Abrielle now found herself the focus of even more inquisitive stares. At her side, her mother glanced at her with interest, and her stepfather, on Elspeth’s far side, gave her a frown. She knew he was distracted and wished nothing to go wrong this evening.
Abrielle could see the sudden way that Raven’s smile changed from open humor to something more guarded, and she was uncertain of its meaning. Had he, too, realized that she was not one for a man such as he? He clasped a lean hand against the folds of plaid that lay across his black-garbed chest and spoke with a more cautious air. “Forgive my teasing, my lady. The raven stayed with us and was as watchful over my da as a dog over a bone. We never knew the reason for the bird’s attachment, excepting my da had a twin who drowned a year earlier. He had a raven that would fly alongside his cart. In any case, the bird stayed with us until he died of old age. So ye see, with the proper incentive, even a bird of prey can be tamed.”
Abrielle was relieved when he deliberately turned away from her to respond to something spoken softly by the king. But beneath her relief was an uneasiness she couldn’t quite place.
At last the meal was over and the king rose to his full height, presiding over his silent hall. Hundreds of noblemen, knights, and their families waited for what the king would announce. Abrielle saw that Vachel took her mother’s hand and squeezed gently, as if in support and courage.
The king spoke ringingly of the great deeds of the Saxons who fought in his name, especially honoring Berwin of Harrington, leaving Abrielle feeling proud of her late father. Her mother had tears in her eyes, and Vachel, unlike other men, showed no jealousy. He obviously loved Elspeth enough to share her with her memories. At last the king came to what affected Abrielle’s new family and their future.
“There are thousands of men, both Norman and Saxon, who fought in our name against the Infidels overrunning the Holy Land. The crown extends its deepest gratitude and wishes that every man could have every reward due, but we must balance the good of several men against the good of an entire kingdom. England must remain strong, and her treasury with her. So for now our soldiers have our humblest gratitude and the reward of knowing their service was invaluable. Tonight let us celebrate their accomplishments in song and dance.”
The king raised his hand and his minstrels began to play a rousing song on pipe and lute, but Abrielle sat numb, full of disbelief. The king’s treasury could no longer afford to be depleted, so there would be no reward for Vachel’s long years of service? Where others before tonight received wealth and titles, he would have nothing? The lump in her throat felt as if she would never swallow again, and her eyes, so strangely dry one moment, stung painfully the next. She knew others at the long trestle table were staring at them, muttering to each other, discussing her family’s future. To avoid their eyes, she fixed her attention on the goblet before her, a gift from her beloved father, presented to her mere months before his untimely death. Fashioned of silver, it bore runic Saxon writing in a band encircling its center. She clasped her right hand around this family legacy, drawing comfort from the reminder of both her late parent and the noble Saxon heritage she shared with him, as well as strength. For now her thoughts could return to her mother and stepfather, and she turned her aching neck to look at them.
They still held hands, as if frozen together. Elspeth’s eyes did not glisten with tears; she was too proud for that. Her chin was lifted with hauteur, and her flashing eyes dared anyone to make remarks. Vachel’s grim expression said all. This was a blow he had not expected, and her grief for the man who’d saved her and her mother was intense and painful. How would he bear this new burden?
Vachel himself could barely think, so confused were his thoughts. The honor due him at last would never be; the reward he’d justly earned had gone to others, and now there was no more to be had. The king did not look at him, but he could feel the eyes of dozens of others, speculative, curious, even grimly amused, as if his woes served only to mark another tragedy that one could relate to the next gossip avid for another’s misery. Though he had been at pains to keep secret the true extent of his problems, the fact that he and his small family were close to impoverishment would fairly soon be known to one and all. He would not be able to compensate his knights, nor even to afford the running of a household. Far more devastating to his pride, and to his heart, was the knowledge that his beloved Elspeth and her daughter would be forced to share the grim consequences of his misfortune, consequences that would be immediate and unavoidable. Everyone present there would realize at this moment that Abrielle would not have the great dowry formerly anticipated and the most worthy of those men seeking wives, those best able to provide the standing and security Abrielle deserved, would turn their attention elsewhere in search of a maiden who would bring wealth with her. His stepdaughter would be undeservedly forced to lower her expectations. Worse, she would be ripe for pursuit by unscrupulous men seeking to use her for her beauty, rather than treating her with the dignity a wife deserved. And it was all too possible the maiden would not find a husband at all, bringing more humiliation and heartache to both her and her mother. For who would want to marry a girl with so little to bring to the union?
How was he to stay in Westminster Castle after this? All he could think of was leaving, absorbing his own pain in peace.
Abrielle took a deep, tight breath, watching blankly as the servants cleared away the remains of the feast, dismantling the trestle tables so that the dancing could begin. Only hours ago, she had been the one men flocked to, the one treated as the great heiress. But men and fate, it seemed, were equally capricious, though men were buffeted about by fate, and she by the fate of men. First her father had died before his time, then her noble betrothed, and now the deeds and decisions of her stepfather and of King Henry himself had shaken the very ground on which she stood, taking from her the one thing that could have given her a hand in making her own future, the right to choose her husband. As she stood with her parents, the men who’d once flocked to her for a morsel of kindness now avoided even her gaze. There were true heiresses to fawn over, and she was no longer one of those. Deep inside her something shifted, and a new insecurity rose to engulf her, though she tried to thrust it away. Was there something wrong with her, that only wealth mattered in taking her to wife?
