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

by Claire Delacroix

  Indeed, the inside of the tunic bore marks that could have been wrought only by chain mail. He recalled the dark destrier in the stables, a remarkable beast, so much more remarkable for the rarity of its kind in these parts. He guessed that the wearer of the tunic had also been the rider of the steed.

  Jacqueline insisted that a knight was being hunted for declaring himself to be Angus MacGillivray, the same man who was known to have departed on crusade. He knew it should not have mattered to him to have learned that she was pledged to be a novitiate, but it did. He was more inclined to trust the conclusion of one who chose a path so similar to his own.

  A man posing as a knight would need considerable wealth to feign his station so completely as this. Father Michael had learned long ago that the truth is often the most evident explanation—’twas a lie that required a network of falsehoods to support it.

  Yet he was a cautious man by nature. He would be certain before he made a bold accusation. There was one place that would know of any crusaders returned to this land. King William had endowed a Templar monastery not ten miles from Father Michael’s own foundation. He would ask the Templars what they knew of this matter.

  He bundled the tunic hurriedly beneath his cossack, then, on impulse, seized the figs as well. ’Twas thievery to take them, but he could not have borne the burden of his conscience if he returned to find that earnest maiden poisoned in his absence.

  Jacqueline might be right, or she might be naught but a pawn in the game of men; either way, she did not deserve to die.

  He thought of it as protecting God’s own novitiate.

  As he hustled through the gates, acting as if naught was amiss, Father Michael had an encouraging thought. The Templars wore such a cross as this upon their tabards, and, were this man of their own ranks, they would see his death avenged, regardless of his name.

  “I suppose you are angered with me.”

  Angus leaned his brow against the cold wall of Airdfinnan’s dungeon and shook his head. “Why should I be angered with you?” he said with a calm he was far from feeling. “When a man has spent a year incarcerated, what is another night or two?”

  “You are angry with me.”

  Angus sighed, his flesh creeping to find himself in such painfully familiar circumstances. ’Twas his darkest fear to be imprisoned again, and he fought against the tide of terror rising within him.

  “’Tis more reasonable than being pleased, would you not say?”

  Jacqueline said naught to that, but then his tone had not been as courteous as he might have hoped. The silence between them did naught to aid him. He was aware of the precise dimensions of this chamber despite the darkness that enveloped them.

  He heard the drip of water on stone, felt the chill of the stone walls press against his flesh. He closed his eye and felt the sweat run down his back. He was trapped. Again. Entombed in darkness, in a cold dank prison below the surface of the earth, again by men who would prefer he died quietly and with a minimum of trouble.

  His father had built but a single cell beneath Airdfinnan’s hall. ’Twas hewn from the rock of the isle itself and blessed with no such convenience as a drain. He supposed they should be grateful that such design offered no opportunity for rats to enter.

  Steep stone steps hugged one wall, leading down to the pit that was not even square. The chamber itself was about half a dozen of Angus’s paces in diameter. The single door was a trapdoor that had no edges from beneath and was bolted twice with heavy iron bolts from above.

  Fergus had made the dungeon cursedly effective, though it had seldom been used in Angus’s recollection. He and Ewen had locked each other here in fun and always been soundly chastised for their actions, but those games had occurred before Angus had learned terror in a similar cell.

  He took a shuddering breath and trained his gaze on the thin line of light that crept around the trapdoor. Already he wanted to scream.

  “I thought you were dead,” Jacqueline admitted.

  “It seems the news was premature.”

  “He offered me figs already,” she said sourly, and Angus peered through the darkness, straining for a glimpse of her features. Had she been fool enough to eat them? “I did not accept one, but it seems we are ill-fated together, Angus.”

  She came to his side and leaned against the wall beside him, the sweet scent rising from her uncommonly reassuring.

  Of course, there would be a price for her companionship. He could fairly feel her gaze boring into him, and he knew ’twould not be long before she asked something of him.

  “How long were you there, beneath the grate?”

  “An eternity.”

  “They should never have attacked you from your blinded side,” she said with startling heat.

  Angus blinked. Jacqueline was not slow of wit, so he could not conceive of what she meant. “You do understand that they meant to arrest me as an intruder.”

  “Of course I understand that!” She paced the width of the cell and back. “But ’twas so, so discourteous!”

  “Discourteous,” Angus echoed in astonishment.

  “After all, there was never any doubt of the outcome—for the love of God, there were eight of them! They could have shown you a measure of courtesy, at least.”

  Jacqueline laid a hand upon his arm suddenly. “I am sorry, Angus. I am vexed because I know I am doubly responsible for our plight.”

  He shook his head. “You only tried to aid me.”

  “But I should have listened to you first. And I should not have screamed like a fool. ’Twas a deed more typical of my sister Alienor.” She made a low sound not unlike a growl of a discontented cat. “And God in heaven, but I have no desire to be compared to her! ’Tis most galling.”

  He smiled despite himself, recalling how he and Ewen had loathed being compared each to the other, and they had been close.

