The Elusive Bride

  There was not enough rain in heaven to quench the heat of his desire for this woman.

  Rowan’s gaze rose to meet hers. To discover the answer to his question. What he saw confounded him.

  “Dear God, lass, don’t look at me so! Did I not say it would be your own choice? Cast me aside if you cannot love me, but don’t look on me with fear.”

  For a moment her body seemed to melt against him, eager to mingle her flesh with his. It stiffened again at his words. Had he said anything so terrible?

  Rowan gasped with shock and pain as her fingers twined in his hair and wrenched his head back.

  “Damn you, FitzCourtenay, you are a devil! Why could you not just take what you wanted? Why must you make me choose? Can you not see it will tear me apart…?

  Acclaim for Deborah Hale’s recent books

  The Bonny Bride

  “…high adventure!”

  —Romantic Times Magazine

  A Gentleman of Substance

  “This exceptional Regency-era romance includes all the best aspects of that genre…. Deborah Hale has outdone herself…”

  —Romantic Times Magazine

  “…a nearly flawless plot, well-dimensioned characters, and a flame that will set your heart ablaze with every emotion possible!”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  My Lord Protector

  “Invite yourself to this sweet, sensitive, moving and utterly wonderful tale of love from the heart.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  The Elusive Bride

  Harlequin Historical #539

  #540 MAID OF MIDNIGHT

  Ana Seymour

  #541 THE LAST BRIDE IN TEXAS

  Judith Stacy

  #542 PROTECTING JENNIE

  Ann Collins

  DEBORAH HALE

  THE ELUSIVE BRIDE

  Available from Harlequin Historicals and DEBORAH HALE

  My Lord Protector #452

  A Gentleman of Substance #488

  The Bonny Bride #503

  The Elusive Bride #539

  For my daughter, Deidre Siobhan Hale,

  and my sister, Ivy Marion Moore.

  Their spirit inspired Cecily Tyrell and enriches my life.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  A twig snapped under footfall.

  Its report shattered the golden hush of the glade. The girl jumped at the sound, a batch of freshly picked beans spilling from the lap of her gown. Why? she cursed herself. Why had she lagged behind the novices to steal a moment’s sweet summer solitude? Her father had sent her to the safety of this remote priory, out of the path of civil war. But in a land where every man’s hand was turned against his neighbor, safety was an illusion, and secluded places held their own special dangers.

  She willed herself to stillness, like an arrow nocked on a taut bowstring, aimed and ready for flight. By fierce concentration, she forced her breath to the pace of a reverent Ave: “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us…”

  A stirring of the underbrush drew her wary glance. Into the sun-dappled clearing stepped a man, leading a gray horse. Catching sight of the girl, he froze. For a moment they stood, each surveying the other. Her look and posture said clearly, Keep your distance. His pleaded, Don’t give me away.

  The girl saw a hard lean warrior, whose mail surcoat glinted beneath a well-worn, gray traveling cloak. His ruddy bronze complexion boldly proclaimed him a Crusader. He had the stance of a man proudly in his prime, belying the frets of silver in his dark hair and close-trimmed Norman beard.

  The man saw a lithesome, virginal figure, in a coarse-woven tunic and gown, a thick plait of lustrous chestnut hair falling over one shoulder. She reminded him of a young hind, with her delicate brown beauty and her wild, wary vulnerability.

  As the man obligingly held his ground, and the girl graciously held her tongue, each began to relax. The man’s gaze strayed hungrily to the tangles of ripe beans and vetch. He’d been traveling in haste and stealth, not sparing the time to hunt or gather food. He would grab a quick meal now, even if the lady should call an alarm.

  The girl stared greedily at the horse. How long had it been since she’d felt the firm, powerful barrel of a good mount beneath her, and the wind in her hair? She would brave any peril just to stroke the nose of that magnificent animal.

  She stooped and pulled a carrot from the ground. Carefully stepping over the rows of vegetables, she walked steadily toward the stranger and his horse, holding out her offering.

