Everlasting (9 page)

CHAPTER 4

 
Shall we join Cordelia?” Abrielle asked Desmond as she swept a slender hand about to indicate her friend, surprised and relieved that the trepidation, nay the revulsion, she felt to her very core did not cause her to tremble. She was more than willing to allow her friend to serve as a human bulwark between them. She could only wonder who would function in that capacity after they were wed, and to hope against hope that she could continue to conceal the feelings of dread and impending doom that never ceased threatening to rise up and consume her.

 
Upon reaching the far side of the drawbridge, she stared down into the moat as she struggled to create an impression of serene pleasure. Tolerating a kiss on her cheek proved another test of forbearance that made her wonder what could be found to treat his horrible breath. Although she knew she had no choice but to face the fact that she was now destined to become Desmond’s wife, she began to fear that her badly flawed pretense would soon be dashed asunder and she’d run sobbing in remorse to the spacious chambers that she and her parents had been given. Regrettably, the commitment she had made was
dragging her down into a pit of despair whence she feared there would be no escape.

 
When Desmond begged a moment to go speak with a nearby servant, she gladly granted him her permission. Cordelia stood quietly while Abrielle braced an arm on a buttressing rail and settled her chin glumly upon the heel of her hand. “I wish I could look forward to the nuptials with as much enthusiasm as the men are evidencing for the upcoming hunt.”

 
Cordelia hesitated, and then softly asked, “How can you marry a man you’re unable to trust? A man whom you and all others loathe? When you wrote about the wedding, I must confess that I was shocked.”

 
Abrielle glanced over her shoulder to make sure the squire was still well occupied. “It was either that or see my family come to ruin. Vachel has been brought to impoverishment due to his generosity to his late father and to his knights,” she admitted.

 
Cordelia gasped. “What are you saying? That you must marry that ogre because of your stepfather’s ill-considered actions?”

 
“The fault was not his.” Abrielle hurried to explain the injustice done by Vachel’s father. “Vachel was willing to face destitution rather than force me to accept Desmond’s proposal. I chose to spare him, and my mother, that shame.”

 
Cordelia clasped her friend’s hand as she looked with tear-filled eyes into the blue-green orbs. “And some people think only knights have such noble traits.”

 
“Say nothing of this to anyone,” Abrielle urged. “Vachel would not take it well if people thought his father had been unfair. He’d be hurt by any criticism they’d be wont to bestow upon the elder. Considering that he was a little addled toward the end, he might not have been aware of what he was doing.”

 
“If you would permit me, I will only speak of this to my parents, who truly have the highest regard for Vachel. ’Twill be in tribute to him that I will share this with them.”

 
“To them and no other,” Abrielle agreed. Thoughtfully she stared off into the distance as the softly wafting breezes lifted her kirtle.

 
“What are you thinking now?”

 
A doleful sigh slipped from Abrielle’s lips. “Though I’m ashamed to admit my feelings after accepting Desmond’s proposal of marriage, I do disdain the man more than anyone I’ve ever known.”

 
Cordelia recognized her friend’s loss of hope in the overly restrained way she conveyed her lack of regard for her future husband, and laid a gently consoling hand upon Abrielle’s sleeve. “Ofttimes, when one approaches the unknown, circumstances may look the bleakest and most threatening. From experience, I know you have a valiant spirit and will rise above your fear. Did you not rescue me from a horrible drowning when we were children, though you were terrified of going into the icy waters after me?” Freshening tears welled within Cordelia’s green eyes as she added, “If not for your valiant spirit and victory over your own qualms, I would not be here today.”

 
Abrielle’s own vision grew misty as she recalled their childhood and the frightening incident that had sent prickling shards of terror coursing through her being. Her own fear had seemed as painful as the icy slush she had been forced to tread to reach her friend. If not for the goading dread that she was about to lose her dearest companion, she might never have found the courage to go into the frigid depths after her.

 
“I know I must take heart,” Abrielle admitted, and then heaved a dismal sigh as she considered what she would soon be facing, “but at the moment, my future looks so bleak that even drowning in an icy stream seems preferable. Truly, the horrors I’ll be facing as the wife of such a despicable creature seem so overwhelming that I have to wonder if I’ll be able to endure them.”

 
Cordelia turned aside in an attempt to calm her own troubled spirit. She could only wonder what she would do in Abrielle’s stead. Mulling over her companion’s abhorrent plight, she did not notice the
small company of mounted men approaching until they were halfway down the lane leading to the drawbridge. There were six horsemen in all, but Cordelia felt no inclination to move her gaze past the handsome gray-haired man astride the black stallion prancing in the lead. The horse’s smooth-flowing gait was a perfect complement to the proud, majestic bearing of his rider, a Scottish gentleman of an age nearly threescore years. In spite of the man’s maturity, Cordelia was certain she had never seen such a magnificent individual or a more admirable mount anywhere within Henry’s realm.

 
Leaning near her companion, Cordelia urged in a hushed whisper, “Abrielle, glance behind you discreetly and tell me if you’ve ever seen these gentlemen before. If my opinions haven’t been led astray by wagging tongues, I could almost swear your future husband detests Scots as much as he loathes our kinsmen, the Saxons. In view of that possibility, ’twould seem these men have ventured into Desmond’s pilfered realm without being fully cognizant of the danger.”

