Were the place where she found herself other than what it was, it wouldn’t have bothered Abrielle in the least to have her friend sparring with the man, since he was no match for Cordelia intellectually, but any tiff between the pair would likely cause tensions to rise in her own family, especially since Elspeth disdained Desmond as much as Cordelia did.
It seemed excellent timing that a fish flipped into the air from the water beneath the drawbridge. Considering the fact that most drawbridges traversed moats notoriously stagnant and overgrown with an abundance of weeds, Abrielle was relieved to have something she could boast about while Desmond was in their midst. “Cordelia, did you see that? Imagine having a moat filled with fish so near at hand!”
Though another might never have discerned the subtle change in her friend’s melodious tones, Cordelia readily sensed Abrielle’s nervous tension. She could hardly blame her for being anxious. For some time now it had seemed that whenever Desmond was afoot, strangely perplexing events were wont to happen, not the least of which dealt with the disappearances of people strongly opposed to the man as well as the theft of jewels, paintings, silver plates, golden goblets, and other costly treasures. No evidence yet had confirmed the possibility that Desmond was guilty, but that didn’t mean he was innocent of any of those deeds, only devious enough to get away with them. Lest she blunder on in her avid abhorrence of the man, Cordelia deemed it necessary for the sake of her friend to distance herself from the couple, and crossed to the far side of the bridge.
Abrielle was thankful that Cordelia was not only intelligent but also keenly perceptive in a variety of ways. It was now necessary to be wary, considering that she would soon be Desmond’s wife. Weldon’s death had served to make Desmond a very rich man, far more than those of his first two wives had done, but all three deaths had greatly benefited her repugnant betrothed, which often left her wondering now if their passing had been something deliberately planned by the very one who had profited from it.
Avoiding the steward’s gaze, Abrielle reluctantly bestowed her attention upon Desmond and somehow managed to quell the nausea as she posed a question in sweetly muted tones. “Did you wish to speak with me about some particular matter, Desmond?”
Her use of his given name brought a smile of pleasure to his lips. “I was certainly hoping to, my dear. As you may be aware, Sir Vachel has presented the last draft of our marriage agreement for me to look over and sign. Except for several clauses here and there, I see nothing untoward to hinder the events that have thus far been planned for our wedding. Thurstan keeps my business affairs in order and is far more astute than I am in determining the practicability of such a contract. In this instance, he advises only a few minor changes ere the agreement is fully executed…”
“Does this mean that you’re now suffering doubts about the terms that you and my stepfather earlier agreed upon?” Abrielle asked, wishing she could rejoice, but feeling a cold dread at the thought of a future without this match. She would have to bluff her way through this. “If so, then I shall have to carry this news posthaste to my parents, since there is so little time remaining before the nuptials. We were under the impression that you were in full accord with everything that had been laid out when you finalized it with your personal seal and announced that we could be married after the hunts. It seems a poor late hour indeed to bring up other issues after the pact has been sanctioned by both parties. I can only wonder what you are now expecting.”
“Actually, there are only a few minor changes that need to be made ere the wedding,” Desmond hastened to assure her. Chortling, he tried to brush off any cause for concern with a casual wave of a plump hand. “I’m sure any differences your father and I may have over the actual wording of the agreement can be easily settled and another document written within the next pair of days, well in time for our wedding.”
Abrielle certainly wasn’t going to encourage the man by suggesting that a correction so near to that event would be easily tolerated, especially by her or her stepfather. “If you haven’t already noticed, Desmond, then you should be made aware that my stepfather has become rather adamant about this matter, so if you’re now of a different persuasion, then he should be informed posthaste.” She risked an outright lie, hoping to force the man to back down. “I have no doubt that before Sir Vachel takes up the matter with you again, he will be speaking with several petitioners who’ve recently come forth to express their own interest in having me as their wife.”
“Perhaps that would be wise—” Thurstan began in a gracious tone.
She felt a chill of fear that the nephew might be able to sway his uncle, leading to Vachel’s ruin.
But Desmond interrupted the man with an abrupt, slashing gesture of his hand as he tossed an angry glower toward him. Forcing a smile as he turned to her again, he hastened to assure her, “There is no need for that, my dear. The terms are acceptable as is.”
Abrielle barely withheld her sigh of relief. She had no way of knowing who had cautioned the squire on the generous sum the marriage agreement would require him to bestow upon her once the vows were exchanged, not to mention the sizable fortune she’d reap upon his death. She could only conclude by Thurstan’s attempt to urge her to consider other proposals that he may have been the one to broach the feasibility of a less lucrative stipend, which in turn caused her to wonder what he expected to personally gain from it. As Desmond’s only relative, did he want more of the wealth that was now promised to her family?
