Everlasting (38 page)

 
“I have conditions you must meet,” she said simply. “You must promise that a large portion of money will be used to improve the plight of the serfs. The small stone cottages with hearths and thatched roofs which some of them are living in readily evidence the fact that Lord Weldon had meant to provide the same for all his serfs. Unfortunately, he was killed before he could complete that dream. ’Tis my hope to see them erected in the near future.”

 
“’Tis good as done! Ye know I’ve grieved for the plight of your people.”

 
She studied him, as if looking for a visible lie. “You’re from another country, and now my marriage to you will ever keep me between those people and yours.”

 
“Abrielle,” he countered, his mien softer now, “your mother is a Saxon, her husband a Norman. Your Norman king is married ta the sister of my own King David.”

 
His words were those of reason, but she was not prepared to listen
to such calming talk and threw up her hands. “Just go! Leave me in peace!”

 
He would let her have her pride and exited the chamber into the corridor. There the next door opened, and Raven saw Vachel peer out and Abrielle’s parent only asked, “’Tis done?”

 
Raven nodded. “Aye. She has agreed that we will wed.”

 
Vachel seemed to deflate with a sigh. “Thank God.” Elspeth ducked past her husband, gave Raven a frown, and went into her daughter’s chamber.

 
“The ceremony will be in the great hall before the midday meal,” Vachel continued. “Then we can ‘celebrate’ with a generous feast for the people.”

 
“Ye will forgo the reading of the banns?”

 
Vachel winced. “There will be enough witnesses to make the marriage valid. After we break our fast in the morning, you and I will negotiate a marriage contract.”

 
Raven nodded.

 
“Have a restful night, Raven. I think it might be your last for some time,” Vachel concluded.

 
AFTER MASS, THE announcement of the impending wedding ceremony was greeted without surprise. While both Abrielle and Raven looked solemn and subdued, rather than facing the day with excitement, Vachel proclaimed the day a cause for celebration, a union between Scotland’s royal emissary and England’s wealthiest widow. He spoke of goodwill between neighbors on the border, both within England and Scotland. But not many seemed interested in his optimism. There were angry murmurs among Abrielle’s remaining suitors, and more than one man departed the keep in outraged haste. The consensus seemed to be that Norman wealth was going through a Saxon girl to line a Scotsman’s coffers. There would be no peace between neighbors, Vachel realized
sadly. Nor between husband and wife, of either generation, he thought ruefully, for Elspeth, while not exactly angry at her husband, was upset on behalf of her daughter, and that strained Vachel’s marriage.

 
And then there were Raven and Abrielle, seated side by side at a trestle table, both barely eating, not even speaking. Vachel told himself that in due time Abrielle would understand this marriage was far superior to her brief one to Desmond de Marlé. But right now she was too angry to see or to care about the depth of the passion her warrior husband so clearly felt for her.

 
Abrielle heaved a weary sigh as she watched Raven and Vachel retreat once again to Vachel’s solar. Then, noting her mother’s look of apprehension, she forced a smile. There was no need to stress her mother unduly, not in her sensitive condition.

 
“Abrielle, child, come, let us prepare for the ceremony.”

 
“Again,” Abrielle murmured, rising and following her mother. “What do you suggest I wear, Mama? I think my black mourning gown would be perfect.” When Elspeth gaped at her, Abrielle hastened to say, “’Twas but a jest, Mama, and a poor one I can see.”

 
Elspeth settled herself and gave her daughter a brisk look. “I suggest that gown that you wore to King Henry’s court. ’Tis the one that first caught Raven’s eye.”

 
Abrielle barely withheld a groan as she followed her mother upstairs to dress and once again bit her tongue for the sake of her mother’s peace of mind. Elspeth was determined to be cheerful, and Abrielle knew it was because her mother was grateful not to be giving her away to a man like Desmond de Marlé. She would not steal that from her by revealing what weighed so heavily on her own mind.

 
As wretched as Desmond had been and as loath as she’d been to marry him, she feared and dreaded this union with Raven even more. With Desmond she knew to be ever on guard, so there was no trick to keeping her feelings in check, no need for a protective wall around her heart. It was a very different matter with Raven, in every way, for
when she was near him she didn’t know where she stood, or what the truth was, or how she was supposed to feel. As much as she distrusted the man right down to his little fingernail, there was no denying or escaping the fact that he would make her feel things she ought not to want to feel, and feel them far too easily to be safe, so easily that she feared there was no wall in the world high and solid enough to protect her heart from him.

 
The last time she had dressed for her own wedding, the fear utmost in her mind was for the night ahead; this time she feared the lifetime of nights to follow. She was deathly afraid that if she let her guard slip for even a sliver of time, Raven would slip in and steal her heart and soul, and make her need him, and leave her bereft in the end.

 
THE MARRIAGE CEREMONY was held before the remaining guests, small in number though they were, and a large contingent of serfs and servants, all of whom seemed glad for their mistress. But Abrielle’s dear friend Cordelia could not attend, making Abrielle even angrier with Raven, because this haste was necessitated by him.

 
The same priest who’d performed her first marriage ceremony—was it only a fortnight ago?—was there to attend her once again. Raven and Abrielle pledged their troths with subdued voices, and if the lady’s tone was trembling, no one would remark on it. Raven used his father’s wedding ring, knowing it would be far too large for Abrielle, but it had long descended through his family, and had meaning for him.

