Abrielle shuddered to think of those precise moments. Unable to make a befitting response, she turned silently and allowed him to lead her to the trestle table where he had been sitting. As much as she doubted her ability to manage even an evanescent smile for Desmond and his guests, she made every effort to force her lips into compliance.
As the feast was served, Abrielle could see the sagging shoulders and depressed miens of men and women who could not even look forward to a true feast. Once again, the food was of the plainest sort, and all one could say about it was that it was edible. If there was one thing she was looking forward to, it was finding a superior cook so that the people of the castle would be better served.
Upon the conclusion of the meal, the trenchers were taken away, and Desmond rose to his feet, raising both his arms to claim the attention of his guests. He had decided to evoke some animosity toward the Scottish pair and was eager to progress toward that goal. “Normans and Saxons alike, give heed to my words. As all subjects of King Henry know by now, he chose his daughter, Maud, to become rightful heiress of the kingdom he rules after the tragic drowning death of his son many years ago in the White Ship disaster.”
Though his words seemed badly slurred to his guests, Desmond was convinced he would have given the best orator in the king’s service cause to stand in silent awe. By now, he thought, the Scotsmen would likely be expecting a boring discourse on the royals.
“Should our liege lord expire in the years to come, the Empress Matilda—or Maud, as some of her subjects have been wont to call her—shall claim the throne. So far, all his nobles have signed pledges of fealty to support her should his majesty be laid to rest. Considering his age, one has to consider that he will not live forever. It has also been acknowledged that her uncle King David of Scotland has given his oath to uphold her as divine ruler of this land should His Majesty pass on. By Henry’s edicts, we should all pledge her our troths and be bound in unity after his death. Of late, however, I’ve been wont to wonder if recent rumors being bandied about are actually true, that King David has been secretly nurturing aspirations of seizing England’s throne for himself rather than allowing his niece to succeed her father.”
Many of the guests nodded and spoke in murmurs to one another, eyeing the Scots dubiously.
Raven rose to his feet, claiming the attention of those within the hall. “I’ve no knowledge of my sovereign lord ever coveting the English throne,” he stated forthrightly, sensing the squire’s ploy to evoke ill will toward the Scottish clans and their king. “For what it’s worth, ’tis my belief that King David intends ta assist the empress in whatever capacity she may require during her reign and ta bestow as much homage upon her as he has thus far extended ta King Henry. After all, Malcolm Canmore was her grandfather, a man much beloved and respected in our country. The Scots could do no better than ta swear allegiance ta her. And if ye do indeed sense any undermining of the empress’s sovereign right ta claim the throne, then mayhap ye should look closer ta home for such culprits rather than condemn the clansmen of Scotland as treasonous. ’Tis fallacy ta think we’d go against her.”
“Are you actually claiming that you would remain loyal to the Empress Maud once she claims Henry’s throne?” Desmond prodded with a distasteful sneer.
“My loyalty will always be ta Scotland,” Raven stated without hesitation. “Much remains ta be seen, but I dinna anticipate havoc for our clans coming from Empress Maud. We’ve always considered her one of us.”
“You Scots have your own way of lending careful regard to a notion and, when the time pleases you, turning your backs upon the very ones you’ve previously claimed to admire.”
“Scots usually speak their minds whether you and your sort are able ta or not,” Raven retorted.
“Are you calling me a liar?” Desmond railed, making an effort to rise from his chair in spite of the fact that at present the whole hall seemed to be dipping and swaying unnaturally around him. Clasping a nearby tankard, he tried to bring it to his mouth, but alas, it promptly slipped from his hand and went reeling across the trestle table, showering those sitting to his right before they could scurry out of its path.
Desmond was incognizant of the christening he had given many of his guests. He was far more interested in bestowing a glower upon the younger Scotsman. Even in that effort, he fell short of his objective. Having consumed more wine and ale than most of his guests, he was hampered by the very disturbing possibility that there were now two of his adversary, whereas a moment earlier there had been only one irksome rogue by the name of Raven Seabern.
“Did you jus…call me…a liar?” Desmond demanded again thickly.
Raven replied simply, “If the name fits, Squire, then I’d advise ye ta call it your very own.”
“Call…what…my own…?”
Repulsed by the squire’s drunken state, Raven rose to his feet and was promptly joined by his father, who spoke for himself and his son. “If ye’ll excuse us, Squire, we woke early this morning, and have become increasingly weary as the day has progressed. Mayhap ye’ll allow us ta finish this discussion at a later time.”
Chortling, Desmond sought to make light of the pair’s inability to endure the rigors of a hunt with the same depth of stamina as his other guests had. If he had cared to join in the sport, he was certain he would’ve shown the two up as poor comparisons to his unwavering endurance. Mimicking Cedric’s Scottish burr, he chided, “Ye have a son who dinna seem ver-ry robust. Have these frosty English climes chilled your luster?”