  Snatching up the pale orange morsel, the man snapped its crisp flesh between strong even teeth. Dear God, how delicious it tasted! Even the dirt that clung to the root, for it was good honest English earth, moist and loamy.

  As the girl watched him devour the carrot, her alarm turned rapidly to amusement. A dimple blossomed by the corner of her wide, mobile mouth. “I meant that for your horse, sir.” Laughter bubbled musically beneath her words.

  The man jerked his head toward the gelding. “I’m hungrier than he is. Grass is plentiful, but not to my taste.” The voice was deep and warm, the smile wry and sardonic. As if to affirm his master’s comment, the horse dipped his lean head and cropped a mouthful of tall grass at the edge of the clearing. The girl reached out a hand and passed it caressingly over the big beast’s neck.

  Then she remembered the man. “Wait there,” she said eagerly. “I’ll get more. For both of you.”

  Making a rapid circuit of the garden, she plucked a handful of beans, pulled a carrot here and an onion there. She thrust the vegetables at the man, holding back one carrot for his mount. She held out her offering to the horse, who snipped it in two mannerly bites. The stranger dropped to the ground and wolfed down his portion with noisy gusto.

  “I thought you said she was right behind you!” A deep feminine voice rang out from nearby, coming closer with each word.

  “Sister Goliath!” hissed the girl, pulling man and mount back into the safety of the forest’s thick foliage.

  “She was right behind me,” insisted a nasal whine.

  Into the glade garden charged a bearlike nun in a rusty black habit. By her side scurried a chinless ferret of a novice. They stopped short and peered around the empty clearing.

  “Now where can she have got to?” demanded the nun. “Mother Ermintrude wants to see her about something. It’s almost time for Mass—”

  “Probably wandered off into the woods,” suggested the novice, with the self-righteous implication that she would never indulge in such improper conduct.

  “Heedless child,” fumed the big nun, planting her hands on her hips. “She ought to know wild places can be dangerous.”

  Watching from the shadows of the forest, the girl smiled to herself. She knew wild places could be dangerous. She also knew they could be fiercely compelling—like the man who stood behind her. She could feel his breath rustle her hair. She could smell the warm musk of sweat and leather.

  Sister Goliath took several menacing strides toward the verge of the clearing, peered into the dense curtain of foliage and bellowed, “Cecilia!”

  The man clutched his horse’s bridle and inst
inctively brought one hand up to clap over the girl’s mouth. He could not take the chance that she might betray him. She did not struggle as he pressed her back against him, but yielded as to a lover’s embrace. The warrior suddenly remembered how long it had been since he’d held a woman. His body ached with the pleasure of it. His breath quickened. A strange chill rippled up his back. Was it excitement?

  Or fear?

  The nun glowered into the trees. Apparently, her sun-accustomed eyes could not penetrate the green shadows of the forest. “It’s no use,” she barked at the novice. “We’ll have to call out the others to help us look.” With a snort of exasperation, she lumbered off.

  As she watched Sister Goliath turn away, a dizzy wave of relief broke over the girl. For an instant she savored the masterful feel of the man’s arm about her, his hand firmly covering her lips. If Fulke DeBoissard had ever taken such liberties with her, she’d have laid him out cold. But this man was nothing like her odious suitor. Indeed, in the few moments of their acquaintance she’d sensed with fierce certainty that he was like no man she had ever known.

  Much as she enjoyed the close contact, however, part of her took offense at the man’s presumption. She could hold her tongue well enough without his help. If she had wished to raise an alarm, six stout Crusaders could not have stopped her. She’d teach this bold fellow to underestimate her.

  Parting her lips slightly, she ran her tongue over the flesh of his fingers. The man jerked his hand away as though she’d spat hot coals into his palm. She skipped out of arm’s reach with a puckish chuckle.

