Henry sneered, disinterested in such details. “Aye and you have stolen from your former mistress, as well, I would wager, by the look of your garb. Lift your skirts, wench. Please me well or you will surrender your keepsake, if not more, to my wife. She has a fondness for trinkets, and I have a fondness for granting them to her.” His smile flashed. “They ensure that she asks fewer questions.”
“You will take my life before you take this pin,” Vivienne replied, her voice low with intent.
Henry struck her then, full across the face, then moved so that his weight was atop her. Vivienne cried out and he forced his hand between her teeth. He tasted of perspiration, the weight of him nearly crushing Vivienne, and she felt his prick seeking a harbor between her thighs. She struggled against him, to little avail, furious that she should be so abused.
Then Henry screamed with vigor, ignoring his own command for quiet.
Mairi, who had scampered to Vivienne’s aid, gripped a fistful of his hair and bit his ear again.
“This child is no better than an animal!” Henry cried. He tried to strike the child, his move sufficient that Vivienne could push his weight from her chest. He swung his fist at Mairi and Vivienne slapped his face so hard for endeavoring to strike the child that he took a staggering step backward.
Little Astrid was immediately behind him. She bumped into the back of his knees apurpose and sent him sprawling backward. He fell on his back, his exposed prick dancing in the morning breeze.
The girls giggled and Vivienne could not help but smile. “I thank you for your aid,” she said and they clustered by her side, valiant defenders in truth.
Henry propped himself up on his elbows, anger in his eyes, but Arabella interrupted whatever he might have said. “Henry? Henry! What are you doing out of our bed?” She appeared out of the shadows opposite, her hair askew and her chemise rumpled. “And what is all this noise? Do you not know how early in the day it is? Surely you know by now how desperately I need to have a good night’s sleep?”
Henry’s prick lost its enthusiasm at the sound of his wife’s voice.
Arabella halted beside him, her indignation clear. “Henry!”
That man sat up, passed a hand over his brow, then glowered at Vivienne and the two girls as he fastened his chausses beneath his wife’s cold eye.
He shook a finger, but Vivienne granted him no chance to threaten her.
“Your husband assaults me in the night, my lady, as any person with their wits about them can see,” Vivienne said, certain that no maid had ever dared to utter the truth to Arabella before. The lady knew of her husband’s deeds, though, for she caught her breath and paled. Her lips tightened as she looked down at him. “I am certain that you understand that I will not remain in a household in which I may be attacked in the night.”
“But you cannot leave my service before I am prepared to be rid of you,” Arabella argued, for surely she was one who preferred to have her own way.
“I have every right,” Vivienne retorted. “Your husband has no right to attack me in the night. Further I will take these two children into my custody, for there is no guarantee that they will be spared similar abuse within your household.”
“But they were granted to our custody,” Arabella argued, clearly thinking of the benefit of that donation to the convent when Henry had sins for which to atone.
“And I have wits to know that you do not truly desire them.” Vivienne took the girls by their hands, and they looked up at her. Their cautious optimism fairly broke her heart, for they had been poorly served by recent events. She smiled for each in turn and squeezed their hands, encouraged when they returned that squeeze. “It is my hope to return them to their rightful father.”
“But he is dead, is he not, Henry? Beatrice said her first husband was dead, I am certain of it.”
“Then she lied to you, for he was not dead just yesterday.”
“The pin,” Mairi said, a glow in her voice. She stretched to her toes and Vivienne bent so that the little girl could brush the silver pin with her fingertips. “I remember the pin.”
“Yes, your father gave me his pin. Should Fortune smile upon us, we shall shortly see it back in his hands again.”
“But you cannot do this,” Arabella protested. “You cannot simply decree what shall be. You are merely a maid, albeit once recently come to my service. You should heed me!”
Vivienne stood straight and tall. “I am a noblewoman with as many rights as you hold. My name is Vivienne Lammergeier. If you have cause for complaint with my deeds, you are welcome to bring your plea to the court of my brother, Laird of Kinfairlie. Be warned, however, that he will see justice served.”
With that, Vivienne gathered her cloak and led Erik’s daughters into the first glimmer of morning’s sunlight. She turned their steps toward Blackleith, not caring how long it took her to walk that far.
