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

by Claire Delacroix

  Like looking into the depths of Finvarra’s dark eyes.

  Had he truly dropped it by accident? Or had he schemed for her to claim it, for some nefarious purpose of his own?

  Elizabeth shivered. She had no doubt that there would be adventure of a kind if she surrendered to the Fae king, but she was certain it would offer little pleasure to her. He tried to beguile her, no more than that, to tempt her to imprison herself.

  She suspected that if ever she went to him, she would be lost to the mortal realm forever. That was one thing if there was no man for her to love, but so long as Rafael walked the earth, Elizabeth wanted to discover if there could be more between them. She sighed, knowing that one day she would be compelled to pay her debt to Finvarra. Perhaps she would go to him when she was an ancient crone and her beloved was gone.

  Assuming that she ever won a beloved.

  She sighed and noted that the sun was rising.

  The funeral for the fallen mercenary at Ravensmuir would be held before noon. Malcolm had said as much.

  Elizabeth decided immediately that she would attend. With any fortune at all, her family would linger abed this morning after their late night and she would be able to evade Alexander’s watchful eye.

  After all, there was no telling how long Rafael might remain in Scotland, but he would stay for the funeral of his comrade at least. This might be her last chance to speak to him and plead her case.

  Elizabeth would do so in no uncertain terms.

  The mist was still clinging to the ground when Father Malachy saddled his palfrey. She was a more humble creature than the destriers of Ravensmuir, but she was a sturdy mare and a patient one. She was a dapple, with darker spots on her rump and her face, and dark socks, aptly named Soot. Soot was not inclined to high spirits or tantrums, and both endured what had to be done and welcomed life’s pleasures. Her temperament suited the priest well.

  Father Malachy smiled as he patted Soot’s rump. She nickered and rolled the bit beneath her tongue, a routine protest that she made whenever she was saddled. There was no heat in it, just a gentle reminder to him that she would rather be without it. Doubtless she would rather be grazing in the pastures or nosing in her feed. Father Malachy felt no guilt. The journey was not so far to Ravensmuir, though it was early, and she would be well-tended in the stable there while he said a prayer for that lost mercenary.

  He wished he had been present to offer last rites, but on the other hand, doubted there would have been any opportunity to administer them. Such was the way of war, and Father Malachy was blessed to be far from it most of the time.

  He took a deep breath, welcoming the tang of the sea in the air, and guessed that the day would be fine once the mist burned off. The sky was clearing, and he could already feel that the sun would be warm. From a purely practical standpoint, it would be good to see the rest of the dead at Ravensmuir buried on this day, since the weather was turning yet warmer.

  He was leading Soot to the mounting block when someone called to him.

  “Father Malachy!”

  The priest turned to find Lady Elizabeth striding toward him, leading her own mount by the reins. Demoiselle was a magnificent mare, at least half again the size of Soot, as black as ebony and high-stepping, as well. That mare’s nostrils flared as she walked, and she fought the bit with a passion Soot had never shown. Lady Elizabeth did not even appear to notice, so accustomed was she to this horse.

  “Might I ride with you to Ravensmuir?” Lady Elizabeth wore a dark kirtle and nary a jewel upon her person. Her veil was dark and her circlet plain, her gloves dark, and her cloak the plainest one he believed she owned.

  He blinked, realizing she had dressed for a funeral.

  At the same time, he was amazed to see the difference in her manner despite her somber garb. There was color in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes. She had been wan for so long that he had feared her fatally ill. Though she still was too slender to his thinking, on this day, it appeared that Lady Elizabeth made a recovery.

  “I am not certain that you should do so,” he said with care, though he was inclined to grant her any whim when she appeared to be finally in better health.

  “Indeed? I thought that one of Malcolm’s comrades was to be laid to rest on this day.”

  “Indeed, he is.”

  “Does Alexander mean to attend, then?” The lady demurely dropped her gaze when she referred to her oldest brother.

  Father Malachy fought an almost-forgotten awareness of her mischievous nature, for her lightheartedness had been in absence in recent years. Again, he was heartened, though he wondered what jest she might make in this.

  He chose his words with care, wanting to be diplomatic. “Nay, he does not.”

  There was no mistaking the twinkle in Elizabeth’s eyes when she glanced up. God in Heaven, but she was a fetching maiden! “Surely, a man who died in the defense of Ravensmuir should be remembered with honor?”

  When she put it that way, Father Malachy could hardly argue, but he had to defend the Laird of Kinfairlie. “Do not make mischief, Lady Elizabeth,” he counseled softly. “The Laird reconciled with his brother only yesterday. It will take time for him to embrace Malcolm’s former fellows, if indeed he ever does.”

  “I understand completely,” the lady agreed, far too readily to set the priest’s mind at ease. “And indeed, I think of diplomacy not of mischief.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Indeed.” She was resolute in a way he also recalled. “I believe someone should be there to represent Kinfairlie, for we all do welcome the defense of Ravensmuir and the sacrifices made in so doing.” She stood taller, that twinkle replaced with an air of command that suited her well. “And so I shall see our family duty served, Father, in my brother’s stead.”

  Father Malachy hesitated.

