The grass was wet with dew on the morning of the Nativity of Saint John the Baptist, but the ladies lifted their skirts and walked to the chapel. The way was not short, but a path had been cut through the woods, and they made a procession to the chapel high on the hill. There were those in the company, without doubt, who had an aching head this morning, but Aileen was filled with joy. She carried a blessed burden fast against her left side and her heart pounding in anticipation of this day’s events.
The sunlight danced through the leaves of the trees, casting bright patches of light upon the forest floor. They walked in pairs, the priest leading the company with his censer swinging. Aileen and the Hawk followed behind him, followed by the Hawk’s parents, his aunt and uncle, his cousins and their uncommonly subdued children. Those of the Hawk’s cohorts destined to be wed this day—Reinhard and Margery, Ahearn and Nissa, Fernando and Guinevere—were next in the procession. Aileen wondered whether she alone found it amusing that Guinevere was the sole bride who was not obviously pregnant. The Hawk’s remaining cohorts strode after them, his household followed, then their remaining guests and their households, and finally, the villagers of Inverfyre. All were dressed in their richest finery, wore their best gems, and had their weapons and mail were polished to a gleam.
Their procession moved with a purposeful rustle, solely the brush of silken robes and their footfalls on the path disturbing the quiet of the forest. Birds called to each other and the stream gurgled alongside their course. Smoke and a sweet scent rose from the censer as the priest swung it from side to side.
The chapel itself was astonishingly bright in comparison, for the walls and roof had yet to be rebuilt. The altar had been replaced, however, and an embroidered cloth graced it on this day, the hem flicking in the breeze. The cross and chalice upon the altar shone. A dozen waiting boys began to sing a hymn as the company crossed the threshold, their music as sweet as that of the birds.
Aileen looked as they walked down the aisle, feeling the past in close proximity. They stepped first upon the stone that marked the grave of Magnus Armstrong, then each successive son of the lineage. The last space before the altar was devoid of carvings, a place left for the seventh son of Magnus’ bloodline. She and the Hawk halted upon that stone, her right hand held fast in his left at shoulder height, as Father Gilchrist sang the mass.
The tang of blessed wine was still upon their tongues when Aileen turned to face the Hawk. She took her burden in both hands and unfurled the undyed silk that surrounded it. The wooden Titulus Croce had been broken once, and now was graced with a red leather harness, adorned with gilt crosses, that held its two halves together.
On impulse, Aileen turned and offered the relic to Evangeline. A flush stained that lady’s cheeks, though she stepped quickly to accept its burden in her hands. She caressed it slightly as she took Aileen’s place afore the altar and held it out to her son.
The Hawk laid his hands upon it. “I swear by all that is holy to defend the Titulus Croce entrusted to our forebear Magnus Armstrong, to protect the holding of Inverfyre granted by God to that same forebear, and to defend all those souls pledged to my blade and my household. This vow I do swear to uphold for as long there is blood in my veins and breath in my body, so help me God.”
Evangeline surrendered the relic to the Hawk, who then entrusted it to the priest. Father Gilchrist kissed it and murmured a prayer over it. Evangeline kissed her son’s cheeks in succession, then stepped back, blinking back her tears.
Aileen then resumed her place. She took the seal of Inverfyre, which had been fashioned into a ring, and slipped it onto her husband’s finger. They shared a smile as the priest blessed them, then turned to face the company.
Aileen held the Hawk’s be-ringed hand high. “Praise be to God,” she cried, so all could hear the truth of it. “The rightful Laird of Inverfyre is restored!”
The company cheered and the sunlight seemed to sparkle a little brighter. “And from this day forward, there shall be two strongholds upon the lands of Inverfyre,” the Hawk declared. “One here, where the chapel and relic will be guarded.” He offered a scroll to the priest with a flourish. “As you know, I have made an endowment to support a monastic house and granted these lands, including the chapel, for their sustenance in exchange for holy services.”
