The Beauty Bride (The Jewels of Kinfairlie) (2 page)

He
was pleased to note how Madeline straightened and how the fire returned to her
eyes. If she was spirited enough to argue with him, that could only be a good
sign. “Though I appreciate a wound to the heart takes long to heal, you grow no
younger, Madeline.”

Madeline
arched a brow. “Nor do any of us, brother mine. Why do you not wed first?”

“Because
it is not necessary.” Alexander glared at her, again to no avail. He knew that
he sounded like a man fifty years older than he was, but he could not help
himself -- Madeline’s refusal to be biddable was annoying. “I ask only that you
wed, that you do so out of regard for your four younger sisters, that they too
might wed.”

“I
do not halt their nuptials.”

“They
will not wed before you and you know it well. So Vivienne and Annelise and
Isabella and Elizabeth have all informed me. I try only to do what is best for
you, but you are all in league against me!” Alexander flung out his hands then
rose to his feet, pacing the chamber in his frustration.

Madeline
- curse her! - regarded him with dawning amusement. Trust her to be consoled by
teasing him!

“It
is no small burden to become laird of the keep,” she noted, the expression in
her eyes knowing when he spun to face her. “No less to be burdened with the lot
of us. You were much more merry a year ago, Alexander.”

“And
no wonder that! This is hell!” he shouted, feeling better for it. “Not a one of
you makes this newfound duty any easier for me to bear! I am not mad to demand
that you wed! I am trying to assure your future, yet you all defy me at every
step!”

Madeline
tilted her head, her eyes beginning to sparkle and a smile lifting the corner
of her lips. “Can you not imagine that it is a sweet kind of vengeance for all
the pranks you have played upon us over the years? How delicious it is to foil
you, Alexander, now that you are suddenly stern and proper! Think of all the
frogs in my linens and snakes in my slippers for which I can now have
vengeance.”

“I
will not be foiled!” he roared and thudded his fist upon the table between
them.

Madeline
clucked her tongue, chiding him for his show of temper. “And I will not be
wed,” she said, her soft tone belying the determination in her gaze. “Not so
readily as that. At any rate, you have not the coin in the treasury to offer a
dowry, so there is no need to discuss the matter before the tithes are
collected in the autumn.”

Alexander
spun to look out the window, hoping to hide his expression from his confident
sister. There might have been a steel band drawn tight around his chest, for he
knew a detail that Madeline did not. The tithes would be low this year, so the
castellan had confided in him. There had been torrential rains this spring and
what seed had not been washed away had rotted in the ground. He marveled that
he had never thought of such matters until this past year and marveled again at
how much he had yet to learn.

How
had Papa managed all these concerns? How had he laughed and been so merry with
such a weight upon his shoulders? Alexander felt nearly crushed beneath this
unfamiliar burden of responsibility.

His
gaze trailed over the sea that lapped beneath Kinfairlie’s towers and he
mourned the loss of their parents anew. He knew that his siblings defied him as
a way of defying the cruel truth of their parents’ sudden death, but he also
knew that he could not feed all those currently resident in this keep in the
winter to come. The castellan had told him so, and in no uncertain terms.

His
sisters had to be wed, and at least the two eldest had to be wed this summer.
They were all of an age to be married, ranging as they did from twenty-three
summers to twelve, but Madeline was the sole obstacle to his scheme.

He
pivoted to regard her, noting the concern that she quickly hid. She must guess
what it cost him to so change his own nature, to abandon his recklessness in
favor of responsibility; she must know that he assumed this task for the sake
of all of them.

Yet
still she defied him.

“You
could at least feign compliance,” he suggested, anger thrumming beneath his
words. “You could try to make my task lighter, Madeline, instead of encouraging
our sisters to defy me.”

She
leaned closer. “You could at least ask,” she retorted, the sapphire flash of
her eyes showing that this would be no easy victory. “In truth, Alexander, you
are so demanding these days that a saint would defy you, and do so simply for
the pleasure of thwarting your schemes. You have become a different man since
you were made laird, and one who is difficult to like.”

“I
am making choices for the best of all of us,” he insisted, “and you only vex
me.”

Madeline
smiled with cursed confidence. “You are not vexed. You are irked, perhaps.”

“Annoyed,”
contributed another feminine voice. Vivienne tipped her head around the corner,
revealing that she had been listening to the entire exchange. Vivienne’s hair
was of a russet hue and her eyes were a dark green. Otherwise, she shared
Madeline’s virtues and not a few of her faults, including the fact that she
also must be wed before the harvest.

Alexander
ground his teeth at the slender prospect of succeeding twice in this challenge.

Three
shorter women peeked around the edge of the portal, their eyes bright with
curiosity. Annelise was sixteen with auburn tresses and eyes as blue as
cornflowers; Isabella was fourteen with eyes of vivid green, orange-red hair
and freckles across her nose; Elizabeth was ebony-haired like himself and
Madeline, her eyes an uncanny green. The sight of all those uncovered tresses -
the mark of unmarried maidens - made Alexander’s innards clench.

They
were no longer merely his sisters, his comrades, or even the victims of his
jests - they and their futures were his responsibility.

“But
you are certainly not vexed, Alexander,” Vivienne continued with a smile.

Madeline
nodded agreement. “When Alexander is vexed in truth, he shouts. So know this,
Annelise, Isabella and Elizabeth, you have not truly angered Alexander until he
roars fit to lift the roof.” The five women giggled and that was enough.

“I
am indeed vexed!” Alexander bellowed. The sole result of his outburst was that
the three younger women nodded.

“Now
he is vexed,” said Annelise.

“You
can tell by the way he shouts,” Elizabeth agreed.

