The Stolen Bride

Anne hurried to greet him at the bakery’s long, open window, where he stood as the lone customer.

“Have you my bread ready, Mistress Anne?”

“Aye, Master Kayne.” She handed him the two fine loaves that she’d only just set aside. “Out of the oven but half an hour past, and still warm.” He took them, set them in his basket, and handed Mistress Anne two coins.

It was the same exchange as occurred each day, in the same manner, with the same words and actions. Giving a nod of his head, Kayne the Unknown turned and continued his course through the village, on his way back to his own dwelling, leaving the women in the bakery gazing out the window after him.

Kayne recognized at once the two servants who were standing outside his smithy gate, and his heart reacted accordingly, giving an almost painful thump. His step faltered, and he nearly came to a halt, but at the last moment he made his feet continue their steady course.

Mistress Sofia’s maid and one of the young menservants from Ahlgren Manor were far too interested in their private conversation to take much note of Kayne. He’d almost walked past them and into his smithy before the maid curtseyed and said, “Mistress Sofia is waiting inside for you, Master Kayne.”

“Very well,” he murmured, and pushed his gate wide to walk through, out of the heat of the summer sun.

It was blessedly cool and shaded inside the large building, save for the far corner where the forge glowed red with its constant fire. Mistress Sofia Ahlgren was sitting on a long bench at the opposite end, in the coolest, darkest area where the horses were stabled. She seemed not to have heard him either opening or closing the gate, for her head was lowered and she made no movement to raise it in greeting. Indeed, she made no movement at all, but sat very still, head bowed, hands clutched together in her lap, almost as if she were at prayer.

Kayne made no special attempt to be silent as he neared her, and his steed, Tristan, whinnied in loud welcome at his approach. She surely knew that he was there, yet she gave no sign of it. He set his basket aside on a worktable and stopped at Tristan’s stall to scratch the horse’s soft black nose, not far from where Mistress Sofia sat. He waited for her to look up and acknowledge him, but she remained silent and still, and Kayne stayed where he was, gazing down at her forlorn figure.

He remembered the first few times he’d seen the lady of Wirth, just after he’d come to the village, going about each afternoon in pursuit of her daily chores. He had readily admired her beauty—as surely any man would—but had given little thought to her, otherwise. He’d known many beautiful women in his day, and had long since learned that they were best kept at a distance. Apart from that, he knew too well the condition of his soul, and of his heart, that they could no longer be touched as when he’d been a youth. War and death had put them beyond reach.

And, yet, Sofia Ahlgren had touched him in a singular way. Kayne wasn’t quite certain just how it had come about, but the knowledge unsettled him no small measure. She had nursed him tenderly—and mercilessly—after he’d been wounded by the fire at Harold Avendale’s cottage. He had come awake in an agony of pain to find her beside him, insistent upon caring for him regardless how firmly he told her to go away and leave him in peace. She’d ignored him completely and done exactly as she pleased, bathing his wounds and covering them with a soothing balm that relieved him greatly, and then forcing a foul tasting potion down his throat which made him sleep.

It had been much the same on the following days, and Kayne had finally put aside both modesty and his intense desire for privacy to let her care for him. The fact that Mistress Sofia had been so forthright about being in such intimate confine with a half-naked man, lying upon his own bed, made it somewhat easier for Kayne to accept the same. There had certainly been nothing unseemly in her care of him. She’d hardly even spoken to him, save to ask how he felt and to warn him of what she was about to do.

He’d begun to look forward to her twice daily visits while he was so ill. She was so very pleasing to the senses—especially when a man was wretched with life, physically, mentally and in every other way. Just to look at her…a woman of such quiet beauty…was soothing.

When he spoke, Kayne made his voice calm and even.

“You are deep in thought, Mistress Sofia. Is aught amiss?”

She lifted her head, gazing at him fully. He was struck anew by her pure beauty. Her features were perfectly formed, delicate, yet as strong as she herself was, and framed by golden-brown hair that danced and sparkled beneath sunlight. Her lips were full and inviting—surely the most sensual part of her face, though perhaps those deep-blue eyes, wide and tilting slightly upward, might arguably be her most alluring feature.

