Everlasting (40 page)

 
“Abrielle?”

 
She gave a start, then stood up briskly and went to busy herself by choosing her garments for the day. “Do you think you’ll be called away often, especially by your king?”

 
“I dinna ken. Now that I must care for property in both countries, I willna have as much time ta devote ta the king. He will understand this.”

 
Abrielle glanced at him with surprise, for truly there were many things about her husband’s life of which she was not yet aware. “I did not know you had other property.”

 
“Ye’ve never asked me,” he said drily. “I have land adjoining my da’s in the highlands, and someday his land will be mine as well.”

 
She nodded thoughtfully and, although she was curious, did not ask him more for fear of being misunderstood. She believed that if he wanted to tell her about his home, he would do so, but since he’d not seen fit to mention it till now, and had been so eager to acquire her property, she suspected his own was modest. She did not care overly about his holdings, as they were not her concern. “Will we be…visiting?”

 
“Aye, I want ta show ye everything that’s now yours, too.”

 
Nodding, she stood indecisive, her hand smoothing over her garments. She told herself that more than once she’d moved away from the only home she’d known, what with her mother’s marriage to Vachel and then her own betrothal to Desmond. She would accept whatever she had to, and remain strong.

 
Hesitantly, she began, “I…don’t suppose you would be leaving the chamber anytime soon.”

 
“Nay, I am still too tired from a long, tense day.”

 
When she glanced over her shoulder at him, he was stretching languidly, and she watched wide-eyed at the way his muscles seemed to ripple over his bones. She had never seen him with a day’s growth of beard, and it made him seem like a rakish scoundrel, one who took his pleasure in bed whenever he wanted to, and from what she’d felt before she left the bed, he wanted to now.

 
She felt somewhat confused, for he had just willingly shared a military matter with her, and she had not expected him to so easily confide in her, as if he truly trusted her. He had his own property, and surely he’d been well compensated by his king. She wondered if he could actually desire her more than her wealth, but didn’t know what to think.

 
She could not remain in her nightgown all day. Thank heavens she had bathed yesterday evening, for she could not imagine doing that in front of him. It was bad enough when she had to turn her back and pull the nightgown over her head. She fumbled with frantic fingers for her shift, knowing she was naked, waiting with dread for him to approach her from behind and demand her submission once again.

 
But at last the shift covered her, and she felt a little less frightened as she donned her kirtle and the braided belt that hung low about her waist. Only when she was settling a veil over her hair did she hear his approach. She stiffened and glanced over her shoulder.

 
He put his hands in her hair, drawing it across her shoulders, smoothing it. She shivered.

 
“Must ye cover such beauty?” he murmured, and to her surprise, he put his face against it and inhaled. “The smell of ye makes me long ta be in your bed, in your arms. I thought about it all day.”

 
Even his words made something inside her shift uncertainly. “I…I must wear a veil. I am a married woman now. You’ve seen to that.”

 
And there was the conflict between them, what she had to force herself to remember—he had made this marriage happen, giving her no choice about accepting him as her husband. He ignored her challenging words, whispering, “Then don’t braid your hair beneath the veil. Let me imagine touching it all day long.” His nudity and his sweet words were far too confusing. She hastily put on the veil and secured it with a band about her forehead before fleeing the bedchamber.

 
ABRIELLE FOUND HERSELF wishing that another emergency would call Raven away for the day, because he seemed to be everywhere she went. When she visited the serfs’ village, they hastened to tell her that her new husband had been coming by every day, and that she’d just missed him, and what a good man he was. When Abrielle went to speak to the laundry maids in the courtyard, she saw children gathered around Raven as he examined the horses. One little boy, so thin, but moving about with vigor, took to following Raven for the rest of the day like a little shadow. Never once did her husband show his impatience. In fact, when she came upon them unawares, she heard Raven tell the boy that he could be Raven’s second squire, and could begin his training on the morrow.

 
At supper, even her mother sang Raven’s praises. Abrielle felt like she was being assaulted on all sides. Vachel, Cedric, and Raven were hefting tankards to one another, toasting whatever success they’d had that day, while several knights approached by ones and twos as if tempted to join in. Married not two days, and Raven was winning over everyone—but her, she insisted to herself, deciding to retire to bed early and feign sleep.

 
Raven watched Abrielle’s quiet departure, and although he continued to respond to his father, his mind was much on his young wife. He had allowed her to escape their bed this morn, and now she was in
full retreat, as if she hoped he wouldn’t notice her. Did she not yet know that he noticed everything about her? It took all his will to concentrate on his duties, when he wanted to follow her about all day like a lovesick swain. Her gentleness with the abused serfs moved him, her loyalty to her stepfather and her willingness to aid him though it might have cost her her sanity, astounded Raven. Falling in love with her had happened so easily, so completely, that he could not imagine his life without her. He wanted her to feel the same way toward him. But her fears and doubts and mistrusts were strong, and he knew it would take much to overcome them. She would consider his love a burden, so he chose not to tell her.

 
It took all of his control to allow Abrielle time to settle into bed. Then he set down his tankard and rose to his feet, yawning quite deliberately.

 
Vachel eyed him with amusement, but it was Cedric who said, “Lad, ye must be exhausted. ’Twas a dreadful, tiring day seeing ta the horses and chickens.”

