The Bride Thief

“Nay, I thank you,” Sir Justin replied, and Isabelle whispered a sigh of thanks. Evelyn was captivating enough without the aid of wine, and Sir Justin would need every faculty undimmed if he was to avoid the neat trap that Sir Myles and his daughter had set for him.

He was different from the other men who courted her cousin. Entirely, wonderfully, different. Not only in his splendid physical frame, so tall and muscular, or in his face, which was by far the most handsome Isabelle had ever seen, but in his manner. Where other men praised Evelyn’s beauty with gallant words and poetry, Sir Justin spoke his admirations plainly, simply. Where other men hid behind masks of elegance and propriety, Sir Justin was open and honest, as clear as a bright day.

The next moment, she heard him add, “Will you not offer some to your cousin, who labors so greatly?” and, as Isabelle stiffened with panic and dread, he continued, even more gently, “Indeed, never once have I seen Lady Isabelle when she has not been busy with your father’s accounts. What wonderful diligence.”

Drawing in a breath through parted lips, Isabelle lifted her head, already knowing that he was looking at her. His kindness, though well-meant, was a torture for her. When her uncle and cousin had finally finished toying with him, when Evelyn at last agreed to be his wife, Isabelle knew she wouldn’t be able to bear it any longer—seeing him, suffering his gentle manners and kind ways, his pity. He was simply staring at her, she saw. Not smiling, not frowning. Simply looking into her eyes from across the room.

“Your father,” he said slowly, holding her gaze, “is most blessed to have such a considerate niece.”

“You speak truly,” Evelyn replied with the sweetness she generally reserved for such public displays. “I don’t know what we would do without cousin Isabelle. She’s an angel in every way. She knows very well that Father expects nothing from her in turn for his care of her and Senet, yet she insists upon relieving him of the most tedious duties.” She strolled toward Isabelle carrying a goblet, the tight smile on her lips giving full warning of what Isabelle had in store as soon as Sir Justin departed. “You’ve spoiled us terribly, Isabelle, dear,” she said, setting the goblet with slow care before the pile of books. “And you’ve been working so hard. Wouldn’t you enjoy a rest? Perhaps a walk in the gardens?”

Oh, no, Isabelle thought. She couldn’t save Sir Justin Baldwin entirely from her uncle and cousin, but one thing she could do was not leave him alone to battle Evelyn’s deft machinations. A few minutes alone under the heat of Evelyn’s seductive persuasions and his marriage to her would be as good as done.

“Thank you, Cousin,” she said, dipping her quill in the inkpot and bending over her work again, “but I’ll just finish this first.”

Isabelle didn’t need to see Evelyn’s fury. She could feel the heat of it where she sat.

“Leave your cousin to her work,” Sir Justin suggested in a voice filled with surprising tenderness. It was the first time Isabelle had heard him use a lover’s tone on Evelyn. “Come and sit with me, my lady. We have much to discuss.”

From the corner of her eye, Isabelle could see him touch Evelyn’s elbow, could see Evelyn turn, smiling, toward him.

“You speak truly, my lord,” Evelyn agreed with open pleasure. “There is nothing I should like more.”

Tucking her hand beneath his arm, he led her a distance away, to a couch at the opposite side of the chamber, so that Isabelle heard very little of their conversation. Making the best pretense she could of concentrating on the figures before her, Isabelle watched them—him—fleetingly, moment to moment, as she dared. She had never seen Sir Justin behave in such a way before, with such deference and charm, and the sight made her heart sink. He had fallen under Evelyn’s spell, just as every other man who courted her had. Evelyn, for her part, was masterful; shy, smiling, daintily colored with maidenly blushes.

At last, after what seemed an eternity, Sir Justin stood and pulled Evelyn to her feet. “I’m grateful for your candor, my lady, although I realize how difficult it must have been for you to speak of such matters. But have no care for that, I beg you. Now that I fully understand what you require to be made comfortable regarding the question of our marriage, I shall be able to proceed accordingly.”

“You have gladdened me beyond words, my lord,” Evelyn murmured, her eyes shining. “If I can believe that the man who would be my husband truly cares for me, then my decision to wed will be willingly and, aye, joyfully made.”

She lifted her face to receive his kiss—an invitation that just as well as sealed their betrothal—and Isabelle, her heart twisting painfully in her chest, lifted her head, to watch, as well.

