He might as well have spoken his true purpose aloud, Abrielle thought, but he was wasting his time if he hoped to get a rise from Raven. The Scotsman had never shown serious interest in her, so why would he care whom she married? It was only she who was being hurt by this cruel joke.
“Ta be sure, we’ll be marking each occasion with our presence,” Raven assured the man, laying a hand upon the folds of plaid across his chest as he inclined his head and retreated several steps. “We’re honored ta be among your guests.”
In response to the remark, Desmond nodded perfunctorily.
Straightening to his full height, Raven cast his gaze about as though admiring the scenery surrounding them, but only Abrielle had his attention. He was not surprised by the realization that he had remembered the lady in infinite detail. But then, no other woman had even come close to ensnaring his heart as she had done during their initial meeting. She was watching him, too, although he sensed a coolness about her. She was a woman betrothed, of course, but she also seemed to be taking great pains to avoid his gaze, the reason for which he could not fathom.
Desmond held forth an arm in silent invitation to his bride-to-be. It was impossible not to compare the gesture with Raven offering his hand in similar fashion only moments before. If ever she had been whisked from fantasy into harsh, morbid reality within the passage of a moment, then Abrielle was convinced such an occurrence took place the instant she laid a trembling hand upon the squire’s sleeve. She loathed touching him, yet she found no viable escape and was forced to feign a smile in spite of the fact that she felt as if a ponderous weight was now crushing her heart. If only Raven hadn’t accepted Desmond’s spiteful invitation. She wouldn’t now have to look at him and imagine herself married to someone like him, handsome and bold. Why did she always have to force herself to remember that he had had his chance, that he clearly hadn’t even wanted to court her properly, to present himself to her stepfather at the apartment Vachel had taken in Westminster Castle for their stay in London? She could only assume he was looking for a wealthy bride, and in her despondence, she truly wondered if that’s all a man cared about. Bitterly, she knew she was no less guilty, for it was the only reason she was marrying the squire.
Desmond preened with pride as he paraded her past the Scotsmen, nodding to each in turn before leading her away. As they entered the open courtyard, the guests occupying the area came forward to offer salutations and wishes for a joyous union. Abrielle heard only half of what was being said and, when presented a question, could only smile with a dull sense of numbness as de Marlé answered in her stead. He readily assured them that she was as anxious to wed as he, and although her silence seemed to convey a mutual accord with his claims, inwardly she felt as if she were a spiritless puppet with a fixed smile painted on its face and its strings being manipulated by the man at her side.
Continuing on by a ragged scrap of lackluster resolve, Abrielle traversed the inner courtyard with that same fake smile pasted on her face. The feeling of being emotionally empty inside was almost more than she could bear. Had there been a moment of freedom wherein she could have found a hidden niche, she would have fled to such a place and sobbed out her heart in unrelenting anguish until she had no more tears to spill. Nothing she had ever experienced before had seemed more akin to the horrors of a dark netherworld than the bleak, empty passages of time through which she was now passing, all because she was destined to become the bride of a despicable ogre. Had she been walking a stony path toward an ominous block upon which she’d be required to rest her head and awaiting her there was a hooded executioner clasping an ax, she would have felt no less dismayed.
LATE INTO THE night, Abrielle lay in rigid repose upon a narrow bed in the small room adjoining the chambers her parents were occupying. Staring fixedly at nothing more significant than the silken panels draped around the tester, she found it difficult to even breathe, much less sleep. A morbid heaviness lay over her spirit, a feeling no doubt evoked by the fact that only a few, paltry days separated her from the ceremony that would forever bind her to Desmond de Marlé. Whenever she considered what she would have to submit to in order to fulfill her wifely obligations, it seemed a prelude to another descent into a pit of despair. If not for fear of waking her parents, she would have succumbed to the overwhelming sobs that were threatening to burst free. She had committed herself to a hell on earth by giving her word, and not only would she not take it back, she could not.
Unable to bear the conflict within her, she finally tore herself free from her narrow bed and fled into the outer hall in a burgeoning quest to find absolute solitude for just a few moments so no one would hear the sobs that were threatening to break free and overwhelm her. When she finally halted, she found herself in a corridor leading to the tower stairs. Her nightgown clung to her, and her bare feet were nearly frigid against the stone floor. Her long hair tumbled in wild disarray around her shoulders and over her bosom, providing a mantle of warmth against the chill pervading the hall.