“Praise be,” Father Gilchrist said with a smile. “I trust you will see the outer walls protected with men of greater military might. There is nothing like a rare prize, my laird, to tempt the ambitions of others.”
“I have entrusted that burden to my comrade, Ewen. He shall be the marshal of the priory of Inverfyre.”
Ewen bowed, his neck reddening at this honor. “I shall do my best, my laird.”
“And that will more than suffice,” the Hawk said. He raised his voice when he continued. “And still there shall remain the second keep of Inverfyre, where my wife and I will abide.”
The company turned as one to view the distant keep and Aileen smiled as a banner was unfurled over its gates. It was a replacement for the one destroyed by the MacLaren clan, wrought by Nissa and Aileen in stolen hours these past months. Aileen saw that she had surprised her husband and knew she did not imagine the sheen of tears in his eyes.
“You did this for me?” he murmured.
“It was only fitting.” She smiled as she held his gaze. “Though I must confess that I have added a hazel and honeysuckle to your insignia.”
The Hawk laughed. “So long as they are entwined forevermore, lady mine, I have no complaint.”
They looked back together and Aileen caught her breath. Somehow the sunlight danced in the leaves of those thirteen silver-barked trees and for a heartbeat, the leaves appeared to be blood red.
Then they were green again, rustling slightly in the breeze. Aileen looked up and the Hawk regarded her so solemnly that she knew he too had seen it, whatever it had been. She smiled and touched his jaw.
“The old injustices have been resolved then,” she had time to whisper before the Hawk caught Aileen kissed her soundly. He let his hand curve over her rounding belly as he did so, revealing its ripe shape to the company. Evangeline gasped with delight. The assembly stamped their feet and hooted, immediately understanding, and Aileen was flushed scarlet when her husband raised his head.
“Perhaps we should make a dozen heirs,” he whispered mischievously. “As you so keenly observed, lady mine, the world is most unpredictable.”
Aileen laughed, but Nissa began to sing, and the Hawk could only read her assent in her eyes as the company joined the song.
“When the seventh son of Inverfyre,
Saves his legacy from intrigue and mire,
Only then shall glorious Inverfyre,
Reflect in full its first laird’s desire.”
Tarsuinn released a trio of peregrines as they left the chapel and the birds cried overhead. Aileen smiled to herself, letting her husband guide her steps on the descent. The hawk had captured the hare, the hazel had twined with the honeysuckle, and against all odds, both partners were happier together than apart.
That was a good portent for their future, indeed.
An Excerpt from The Beauty Bride
#1 of the Jewels of Kinfairlie
More cherished than gold are the Jewels of Kinfairlie, and only the worthiest may fight for their love…The Laird of Kinfairlie has unmarried sisters, each a gem in her own right. And he has no choice but to see them all wed in haste.
Lady Madeline’s heart is not for sale…especially not to a notorious outlaw like Rhys FitzHenry. Yet Madeline’s hand has been sold, to none other than this battle-weary warrior with a price on his head. A more dutiful maiden might cede to the Laird’s command and meekly accept her fate, but Madeline has never been obedient. She decides to run away, though she never dreams that Rhys will pursue her.
She does not expect this taciturn man to woo her with fanciful stories, much less that each of his enthralling tales will reveal a scar upon his shielded soul.
She never imagines that a man like Rhys could imperil her own heart while revealing so little of his own feelings. When Rhys’ past threatens his future, Madeline takes a leap of faith. She dares to believe him innocent—and risks her own life to pursue a passion more priceless than the rarest gem.
Excerpt from The Beauty Bride
© 2005, 2011 Claire Delacroix, Inc.
Kinfairlie, on the east coast of Scotland – April 1421
Alexander, newly made Laird of Kinfairlie, glowered at his sister.
There was no immediate effect. In fact, Madeline granted him a charming smile. She was a beautiful woman, dark of hair and blue of eye, her coloring and comeliness so striking that men oft stared at her in awe. She was fiercely clever and charming, as well. All of these traits, along with the score of men anxious to win her hand, only made Madeline’s refusal to wed more irksome.