 
Abrielle couldn’t even look at Raven as he spoke the words, “With this ring I thee wed, and with my body I thee honor.”

 
Her own ring to him had been her father’s, which Elspeth had insisted she use. It seemed obscene to use it for this farce of a marriage, but she had not wanted to hurt her mother’s feelings. She spoke the same words back to Raven in a toneless voice.

 
And then the priest pronounced them married. If Abrielle thought too long on the fact that she had had two unwanted marriages in such a short time, she would run from the hall sobbing. Instead she accepted the good wishes of people through the midday meal. Vachel had surprised her by arranging for minstrels to play in the afternoon. They even held a tables tournament to pass the time, and she found herself hoping that Raven would lead the men away from the board game and out to the tiltyard, anything so she wouldn’t have to look upon him.

 
But no, he played the doting bridegroom to the hilt, remaining at her side, even challenging her to a game of tables. She could have sworn he let her win, but he assured her that it was not so.

 
But always, thoughts of her wedding night were not far away. Once, as the hour grew late, she even found herself thinking that mayhap she did dread this wedding night even more than her first, and that almost made her giggle with rising hysteria. What woman would not want to take Raven Seabern to bed? She had always thought him a handsome rogue and his practiced charm and words of lovemaking, even when they’d angered her, had seemed to melt her very bones.

 
But a wedding night meant a giving of self, and she did not want to give the most precious thing she had to offer, the gift of herself, to a man she did not trust, a thought that resulted in her feeling only sorrow for this union. How could she surrender to him what he seemed to have schemed to win? So she decided then and there that Raven would not have his manly pleasures this night. He would have to earn the right to her by more than simply compromising her.

 
But at last her mother left her alone in her bedchamber, wearing a diaphanous nightgown that Elspeth had hastily sewn together just that day. Only when her mother was gone did Abrielle draw on her robe as if donning armor for a battle.

 
Not long after that, Raven came to her, closing the door behind him and leaning against it. He had not expected her to be waiting in
bed for him, and she was not. She sat in a cushioned chair before the fire, staring at it as if in contemplation.

 
Yet the sight of her nearly took his breath away. From a heavily carved wooden candelabrum, stout tapers cast their flickering radiance upon the long, coppery-red hair that tumbled in soft, glorious disarray around her slender shoulders, creating a vision of beauty beyond compare. His eyes swept over her in a lingering caress, evoking a blush that left the lady’s cheeks nearly as rosy as her soft lips. Her dressing gown of burgundy velvet only made him ache to see what it concealed.

 
Coming forward, he said, “I almost thought ye would pretend ta be asleep.”

 
Slowly she turned her head to him. “I considered it, but I would not start our marriage with a lie—at least not on my part.”

 
His face hardened, and his voice was low and intense. “I havena lied ta ye.” She said nothing, knowing again that she was goading him too much, that he was a man of pride.

 
“And how do ye intend ta begin our marriage?” he asked.

 
“By telling you that you have not earned my trust,” she said firmly, rising to stand before him, hands on her hips like an avenging angel, “and that you will not take me to bed.” All of a sudden he took her arm in a firm grip, having moved pantherlike, startling her. Her wide eyes met his.

 
“But until then,” he echoed softly, “ye’re still my wife. I will have no man suggest we are na legally married.”

 
“What are you saying?” she demanded, and feelings she could not describe coursed through her. To her growing fear, his hands loosened the robe at her neck, parting it though she tried to stop him. She saw his eyes flare with heat when they took in the pale silk gown, its simplicity framing her body for him almost like a gift, clinging to her at breast and thigh. She held her breath when his hand touched her cheek, then moved slowly downward, cupping her neck for but a moment, drifting down over collarbone and between her breasts. She
could not move nor cry out nor stop him. It was as if the world had narrowed and was only the stillness of their heavy breathing, the promise and heat of his touch. With one hand, he cupped her breast, startling a gasp from her, even as her frantic eyes met his. He watched her face as he lifted her, weighed the fullness of her. “Nay,” she whimpered, “please stop.”

 
Those blue eyes softened. “I canna, Abrielle. Fight me not, for I’ve wanted ye from the first moment I saw ye.”

 
His burr had thickened erotically. As if the veneer of the civilized man was falling away, exposing the real man beneath, a man of flesh and blood, of honest instinct and desire, a man who did not hide what he was and what he wanted. If only she could be sure this was the true and real Raven who wanted her so desperately.

 
Then his fingers found her nipple, teasing and stroking, and for the first time, she understood the true depth of her vulnerability to him, for the heated sensations such a simple touch raised all but swamped her own determination. She tried desperately to pull away, but he only drew her closer, still continuing the stroking of her delicate flesh.

 
And then his mouth came down on hers, bending her head back even as his tongue slid within to find her own. She was as helpless to the rising desire consuming her as she had been when first they’d kissed. He tasted of wine, and it drugged her senses. His hand on her breast caressed with more pressure, while his other hand slid down her back to cup her backside and pull her harder against him. “Abrielle,” he murmured against her mouth, “Abrielle, kiss me back.”