Stolen Brides: Four Beauty-and-the-Beast Medieval Romances

by Claire Delacroix

  To learn about my new releases and get additional content available only to subscribers, please sign up for my newsletter. Knights & Rogues is the newsletter for my Claire Delacroix historical romances.

  Until next time, I hope you are well and have plenty of good books to read.

  All my best,

  Claire

  http://delacroix.net

  Prologue

  Ceinn-beithe—April 1183

  “Do you not think ’tis somewhat harsh?” Duncan watched his wife don her veil. She was garbed in somber indigo from head to toe, her fingers devoid of any jewel beyond the simple silver ring he had put upon her left hand.

  Eglantine was grimly determined and had he not been so skeptical of the choice she had made, Duncan would have held his tongue while she was in this mood. They were still in their chamber and, though the assembly waited below, ’twas not too late for Eglantine to change her thinking.

  “The girl must learn the price of her folly, and better she does so before ’tis too late to change her course.” Eglantine anchored the veil with a heavy circlet, then started to pull the sheer fabric across her face.

  Duncan caught her hand in his, stilling her gesture. “’Tis cruel to make your daughter witness her own funeral.”

  “’Tis our way, Duncan. ’Twas always done thus at Crevy-sur-Seine, by my great-grandfather’s decree.”

  “Not exactly thus.” Though he knew this to be the tradition of his wife’s family, ’twas not Duncan’s own, and he found it distasteful. All the same, he tried to be respectful.

  Eglantine sighed. “If we had been at Crevy and Jacqueline chose to take the vows of a nun, then such a funeral would be held—for a nun departs the land of the living as surely as if she had died. ’Tis not so appalling to give Jacqueline a taste of what will ultimately come of her choice to become a novitiate at Inveresbeinn.”

  When he said naught, she continued, her eyes glittering. “’Tis no more easy for me, Duncan, than for you to witness this ceremony, but would you not have Jacqueline understand all that she is destined to lose before ’tis said and done?”

  “She might find that the life of a novitiate does not suit her, at any rate, and never take her final vows.”

  Eglantine frowned, her gaze dropping to their entangled fingers. “She might,” she ceded quietly, then met his gaze. “But I cannot rely upon that chance alone, Duncan. I must do something! ’Tis my task as her mother to save her from foolish choices.”

  “’Tis your task as her mother to love her no matter what choices she makes.”

  Eglantine sighed with exasperation and turned away. “Duncan, you do not understand. I sacrificed all to grant my daughters the chance to wed for love...”

  “All?” He endeavored to look indignant, hoping that he might make her smile.

  Eglantine did, if fleetingly. “And I gained much, ’tis true, but I so wanted to give them the opportunity to find true love. From Alienor I expected trouble, for she was always willful.”

  “Marriage seems to suit her well enough.”

  Now Eglantine smiled in truth. “Not to mention a child more demanding than she herself. She has no opportunity to be selfish these days.” A frown creased Eglantine’s brow. “And from Esmeraude, of course, I expect a challenge, for she may be even more willful than Alienor.”

  “A terrifying thought.”

  “Indeed.” Eglantine shook her head. “But Jacqueline has always been the quiet one who blossomed when given the opportunity. I was certain that ’twas she who would benefit most from the chance to choose love.”

  “She has chosen.”

  “This is no choice! I will not permit her to become a bride of Christ so readily as this.”

  “But, Eglantine, if she has a calling...”

  She turned away from him, pausing at the portal of their chamber. “Duncan, if she had a calling, I would bless her path, but what Jacqueline has is a fear of men. That demon Reynaud has left a scar upon her that can only be erased by a man wrought of flesh and blood, as well as merit.” Eglantine sighed. “She is but twenty years of age, after all.”

  “Aged for a virgin to remain unwed in any land, Eglantine.”

  His wife frowned, then appealed to him. “But, Duncan, ’tis the mark of Reynaud! Jacqueline is a beauty, she does not lack for suitors. But, because of Reynaud and his crime six years past, she will not even look upon a man. ’Tis wrong!”

