Everlasting

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  And then Raven slid down beneath the quilts, and she bit her lip against crying out. The bed moved up and down as he crawled. To her horror, she felt his mouth on the back of her knee, and the shock and excitement almost made her jerk. But nay, she held on to her control, even when the moist wetness of his mouth slid up the back of her thigh, to the base of her buttocks. How could she continue to make herself lie still if he was going to—

  His mouth left her, but her absolute relief was short-lived, for she felt his kisses move up her other leg, and begin to climb up the hills of her body. A squirm of mortification and languid heat escaped her now, and she felt his low laughter where his face was pressed to her back.

  And then he slid on top of her, his loins cradled against her buttocks, his face buried in her hair. She should have been smothered by the heaviness of him, but he held himself gently against her.

  “Ah, ye left your hair unbraided for me,” he murmured.

  Curse it all, in her haste to feign sleep, she’d forgotten.

  And then he was moving against her, rubbing slowly, easing one hand beneath her to capture her breast. The sensual haze that descended on her made her forget why she even fought him. All she could comprehend was how gentle he was, how loving, and when at last he eased her onto her back and kissed her, there was nothing she could do but kiss him back, clinging to him, opening her thighs to him, groaning when he made them one by thrusting home. Again, he gave her a woman’s ultimate pleasure and took his own.

  But afterward, when he eased from her and she was left with the cold reality of what she’d done, she found herself crying again. She wanted him, but she was too afraid to trust him, to trust that he would stay with her as husband even when Scotland called him. And where that mistrust had once led her only to anger and resentment, it now made her heart ache in a way she had not known was possible. My God, could she be falling in love with him, she wondered, then firmly told herself no, and right after that repeated it to herself for good measure. No, she absolutely was not falling in love with her husband, and firmly refused to do so. He might be able to woo her body to surrender, but she would never willingly give him her heart, and at that she cried even harder.

  CHAPTER 19

  Raven would not peacefully abide the tears of a weeping woman. He sat up in bed, flung the covers aside, got to his feet, and stood over his wife.

  “Abrielle, this cannot continue,” he said sternly. “I canna longer seduce ye by force. I willna take ye again like this. ’Tis time for ye ta come ta me.”

  His easy assumption of his domineering role in her life did more than put Abrielle into a high temper, it caused her tears to dry up as quickly as they’d come. She flung the quilts back from her side and jumped to her feet, facing him across the bed.

  “You’ll be waiting a long time, Raven Seabern. You may have taken my wealth, but you won’t have my heart and soul to crush when you leave.”

  “Why…” He hesitated, momentarily distracted and captivated by the sight of her bunched nightgown sliding over her curves, then he blinked and frowned. “Why would I leave?”

  But she would say nothing more, only flounced back into bed and refused to face him. Raven wanted to spin her around and make her tell him exactly what she meant, and he wanted to scoop her into his arms and back into bed, no matter that he’d barely finished making his pledge not to take her again until she came to him, or that he’d thought himself sated from their lovemaking. Gazing at her barely hidden curves, he feared he would never be completely sated. He was a fool to let her flummox him this way, but not enough of a fool to storm off as he was sorely tempted to do at that moment. He would not give his infuriating bride that satisfaction. Nor would he deny himself the pleasure of sleeping near her body, even if he couldn’t touch it thanks to his damn pledge. Aye, a fool to be sure, he thought as he too got into bed, folding his arms behind his head to keep from reaching out to her and staring at the ceiling.

  ALTHOUGH THERE WAS tension in the new Seabern household, there came a growing strife in the rest of England. Never before had so many heralds been sent out at one time to deliver dispatches to various parts of the realm. The news they bore was grave indeed. Having gone to his castle at Lyons-la-Forêt with every intention of hunting in the surrounding forest, Henry I, youngest son of William the Conqueror, had fallen ill and within a week had died. His death ushered in not only a time of grievous mourning but also a harrowing and lengthy epoch for the whole of the late monarch’s realm.

  Henry’s first queen had been a Scotswoman, sister of King David himself, and their daughter, Maud, was his choice to succeed him on the throne. He had won concessions years before from all his noblemen that they would support her when he died. Although the noblemen found it difficult to generate enthusiasm for Maud, they feared if they bound themselves by fealty and oath to the late king’s nephew, Stephen, they’d lose whatever they had managed to gain throughout Henry’s rule, whether ill-gotten or justly deserved.

  Had not the king been at odds with his daughter and her husband at the time of his death, Maud might have been wont to hasten to her parent’s bedside and claim her rightful inheritance before anyone could usurp it. Instead, within a matter of days, Stephen had managed to impose himself as king within the minds of the nobles and was soon aggressively defying anyone who might have found fault with that idea. Although Stephen would not be officially crowned for several weeks, Maud’s continued absence from England seemed to solidify his authority. In the ensuing days, it became apparent that the kingly domain was being plunged into the darkest form of strife, a far cry from the peaceful rule that Henry had managed to maintain throughout his years on the throne.