Sir Justin smiled sweetly at the upturned face and closed eyes before stepping back and bending low to kiss Evelyn’s hands. Straightening, he met her bewildered expression and said, “It is past time that I take my leave, for I would never bring you harm in any measure, nor make your father worry. You have made me the happiest of men, my lady. Indeed, you have given me a gift beyond price, for which I shall ever be thankful. By this time tomorrow, I will have proven the depths of my feelings for you. I vow this by all I hold dear.”

Isabelle began to slowly release the breath she’d been holding, but when Sir Justin suddenly turned on his heel and strode toward her, the air came whooshing out in an embarrassingly loud rush. Horrified, she was hardly able to make sense of his words when he at last stopped before her and asked, “May I ask a great favor of you, Lady Isabelle?”

Dumbly, she nodded, unable to form even the simple word “Yes,” on her lips.

He smiled. “Will you do all that you can to finish your work here very soon? There will be cause for celebration shortly, and I’d not wish you to miss a moment of it. For any reason.” With a bow, he added, “I look forward to our next meeting. Good day, my lady.”

He bade Evelyn a similar farewell, and took his leave. The moment the door shut behind him, Evelyn turned to Isabelle with a triumphant laugh.

“Perfect!” she declared, her richly ornamented skirts whirling as she made her way toward Isabelle. “Just as Father said it would be. Absolutely perfect Do you not agree, Isabelle?” Setting her beautifully feminine hands on the tabletop, she leaned forward. “What? No congratulations, Cousin? Come. Wish me happy. Let me hear the words from your lips. Say them, Isabelle! I want to hear you wishing me happy.”

It was unfortunate, in Isabelle’s opinion, that she had not yet learned how to master her temper. Since her parents’ deaths four years before, she’d learned many things—how to beg for help, how to plead and crawl— but her temper, unhappily, had remained untouched by every misery that either her cousin or her uncle had visited upon her. Very French, her father had often said of her temper, approvingly. A thing to be conquered, her mother had always added with despair.

Her stony silence enraged Evelyn, as it always did, and the stinging slap that followed seemed, to Isabelle, just what she deserved for being so stubborn.

“You stupid little mouse,” Evelyn said with seething anger. “I’ve seen you looking at him, watching him. Sir Justin is handsome, is he not? Handsome, and well-favored in every way. And he’s mine. If you think a man like that would ever look at a repugnant mouse like you, then you’re stupider than I ever imagined. Now say it!” Another slap, harder this time, knocking Isabelle back slightly. “Tell me you’re happy for me, Isabelle!”

Evelyn was one of the most beautiful women in London. In all of England, so it was said. Isabelle recited the fact calmly in her mind, while her eyes registered, with deep satisfaction, that in this moment, mottled and enraged, Lady Evelyn was as ugly as the heart she hid.

“Bitch!” Evelyn cried furiously, childishly. “How can you smile? I hate you! I hate looking at your unsightly face every day, sitting here as if you had a right to such comfort, as if you were a queen, instead of naught but a beggar!”

She raised her hand again, and Isabelle straightened, preparing to receive the coming blow.

“Evelyn! Leave Isabelle be. Will you never learn to leave her in peace?” Sir Myles closed the chamber door behind him as he entered the room. “She has work to do, and I want it finished by day’s end. Leave her be.”

“She’s making me crazed, as she ever does,” Evelyn said angrily. “Why can’t you make her behave as she should?”

“Isabelle’s behavior doesn’t concern me at the moment,” Sir Myles told her curtly. “Our guests have just taken their leave. Tell me what happened with Sir Justin.”

Evelyn seemed not to hear his words. Still holding Isabelle’s gaze, she said, “It’s only pity, Isabelle. ‘Tis why he’s so kind, why he deigns to speak with you. Only pity…for a small, unsightly, insignificant mouse. You know it’s true.” She laughed when Isabelle closed her eyes against the pain the words wrought. “Aye,” Evelyn said, more softly. “’Tis worse than death, is it not? You’ve too much pride, mouse.”

Sir Myles grabbed his daughter’s arm, turning her about. “Sir Justin?” he prompted.

Evelyn’s smile was wide, brilliant. “He’s ready to give me anything I want to make me his wife. Tomorrow, he promised, he’ll prove the depths of his devotion to me. He said that he understands perfectly what needs to be done to make me comfortable in our marriage.”