  “No one can find fault in my accompanying a priest to a funeral at my brother’s holding,” the lady pointed out, and again, her way of expressing the situation did sound most innocent.

  Father Malachy considered her, standing so regally before him with her magnificent steed, and could not help but smile with pride. She had grown into quite a woman, and she would make some fortunate man a formidable wife.

  “Your foresight does you credit, Lady Elizabeth,” he said with a bow. “We shall ride forth together to Ravensmuir, and return to Kinfairlie by midday.”

  He caught a glimpse of her triumphant smile.

  Lady Elizabeth had a scheme, Father Malachy would wager. For his part, though, it was enough to see her so restored as to have conjured one.

  Thursday dawned a fine summer morning, and the priest came early from Kinfairlie to bless the dead. Lady Elizabeth accompanied him, her garb so severe that she resembled a sorrowful angel even more than before. The sight of her made Rafael’s heart leap, but he resolutely kept his distance.

  It would have taken a less observant man than he to fail to note the quick glance that Catriona and Malcolm exchanged, never mind the way that Catriona hastened to draw her husband’s sister to her side. Rafael saw the flash of Elizabeth’s eyes and knew that it had not been her intent to be so vigilantly defended.

  As much as he might have wished to have one more moment of her companionship, he knew better than to tease himself with what could not ever be. He stood in the company of his fellows, reminding himself of what he was and what he would always be, as the priest conducted the service.

  Reynaud was buried on that point of land where they had all prayed with Malcolm’s wife just days before, beneath what would be the floor of the new chapel, just as Malcolm had promised. Several of the men in the Sable League were visibly affected by this honor shown to their comrade, though Rafael would never have believed before he saw it that Gunter could shed a tear.

  Rafael watched the roil of the sea as the priest gave his final blessings. He strove to avoid his awareness that the water in the sunlight was the same clear green as Elizabeth’s eyes. It sparkled in the sunlight with much the same
vigor, and he knew the sea was as unpredictable yet constant as the maiden who tormented him.

  It seemed Elizabeth would haunt him, whether he was in her company or not.

  He told himself that was better than a foolish choice on her part casting a shadow over the rest of her days.

  When the priest was done and Reynaud was buried, Catriona placed a flower on the freshly turned earth. The entire company stood together in the wind for a long silent moment. Doubtless they all considered that they would be fortunate indeed to be so well remembered. Doubtless none of them were in a hurry to leave Reynaud alone.

  “A man must have a tribute,” Amaury said abruptly, breaking the silence.

  “Reynaud has had a fine tribute in this,” Gunter noted. “To rest within a new chapel in a holding claimed by a comrade is a finer end than most of us can hope to see.” There was a murmur of agreement to this.

  “I meant some words to mark his passing,” Amaury said. “The blessing is all well and good, but this might have been the first time Reynaud heard it.”

  They laughed together, clearly discomfited by the truth in this statement in the presence of the women and the priest. To Rafael’s surprise, Elizabeth stepped forward.

  “What did he like best?” she asked. “If he favored ale, you might salute his memory with a drink.”

  Rafael bit back a smile, for Reynaud’s pleasures had been earthy ones. Elizabeth’s innocence was revealed in her suggestion, and he was tempted—if only for a moment—to do as she desired. Aye, he would relish granting her that education.

  Louis shoved a hand through his hair. “Not enough whores in these parts for that,” he muttered, his words sufficiently low that Elizabeth was not intended to hear them.

  Rafael could not help but chuckle, along with his fellows. Catriona averted her gaze and laid claim to Elizabeth’s elbow, clearly intending to lead the younger woman back to the keep. Malcolm frowned, and Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed.

  She lifted her chin, undaunted, her gaze flying to meet his own. “What of tales? Did he have a favored one?”

  The men’s expressions lit as one. They turned in unison to Rafael, and Amaury wagged a finger at him. “There is one, and you must be the teller.”

  Rafael frowned. The last thing he wished to do was tell a tale, particularly that one, particularly as he knew that Elizabeth favored tales. He did not want to draw her eye more than he had. On the other hand, that anticipation that lit her features made him want to please her. The woman could have been a siren, sent to lure him into dangerous temptation. He did not have to look to know that Malcolm disapproved.

  “I dislike telling tales and you all know it well,” he said gruffly.

  “But still you told the one he loved the best,” Ranulf insisted. “Tell it again, in Reynaud’s memory!”

  They all entreated Rafael, though he was resolute.

  “Only a heartless mercenary would fail to honor a fallen comrade,” Elizabeth said softly in challenge.

  Again, she provoked him.

  Again, her ploy was successful. It would only be a tale, after all, and she might find a lesson about the nature of men in it.

  “Far be it from me to confirm to all and sundry that my heart is gone in truth,” Rafael said. He stood up then and braced his hands on his hips, avoiding Elizabeth’s shining gaze. “Once, there was a king,” he began and his comrades applauded heartily.

  Elizabeth’s smile could have illuminated the darkest hall.