  “I’d better catch up with them,” she whispered gleefully, “before they have the whole priory swarming this place. Stay in the woods until you hear the bell for midday Mass. Then you can both come out and eat your fill.” She pointed to the west. “There’s a stream over that way, where you can drink.”

  Lunging forward, the man caught her hand. “My thanks for this aid, lady. I hope I haven’t got you into trouble.” He nodded toward the waning sound of Sister Goliath’s scolding.

  Amber sparks of mischief glinted in the girl’s deep-set brown eyes. She flashed him a smile, blinding in its radiance. “Oh, I’m used to it.”

  With hardly a rustle of the leaves, she was gone. For an instant her presence seemed to shimmer in the spot where she had stood, bright and elusive as a shaft of sunlight.

  “Sister Gertha! Here I am, Sister!” she called. Kilting her habit to her knees, she bounded through the garden.

  The tall black bulk of the nun loomed over her at the entrance to the garden clearing. “Where did you get off to, you vexing girl? I was about to raise the alarm. How many times have I told you? You can’t be too careful these days, even out here. Stay with the others. Don’t go wandering into the woods after every butterfly or whiff of wildflowers.”

  “I’m sorry, Sister Gertha,” blurted the girl. “I had to relieve myself and I didn’t think I could make it back to the privy in time.”

  This frank excuse left the big nun temporarily speechless. Finally she managed to sputter, “Well, I never did hear such immodest talk! Hurry on now, or we’ll be late for Mass.”

  The girl knew he must be listening. It brought a tingle of warmth to her loins, speaking of such intimate matters in his hearing. She gave a brazen toss of her head and grinned at her own audacity. Striding up the path to the chapel, invigorated by her little adventure, she began to wonder about the identity of her fugitive. He must be King Stephen’s man, going so stealthily through lands loyal to the Empress. If so, she’d given aid to the enemy. Try as she might, she could not make herself regret it.

  Watching from the safety of the forest, the man had to clap a hand over his own mouth to stifle a hoot of laughter. When the glade was deserted once again, and the Angelus bell had begun to peal from the distant priory tower, he reached up and absently scratched his horse behind the ear. Half to himself and half to his mount, he chuckled, “They’ll never make a nun out of that one. But pity the poor fool who takes such a creature to wive!”

  Six weeks later, on a stifling afternoon in early September, Cecily Tyrell answered another summons from Mother Ermintrude. Uncertain which recent transgression had landed her there, she entered the prioress’ parlor in an attitude of extravagant contrition.

  Mother Ermintrude glanced up from her breviary. “Cecily, come in, my child. We must talk, you and I.”

  Was it a good sign or a bad, the girl wondered—the prioress calling her by her English name instead of the Latin Cecilia? Having little use for the insipid saint on whose feast day she’d been born, Cecily Tyrell hated being called Cecilia. She never could imagine herself going meekly to martyrdom, singing hymns.

  “If it’s about that business with Sister Veronica,” she burst out, “I’ve apologized, I’ve confessed and I’ve done my penance thoroughly. I just couldn’t believe she had no notion of how men are…well…equipped. I never expected the little goose to faint dead away when I told her. I wonder if Sister Veronica isn’t a bit too delicate for God’s work—”

  The prioress’ firm, practical lips twitched. She gestured to a low stool near her own chair. “This has nothing to do with Sister Veronica, nor with the hedgehog you smuggled into chapel last week.”

  Cecily reddened. “How did you know about that? Even Sister Gertha didn’t—”

  “My eyes are somewhat closer to the ground than those of our worthy Mistress of Novices,” said the diminutive Reverend Mother, with wry understatement. “They sometimes spot mischief even her rigorous scrutiny misses.” Those mild blue eyes twinkled with amusement. “You have enlivened this place, my child, I’ll say that for you. You’ve shaken us from pious solemnity and shown us the virtue of taking delight in God’s creation. How we will miss you—even Sister Goliath.”

