The Stolen Bride

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.