The Beauty Bride (The Jewels of Kinfairlie) (19 page)

“Tell
her of Caerwyn,” Thomas suggested, ever helpful. “Women like to know a man’s
intent for them.”

Caerwyn!
If Miriam guessed the truth of it, if Madeline truly was his cousin’s daughter
and thus the potential heir of Caerwyn in her own right, there was far more
than a fingerbone at stake.

Miriam
could demand Caerwyn as a donation, and that castle would be lost to Rhys
forevermore. Rhys’ blood ran cold. He cursed, shoved a hand through his hair,
and strode to the abbess’ chamber with new purpose.

For
Caerwyn, he would utter whatever words were necessary to make Madeline his
bride. He would find them, somehow.

He
dared do no less.

* * *

Chapter Seven

The
silence of the abbey closed around Madeline like a shroud.

Everything
within the abbey was wrought in hues of white: the walls were white-washed and
the nuns wore identical garb of undyed linen. Veils covered their hair and
wimples covered their throats, only their hands and faces - which were all pale
- were revealed even to each other. A faint melodic chant from the chapel
carried through the tranquil corridors, the sound muted and bleak instead of
celebratory. Even the sunlight that slanted through the high windows seemed as
pale as milk.

The
bells at the gate would seem to be out of character. Madeline wondered whether
Thomas was responsible for their very presence.

As
she followed a nun to a small chamber where she could refresh herself, Madeline
had the eerie sense that she walked among the dead. And truly, these women were
dead to their families and to the mortal world beyond these walls. They had
entered divine service to become closer to God and were thus cloistered from
the many distractions of the mortal world.

When
first Madeline had left the courtyard, the tranquility of this place had
soothed her annoyance with Rhys. But by the time she had washed the filth from
her skin and trimmed her nails, combed and braided her hair, the silence had
begun to annoy her.

Madeline
was accustomed to the barely contained chaos of Kinfairlie and the volume of
seven boisterous siblings. Silence was not to be trusted, for it made her
suspect that someone plotted a jest against her. So it had always been at
Kinfairlie: silence warned a soul to be wary.

At
any moment, Malcolm might leap from some unanticipated hiding place to make her
yelp in surprise. Or Ross would sneak up behind her while she donned this
kirtle and drop some slithering creature down her chemise. Madeline pulled the
undyed kirtle hastily over her head then glanced over her shoulder, but Ross
was not there.

The
meek nun who was evidently her custodian stared into space, with no curiosity
about Madeline or her manner at all. She might have been a corpse, stood at the
portal. Madeline turned her back upon the girl.

Alexander
had always planned more elaborate jests, like the time he had fanned smoke into
the chamber that his sisters shared, then shouted “FIRE!”. Madeline smiled at
the sight they must have made, all five of them screaming as they fled into the
bailey in no more than their chemises. The entire prank had delighted the
squires and stableboys of Kinfairlie, while Alexander had been too convulsed
with laughter to fully appreciate what he had wrought.

At
least until their father had heard tell of his deeds. Alexander had sat
gingerly for a week.

Madeline
laced the sides of the plain kirtle, her smile fading. Those had been happy
days indeed, but now her parents were dead. Malcolm and Ross had been
dispatched to train as knights, her beloved James was lost, and Alexander had
played the cruelest jest upon her of all.

Madeline
was alone as she had never been alone in all her days and nights, and she did
not care a whit for it.

The
wooden comb clattered as Madeline put it down. No, Madeline decided, she did
not merely distrust silence. She loathed it. It was unnatural for people to
live in such quietude. She decided not to don the wimple and veil left for her,
for she was not a member of this community. As a maiden, she had the right to
wear her hair uncovered.

Madeline
recalled suddenly the weight upon her neck and realized that she was not
utterly alone. She still had the token left to her by her mother, the Tear of
the Virgin.

She
lifted the velvet sack out of the front of her chemise. She picked the bit of
dried mud from it, and unknotted the cord with some trepidation. She did not
know what to expect of it, not after it had been so dark the night before.

But
its prediction was less clear to her now than it had been last evening. Had the
Tear of the Virgin anticipated her flight, and predicted only the woe she had
endured at Kerr’s hand? Or had its warning been a prediction for her match with
Rhys?

There
was but one way to know. Madeline let the stone slip into her palm, though she
quickly closed her fingers over it. She kissed her clenched fist, whispered a
prayer, then opened her hand.

At
first she thought the gem was as dark as before, but then she spied a gleam of
light deep within it. Madeline lifted her hand so that she could see the stone
better. A small golden star seemed trapped within the stone, much as she was
trapped by the few choices before her. She turned the gem this way and that:
though the star remained, it neither grew larger nor smaller.

The
fact that it was present meant that there was hope.

Or
at least, that there was more hope for Madeline than there had been last
evening.

She
put the gem back into the velvet sack with a frown and supposed she would have
to content herself with that.

* * *

The
young nun who accompanied Madeline to the abbess seemed to be at peace with her
choice to enter the cloister. Indeed, she exuded a tranquility that Madeline
knew she would never feel herself. The nun halted at the portal to the chamber
occupied by the abbess, then stood silently, waiting for the abbess to note
their presence.

The
abbess was an older woman, in the midst of writing. The only sound was the
scratch of her nib against the vellum. She seemed blissfully unaware of the two
women awaiting her attention.

Madeline
looked between the pair of them and realized that the young nun would wait
quite contentedly forever, if it took that long for the abbess to become aware
of them. Madeline was not so submissive as her companion. She cleared her
throat, and stepped forward when the abbess glanced up in surprise.

She
felt the shock of the girl beside her and did not care.

