“But who has been killed?” she asked Desmond, noticing too late that he’d been watching her when she’d been thinking about Raven. What had her expression revealed? she wondered, feeling a chill of mounting concern. She had to be more careful.
“I cannot yet explain how this tragedy happened,” Desmond said, “only that two men are now dead. So I must urge you to retire to your chambers until this dreadful matter has been looked into more thoroughly.”
Though she wanted to resist being ordered about so, Abrielle inclined her head slightly in assent to placate Desmond. “Then we shall leave you to deal with this problem as well as you can.” She laid a hand briefly upon her friend’s arm and then touched the older women’s as she turned back toward the keep. “Come, ladies. Let us return and allow the men to deal with this horrible tragedy.” She would find out the details later, when she was not so on display.
Thurstan faced Raven as the Scotsman drew near. “Perhaps I should have a look at the slain men to determine if they’re known hereabouts. Then I would suggest that we remove them from sight lest some of the other ladies venture out and espy them.”
“And you should have a look, too, Squire,” Cedric said, motioning to the man.
Beyond the end of the drawbridge, Raven and Cedric laid out the two carcasses in the midst of the tufts of dried grass. More men had come forth from the keep, including Vachel and Reginald, who watched the proceedings with stern frowns.
When the severed head was placed within close proximity of its former body, Thurstan said, “I have never seen these men before, neither here in my uncle’s home nor at my own manor several leagues away.”
“And I haven’t either,” Desmond insisted, looking away from the bodies quickly.
Cedric questioned several older serfs who had gathered around them. “We’d be obliged ta know if any of ye recognize these men and can tell us where they belong.”
While Thurstan and Desmond were there watching the proceedings, the small group seemed wary. None admitted that the two had come from the squire’s lands, and they continued to shake their heads at nearly every question presented to them, frustrating the Scotsmen’s attempts to find out exactly where the dead men had come from. Finally Cedric waved them away, allowing them to return to their duties.
“So your contention is that they’re merely thieves,” Raven said slowly, “who happened ta intrude on your hunt and randomly decide ta kill two well-armed men.”
“Are you suggesting there could be another reason?” Desmond demanded, puffing out his chest like a rooster.
“Should I?” Raven queried in return, the dead calm of his demeanor more threatening than any display of choler.
“And do you have proof of any accusations you might make?”
“Nay, Squire.”
“Then just bury these men and be done with it before their deaths ruin the festivities that have been planned,” Desmond said, trying to sound reasonable. “If they were trying to kill anyone, then they’ve paid for the deed with their lives.”
“Very well,” Raven said, “but in case they have kinsmen here, ’tis only fair ta let them know what has befallen these two.”
Thurstan scowled. “Neither my uncle nor I recognize them, but if you will not be satisfied with that, then lay out the bodies in the midst of the serfs’ huts. If no one claims them, then at least they’ve been seen. After that, I’ll have men see to their burial.”
Sensing victory, Desmond could not let it go, but threatened more by Raven than by his parent, he addressed his remarks to the father. “I seriously doubt more will be discovered, considering that you have managed to kill the only two who could have adequately appeased your desire to know why they sought to kill you…if that is what they did. Of course we have only your word for that, yours and your son’s.”
“I dinna lie,” Cedric rumbled, settling his hand once again upon the hilt of his claymore as his brilliant eyes flashed with a flaming fury.
Desmond flung up a hand, conveying his disinterest in the elder’s declaration. Upon turning about, he stalked back to the keep. It incensed him beyond measure that the two fools had failed so miserably to accomplish his directive. Because of their bungling efforts to comport themselves as warriors, he would now have to find another who would be more competent at the task of dispensing with the Scotsmen. No doubt he would have to promise a lucrative fee, but if it would mean that he could forget the pair thereafter, he would be willing to placate the assassin…at least until the deed was done.
After witnessing their host’s departure, Vachel returned to the keep to abide by his earlier promise that he would tell his family everything that had transpired. He was certain both would be extremely distressed over this latest occurrence and fearful that Desmond was somehow involved. If he could, he had to placate their qualms and reassure them that Abrielle’s betrothed couldn’t have been involved in this attempt on the Scotsmen’s lives. Even so, it was the strange, intensifying coldness around his own heart, a feeling that had served him well throughout his efforts in the Crusades, that was warning him to be extremely leery of the squire. He hated to lay the whole ugly burden on Abrielle, for he knew she was far too fine and noble for the likes of Desmond de Marlé. But the betrothal contract was signed and binding, and he knew that man could not sever it, and he doubted God would.
REACHING UP WITH trembling fingers, Abrielle closed and latched the stained-glass window overlooking the drawbridge where the Scotsmen had briefly lingered after Thurstan’s departure. She was grateful that the younger firebrands had dispersed to prepare for the event to honor the hunters. No doubt many would be lamenting the fact that the highland pair had captured both trophies, leaving none for the rest of them to garner.