The elder just ignored Desmon’s drunken taunts, and Raven smiled blandly, refraining from the temptation to enlighten the overstuffed squire as to his early-morning baths in an icy stream flowing near his family home in Scotland. “Ye should remember, Squire, I’m from the highlands. There, every morning would chill the luster of a stranger, whether it be a Norman or Saxon, who’s ventured inta our frigid climes without due caution. Or mayhap ye’ve no ken that we’re straight north of ye.”
Deliberately avoiding further comment, Raven turned crisply on a heel and followed his father in striding from the hall. The wedding guests stared after them in tense silence for a long moment.
“Wait!” came a sudden cry.
Abrielle realized too late that Cordelia had jumped to her feet and was following the two Scotsmen. What was she about? Did she not realize their plan to deceive Desmond could no longer work?
“What is she doing?” Lady Grayson demanded of Abrielle in a whisper as she watched her daughter come abreast of the Seaberns and begin to speak with them.
Abrielle groaned and put her face in her hands. At last she said, “We had made plans to…distract Desmond from his obsession with the Scots. But this evening has ended so badly, it should never have gone forward. I never thought she’d—”
“Abrielle,” her mother scolded, “you should never have tried to put yourself between the two men.”
“But, Mama, don’t you see, I already am? At least in Desmond’s mind,” she added glumly.
“And in your mind?” Vachel asked quietly.
Abrielle looked at him somberly. “In my mind my duty is as clear as ever.”
Dismay flashed over his features, until he replaced it with an impassive mask. Elspeth put her hand on his and he allowed it, but Abrielle guessed his thoughts were of the past, and what he might have done differently. She grieved for him so much that she, too, placed her hand on his, beside her mother’s.
At the same time she watched Cordelia closely. Her friend spoke brightly to the two men, evoking their eventual smiles and the restoration of their good humor. At last she curtsied as they left her to depart the great hall. Abrielle slanted a glance at Desmond, hoping their plan had worked after all, but to her dismay, he was so busy eating and drinking, he hadn’t even noticed Cordelia with the Scotsmen.
Cordelia returned to their table and began to eat her dessert as if nothing had happened.
Into the uneasy silence of both their families, s
he said, “Hmm, this isn’t half bad.”
“It’s hard to ruin fresh fruit,” Abrielle answered dourly.
Reginald rolled his eyes at his daughter’s antics and hushed his wife, who began to speak with Elspeth.
Abrielle leaned toward her friend and whispered, “You shouldn’t have gone, but since you did, what did Raven say?”
“He was a gentleman, of course, but I really wasn’t flirting with him. That father of his is hard to resist.”
Abrielle groaned and closed her eyes.
“But I made it look as if I had been flirting with Raven, didn’t I?”
“Aye, you did,” Abrielle responded grudgingly. “My thanks for your efforts.”
“Though Raven smiled at my words to his father, I received the impression that he wasn’t so happy with our plan.”
“Of course not,” countered Abrielle. “He’s the sort of man who believes he’s invincible and can confront alone any circumstance that presents itself. My only hope is that his father will be able to talk some sense into him, and make him see that he is vastly outnumbered and ’tis time for them to go.”
Cordelia smiled broadly. “Having made his father’s acquaintance, I can only say that what you desire most likely will not occur, for both men are proud, and clearly fierce fighters in the way of their Celtic ancestors.”
IT CAUSED ABRIELLE a great deal of consternation that it took a very long time before she was able to stop fretting about all the ways Raven might come to harm, and drift off to sleep. A great part of her discomfort about her thoughts arose from something she could not understand. As she had told Cordelia, his action in not courting her before her betrothal evidenced his lack of interest in taking her to wife, a view she strongly felt was due to her inability to provide a large dowry; why then, did she worry about him so? And once sweet sleep had finally embraced her, she had no respite, for her dreams were filled with Raven…the look and feel and fresh-air smell of him when he was close…things she should not know and would be better off forgetting and wanted to remember for the rest of her life. She tossed and turned upon her pillow, smiling when her dream Raven brushed a stray curl from her face and sighing when the back of his fingers stroked her cheek, and then going from hot to cold to hot again when she realized that dream Raven was the man himself. Raven Seabern was leaning over her bed, lit only by moonlight, and her hand was curled around the back of his neck, his smooth and very warm neck, as if…as if…
Her eyes went wide and her gasp of pure, abject shock ended before it began when he covered her mouth with his big hand and shook his head. His callused palm was pleasantly rough against her soft lips, sending a shiver dancing along her spine.
“Speak in the softest tones, my lady, unless ye wish ta bring the whole household down on us.”
When at last he freed her mouth, she jerked her hand away and sat up, pulling the coverlet to her chin. “How dare you invade my chamber, sir! And on the night before my wedding!”
He sat back on his heels beside her bed to look solemnly at her. “I dared because ye dared this evening ta try and help me—ye and Lady Cordelia. I wanted ta return the favor by warning ye na ta risk so much again.”