But now, Kayne saw, her delicate face was marred by a troubled frown, and her lovely blue eyes, shadowed by the small light of his shop, were further darkened by some unknown cause. Seeing this, Kayne paused, checking the concern that rose up within and the stronger need to take on whatever it was that held her in such obvious misery.

“No,” she murmured. “I’m merely weary, I thank you, Master Kayne.” She glanced to where a large iron pot sat on the ground near her feet. “I’ve brought this for repair. There’s a crack near the bottom. I pray you’ll be able to mend it.”

Kayne moved forward and knelt to examine the great black pot, tilting it up on one side and running a callused finger along the crack she’d spoken of.

“Aye, it can be done.” He glanced up at her. “Tomorrow, by midday? Will that be soon enough?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

She spoke so sadly, gazing at him with an equal sorrow, almost as if she might begin weeping any moment.

“You should not have come out in this heat,” he told her, rising to his feet. “I think you must be unwell, mistress.”

“Nay, I am quite well, Master Kayne.”

She set a hand to her shoulder, placing it carefully over the silk cloth loosely draped there, and slowly rose to her feet.

“I’ll take no more of your time,” she murmured.

“Allow me to convey you back to the manor house, milady,” Kayne said. “I like not the paleness of your skin.” He reached out to touch her arm. “’Tis easy to see that you are not well, even in this darkness.”

She flinched at his touch, making a sound of distress, and stepped back.

“My lady?”

“’Tis naught.” She pressed her hand against her shoulder as if to press a measure of pain away. “Forgive me, I must go.”

Head down, she tried to walk past him. Kayne stood in front of her to bar her way.

“Be still,” he commanded in a low tone.

He lifted a hand to pull away the delicate cloth draped over her shoulders, and she protested, “Nay, don’t!” and put her own hand up to grab his.

“Mistress Sofia,” Kayne said patiently, gently prying her fingers free. “I learned from you how to manage an unwilling patient.”

She looked away as he plucked the square of cloth aside.

Kayne was silent as he gazed at the brutal red scratches that marred her lovely skin, fighting hard against the fury that rose up at whoever had dared to do this vile thing.

“These are fresh wounds,” he said at last. “Perhaps made no more than an hour past. And you’ve not yet tended them.”

She would not look at him, almost as if she were ashamed. “I’ve had no time,” she whispered. He could hear the tears she’d refused to shed heavy in her voice.

“Nay, of course you have not,” Kayne said more gently. “You, who tends all the ill in Wirth almost before they’ve begun to sneeze. Come.”

He was careful to take hold of her other arm this time, but she resisted when he tried to pull her toward the nearby door that led from the smithy into his dwelling.

“I cannot,” she said. “My servants are waiting….”

Kayne refused to let her go, and firmly, though carefully, guided her toward the door. “They will continue to wait, pleased as they are with each other’s company. They’ll not worry over their mistress for a few spare moments—mistress, I beg you will not struggle so. I mean you no harm, and I’ve no intention of giving you insult, unless I must.”

She continued to struggle. Kayne bent and picked her up in his arms, easily carrying her past the door and into his home. He set her on the nearest chair he could find, next to a small table upon which an elegantly bound book of verses lay.

“If you run away,” he told her as he stood, his expression severe, “I will follow you to the manor house and demand of your father who it was visited this vile act upon you. And then I will go and deal with the man.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he added, “I give you my word of honor upon it, mistress, and I have never given it without keeping it.”

She shut her mouth and glared at him. Kayne moved away to open a chest near his eating table. As he began to dig through it, Sofia said, “You’ve no right to keep me here.”

“Just as you had no right to force me to your ministrations, when I had no want of them.”

“Is this some manner of revenge, then?”

“Nay, not in the least.” He lifted a small pewter jar from the chest before closing the lid. “’Tis merely thankful repayment. Like for like.”

Rising to his feet, Kayne fetched a bowl and filled it with a small measure of water, then found a clean cloth and tossed it over his shoulder and returned to kneel before her.

