Everlasting (13 page)

 
Raven made a noncommittal sound, thinking those words weren’t any more convincing coming from his father than they had been when he said them to himself.

 
ABRIELLE SPENT THE first day of the hunt with the women. They’d all gathered to see off the men, cheering and shouting and waving
tokens of their affection. She could not help but notice that wherever the two Scotsmen rode, the crowd quieted, as if they did not want to encourage the enemy. Desmond’s cohorts took to jeering in a most dishonorable manner, and Abrielle did not want the celebration of her marriage to turn ugly and have someone hurt. When at last Desmond looked at her, she gave him an appealing glance, and with a wave of his hand, he quieted his raucous men. The two Scotsmen rode forth in dignity, but Abrielle knew the uneasy quiet did not bode well. And she saw Desmond glance at her again, his small eyes narrowed.

 
That night, when the hunters brought back their spoils, it was obvious that Cedric had claimed the honor of bagging the largest and most majestic stag, and would win the first purse. So large was the stag that even Thurstan could not claim another the winner, though Abrielle thought he hesitated enough over the carcasses.

 
At supper, no one wanted to share the trestle table with Raven and his father. The two men ate heartily as if they had no concerns, but how could they miss the tense resentment from both Saxon and Norman alike? Cordelia and Abrielle exchanged a worried look.

 
“It is most unseemly that guests are treated so,” Abrielle murmured to her friend.

 
Hesitantly, Cordelia said, “You are not yet the mistress of this keep.”

 
“I know, but these men are behaving as if the Seaberns personally attacked our lands in times past. They’re Highlanders, not the men from just over the border. And if a melee breaks out, will that not ruin everything?”

 
“If it delays the wedding, will you not be grateful?”

 
“Cordelia!” Lady Grayson gasped, looking around, but no one had overheard them.

 
“I do not want to delay the wedding,” Abrielle said firmly, wishing her stepfather didn’t look so despondent as he hunched over his tankard of ale. “But if this will soon be my home, Desmond’s friends
must understand common decency. Now they are like a pack of dogs, allowing themselves to be all riled up. And if fighting breaks out, do you not think our fathers will feel forced to become involved?”

 
As Cordelia blanched, Elspeth leaned toward her daughter. “Abrielle, you are correct in your concerns. You and I both know how men can behave when they’re past thought. Remember how your late father felt compelled to accept that challenge that took him from us forever.”

 
Abrielle shuddered. “I cannot let that happen again.” She rose gracefully to her feet and began to walk across the great hall, stepping through rushes that had not been swept out in months.

 
Raven stopped eating when he saw Abrielle moving through the raucous crowd. She was like the proud bow of a boat, leaving ripples of quiet in her wake. Such was her beauty that men stopped eating to stare at her, and Raven knew he was no different.

 
“Close your mouth, lad,” his father said with amusement. “Och, soon ye’ll be catching flies that way.”

 
Abrielle stopped at table after table, her smile sweet, her melodious voice soothing. They could not hear what she said, but more than one guest gave a last glance at the Scotsmen and sank back onto their benches.

 
“What is she doing?” Raven murmured, frustrated that he could only watch and wonder.

 
“Calming her guests,” Cedric ventured.

 
As intent as he was on Abrielle, Raven made a point of also watching de Marlé’s reaction. At first, when it seemed Abrielle was coming to join him, the squire’s expression was full of pleasure, but as she stopped at more tables along the way, he began glancing at Raven’s table with increasing displeasure. Raven did his best to ignore what was going on, but it wasn’t easy when he was so captivated by the woman’s slightest movement and every hint of emotion that flickered across her face. He couldn’t stop looking at her, and every time he did, he wanted
to touch her, to hold that wondrous body against his and assuage his need with her softness. He had been unable to wipe her from his mind this last month, and now being in the same keep with her only made his desire stronger. At that moment he was very grateful for the diplomatic experience that enabled him to sit there expressionless, revealing none of the thoughts and feelings rioting inside. De Marlé might seem like an ignorant man, but he was no fool. His cunning was of the malicious sort, and Raven knew that if the other man’s glare were a sword, his head would have rolled clear across the hall by now.

 
To Raven’s great relief, Abrielle did not come to his table, but went instead to her betrothed and gave him her sweetest smile. Raven wished he were free to challenge the man for the right to stare into those lovely blue-green eyes. As if sensing his restlessness, his father touched his thigh briefly in warning, and Raven, still as restless, went back to pretending to concentrate on his meal.

 
Desmond gladly took the hand of his beautiful betrothed and held it high before planting a kiss on it. There were good-natured calls now about the wedding night, and he saw Abrielle’s face redden in a virgin’s blush.

 
But he could not forget the way she’d calmed his guests, all for the Scotsmen. His plan to avenge himself against Raven Seabern by parading his bride before him wasn’t turning out as he’d planned. True, he knew the Scot still burned for her, but so did every man here, and Raven was doing better than most at keeping his desire submerged.

 
Worst of all, he saw how deliberately Abrielle kept her gaze from Raven, as if she was afraid to look too close, afraid of what she might feel.

 
And Desmond could not stand for that. His plans would have to be altered. His nephew Thurstan had men held in reserve in case a show of strength was necessary. It was time to call them into action. An attack by thieves would be more believable than having two healthy men suddenly succumb to poison.