“I did not do it for you!” she countered quickly, too quickly, she knew. “An outbreak of violence will make matters worse for everyone. I could not just sit back and see you and your father at the mercy of Desmond when the numbers and advantages are all his.”
“So ye came to my rescue this time.”
She shrugged and looked away. “I simply did not want your pigheadedness and spilled blood to ruin my wedding day.”
One corner of his mouth lifted as he pressed his hand over his heart. “I am deeply touched, my lady.”
“Don’t be,” Abrielle snapped. “And do not underestimate Desmond…he is far too jealous a man to trifle with.”
“Aye, and he’s done much ta prove it these past days,” Raven added.
Abrielle thought of the dead bodies tied to the horses. “I am so sorry you and your father were attacked. When I think of how badly you might have been injured, or…worse…”
“’Twas only two men,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact.
“Against two men.”
He grinned. “I’d gladly square off against two dozen ta see that soft look in your eyes.”
“You need to leave.”
“I am in no danger. Me da is watching outside in the corridor.”
“I mean leave my room…and the castle! Tomorrow…or tonight…Now! Before anything worse happens!”
“Do ye want me ta go, lass?”
Rather than moving to leave, he leaned closer. His voice was soft and guttural, a rumbling that made something primitive stir deep inside her. She wanted to immediately affirm her wishes, but found the words wouldn’t leave her throat. She kept looking at him all bathed in the white glow of the moon, his dark hair shining, his blue eyes full of a peace she had not known in so long. Why was he doing this? Was there some reason he was trying to help her?
She forced herself to remember what was at stake. “Aye, go,” she said coldly. “I do not want your death on my conscience.”
“Nor do I,” he assured her. “I am, however, less concerned with how your conscience will deal with this.”
Without warning or hesitation, he bent his head and brushed her parted lips with his own. Abrielle’s mind went blank and then exploded with sensation. His kiss was slow, hot, sweet, thick honey pulling her under, to someplace far away and deep inside, someplace new and exciting.
He didn’t rush or push or force. When the tip of his tongue touched hers, her lips opened a little more without any direction from her or urging from him. Some part of her that needed no direction or urging wanted more, but Raven simply let his mouth linger a few heartbeats longer and then pulled away, gently disengaging the hands she hadn’t realized were gripping his shoulders.
He rose to his feet, towering over her in the small chamber. “I’ll go now, lass, but I willna be leaving tomorrow. ’Tis a matter of pride now.”
Abrielle, her senses still spinning, wasn’t sure which bothered her more…that he dared to kiss her or that he seemed so unaffected by it.
“Pride or arrogance? You dare too much, sir. I could scream and—”
He cut in. “Ye could, but ye havena. And ye won’t. Ye might take a moment—before returning ta whatever sweet dream I interrupted—ta ask yourself why that is.”
He bowed and left her chamber. It would serve his reckless soul right if he got caught, she thought, even as she held her breath until she knew he was safely through her parents’ sitting room and into the corridor. Only then did she release a loud sigh and flounce backward, staring up at the wooden ceiling and hoping he had left her dreams as well as her chamber.
YEARS AGO, THE heavily embroidered, mauve gunna had regally clothed Elspeth for her first wedding; now it would serve her daughter in that same capacity. The fact that it fit so wonderfully well, as if it had been made especially for the younger woman, would surely have brought pleasure to the parent had the groom been a gentleman worthy of her daughter. As it was, Elspeth could only heave a deep sigh of lament as she imagined her only offspring trapped in Desmond’s arms. The fact that she had come to suspect that the man was as evil as a poisonous viper disheartened her for the task ahead.
All the necessary preparations had been done to present the bride at her best. The reddish, hip-length hair had been gathered at the nape of Abrielle’s neck and then braided with a wealth of narrow ribbons of the same hue as her gown. Upon her head lay a finely wrought golden crescent from which flowed a shimmering mauve veil, the delicately embroidered hem of which fell softly around her slender shoulders and down her back. The fact that the bride’s cheeks were unusually pale and her slender fingers shook uncontrollably escaped everyone but her mother’s attention.
New tears welled within Elspeth’s eyes and were nigh to overflowing as she considered her daughter’s valiant efforts to appear c
alm. It amounted to an impossible feat for both of them. “I pray for a miracle,” she whispered to her only offspring as she made a pretense of adjusting the veil. “I cannot bear the thought of you in Desmond’s arms, and yet I have no idea what can be done at this late hour to save you from that horrible wretch. Vachel hopes you’ll be happy once you realize the extent of your wealth, but I fear that will mean little to you while you’re married to Desmond.”
“Mama, please don’t cry,” Abrielle whispered softly as a gathering wetness blurred her own vision. “If I see you weeping, I shan’t be able to endure this evening without succumbing to my own tears. We must both try to be brave and calm.”
Sensing the approach of their friends, Elspeth swept a handkerchief hurriedly across her cheeks and offered the other women a trembling smile.
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