  Jacqueline suddenly leaned closer. “But I was not expecting there to be anyone in the drain and you looked like a corpse.” Her fingers moved over his flesh gently, as if she sought to reassure herself that he was truly alive. “I feared you were dead or soon would be. They brought your tunic and ’twas heavy with blood—”

  “A ruse, Jacqueline. I knew Aloysius would seek me out after your arrival here. I but granted him what he sought, in the hope ’twould pacify him.”

  “You were right and I was wrong. Again. I should have listened to you, instead of racing to these gates.” She sighed and he could imagine that her fair brows drew together in a frown. “I never thought that a priest would act unfairly.” Angus shook his head. “’Tis no crime to believe good of those around you. Indeed, had I my choice, I would never have you learn how deceitful men can be.”

  “But you have never deceived me,” she said softly. “’Tis what Father Aloysius insisted, though I know he lied. He said you had lied about your identity, but I knew ’twas not true. He said he did not recognize you, but ’twas another lie, for if you were not who you claim to be, how would Edana have known you? And how would you know these lands if you had not been raised here?”

  Her faith in him warmed his heart, but Angus said naught. He reminded himself that hers was an infatuation, that she was destined for the convent by her own choice, that he had naught to offer her and that he had already taken more from her than was his right.

  For all their volume, his arguments were less persuasive than he might have hoped.

  Aye, he was glad to have her here with him, though ’twas selfish and he knew that well. Jacqueline’s bright presence made the darkness easier to bear.

  “What would you have done if I had not appeared?” Jacqueline asked.

  “Returned to the river, though I hoped the women might drop something of use to me.”

  “While instead they dumped washing water upon you.” There was a welcome tinge of laughter in Jacqueline’s tone. “You smell of soapwort.”

  “’Tis better than what I smelled of before.”

  She laughed then, the merry
sound echoing in the small space. “At least they used much of the herb, otherwise you might have smelled of the sweat of monks. My mother oft said that many of their kind were unconcerned with worldly cleanliness.”

  Not wanting her to fall silent, Angus seized upon her comment. “You speak of your mother with great fondness. Tell me of your family.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly. I should like to know.”

  Chapter 17

  Jacqueline evidently needed no more encouragement than that.

  She told Angus of her family, of her mother and her mother’s marriages, and more of this Duncan whom she seemed to regard as her own father though they shared no blood. She told of her elder half-sister, speaking with affection despite that woman’s obvious selfishness.

  Jacqueline spoke of the charm of her younger sister, Esmeraude, and the sweetness of Mhairi, the youngest sister of them all. She sprinkled her descriptions with anecdotes and memories, pranks the girls had played upon each other and adventures they had had.

  She told him more of leaving France, of her fears for the future at that time, of her delight with the beauty of Ceinn-beithe and its wildness. She expressed frustration with the social expectations and rigid rules in France, then laughed as she acknowledged that she was aware of few beyond her obligation to wed “the old toad.”

  She spoke wistfully of two young nephews at Crevy-sur-Seine, whom she had yet to see, having left for Scotland when her aunt was pregnant with the child who had become the heir. She told of weddings and birthings and games the girls had played upon each other as children. She informed him that Duncan was a fine storyteller and regaled him with a favored tale.

  Angus was content merely to listen. The sparkle of Jacqueline’s voice filled the chill of the dungeon, her tales prompted him to smile secretly in the darkness. With her voice alone, she pushed his demons back into the distant shadows where they belonged.

  When she spoke of those two young nephews at Crevy, he was struck with a recollection of his brother, then with the stark realization that he had no family left to his name. Unlike Jacqueline, who gloried in the telling of her family’s foibles and endearing traits, there was no one of whom he might tell her.

  No one who still drew breath, at least.

  He wondered what his father would think of that and knew ’twould have been a fearsome disappointment to the man who believed he founded a dynasty here at Airdfinnan.

  “How can you leave them all?” he asked abruptly, interrupting Jacqueline’s tale.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are surrounded by a family and ’tis clear you regard them with affection. How can you surrender that to become a novitiate?”

  “How did you leave your family?”

  “I believed I had to, to save them, but you have no such reason. You know that they will not be permitted to visit you nor you to visit them. You will have no tales of them, you will not even know if they bear children, if they wed, when they die.”

  “You echo my mother.” She sounded stubborn. “I made the best choice for me with all I knew at the time.”

  “And now?”

  “What person of merit retreats from their word?”

  “A person who has learned to appreciate what they might lose.”

  “I told you that a woman could choose only between the convent and the altar.” Her voice was resonant with challenge. “I cannot see that there is any other alternative for me. My choice is made and I embrace it fully.”

  He suspected then what she wanted of him, what under other circumstances he might have readily granted. But Jacqueline would not have an alternative presented from him, for he had naught to offer her. Angus knew she deserved a man who could make her happy, who could ensure her safety and well-being, while association with him had only brought her to a dungeon from which she would probably not escape. It seemed he had already done sufficient damage without promising her what he could not grant.

  He did not take what was not his to take, and he did not guarantee what was not his to give. ’Twas as simple as that.