  “Eglantine—”

  “I have asked her only to wait two years before becoming a novitiate.”

  Duncan was taken aback, for he did not know this.

  ‘Two years, Duncan! ’Tis naught, but it might well be time enough for her to meet that man of merit who will change her thinking. She is too innocent of the world to make a choice that will govern her life.”

  “Is that not what marriage is?”

  “Duncan! She will not be happy as a cloistered celibate, and ’tis her happiness I would ensure, at any cost.”

  With that Eglantine swept from the chamber. Duncan followed her, if more slowly. He respected his wife’s intent, if not her means. His own child, Mhairi, all of four summers of age and blessed with Eglantine’s golden hair, took his hand when he reached the hall, her brow puckered in confusion and dismay.

  What could he say? Duncan picked her up and kissed her brow, while murmuring reassurances to her.

  ’Twas then he spotted his stepdaughter, veiled, solemn, standing aside from the proceedings as if she had indeed ceased to draw breath. When he noted the resolve in Jacqueline’s pale features, Duncan feared that Eglantine’s way of bidding her daughter adieu would only leave bitterness between mother and daughter.

  But then the censers swung, filling the air with heady clouds of scent. Candles were lit and held high, banishing the gloom of an overcast day. The household fell into order, those of rank before those of less rank—first Eglantine, then Jacqueline’s sisters Alienor and Esmeraude. They were followed by Alienor’s husband and child, then the closest members of Eglantine’s household. The vassals filled most of the procession, though ’twould have been otherwise at a great French estate like Crevy. There would have been knights and squires there, visiting nobles and rich relations.

  Not so here, and Duncan marveled again at what his wife had left behind in her flight to Scotland. ’Twas indicative of her determination, and his admiration for her blossomed anew.

  Eglantine truly desired only happiness for her daughters. The assembly began to chant a mournful dirge. The priest began the procession as the empty coffin was hefted to be carried behind him.

  Duncan reluctantly stepped to his wife’s side, unable to resist a last glance at Jacqueline. She remained to one side, outside the procession. No one spoke to her, no one so much as looked at her, by Eglantine’s dictate—and indeed, by the custom of their own ritual.

  She stood with her mother’s straightness of spine, her chin high, her lips set. She was a beautiful young woman, one who usually had roses in her cheeks and stars in her eyes, one whose sweet and giving character was a delight to all in the household. Indeed, in Jacqueline, beauty ran to the core.

  She stood there, so determined to be brave, to stand steadfast, that Duncan’s heart nigh broke in half. He watched her catch her breath and blink rapidly when she spied her mother’s funereal garb. He guessed that she was not so certain of her choice as that.

  Aye, Reynaud had terrified Jacqueline. Duncan wished he could make the matter right. He was tempted to lock her up, to convince her not to sacrifice all her choices for the sake of one night’s sorry events.

  And that urge to sequester Jacqueline showed him that he was not so different from his wife, after all.

  “God in heaven,” Eglantine muttered through gritted teeth. “I cannot imagine how the girl comes by such a stubborn nature. I do not recall that her father was so obstinate.”

  Duncan knew better than to suggest the obvious. The procession wound its way past Jacqueline and out of the hall toward the ch
apel. The skies hung heavy and gray, threatening a greater downpour. It seemed that even the land mourned his stepdaughter’s choice.

  How Duncan wished that he knew in his heart ’twas the right one.

  Chapter 1

  Ceinn-beithe was behind Jacqueline, only her vows ahead. Her mother was wrong—Jacqueline had a calling and she knew the truth of it. She had not been swayed by well-intentioned argument, though she had come close, simply because of the price of her choice. Her mother’s point was well made and well taken.

  Though it changed naught. Tears pricked at Jacqueline’s eyes as she realized how much she would miss her mother’s and Duncan’s protective love.

  She tried not to think overmuch about leaving Ceinn-beithe behind forever as her small party rode toward the hills that sheltered the holding on the east. On the far side of these hills and a little farther on, down a ragged trail from what might be generously called a main road, lay her destination—the convent of Inveresbeinn.

