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

by Claire Delacroix

  She turned her ankle on impact but ran all the same.

  The knight swore with savagery behind her, but Jacqueline did not waste a moment in looking back. She leaped into a scree of rocks, knowing that the stallion could not follow her, and ran as if the devil himself pursued her.

  She was not entirely certain he did not.

  The knight did pursue her, though, punctuating his progress with oaths. Jacqueline would not consider how he would hurt her if she was caught. Oh, he was furiously angry and would desire vengeance, just as Reynaud had desired vengeance.

  And was likely to claim it in the same way. Jacqueline pushed her fears of that aside and simply ran.

  He gained upon her all too quickly, for he was much taller and more agile than she. Jacqueline glanced back when his footfalls grew loud, her own steps faltering at his proximity and his fury. She stumbled, then fell with an anguished cry, and he was immediately upon her.

  He was quick with the braided leather he carried, but to her astonishment, he was not harsh. He bound her knees together loosely, though she could not have fled. He tied her wrists behind her back, moving with such speed that Jacqueline had no hope of a second escape.

  She writhed on the ground, seeking a weakness in the knots that she did not find. He stood and stared down at her from his considerable height, his expression unfathomable and all the more terrifying for that.

  Finally, when she had nigh exhausted herself with her struggles, he drew his blade, then crouched before her. Fearing the worst, Jacqueline flinched.

  “You are worth more to me whole,” he snapped, then cut a length of cloth from his tabard. She stared at him in confusion.

  When he reached for her injured ankle, Jacqueline cried out and squirmed away. She would not suffer him to touch her! She rolled and desperately tried to crawl away from him, though ’twas not easily done with hands and knees bound.

  He snatched at her foot and caught her all too easily. He held her captive thus, his fingers exploring her ankle as if he were blinded in both eyes. Jacqueline shivered, then felt the heat of a blush stain her cheeks at his familiarity.

  “A fine view, but you cannot imagine you would get far.”

  “I will not lie meekly while I am raped!”

  He laughed then, the sound so surprising that Jacqueline turned to look at him once more. He was crouched behind her, holding her ankle in one hand, his grip resolute but gentle.

  He did not acknowledge her gaze, though he must have known she looked. Nay, he frowned in concentration, focused on his task. He removed her shoe and stocking with surprising care. He had doffed his gloves, and his hand was warm against her bare flesh.

  “If touching a woman’s foot is akin to rape,” he said mildly, “then there are far more lawless men in this world than even I imagined.”

  He glanced up, his smile broadening as he considered her expression. His smile was cold, but there was a heat in his gaze that made her tremble. “Or are you so innocent of men that you do not know the nature of intimacy?”

  There was a look about him that warned Jacqueline he had thoughts of contributing to her education.

  She decided to feign boldness, for a show of fear would win her naught. “My innocence is not of issue here,” she retorted, and tried to draw her ankle away.

  He moved his thumb smoothly across her instep, the deliberate caress making her shiver with something that was not entirely fear. “I should say ’tis. And the preservation of your innocence shall be a considerable concern...at least for others.”

  He flicked Jacqueline a hot glance that made a lump of dread rise in her throat. He did not wait for an answer, but checked the way her ankle had already begun to swell, his fingers moving deftly and gently.

  She deliberately kept her expression impassive, hoping she could hide both her terror and the curious sensations his touch awakened within her. He finished binding her ankle with the cloth, his gaze hooded as he gave his attention to the task.

  “’Tis not broken,” he informed her, then sat back on his heels. He donned his gloves once more and watched her intently. “’Twill heal quickly enough, Mhairi.”

  Jacqueline blinked. “Mhairi? I am not Mhairi!”

  He shook his head. “You lie.”

  “Nay. I never lie!” Jacqueline bristled. “And I would not lie about my own name. Mhairi is my younger sister; she is but four summers of age.” ’Twas a golden opportunity to pretend she did not fear him, and she lifted her chin proudly. “Most can tell us apart.”