 
DUSK WAS NIGH as Raven and his father reined their mounts along the far bank of the meandering river some distance from the keep, very near the place where the fast-flowing water rippled over rocky shallows. On this, the second day of the hunt, father and son had glimpsed several boars, none of which had seemed worthy of being pursued, although Cedric had commented that any fresh boar would only improve the castle’s menu. With the number of huntsmen wandering hither and yon, in the process making enough noise to send a variety of animals scurrying off to hidden niches, the more commendable game had been difficult to find.

 
Raven and his father had decided to venture farther afield in the opposite direction, not only to seek their quarry in an area to which others would unwittingly drive theirs, but also, hopefully, to stay out of harm’s way from errant arrows and spears. The combination of hilly terrain and fast-flowing streams posed no difficulty for those nurtured throughout their lives within the highlands of Scotland. ’Twas not long before those who trailed in their wake desisted in their attempt and retreated to a more level area of ground closer to the keep.

 
The sun was sinking beyond the uppermost pinnacles of the lofty trees when father and son found themselves on the trail of a boar that promised to challenge another record. Moments earlier they had descended to an area near a fast-flowing stream where Raven espied the animal scurrying off into a thicket deeply shaded by towering trees. Silently gesturing to his father, he brought Cedric’s attention to bear upon the animal’s tracks and a freshly broken branch near the base of a larch. Raven leaned from the saddle and, with his spear, brushed aside the lower boughs to reveal an enormous boar, complete with massive curved tusks, taking shelter near the trunk. Immediately an angry squealing rent the silence as the quarry raced forth, leaving the
lower fronds swaying wildly in its wake. As the boughs raked his bristly hide, the animal danced aside and thrust about with his tusks in an effort to find his phantom foe.

 
Very much in a temper, the boar squealed as it charged into the clearing. At its approach, Raven touched his spurs lightly against his stallion’s flanks, turning the steed to allow him to face the smaller animal directly. The boar fixed its eyes upon this menacing presence looming before it and snorted threateningly as it began tearing up the ground with its tusks, hurling thick tufts of grass helter-skelter. Then, thrusting back upon its hind legs, it launched itself in a forceful race toward the stallion.

 
Raven promptly reined his mount aside, allowing the prey to race on past. A moment later, the boar ended its furious charge beneath the wide-spreading boughs of another larch no more than a stone’s throw beyond the place where Raven had halted. The lower branches of the towering tree swayed wildly to and fro as the animal tore through them in a vicious temper.

 
Upon emerging from the lower boughs, the boar rushed forward, only to find the man awaiting him with lance held at the ready. With a mighty thrust Raven sent the spear toward its target, promptly skewering the boar on its shaft. Squealing in agony, the animal twisted this way and that in a frantic attempt to free itself. Gradually its movements slowed and became awkward as it staggered haphazardly in retreat. There, the animal collapsed upon its short legs.

 
Raven rose in his stirrups, intending to dismount, but from out of nowhere a spear whizzed past, opening a tiny gash on one cheek. Blood drops flew without his notice. Instinct and knowledge gained from his father’s relentless tutoring over the years took over and he followed the path of the weapon to where its jagged point lodged in the trunk of a tree. From behind came the splashing sound of riders crossing the stream and he quickly reined his stallion about to face
them, eager to do battle with an enemy who attacked without warning or provocation.

 
Raven looked from the riders back toward the tree and with a quick nudge of his spurs sent his stallion racing in that direction. Without slowing, he grasped the weathered shaft of the brigand’s spear and jerked it from the trunk, tossed it briefly into the air to claim a better grip on it, and with its shank firmly in hand, again reined his steed around. His sire turned as well and together they faced the pair of cloaked, helmeted riders spurring their huge, shaggy steeds toward them.

 
Their thundering hoofbeats seemed to echo through the forest glade as one of them reached behind his back and drew forth a heavy battle-ax. Its bearer lifted the weapon high above his head, and though his dark eyes were barely visible beneath the visor of his crude, battered helm, they fixed unswervingly upon the younger Scotsman.

 
Drawing the spear back over his shoulder, Raven bided his time, closely eyeing the pair advancing toward him. Cedric sent his own steed racing forward as he sought to intercept them before they could do harm to his son. Upon espying him, the nearest brigand wheeled his warhorse about and dispatched the animal in a straight line toward the elder. Glimmering through the eyeholes of the mask, the gray eyes never strayed from the older man, the brigard’s widening, black-toothed grin conveying a grim promise of death beneath the crudely finished headgear as he slowly swung the heavy mace he clasped to and fro.

 
The elder’s gleaming claymore sang richly as it was drawn forth from its scabbard. Facing the oncoming charge squarely, Cedric touched his spurs to his stallion’s flanks. Clods of greensward and leaf-matted turf flew helter-skelter as both steeds raced toward each other across the narrow expanse of land separating them. Raising a war cry that widened the eyes of his adversary, Cedric swung his claymore in a circular motion high above his head as he guided his mount merely by
the pressure of his knees. The two steeds met, the smaller one easily whisking alongside the huge warhorse as the elder rose in his stirrups. In the next instant, the claymore rang with a note of deathly clarity as it whipped about with a deft stroke, clanging briefly against the crude helmet before separating the brigand’s head from his cloaked form.

 
The heavy mace plummeted from a lifeless hand, but Cedric took no notice of the decapitated body’s tumbling descent as he whirled his steed about to see what further assistance he could be to his son. Another moment more, and he would have failed to witness the skewering of the stranger on Raven’s spear.