  Her parents had selected these four men to accompany her because they trusted them. They were simple men, hardened by the elements rather than by warfare. Ceinn-beithe had been at peace for so long that their military skills—or lack thereof—were of little import. All knew this road held no threat.

  All the same, there was not a one among the party with whom she might have shared a friendly word. ’Twas a lesson, just as the funeral had been a lesson. This was a lesson in the limited appeal of solitude and silence.

  She had made her choice and would live with the result. She believed ’twas in the cloister her intellect would be appreciated, ’twas there that the gifts granted to her could be given and accepted in kind. Mortal men wished only to possess her because of her appearance, and Jacqueline had no interest in becoming an ornament in a man’s life. She knew she had the wits to do more and the compassion to give more, and she would not waste the gifts that God had granted her.

  ’Twas her calling and her choice, and she would defend it to her last breath.

  Aye, and as a novitiate, Jacqueline’s world would be one of silence. She knew that and anticipated difficulties with it. Even understanding what her mother did and why did not make the sense of isolation easier to bear. Already the silence pressed against her ears, making her want to shout, to laugh, to scream.

  But Jacqueline would persevere, for she had chosen rightly. She straightened in her saddle, reminding herself that ’twould be a long day’s ride to the convent, and began to murmur her rosary.

  The hills rising before them were shrouded in mist, a fog gathering undoubtedly in the valleys. The sky was darkening to a gray the shade of pewter and the hills seemed clad in myriad greens and blues. ’Twas a tranquil scene, filled with the serenity that would characterize the remainder of her days, and Jacqueline told herself that she was content.

  But there was more than silence lurking in the hills ahead.

  “There.” Angus knelt in the shadow of the stones, his stallion hidden behind an outcropping of rock. Only the beast’s ears flicked, as if he too understood the need for concealment. Angus’s vantage point overlooked the road that wound toward Ceinn-beithe, home of the man who had betrayed Angus’s family.

  His loyal companion hunkered down beside him and peered into the mist that had followed the rain. “God’s teeth, boy, but Dame Fortune cannot be finally smiling upon you.” Rodney’s comment was typically skeptical, though there was a glint of humor in his eyes.

  “Surely ’tis not so unlikely as that,” Angus murmured, “when all has gone awry for so long.”

  Rodney chuckled. “Do not tell me that you believe in good outweighing bad in the end?”

  Angus almost smiled, but he was intent upon studying the small party upon the road below. ’Twas critical that they make no error in this moment, for Fortune would not smile so sweetly again.

  A woman shrouded in white rode in the midst of the group yet slightly apart, her position revealing her station. Her guardians were more stocky than fearsome, and Angus guessed that they had not seen battle so recently as he. They were likely to be lax in their defenses.

  “Who is she?” Rodney whispered.

  “Who else might she be than the daughter of Cormac MacQuarrie?”

  Rodney granted him a skeptical glance that he could nigh feel. “She could be any woman at all.”

  “Nay. Not so guarded as this. This is a precious woman, as only the daughter of a chieftain can be. And she leaves Ceinn-beithe, for there is naught else on this road other than the sea beyond that estate.”

  “Then why is she abroad at all?”

  Angus set his chin upon his gloved fist and considered the matter. “She must go to wed. Mhairi would be aged for such a rite, but then, Cormac was always said to overvalue her merits.”

  The older man chuckled, his gaze flicking over the situation of the road below. “You said his daughter was the only creature he truly loved.”

  “Aye. ’Twould not be implausible that he could not find a match to suit afore his daughter was nigh unweddable. Perhaps she weds for the second time.”

  “But someone weds her now.”

  Angus felt his lips thin. “Cormac is a formidable ally.”

  “And an equally formidable adversary,” Rodney concluded, quite unnecessarily to Angus’s thinking. Then he scoffed. “Look at these louts! They are ill-prepared to defend her. Such is the price of prosperity and peace.”

  “And you mock the hand of Dame Fortune in this,” Angus muttered. “’Tis the first matter to go aright in years. Let us not lose the chance to make amends.”