  This seemed to amuse him, however fleetingly. “The Mhairi I seek would be of an age with you.” He studied her intently, as if reaffirming his assessment, though Jacqueline could not guess his conclusion. “More or less.”

  “Then she is not me.” Jacqueline spoke firmly, determined to save herself with her wits and the truth. Naught else could aid her here. “So, you had best release me. This is a simple enough error to amend.”

  “Indeed?” His gaze flicked over her ample curves. “Then who are you, if you would not be Mhairi?”

  Certain her identity would prove his error and win her freedom, she answered honestly, “I am Jacqueline of Ceinn-beithe.”

  Something flickered across his features, though Jacqueline would not have gone so far as to call it doubt. His words, though, were even more terse. “Who holds Ceinn-beithe in these days?”

  “Duncan MacLaren, my stepfather. And my mother, Eglantine. Who are you?”

  The knight shook his head, ignoring her question as he stood once again. “I do not know that name. You lie.”

  “I do not!”

  “Then how did this Duncan come to wrest Ceinn-beithe from Cormac MacQuarrie’s grip?”

  “Duncan is Cormac’s chosen heir. He is the chieftain of Clan MacQuarrie.”

  “Nay, in this you clearly lie.” His lips tightened to a harsh line again. “Cormac is the chieftain of Clan MacQuarrie and Iain his blood son. He would never surrender Ceinn-beithe to another.”

  “Cormac has not been chieftain since he died some ten years past. Duncan was his foster son and is his heir.”

  The knight regarded her in silence for so long that his tongue might have been stolen. “And what of Cormac’s daughter Mhairi?” He eyed her distrustfully.

  Understanding swept through Jacqueline. “Oh, you seek that Mhairi! She is long dead, for she killed herself upon her father’s insistence that she wed a man she did not love. ’Twas her loss that killed Cormac, to hear Duncan tell it.”

  “That I can well imagine,” he said. He glanced back at his companion. To Jacqueline’s relief, the men who had accompanied her were not fatally injured, for they were being marshaled toward her. Their hands had been trussed behind their backs, and the other attacker urged them forward at the point of his sword.

  “Well?” the knight’s comrade called.

  “She claims she is not Mhairi, that Mhairi is dead,” the knight replied. “She claims to be the stepdaughter of the new chieftain of Clan MacQuarrie.”

  He then smiled down at Jacqueline. ’Twas not an encouraging smile, and Jacqueline suddenly doubted his intent to free her. He bent and picked her up in his arms, cradling her weight against his chest.

  “Either way,” he said silkily, “she will do very well.”

  “You cannot do this!”

  That smile broadened, no less disconcerting from such close proximity. “Can I not?”

  “But you have not even told me who you are, or what you want. I have told you everything!”

  He chuckled then, a low dark sound. “Your mistake, my beauty. Now you have naught with which to bargain.” His teeth flashed in a wolfish smile, and he suddenly looked both wicked and dashing. Jacqueline’s heart stopped cold. “And I, for once in all my days, hold every advantage.”

  “Nay!” Jacqueline screamed but made little sound before the knight clamped one gloved hand over her mouth. She struggled but to no avail. The man kept her silent and powerless with disconcerting ease.

&nb
sp; She was helpless in a man’s grip once more, prey to his every whim, and his intent was naught good. Fear rose to choke Jacqueline with the taste of that leather, her memory of being captive beneath Reynaud too similar to be denied. She fought to stay aware, knowing that if she fainted she could not aid herself.

  But the terror of that memory and the similarity of her circumstance was too strong to be denied. Jacqueline’s last glimpse was of the resolute lines of the knight’s visage, the flicker of desire in his eyes.

  God in heaven, but she could not change the truth. She had fallen prey to a demon on her way to the Lord.

  Chapter 2

  Angus had not expected her to be so frightened. Fear he had expected, but her terror was uncharacteristic of the intrepid Mhairi he vaguely recalled.

