both brothers.

  Rafa
el responded so quickly that Elizabeth sensed she had once again responded exactly as he had wished. “Aye, because Alexander knows what Malcolm has become and does not approve,” he said. “So, he returned the lesser of Malcolm’s legacy, the seal and ring that would make this barren piece of land his own, but kept the horses, which surely generate much revenue. It is a telling choice.”

  “Perhaps he but waits for the stable to be restored.”

  “The stable was the sole building that stood on this holding when we arrived.”

  Elizabeth found she could not argue with that, for it was true. “I must ask him of this.”

  “Are you bold as that?”

  “Of course! They are both my brothers, and they are both good men.”

  Rafael considered her for so long that Elizabeth thought he might argue her conclusion. To her surprise, he asked a question that was utterly unrelated. “Tell me of these Fae.”

  “I thought you believed them to be demons.”

  “I might be mistaken. And of all those in this place, you seem to have the greatest experience of their nature.”

  Elizabeth was encouraged that he would heed her words. “They are from another realm, one that is both similar to ours and different. They are linked to the land and sometimes said to live beneath it. They witness the cycle of life and death, but are immortal themselves. They have a joy that is unrivaled among mortals, and are known to sing and dance and make merry.”

  “But you said they kept their sworn word?”

  “It is one thing they seem to hold holy. They are mischievous though and fond of riddles. They will make bargains that include tricks by which the wager can be undone, oft in ways mortals do not anticipate.”

  “They sound like barons I have served,” Rafael muttered and she caught a glint of humor in his eyes.

  “There are portals between the realms at certain places, oft places they have been strong before mortals claimed the land.”

  Rafael glanced up at that. “Like Ravensmuir?” There was no real question in his voice.