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

by Claire Delacroix

  He spread his cloak on the floor of the chamber, humbled by her confession of love. He was not a man who uttered such pretty words readily, but he would show her the fullness of his heart with his deeds.

  She came to him, eyes alight, and touched one hand to his cheek. She looked into his eyes then brushed her lips across his, her touch fleeting and achingly sweet. “You gave me the right to choose,” she whispered, sliding her lips over his once more. Rafael closed his eyes, savoring the sweet softness of her, the feel of her breath against his skin. “And I chose you, Rafael Rodriguez. I care not where we live or how. I would be with you.”

  Rafael smiled and slanted his mouth over hers, claiming her lips for a kiss that made his heart thunder.

  When they parted, she examined his hand, wiping the blood from the cuts across each finger. “They will heal well enough,” he murmured, dismissive of such details. Elizabeth was safe, she was in his arms, and he wanted to taste every increment of her skin to reassure himself after so nearly losing her. She seemed to feel similarly, for she pressed herself against him and ran her hands over him repeatedly.

  “You might have lost your fingertips,” she chided.

  “I would have lost more if you had been trapped there for all time,” he said with heat, earning himself another passionate kiss. Rafael found himself backed into the wall of the chamber, the object of her amorous assault.

  He had no complaints but caught her around the waist and lifted her against himself, kissing her so deeply that they both were out of breath when he lifted his head.

  Then Rafael smiled. “The marks upon your flesh are fading before my eyes,” he whispered, well pleased that the dark king’s hold over his beloved was broken.

  Elizabeth smiled up at him, appearing to be equally pleased. “Because my champion saved me, just as I knew he would.”

  “You do not ask of my insignia,” Rafael murmured, bending to kiss beneath her ear. He unbound the lace in her hair and spread her hair over her shoulders, spearing his fingers through its silken length.

  “You told me you did not have one.”

  “I did not, not then.”

  She drew back slightly, wonder in her eyes. “You went to claim our Valencia,” she whispered, echoing his words and only now understanding them. She seized his tabard, examining the symbols upon it. “You are in the service of some lord! Where is this?”

  “Guess.”

  “Three pomegranates.”

  “Three potent seeds,” he confirmed and she smiled up at him.

  “And an encircling braid.” She frowned at him, as she traced the circle on his tabard, mystified.

  Rafael lifted his left wrist, showing her the bracelet he had made of her hair. “A mark of my lady’s favor.”

  “You did pull my hair! I thought I had dreamed as much” Elizabeth laughed, then eyed his tabard again as she nibbled her lip. “A crescent moon, with its opening downward. I do not know its meaning.”

  “It is the symbol used by Rodrigo de Villandrando, who is now in the service of Charles VI of France.”

  “Your father?,” she guessed and Rafael nodded. He enjoyed watching her decipher the puzzle. “If he is in service to the French king, it must be a border territory, perhaps in Normandy or Burgogne.” She glanced up. “Close to Navarre?”

  He could not disguise his pride, nor did he want to. “Very close to Navarre. The pilgrim’s road to Compostela passes through it, and one could follow that road to the pass of Roland as well.”

  Elizabeth smiled at him, well pleased. “And your lord has granted you the right to wed. Have you a home in his abode?”

  “I have a holding to mine own name, Elizabeth. I would offer you no less.”

  She laughed and kissed him in such delight that he wondered at his own doubt in her reaction. “Oh, Rafael, I am so proud of you.”

  “You will be far from your family...” he began but she interrupted him.

  “My aunt journeys to Sicily regularly.” She rolled her eyes. “If there is a port and the weather is warm, we will be plagued by guests.”

  “There is a port,” Rafael admitted. “And they press fine wine in this land.”

  “We shall never be rid of them,” she said then laughed again. She sobered as her fingers rose to the shock of white hair at his temple. “I thought you dead,” she admitted, her voice uneven. “I thought you snared with the dead you had seen in Finvarra’s hall. That was why I went to his court, in the hope that I might at least see you.”