The only light came from the moon shining through a lofty turret. The leaded panes of glass cast their muted colors and reflection upon the stone floor. In spite of her mood of utter hopelessness, Abrielle took comfort in simply being alone in a place where she could cry aloud if need be, and tears were increasingly shed as her wedding day grew closer. Her peace of mind was brief; after only a few moments of solitude she had the uneasy sense that someone was nearby. Alarmed, she peered intently into the surrounding blackness and wondered who might be watching. Desmond? Since their arrival, it seemed he was always lurking about, hiding in some nook or cranny…that is, hiding as well as a man of his girth could hide. He was obsessed with spying upon her. ’Twas yet another in an ever-growing list of reasons she prayed God might send a miracle in time to stop the wedding.
Had Desmond followed her tonight, hoping to catch her unaware the way he had at Henry’s castle? Was he so greedy for her flesh he would seek to deny her a few final hours of peace and privacy? Anger and revulsion coursed through her. Of course there was also the possibility it was someone unknown to her skulking in the shadows. It hardly bode well for her future that she could not say whom she would most detest encountering in the middle of the night in this dark isolated corner, her betrothed or a total stranger.
A scraping sound by the tower steps, like boot heel on rough stone, brought her conjecturing to a hasty halt.
“Desmond?” she called out, thankful her steady voice betrayed none of the trepidation she felt, for it would do little good to give in to her fear. Even if someone were to hear her screams, Desmond’s word was law here. And it would be foolhardy to hope for a conveniently passing gallant to again come charging to her rescue, especially considering the distinct dearth of gallants in her life these days. She could honestly name only one, and even so foolhardy a Scot might be reluctant to intervene a second time.
She had but one recourse and that was to rescue herself. After all, she’d gotten herself into this predicament, hadn’t she? She was convinced her stalker was Desmond, in spite of the fact that he hadn’t answered when she called his name. It would be like him to remain silent just to prolong her misery. The little toad was probably hoping that if she were sufficiently frightened she would collapse in his arms with gratitude when he finally showed himself. Abrielle nearly snorted at the thought, for the odds were better that she would flap her arms and fly out of there than that she’d cozy up to him of her own free will.
She would wait him out, knowing he had to step forward eventually, and when he did she would remain calm and make him see it was to both their advantage for him to respect her family’s dignity—as well as a gentleman’s duty to invited guests in his home—and restrain himself until they were officially wed. If that failed, she was prepared to hoist her skirts and bolt before he could lay hands on her. God help her, she would not surrender her body to that lecher one second sooner than required by the terms of the devil’s bargain they’d struck.
The si
lence stretched until Abrielle was certain her nerves would shatter. Finally there was the sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, and a shadow fell across the patch of moonlight at her feet. She still could not see well enough to make out who it was and instinctively she grasped the fabric of her gown, poised to flee for her life. “Desmond?” she demanded more forcefully. “Is that you?”
The shadow moved, and a voice too deep, too masculine, and far too appealing to belong to the squire said, “Nay, Lady Abrielle. I can only pray ye’re not overly disappointed.”
CHAPTER 5
It was not disappointment she felt, but something else, something she could not yet name, as she realized it was Raven, the moon bathing him in shadows and a pale glow, revealing enough for Abrielle to recognize him, but not enough for her to see clearly the expression on his face. So, her intruder was neither squire nor stranger, and she knew she ought to feel relieved, but she did not.
Caution and propriety dictated she leave his presence immediately, but something else, something far less familiar, kept her rooted to the spot. It was as if the damp evening fog had seeped into her brain, making her forget everything and everyone save the handsome man who was once again watching her with bold, unguarded interest. What strange power did he hold over her that a mere glance or a small curve of his mouth could set her senses reeling this way? The very sight of him should send a betrothed woman scampering for the safety of her chamber; instead Abrielle felt more powerfully drawn to him than ever, her body reacting in the age-old way a woman responds to a man.
He shifted his weight slightly and a shaft of pearl light illuminated the loose, long-sleeved white shirt he wore with his kilt and soft leather boots. “So,” he said quietly. “Are ye?”
Are ye? Abrielle frowned in consternation. Was she …what? It was no easy matter to concentrate with one’s heart racing and an army of butterflies assaulting from within and she struggled to recall his words to her.
“Disappointed,” he prompted before she had to ask. “Assuming, of course, it was your intended you slipped from the warm safety of your bed ta meet with in this…” He glanced around. “This perfectly dark and dank spot for an assignation. I freely confess ta being a poor substitute for the man ye seek, mayhap the poorest ta be found the world over. Perhaps ye’ve noticed how very little I have in common with the man of your dreams.” When she blinked in confusion, he added, “Our gracious host.”
