The Stolen Bride

  “You are all unclothed, Kayne…you have not been out in this weather?”

  “Aye,” he murmured.

  “But why?”

  “To find a measure of peace.”

  Sorrow knifed through her, far more painful than what her body had just experienced. “Oh, Kayne,” she murmured sadly, stroking strands of wet hair from his face. “’Tis all my fault. I am so deeply ashamed and sorry.”

  He shook his head. “You are not the one to blame, Sofia. It is my own sickness that makes me ill within. You are my only refuge from the misery of it. I need you, Sofia.” Whispering the words this time, he said again, “I need you. But if you tell me to leave, I will go at once. Indeed, I should go. I have no right to ask anything of you.”

  Sofia swallowed heavily. “I want you to stay, Kayne. But I am afraid…!”

  The Stolen Bride

  Harlequin Historical #535

  #536 SILK AND STEEL

  Theresa Michaels

  #537 THE LAW AND MISS HARDISSON

  Lynna Banning

  #538 MONTANA MAN

  Jillian Hart

  THE STOLEN BRIDE

  SUSAN SPENCER PAUL

  Available from Harlequin Historicals and SUSAN SPENCER PAUL

  *The Bride’s Portion (as Susan Paul) #266

  *The Heiress Bride (as Susan Paul) #301

  *The Bride Thief #373

  Beguiled #408

  *The Captive Bride #471

  *The Stolen Bride #535

  To my beautiful daughter, Carolyn,

  who came up with the title for this book,

  and who fills each day of my life with joy.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter One

  “Nay, Father, I tell you I will have none of him. And I’ll not see him. Sir Griel must suffer the disappointment, I fear.”

  With this, Sofia returned her attention to the needlework in her lap. She was perfectly calm.

  Her father, however, stood in his place near the door, sweating profusely and wringing his hands.

  “Sofia, you must come and speak with him,” Sir Malcolm pleaded. “You know what it means to overset Sir Griel. I beg you, daughter, only speak to him, show him a measure of sweetness, such as you alone can do. That will be enough to sate him for a time.”

  Sofia was unmoved by this.

  “Sir Griel is a violent, evil, untoward man, Father, and I’ve no wish to sate him in any way. What I desire is that he leave us in peace, for I vow I shall never wed him.” The thought made her visibly shudder. “Nothing could induce me to it.”

  “God’s mercy,” her father said, shaking his head. “He’s brought twelve men. Twelve, Sofia, and all fully armed. They’re standing with him now in the great room below, awaiting your arrival. If you don’t go to him, he’ll wreak havoc. I know he will.”

  “He only means to intimidate you, Father,” she said soothingly. “If you refuse to be thus cowed, he’ll leave you be, in time.”

  “Nay, he’ll not leave at all, until you’ve come to speak to him,” her father insisted. “He has said so, and I’ve no desire to put such a challenge to the test.”

  Sofia sighed loudly.

  “Sofia, please,” Sir Malcolm begged.

  She set her needlework aside and stood.

  “Very well.”

  “There,” he said with relief. “That’s a good daughter you are, Sofia. A very good daughter. Make certain to tell Sir Griel that—”

  “I shall bid him to the devil, my lord,” she stated, striding out of the room, “as I do every time I see him.”

  Sir Griel Wallace was a dark, ominous man, short but muscular, with hair, beard and eyes as black as coal. He was standing near the large hearth in the great room as Sofia descended the stairs, and turned to watch with open appreciation as she approached. Just as her father had said, a dozen of Sir Griel’s fighting men were with him, standing on either side of the room, looking very much as if they had prepared for a battle.

  Sofia could scarce blame her father for being so distressed at the sight of them. Sir Griel had clearly brought them with the intent of intimidating the entire household—herself included. The last time he’d come to visit her, she’d treated him to a rigidly polite manner of behavior which forced a certain formality from him in turn, but she’d found it impossible not to scoff at his few crude attempts at love-making. His pride had not withstood such a rebuff, no matter how intelligently or elegantly given, and he’d left Ahlgren Manor red with anger.

  With this visit, he clearly meant to make himself better understood, if not through sweet speeches, then through a show of force.

  As Sofia moved across the room, Sir Griel gave a signal, causing all his men to straighten to attention. Sofia lifted her chin and ignored them.

  “Mistress Sofia,” Sir Griel said. “Your beauty, as always, is a welcome sight. I pray I have not come at an unseasonable time?”

  He held a hairy, burly hand out, palm open, in what was obviously meant to be a grand gesture. Sofia set her teeth and strove to appear gracious as she laid her own in it. He was abnormally hairy, and was covered down to his fingertips with thick black hair which made him look far more like a heavily furred animal than a man. The idea of having to receive such a man’s intimate caresses made Sofia feel exceedingly ill. Just touching him now caused her stomach to churn nauseatingly.

  “My lord, Sir Griel,” she said in proper reply, making a curtsey and deftly sliding her hand free all in one smooth movement, “I am sorry to say that you have. I am used to making my visit to the village at this time of day, and was nearly ready to depart.”