“You need not look so annoyed, Alexander,” she said, her tone teasing. “My suggestion is wrought of good sense.”
“It is no good sense for a woman of three and twenty summers to remain unwed,” he grumbled. “I cannot imagine what Papa was thinking not to have seen you safely wed a decade ago.”
Madeline’s eyes flashed. “Papa was thinking that I loved James and that I would wed James in time.”
“James is dead,” Alexander retorted, speaking more harshly than was his wont. They had had this argument a dozen times and he tired of his sister’s stubborn refusal to accept the obvious truth. “And dead the better part of a year.”
A shadow touched Madeline’s features and she lifted her chin. “We have no certainty of that.”
“Every man was killed in that assault upon the English at Rougemont—that no man survived to tell the tale does not change the truth of it.” Alexander softened his tone when Madeline glanced away, blinking back her tears. “We both would have preferred that James’ fate had been otherwise, but you must accept that he will not return.”
He was pleased to note how Madeline straightened and how the fire returned to her eyes. If she was spirited enough to argue with him, that could only be a good sign. “Though I appreciate a wound to the heart takes long to heal, you grow no younger, Madeline.”
Madeline arched a brow. “Nor do any of us, brother mine. Why do you not wed first?”
“Because it is not necessary.” Alexander glared at her, again to no avail. He knew that he sounded like a man fifty years older than he was, but he could not help himself—Madeline’s refusal to be biddable was annoying. “I ask only that you wed, that you do so out of regard for your four younger sisters, that they too might wed.”
“I do not halt their nuptials.”
“They will not wed before you and you know it well. So Vivienne and Annelise and Isabella and Elizabeth have all informed me. I try only to do what is best for you, but you are all in league against me!” Alexander flung out his hands then rose to his feet, pacing the chamber in his frustration.
Madeline—curse her!—regarded him with dawning amusement. Trust her to be consoled by teasing him!
“It is no small burden to become laird of the keep,” she noted, the expression in her eyes knowing when he spun to face her. “No less to be burdened with the lot of us. You were much more merry a year ago, Alexander.”
“And no wonder that! This is hell!” he shouted, feeling better for it. “Not a one of you makes this newfound duty any easier for me to bear! I am not mad to demand that you wed! I am trying to assure your future, yet you all defy me at every step!”
Madeline tilted her head, her eyes beginning to sparkle and a smile lifting the corner of her lips. “Can you not imagine that it is a sweet kind of vengeance for all the pranks you have played upon us over the years? How delicious it is to foil you, Alexander, now that you are suddenly stern and proper! Think of all the frogs in my linens and snakes in my slippers for which I can now have vengeance.”
“I will not be foiled!” he roared and thudded his fist upon the table between them.
Madeline clucked her tongue, chiding him for his show of temper. “And I will not be wed,” she said, her soft tone belying the determination in her gaze. “Not so readily as that. At any rate, you have not the coin in the treasury to offer a dowry, so there is no need to discuss the matter before the tithes are collected in the autumn.”
Alexander spun to look out the window, hoping to hide his expression from his confident sister. There might have been a steel band drawn tight around his chest, for he knew a detail that Madeline did not. The tithes would be low this year, so the castellan had confided in him. There had been torrential rains this spring and what seed had not been washed away had rotted in the ground. He marveled that he had never thought of such matters until this past year and marveled again at how much he had yet to learn.
How had Papa managed all these concerns? How had he laughed and been so merry with such a weight upon his shoulders? Alexander felt nearly crushed beneath this unfamiliar burden of responsibility.
His gaze trailed over the sea that lapped beneath Kinfairlie’s towers and he mourned the loss of their parents anew. He knew that his siblings defied him as a way of defying the cruel truth of their parents’ sudden death, but he also knew that he could not feed all those currently resident in this keep in the winter to come. The castellan had told him so, and in no uncertain terms.
