Everlasting (12 page)

 
“It is easy ta wander too far in a place such as this,” he assured her, now very near, his closeness forcing her heart to beat even more rapidly than before, something she would not have thought possible.

 
She lifted her chin, vowing she would not let him see her fear, and forced herself to dissemble. “Yes, you’re right, I find I’m much further from my chamber than I’d thought. One must cope with one’s nerves as best one can, and a wedding causes so much happy anticipation…”

 
The words nearly stuck in her throat, but she would not have him know the extent of her family’s desperation. She had lost much, her dear father, her first betrothed, her safety and peace of mind, even her
dreams for the future, and soon even more would be taken from her, but she would not surrender the battered remnants of her pride.

 
Raven arched a dark brow. “‘Happy anticipation’? Forgive my impertinence, my lady, but I seem ta recall that the last time I saw ye with de Marlé, he was accosting ye. Is it that which inspires such happy anticipation? Or was my judgment also faulty that night at the palace? Mayhap ye were not in need of rescue.”

 
Abrielle bristled, especially at the fact that he seemed to relish every moment of her discomfort. “What happened that night was a…misunderstanding between the squire and myself,” she told him. “One since rectified.”

 
His expression changed, becoming harsher, and his voice changed also. It was clearly full of anger, and his tone was deadly quiet, and she took a step back. “A misunderstanding, was it? The squire perhaps misunderstood that he had not yet formally presented for your hand, much less had his suit accepted by your stepfather, and that no agreement had been reached, no bond formed, nor banns published. Did he also misunderstand the fact that he had no better right ta waylay and manhandle ye, ta touch and paw ye…”

 
Abrielle determined to keep her composure, though the effort cost her dearly, and offered only a shrug and halfhearted murmur. “I believe it was more a matter of the squire simply being too eager.”

 
She could see that the anger she’d heard building in his voice had become etched on his face, turning the already hard lines and angles to granite, as he responded to her words. “I can only hope ye don’t truly believe that rubbish, or worse, have it in your head that such ‘eagerness’ is normal for a man. An honorable man knows what is his and what is not, and he acts accordingly…no matter how badly he wants—” He broke off sharply. “An honorable man understands there are things in this world worth the waiting.”

 
For no good reason, a warm melting pleasure spread through Abrielle. Everything about him, from the stubborn set of his jaw to the
fervor in his tone, revealed that Raven was such a man and she recoiled from the prospect of defending de Marlé to him. She fumbled for a response of some kind, finally settling for a halfhearted obligatory, “I trust you do not mean to imply that my betrothed is not honorable.”

 
“It matters not at all what I think. What matters is what ye think of him.”

 
She looked into his eyes, fully prepared for a knowing gleam and instead finding understanding, and it was too much to bear.

 
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” she exclaimed, “if you think so poorly of him, why on earth did you accept his invitation?”

 
“Ta be honest, I was curious.”

 
“About his motives?”

 
He smiled sardonically and shook his head. “No. He’s not that complicated; his motives were obvious. He wanted me here so he could flaunt his conquest of ye.”

 
She inhaled sharply. She’d had the same thought, but Raven did not have to know that. “The castle is in near proximity to your country,” she reminded him. “Perhaps he only hoped to show his goodwill to your King David.”

 
“Then he should have invited King David,” he said drily.

 
“Do you already so regret coming here?”

 
His hesitation was long, and the tension rising between them was something new and unmistakable. “Nay, my lady, for the chance ta see ye again, I would have braved far worse.”

 
There was no one but her about to hear his pretty phrases, leaving no doubt he meant them for her alone. There was a husky intimacy in his voice that was also all new to Abrielle. Her feelings of uneasiness blossomed into yearning—followed quickly by fierce anger. Surely he knew what he was doing, tempting a woman about to be married.

 
“Do not speak so to me,” she hissed, “or I will know who lacks honor.”

 
She whirled about and retreated, intent on reaching the closest safety, her parents’ bedchamber, and not stopping until she did.

 
Raven followed at a distance, then waited directly outside the heavy door until he detected the sound of the wooden bar being eased into place on the other side. Her safety mattered to him more than it ought, certainly more than was wise.

 
He ran his hand down his face with a soft groan. Why did he lose all sense of restraint when he was near Abrielle? He’d promised himself he would handle all dealings with her as befit a distant acquaintance.

 
Then he saw her standing alone in the moonlight, a fairy princess with curls the color of sunrise tumbling about her shoulders, her lithe graceful form more tempting in her soft cotton gown than any woman he’d ever seen dressed in velvet and jewels. And he’d seen his share of women, dressed and undressed; more than enough not to respond to a glimpse of pleasing curve or hint of enticing hollow like a green boy yet to steal his first kiss. Yet somehow simply looking at Abrielle robbed him of caution, and perhaps—as she suggested—a bit of the uncompromising honor he prided himself upon.

 
God, the woman was right about him, and he despised his weakness where she was concerned. If he were half as smart as he was proud, he would do as he’d sworn before coming and stay as far away from her as possible for the duration of his visit. If he were just a bit smarter than that, he would leave now, in plenty of time before the wedding ceremony itself, which he fully expected to be an exercise in torment. He did not need to see Abrielle before the church doors in her lace and finery to know the sight of her could make his knees want to buckle and slam his heart into his ribs so hard it hurt. Or that seeing her given to de Marlé, before man and God, would make him want to bellow an ancient war cry and steal her away at sword point.