“God be praised,” Sir Myles murmured fervently. “Well done, my daughter. Well done. I had thought he would surely run away when you made him wait so long for your answer. It’s been a near thing, I vow.”

“I would have made him wait until the last day, if you’d not been so insistent in the matter,” she said haughtily, pushing free and returning to the table where her wine goblet sat. “’Tis an insult to be given to a man—any man—in such a coarse manner. Sir Justin is fortunate that I find him so favorable, else I’d never have agreed to the match.”

“Oh, no, my dear,” her father countered, accepting the goblet she handed him. “I’d not have allowed you to let such a prize as Sir Justin Baldwin get away, no matter if you’d found him wholly unacceptable. An alliance with one of England’s wealthiest and most powerful families is naught to be trifled with. I gave you your moment of revenge, my sweet, but never should I have let you throw away such a boon.” He lifted his cup to her in tribute. “Wedded to a Baldwin! Who could have foreseen such a miracle befalling us? You’ll have everything your heart desires.”

“And you,” said Lady Evelyn, “will have the influence you have long craved. I expect you to remember what I’ve brought you, Father, and to be ready to repay me in the future.”

“Repay you? What nonsense is this? You’re soon to become one of the most envied women in all of Britain.”

“Being the wife of Sir Justin Baldwin will have its certain pleasures,” Evelyn admitted, “for he is well-favored in face and form, as well as in his relations. Howbeit, a duller man I’ve yet to meet. Lady Alicia told me what she suffered at his hands years past, before she found the courage to break their betrothal. He constantly wearied her with his dull manners and vexing conversation, and, despite his skills as a lover, she could not bear the thought of spending her life with such a tedious husband. I’m of no such mind to suffer the same.”

Sir Myles gave a careless shrug. “I care not how you amuse yourself in your marriage, Evelyn, nor with whom you do so. I only ask that you keep your name, and reputation, unsullied.”

“And I only ask, dear Father, that you stand ready to lend me aid as I require it. I’ll guard your interests, my lord, if you’ll help me to guard mine.”

With a smile, Sir Myles put his cup forward to lightly tap the one in Evelyn’s hand. “Agreed,” he said, and, laughing, they both drank.

“He is not dull!” Isabelle was on her feet, one fisted hand crushing her writing quill. She was as furious as she’d ever been in her life—more furious than she’d realized she could be—and when her cousin and uncle turned to her, shock on their faces, she repeated, “Sir Justin is not dull!”

After a moment of stunned silence, Evelyn began to laugh, while the baron’s face darkened with anger.

“You’ve no say in the matter, my lady,” he said sharply. “Indeed, you’ve no say in any matter. Be silent and finish your work, before I’m led to punish you for such intemperate speech.”

“I’ll not be silent!” she said hotly. “You sicken me. Both of you.” Her gaze moved over them with unveiled disgust. “Sir Justin Baldwin came here in truth, speaking honestly, in every word and deed a gentle man. Can you think it any better for him to be forced into an unwanted marriage? Yet he has behaved toward Evelyn, and yourself, i’faith, with naught but kindness and good intentions. How can you speak so ill of such a man?”

“By the rood!” the baron swore angrily, setting his goblet down with such crushing force that red wine spilled over the table and onto the floor. “You’ll not speak to me, or to your cousin, in such a froward manner!”

“Oh, Father,” Evelyn said between gasps of laughter. “’Tis too funny! Can you not see? She’s in love with him! Isabelle—” more laughter, gusting harder “—Isabelle’s in love with Sir Justin! Would he not be horrified to know of it? Can you not envision his face if he knew that such a—such an ugly mouse was in love with him?”

Sir Myles was too occupied in scowling at Isabelle to pay his daughter notice. “You’re wrong,” he said to Isabelle, “if you think I’ll ever let you wed. Save yourself trouble, my girl, and heed me well. Keep your thoughts on money and numbers, not on men. If you value your brother’s life, and your own, then understand what I say.”

But Isabelle couldn’t. Her unfortunate temper had taken control, and she was furious. For days now, as they played their game with Sir Justin, it had been simmering. Each afternoon, when he arrived and so urgently pleaded his cause, only to be turned aside by their cruel lies, it had grown hotter. Isabelle had spent four long years suffering and laboring as nothing better than a slave in her uncle’s house. Now, every insult, every unkindness, seemed to well up and burn. Holding her uncle’s gaze, raising her fist, she crushed the writing quill in her hand, mangling the instrument with labor-strengthened fingers until it was beyond use. Without expression, she dropped the broken quill on the open ledger.