  He made a bow. “Forgive me, mistress. I was not aware that you kept such steady habits. I would be greatly honored if you would allow me to accompany you throughout the village as you pursue your duties.”

  “You are kind,” Sofia said with a thin smile, “but I require no such escort. I am very happy to go with but my maid and a few menservants to fetch and carry, and you are far too busy a lord to waste such time upon anything so foolish. And this could not be your purpose in honoring us with your presence, I think.”

  “Nay, ’twas not,” he admitted, frowning. “I had thought to spend some time in your company, however, and so I told your father. I believe you realize my purpose.”

  Sofia gazed at him, all innocence. “Do I, my lord?”

  His already dark face darkened even more, and his brow furrowed. “If not, I shall tell you plainly. I mean to court you, Mistress Sofia, and to that purpose I have come and will continue to do so until you agree to be my wife.”

  Sofia regarded him steadily, taking in his fine, rich manner of dress, his strong and muscular body, his intensity of expression and temper. She supposed that there were many women who would be grateful to become the wife of Sir Griel Wallace. He was titled and well favored by the king’s regents. His estate, Maltane, was among the finest in Sussex, and he was powerful both in the strength of the small army of knights and soldiers he kept at his castle and the enormity of his wealth.

  But she could not rejoice at the idea of
such a match. Sir Griel was a cruel man. There was not the least bit of sway or softness in him, and he must ever have his way or no way at all. She’d witnessed his implacable nature firsthand in his dealings with the merchants and craftsmen in the village, all of whom lived in dread of Sir Griel’s random visits. Once he’d whipped a villager simply because the man had walked in front of his horse, and Sofia had heard rumors of far worse beatings that were regularly dealt out to any of his castle servants who happened to displease him.

  Standing firm against such a man was not so easy a matter as Sofia wished it might be. Everyone in and around the village of Wirth was afraid of Sir Griel, most especially her father. And she knew very well that if he’d determined to have her for his wife, he wouldn’t take her refusal easily. But Sofia would not be cowed by the man, though she found him both fearsome and physically repulsive.

  “I believe I understand your meaning, my lord,” she said calmly. “You do me great honor. I am perfectly aware of how much so, and thank you for such kind consideration. However, I fear that you would do better to look elsewhere for a bride. I do not intend to marry.”

  Sir Griel’s eyes widened. “Not marry?” he repeated. “Mistress Sofia Ahlgren not marry? ’Tis an impossibility, I vow. ’Twould be a grave sin to let such beauty as you possess go without its proper tribute, my lady. But, nay,” he said, laughing now, “you mean to tease me. I nearly took your word for truth. What a clever female you are, mistress. And how very much,” he added with a more meaningful look, “I shall enjoy taming you.”

  Sofia drew herself up full height—almost as tall as he was—and looked at him directly.

  “My lord,” she said clearly and distinctly, “pray let us have an understanding. I will not be your wife, and you would do well to look elsewhere. This is my final word on the matter, and now, I beg that you will take your men and leave. Good day to you.”

  She turned to walk away from him, but felt his steely hand close over her shoulder, daring to fall where her skin was bare above the neckline of her surcoat, roughly pulling her back. His face, she saw as he jerked her about, was taut with anger.

  “We will indeed have an understanding, Mistress Sofia, and one that you will accept. I will have you for my wife. You, and no other woman.”

  Sofia was trembling horribly, and knew he could feel it, but with every bit of strength she possessed she held his deadly gaze. “You cannot force me to it, my lord, and you will not. My father will not accept your suit, and even if you should manage to terrify him to such cowardice, I would petition the crown to grant me the freedom of my own authority. In but four months I will attain the age of twenty, and inherit all that comes to me through my mother’s will.”

  “Before that day comes,” he vowed, “you will be Lady Wallace, and all that you inherit dowered to whatever children you give me.”

  Sofia struggled to be free, but Sir Griel cruelly dug his nails into her bare flesh to keep her captive, drawing long, deep gashes of blood along her skin as Sofia panicked and wrenched away.

  Gasping, she reached up a hand to touch the raw, stinging wounds, and gaped at him in shock. Sir Griel looked at the blood he’d drawn with a satisfied smile, and nodded.

  “My first mark upon you, Sofia. The first of many, if you continue to displease me.”

  Blood seeped through Sofia’s fingers, trickling across the back of her hand and downward in streams to seep into the cloth of her surcoat. She was nearly too shocked to speak, but uttered, “Nay.”

  He reached out again, this time to grasp her chin with tight, punishing fingers.

  “Aye, mistress.” His voice was low and as dark as he was. “But you’ve time to learn. Four months’ time. Before the day that your twentieth year arrives, you’ll beg me to take you as wife. On your knees, yet. Aye, I shall have the satisfaction of seeing you there, to repay the insult you’ve given me not only on this day, but so many others.”

  “No,” she murmured, shutting her eyes, striving to turn out of his grasp. “No.”

  “And once you’re my wife,” he went on, “you will learn to please me very, very well. ’Tis a promise I give you, Sofia. A promise—and I do not make such as those lightly, as you will discover. Heed me well, mistress,” he warned, leaning very close. His strong finger squeezed the fine bones of her chin, bringing tears to Sofia’s eyes. “Heed me well,” he repeated more softly, then released her at last.

