The Stolen Bride

Kayne looked at his hands, flexing and unflexing the fingers. Then he gave a shake of his head and moved back toward the tub where he’d left his work cooling. “I do not have the luxury of being able to coddle myself,” he told her, using his tongs to fish the ax-head from the water, “nor have I ever done so. The scars will be with me all of my life, and both they and I must learn to live with this manner of labor.”

“You have many scars,” she murmured, watching him thoughtfully. She had seen the number of the wounds he bore while she’d cared for him. “Were you ever a soldier, Master Kayne?”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Aye, I was once. I fought in France for a time.”

Ah, Sofia thought with satisfaction. A small part of the mystery unfolded. He had been a soldier, and bore a soldier’s scars. But he must have seen many a battle indeed to be so heavily marked.

“Is that how you come to have Tristan?” she asked, then wished she hadn’t. He was a solitary man, and would not want to be plagued with such questions. Kayne the Unknown had made it clear since he’d come to Wirth that he valued his privacy above all else.

But he replied readily enough. “Tristan was given to me as a gift by a very great man…a knight of the realm.”

Sofia was astonished. “’Tis a fine gift, indeed. Did you save his life during battle?”

He was standing to the side, turned nearly away from her, but Sofia thought that she could see a slight smile on his lips.

“Nay, he saved mine.” He glanced at her again before lifting the ax-head higher into the firelight to examine it more closely. “The pot I mended for you has not cracked again?” He clearly wished to speak of himself no more.

“Your mending has held,” she said, “and will, I think, until the pot can no longer be used. ’Tis better than new, I vow.”

He uttered a laugh. “Nay, that it is not. I am not so skilled a blacksmith.”

“You are the finest blacksmith in all of Sussex,” she said chidingly, “and well you know it.”

Now he smiled—truly smiled—at her, looking so handsome and beguiling that Sofia found it necessary to draw in a deep breath.

“If you insist, Mistress Sofia,” he said. “’Twould be useless to argue with you o’er the matter, even at the risk of embracing false pride, for I’ve well learned that you will have your own way or none at all.”

Sofia smiled, too. “I have learned much the same of you, Master Kayne. But you’ve naught to fear in the matter of false pride. I have not overstated the matter of your excellence.”

He had returned to the working table and laid the ax-head upon it, beside an array of smithing tools. “You are very kind,” he said. “I shall pray to meet all your expectations.”

“Not mine, nay,” she replied at once. “You already labor far too long and hard.” She took a few steps about the large, airy building, admiring its cleanliness and purity of form. How different it was from what such places usually were—dark, foul-smelling and filthy. But both this building and Kayne the Unknown’s dwelling were open, spacious and inviting, always clean and in perfect order. “You are ever here in your smithy. Do you never have a day for rest and pleasure?”

“I need none.”

She turned to watch as he deftly prepared the ax-head for further work.

“You have lived in Wirth for fully a year now, yet you have never attended any of the fairs or celebrations. Tomorrow is Midsummer Day, and there will be much to do.” She took a step toward him, suddenly bold. “Come to the feast tomorrow and be merry for a few hours. Will you?”

Intent upon his work, he gave a shake of his head. “Nay, I’ve too much to do.”

“But you’ll have no custom brought to your door tomorrow,” she said persistently. “All the villagers will be there, dancing and feasting. ’Twill be a fine and pleasant day, I vow.”

“And you will dance around every bonfire once darkness falls, no doubt,” he said, still turned away.

The words—and what they implied—made Sofia blush hotly. A young woman seeking a husband would be married within a year if she but danced around seven bonfires on a Midsummer Night, or so it was believed. Sofia had ever scorned such tales, but Kayne’s speaking of it seemed to reveal some unspoken truth hidden away in her heart—one that she could not admit, even to herself.

“Nay,” she said firmly, pushing such foolishness aside. “I have no desire to wed.”

He put his work down and turned to look at her, surprise written on his handsome face.

“Never?”

She shook her head. “My father has too much need of me, as do the people of Wirth.”

His expression darkened. “You are unjustly burdened, Mistress Sofia. A woman such as you should wed and seek her own happiness.”

“It is not so easy a thing, Master Kayne,” she said with a weary smile. “But I am happy as I am. And content, in my own way.”

He was clearly dissatisfied by her answer. “What of Sir Griel?” he asked. “He has made it known to one and all that he will have you for a wife before the year has gone.”

Sofia tensed with anger. “I will never be wedded to such a man,” she vowed. “No matter what he may do to me, or how he may strive to terrify my father.”

Kayne drew nearer, searching her eyes.

“He’s the one who did this to you, is he not?” He lightly touched her shoulder, where her flesh had been scratched.

Sofia moved away, unable to tell him the truth of what had happened. No one outside of Ahlgren Manor knew the fullness of her shame, for her servants had remained loyal in saying little. But she knew that rumors were being whispered among the villagers, and feared that it would not be long before everyone knew Sir Griel had given her such grave insult. And once the truth was known, the citizens of Wirth would fear him even more than they already did. Sofia would have no one to turn to for help and protection.

“I have kept you from your work for too long, Master Kayne. Forgive me.”

“Sofia.” His hand curled around her arm, gently, holding her still. “I give you my word of honor that you can trust me, even if you can trust no one else. If Sir Griel has threatened you—”

“I’m not afraid of Sir Griel,” Sofia told him tautly, “or of any man.”

“You should be,” Kayne said. “He is a man of great cruelty, and therefore a man to fear. If he dares to set a hand to you again, come to me and I will deal with him, for your father will never do so.”

Sofia pulled free. “You are kind, Master Kayne, but I would not ask that of you. ’Tis too much, and you owe me naught.”

“For all you did for me after the fire,” he said, “I can never fully repay you. But it is not for that alone. I will not stand aside and watch any man bring harm to a woman. I have sworn before God that I would always defend—” He fell suddenly silent. “Only tell me if he should trouble you, mistress. Promise me that.”

Sofia touched her arm over the place where his fingers had curled, holding her in so careful a grasp. How strange he was! Had he sworn, as a knight did, to protect and defend women? But he had been a mere soldier. He’d just told her so.

“I will give you my promise,” she said slowly, “if you will promise to attend the Midsummer Day feast. And to dance with me.”

“I do not make merry,” he told her stonily.

Sofia gave a curt nod. “Then I will likewise make no promises. Good day to you, Master Kayne.”

“Good day,” he murmured, adding, before she could leave, “I will return the basket to you on the morrow.”

“I will be busy on the morrow. Dancing and feasting and having a fine day. And you will be here alone, as ever.”

He made a sound of aggravation. “Then I will return it the day following.”

“As it pleases you, Master Kayne,” she said, and turned to walk away.

Chapter Four