Everlasting (4 page)

 
He left her with a quiet farewell and yet found himself unable to stop watching her. Though he knew her stepfather more than capable, it was obvious the man had an air of distraction this evening as he considered his own future. And unsavory men continued to watch Abrielle. One in particular, squat and overweight, approached Abrielle and bowed to her. When Vachel stepped forward to confront the man, Abrielle laid a hand on his arm and went with the stranger quietly, though it was obvious his touch distressed her. Raven would have to keep watch this evening over this one he perceived as a threat to the maiden.

 
The difference in dance partners was stark, Abrielle realized in dismay. Raven had moved with the gracefulness of a knight, a man used to wielding a sword as he circled an opponent. Desmond de Marlé, her late betrothed’s half brother, lurched through the sweet rushes scattered over the floor. His wet, hot hand gripped hers too hard, and when the dance called for him to touch her waist, she could swear he squeezed as if he were checking the tenderness of a piece of fruit. His eyes devoured her with greed, and she would have run from him, but she did not want Vachel to feel compelled to defend her.

 
“I will call on you tomorrow, my lady,” Desmond said in a confident voice.

 
“I—but you cannot, my lord,” she said, scrambling for appropriate reasons. “My stepfather may have plans that he has not shared with me.”

 
“I know what happened to him tonight,” Desmond said, not bothering to lower his voice.

 
Abrielle cringed, wondering who could overhear his loud voice. “Please, my lord—”

 
“He might need the friendship of a man of influence such as me.”

 
His insistence on pushing himself on her only served to strengthen her courage. “My lord, I must insist that you speak with my stepfather.”

 
“Oh, believe me, girl, I will.”

 
When the music ended, he left her on the dance floor instead of escorting her back to her parents. When she made her way to them, her mother began, “Abrielle, that horrid man—”

 
Vachel interrupted with a stern voice. “My lady wife, speak not a word that others may hear.”

 
Biting her lip, Abrielle moved back into her place between them. Oh, how she wanted this evening to be over, but that would not put an end to their troubles. She would continue to see worry in her mother’s eyes and cold pride in Vachel’s. A hollow sickness inside Abrielle could not be appeased.

 
And to make matters worse, Raven was watching her again. There was no look of flirtation in his eyes as he gave so many other women, confirming her suspicion that their dance had meant nothing to him, but then, why should it have, as she was no longer worth his notice. He had focused his attention on her when all still thought she would soon have a great dowry, then made her acquaintance inappropriately once Vachel’s hopes for a title had been dashed; she had to ask herself what the Scots emissary knew of her stepfather’s dashed dreams. Nonetheless he had danced with her, but seemed to have judged her unworthy after having spent some time with her; truly men were
beasts, for only a beast could show such interest in her, then withdraw it so cruelly after deeming her of insufficient value without property.

 
She tried to distract herself by watching His Majesty, who bade a servant to crisscross a pair of swords on the floor before directing the musicians to play an appropriately swift ditty on the lutes. To her surprise, Raven allowed himself to be drawn reluctantly forward. What could he be about?

 
After a sweeping bow to the king, he began a high-stepping dance over the swords. It was a dazzling display of footwork as Raven struck toe and heel to the floor with amazing quickness, weaving his way over and around the weapons, the clicking of shoe leather on stone its own kind of music. A clumsy Scottish oaf indeed, thought Abrielle, enthralled, and she was not alone, for the performance drew an ever growing audience, including many young maidens whose sharp, feminine gasps were interspersed with delighted giggles whenever his kilt flew dangerously high.

 
“My goodness, I don’t think he’s wearing anything underneath it,” Cordelia gasped in shock as she joined Abrielle within the circle of spectators. In spite of the fact that the fair-haired woman’s cheeks were evidencing a deepening blush, she was closely attentive to the swishing movements of the wool.

 
Abrielle backed away, allowing others to swarm in front of her, confused by the rising feeling of warmth and excitement brought on by watching him. Raven only put on a display to shock the court, not her personally. She thought Cordelia would remain near to watch the entertainment, but instead her friend drifted with her, biting her lip.

 
“So just tell me what is on your mind,” Abrielle said patiently, recognizing Cordelia’s pensiveness.

 
“I saw you dancing with Desmond de Marlé.”

 
Abrielle’s only answer was a shudder.

 
“I heard people talking about him. Do you know he’s had two wives, both of whom died in childbirth?”

 
“Those poor women,” Abrielle murmured.

 
“In more ways than one. It seems he received money from each wife, and then when Weldon was killed falling down the stairs of his newly finished keep, Desmond inherited his true fortune. Doesn’t that seem suspicious to you?”

 
Abrielle searched her friend’s face, feeling ill. “Do people think Desmond had anything to do with Weldon’s death?”

 
Cordelia shrugged. “It is only speculation, but he did benefit the most.”

 
“And I lost my future,” Abrielle added with a sigh. Then she took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “But I cannot live in the past. A new opportunity will come, I am sure of it.”

 
Cordelia’s expression was too sympathetic, and Abrielle had to look away before tears threatened again.