  ON THE SIXTH day of their marriage, Raven was called away to confer with King David on Scotland’s newly strained relationship with England. Abrielle stood in the chill air of the courtyard beside her mother and watched Raven speaking with his father as he awaited the arrival of his squire and the three other men-at-arms who’d come with them from Scotland.

  Elspeth put her arm around Abrielle. “You will be sorry to see him leave, I am sure.”

  Abrielle nodded, surprised at the veracity of her mother’s words in spite of the fact that she and Raven continued to be at odds over the state of their marriage. The last several nights had been spent in the same bed, but they were separated by a chasm of misunderstandings and anger.

  “Perhaps…” Elspeth continued slowly, watching her daughter, “the time away will allow you both to see your marriage more clearly.”

  Abrielle turned to gaze at her mother, sarcasm quirking the corner of her mouth. “And you are so certain that we have things to sort out between us?”

  “I see my daughter’s pain. I want you to be happy, Abrielle.”

  Abrielle pulled her cloak closer about her throat and turned cool eyes back to her husband, who was now leading his horse through the courtyard toward her. “Mama, you assume that two countries are not about to come between us. You assume that Raven prizes our wedding over his obligations to his king.”

  Elspeth opened her mouth, but then could say nothing, for Raven had arrived. He stood before Abrielle, looking down at her solemnly. She looked beautiful and proud and aloof, all part of the contradictions that made up his wife.

  Softly, she said, “Farewell, Raven. Come back unharmed.”

  He leaned down and kissed her cheek, inhaling the sweet scent of her. He hadn’t wanted to leave without the final comfort of her embrace, but wouldn’t force her hand.

  “I shall return soon,” he said, then turned away and mounted Xerxes, his loyal stallion. With a nod to his father and her parents, he rode out of the courtyard and headed north.

  In the days and weeks that followed, a grim harvest of death, violence, and thievery was rampantly reaped by those seeking to benefit themselves in whatever dreadful form their unbridled maliciousness and greed chose to be exhibited. Pillaging became commonplace throughout both Normandy and England, to the degree that no ma
n was safe from aggression or butchery even in his own home. It seemed especially rampant upon the roads, where innocents were now being frequently set upon by those bent on thievery and other grievous acts of violence.

  Abrielle sheltered and healed more than one victim, and she thought often of Raven traveling such dangerous roads between two countries. He was her husband, and for that reason alone it was natural for her to want him to come home safely. Yet she also bore him tender feelings from her woman’s heart, feelings that were growing steadily stronger even as they were battered by sadness and regret and confusion. Was this to be her life, always watching Raven ride away, always wondering who might kill him because of the country of his birth? Or would he have to fight with Scotland against Abrielle’s own people? There was a time when she’d vowed never to open herself up to the pain of falling in love with him; now increasingly she wondered if she had any more choice in the matter than she had in marrying him.

  IT DIDN’T SEEM to matter whether one was loyal to Stephen or to Maud, there were many who were intent upon reaping, either by arbitration or by force, whatever benefit or profit they could garner from the discord now raging within the kingdom. The knights and men whom Vachel had once commanded came riding again to his defense, splitting their forces between Vachel’s home and Abrielle’s. These knights as well as the foot soldiers and the families that belonged to each accepted Vachel’s invitation to take up permanent residence within the protective stone walls surrounding the keep. Many already living there were wont to agree that the knights’ presence calmed some of their fears, for beyond the gates, it now seemed apparent that neighbor was turning viciously against neighbor and kith against kin in this turnabout world whence all reason had been vanquished.

  It was to this very same keep that the three Graysons and several of their loyal knights fled in haste during the dark of night. Like the knights and foot soldiers who had fled from the terror encompassing their land, the Graysons came seeking shelter, bringing their most costly possessions as well as trunks filled with clothing and basic essentials. Their flight, however, was not without incident, for a miscreant’s arrow had pierced Lord Grayson’s shoulder while he was helping the servants load his small family into the conveyance. It was only after they had thrown several valuable items from one of the carts that the rapacious scoundrels flew upon the spoils and began to squabble over them, in their greed allowing the family to escape their murderous intent.

  Upon their arrival, servants helped Reginald into the keep, followed by Isolde and Cordelia. Already alerted, Abrielle and Elspeth were in the process of turning down a bed and spreading clean but older linens over the sheets already covering the mattress when the servants bore Reginald into the chambers. Isolde and Cordelia were clearly distraught over the wounding of their loved one, but were encouraged when Vachel assured them that his lordship possessed a hearty stamina and was not one to be easily undone by a culprit’s arrow. The women were then urged to return to the antechamber, where they would remain until the arrow could be extracted. Abrielle sent a servant to bring mulled wine for the women, hoping it would suffice to soothe many of their qualms and perhaps help to relax them as they kept vigil together. But Abrielle herself went into Reginald’s bedchamber. She had never removed an arrow, unlike Cedric, so she was going to assist him as needed.

  With the further assistance of copious tankards of strong ale for the patient, Cedric was able to remove the arrow and then sear the wound with a red-hot poker iron. Afterward, a bleary Reginald gratefully offered him a tankard of ale. By the time Elspeth, Cordelia, and Isolde entered the chamber, Cedric and Reginald were chortling together as if they had just shared some wildly humorous tale.