“Good
day. I greet you and thank you for your hospitality this day,” she said,
advancing into the chamber. “I am Madeline Lammergeier of Kinfairlie. Doubtless
you have already heard of my arrival here.”

The
abbess’ smile was not immediate. In fact, the older woman seemed to take the
measure of Madeline at her leisure before she spoke.

“I
have indeed heard the tale,” she said finally, then rose to her feet with the
grace of a duchess. She flicked the barest glance at the young nun behind
Madeline. “That will suffice, Sister Theresa. I bid return to your prayers.”

There
was a whisper of leather slippers against the stone floor as the young nun
slipped away, then that cursed silence assailed Madeline’s ears once more.

The
abbess surveyed Madeline, her gaze so shrewd that Madeline doubted there was
much news this woman did not hear. The slender angles of her figure were
evident despite the full cut of her gown and the wimple and veil that framed
her face. Her eyes were a faded blue, though her avid gaze undoubtedly missed
no detail, however trivial.

Madeline
would not like to be a foe of this woman.

“You
are far from Kinfairlie, child,” the abbess said, crossing the room with the
leisure of a cat stalking its prey. She halted before Madeline, that incisive
gaze all the more forceful at such close proximity.

“Indeed
I am.” Madeline fought the urge to blink.

She
started when the abbess abruptly flicked the cloth of her kirtle away from her
throat. “Did Rhys FitzHenry do this to you?” The abbess flicked a finger across
Madeline’s throat, the tingle telling her that there was a bruise upon her
flesh.

“Quite
the opposite. I was attacked by a bandit.” Madeline was certain that it was
better to say less to this woman than more. “I survived the villain’s assault
because Rhys FitzHenry killed him.”

The
abbess was clearly unsurprised by this detail, though she arched a silver brow.
“And the price of Rhys’ invention is marriage?”

Madeline
felt herself flush. “We were betrothed afore.”

“How
curious that I did not know of it.”

“We
were betrothed but yesterday.”

A
faint smile of triumph touched the abbess’ lips before she pivoted to stroll
across the chamber. “Yet this very morn, you were far from Kinfairlie and
either alone or so poorly defended that a bandit could threaten your life.” She
glanced over her shoulder, eyes glinting. “The Rhys I know takes better care of
what he holds to be of value.”

Madeline’s
face heated yet more, for she was a poor liar. “The details of my woes are
surely not of import.”

The
abbess considered her for a moment, then gestured that Madeline should take a
seat. She trailed her fingertips across the top of the table, then spoke so
idly that Madeline knew her question would be of import. “Do you know Rhys
well?”

“Not
at all.” Madeline smiled politely. “Though that is hardly uncommon for a
betrothed maiden.”

The
abbess inclined her head in agreement. “Of course not. Though I do know Rhys
rather well, as he is my nephew. It is curious to me that Rhys would choose to
wed with such... impatience. He is, in my experience, a man who considers his
every deed with great care.”

“Nonetheless,
I tell no falsehood about our agreement.”

The
abbess studied Madeline, who resolutely said no more. “There were rumors of a
strange auction at Ravensmuir yesterday. Are those at Ravensmuir not the kin of
your family at Kinfairlie?”

“My
uncle is the Laird of Ravensmuir.”

The
abbess nodded. “The same laird who permitted the auction of one of his nieces
as a bride, the same laird whose niece sits afore me, telling me that she does
not know the man she is abruptly pledged to wed.”

Madeline
said nothing, for she could not guess the older woman’s intent. She knew solely
that she did not trust her.

The
abbess seemed to find her response - or lack of it - amusing. “You may keep
your secrets, child, but I shall make you a wager.” She braced her hands on the
table, her eyes bright. “You surely know that you have come to the one place
that might offer you sanctuary. You cannot wish to wed a stranger, no less one
charged with treason by the king himself.”

The
abbess’ eyes shone as she leaned closer. “Pledge to join this abbey and you
need not exchange vows with Rhys FitzHenry. Become a bride of Christ, Madeline,
instead of the wife of a warrior, and save your immortal soul.”

Madeline
was not tempted by the prospect of coming beneath this woman’s authority, but
she could not quickly think of a way to diplomatically decline. She marveled
instead that she was more afraid of this abbess than she was of Rhys.

“Aunt
Miriam, is it not impolite for you to try to dissuade my betrothed from wedding
me?”

Madeline
spun to find Rhys leaning against the portal. Her heart leapt with a strange
joy at the very sight of him. His eyes were darker than they had been and his
mood seemed foul. He looked larger in this sanctuary, darker and more dangerous
amidst the white walls and undyed cloth. His hands were propped upon his hips,
his demeanor formidable, and Madeline had a sudden urge to taste his demanding
kiss once more.

It
was more than the hue of his garb, or even his gender, that made him look out
of place. Rhys’ very presence shattered the tranquility here. He brought a
whiff of the outside world, of war and death and passion, that enlivened the
chamber more than the serene music and rays of sunlight could.

Madeline
knew that this was why his presence was so very welcome. She thought of his
demand for sons and knew that he would not be sated with one or two. Rhys’ home
would be filled with the noise to which she was accustomed.

Madeline
knew in that moment what her choice would be. She could not imagine a worse
fate than being sealed within these walls for all of her remaining days and
nights. She would rather live each moment to the fullest, even if that meant
accepting uncertainty, than pass her days in such tranquil seclusion.

If
she put her hand in that of Rhys FitzHenry, Madeline wagered that she would
have adventure and passion aplenty, as well as the protection of a formidable
man. Perhaps Vivienne’s notion had not been such folly; perhaps Madeline might
clear the stain from her husband’s name. From what she had seen of Rhys, she
could not imagine that he had betrayed his liege lord, for faithlessness seemed
a crime beyond all to him.