If Desmond had failed to consider all aspects of the agreement beforehand, then she could only believe that he was not as astute as a man of properties should be. After all, his wealth had come to him through the efforts of others and was nothing he had actually earned through prudent deeds or foreign ventures as a soldier of the realm. Perhaps he was wont to let wealth sift fairly quickly through his fingers.
“Uncle, may I speak with you for a moment?” Thurstan requested in a muted tone, looking gravely concerned. “I truly believe the agreement needs to be clarified for your benefit. You need to reconsider—”
“I’ve made up my mind,” Desmond stated resolutely, punctuating his statement with a quick, slashing gesture. “No changes will be necessary. You may go.”
The lean features of the younger man stiffened noticeably as he was curtly dismissed. Beneath lowering brows, the yellow eyes seemed to shoot flinty shards at the older man. Abrielle could hardly mistake Thurstan’s resentment at being brushed aside so callously.
Thurstan stalked back along the drawbridge to the inner courtyard, dismissed as if he were a servant, and his hand itched to draw his sword and be done with his uncle once and for all. How dare the man be the second de Marlé to deny Thurstan his proper inheritance! Weldon had promised such to him, and then died before having the chance to change his will. And now Desmond was freely throwing money at some chit of a girl, when it only took a real man to show a woman what she was worth. Thurstan vowed silently that he was not through manipulating his uncle.
If Desmond was aware of the younger man’s exasperation, he gave no indication that he cared one way or the other, directing his attention to Abrielle. “Have I told you how sublimely lovely you are, my dear? Definitely the most winsome lady I’ve ever seen.”
Abrielle felt her stomach convulse. “Please, Desmond, such extravagant praises embarrass me. To be sure, I feel so unworthy.”
“Oh, but you are worthy, my dear. Infinitely so! In all my travels I’ve never seen a more beautiful woman.”
Abrielle feigned a coyly skeptical laugh. “Then I shall have to question the extent of your travels, sir, for I fear the distance may have been extremely limited.”
Desmond was wont to silently agree, but would never have openly admitted it. His half brother had been the clever, ambitious one in the family, venturing as a crusader far beyond his homeland, not only returning a valiant hero but also with greater wealth and fame than when he had left, no doubt the difference a devoted mother could make in the li
fe of her offspring. From what Desmond had overheard from neighbors in his youth, Weldon’s mother had been an imposing lady whose lineage had reaffirmed and strengthened the dignity and honor of her husband’s house. Not so the wily chambermaid who had sought by devious methods to assuage the father’s grief over his wife’s mysterious death, the result of a witch’s potion that had later been used again, only in smaller portions, to muddle the mind of the father.
By such schemes, his mother had brought about the birth of her bastard son and had then managed to shame the befuddled man into marriage by claiming that he had raped her during his delirium. She had even been inclined to brag on her accomplishments to her son. She had unleashed the last of her secrets as she lay dying of a vile, torturous disease.
Using the knowledge his mother had spilled that night, Desmond had learned much in the way of changing one’s destiny by the use of strange, ofttimes hallucinogenic and poisonous concoctions. Thereafter, he had used the secret potions on those who had possessed what he had coveted or had unwittingly stood in his way as he strove for greater riches and gain. He could not now name how many he had poisoned throughout his lifetime. They had slipped from his memory as easily as dark shadows moving past him through the night.
And in all of this he was assisted by his half sister, Mordea, who’d been raised among the witches who had been his mother’s friends. No one knew of his relationship to Mordea, and he’d been able to hire her as the castle’s cook, keeping her close enough to take advantage of her knowledge—and close enough to make sure she didn’t reveal any of his own secrets. She kept promising to expand her knowledge of cooking, but he had to tread lightly where she was concerned.
After being saddled with his first wife, he had been greatly relieved when he had found the right occasion to dispense a potion to relieve himself of her during childbirth and, later, after marrying his second wife, disposing of her in much the same manner, in each case making certain that he alone could claim their possessions.
He was proud of the fact that no one had yet discovered how he had been able to dispense with his half brother. A few droplets of a particular potion in Weldon’s wine had allowed him to push the much taller, stronger man down the stone stairs beyond his chambers. It had amused him to watch the imposing figure tumbling down the steps, knowing if the fall didn’t kill him, other measures certainly would. To ensure that he had an alternative plan in case his first attempt failed, he had carried a heavy cudgel tucked within his robe. As it turned out, it hadn’t proven necessary once Weldon’s head struck the stone barrier buttressing the stairs. Even now, he was wont to chuckle over how smoothly everything had gone that singular evening. It had certainly meant a new, more profitable beginning for him, and further confirmed in him the steadfast belief that he was in full control of his own destiny and would now have whatever he desired.
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 i
n 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!”
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