“Indeed,”
said Madeline, that teasing smile curving her lips again. “But still he is a
man of honor, upon that we can all rely.” She rose and gave a simmering
Alexander a peck of a kiss upon each of his cheeks.

She
smiled at him with a surety that made him long to throttle her, for she was
right.

“Still
he will not raise a hand against a woman.” Madeline patted his shoulder, as if
he were no more threatening than a kitten. “I shall wed when I so choose,
Alexander, and not one day before. Fear not - all will be resolved well enough
in the end.”

With
that, Madeline left the chamber, easily gathering their sisters about her. They
chattered of kirtles and chemises and new shoes. Elizabeth demanded a story,
and as Vivienne complied, their voices faded to naught.

Alexander
sat down heavily and put his head in his hands. What was he going to do?

* * *

In
this same moment, beneath the neighboring keep of Ravensmuir, there was a
ruckus in the caverns.

Ravensmuir
perched on the coast, and the network of natural caves beneath its high walls
had been augmented by men over the eons. In recent centuries, a family named
Lammergeier, who trafficked in religious relics, had claimed Ravensmuir and
filled the caverns with their hoard. It was said that no soul could invade the
caverns, much less steal from them, without the knowledge of the Laird of
Ravensmuir.

Which
explained the presence of one small fairy - a spriggan, in fact - sleeping
contentedly in the hoard, for fairies are well known to have no souls. As for
spriggans, in case you have never seen one (and it is doubtful that you have)
they are quite small, small enough to sleep in one’s hand. They are also quite
unattractive, although Darg - for that was the spriggan’s name - was even more
plain than most.

Darg
was dark all over, as if covered by the bark of a gnarled old tree; and her
head was like nothing more than a teasel, with the long pointed part forming
her nose and the bristles being what passed for her hair. She had small beady
dark eyes, and quick little fingers, and even given how strange her appearance,
any thinking person would conclude with a glimpse that Darg was a greedy little
thief (and that person would have been right). You could not have guessed her
gender, not that it mattered much, and indeed, you likely would never glimpse
her.

Nonetheless,
she was there, in Ravensmuir’s caverns.

Darg
had claimed a reliquary for her bed, some years ago. Though she had initially
resented the intrusion of these foreign spoils in her nice dark cave, this
golden reliquary had a comely glitter about it. It also had a nest of soft
golden hair coiled carefully within it. (Darg did not know, nor did she care,
that these were said to be three sacred hairs from Saint Ursula herself, who
had saved ten thousand virgins and whose flaxen tresses had fallen to her very
ankles.)

Darg
particularly liked the round crystals on the sides of reliquary, through which
she could peek out, mostly because their curve distorted all into nonsensical
shapes. As a fairy, albeit a small one with a penchant for making trouble, Darg
liked fantastical shapes and illusions.

She
could make some pretty impressive ones herself. Spriggans are known for their
ability to become enormous phantasms when angered or surprised. In this
manifestation, unfortunately, most mortals can see them and often confuse them
with vengeful ghosts.

Spriggans
are vengeful, to be sure, but not ghosts.

This
new noise was enough to wake Darg, who had slept contentedly for several
decades. In fact, it had been quiet in the caves for so long - since one laird
named Merlyn had foregone the family trade - that Darg had come to think of the
glittering hoard as her own. There was one mortal who came to raid the
treasure, a woman with long red hair and a bold manner who Darg had never
managed to halt.

At
the sound of mortal voices, Darg awakened with a yawn and a stretch and a
grimace, then peeked through the big clear rock crystal. She was certain that
the woman would be responsible, perhaps that Darg would have vengeance this
time. Indeed, she was considering which particular large and frightening form
would be most effective when she saw the shocking truth.

The
intruders were men. A good dozen men. What did they scheme? Darg squinted to
watch.

“Aye,
the better part of it must be brought to the hall,” said a swarthy one who
looked somewhat familiar. “Rosamunde will sort what will be sold once it is
there.”

“But
there is so much!”

“You
cannot see the half of it,” said the first man, then pointed into the darkness
scarce penetrated by their flickering lanterns. “There are said to be hidden
caverns stacked with it. I suspect that these caves will never be fully
cleared, for much has probably been forgotten.”

The
three men with him whistled appreciatively. The assessment in their expressions
was a familiar expression to Darg, but one she resented when they looked upon
her treasure.

“We
had best begin,” said the first man. The other men grunted and began to fill
baskets and boxes with golden trinkets. Each man worked with haste, gathering
fistfuls of goods, uncaring what was jumbled together. Darg was indignant.

But
not so indignant as she became when they lifted the boxes and turned back to
the stairs that led to the keep.

They
were removing the relics.

They
were stealing Darg’s treasure!

“
Aiiiii!
” Darg leapt from her hiding place and screeched with
all her power. Without a plan, she transformed into an enormous red angry
cloud. The cloud glowed in its midst, it screamed, it was the height of six
men. It seemed to push at the walls and ceiling of the cavern, it extinguished
the lanterns the men had brought.

And
then it screamed some more.

This
was the most amusement Darg had had in centuries.

The
men, however, were terrified. Some dropped their boxes. They ran for the
stairs, bumping into each other in their frenzy to be gone.

“Halt!
Be calm!” the first man shouted, but no one heeded him. “What manner of men are
you to be afraid of the dark?” he roared, his words barely discernible over the
thunder of the men’s boots on the stairs.

Left
alone, he lit his lantern again, his expression one of disgust. He swore, then
bent to lift a box of relics. Darg screamed again, thinking him uncommonly
valiant, but he paid her no need. He frowned, then carefully fitted another two
gold pieces into his box. Darg spun into his very face, surrounding him with
angry red, then screamed again. He tested the weight of his burden, then
straightened to leave.