Even Evelyn stopped laughing.

The silence that ensued was complete, until at last Sir Myles said, “That was unwise, Isabelle. I shall have to punish you. You shall abide in the cellar without food or drink until that account is finished. If it is not done by morning, when the banker arrives to meet with me, I shall write Sir Howton a missive regarding Senet—”

“He has naught to do with this!” Isabelle cried furiously, taking one step toward her uncle.

“You’re wrong, my dear,” Sir Myles replied calmly. “He has everything to do with it. You will go to the cellar and finish with that account before the sun rises in tomorrow’s sky—” he pointed at the book with a hard finger “—else Senet will return here to London, where he shall be made to rightfully labor for his care, in the lowliest manner I can arrange. I make you my promise on it.”

“Send him to White Tower, Father,” Evelyn suggested with purring satisfaction. “Have them put him to work cleaning out the garderobes. Or, better yet, offer him as a suitable gong farmer.”

The image of her beloved younger brother slaving daily at such a horrible, filthy task—emptying latrine pits—rapidly cooled Isabelle’s fury. She could just imagine her uncle doing such a thing to bend her to his will. He was a cruel man, as wicked as sin in most of his dealings. She’d been too closely involved in his world for too long to take the threat lightly.

Swallowing the angry words she longed to say, Isabelle stepped back and slowly sat in her chair. Her uncle’s soft chuckle told her that he understood her surrender, and she bowed her head.

“Most wise, my child. Most temperate. I shall have a new writing quill brought to you in the cellar, and plenty of candles and ink to work by. When you have dutifully finished your task,” he said, savoring the words, “and when I have approved it, you will be released.”

Chapter Three

It was late before Isabelle was finally let out of the cellar and led, by a lone servant bearing a candle, through nightdarkened halls to the small room that was her bedchamber. Exhausted, hungry and cold, her bones aching from long hours spent crouched over her uncle’s accounts in the cellar’s dampness, she wearily prepared for sleep. In a few short minutes she had removed her clothes and put on the one nightdress she owned, unbraided her hair and brushed it, and washed her face and hands. Gratefully lying down beneath her covers, she muttered a few words of prayer, crossed herself once and, pushing all troubling thoughts of Senet aside, fell asleep.

So deeply did she slumber that at first she mistook the voice for a dream—the same dream she’d had nearly every night since she first met Sir Justin Baldwin. But in the dream, Sir Justin, being a creature of her own making, never actually said anything, and this time, his fourth whispered invocation of “Lady Isabelle” at last pierced the fog of her sleep-ridden brain with realization. By then it was too late. Sir Justin’s hand closed over her mouth just as her eyes flew open to see him sitting beside her on the bed, and the scream that naturally followed was thoroughly muffled.

“Do not,” he warned, his voice low and firm. “I mean you no harm, and I do not wish to hurt you. Be quiet and all will be well.”

“What—?” she cried when he lifted his hand.

“Hush,” he commanded. The next moment, he placed a cloth over her mouth, ignoring her struggles while he quickly tied it behind her head. Isabelle tried to strike him, but found, to her increasing dismay, that her hands were already tied, as were her feet. She screamed again, this time into the cloth, and Sir Justin took her head in his hands, holding her still as he bent over her, eye-to-eye.

“My lady,” he said patiently, “I wish you would not. There is no cause for such distress, and if you do not cease, I will have to make you insensible, which I profess I am loath to do. Already I regret the necessity that made me bind you. If you will but trust me a little, I vow, on my honor, that all will be well.” Then, picking her up, he carried her to the chamber’s one window, out of which a rope dangled. Stopping suddenly, he looked down at her, the thoughtful expression on his face fully at odds with the rampant fear that possessed Isabelle. “I meant to say this before,” he told her, “but forgot. Chris says my mind is ever scattering.” Sitting on the sill, balancing her on his lap, he swung one leg out the window. “I’ve wanted to tell you this past month, but never found the chance. I find you very beautiful.”