  The two men discussed their plan of attack and pointed out details of the landscape to each other. Rodney slipped into the shadows and mounted his steed.

  “Now Cormac will pay dearly for his daughter’s safe return!” Rodney murmured gleefully.

  “He has only one thing to surrender that I desire.” Angus took one last look, saw no complications, then swung into his own saddle and held the reins tightly. Lucifer did not so much as move. The two men waited until the sound of the approaching party echoed on the road just before them, then, at Angus’s nod, they erupted from the shadows as one.

  With lightning speed, two men on horseback appeared from naught, swinging their swords as they roared. The little party froze as the bandits bore down upon them.

  They were still on Ceinn-beithe’s land! Jacqueline halted her steed to stare. One of her escorts swore, then slapped the buttocks of her horse, sending it fleeing from the fray.

  Jacqueline could not help but look back.

  The attacking knight in the lead struck down two of her escorts before those men even had time to draw their blades. A knight? One heard of knights turning to villainy in France, but not here. Fear rippled down her spine—Jacqueline had learned to expect ill of knights from abroad. The third in her party was engaged in battle with the knight’s companion. The fourth had drawn his sword but was no match for the knight’s prowess. He fell to the ground and moved no more.

  Then the attacker’s course was unobstructed.

  He rode like an avenging angel, and one determined to smote those who defied him. He was tall and broad of shoulder. His red cloak flared behind him, his tabard was white with a cross of blood red on the shoulder. His mail gleamed, even though the day was overcast. His large ebony stallion was caparisoned in white and red, that extraordinarily fine beast fairly snorting fire.

  And when he turned his steed toward her, Jacqueline thought her heart might stop.

  In panic, Jacqueline dug her heels into her palfrey’s sides. The horse needed little urging to run at full gallop across the peat but was no match for the long strides of the black stallion in pursuit.

  The stallion drew closer, until she could see the steam of its breath just over her shoulder. Jacqueline gave a little cry and urged her horse to go yet faster.

  But the knight snatched her from her saddle, so quickly that her breath was stolen away. He cast her across his own, so she lay on her belly bef
ore him. The sight of the rollicking ground beneath her made her dizzy. He was strong, wrought of muscle and steel. Jacqueline screamed and fought him all the same.

  He swore and caught her against him in a tight grip, his arm locked around her chest and arms. He turned his steed and slowed it to a brisk canter. Jacqueline heard her own palfrey continue to flee into the distance.

  She bit his glove and kicked his steed, and he swore with ominous vigor. He pulled her up so that she sat before him now, though she was no less free to move with his arm locking her elbows to her waist. Indeed, she could feel every relentless increment of him, his chain mail digging into her back.

  “Let me go!” Jacqueline screamed.

  “Nay.” He spoke grimly, his French as fluent as her own. “Be still or you will frighten the steed.”

  “I should think naught would frighten this monster,” Jacqueline snapped. A French knight holding her captive was no reassurance at all—she could not help but think of Reynaud, holding her down, heaving himself atop her.

  The knight laughed under his breath though ’twas a mirthless sound. He pinned her against him with one arm, so casually that he might be accustomed to capturing innocents, and rode back toward his companion. Jacqueline squirmed, though she made no progress against his strength.

  Just as she had made none against Reynaud. The breath left her chest for a moment, leaving her dizzy with fear, but she forced herself to breathe deeply. Somehow she would escape!

  The knight doffed his helm and cast it into his open saddlebag. When she heard it land there, Jacqueline could not restrain her curiosity.

  She turned and her heart trembled, so certain was she that she looked into the face of a dark angel. Her captor’s lips were drawn to a tight line, his gaze narrowed. He would have been a handsome man—had it not been for his ferocious expression and the scar upon his cheek.

  And the patch over one of his eyes.

  Then he smiled slowly, like a dragon anticipating a hearty meal, and Jacqueline panicked. She punched her attacker’s nose, then drove her heel hard into the stallion’s belly. The beast shied—’twas too large and vigorous to be more than startled—and Jacqueline jumped from its back.