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

by Claire Delacroix

  He denied her vigorously, struggling against her grip once more. She felt the fury building within him again and recalled how he had been reassured in the cavern. She unfastened the tie in her hair, with agitated fingers, and shook out her braid, casting her hair over his flesh.

  He trembled as she gripped him in fear, but then suddenly he stilled. For some reason, the touch of her hair made Angus pause.

  Jacqueline whispered soothingly to him, insisting he dreamed and reminding him of her name. She lifted a lock of hair as he had done once and ran it across his face.

  Angus shuddered and his breath left him raggedly.

  “Jacqueline,” he whispered hoarsely. His grip upon her changed, no less urgent than before but now he held her closer instead of trying to cast her away. He buried his face in her neck and inhaled deeply.

  When he kissed the hollow of her throat sweetly, the tears rose to Jacqueline’s eyes, so great was her relief.

  When his lips found hers, Jacqueline could deny him naught. He kissed her with a hunger unexpected, as if he could not ever sate his desire for her. Angus cradled her against his chest and rained kisses across her face, her neck, her shoulder, murmuring her name like a litany. There was a desperation in his touch, a need that she could not deny.

  The heat rose immediately between them, their very flesh seemingly kindled to the flame. They tasted each other and touched each other and demanded of each other with a newfound urgency. Jacqueline found herself bold in the darkness and enflamed by his ardor. She kissed him with hunger, letting her tongue duel with his, delighted that she could make his desire rage.

  He was within her in no time at all and she welcomed his heat. They moved together, tormenting and pleasing each other, summoning a tide so great and one that deluged them so quickly that they were both left gasping.

  And then they loved again, more slowly, each caress punctuated with endearments. The pleasure was no less for their leisure, and, indeed, Jacqueline was amazed to learn that Angus could coax her response yet a third time in succession.

  ’Twas then she slept, curled against him, her feet in his lap and his fingers enfolded in her hair.

  As Angus held Jacqueline close in the darkness, he struggled to understand how she had dismissed the clutch of his nightmares. She was fearless, he realized, uncaring for her own safety when she could lend aid to another.

  And for her assistance, he was grateful.

  He had no doubt that Jacqueline would ask him again of what he feared in the night, of what had happened in that prison, just as he knew he would never tell her of it. She had no understanding of the wickedness men could inflict upon each other in the name of whatever goal. She might be destined to learn of it, but Angus would not be the one to teach her.

  He loved her, just as she was, this contradiction of innocence and defiance. Angus loved her optimism that justice would prevail and her determination to do whatever was necessary to ensure that it did. He loved the way she laughed and the keenness of her intellect, he loved how she did not admit defeat readily and defended those for whom she cared.

  He loved how fearless she could be, how she argued with him when she believed him mistaken and how she questioned all she did not understand. She was a beauty to the bone, his Jacqueline. She was a marvel to him, appearing so soft and sweet, yet hiding a core as resolute as steel. He, who had never expected to love again, had been healed by this one woman in more ways than one.

  And because Angus loved Jacqueline, because she had given him so many gifts, he would give her the sole thing she desired. He would ensure that she did become a novitiate at Inveresbeinn, for her own choice was all this lady wanted.

  She had told him so a dozen times, after all. ’Twas her choice and he would ensure that she had it.

  ’Twas the least he owed her.

  Now, all he had need of was a scheme to see them free of this place, and that with all haste. The beauty curled against his heat was too full of life to perish like this.

  Chapter 18

  “Be utterly still,” Jacqueline counseled in an undertone when Angus was yet on the verge of waking. Indeed, he was astounded that he had managed to sleep at all. He reached for her but she was gone, on her feet and out of his reach.

  And before he could pursue her, she began to scream so loud he thought his ears would be rent.

  “Zounds!” he muttered, and she dug her toe none too gently into his ribs.

  “God in heaven!” she cried. “He is dead! I am trapped here with a dead man. Aid me, someone!” She screamed and screamed and screamed, apparently so overcome by fear that she could do naught else.