Cordelia was asked to dance by a young man who only yesterday had remained outside Abrielle’s door for hours in hopes of catching a glimpse of her. Cordelia’s face was a mask of misery as she glanced at Abrielle, barely holding back tears, but Abrielle did not want her to suffer. She sent her dear friend off with a brilliant smile that stabbed her own heart.
She felt her mother’s hand slide into hers, and turned to the woman who bore her, who now suffered as equally for Abrielle’s pain as for her own. She grieved for both husband and daughter, and Abrielle had to do what she could to alleviate her mother’s suffering.
“Mama, how is my stepfather?”
Elspeth sighed and spoke over the cheerful notes of music echoing through the great hall. “He will not speak to me now, not when others can see. But I know the grief and suffering in his heart. This unfairness to him causes me great sorrow. And as for what it does to you—”
“Speak not of it, not here,” Abrielle said, giving her mother a brittle smile that she feared might separate her face. “Everything will work out for the best, and this painful evening will soon be forgotten.”
But Elspeth’s expression was full of doubt, and Abrielle could look at her no longer without feeling the insidious threat of tears. She looked back at the crowd of dancing men and women, keeping her chin lifted as if she had not a care in the world.
And she saw Desmond de Marlé watching her with open interest that he no longer couched with simpering fawning. Nay, he was not one of those men who looked at her for her wealth; he stared with a lustfulness that sickened her to her soul. She quickly looked away lest he think her gaze an expression of interest.
Was he the only type of man she co
uld attract now? A man who would own her like a rare tapestry and hang her about his great hall for all to view and envy?
And he wasn’t the only one, she saw with a quiet feeling of growing horror. Men who skulked about the edges of the hall now moved nearer, as if they were rats after only one small piece of cheese.
Yet Vachel stood guard over her, his face impassive, his eyes watchful, and she knew a feeling of temporary relief. But how long could it last? How could he protect her, when he had so little consequence at court?
And then she saw that Cordelia, who’d been given from one dance partner to the next, was now approached by Raven. Inside, Abrielle felt a tightening she couldn’t explain, but quickly asked herself why on earth she should feel slighted that the handsome Scot would choose to dance with a wonderful woman like Cordelia? And Cordelia was not just any woman, but the very one who also happened to be her oldest and dearest friend. Later, in the privacy of her chamber, she would sort out her feelings, but for now, she fashioned a dazzling smile so that no one would suspect the turmoil inside her. She also felt true concern for her friend, as Raven had not yet been introduced to Cordelia, yet approached her nonetheless; such behavior did not speak well of his intentions toward her, for he should have presented himself to her father first.
As she continued to smile and pretend to be enjoying the festivities, she realized that Cordelia and Raven were not dancing, but speaking, quietly and with great absorption, occasionally casting a furtive glance in her direction. Unless her instincts were entirely mistaken, they were discussing her, and when the two suddenly turned to look at her, Abrielle was the one caught staring as her dear friend smiled and the Scotsman frowned. Abrielle held her breath as she wondered what they were about. She had to caution her headstrong friend to be more careful as well, for the Scotsman seemed to be overly bold.
They began to move toward her through the crowd, and with each step she felt dread mixed with a strange chilling excitement that she didn’t want to feel. To her horror, Cordelia was doing her the great favor of persuading a man to dance with her, and not just any man, but one whose manner of approaching both young women was questionable. It was true a part of her would not mind a dance with the handsome Scot, only under more appropriate circumstances.
She glanced toward her parents, only to see that they were, quite understandably, speaking intently between themselves. She was obviously doing nothing to attract the Scot, but to her he came, his long stride marked with easy grace and an air of quiet power that made others instinctively move from his path. As he drew steadily closer, Abrielle could not help noting how perfectly his traditional garb fit his frame. It stretched taut across his broad shoulders and chest, and emphasized his lean hips and long legs, as if very talented hands had stitched it with him inside.
It was not his clothes that commanded her attention as he came within a stone’s throw, however. An infinitely more gifted artist had chiseled the man himself and she was mesmerized by the raw beauty of his countenance: full dark brows curved above alert blue-black eyes filled with awareness, a slight bump where it had once been broken only added to the appeal of an otherwise perfectly configured nose, and high, sharp cheekbones provided a thrilling hint of the fierce predator. Only his mouth, full and exquisitely shaped, added a touch of softness and…and then he stopped before her.
Cordelia’s smile was full of a subtle nervousness that only Abrielle could see. “Abrielle, this gentleman has requested an introduction to you.” Neither of the friends spoke aloud about the fact that this was not, could not be, a formal introduction, but they were indeed young women, and eager to learn more of the world, especially when the lesson involved such a devastatingly handsome, devastatingly masculine male. “May I present…”
Raven swept into a bow and spoke solemnly. “Raven Seabern, my lady.”