 
Abrielle swept the surrounding countryside with a leisurely gaze before honing in on the approaching retinue, and once she did so, everything inside her froze. Then, with a distinct lack of caution or subtlety, she whipped her head around toward Desmond, relieved to find him still flailing his arms as he berated the cowed servant, and it was clear to her that he had not noticed the new arrivals. “Cordelia! Quick…look closely at the second man in the party. Unless my sight fails me, ’tis Raven Seabern!”

 
Abrielle’s heart was pounding so loudly she was certain it must be echoing off the castle walls for all to hear, pounding with alarm, she told herself, alarm and dread, and not at all with excitement. What was the man thinking to come galloping onto de Marlé’s property as if ’twere his God-given right to be there, as if he would be welcomed with open arms? Did his brashness blind him to the fact that his very presence, not to mention the fact that he was flanked by a company of Scotsmen, was sure to rile every nobleman within miles?

 
Stiffening her shoulders in an effort at least to appear composed, she turned and managed to keep her gaze off Raven long enough to glance at the similarly tall, brawny Scot who’d dismounted to stand at his side. The older man took note of her interest and stared back at her with a teasing twinkle in his brilliant blue eyes. When he succeeded in causing a blush to redden her cheeks, his smile deepened into a charmingly wayward grin, revealing gleaming white teeth beneath a massive mustache, the well-groomed ends of which reached past his chin. A deeply chiseled cleft, similar to the one her erstwhile protector possessed, punctuated the elder’s cleanly shaven chin. Although the man was well past a youthful age, he wasn’t above looking her over in a roguish manner, starting with her slippered toes and ending at the top of her head. Upon completing his assessment, he gave her a flirtatious wink and was rewarded by her startled gasp.

 
Having witnessed the exchange, Cordelia ducked her head in an effort to hide her amusement from the elder. “He’s a bold one, that he is. Do you think he is the elder Seabern?”

 
Sourly, Abrielle said, “The only difference betwixt the two seems to be their age and the color of their hair.”

 
Continuing to grin, the Scotsman cocked a hoary brow and canted his head at an angle as he peered back at the two women as if wondering what had evoked their interest in him. Then he glanced at Raven and Abrielle felt her own gaze drawn reluctantly in the same direction. She’d managed to avoid meeting Raven’s eyes directly until now, fearing not so much what she might see in them as what she herself might feel at the mercy of that intense regard she remembered so vividly, a concern that was well founded. True, with her intended close by, he did not indulge in gazing as boldly as he’d done when they met last. Rather, his mesmerizing blue eyes narrowed in a look of lingering speculation that was still more than enough to cause a heated flush to sweep over her.

 
A dozen questions raced through her head, all pertaining to his
reason for being there, and she was forced to ask herself if the man had lost his senses entirely, or merely just his recollection of that night at the palace when he’d thwarted Desmond’s forced tryst with devastating ease, and sent the cowed man scurrying into the shadows like the spineless creature he was. An even more interesting question was whether Raven had knowledge of her betrothal to Squire Spineless, a possibility that made Abrielle’s throat constrict as she wondered if that might have had something to do with his sudden appearance.

 
She drew a deep breath and pulled sharply on the reins of her imagination. Now who was taking leave of their senses? It was one thing for Raven to be passing in the castle hallway, hear her screams and struggles, and come to her rescue; ’twould be quite another for him to travel a distance out of his way, to a place he was not wanted, in order to…what? Abrielle was certain of only one thing; he was not there by invitation. After the humiliation he’d delivered the squire, Raven Seabern would be the last man in all Christendom to be invited. Most likely, she decided in an effort to calm herself, he was there on a matter of import to his king. Whatever his business, it was none of hers, though she would dearly love to know why he’d seen fit to bring along his father.

 
Cordelia peered at her friend as a mischievous grin bowed her lips upward at the corners. “’Tis my opinion that a young lady should behave herself and not take advantage of that poor, elderly Scot. Why, he’s old enough to be your grandfather, and there he is with his heart on his sleeve.”

 
“Whose heart is upon her sleeve?” Abrielle challenged as she cast a meaningful glance askance at her friend. “’Twould seem you’re far more taken with this Scotsman.”

 
Cordelia was unable to deny the fact that the man had evoked her interest. “Well, he is very handsome…”

 
“Then perhaps you should have Raven Seabern introduce you,” Abrielle said, trying for a lightheartedness she didn’t feel. “The man does owe you the favor of an introduction, after all.”

 
As the shock of Raven’s sudden appearance eased, Abrielle felt a wisp of sorrow. For reasons she could not name, seeing him gave rise to thoughts she’d been valiantly struggling to avoid, thoughts of what her life might have been, what it should have been, a full and happy life with a good man and a family of her own. It was the life she’d once looked forward to sharing with the kindly Weldon de Marlé, a girlish dream that had died when he did. There was no longer a place in her life for daydreams and romantic notions, and to wish it were otherwise only added to her misery. Far better to accept that her union with Weldon’s brother would be the cruel opposite to anything a young woman would hope for in her marriage, and turn her attention elsewhere. Soon she would have the mundane affairs of a squire’s wife to fill her days and occupy her mind, soon, but not yet, and as hard as she resisted, she could not help wondering what it would be like to be married to a man like Raven Seabern. Though she told herself her question arose solely from intellectual curiosity, she had to concede that such a marriage would be exciting and perhaps not entirely unpleasant.

 
Not that Abrielle could now seriously entertain the idea of marriage to one other than Desmond, as she’d committed herself to saving her family, and she was not one to go back on her word, no matter how loathsome she found the consequences. Besides, the priests said a betrothal contract was as legally binding as a marriage, and she had to acknowledge that her grim future was set.