To make the distance pass more quickly, she began to tell the girls the tale of Thomas the Rhymer.
Thomas had barely met his fairy queen before they heard hoof beats on the road behind them. Vivienne paused, uncertain who might ride before them, and then heard horses racing toward them from ahead as well.
She stood in the middle of the road, her hair unfurled, her boots wet, Erik’s pin upon her cloak, and his daughters holding fast to her hand. She saw the distinctive black hue of Ravensmuir’s stallions before she recognized her brother Alexander’s colors, before she saw her brother Malcolm fast by his side. Elizabeth rode another stallion, a trio of trusted men from Ravensmuir riding the last three. The black stallions fairly breathed fire as they raced down the road, their coats gleaming in the morning light.
Vivienne blinked back tears of joy at the sight of them. “It is my brother come to ensure my welfare,” she said to the girls. “We nothing to fear.” Then she pivoted and knew she had spoken no less than the truth, for Erik Sinclair rode towards her on a chestnut destrier. Ruari Macleod was fast behind him, but Vivienne had eyes only for Erik.
Erik dismounted with a leap and ran the last increment toward her. Mairi shouted in recognition and he lifted her high, then swung her around while she laughed. Astrid was more cautious, her memory shorter, though she reached out and tugged at the ends of his hair.
Then he stood, his children at his knee, his eyes shining a brilliant sapphire. “I have reclaimed suzerainty of Blackleith,” he said, evidently aware of Alexander’s gaze fixed upon him. “And my wife Beatrice is dead. I have little to offer, Vivienne, for my abode is more humble than what you have known, but I love you with all the vigor of my heart.” He stretched his hands out to her even as her heart soared. “Will you wed me in truth, Vivienne Lammergeier?”
There was such a lump in Vivienne’s throat that she could not summon a word in reply. She shook her head in wonderment, her tears falling at the movement, and saw Erik’s dismay. “I will,” she said huskily. “I will, with pleasure.”
And he laughed and caught her fast in his arms, kissing her with such ardor that she did not care who witnessed their embrace.
For against all odds, against even her own expectation, Vivienne’s quest had led her precisely to where she most desired to be.
* * *
It proved that Alexander and Malcolm had left Ravensmuir in pursuit of Erik and Vivienne on the morning after the trio’s escape. Tynan had declined to accompany the party, suggesting that it was time Malcolm assumed such responsibilities. Elizabeth had come in pursuit of Darg, as she was the only one who could see the fairy, and she was disappointed to announce that the spriggan was not in their company.
Erik had already guessed as much.
The group from Kinfairlie had lingered at the abode of the Earl of Sutherland, certain that Vivienne and Erik must pass that way or arrive there eventually. Alexander had also brought back the steeds that the Earl had lent to Erik and Ruari, which relieved Erik mightily. They all returned there, once reunited.
The Earl, it proved, was well pleased with Erik’s return, for he had numerous concerns about Blackleith’s administration. A party was dispatched to retrieve the bodies of Nicholas and Beatrice, to see them honorably buried, and to loose the two maids. Those women were delighted to have escaped the household of Henry and Arabella, and were quick to offer to serve at Blackleith.
And to the delight of all - and the particular approval of Alexander, Laird of Kinfairlie - the Earl of Sutherland saw fit to have Erik and Vivienne wed in his own chapel. The banns were waived by the priest and Erik overheard the Earl telling Vivienne that a son would be a welcome addition indeed.
* * *
On the morning after the celebration of his second nuptial vows, Erik Sinclair arose early. He sat for a long moment and watched the first sunlight caress Vivienne’s cheek, smiling at how deeply she slept.
They had loved long into the night before and he resolved to let her slumber late if she so desired. They need make no haste back to Blackleith.
He left their chamber, well-content, and checked upon his daughters. They slept curled together, Astrid still sucking her thumb. Mairi’s eyes opened as he watched them and she lifted her hands to him, as she had when she had been tiny. Erik picked her up, caring naught for her weight, and tucked her against his hip. She laid her head upon his shoulder, as trustingly as if he had never been gone, and the sweet smell of her nigh rent Erik’s heart in two.