Isabelle had always been rational. Always. Even during those unfortunate moments when her temper got the better of her. Very English, her father had said disapprovingly. May God be praised, her mother had said with thanks. But rationality, in the wake of Sir Justin’s calling her beautiful, disappeared as if Isabelle had never known it, and the stupefying result was that he had tossed her over his shoulder and carried her all the way down the length of her uncle’s grand manor house before it even occurred to her that she should put up a struggle.

Sir Christian Rowsenly—a man she would never have thought capable of such a heinous crime as kidnapping— was waiting for them on the ground.

“It took long enough,” Sir Christian whispered tightly, bringing forward two saddled horses. “I was afraid you’d been discovered.”

“She wasn’t there,” Sir Justin replied, handing her over to his friend while he, himself, mounted one steed. “I thought perhaps you’d mistaken which chamber was hers, or that Sir Myles, being rightfully ashamed at keeping his own niece in such a mean place, had lied about it when he took you through the dwelling. I was going to search her out when she at last arrived, and then I had to hide and wait until she had prepared for bed and fallen asleep.”

“I don’t want an explanation now,” Sir Christian told him, lifting Isabelle into Sir Justin’s waiting arms. “God’s feet. If the ward sergeant catches us we’ll be drawn and quartered. Let’s get us out of London, right quick.”

“Aye, and so we will,” Sir Justin agreed, ignoring Isabelle’s squirming as he tightly tucked her up against his body and wrapped her within his cloak. With one strong arm he held her captive, with the other he guided his horse to the cobbled street that faced her uncle’s home.

“Go to sleep,” he advised her quietly as they set out toward what Isabelle knew to be the direction of Bishopsgate. “The guards at the gate have been paid to let us pass without notice, and ‘twill do you no good to make a disturbance. You are full weary.” The fingers that held the reins skimmed lightly over her cold cheek in a reassuring caress. “Sleep, if you can, Lady Isabelle. Our travel this night will be long, but I shall hold you safe. No harm will befall you, I vow.”

He must have heard the groan she gave, for even as the horses began to move more quickly he smiled down at her, so that she saw the whiteness of his teeth in the darkness. “Sleep,” he repeated. “There’s naught else you can do for yourself at the moment.”

Which was true, Isabelle thought an hour later as she fought, and failed, to keep her eyes open. True to his word, they had passed through Bishopsgate and out of the city without being questioned, and had been riding north since. There was nothing she could do to help herself until they arrived at whatever their destination was, save to let her body claim the rest it begged for. Soon enough she would discover why she had been taken, and what Sir Justin wanted her for. Better to be rested and fully aware when that time came than too weary to think.

It was easier than she thought to relax and let herself slide into slumber. Sir Justin’s body was warm, his grip strong and sure. The horses were moving at a steady pace, neither too fast nor jarring. She was more than half-asleep when she felt the cloth around her mouth being loosened and pulled free. Bare fingers and a thumb gently vised her cheeks, rubbing for a few moments to soothe the numbness away, and then her head was tucked more firmly against Sir Justin’s shoulder.

“Is she asleep, then?” she heard Sir Christian ask.

“Aye,” Sir Justin replied just as Isabelle, with a yawn, willingly gave truth to the word. “She’s asleep.”

Isabelle awoke the moment she was pulled from the saddle on which she’d been riding. The sensation she experienced, at first, was similar to drowning, and she flailed as if to save her life.

“I have you,” Sir Justin said soothingly, somewhere near her ear. “Hush, now, my lady. I have you.”

His arms cradled her and she subsided, groggy and bewildered. Her head fell against his shoulder as he carried her from the cold damp of dark night into the warmth and dryness of some dimly lit place.

“Where are we?” she murmured sleepily.

“A monastery in Cambridge,” he answered. “I’m taking you to a chamber where you may rest peacefully and in comfort. There is naught to fear.”

“I do not wish to sleep,” she told him, blinking to clear her eyes. “I wish to know what you mean to do to me.”

“Do to you?” he repeated with what sounded to Isabelle like bewilderment. He glanced at her before giving his attention to a man in dark robes, who approached them holding a candle.

“You are Sir Justin Baldwin?” the monk asked, his face unseen beneath the folds of his hood.

“Aye.”

“All has been made ready. Come with me.”

“Father!” Isabelle cried.

The monk turned. “Yes, daughter?”

“This man has taken me from my home, without my consent! Help me, I beg you.”