“Sit still,” he commanded. He leaned closer to examine her wounds more carefully, then lightly fingered her sleeve. “Pull this down a little.”

“There’s no need,” she told him, frowning.

He gave a light shrug and began to wet the cloth in the basin. “As it pleases you, mistress. The wounds will seep for a time, and your surcoat will be bloodied.” Gently, he began to bathe the long, red marks. “You’ve already lost another surcoat to these grievous wounds, I would wager.”

“Aye,” she admitted unwillingly. “’Tis soaking now, to remove the stains.” She sighed and began to unlace her gown. “Wait,” she said. He obeyed, and she loosened the top of the garment enough to pull the sleeve partly down. Her cheeks heated with embarrassment as the cloth revealed her shoulder and arm.

Kayne took note of her distress and kept his gaze impersonal as he continued to press the cloth against her skin.

“’Tis worse along the back of your shoulder,” he said. “Whoever did this possesses strong fingers. He dug deeply, intending to draw blood.”

“How do you know?” she asked, searching his face. “Could it not have been accidentally done?”

He lifted the cloth away, looking her full in the eye. “Was it?”

She was silent, as if she would not answer, but at last replied, softly, “No.”

Kayne expelled a slow breath, mastering himself. It was on his tongue to demand who the culprit was, but he knew that Sofia Ahlgren would never reveal such information. She was far too proud to speak of her private troubles. But Kayne had an idea who had committed the crime. Sir Griel Wallace, the lord of Maltane, had made his intentions to wed Mistress Sofia so clear that even a man who never heard the village gossip, as Kayne did not, would know of it. Kayne had met such men as Sir Griel before, and had no doubt that he was capable of every manner of cruelty, even to the woman he desired for a wife.

He reached to open the pewter box that he’d dug from out of the chest, dipped two fingers inside, and withdrew a small amount of a pale, white ointment. It smelled lightly of mint and honey.

“What is that?” Sofia asked as he began to apply it to the first angry stripe on her shoulder.

“Do you not recognize your own healing potion? You used it often enough on my burns, when I suffered them.”

“Oh, of course. How foolish of me.”

“You are quick to take care of all others, mistress, but not yourself. ’Tis clear that you stopped the bleeding and changed your bloodied clothes, but nothing more.”

“I’ve already told you that I had no time. There was so much to take care of in the village. So many chores.”

“Aye,” Kayne agreed. “I understand very well. It is easier, in such times, to push every thought and remembrance aside. To be done with it and go on.”

She lowered her head once more. “Yes, that is the way of it. I want never to think of it again. ’Tis foolish, I know, but it is my prayer, all the same, to forget entirely.”

Kayne smoothed the ointment with a delicate touch over each separate wound, making certain to cover them well.

“You’ll not forget. ’Tis an impossibility. But, in time, you may come to know that the fault was none of your own, and this will ease the memory.”

“I do not know that I will ever be able to do so,” she said. “I was headstrong, as I ever am. A grave sin and weakness, just as the priest has so often told me. I brought this affliction upon myself. That is the truth of it, and it cannot be forgiven.”

At this, Kayne ceased what he was doing and set his other hand beneath her chin, lifting her eyes to meet his own.

“It is hardest, often, to accept and forgive our own frailties. But harder still to claim ourselves as prey to another. You are indeed strong of will, Mistress Sofia, but sin or not, such as that does not give another just cause to inflict harm upon you. In this matter, you are fully innocent.”

He returned to his ministrations. Sofia remained silent.

When Kayne was done, he laid a thin, clean square of soft linen over the wounds, then carefully pulled Sofia’s sleeve back up. When she began to lace the top of her surcoat, he rose and busied himself with putting everything away.

“Thank you, Master Kayne,” she said, standing. “I cannot properly repay you for such kindness.”

Kayne closed the lid on the chest and stood full height, turning to look at her.

“There is no need. It was small service in exchange for all you did for me following the fire at Harold Avendale’s.”

“Nay, ’twas far more than that.” Lifting a hand, she gingerly touched the shoulder that he’d cared for, her beautiful face filling with indefinable emotion. He wondered if anyone had ever performed so simple a service for her before. Mistress Sofia was always the first one called upon when others were in need, always so strong and capable, even caring for matters that should have fallen upon her father’s shoulders. But perhaps no one ever thought that she might welcome help once in a great while, too.