  Sofia reeled back with relief.

  Sir Griel held his hand out, his black eyes snapping with command.

  “Give me your hand, Sofia.”

  She was too frightened now to refuse, and instinctively held out the one that did not yet clutch at her bleeding wounds.

  He shook his head once. “Nay, the other. Give it.”

  She did as he said, and placed her bloodied hand in his own. He smiled down at it and then lifted it to his lips, seeming to relish kissing her trembling fingers through the blood that covered them. Afterward, he licked his lips of the droplets that remained. Sofia’s stomach lurched at the sight. Free of his touch, she backed away and stared at him with horror. She had thought him merely violent and cruel, but now she knew him for a madman.

  Sir Griel made a slight bow.

  “I will bid you good day, Mistress Sofia, and pray to visit with you again soon, with a far happier greeting.”

  Sofia was painfully aware of the dozen men who had stood silently throughout their lord’s brutal attack. They must all of them be knights, and yet not a one of them had stepped forward to keep a lady from injury. Such was the measure of power that Sir Griel held over them.

  Her shoulder burned as with fire, and her surcoat was bloodied. Sofia was ashamed to stand before such an assembly of strangers—with none of her own people, not even a servant to give her company—so completely vanquished. She strove to regain as much dignity as she could by drawing herself up, lifting her hand to cover her wounds once more, and saying, coldly, “Good day, my lord.”

  He walked out of Ahlgren Manor with his men at his heels, and Sofia sank into a chair near the fire, yet holding her hand against her shoulder. Slowly, after the sound of Sir Griel’s many horses faded away, the servants began to come into the room. They showed an immediate concern for their lady’s bloody wounds, but she turned them away, and accepted no aid, not even from her father, who entered the great room last of all.

  “You must accept him, Sofia,” he said, desperation in his tone. “He’ll kill us all—aye, even you—if he does not get his way. Here, daughter, let me send for the leech to bind your wounds. You cannot go about untended.”

  Sofia shook her head and rose from her chair.

  “Nay, Father. I’ll tend it myself, as I have tended many such small hurts before. Have no fear. None of the villagers will know what has happened here, if all remain loyal in their silence.” She cast her gaze over the servants, who nodded their agreement.

  “But, Sofia,” Sir Malcolm protested, “you cannot go into the village today. You must rest and recover, and think of what you will say when Sir Griel visits us next, for you know it will be soon.”

  “There is too much to tend,” Sofia told him stonily, weary and stunned by all that had occurred. “None of it can be put off. I will change my clothes and go, and rest after. As to Sir Griel,” she said as she moved slowly toward the stairs, “I believe he means to give me a measure of time to think upon the folly and danger of refusing him yet again—and you may be assured, Father, that I will use that time wisely, in finding the way to avoid him forevermore.”

  Chapter Two

  “There,” said Anne the baker’s wife to the women who were gathered near the warmth of her husband’s great ovens. “He’s coming, just as I said he would. Every day, he comes. At noon, and never later.”

  The women, as one, leaned to peer out of the baker’s windows at the tall figure walking through the village, drawing ever nearer. Kayne the Unknown was indeed a man worth looking at, and so they all agreed, young and old alike. He
was surely the handsomest man ever to set foot in the village of Wirth, as well as the strangest and quietest.

  He’d arrived one afternoon a year ago, a stunning figure riding atop a large, black destrier such as only a knight of the realm might possess, tall and powerfully built with hair so blond it was almost white. All the people had come out of their doors to stare at him, wondering how such a man had come to visit their small village. He had gone straight to the abode of their only blacksmith and, upon learning that Old Reed wished to quit his work, bought his home and smithy for so great an amount of money that all who’d heard of it had been amazed. On such a fortune, Old Reed would be well able to spend the remainder of his days in the finest luxury.

  But then Kayne the Unknown had done something even more surprising. He had given Old Reed his home and smithy back, freely, in exchange for the promise that the older man would remain in Wirth and help the newcomer set up his own shop, and on those occasions where his skill might prove lacking, impart whatever knowledge might be required.

  He’d left Wirth for some few days following that, and those who had applied to Old Reed for every detail had been gravely disappointed. The old man smiled and nodded, but said nothing, save to say that the stranger’s name was Kayne, and that he’d refused to give any other. Shortly after he’d gone, rumors began to fly that the stranger had bought the finest piece of land to be had in Wirth, three full acres that Sir Malcolm Ahlgren had always refused to part with—until now, when enough money had been offered. But where would a mere blacksmith find such money? And why, having it, would he continue to labor at such a trade?

  Long before his return the villagers had begun to call him Kayne the Unknown, and to whisper that he wasn’t quite right and therefore not to be trusted. Only a madman—or worse—would labor when he had no cause to, or spend his money in a village so poor and lacking as Wirth. Nay, something was far wrong with Kayne the Unknown. He’d assuredly bring evil and ill-doing to Wirth with his strange ways, and it was decided among the villagers that those of them who were true and Godly folk would stay far clear of such a man.