  Rafael ignored her. “Once there was a king,” he repeated, raising his voice. “A king in distant Persia, a king who loved his wife most ardently. She was beautiful and he was content to put all other women aside to honor his lady wife. His brother, too, had wed well, or so the brothers believed, and they alone in all their kingdom were men faithful to their wives. And so it might have continued if dreadful tidings had not come to their ears.”

  He granted a hard look to Elizabeth, though she needed no encouragement from him to pay close attention to the tale. “An advisor to the king reported that his brother’s wife had a lover, another man in the court. The king did not believe this tale and attributed it to jealousy of the lady’s privilege in his court, but he chose to investigate the matter. To his dismay, he discovered not only his brother’s wife in the arms of her lover, but his own wife in the act of loving another man.”

  “Whore,” said Gunter.

  “Harlot,” agreed Tristan.

  Guilia lifted her chin and gave Giorgio a hard look. He caught her hand in his and pulled her closer to his side, which clearly pleased her.

  “The king was devastated by this betrayal of his trust and his love, as was his brother. Both women were executed in the public square for their infidelity, for this was what their law decreed should be done with women who did not honor their marital vows.”

  Elizabeth caught her breath.

  Rafael considered the ground. “I confess that the king was so dismayed that he might have taken to warfare, never again pledging himself to take a wife, but there was the matter of his desires. He was a young and vigorous man, and his needs were considerable. He chose then to love, but not to trust. And so he charged his Grand Vizier—for this is what these Persians called the man in closest service to the king—to find him a new bride each and every day. He would wed a virgin every day, savor her that night, then have her executed the morning after the wedding. In this way, he reasoned, he would never be betrayed by a woman again.”

  Rafael heard Elizabeth gasp but he ignored her. Perhaps his tale would teach her something of the nature of men. “And so it was done, as the king decreed. The stones in the public square turned red from the blood of so many executed wives. In fact, in a matter of months, he had wedded and executed so many virgins that there were few left to be found in all of his kingdom. He commanded the Grand Vizier to search beyond his borders for new brides, but the Grand Vizier believed this to be unlikely to earn the favor of his neighboring kings.

  “They argued as they seldom did, for the Grand Vizier thought the king’s course to be most unwise. The Grand Vizier feared that his life would be the next to be sacrificed, and so it was that he was saddened when he returned to his own home that night.

  “It happened that the Grand Vizier had a beautiful daughter of his own, the joy of his life. She was yet unmarried, for he had not found a man he believe to be worthy of her. Her name was Scheherazade.”

  “Scheherazade.”

  Rafael heard Elizabeth repeat the name in a whisper. He glanced up and that he had her complete attention, a sight that gave him more pleasure than it should have done. He frowned, stared at the ground and continued his tale.

  “Scheherazade saw immediately that her father was troubled and drew the entire tale from him in short order. She served his meal to him and ensured his comfort, all the while thinking about what she had learned. In fact, she lay awake all of that night, wondering what she could do to help her father, and by the dawn, she knew.

  “Scheherazade dared not tell her father of her plan, for she knew he would forbid it, but held her tongue until he was gone to the palace. She followed on fleet feet, coming into the audience hall just as the king demanded of his Grand Vizier which maiden he should wed on this day. Before her father could reply, Scheherazade stepped forward and offered herself as the king’s new bride. Once the king has set his gaze upon her, he was captivated and Scheherazade’s father could not contest his lord and master’s desire.

  “And so the pair were wed, with great feasting and merriment, and so Scheherazade was adorned and taken to the king’s bed that night. He claimed her maidenhead, then slumbered with his head on her shoulder. Scheherazade knew that with the dawn, her life would end. When her new husband stirred, she took his head into her lap and stroked his brow. She offered to tell him a story, and the king, intrigued, agreed.”

  “This is the good part,” Ranulf said, giving Gunter a nudge.

  “A scheming piece of work she was to be sure,” tha
t man agreed.

  “She knew what was best for him better than he knew himself,” Louis said. “I should be glad of a woman so gifted.”

  “You should be glad of a woman at all,” Amaury teased and once again the comrades laughed together.

  “But what story did she tell?” Elizabeth demanded.

  Rafael smiled. “She told the story of the fisherman and the djinn.” The men applauded this announcement, their anticipation clear. “Once, said Scheherazade, there was a fisherman of humble means. He had a boat and he sailed out to fish each and every day. Each and every day, he cast his net four times and four times only. Each and every night, he returned to the harbor and sold what he had caught. It was a hard life and as he grew older, he wondered how long he might continue with it.”

  “Fishing is not the sole trade that leaves a man with such a question,” Ranulf muttered and his fellows nodded agreement.

  Rafael raised his voice to continue, ignoring them and their doubts. “One day, he sailed out as always he did, but the first time he cast his net, he caught only a dead goat. This was troubling, but he cast his net again, refusing to be discouraged. The second time, the net held only an old pot filled with mud when he hauled it back into the boat. He could not believe his ill fortune, but cast his net a third time. The third time, the net held only broken pottery shards when he pulled it into the boat. The fisherman was worried indeed, for he feared his family would have naught to eat that night. He said a prayer and cast his net one more time. This time, it was heavy when he began to haul it in, and he was encouraged that he might have made up all with this catch. To his surprise, though, there were no fish in his net, only a large copper jar.