“Thank you,” she said again, and abruptly turned and departed.

Kayne watched through the door that fell open upon her leaving as she made her way through the shadowed stable, her skirts swaying gently back and forth as she walked in her usual steadfast and upright way—the lady of Wirth again, and no one seeing her would ever notice that aught was amiss.

Chapter Three

A week passed before Sofia returned to the blacksmith’s shop, striding alone through the village in the late morning with a basket swinging on her arm.

She had dressed with particular care, glad to see the long, red streaks that Sir Griel had placed upon her finally beginning to fade. But she no longer looked at them with the same measure of fear and rage that had possessed her after Sir Griel’s unwelcome visit. Nay, not since that afternoon, when Kayne the Unknown had so kindly—and tenderly—cared for her, had Sofia looked upon the wounds in such a manner. Now, when she saw them, or ran her fingers across the healing scars, she did not even think of Sir Griel, but only of the blacksmith, his handsome face so close to her own as he bent over her shoulder, his warm breath caressing her skin, his white-blond hair falling forward over his brow…and, most of all, the sure, steady touch of his hands on her bare flesh.

Sofia knew herself too well to deny the truth of what she felt. She had begun to fall in love with Kayne the Unknown almost from the start, when she’d cared for him following the fire. She, who had seldom in her life even admired men—any of them—had found herself helplessly, and certainly unwillingly, drawn to the quiet, solemn, soft-spoken blacksmith. A man who was a mystery to one and all, who kept to himself and befriended no one, who was completely unsuitable in every way. Not that it mattered, for she knew that he felt nothing for her, nor for any of the village women who threw themselves so openly in his path. His kindness to her a week past had been only that—kindness, and perhaps a small measure of pity. He seemed to realize, when no one else did, how lonely and difficult her life in Wirth was.

It wasn’t that Sofia was unhappy with the lot that had fallen her way, but she did often wish that her father was possessed of a larger measure of courage, and a greater desire to care for his vassals and the people of the village. Sir Griel, being the most powerful lord for many miles, should have been the one to take a hand in caring for the local citizens, but he cared for no one save himself, least of all his own people or any of the villagers.

Since the age of ten and three, Sofia had been the only one to worry for the people of Wirth. She had gone to the nuns in the abbey and learned all that they knew of medicines and healing, she’d spent countless days beneath the instruction of her father’s steward, learning how the estate was managed, how the crops were grown, how the harvest was prepared and sent to market, and she’d relentlessly harried her tutors, all of whom she’d forced her father to hire, to teach her what a man must know in order to be a good lord. They’d not wanted to impart the knowledge to a mere female, thinking it far better that she should possess only those skills that a lady might require for the managing of a manor house, but Sofia had pressed until they’d all given way. She’d discovered, very quickly, what it was to fight and strive for every bit of knowledge she required.

But for all that she’d learned during the years that had passed between her thirteenth and nineteenth birthdays, Sofia had never known what it was to have soft, womanly feelings…until she’d met Kayne the Unknown.

They were strange and distressing, these emotions he wrought, making Sofia forget who she was and what her responsibilities were, and causing her to dream of things which could never be. She struggled to set such foolishness aside, to harden herself, but it was not so simple a task. Her mind obeyed, but her heart…ah, it was traitorous in every respect, and refused to believe that the impossible could not be overcome.

Still, Sofia was careful not to give it too much free rein, for love, she had found, could be far more painful than sweet. Seeing Kayne, being close to him, was painful indeed. He felt nothing for her beyond the quiet friendship that had grown between them during the weeks that she had cared for him, and even if he had, a woman of her birth and stature would never be allowed to wed a common tradesman, even one so skilled and unusual as Kayne the Unknown.

Sofia heard the sharp, distinct sound of metal striking metal as she neared the smithy, and stopped at the half gate to peer into the darkness toward that part of the building which housed Kayne’s working area. His tall, muscular figure was shadowed against the heat and light of the furnace as he bent over his anvil. Through the shadows, she could clearly see only his blond head moving up and down in rhythm with the hammer blows he dealt.