His sisters had to be wed, and at least the two eldest had to be wed this summer. They were all of an age to be married, ranging as they did from twenty-three summers to twelve, but Madeline was the sole obstacle to his scheme.
He pivoted to regard her, noting the concern that she quickly hid. She must guess what it cost him to so change his own nature, to abandon his recklessness in favor of responsibility; she must know that he assumed this task for the sake of all of them.
Yet still she defied him.
“You could at least feign compliance,” he suggested, anger thrumming beneath his words. “You could try to make my task lighter, Madeline, instead of encouraging our sisters to defy me.”
She leaned closer. “You could at least ask,” she retorted, the sapphire flash of her eyes showing that this would be no easy victory. “In truth, Alexander, you are so demanding these days that a saint would defy you, and do so simply for the pleasure of thwarting your schemes. You have become a different man since you were made laird, and one who is difficult to like.”
“I am making choices for the best of all of us,” he insisted, “and you only vex me.”
Madeline smiled with cursed confidence. “You are not vexed. You are irked, perhaps.”
“Annoyed,” contributed another feminine voice. Vivienne tipped her head around the corner, revealing that she had been listening to the entire exchange. Vivienne’s hair was of a russet hue and her eyes were a dark green. Otherwise, she shared Madeline’s virtues and not a few of her faults, including the fact that she also must be wed before the harvest.
Alexander ground his teeth at the slender prospect of succeeding twice in this challenge.
Three shorter women peeked around the edge of the portal, their eyes bright with curiosity. Annelise was sixteen with auburn tresses and eyes as blue as cornflowers; Isabella was fourteen with eyes of vivid green, orange-red hair and freckles across her nose; Elizabeth was ebony-haired like himself and Madeline, her eyes an uncanny green. The sight of all those uncovered tresses—the mark of unmarried maidens—made Alexander’s innards clench.
They were no longer merely his sisters, his comrades, or even the victims of his jests—they and their futures were his responsibility.
“But you are certainly not vexed, Alexander,” Vivienne continued with a smile.
Madeline nodded agreement. “When Alexander is vexed in truth, he shouts. So know this, Annelise, Isabella and Elizabeth, you have not truly angered Alexander until he roars fit to lift the roof.” The five women giggled and that was enough.
“I am indeed vexed!” Alexander bellowed. The sole result of his outburst was that the
three younger women nodded.
“Now he is vexed,” said Annelise.
“You can tell by the way he shouts,” Elizabeth agreed.
“Indeed,” said Madeline, that teasing smile curving her lips again. “But still he is a man of honor, upon that we can all rely.” She rose and gave a simmering Alexander a peck of a kiss upon each of his cheeks.
She smiled at him with a surety that made him long to throttle her, for she was right.
“Still he will not raise a hand against a woman.” Madeline patted his shoulder, as if he were no more threatening than a kitten. “I shall wed when I so choose, Alexander, and not one day before. Fear not—all will be resolved well enough in the end.”
With that, Madeline left the chamber, easily gathering their sisters about her. They chattered of kirtles and chemises and new shoes. Elizabeth demanded a story, and as Vivienne complied, their voices faded to naught.
Alexander sat down heavily and put his head in his hands. What was he going to do?
Alexander was still sitting with his head in his hands at Kinfairlie, though the sky was darker, when his visitors arrived.
“He does indeed look glum enough,” a familiar voice said, laughter beneath her tone. “So we were warned.”
Alexander looked up as his Aunt Rosamunde cast herself upon the bench Madeline had abandoned. She shook the pins from her hair with characteristic impatience. The sunlit tresses fell loose over her shoulders and she sighed with relief.
His spirits rose at the very sight of her, for he and Rosamunde had plotted many a jest together over the years. Hers was a mischievous soul and she was not averse to defying convention or taking a risk.
Stolen Brides: Four Beauty-and-the-Beast Medieval Romances Page 93