And then her thoughts returned to what she had trouble facing: Could Desmond really have made an attempt on the Scotsmen’s lives? Was she legally bound to a man who could murder to get what he wanted? She would be spending the rest of her life treading delicately for fear of upsetting such a man.
Abrielle was worried about the continued well-being of the Scotsmen. It was beyond her ability to understand their reasoning for daring to remain in the area, for she could only believe they were inviting similar attempts by staying.
Oblivious to the colorful aura created by the lowering sun glimmering through the leaded panes of stained glass, Abrielle stared across the room at nothing in particular as she tried to imagine herself going through the wedding ceremony as if nothing untoward had happened. At the moment it seemed an impossible feat. Indeed, had she fallen into a dark pit of despair whence there would be no escape, she would have felt no less miserable than she did now.
A light rapping on the outer door of the chambers evoked a sharp gasp from her, for she couldn’t help but be fearful that Desmond had come for a visit. Dutifully progressing to the portal, she paused in an effort to collect her wits. If it were he, then she would have to give the excuse that she wasn’t feeling well, and that would be no lie. Merely the possibility of having to entertain the man would make that premise a matter of fact.
Leaning near the barrier, Abrielle asked in a muted voice, “Who is it?”
“Cordelia,” came the softly murmured response.
Greatly relieved, Abrielle swung open the heavy door before hurriedly motioning her friend into her parents’ chambers. Cordelia cast a cautious glance up and down the hall before complying, and then closed the portal securely behind her before following her friend into the sitting room. Although Abrielle took a seat upon the chaise and patted the cushions to invite her to do the same, Cordelia chose instead to claim her full attention by placing a small bench directly in front of her.
“So do you think that Desmond had something to do with the attack on the Scotsmen?” Cordelia asked in a low voice.
“I don’t want to believe it of a man I am soon to marry. I know there is little proof, but it seems as if no one else has a motive. Who else would bother?”
“There is Thurs
tan.”
“I think Thurstan is angry because my family and I are to receive most of Desmond’s fortune, one way or another. But that has nothing to do with the Seaberns.” She gave a heavy sigh. “This is all my fault. Little did I imagine when Raven Seabern rescued me that night from Desmond’s vile intentions that his life would thereafter be in serious peril.”
Cordelia canted her head curiously. “Mayhap you’d care to appease my curiosity by telling me about that occurrence. Thus far, you’ve failed to mention anything that happened after we left you that night. What prompted Desmond to resort to such despicable measures?”
“After you and your parents left for home, he sought to have his way with me in the palace, but Raven heard our scuffling and intervened before Desmond could accomplish his objective. Desmond managed to escape before being harmed, so ’twould seem he’s angry because Raven intruded on his plans to ravish me. ’Twould be better by far if the pair returned to their homeland this very hour rather than attend the festivities marking the end of the hunt. If they delay much longer, they may well be killed in their beds.”
“And that was the whole reason he extended them an invitation to the wedding? How cruel!”
“I’m not certain that Desmond meant to have them killed at first. I assumed when the Scotsmen first arrived that Desmond only invited them to show Raven that Desmond had won me in the end.”
Cordelia tapped her forefinger thoughtfully against her chin. “If Desmond is truly intent on dispensing with the Scots, it probably doesn’t matter who is killed as long as he gets his way in the end. Obviously, he’s of the opinion that simple soldiers are to obey his every command, even if it’s to murder another individual he despises. Could he think that Raven somehow means to have you for his own?”
“But we have a betrothal contract! It cannot be put asunder. His jealousy has no purpose.”
“You must remember, ’tis Desmond of whom we speak.”
Abrielle sighed. “There has to be some way to prove to him that Raven is not interested in me. Then Desmond’s jealousy—murderous or not—might be appeased. Mayhap if Raven were shown to be interested in someone else…you, perhaps?”
Cordelia straightened. “You mean to make him pursue me somehow?”
“Nay, but if he were shown to be flirting with you, that might soothe Desmond’s suspicions.”
“And how would we convince him to flirt with me?”
“Why…you’d initiate it, of course, tonight at the banquet. He is entrusted with the business of kings, Cordelia, so I’m certain he would realize the purpose soon enough.”
“Shouldn’t you explain to him—”
“No!” Abrielle protested too forcefully. “I cannot risk being alone with him.”
“Do you not trust yourself?” Cordelia asked slyly.
Abrielle gasped. “You make light of what could mean death for both Scotsmen, and others, should the blood of young men run too hot, as too oft is the case.”
Cordelia laid a hand on her shoulder. “My dearest companion, I only mean to ease your concerns, to somehow lighten the load you bear. Do not mistake my teasing for anything but that. You know I will do anything to help you, and that you can rely upon me to distract Desmond where Raven is concerned.”
Abrielle hugged the other woman fervently.
“’Tis a noble thing you’re doing, saving your family in this way, though dear indeed is the price for doing so,” Cordelia told her with heartfelt sympathy. “I certainly don’t envy you. Truly, ’tis far more reasonable to imagine Raven Seabern as your suitor than that contemptible beast of a man you’re pledged to marry.”