He broke his fast at the Earl’s board, Mairi on his knee. There were few awake so early, and those who sat beside him said little. He accepted a few belated congratulations and shook the hands of a few men, both familiar and unknown to him.
Mairi was quick to steal his comb of honey, mischief dancing in her eyes at her own success, and Erik was content to let her have it.
When he rose from the board, the Earl’s cook came to his side. “The Earl has said as I should offer you some food, sir, both for your journey home to Blackleith and a wee bit for the winter ahead.”
Erik nodded, pleased to accept. “I have no inkling of the inventories we will find there, so your offer is most welcome.”
The plump cook beamed and flicked a finger beneath Mairi’s chin. “Winter will be at our doors soon enough, sir, and the bairns have need of a hot meal each day.”
“I can aid you,” Erik offered but the cook shook her head.
“I shall have it brought to you, sir, though you shall have to find a way to carry it. I have not a sack in this house that can be spared.”
“My saddlebags have little of merit in them. I will clean them out.”
The cook nodded and bustled away. Erik collected his saddlebags and sat in the corner of the hall. Mairi hunkered down beside him, examining each item that he removed, then waiting expectantly for the next.
The bag Ruari had taken on the ship had little enough in it, but the other, which had arrived with Fafnir, was still heavy. There were several wrinkled apples within it as well as a chunk of bread hard enough to be used as a weapon. The grappling hook was still there and might be of use in future. The ale in the leather bottle did not have a smell that invited a man to partake of it.
“What is this?” Mairi demanded, wrinkling her nose at the smell of some bundle. She turned it impatiently in her small hands, so persuaded was she that Erik must have brought her some treasure or trinket.
He wished he had done so but knew he had naught that might intrigue her.
Erik echoed her expression, hoping to make her smile at least. “Very old cheese, perhaps more aged than you.”
“It smells.”
“Indeed it does. I doubt that even the Earl’s hounds will eat it,” Erik said and she laughed. She scampered across the hall then, unfurling the piece of cheese as she went, and presented it to one of the Earl’s hounds. That dog sniffed it but once, then glanced away with disdain.
Mairi returned undaunted and gave the piece of cheese back to Erik, who had no desire for it but accepted it anyway. “He does not like it,” she said. She dug in the bag and pulled out the second of the two chemises the Earl had granted to him. They wrinkled their noses in unison when she shook out the garment.
“We shall never get the smell of cheese out of that!” Erik said and Mairi cast it aside.
“Whose is it?”
“It was mine. The Earl lent it to me.”
“Shall I give it back to him?”
“I think not,” Erik said and they shared a smile. “Let him think it lost.”
“It will be our secret,” his eldest daughter informed him solemnly, unaware of how precious such secrets were to her father. She turned her attention back to the bag, but found little more of interest.
Indeed, everything in the bag was redolent of old cheese. Erik left it open for the moment, hoping the smell would diminish before the cook brought the food for him.
“But what of this one?” Mairi demanded, having turned her attention to the first bag.
“There is naught left in there,” Erik said, and fanned the flap of the redolent saddlebag optimistically. It appeared to make no difference in the smell.
“Of course there is,” Mairi insisted, then held out her hand. “What is this?” Something smooth and red gleamed against her palm, its resemblance to a drop of blood nigh stopping Erik’s heart in fear.
But it was not blood. It was a gleaming droplet, to be sure, and one as red as fresh blood. But it was hard, like a jewel, and as cold as ice.
“What is it?” Mairi asked again when Erik turned it in his hands.
“It looks like a gem,” he said. “Though I have never seen it before.”
“Perhaps it was given to you while you were not looking,” Mairi suggested, eyes alight. “Perhaps someone hid it in your bag so that you could give it to me.” She smiled then, fully persuaded of her notion.
And Erik had an idea then of what his daughter had found. The gem was cold, after all, and of a red red hue. He closed his hand over it while he thought and when he opened his hand to consider it again, the drop had grown.
It looked now like the bud of a flower, and Erik smiled. The fairy Darg must have granted him a boon in exchange for saving her life in the cavern, for she alone could have given him the red red rose wrought of ice that he needed to grant his new wife her every desire.