 
Several men openly laughed, and Raven took that as sign that they were beginning to accept him. “Well, Da, someone had ta see ta keeping ye housed and fed. Have a good night, all.”

 
There was much good-natured laughter as Raven left the hall, and he was in a cheerful mood when he finally approached his rooms. In the antechamber, candles had been left lit to guide him, and he blew them out one at a time as he went through. In the bedchamber, he closed the door quickly to keep in the heat. There was a deep feeling of satisfaction as he stood there and looked on his sleeping wife, buried beneath quilts, with the firelight flickering over her. He removed his garments quickly, folding and setting them aside. When he lifted the bedclothes and slid beneath, the warmth and the scent were all hers, and if possible, he wanted her even more, with a painful need.

 
She didn’t move, but he sensed a faint tension in her, and he guessed
she did not sleep. Gently he moved against her, his hand reaching. He encountered the curve of her lower back, and realized that she lay facedown, as if protecting herself. He began to pull her nightgown up her body, wondering how long her pretense would last.

 
Abrielle kept her eyes clenched shut, her face turned away, concentrating with every fiber of her being to keep relaxed, as if she slept. But that didn’t seem to matter to Raven. His body was hot, pressed to her side, and she knew he was naked. She felt her nightgown slide up, gritted her teeth to keep from yanking it down and betraying her wakefulness. Surely he would give up, if only she could last long enough.

 
And then Raven slid down beneath the quilts, and she bit her lip against crying out. The bed moved up and down as he crawled. To her horror, she felt his mouth on the back of her knee, and the shock and excitement almost made her jerk. But nay, she held on to her control, even when the moist wetness of his mouth slid up the back of her thigh, to the base of her buttocks. How could she continue to make herself lie still if he was going to—

 
His mouth left her, but her absolute relief was short-lived, for she felt his kisses move up her other leg, and begin to climb up the hills of her body. A squirm of mortification and languid heat escaped her now, and she felt his low laughter where his face was pressed to her back.

 
And then he slid on top of her, his loins cradled against her buttocks, his face buried in her hair. She should have been smothered by the heaviness of him, but he held himself gently against her.

 
“Ah, ye left your hair unbraided for me,” he murmured.

 
Curse it all, in her haste to feign sleep, she’d forgotten.

 
And then he was moving against her, rubbing slowly, easing one hand beneath her to capture her breast. The sensual haze that descended on her made her forget why she even fought him. All she could comprehend was how gentle he was, how loving, and when at
last he eased her onto her back and kissed her, there was nothing she could do but kiss him back, clinging to him, opening her thighs to him, groaning when he made them one by thrusting home. Again, he gave her a woman’s ultimate pleasure and took his own.

 
But afterward, when he eased from her and she was left with the cold reality of what she’d done, she found herself crying again. She wanted him, but she was too afraid to trust him, to trust that he would stay with her as husband even when Scotland called him. And where that mistrust had once led her only to anger and resentment, it now made her heart ache in a way she had not known was possible. My God, could she be falling in love with him, she wondered, then firmly told herself no, and right after that repeated it to herself for good measure. No, she absolutely was not falling in love with her husband, and firmly refused to do so. He might be able to woo her body to surrender, but she would never willingly give him her heart, and at that she cried even harder.

CHAPTER 19

 
Raven would not peacefully abide the tears of a weeping woman. He sat up in bed, flung the covers aside, got to his feet, and stood over his wife.

 
“Abrielle, this cannot continue,” he said sternly. “I canna longer seduce ye by force. I willna take ye again like this. ’Tis time for ye ta come ta me.”

 
His easy assumption of his domineering role in her life did more than put Abrielle into a high temper, it caused her tears to dry up as quickly as they’d come. She flung the quilts back from her side and jumped to her feet, facing him across the bed.

 
“You’ll be waiting a long time, Raven Seabern. You may have taken my wealth, but you won’t have my heart and soul to crush when you leave.”

 
“Why…” He hesitated, momentarily distracted and captivated by the sight of her bunched nightgown sliding over her curves, then he blinked and frowned. “Why would I leave?”

 
But she would say nothing more, only flounced back into bed and refused to face him. Raven wanted to spin her around and make her
tell him exactly what she meant, and he wanted to scoop her into his arms and back into bed, no matter that he’d barely finished making his pledge not to take her again until she came to him, or that he’d thought himself sated from their lovemaking. Gazing at her barely hidden curves, he feared he would never be completely sated. He was a fool to let her flummox him this way, but not enough of a fool to storm off as he was sorely tempted to do at that moment. He would not give his infuriating bride that satisfaction. Nor would he deny himself the pleasure of sleeping near her body, even if he couldn’t touch it thanks to his damn pledge. Aye, a fool to be sure, he thought as he too got into bed, folding his arms behind his head to keep from reaching out to her and staring at the ceiling.

 
ALTHOUGH THERE WAS tension in the new Seabern household, there came a growing strife in the rest of England. Never before had so many heralds been sent out at one time to deliver dispatches to various parts of the realm. The news they bore was grave indeed. Having gone to his castle at Lyons-la-Forêt with every intention of hunting in the surrounding forest, Henry I, youngest son of William the Conqueror, had fallen ill and within a week had died. His death ushered in not only a time of grievous mourning but also a harrowing and lengthy epoch for the whole of the late monarch’s realm.