Abrielle managed a curtsy. “I am Abrielle of Harrington,” she said, thinking that he was even more skilled at hiding his true feelings than she was. Anyone looking on would believe Raven really had sought to dance with her, rather than being wheedled into so doing by the kindhearted Cordelia.
“And your late father is one of the braw men we honor this night?” Raven asked.
She nodded, not daring to look at Vachel, who also deserved such honor; she was relieved, as well, that her parent had other things to think about in the wake of the king’s announcement. Her stepfather would be concerned that she was meeting a man whom he did not know, who had not presented himself to Vachel as custom required. Would he consider it an even deeper dishonor to have a Scot speak to his stepdaughter?
Cordelia placed a hand on her arm. “I asked if there were more like him at home, but he insists he has no brothers.”
Raven smiled faintly at Cordelia. “Only my da, but he’s become set in his ways since my mother passed on. Ta be sure, lass, ye’ve the looks that could quicken his heart ta a loud drumbeat were he here.”
Abrielle blinked in surprise, not knowing whether to feel affronted. Was Raven flirting with Cordelia brazenly in front of her? She felt greatly comforted when her friend actually giggled in response to the Scotsman’s gallant words. “You must understand, sir. I wasn’t necessarily asking for any particular purpose.” She lifted her shoulders, offering a reason for her question. “I was merely curious.”
Abrielle could have groaned at her friend’s remark, but just at that moment the musicians began another dance. It was this that Abrielle was truly dreading, as Raven no doubt would feel obligated to dance with her. To refuse outright would publicly dishonor him and herself, but her fierce pride ached to do precisely that. Her fortunes may have changed in the past hour, but she refused to be the object of any man’s pity and was frantically searching for a way to balance honor with pride when his deep voice intruded.
“May I have this dance, my lady?”
Abrielle lifted her chin, keeping her voice low so only he could hear. “You honor me with your request, sir, but surely you would enjoy the dance more with your first choice of partner.” She gave the slightest of nods toward Cordelia, who’d been drawn into conversation with an older woman on her right.
“I couldna agree more,” replied Raven. “Which is why I stand before ye, my lady, hoping beyond reason your kind heart will move ye ta take pity on a clumsy Scots oaf and keep him from appearing a total clod amongst the local talent.”
Abrielle couldn’t help smiling at how cleverly he’d turned the tables, as she’d been chafing at being the object of his pity and he’d very openly and charmingly made a plea for hers. The man might not have a talent for dancing, as he claimed, but his persuasive skills were of the highest order. Clearly he’d been born to be a diplomat, and when he held out his hand to her, Abrielle couldn’t have resisted if she wanted to.
The moment the beautiful young woman was in his arms, Raven Seabern knew he’d made a terrible mistake. He was leading her by the hand into the quickly forming circle as couples young and old merged together. The steps were simple enough to follow as others began to demonstrate their talents and abilities in time with the music, doing a sprightly jig or a tapping of a toe and heel as they moved around in a never-ending wheel of cavorting dancers. Henry’s booming laughter evidenced the pleasure he was savoring as he watched his guests enjoying themselves. To be sure, those who had been inclined to think the banquet would be a dull, solemn occasion came quickly to the realization that it had changed into a very lively affair indeed, obviously the sort His Majesty preferred over more somber events such as the one that had just been concluded.
But rather than watching the earlier dancers, Raven had been watching Abrielle far too much this evening, for she was the most stunning creature he had ever seen. From the moment he’d first seen her tonight in the great hall, he’d found it nearly impossible to keep from openly staring. Her red-gold hair tumbled freely as a maiden’s should, a shining, flaming glory to the torch that was her beauty. Her pink lips had called to him for kisses; her smooth, creamy skin, glowing
beneath the softness of candlelight, had beckoned his trembling fingers to touch and caress. Never before had he felt such a response on merely seeing a maiden.
It was because he’d been watching her so intently that he’d seen the change in her. He’d seen the light of exhilaration so suddenly and utterly extinguished and how, for a fleeting moment, it was replaced with a look of total desolation. It was the sort of look that could break even the hardest heart. It had taken everything in him to avoid her after the banquet, to watch her stand between her parents with quiet courage when no young lords asked her to dance. And that was when he’d realized that her stepfather must have felt it was his time to be honored, and the king’s decision had dealt him a blow, thereby affecting this sweet maiden. But how? What secrets did this small family conceal? So taken by her was he that he approached her friend and then her without having been formally introduced to either young woman.
Her young friend Cordelia of Grayson had obviously wanted to help her by presenting Raven as a dance partner He watched her watching him as he approached and saw her every thought reflected in her translucent eyes. Interest, uncertainty, suspicion, dread. All girded with that dauntless pride of hers. She was not the sort to take pleasure in a man trammeled on her behalf and served up to her on a platter…not even by a friend with the best intentions. She clearly had not wanted his attention, and where with another woman he would have felt merely challenged, if he felt anything at all, Abrielle’s rejection, delivered with that sweetly slashing smile, cut dangerously deep. Raven rarely encountered an unwilling woman, and rarer still were those occasions when he bothered to exert himself to change her mind. But a man like Raven Seabern got what he wanted, and dance with her he would.
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