  Angus felt Jacqueline watching him, until finally she heaved a sigh. He heard her climb the stone steps to the trapdoor and push against it impatiently. Angus did not tell her that ’twould not open—she knew the truth of it. She knocked and shouted, but there was no response.

  “You would think that he would at least address us,” she said irritably. “He could sentence us, or order our death. ’Tis most vexing to be ignored.”

  “He will not suffer there to be an opportunity for his men to be swayed by the truth.”

  “You cannot mean that we will be left here simply to starve!”

  “It may be thirst that claims us first.” Angus shivered despite himself for his garments were still wet. Perhaps he would take an ague and die first.

  That gave him a thin hope. “If I die first, you must be certain to tell them so.”

  “’Tis hardly likely that you will die first. You are larger than I am and more robust.”

  “And I am wet and chilled to the bone. Nay, Jacqueline, ’twill be me, and I will have your pledge that you will tell them of it. When you do, you will do your utmost to persuade them that you do not believe I was Angus MacGillivray. Do you understand?”

  He should have known better than to expect easy compliance. She strode down the stairs, made her way unerringly to him, and poked him hard in the chest. “You will not die! I shall not permit it.”

  Angus chuckled. “I had no idea you had such influence.”

  “Do not mock me in this!” She struck his shoulder and the wet cloth smacked against her hand. “You are wet.”

  “Aye. This is what comes of lurking in a drain for hours on end.”

  “And you would stand here, like a fool, waiting for illness to descend upon you.”

  “It would seem to make little difference.”

  “It makes every difference. Now, shed your garb and shed it now.”

  “I will do no such thing.”

  “You will not be shy in complete darkness, not after what we have done together and not when your very life is at stake.”

  “You will not dictate what I shall do.”

  “I will, if you are fool enough not to follow sense yourself.”

  And he had been witless enough to think her faint of heart. Had that been only days ago?

  “It matters not,” Angus began to argue, but she seized his chemise in her hands and tore it from his chest. ’Twas already half shredded by his own actions, but still her action startled him.

  “Stubborn wretch of a man,” she muttered.

  Angus protested but her hands were on his wet chausses and he chuckled at her determination as he caught her hands in his own. ’Twas not all bad to have someone care for his welfare again. “I see that you will not be swayed. Perhaps you might leave me some garb.”

  “Only if you discard it.”

  “Ah, vixen, it has been long since a woman tore my garments from my back in her lust to have me naked.”

  She gasped in outrage and Angus wished he could have seen her blush.

  “You will not shock me into retreating on this,” she whispered with heat. “I would see you well, Angus, and there is no argument you can make to dissuade me.”

  There was naught a reasonable man might say to that. He shed his chausses and wrung them out, the water dripping coldly on the stone floor even as he stood nude in the darkness. He heard Jacqueline doing something but could not guess what, until she laid her palm in the middle of his chest.

  “You are too cold, so turn and brace your hands upon the wall.”

  He did so, and she began to rub him down, as if he were a war-horse who needed to be rid of his sweat. The cloth she used itched as wool did and launched heat over his flesh in a most pleasurable way. Indeed, she warmed him truly. When her breasts brushed against his arm with only a whisper of linen between them, he knew she used her own kirtle.

  “Where did you learn to d
o this?”

  “My mother insists upon doing thus with those unfortunates who inadvertently fall into the sea. She believes that invigorating the skin coaxes the body to recover from the shock.”

  “A most practical woman.”

  “What works for horses, as my mother says, will work for men.”

  “Your mother is fond of horses?”

  “As am I. She hunts often, with a peregrine as they do in France, but I have no taste for the hunt. I prefer simply to ride.”

  “And you tend your own steed.”

  “Of course! The grooming builds a bond betwixt rider and steed.”

  “According to your mother?”

  “Aye.”

  “She has taught you well, and must have learned of horses from men who are accustomed to relying upon their steeds.”

  “Her family are nobly born. My uncle is a knight and a lord, both my father and first stepfather were knights as well. I had never quite believed her tales of destriers and their size until I saw Lucifer.”

  “He is a fine beast.”

  Her hands stilled. “Where is he truly from?”

  “Damascus. He was bred in Damascus.”

  She leaned so close that he felt the fan of her breath. “Why did you call it hell?”

  “Because ’twas my hell.”

  “How so?”

  “Do you always ask so many questions?”

  “If I waited for you to tell me of things, I should never learn anything at all,” she accused, amusement underlying her words. “Indeed, I might die of curiosity.”

  “I had no idea it could be a fatal affliction.”

  She laughed and leaned against him. “Which reminds me—how did that sentry obtain your cloak?”

  “He stole it from me.”

  “And you pretended to be a leper.”

  “I am not such a fine sight that ’twas difficult to persuade him of it.”

  She chuckled again, tapping her fingers on his shoulder. “I must tell you that you sorely troubled him. He was scratching himself in the hall as if he were truly afflicted. I would not be surprised if his own fear created sores on his flesh.”