  “Elizabeth,” he murmured, overwhelmed at these tidings. He framed her face in his hands and kissed her deeply, pouring all the emotion into his touch that he did not know how to express. She pulled him down to the cloak and he was glad he had brought the fur-lined one. Her hands were on his belt, but he lifted her fingers away, pressing a kiss into each palm. “Let me, mi piqueño ángel.”

  She smiled and complied. Rafael set aside his scabbards, then unfastened his belt. He removed his boots, then tugged his tabard over his head. Elizabeth took it from him and folded it with care, caressing the embroidery on the front of it with evident pride. He unlaced his chemise and pulled it over his head, letting her look upon him to her own contentment. She rose then and came to his side, running her finger over the wound she had stitched closed. She smiled impishly at him, then bent and touched her lips to the scar.

  It was the first wound of his she had healed, but he knew it would not be the last.

  She ran her fingertips up his arm and over his shoulder, and he was content to let her explore him. She eased her fingers into his hair and stroked the back of his neck. “Our children will have dark hair,” she whispered.

  “I shall pray that the girls have the alluring green eyes of their mother,” he murmured and she smiled again.

  “I shall pray that they all have the thick lashes of their father,” she whispered, brushing his eyelids with her fingertips. “I am quite jealous of yours.”

  Rafael chuckled and unlaced the sides of her kirtle. He slid his hands beneath the embroidered cloth, locking them around her waist. He tugged her against his chest and kissed her slowly, savoring the way she responded to his touch. She wanted to experience passion, but she offered it as well, and Elizabeth was a feast of which Rafael knew he would never tire. When her kirtle was set aside, he caught his breath at the shadows of her curves beneath the sheer linen of her chemise.

  Never bashful, she pulled off the chemise and dropped it, standing before him in only her stockings. Rafael dropped to one knee to unfasten her garters, unable to resist the opportunity to kiss the inside of her knees. He smoothed the stocking from her leg, then did the same with the other. Still on his knees, he kissed the inside of her thigh, trailing kisses to the sweet pearl he had touched once before. Elizabeth gasped and her knees trembled, prompting Rafael to sweep her into his arms. He stretched her out on the fur and kissed her intimately, summoning the storm within her so that she writhed beneath him. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, and her skin flushed, the pulse of her heart against his very lips.

  “Not alone,” she gasped.

  Rafael rolled to one hip and unlaced his chausses with haste. Elizabeth’s fingers were on him, her kisses and caresses making him fear it would be too quick. She urged him onward though and, wanting to surprise his bold maiden, he pulled her astride him. She spared a glance at his erection, her eyes shining, then smiled down at him.

  “Show me,” she invited, her trust so complete that his chest was tight.

  Rafael guided her hips so that their union was complete. She was tight and slick, as heavenly as he recalled and more willing than he could have dreamed. This time, she began to move with him and as he suggested, her cheek against his, her breasts on his chest, her buttocks filling his hands. He tried to hold out, to move slowly, but she was too tight and too ardent, too sweet after he had waited so long. He gritted his teeth as the passion rose and he felt her smile as she pressed a kiss to his ear.

  “I still wonder that
married couples ever leave their beds,” she whispered wickedly and Rafael laughed.

  “Perhaps we will not leave ours.”

  She laughed and he resolved to show her yet more. He rolled her over to her back, remaining buried inside her and drew back slightly so that he could ease one hand between them. He caressed her again, watching her passion rise and her flesh tinge pink. He teased her even as he moved within her, loving how she moaned with pleasure and yet continued to demand more. There was naught in all the world save the pleasure in her smile and the heat in her eyes and Rafael knew he would do whatever was necessary to ensure the happiness of his beloved.

  He pinched that tight pearl between his finger and thumb, casting her over the edge of pleasure. She shouted in her release and gripped his shoulders, even as he buried himself deep within her and found his own release with a roar.

  “I love you, my own angel,” he whispered into her ear and she cast him a sleepy smile of contentment.

