Everlasting (29 page)

 
She shook her head, firmly, since the laird was proving as difficult to discourage as his offspring. “Nay, there are other reasons. I will say only that we would not suit, and I do beg your pardon if that offends you.”

 
“Not at all, lass. Ye have ta know your own mind.”

 
But he winked at her over his bushy mustache, as if he was privy to her thoughts, and it seemed obvious he assumed she secretly favored Raven. Ye have ta know your own mind, he said. Raven himself had insisted it was her opinion of the man she was to marry which mattered, and no one else’s, though it would be much easier to determine what she was thinking if everyone would stop telling her what she should think. Not that she needed to devote more time to pondering Raven’s place in her life, for there wasn’t one. She had to find a man in whose love she could believe, someone without a royal emissary’s skill at dissembling. It was clear that her fate was to be in the hands of men, but at least she could chose that man. She would seize this time to find him; he must be here this night, just waiting for her notice.

 
As she moved back among her guests, smiling and nodding, she saw a disheartening sight: Sir Colbert had arrived with Thurstan, and was even now standing at his side. When Colbert saw that he had attracted her notice, he gave an exaggerated bow, grinning at her. He said something to Thurstan, and both began to laugh in an ugly manner, surely at her expense. She turned away, adding another man to her list of men to avoid during the tournament. She would have to make sure she never walked about alone.

 
She almost ran into Raven in her haste to stay away from Thurstan. The place was overrun by men she’d prefer to avoid, she thought as he caught her by her elbows. He used the advantage of height to look
over her head as he imagined her pain, knowing that a man who’d tried to kidnap and rape her was bold enough to attend her tournament. It came as no surprise that, in her usual fashion, she was putting on a brave front, looking from Raven’s face, to his hands on her arms, and back to his face again. He released her, giving an unapologetic grin even as his admiration deepened.

 
“My lady, ye’re the center of attention for every man present—whether ye want ta be or no.”

 
She rolled her eyes. “At present, I’d be ridiculously content if only you did not make me your center of attention. Surely there are beautiful maidens here for you to peruse.”

 
“But none shines as brightly as ye,” he murmured, his gaze softening without losing any of its wry amusement. He watched her blush and was thankful for her smooth fair skin. The color in her cheeks, or sudden loss of it, along with whatever shone or flickered in her sweet eyes, provided some insight into her true feelings, allowing him to see that she was not at all indifferent to him, no matter what she tried to make him, and herself, believe.

 
“Forgive me, I must see to my other guests,” she said, moving past him.

 
“I understand,” he murmured with a scant bow. “I know I’m but one of many awaiting your notice.”

 
He’d spoken more loudly than he’d intended, and saw he had the notice of others besides Abrielle. Never before had he felt the animosity of so many people, all directed at him because of the country where he was born. He was more trusted in King Henry’s Norman court, where he was given free access to the king. Now he stood his ground and cocked a dark eyebrow at them, daring them to challenge him.

 
But Vachel was calling for attention from his place before the hearth, and although Raven turned his head, he knew it was not wise to present his back to such dishonorable enemies.

 
“Honored guests, daring knights, it is now time to choose teams for tomorrow’s tournament. I have in this leather bag a collection of stones, painted either red or green, with armbands and banners to match, courtesy of the ladies of the castle.”

 
There were huzzahs and raised tankards of ale toward the head table, and Raven saw Abrielle and her mother smile at each other.

 
Vachel hefted the bag. “Please come forward and draw your stone.”

 
As one by one each knight pulled out a stone, there were good-natured cheers or jeers, and much slapping on backs. But when it was Raven’s turn to pick, the hall turned silent, but for the whispers of the ladies. Raven met Abrielle’s cool gaze, and she only lifted her chin. He drew out a red stone, and he understood that the resulting cheers were from men on the opposite team. Those on his own team only muttered to one another. Ah well, it was truly an individual sport, after all, and he was certain that by the end, he would succeed in helping his own team to win.

 
“Besides the horses and armor you capture,” Vachel continued, and a shout went up, “there will also be a sizable purse to the knight who performs the best. We well-seasoned knights will make that decision.” He looked among several graying and balding men, who all nodded knowingly. “And lastly, to this champion knight will be awarded an even greater gift, a kiss from your hostess, Lady Abrielle.”

 
The cheers and applause were deafening, and Raven lifted his goblet in toast to her, as did every other man in the hall. A kiss from Abrielle was in truth the only prize he wanted; he alone of all the men in the hall knew the precise softness of her lips and the sweetness of her warm breath on his skin. Aye, it made him want her more, made him want her madly, made him burn for her. And it made him more determined than ever that this was a prize he would share with no man.

 
In response to the cheers, Abrielle smiled and her cheeks colored. She was by far the most beauteous woman in attendance. Though she was newly a widow, and still clothed in black, the somber color only served as the setting for the riotous beauty of her copper tresses, and the shining light of her blue-green eyes. Raven knew in that moment that every eligible bachelor in the hall was determined to win her kiss—and her hand. They were, one and all, bound for disappointment, for they would have to defeat him for the honor; he had never approached an event wanting to win more than he did now. He had yet to impress her, so perhaps a feat of arms would at least draw her attention.

