Everlasting (7 page)

 
Cordelia cast a glance awry toward the crowded courtyard whence they had just made their departure. “With so many of Lord Weldon’s friends and previous participants protesting Desmond’s new regulations and threatening to leave if the previous ones aren’t reinstated, ’twill be surprising if there even is a hunt.”

 
Abrielle shuddered at the thought of the wedding taking place even earlier.

 
Already several hunters who had been Weldon’s closest friends had stalked out in an outraged huff over the new rules that Thurstan,
Desmond’s nephew, had presented. Among the men who had remained, many had become embroiled in angry squabbles with Desmond’s cohorts, who had shown up in large number. All had been presided over by Thurstan, a haughty, cold young man who looked upon Abrielle with a distaste she found curious.

 
“A more insufferable group I’ve never met in my entire life,” Cordelia remarked derisively. “I’m fairly certain they’re representative of the dregs to be found mucking the bottom of a cask of wine. ’Tis always best to throw the residue out.”

 
If only that were possible, Abrielle thought wistfully, and not for the first time. Unfortunately she had not that choice, nor any other to rid herself of Desmond and his odious associates. Her future, such as it was, as well as her family honor, rested on a successful union between them. The marriage agreement might as well be a dungeon cell without a door for all the hope she had of freeing herself.

 
As much as Abrielle and Cordelia had sought to remove themselves from the numerous arguments that were even now being provoked within the courtyard, they glanced knowingly at each other as several more of Weldon’s friends left the structure and stalked down the length of the drawbridge, where they promptly motioned for their horses to be brought forth. In a few moments, they had taken their departure. It was just another example of the ire that Desmond, his companions, and his nephew had managed to cause since the first hunter had arrived. They had changed so many rules, from who decided the winners—once an impartial group of elders, and now merely Thurstan—to the obscene size of the purse needed to enter.

 
“Abrielle, you know there could be another reason that so many noblemen are leaving,” Cordelia said slyly.

 
Abrielle winced at her friend’s less-than-subtle reference to the food served at the keep under Desmond, and regretfully conceded in a small voice. “It is rather…plain and unappealing.”

 
“Promise me you’ll do something about this when you’re the mis
tress here. The older cook seems especially cantankerous, and by the looks of her, I’d be willing to wager she wields a war ax as well as any brigand and eats a goodly amount of her own cooking.”

 
Abrielle spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “Frankly, I have no idea why Desmond tolerates the cooking. For a man trying to move up in the world, he’s not trying very hard to impress anyone in that area.”

 
Indulging herself in the autumn-scented breezes wafting across the drawbridge, Abrielle sighed and paused a moment to look around. After being confined within the smoke-filled courtyard much longer than she had thought she could tolerate, the fresh air seemed especially invigorating.

 
She could fully understand why Weldon had chosen to build his keep in this area, for the scenery was no less than breathtaking. Some furlongs upstream, a tributary branching off from the river wound its way through thick forests before flowing beneath the drawbridge upon which they now stood. The stream not only supplied the moat surrounding the keep, but also continued on a winding path beneath the smaller bridge that led to the serfs’ dwellings, easily providing the families there with an abundance of fresh water.

 
The keep had been well conceived by Weldon de Marlé, under whose supervision it had been meticulously constructed with the intent that it would serve him, his family, and their descendants as an impenetrable fortress well into the future. From its numerous battlements and parapets, a defensive response could be launched from a vantage point of some safety to counter any attack that came against it. Drawbridges fore and aft could be raised to provide a refuge for its inhabitants if enemies were to attack. Weldon had been not only a valiant warrior but also a man of great vision and intelligence. Providing sufficient provisions were stored within its walls before an army laid siege to it, the keep had the potential to offer protection for several months for those living within the confines of its exterior walls.

 
Still, as much as Abrielle could appreciate the security of the keep as well as the serenity and beauty of its surroundings, the knowledge that she would soon be residing within its stone walls with an odious husband did much to augment the melancholy that had been cruelly assailing her spirit since she had offered her freedom in exchange for her stepfather’s. The fact that she was now committed to marrying such a repulsive individual was enough to bring her threateningly close to retching.

 
Although many of her Saxon kin had yet to arrive for the wedding, Abrielle had already sensed that those who had were maintaining a cool reserve in the midst of their less-than-genteel host and his odd assortment of vulgar companions. She could certainly understand her kinsmen’s annoyance with the situation in which they found themselves. Most of Desmond’s acquaintances were strongly prejudiced against Saxons, as if they were themselves notable figures with impeccable lineages instead of undisciplined rowdies lacking prestige, titles, or wealth.

 
Most of the elderly women had removed themselves fairly quickly from the crowded courtyard and had gathered on an upper floor of the keep near the warmth of a hearth. Along with Cordelia and some of their distant cousins, Abrielle had lent an arm to those forced to limp along on wobbly limbs or climb stairs with the aid of gnarled walking sticks. Upon reaching their destinations, a mischievous gleam had come into the eyes of the ancients as they shooed the younger women away, threatening to exchange spicy tales about them in their absence. There, in softly muted, deeply worried tones, the elders did indeed discuss the forthcoming nuptials as they offered a variety of conjectures on the questionable fate of the young bride, if she’d fare any better than the squire’s previous two wives, or if, in view of her youth and quick mind, she’d actually be the one to survive him.