  “I know,” she said, running her fingertips over his jaw. “Destiny cannot be thwarted.”

  Rafael braced his weight on his elbows, looking down at her in satisfaction. “We shall make a home, Elizabeth, for you will teach me how that is to be done.”

  “And you will tell me all of your stories,” she countered. “Each and every one.”

  “Perhaps we will be too occupied in living an adventure fit for an old tale.”

  She laughed then, laughed with a pleasure that could not be feigned and one that lightened his own heart. “What did you write to me?” she asked suddenly. “There was a missive in the vision, one that fell in the river after you were attacked. It was addressed to me.”

  “So, the scribe did not lie,” Rafael mused.

  “What was it?”

  He smiled down at her. “A confession that all that was mine was yours. I bade you go to the cave and dig, for I left all my wealth there for you.”

  “You did not!”

  “I did. We will gather it on our return.” Rafael sobered. “I feared that you might conceive a child and I wished you to have choices.”

  “I choose to conceive one now,” she said with delight.

  Rafael put a finger on her lips to halt her kiss, for he knew that once she embraced him, he would be lost all over again. “There was also a copper vessel with a small djinn trapped inside, one that had been told it must grant three wishes to whosoever released it.”

  Elizabeth frowned at him. “But wait. You always insisted that you could not see the Fae. How did you trap one then?”

  Rafael smiled, caught in his own tale. “A man who means to survive does not reveal all he knows,” he reminded her and Elizabeth laughed.

  “And that Fae was Darg!” she breathed. “She brought the pomegranate.”

  Rafael pulled back slightly. “That being is female?”

  “I have always thought so, though I do not know.”

  “I have my doubts,” he murmured. “But in the end, it fulfilled the three wishes I requested.”

  “Which were?”

  “The first was the tales put within the fruit, the second the delivery of it to you, the third its speaking for me in Finvarra’s court.”

  Elizabeth bit her lip. “But I believe Darg sacrificed herself to see you saved.”

  Rafael kissed her temple. “Then that was done by the creature’s own choice, perhaps because it too loved you.”

  Elizabeth pulled him closer and kissed him again, a potent kiss that made him think they might linger a while to celebrate their triumph. Rafael had gained all he had ever aspired to hold within his own hand, as well as a greater prize in his bride than he had ever dared to hope might be his own.

  He could not think of a better thing to celebrate, or a better way to celebrate it than by pleasing his lady repeatedly.

  They would have need of many sons, after all.

  And it would be hours yet before the sun rose.

  Father Malachy awakened to the sound of someone rapping upon the door to his cottage. It was a commanding knock, one that brooked no delay in his responding. His first thought was that he had overslept and not rung the bells early enough for the first mass of Christmas morning. There was more than one resident of Kinfairlie village who would find fault with that, and truly, Father Malachy did not have any desire to be remiss in his duties.

  It was darker than he had expected and he opened his portal cautiously, though he could not recall the last time there had been brigands in Kinfairlie village. He anticipated mischief more than anything else.

  He certainly did not expect to find that comrade of Malcolm’s on his threshold, his garb uncommonly fine, with Lady Elizabeth in his arms. The lady herself was disheveled, to say the least, her hair unbound and her feet bare. A fur-lined cloak was wrapped around her and he had to wonder whether she was fully garbed beneath it.

  She was, however, so radiantly happy that Father Malachy could not make sense of it.

  He recalled events at the keep well enough and knew this man’s name to be Rafael Rodriguez.

  The one who had sworn to retrieve Lady Elizabeth from the realm of the Fae and had demanded the right to wed her as his reward.

  “Good morning, Father Malachy,” Lady Elizabeth said, as if there was naught untoward in their presence on his porch at this hour, or her own state. “We have come to be wed, if you please.”

  “I have coin for your services,” said the warrior and strove to reach for his purse without putting down the lady. This made Elizabeth laugh as Father Malachy had not heard her laugh in years.