  But then the reason was so evident that he felt a fool for forgetting. Aye, one look upon him when he was angered might make even the bold Mhairi faint. His quest had changed more than his character—it had destroyed his face.

  In contrast, Mhairi was more lovely than he had ever expected she might become. She was a beauty of flaxen hair and emerald eyes, a daintily wrought woman yet with fulsome curves. Her flesh was tanned to a golden hue, a shade that made her hair seem like burnished gold. Her eyes were startlingly clear, of the particular green hue the sea could take on a summer’s day.

  ’Twas astonishing to Angus that it troubled him so much when she fainted. She was no more than a means to an end to him and one he did not intend to see harmed, but her terror concerned him.

  He was simply not accustomed to the company of women any longer—nor, indeed, prepared for her recoil from the sight of him.

  His first impression was that she was younger than he had expected, but then he had learned ’twas impossible for a man to accurately guess the age of a beauteous woman. They had secret arts to preserve their youth. If Mhairi had waited so long to wed because her father deemed her a prize, ’twould serve her well to hide the full number of her years.

  Just as such women could hide the truth to suit their purposes, he was not surprised that Mhairi claimed to be other than herself in the hope of seeing herself freed. That was deceptiveness of an ilk with her father’s.

  Aye, he had called it aright. She lied. She was Mhairi, she was his captive, and Cormac would willingly pay his due.

  Angus whistled to his steed and instructed him to stand over the woman now laid upon the ground, knowing that Lucifer would hold his place at his master’s word. He spoke softly to the horse, steeled his heart against the woman’s ploy to soften his resolve, then turned to the small cluster of men who had accompanied the maiden.

  The captured man whom Rodney urged forward was the first to speak. “Who are you?” he demanded in Gael. “And by what right do you make such an attack upon the very land of Clan MacQuarrie?”

  His outraged manner did not hide either his suspicion or his uncertainty of his own fate. The trio of other men was similarly wary.

  They had naught to fear, in truth. Angus had no desire for slaughter—if he ever had, his years in Outremer would have thoroughly sated any such yearning. On this day he had need of naught but a messenger, and these four would suit him well enough.

  He had, however, learned to anticipate treachery from every turn. These men would have no chance to pursue him or retrieve Mhairi.

  “I am Angus MacGillivray, son of Fergus MacGillivray, once the comrade of Somerled and, as entrusted by the dictate of that King of the Isles, loyal defender of Airdfinnan.”

  The man’s previous doubt was naught compared to the suspicion that now crossed his features. “You cannot be! Angus MacGillivray is dead, just as all of the family MacGillivray are dead. All know the truth of it.” His companions nodded in solemn agreement.

  “Yet I stand before you.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed further. “Then you are naught but a rogue, stealing the name and repute of a ghost.”

  “Nay, I am Angus MacGillivray.” Angus drew his sword quickly and touched its tip to the man’s throat. The man flinched, expecting the worst, but Angus merely nicked the skin. “Perhaps you recall my father’s blade?”

  The man’s throat worked silently as a single drop of blood trickled from the minute wound. He flicked a glance at the distinctive hilt, embellished with a pattern of Celtic knots, then paled as he clearly recognized it. “Odin’s Scythe. Where did you find it?”

  “I did not find it.” The very suggestion that ’twas not rightly his own irked Angus as little else could have done. “’Twas granted to me, by my father’s own hand, as all men of honor come to carry legendary blades.”

  The man stared back at him, disbelieving the truth.

  “And truly, as I am of that ill-fated family MacGillivray, I am a man with naught left to lose.”

  The man held his gaze, clearly aware of the fate of Airdfinnan. He jerked his head in the direction of the woman. “And what has that to do with our charge?”

  “It has little to do with her and much to do with your clan. She is but a pawn in a larger game.”

  “You cannot make the lady pay for the loss of your family! ’Twould be unjust!”

  “Aye? And how is it unjust for the MacQuarrie clan to be asked to repair what they have set awry?”

  The man snorted. “If you speak of the assumption of Airdfinnan, that had naught to do with us!”