 
Abrielle felt hot with embarrassment and pleasure as she looked out over the sea of men cheering her. She was trying to pretend that it was for her alone these men lusted, rather than her wealth, and for the most part she succeeded, determined to enjoy the tournament.

 
As the minstrels began to play again, Vachel came to stand beside her and Elspeth.

 
“I think the tournament was a wonderful idea, my dear,” Elspeth said to her husband.

 
“Only if it helps Abrielle,” he reminded her.

 
Abrielle slid her hand into his arm and gave him a gentle squeeze. “Your help is all I could ask for.”

 
“’Tis a shame that Raven Seabern will have no help.”

 
“What do you mean?” she asked, her gaze finding him in the crowd, where he stood alone with his father.

 
“His position is precarious. You saw the reaction of those on his own team to his presence. They will not willingly defend him. It’ll be as if he competes alone, a team of one.”

 
“Then perhaps he should not have entered,” she murmured.

 
Vachel gave her a sardonic look. “And did you think he’d just give up in his quest for you? He is a proud, determined man.”

 
“You sound as if you approve of him.”

 
“I do not necessarily approve of him as your husband. And neither would most of the people in attendance. I have heard that Thurstan has been whispering in many ears, fomenting hatred of the Scots. If war should break out, and you were married to Raven, I know you would be torn in your loyalties.”

 
“Although your first loyalty is always to your husband,” Elspeth added.

 
Abrielle said nothing, for she had no plans to ever face such a dilemma. Yet always, if she wasn’t concentrating, her gaze would wander to Raven. She didn’t want to have to worry about him on the morrow. She had not thought that he might be attacked by men fighting for the same team. But as he stood smiling and talking to his father, he looked so at ease, so confident. He probably wanted the purse more than he wanted her, for he was impressed with wealth. She would not worry, she told herself, for his foolish need to enter was not her concern.

 
When Abrielle was escorted away for another dance, Vachel looked down at his wife and frowned. “She protests far too much where Raven is concerned.”

 
“I know,” Elspeth murmured as she slid her hand into his. “I think she is frightened to give her heart to any man.”

 
“I am to blame,” Vachel said heavily. “If it weren’t for me, she never would have felt she had to marry Desmond de Marlé. I think even the betrothal scarred her.”

 
“And the fear of what she would face. God granted her freedom from such a nightmare, but I’m worried she’ll never find peace.”

 
Vachel squeezed her hand. “God has been looking after our Abrielle. Trust in Him.”

 
BY MIDMORNING, WHEN the sun peeked out of an overcast sky, Abrielle shaded her eyes and found herself looking again for Raven.
She sat in stands built for the occasion, running along the main field of the melee. But since there were no boundaries, only some of the battles were fought before her, while others were chased through the countryside only to disappear within woodland.

 
She could still hear the hoarse war cries at the opening horn as the two opposing teams had ridden hard at each other. The clash of their weapons had been fierce, and more than one knight had been unhorsed and taken captive almost immediately. Throughout the morning, several men had been carried to the healers’ tent, but she had heard of no deaths, thank God.

 
Of Raven, she had seen little. She was almost embarrassed to admit to herself that she had marked the shape of his helmet in her mind, as well as the attacking raven emblazoned on his shield, so that she would know him when she saw him again. He had knocked an opponent from his saddle at the opening horn, but after grabbing the reins of the other man’s horse, he’d galloped away with his prize into the trees, probably searching for his team’s pavilion. As he did so, Elspeth sat down beside her.

 
“And how are you feeling, Mama?” Abrielle asked

 
Elspeth was pale, but she nodded. “Fine, my dear. I was able to eat some bread, so I am much improved. Have you seen—”

 
When she broke off, Abrielle lifted a brow. “Raven? Not very subtle, Mama.”

 
“I only ask because your stepfather is concerned that he is a vulnerable target.”

 
“Not all that vulnerable,” Vachel said, coming to sit beside them. “I just heard that he’s unhorsed five men, and his team’s pavilion is filling up with his prizes. In fact, isn’t that him now?”

 
Abrielle tried to pretend disinterest, but watched avidly as several horsemen came thundering out of the trees. Raven was in the lead, but then Abrielle realized that he was being chased by four knights. Others blocked his path, and as he wheeled his horse about, one
knight’s lance struck him a glancing blow across his hauberk, flinging him from the saddle. The crowd gasped and rose as one, and Abrielle knew many were hoping to see Raven captured, his tournament at an end. But he rolled to his feet and unsheathed his sword in one motion. While mounted knights milled around him, he fought savagely, parrying their sword thrusts, slashing toward their horses until they were forced to retreat one at a time or risk losing their mounts—or their own legs. At last one knight fell as he attempted to escape Raven’s sword, and Raven snatched up the man’s reins and vaulted into the saddle. To Abrielle’s surprise there were people in the stands who cheered his triumph and display of courage.