  “Later,” she chided her companion. “Father Malachy will trust us for the duration of the service itself.”

  “Indeed,” the priest said. “But I think it would be wise for me to confirm with the laird that this match is to his satisfaction...”

  “He gave me his pledge last night,” the warrior said, his manner grim.

  “Aye, but...”

  “Do you suggest that he will not stand by his word?”

  “Nay, but matters may have changed...”

  “Aye, they have,” the man said with confidence. “The match has already been celebrated.”

  Father Malachy felt his mouth open, but no sound came out. He hoped he had misunderstood but suddenly the lady’s state of dress made sense.

  As did the shine in her eyes.

  There was truly no choice, then. Laird Alexander would have to keep his word, and the match—whether pledged in a church or not—could not be annulled, not if both parties agreed it had been consummated. “But I must don my cassock,” he managed to say, feeling flustered. “I will meet you at the chapel.”

  “In all haste, if you please,” the warrior growled. “I will come to fetch you if you linger overlong in my estimation.”

  The lady smiled and kicked her feet with pleasure. “Are you in the habit of threatening priests?” she demanded of the man she would wed, clearly unafraid of him.

  “If they have not the wits or the inclination to perform their duties, I see no issue with some encouragement,” he countered, earning himself a kiss of such enthusiasm that Father Malachy retreated inside his cottage. It took him a moment to catch his breath, then he donned his cossack and his shoes, prayed he was choosing aright, and hastened to the chapel.

  Lady Elizabeth had rebraided her hair and stood upon her own two feet, her hands clasped in those of her intended. That man handed Father Malachy a gold coin so large that the priest blinked in wonder.

  Then he considered. “The banns have not been called.”

  The warrior handed him another coin.

  “And I should confer with my patron.”

  A third coin joined the other two. Father Malachy looked down at them in wonder. “You spare no expense in taking this bride.”

  “I will expend my coin in York to claim her if matters do not proceed promptly.” The warrior reached for the coins, but Father Malachy tucked them hastily into his purse.

  He raised his hand in blessin
g over the pair, just as the first light of the morning sun peeked over the horizon. Kinfairlie village looked to be touched with silver, and the bit of snow that had fallen during the night glittered as if lit by inner fire. He could find no issue with the fervor evident in their exchange of their vows, nor in the satisfied smile of the warrior as he took a gold ring from his own hand to slide it onto that of Lady Elizabeth.

  “Mi piqueño ángel,” he murmured, looking like a man much smitten with his bride.

  “Mío Cid,” she replied, her expression no less adoring than his. “Il Campeador.”

  Father Malachy had no idea what they confessed to each other, but it was clear they were both well pleased. The warrior actually laughed, his voice rich with merriment, and Lady Elizabeth threw her arms around him with delight. He swung her high in his arms then kissed her so thoroughly that Father Malachy felt obliged to avert his gaze.

  It was time he rang the bells for mass, after all.

  The pair led the way to the altar for that mass and dropped to their knees together, their hands clasped tightly. Father Malachy stood on the porch to await his flock, unable to stifle a sense that this particular morning seemed filled with promise. Perhaps it was because the last of the daughters of the house of Kinfairlie was wedded now. Indeed, all the siblings were married, save Ross, the son who was in service at Inverfyre. Perhaps it was the marvel of this day of days, a day that filled his heart with joy every year.

  Father Malachy decided he would light a candle for Ross, in the hope that boy—who must have become a man these recent years—did well in the year ahead.

  He caught a glimpse of Kinfairlie’s smith, Bertrand, and waved. It was not uncommon to see Bertrand awake early, for that man labored long and hard. He would come later to mass with his family, as was his custom. On this morn, though, Bertrand stood outside his smithy without a chemise. He surveyed his own bare skin with apparent astonishment, then gave a hoot of joy. He then danced around the yard of the smithy, seizing his astonished neighbor and dancing with her until she laughed aloud.

  It was rather chilly for such antics, in Father Malachy’s opinion, but on this day of days, he could judge no man.