 
Cordelia glanced around as she heard ponderous footfalls on the drawbridge behind them and then mentally groaned as she espied
their portly host scurrying toward them. It took no mental feat of logic to determine that Desmond de Marlé was absolutely delighted with what he had managed to arrange for himself, for he was beaming with joyful enthusiasm.

 
Surreptitiously Cordelia leaned near to whisper a warning. “Behold, yon lecher hastens to his beloved.”

 
Abrielle issued a muted groan, realizing her nightmare was already coming to fruition. Dipping her head as if espying something of interest in the stream, she hurriedly pleaded beneath her breath, “Stay with me, Cordelia, please, I pray. Otherwise, I shall panic and be tempted to run away.”

 
The flaxen-haired woman heaved a laborious sigh as if reluctant to be anywhere within close proximity to the man. “Desmond repulses me to the core of my being,” she admitted in a muted tone. “Nevertheless, I’ve always prided myself in being a truly loyal friend, so I shan’t desert you.”

 
To say that Abrielle felt trapped by the swiftly approaching man would have definitely been an understatement. Even so, she gathered what aplomb she could muster and faced her intended with a smile that in spite of her best efforts was hopelessly strained.

 
Striding almost on the squire’s heels was the tawny-haired nephew, Thurstan, who had earlier aroused her ire as well as the anger of many of Weldon’s friends. He seemed fully aware of himself, for his nose was held at a haughty elevation as he glanced about. In spite of the fresh autumn breezes, his nostrils seemed pinched, as if he detected something foul in the air. A full head taller than the squire, he was quite lean and muscular. His clothing and accessories were stylish and well made. The neckband and sleeves of his black gown were accentuated with a woven green braid. Black suede boots were trimmed with appliqués of green leather resembling the fronds of a fern, a design that also embellished his dagger’s sheath and the money pouch that hung from a belt worn at a fashionable angle over his narrow hips.

 
His stylish appearance contrasted sharply with the deplorable condition of the serfs who were scurrying about the keep or in the compound beyond the narrow footbridge traversing the stream. Although they had seemed clean, well fed, and very cheerful while Weldon was alive, Abrielle had seen enough serfs during her present visit to realize a sinister change had occurred since his death. There were now many thin, gaunt features and lash marks across arms and faces of a goodly number of them. Indeed, most of them seemed fearful of Desmond and his nephew.

 
For one purported to have inherited great wealth from his half brother, Desmond didn’t seem averse to a vast number of serfs wearing filthy rags and going about their duties unwashed, to the extent that a scented handkerchief was now required to block the stench of their bodies as they came near to do some service. At least when she became mistress, there would be much she could do to remedy that situation. She might not be able to improve her own dismal lot, but she would find what happiness and satisfaction she could in helping these other wretched souls. She would insist that everyone who worked within the confines of the keep bathe and have suitable clothing with which to maintain a tidy appearance. But most important, she would see that they were all well fed, from the youngest to the oldest, regardless of their ability to work.

 
“My dear Lady Abrielle,” Desmond gushed, holding out his pudgy hands, as if fully expecting to receive hers with equal zeal as he halted before her.

 
“Squire, how goes your day?” she asked, unable to ignore the quavering weakness in her voice.

 
“Very well indeed, my dear,” Desmond responded. “But how could it not be when I see before me an exquisitely beautiful and wondrous young lady who is about to make me the happiest person alive? At such a moment, a man is wont to think everything in the world suits him.”

 
Managing to present some semblance of a cordial smile, Abrielle grudgingly complied with his unspoken request by settling her fingers within his grasp. She found his puffy hands nauseatingly soft, strongly hinting of a slothfulness that was likely thriving since so many serfs attended his every need. In the next moment, a rising panic swept through her as Desmond clasped both her hands and, in an eager display of affection, began to cover them with moist, greedy kisses, evoking within her a shuddering revulsion that threatened to send her flying to the nearest convenience to throw up her latest meal. Far more difficult to suppress, however, was the sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach that had much to do with the realization that once they were married, she’d have no right to withhold herself from the man.

 
Abrielle quickly averted her gaze from the rotund squire, only to find herself confronting Thurstan’s probing gaze. His eyes were a strange yellowish green, fringed with brown lashes and shadowed by thick, tawny brows. His high cheekbones, straight nose, and equally crisp chin seemed sharply chiseled, yet his mouth was overly soft and expressive, as evidenced by the sardonic smile that drew up a corner of his lips. If she could ascertain anything from his smirk, she could believe that he was also a very perceptive individual who had recognized her repugnance for what it was and seemed highly amused by it.

 
Resentful of the younger man’s close scrutiny, Abrielle took herself mentally in hand and deliberately turned aside without acknowledging the man. Upon facing her intended, she said, “I was beginning to wonder if you were even aware that I was here, Desmond. You seemed so involved straightening out numerous details for the hunt that I was beginning to feel slighted.”

 
Desmond chortled in amusement. “Banish such an inconceivable thought from your lovely head, my dear. I assure you with all sincerity that I did not dismiss you from mind. Be assured that I am counting the days and hours that must pass ere we are wed. If I were able to hasten them on their way, I would surely do so.”

 
In spite of his averred enthusiasm, Abrielle preferred to think of that event not at all. Without issuing a yea or a nay, she swept a hand about to indicate her lifelong companion. “I believe you’re acquainted with the Lady Cordelia of Grayson. Lord and Lady Grayson have accepted your invitation to attend our wedding and are at this very moment visiting my parents in the chambers you have so graciously provided.”