  “You are too overwrought,” Angus advised in an undertone. “They will think you mad.”

  “When I wish your advice, I shall ask for it,” she replied at equally low volume.

  She bellowed anew, entreating those above for assistance. “Aid me, I beg of you! May God have mercy upon your souls. He is dead, dead in the night. ’Twas bad enough you trapped me with a leper in this place, but now he is dead, and I know not if there are”—her voice echoed with horror—“bits of him loose down there.”

  “’Tis a myth,” Angus felt obliged to observe.

  He earned another dig in his ribs for his counsel. “I am distraught,” Jacqueline hissed. “And overcome with terror. If you would be so kind as to let me continue.”

  Without awaiting his reply, she screamed with new vigor.

  Had their circumstance not been so dire, Angus might have been amused by the lengths to which Jacqueline was prepared to go. She murmured prayers, she gasped in horror, she made more noise than he could have ever imagined a single woman might make. But their situation was most serious—and of more import, her idea was not all bad.

  So he dismissed his smile and lay as still as a corpse, hoping that her ploy would work. There was finally the sound of running footsteps and the murmuring of men above. ’Twas most annoying that Angus could not hear their words, but then ’twould not have been advisable for Jacqueline to halt. More footsteps sounded as men fled and he feared she would be ignored.

  But suddenly the trapdoor was opened, the fresh air itself a balm to the soul.

  “What ails you, woman?”

  “Edmund! You must aid me. He is dead! You cannot leave me imprisoned with a corpse.”

  Jacqueline did a credible job of being incoherent with fear after that. Angus heard her ascend the steps, begging the men for their compassion. She wept and he peeked through his lashes to find her cringing and clinging to the man. Indeed, ’twas so unlike her normal manner that she might have been another woman.

  Which just made him appreciate the woman she was all the more.

  “I cannot release you, for Father Aloysius says you are allied together.”

  “Oh, Father Aloysius spoke the truth. I was deceived, cruelly deceived by this man and used for his malicious ends. He persuaded me that he was the true heir to Airdfinnan, and I”—her words faltered convincingly—“I thought I had stepped into an old troubadour’s tale. I aided him, like a fool, but Father Aloysius saw the truth. If only”—she sobbed like a contrite penitent—“if only I might have his forgiveness.”

  The guard descended the steps, wariness in his movements. “How did he die?”

  “He assaulted me last evening. What could I do but fight for my chastity? Perhaps you heard my struggle?”

  ’Twas a clever appropriation of the sounds of Angus’s night terrors.

  “Perhaps,” Edmund conceded, and gave Angus a cautious nudge with his boot.

  “I tried to climb the steps, he followed, I pushed him and he fell. I thought that he merely hit his head, but on this morn he does not move.” Jacqueline’s voice wavered. “He is dead, I know it, and I will not be trapped with the corpse of a brigand, no less a leper!”

  Edmund leaned down, putting his ear close to Angus’s chest. Angus held his breath, half certain the man would hear the pounding of his heart. But Edmund straightened and coughed. “I c
an tell naught in this darkness. I will have to get another to drag him to the light.”

  “Why do you not do it yourself?” Jacqueline challenged.

  “I will not touch a leper!”

  She scoffed. “Though you will steal his cloak readily enough. How is your hand?” she whispered wickedly. “Does it still itch?”

  “Witch!” Edmund lunged for the stairs and Angus took the opportunity Jacqueline offered. He leaped after the man, assailing him from behind.

  Edmund was startled. He stumbled, but by the time he reached for his blade, Angus had already claimed it.

  Edmund’s eyes rounded in horror but Angus cut him down, seized his cloak, and kicked the man’s corpse down into the cell. Then he thought better of it and retrieved the man’s boots. He was delighted to discover that Edmund had a dagger as well as his sword and claimed that smaller blade too.

  Garbed like Edmund, he climbed to the top of the stairs and peered over the lip by Jacqueline’s side. Like the sensible woman she was, she had kept out of sight. Angus was pleased to note that Edmund had been sent to quiet her complaints alone.