He was far too occupied to notice Sofia as she slowly and carefully opened the gate and stepped inside. Tristan, from his stall at the other end of the building, whinnied in greeting, and she cast a glance back at the magnificent black stallion. His presence was but the first of so many mysteries surrounding Kayne the Unknown. Only a knight or famous soldier would have need of such a horse, one trained in the ways of war or tournaments. Otherwise, such a beast was of little use—especially for a tradesman who would do far better to own a workhorse. Of course, Kayne the Unknown possessed other fine horses for different purposes, but a destrier like Tristan was expensive to feed and care for, and why a mere blacksmith should desire to spend good money on such an animal largely useless to him was beyond comprehension.

But that led to yet another mystery. Kayne was clearly possessed of greater wealth than he earned—or ever could have earned—at his trade. Sofia had seen for herself the manner of house he possessed, as fine as that of a minor nobleman with its wooden floors, Italian carpets and fireplaces with polished hearths. He had fine furniture, as well, which rivaled that of Ahlgren Manor. Hand-carved chairs and beautiful tables made of gleaming rosewood filled the dwelling’s lower room, and in his bedchamber abovestairs French clothing chests and a beautiful, tall bed with an expensive feather mattress graced the room.

Most intriguing of all, Kayne the Unknown possessed books. A book of common verse, a Book of Psalms, and a beautifully illustrated Book of Hours. They were the kinds of books that any wealthy person might have—Sofia’s own father possessed similar volumes. But far more amazing was what their presence revealed—that Kayne, a blacksmith, a mere tradesman, could read. And if he could read, then he had somehow been educated, and young men, even those learning a valuable trade, were seldom educated unless they came from a noble or wealthy family who could afford to hire tutors or buy their son a life in the Church. Boys apprenticed in a trade required only enough knowledge of reading and writing to sign their names. They would have little pleasure time for reading, and far less use for it. Kayne the Unknown, however, made great use of his rare skill. During the days while she’d cared for him, Sofia had often caught him reading, whiling away his confinement in bed.

She turned back to where Kayne yet labored over his anvil, his rhythm the same as it had been all the while since she’d first heard it, strong and steady. Hefting the basket she held a bit higher, Sofia made her way toward him.

Now that her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness of the stable, she could see that he was naked from the waist up, save for the heavy leather apron which hung from his neck and was loosely tied about his hips. It was much hotter on this side of the building. Intense heat emanated from the forge, fanning over Sofia like a hot wind as she drew nearer. Kayne was covered in sweat, his muscular chest and shoulders glistening with it and long strands of his blond hair sticking to his face and neck because of it.

He was a magnificent sight, so handsome and strong and fully masculine; a creature of power and beauty, just as his steed Tristan was, and impossible not to admire. Sofia remembered the days she’d spent tending him after the fire, of touching him and feeling the strength in the muscles that lay beneath his flesh. She had wanted so badly to run her hands over him for the sheer pleasure of it, but had refused to give way to such wanton, sinful desires. Kayne would have been repulsed by anything more than the most impersonal touch, and Sofia had already had a difficult time as it was in simply being allowed to tend the stubborn man.

As if sensing her approach, Kayne glanced up when Sofia was but a few steps away. The rhythm of his hammering came to an abrupt halt, hand midair, and he stared at her for a long, silent moment. Then, with a brief nod that acknowledged her presence, he returned to his work.

It didn’t take long. A few more strokes with the great hammer and he was done. Straightening, Kayne lifted a partly formed ax-head from the anvil with a pair of tongs, examined it, then carefully placed it in a nearby tub of water. The water sizzled and steamed, and then fell still. Kayne put the tongs and his hammer aside and, without looking at Sofia, walked to a worktable nearby where another basin sat. Dipping his fingers in, he scooped up several handfuls of water and splashed his hair, face and neck, shaking his head until water flew in every direction and coursed in small rivers down his chest. He took up a towel and dried himself. Then, at last, he turned to Sofia.