“For pity’s sake, Cordelia,” said Abrielle. “Neither of us truly knows Raven. Desmond is fully revealed in his face and form, but the Scotsman has looks, grace, and charm that may indeed be only weapons he uses to get what he wants. In spite of his gallantry, and the intensity of his gaze when turned toward me, I cannot forget that he did not attempt to court me before my betrothal to Desmond, that he never even sought from my stepfather a proper introduction to me. It sorrows me to confess this thought to you, but I believe that he is seeking a wife with a rich dowry, with property to offer him, that he would but dally with a woman of my circumstances. I alone, without riches to accompany me, am not enough.” Here, in spite of her strongest efforts, her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Cordelia,” she cried. “Why am I not enough?”
CHAPTER 7
Most of the hunters entered the great hall that evening with their wives, relatives, or in the company of long-established companions or newly found friends. Shortly after settling themselves at the garland-bedecked tables, guests were served goblets of wine or tankards of ale, depending on their individual preferences. A table placed within close proximity of the head table was held in reserve for the champions of the hunt.
Although most of the hunters were arrogant and greatly resented being bested by a pair of Scots, there were a rare few with more gracious dispositions who readily paid tribute to the laird and his son immediately upon their entry into the hall. Rising to their feet, two hunters lifted aloft their tankards of ale in a rousing toast. When no one else around them followed suit, the embarrassed men quickly sank back onto their benches.
These two toasts greeted Desmond much like a slap across the face as he strode into the great hall, garbed in clothing as costly as any great lord of the realm might have worn. Jealousy as foul as his black heart made him lament his failure thus far to dispense with the Scots. Throughout the evening, he found it impossible to think of anything but savoring his revenge upon the pair.
Thus, when Desmond espied both of the Scotsmen being escorted to their designated table, his animosity intensified to an even greater degree. He was plagued by the rather bizarre notion that they had somehow connived to claim those seats merely to taunt and irritate him with their presence.
An appreciative murmur arose from the guests seated at the far end of the hall. Espying the group of ladies progressing ahead of their male escorts through the aisle, Desmond was taken aback by their beauty. Admiration promptly replaced anger, and he found himself smiling in appreciation. When the younger two inclined their heads graciously to acknowledge his presence, his buoyant mood was promptly restored. He was certain he had never seen a pair as fair.
In continuing on toward the squire’s table, Abrielle, her parents, and their close friends Lord and Lady Grayson and their daughter, Cordelia, claimed the unswerving attention of those in attendance. The younger gallants evidenced a rapidly burgeoning awe of the maidens, yet, in all truth, Elspeth and Isolde drew as many stares from the older men, a fact which seemed to tweak the ire of their husbands until Cordelia urged the pair to consider the stares as a compliment to their own refined tastes.
Abrielle’s gown had been created by combining numerous layers of a translucent golden fabric, trimmed with delicately bejeweled ribbons, as if she were clothed in a cloud that flowed in shimmering waves around her slender body. Its beauty had most of the women staring agog with envy, whereas the men were more wont to gape at the lady who wore it.
Softly shimmering layers of creamy-hued silk flowed in mesmerizing waves around Elspeth’s slender form, causing at least one who had earlier held aspirations of marrying the comely widow to lament the fact that she had chosen another. If anything, he was even more envious of Vachel de Gerard than he had been before.
With her blond hair and bright, pale blue eyes, Cordelia looked very much like her mother, the Lady Isolde. Clothed in garments as beautiful as those of the other members of their party, they drew almost as many admiring stares as the bride. From Lord Reginald Grayson’s broad smile, it was apparent he was very proud of his small family.
When Desmond caught sight of his intended bride, she was strolling beside Cordelia, slightly ahead of their parents. Much in a manner of one stricken dumb, he leaned back in his chair and gaped at them. A full moment passed before he realized his own slack-jawed astonishment and, in some discomfitu
re, cleared his constricted throat. Upon sweeping a surreptitious glance about the hall, he realized to his relief that most of the men were now staring at the four women in much the same manner.
Raven was no less awed by Abrielle’s beauty than any other man in the hall; he was simply more skilled at hiding it. Unfortunately he was not nearly as good at concealing his feelings from himself. To be sure, his pounding heart readily affirmed his deepening infatuation. His desire to have Abrielle for his own was so great he was not at all deterred by thoughts of the havoc he’d create were he to follow his gut impulse to sweep the lady into his arms and abscond with her to the highlands of Scotland. Given the slightest sweet look of encouragement, he would be on his feet and by her side before de Marlé had wedged himself from his gilded chair. But her blue-green eyes never turned his way.
Approaching his future bride with an arm outstretched in invitation, Desmond smiled as the young beauty settled a slender hand upon his sleeve. “You’re far more ravishing than any lady I’ve ever beheld, my dear,” he assured her. “I can only consider the depth and breadth of my good fortune. Once I take you as my bride and the bonds between us are secure, no man will be as privileged as I.”
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