  This folly might succeed. He drew the hood of his own cloak over his head and marched from the dungeon with the swagger of a guard. He dragged Jacqueline to the surface with him, then dropped the trapdoor closed and latched it securely.

  Not that Edmund would know the difference.

  “It seems you told no lie,” he murmured to her as he assessed the defenses between them and the gate. “There is indeed a corpse in the dungeon.”

  “What shall we do?”

  Angus assessed the distances, knowing that he had to see Jacqueline freed first. “I think Edmund might release the prisoner. He could not be immune to such considerable charm as your own.”

  “They will not permit it!”

  “Hold your hands behind your back as if they are bound. None will be able to see the truth of it with me so close behind you.”

  Jacqueline gasped even as she did so. “Do you mean to walk boldly through the gates?”

  Angus smiled at her, not nigh as confident as he would appear. “’Tis worth a try.”

  There were two more treasures left in this keep that were rightly his own, and Angus did not intend to leave without them. Jacqueline did not need to know that detail. First, he would ensure her safety.

  He whistled, a distinctively high-pitched sound, and smiled when a destrier neighed in reply. The beast began to kick, fighting the reins knotted to the wall of the stall. Stable boys ran toward the stallion, but the beast would have naught of them. Lucifer bucked and kicked and proved his strength, for the bolt to which his reins were knotted suddenly gave free.

  The steed reared, scattering the stablehands, then raced directly for his master, who scooped up Jacqueline as Lucifer came near and Angus dumped her onto the destrier’s back. Though Lucifer was unsaddled, Angus trusted that Jacqueline’s skills would ensure that she was not thrown.

  “Hurry!” She reached her hand down to aid him to mount.

  Angus sobered, gripping his lady’s hand. “You will not turn back, regardless of what transpires. Pledge it to me.”

  Jacqueline’s lips set mutinously, but Angus had not expected anything else. He pressed Edmund’s dagger into her grip. “Ensure the sight of it is a surprise,” he whispered, then he slapped the destrier’s rump and bellowed at the beast.

  Lucifer needed no further encouragement. Jacqueline’s inevitable protest was drowned by the sound of the destrier’s pounding hooves. The pair passed the hall. Angus hoped desperately that the guards at the gate would fall back from the charging steed.

  “Edmund!” another man cried from behind him. “What is this that you do?”

  Angus ignored the call, trying to look as if he strolled casually toward the hall. He had one more treasure to retrieve. The other guard shouted from behind, the sense that something was amiss growing quickly inside the keep.

  The two men at the gate drew their blades to bar the passage. Lucifer did not halt. The steed raced through the opening at full gallop, and the men fell back. The guard behind Angus shouted an alarm, and sentries appeared on the walls with sudden speed.

  Angus cursed to see that they had crossbows. He offered a quick prayer for Jacqueline’s safety, then ducked into the hall. As he had hoped, his father’s blade was laid gleaming upon the board.

  But before it stood Father Aloysius. That man smiled, clearly having anticipated Angus’s arrival, and parted his robes to reveal a jeweled scabbard. He withdrew a fine blade with deliberate leisure, then lifted it. Its blade shone wickedly.

  “I was so hoping you would truly be your father’s son.”

  “Why? So that you might surrender Airdfinnan as my rightful due?”

  Father Aloysius shook his head. “So that you would be fool enough to risk your life for sentimentality. ’Twas your father’s fatal flaw.”

  “My father may have had flaws, but noble intent was his greatest asset,” Angus declared, lifting Edmund’s blade before him.

  He might not leave this hall alive, but he would see his father and brother avenged if ’twas the last deed he did.

  Jacqueline could not abandon Angus.

  Unfortunately, Lucifer had the bit in his teeth and would stop for naught. She tried to halt him, or at least slow his gallop, but the steed did not heed. He raced madly through the gates, the sight of him undoubtedly striking such fear into the guards’ hearts that they did not even try to lower the portcullis.

  But then, ’twould not have descended in time, for Lucifer ran like the wind. No sooner were they through the gates than a cry echoed from within.