  Angus let his own skepticism show. “Nay?”

  “Nay! Your father died without an heir! Your brother was dead and you were well known to have died in Outremer.” Angus leaned closer. The man could not step back as Rodney’s blade was still behind him, and the color drained from his face in his fear.

  “My father was murdered,” Angus said deliberately. “My brother was murdered. ’Tis by the grace of God alone that I survived, and that I did survive means they will be avenged.” He stepped back and sheathed his blade. “Tell that to Cormac MacQuarrie.” He turned to Lucifer, that beast bristling with impatience to be gone.

  “Cormac is dead,” the man retorted.

  Angus turned back to find the man watching him, arms akimbo. “Then who is the chieftain of the clan now?” he asked softly, testing the information the maiden had given him and fully expecting to hear Iain’s name.

  But the man replied as she had done. “Duncan MacLaren was named Cormac’s heir by Cormac himself. ’Tis he who rules the clan and he who will demand restitution for the capture of his daughter Jacqueline.”

  Angus glanced at the woman, marveling that she had not lied. Still, ’twas as he said—she would serve his purpose as well as Mhairi would have done. “Then ’tis to this Duncan you shall give my message.”

  “But what of Jacqueline?”

  Angus granted the man a smile so cold that he visibly shivered. ’Twas important not to reveal too much of his intent too soon. “You shall hear, eventually.”

  “But you cannot do this! You—” The man fell silent, undoubtedly encouraged to do so by the tip of Rodney’s blade.

  Angus ignored him. The woman stirred as he approached his steed. Her eyelids fluttered, her eyes opening wide when she saw him so close, and she stiffened.

  “I have told you once to be still lest you frighten the steed,” he said sternly, for only her panic could disconcert the horse.

  Her gaze flew over Lucifer, who stamped his great hooves with excellent timing. She swallowed and closed her eyes as if drawing upon some inner strength but moved no more than that.

  At least she did not faint again. And color blossomed again in her cheeks. Perhaps she was wrought of sterner stuff, in truth.

  He fetched some cloth from his saddlebag, spoke again to the steed, then returned to Rodney’s side. Without further ado, he blindfolded the captured man.

  That man sputtered. “You cannot do this. You cannot steal our steeds...”

  “I have stolen naught. Your skittish steeds have fled, as poorly trained mounts oft will do.”

  “But what of us? I beg of you not to kill us!”


  The other men were blindfolded quickly, though Angus did not waste time with reassurances.

  “Turn in place,” he commanded, touching his blade to the throat of the man before him when that man hesitated. Rodney did the same, until each man was so encouraged to spin in place.

  “You cannot leave us to perish in the wilderness,” the leader protested.

  “Nay, you cannot!” argued another, all beginning to clamor. Angus was not stirred to sympathy for he knew they only sought to be aware of each other’s locations.

  Rodney dug his blade a little deeper into that man’s flesh. “Hush, or you shall have to be gagged as well.”

  The man’s lips clamped in a tight line.

  “Tell your comrades to do the same.”

  The man gave a terse command, and the four men shuffled in silence. Rodney and Angus exchanged a nod, then led two of the men in differing directions, leaving the others turning in place.

  Ultimately the four men stood spinning silently, hundreds of paces apart from each other. Their footsteps could not be heard at such a distance, though Angus could nigh taste their fear and uncertainty.

  Angus lifted his captive before himself and mounted his steed. She held herself stiffly, as if she would make space between them, but he had no patience with such maidenly modesty. He pulled her closer, then touched his spurs to the steed.

  He rode toward the man who had said so much, Rodney riding by his side. “I will watch you to the count of five thousand,” he whispered, making Lucifer walk around the man in the opposite direction to which the man turned. “Have you sufficient skill with numbers to count so high?”

  “Nay!”

  “Ah, then count to a hundred, and do so fifty times.”

  “But I cannot.” The man was already becoming dizzy, his steps faltering.

  All the better to disorient him. He would not be able to guess in which direction they departed.