  Cecily opened her mouth to ask how the prioress had come to hear of her irreverent appellation for Sister Gertha. Then she realized the import of Mother Ermintrude’s benediction. “Miss me? I’m not going anywhere. You aren’t sending me away, are you?” Cecily clenched her hands together in earnest supplication. “I promise, Reverend Mother, I’ll try to do better. I won’t wander off anymore. I won’t jest in the refectory. I won’t—”

  The prioress held up her hand for silence. “You have been sent for, Cecily. You must return to the world and take your place in it.”

  “Oh no, Mother. I’ll go to Brantham. Just say I may return when Father gives me leave.”

  If she could have stayed at Brantham, among the people she loved, it would have been different. But this summons could mean only one thing. She’d be forced to wed and leave Brantham forever. The priory was her second favorite place in the world. Once she took the veil, no one could oust her from it.

  The prioress shook her head. “My dear child, have the past months not taught you the folly of trying to mold yourself in directions God does not intend? Our community took you in at your father’s behest—to give you sanctuary in these violent times, to help you recover from the deaths of your brothers and to see if you had a true vocation for the sisterhood. All three charges we have fulfilled. You are safe and sound. You have put the early agonies of grief behind you. And you have proven time and again that you will never make a good nun.”

  Angry tears welled up in Cecily’s eyes. “You don’t understand, Mother. I must take the veil. What else is there for me? Banished from Brantham and my people. Slave to the whims of some dolt of a husband. Here, at least, women have power over their own lives. I want that!”

  The prioress reached out a smooth, worn hand and touched Cecily’s cheek. “Power? You have learned little from us, I fear. We are brides of Christ. We strive always to serve him with obedience and devotion that go beyond the bounds of mortal marriage. You have a harsh opinion of men, Cecily. Long ago, before I took the veil, I was married to a good kind man—no dolt, I assure you. Have you never met a man you could care for as a husband?”

  “Never,” snapped Cecily, though her conscience pricked a
s she thought of the mysterious traveler she had encountered in the garden several weeks ago. He had come to her in dreams every night since. “I was plagued with suitors before the war broke out, all keen to get their hands on my dower lands. Edwin Goddard—he’s slow and stupid as an ox. Roger Vaughan—he’s a well looking fellow, but vain and boastful as a Gascon. As for Fulke DeBoissard—” her nose wrinkled at the thought of her most persistent suitor “—I wouldn’t wed that oily toad if he was the last male creature in Christendom!”

  “I have heard a story,” ventured the prioress, “of a toad turned into a prince by the kiss of true love. Many a weak man has been improved by marriage to the right woman.”

  “Our Holy Mother herself couldn’t salvage DeBoissard.”

  “Cecilia Tyrell!” The prioress looked genuinely shocked. “You blaspheme.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” Cecily pleaded desperately. “I didn’t mean to, honestly. It just slipped out.”

  The prioress sighed. “Do you need any further proof of how poor a nun you’d make? An ungovernable tongue is no asset in a religious community—nor in a marriage, either. I doubt Our Lord would be flattered that you chose him because you could find no worthier spouse.”

  Mother Ermintrude’s words knelled with gentle finality. Cecily would find no refuge from marriage within these walls.

  “Gather your clothes,” urged the prioress. “There is a young man waiting for you in the portress’s stall.”

  “Young man?” Cecily jumped up, her disappointment momentarily forgotten. “Why didn’t you say so? It must be Geoffrey.” Without a word of leave-taking, she bolted out the parlor door. Tearing down the hall, she then bounded straight across the priory garth. How she had missed her youngest brother—the lone survivor of four.

  “Geoffrey!” she cried, hurling herself upon the young man who sat in the portress’s stall, hungrily consuming a bowl of pottage. At the last second she checked her headlong rush.

  “Harald?” She recognized the son of Brantham’s castellan, her brother’s devoted companion. “Where is Geoffrey? I thought you were both with the Empress at Winchester.”