  “Forget the woman!” a man cried far behind her. “Our lord is besieged.”

  The gate guards spun to face the courtyard and Jacqueline leaped from Lucifer’s back. She landed badly, but flattened herself against the keep’s walls, her grip tight on the dagger hilt as she considered what to do.

  Lucifer thundered on across the causeway, his reins flying. Evidently, he was too troubled by the bridge to be concerned with the loss of his rider. That suited her well enough.

  Jacqueline closed her eyes at the sound of steel meeting steel and wagered a guess as to Angus’s location. She could not blame him for seeking vengeance. But she had seen the liability of his blinded side, and he was already at sore disadvantage by dint of numbers alone.

  She knew that Father Aloysius would like naught better than to see Angus dead and forgotten. Jacqueline could not stand aside and let that happen.

  She peeked and found that the guards had fled to aid their master. Jacqueline ducked through the gates and hugged the shadows, grateful that all were occupied elsewhere. By the time she reached the courtyard, ’twas empty.

  Jacqueline slipped into the hall unobserved, her dread rising when she saw Angus and Father Aloysius battling back and forth across the floor. A dozen men stood around the perimeter, their gazes fixed upon the battle. Angus fought well, she noted, and evidently was more skilled than the priest, but still—she counted quickly—he had to conquer thirteen men to leave this hall alive.

  And he was not at his best, having been deprived of both sleep and food of late. Jacqueline considered the room from her vantage point in the shadows, seeking some aid she might

  give. She had to eliminate some of these men. One stood just to the right of the door, and she sidled up behind him.

  “Good morning,” she whispered.

  As he turned in astonishment, she drove Edmund’s dagger into his unprotected throat. He gurgled more loudly than she had anticipated and made a dreadful amount of noise in dying. Indeed, he struggled with her; Jacqueline had expected he would just fall dead at her feet. She twisted the knife, appalled by the need to do so, but he would kill her himself if given the chance.

  He fell finally, but not before the man next to him turned at the sound. Jacqueline knew with sudden certainty that she had erred. Oh, she knew naught of warfare, that was the truth of it.

&nb
sp; She dove for a sconce upon the wall, seized the torch, and touched it to the enormous tapestry that lined the wall. The wool immediately burned, the man charged her, and Jacqueline shoved the torch into his face.

  He fell with much greater speed than the first, but Jacqueline grimaced. Angus spoke aright—burning flesh made a sickening smell, one she would not soon forget.

  She had eliminated only two men and already a cry of alarm echoed through the hall. Jacqueline swung her torch and jabbed with her dagger, doing her best to light another tapestry afire. A man grabbed her from behind and she hit him with the burning torch.

  Three. The count was what mattered. Three men bent upon killing Angus were dead or near enough to it to pose no further threat.

  She thought she heard Angus swear when she faced the fourth man, but she focused upon her prey. He was heavily armed, save for his face.

  She would aim for his eyes.

  His gaze suddenly flicked over her shoulder in a most telling fashion. Jacqueline pivoted and drove her dagger into the eye of a man who had crept up behind her. He screamed and fell away, her blade still planted.

  She spun and swung the blazing torch wildly. She succeeded in setting the armored man’s tabard aflame but not before he had cut her cheek. He screeched and danced backward, but Jacqueline lent chase, jabbing the torch into his face until he dropped his own blade.

  ’Twas frightening that she learned this gruesome labor as quickly as she did.

  Jacqueline claimed the man’s blade but dropped the torch as it burned low. She turned her back against the wall and silently reminded herself that she had wounded five. She was shaking with what she had wrought and her heart pounded in fear, but ’twas her own survival she would ensure as well as that of the man she loved. She had raised one hand to her stinging cheek when Angus raged toward her.

  She caught a glimpse of a retreating Father Aloysius and noted that Angus swung a gleaming blade, before he cut down the man between them and confronted her. He was furiously angry and his chest heaved with his labors—indeed, he fairly seethed—though he spoke with uncommon temperance.