 
Damn, he should leave tonight, this very moment, he thought, knowing he had no intention of following his own good advice. Leav
ing would be cowardly and Raven Seabern was no damn coward. Nay, he would stay and give the sniveling squire his petty satisfaction. He would stay and do something that would take more guts than any battle or brawl or beating that went before. He was a royal emissary, trained to keep even the most riotous emotions in check, a skill that in his world could mean the difference between blessed life and certain death; he would stand in silence and watch the only woman who’d ever touched him to his very core, without so much as placing a gloved fingertip on him, marry another man.

 
THE NEWLY RISING sun glimmered through the lower branches of the trees lining the hills along the eastern horizon, with its rosy glow tingeing the heavily swirling mists drifting eerily over the marshy terrain that partially surrounded the keep. Within the enclosed courtyard of the well-fortified edifice, serfs with lackluster eyes and cheeks noticeably sunken scurried about in anxious haste as they laid heavily laden trenchers before the hunters. When the trays were whisked away, many of the serfs were seen hurriedly cramming whatever meager scraps were left into their mouths.

 
More than a score of hunting hounds were creating an underlying cacophony of pleading whines and snarls as they sought to keep close to their masters. A well-placed boot or the heavy end of a sturdy staff evoked sudden yelps and usually sent the dogs scurrying off in every direction, whence they soon ventured forth again to lick up whatever scraps of meat had fallen from overflowing platters being borne by hastening serfs.

 
Sitting among those whose greed set their minds aflame with various schemes to seize whatever prizes they could pilfer were men of quieter, subtler natures who took the hunt seriously and were confident of their own abilities. Leaving others to their wily wrangling and overloud boasting of past pursuits, these men silently inspected the
straightness of their spears and arrows. The pair of Scotsmen was firmly a part of this latter group.

 
Raven casually honed several spears to a sharper point in preparation for the boar hunt on the morrow. The fact that he and his father knew no one in attendance had been expected. In spite of the fact that his friends in the highlands had been wont to question his rationale for accepting an invitation to attend the nuptials of one who would likely prove a treacherous enemy, Raven hadn’t been able to forget the bonny lass he had rescued, nor could he ignore the fierce desire he felt to possess her. She seemed to him a delicate flower whose beauty was beyond measure. To mature into a full-fledged woman, she would have to be gently nurtured, and there was scant chance of that happening in the hands of a fiend like de Marlé. Raven feared she would not long survive under his abuse.

 
Cedric pursed his mustached lips as he contemplated the blade he had been honing and then elevated his gaze to meet his son’s. “We hadn’t a chance ta talk of this earlier, so I’ll be asking ye now. I warned ye that de Marlé might be craving revenge, and now that I’ve seen the look in his eyes, I believe it even more so.”

 
Raven glanced at his father. “Ye don’t find his sudden camaraderie convincing?”

 
Cedric snorted. “Lad, would ye mind telling your old da why ye insisted upon venturing inta this trap like some blind beggar?”

 
Raven bestowed a wry grin upon his parent. “I know ye’ve na been a widower so long that ye canna admire a pretty face right along with the rest of us, Da. Ye’ve seen for yourself how bonny the lass is.”

 
“Please tell me ye mean the Lady Cordelia.”

 
“Nay, ’tis Abrielle who’s struck her arrow deep in my heart.”

 
Cedric sighed and shook his head. “I was afraid of just that when I saw the keen way you looked at her yesterday, and that’s before I took note of the way the lady was looking back. Didna I hear some wild rumor whirling about on the winds that the lass is spoken for? Was
that not our reasoning for venturing ta this here keep, ta attend the nuptials betwixt de Marlé and his lady fair?”

 
The younger man shrugged. “If ye’ll remember, Da, I didna ask ta be invited. The good squire did that on his own. It’s true I would have preferred the poor lass not be tied ta such a man, but the contract’s been signed and I have to accept it.” Even as he said it, everything in him roiled in protest. To distract himself as much as his father, he turned to a different subject. “Of course it does make me wonder even more what he’s about. It might be far-fetched ta suppose he means ta do us both ill, but then again, ’twould prove interesting. Might be I could add some excitement ta the occasion.”

 
“I’m not sure Abrielle would consider violence breaking out in the middle of her wedding ‘interesting.’” Cedric slowly waggled his gray head. “Aye, ta be sure, lad, ye’d then have a right ta defend yourself. Still, taking inta account the poor man’s nearly twice your age and weight and no taller than your shoulders, any altercation ye’d be starting betwixt the two of ye wouldna seem entirely fair ta that brood of vipers he calls his friends.”

 
“Oh, I dinna intend ta invite it, Da,” Raven assured his sire. “And the lady has made it obvious she wants no help from the likes of me. Yet I feel…guilty.”

 
“There be no need for that, lad. Ye dinna even ken the reasons she chose such a man.”

 
“Desperation, Da, what else could it be?”

 
“Whatever it is, ’tis not our concern.”