  Cordelia’s gaze seemed naturally inclined to meet the vivid blue eyes of the elder Scotsman, and in response he gave her a wink and a lopsided, white-toothed grin, readily bringing a blush to her cheeks. “’Tis certain I am that the stars have come out ta shine upon me this eventide,” he avowed with a deep chuckle. “If na, then it must be the radiance of m’lady’s smile I’m seeing afore me.”

  “To be sure, sir.” Cordelia gave a winsome dip of her head. “You likely saved my father’s life, and for that I will always be grateful. Indeed, I should like to commend you for your proficient removal of the arrow, as well as Abrielle for her capable assistance.”

  “My humble gratitude for your generous praise, m’lady,” Cedric replied, inclining his head briefly in appreciation.

  Abrielle simply squeezed her friend’s hand, happy beyond words to have her companionship in such dreadful, trying times.

  Isolde slipped her hand within her husband’s as she asked in wifely concern, “How are you feeling?”

  His lordship grinned up at her. “Rather mellow now with the worst of it behind me. ’Twas to my great benefit that Laird Cedric was here to tend me. I’ve suffered worse from physicians who’ve tended simpler wounds. The laird is certainly a good man to have around.”

  Cedric swept her a clipped bow. “I’ll be leaving ye in Abrielle’s capable hands. My new daughter by marriage is a fine healer. Now I must be off. There’s still training ta be doing on the tiltyard this day.”

  “Be careful!” Cordelia urged as he hastened through the door. “We would see you again soon.”

  Casting a glance over his shoulder, he gave the young beauty a wink. “I’ll be coming back, m’lady, mark my words.”

  As Isolde and Elspeth began to fuss over a drowsy Reginald, Abrielle left them with crushed herbs to use in a poultice, before Cordelia drew her into the antechamber.

  The two friends hugged each other for a long moment, until at last Cordelia backed up a step, gripping her friend’s arms as she examined her face. “You don’t look all that different now that you’re Raven’s bride.”

  Abrielle sighed. “Oh, Cordelia, it did not feel like a true wedding without you.”

  “I trust it was a true wedding night,” Cordelia offered with a sly grin.

  Abrielle groaned and turned away. “Even friends should not discuss such intimate things.”

  Cordelia pulled her back to face her, her own smile dying. “Abrielle? When I last left, you were treating Raven as just another suitor, one you’d already asked to leave the castle. The next letter I received was the awkward announcement of your wedding, without any good details.”

  “I…wished you to have the news with haste, so I did not take the time to write more.”

  “He is a ‘bonny lad,’ as a Scot would say. So why do I see shadows in your eyes when you talk about him? And do not say that you’re simply worried about him in his absence, for I shan’t believe it.”

  Abrielle had never withheld anything from her friend, so she briefly sketched the details, from their discovery alone together to the wedding.

  “So ’twas not a joyful ceremony, I take it,” Cordelia said drily. “But surely he’s a far better man than Desmond de Marlé.”

  “Who could hurt me far worse than Desmond ever could have if I allow myself to become vulnerable,” Abrielle whispered, hugging herself. “You know that from the start I have not been able to trust his motives where his courtship of me is concerned.”

  “Abrielle, you are a wondrous woman whom any man would be glad to marry for herself alone. Raven is lucky to have won you, regardless of the manner, and I am sure he knows it.”

  “I wish I could believe that,” Abrielle replied. “But even if I did, it is so much more complicated than that. He’s a Scot, Cordelia. If we go to war with them…”

  “Has he demanded that you change your allegiance?”

  “Well…nay, but—”

  “Then you and he will work it out. Countries may be fighting, but husband and wife do not need to.”

  So torn about her emotions was Abrielle that tears stung her eyes. “’Tis not that simple. If I let myself love him, and he has to leave me over a coming war, how will I bear it?”

  “Abrielle, none of us can predict the future. If we all base our deeds
on things that might happen, we would cower in our beds without any decision being made. You just have to allow love into your heart.”

  “I know not if I can,” Abrielle whispered at last.

  CONSIDERING THE CARNAGE and aggression now occurring throughout the kingdom, it was not at all surprising when Thurstan de Marlé realized that he had found the perfect tool to use against Raven Seabern. The Scot had taken what was Thurstan’s from the beginning—the de Marlé keep and the wealth that went along with it. It was time for Thurstan to send the Scot back where he came from—or even to the very grave itself. But first he would take the castle itself, while its new lord was away.

  It was easy enough for him to visit the various lords of the region, to take advantage of their worries about the peace and safety of their homes situated so close to Scotland. Thurstan encouraged all to besiege Raven’s new base of power, telling them that they could “hold” it for England rather than Scotland. The Scotsmen should not be allowed to gain any more English territory.

  And with their insecurity and fear, the northern lords listened, allowing Thurstan, kin to Weldon de Marlé, who had been so respected, to lead them. Thurstan, in turn, was compelled to allow Desmond’s half sister, Mordea, to ride at his side. He was still holding her fast, urging her on in her hatred, waiting for the day he might need her evil skills.