 
At last her mother and stepfather approached with the intention of retiring. An evening that began with joyous expectations had plummeted into one of numb despair. Cordelia and her family left the castle, and even Elspeth and Abrielle found themselves alone in their chambers when Vachel expressed a need to walk off his frustrations.

 
Abrielle stood hugging herself as her mother sadly withdrew into the bedchamber she shared with Vachel and began to undress. Abrielle suddenly realized that she had left behind the drinking goblet given to her by her father. It had to be somewhere in the great hall. She gave no thought to her own safety in her panic at losing such a precious memento. Anxious to retrieve the item before it was forever lost to her, she dashed out of their chambers, in her haste failing to inform her mother that she would be returning to the great hall. Once she reached it, she felt relief to see the goblet where the servants had placed it when taking down the trestle tables so the attendees could dance. With it once again in her grasp, she hurried toward the stairs, not feeling the presence of another until it was too late.

CHAPTER 2

 
Like a wily serpent, Desmond leapt from his makeshift lair and promptly muffled Abrielle’s screams beneath a sweaty palm. Dragging her writhing, kicking, and with arms flailing about in an attempt to claw him or do him some other injury, he swept her into one of the chambers off the great hall and promptly pressed her down upon the chaise. In mounting fear, Abrielle clawed at his face and tried to turn her own aside, but he dug his fingers into her jaw and, with his foul-tasting tongue, ravished the depths of her mouth.

 
Abrielle had never been kissed by a suitor before, not even by Lord Weldon, nor had she ever been mauled. The fact that she was being held against her will by the horrid rapscallion Desmond de Marlé was not only thoroughly frightening to her, but immensely revolting. The looming possibility that she’d soon find herself a victim of his lust caused her to fight with every measure of resolve she could muster. Clasped within his tightly confining arms, she bit, clawed, and gouged in a frantic attempt to regain her freedom.

 
Panic was soon joined by wild instinct as she struggled to free herself, but his sweaty weight and the swathing folds of her own skirt
were against her. When at last she managed to free one leg and began to kick blindly, de Marlé didn’t budge, but she dropped the goblet so precious to her and it hit the floor, the sound reverberating loudly.

 
Desmond immediately tightened his grip on her jaw, causing Abrielle to cry out in pain.

 
“Quiet, you little fool,” he ordered, his tone harsh, his overbright eyes terrifying. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll lie there and…”

 
His words were lost in a sudden swirl of plaid and a feral growl rent the air, and as quickly as she had been waylaid, Abrielle was freed. She had a fleeting impression of Desmond’s beady eyes widening in sheer terror as his big soft body was lifted straight up from hers and swung aside as effortlessly as if he were stuffed with feathers instead of lard. It was only then that she realized who it was doing the lifting and swinging, who it was who’d caused the awful terror in his eyes, and who was even now—judging from the sounds being emitted from a cowed de Marlé—causing even worse pain.

 
Raven, his dark hair whirling about his shoulders, held Desmond up by the scruff of the neck with one hand while the other fist pummeled his face, actions that engendered in Abrielle feelings of both horror and blessed relief. For what seemed to the maiden an infinite amount of time, she remained unable to move, then she gathered herself enough to sit up and try to smooth her skirts, now bunched beneath her and leaving her thighs and a goodly bit of hip exposed. She managed to tug the fabric loose, but not quickly enough to escape Raven’s notice.

 
His attention was snagged by her motion and he froze mid-pummel. As he slid his gaze from Desmond to her, the look of abject fury on his face gave way to something else, something equally dark and dangerous, but in a very different way. The sly Desmond took full advantage of his distraction and wrenched free, but Raven let him go in order to hand Abrielle an embroidered throw from a nearby chair, earning from her a murmured “Th-thank you.”

 
Honor, both his and hers, decreed that he avert his gaze and turn away, and after a few moments more, he did so, allowing Abrielle to cover herself quickly and stand.

 
He turned then, reaching out with one hand, tentatively, as if wanting to prop her up, or soothe her, or touch her, but she was left to wonder which as his hand dropped back to his side.

 
“Are ye hurt, my lady?” Raven queried as Abrielle sought to cover her reddened breasts with the throw.

 
The best answer Abrielle could manage was to shake her head in denial and then she, too, fled the hallway. Racing toward the chambers in which her mother was ensconced, she dared not pause for even an instant. In her absence, Raven noticed her goblet lying upon the floor near the chaise where Desmond had dragged her. Picking it up, he made his way to the landing above the stairs, where he waited for some moments, for doubtless the frightened maiden was even now telling her parents what had just taken place and he must give them at least a bit of time to collect themselves. After a decent interval, he rapped his lean knuckles lightly upon the portal.

 
“Who is it?” Elspeth called out as she leaned near the door.

 
“’Tis the Scotsman, Raven Seabern.”

 
The door opened a meager degree, allowing the woman to meet his gaze. She offered him a trembling smile, grateful that he had been on hand to save her daughter from the horrible monster their entire family loathed. “I fear my daughter is unable to come to the door to thank you properly, and her father will be returning soon, but if you would kindly accept my undying gratitude, you surely have it. If not for you, I truly fear that evil man would have had his way with her.”

 
“I found your daughter’s goblet after she left,” Raven murmured, holding the item where the woman could see it.