Abrielle tossed her loosened hair over her shoulder. “I fear ’tis you who’ll be disappointed, sir,” she told him.
“Truly?” He ambled a few steps closer, regarding her with deliberation. “I cannot think how, when the heavens above have seen fit to reward my own nighttime rambling with a glimpse of the fairest beauty ever sent to earth.”
Though she roiled inside, she feigned control, rolling her eyes in seeming humor. “Indeed you are your father’s son, a Seabern through and through. But since there is no one here you seek to impress, you may as well save your pretty words. I was referring to the disappointment you will surely suffer when you realize how very wrong you are. You see, I’ve no assignation planned for this evening, with our gracious host or anyone else.”
He took another step, and Abrielle was very aware that the closer he came, the softer and lower pitched his voice became, and as he moved closer still, she felt a frisson of velvet shivers along her spine. “Are ye so sure ye know me well enough ta know whom it is I seek ta impress?” he asked.
“I am sure I do not need to know you any better than I do,” she told him.
“Ah,” he said, with an unmistakable trace of amusement. “In that case, my lady, I acknowledge my poor judgment, and can only wonder what causes you ta wander through the keep, dressed so poorly against the chill, and at an hour most happy brides would be sound asleep, dreaming sweet bridal dreams.”
Abrielle hugged herself as if she were cold, thankful he could not know how very warm she’d grown these past moments. “I marvel at your intimate knowledge of brides, sir. Speaking only for myself, I could not sleep, and thought some crisp night air might bring those sweet dreams you refer to. In my restlessness, I wandered farther than I intended.”
Abrielle tensed as he came closer still, and reminded herself it was past time for her to take leave of him, and assured herself she would soon, but not just yet. She had to ask herself what was wrong with her, for if ever there was a time in her life when she ought to be erring on the side of caution, it was surely now. Instead, with so much at stake, not only for her, but for those she loved most in the world, the troublesome reckless streak she’d shared with her father and had thought she’d outgrown, or at least learned to suppress, suddenly chose to make itself known.
“It is easy ta wander too far in a place such as this,” he assured her, now very near, his closeness forcing her heart to beat even more rapidly than before, something she would not have thought possible.
She lifted her chin, vowing she would not let him see her fear, and forced herself to dissemble. “Yes, you’re right, I find I’m much further from my chamber than I’d thought. One must cope with one’s nerves as best one can, and a wedding causes so much happy anticipation…”
The words nearly stuck in her throat, but she would not have him know the extent of her family’s desperation. She had lost much, her dear father, her first betrothed, her safety and peace of mind, even her dreams for the future, and soon even more would be taken from her, but she would not surrender the battered remnants of her pride.
Raven arched a dark brow. “‘Happy anticipation’? Forgive my impertinence, my lady, but I seem ta recall that the last time I saw ye with de Marlé, he was accosting ye. Is it that which inspires such happy anticipation? Or was my judgment also faulty that night at the palace? Mayhap ye were not in need of rescue.”
Abrielle bristled, especially at the fact that he seemed to relish every moment of her discomfort. “What happened that night was a…misunderstanding between the squire and myself,” she told him. “One since rectified.”
His expression changed, becoming harsher, and his voice changed also. It was clearly full of anger, and his tone was deadly quiet, and she took a step back. “A misunderstanding, was it? The squire perhaps misunderstood that he had not yet formally presented for your hand, much less had his suit accepted by your stepfather, and that no agreement had been reached, no bond formed, nor banns published. Did he also misunderstand the fact that he had no better right ta waylay and manhandle ye, ta touch and paw ye…”
Abrielle determined to keep her composure, though the effort cost her dearly, and offered only a shrug and halfhearted murmur. “I believe it was more a matter of the squire simply being too eager.”
She could see that the anger she’d heard building in his voice had become etched on his face, turning the already hard lines and angles to granite, as he responded to her words. “I can only hope ye don’t truly believe that rubbish, or worse, have it in your head that such ‘eagerness’ is normal for a man. An honorable man knows what is his and what is not, and he acts accordingly…no matter how badly he wants—” He broke off sharply. “An honorable man understands there are things in this world worth the waiting.”
For no good reason, a warm melting pleasure spread through Abrielle. Everything about him, from the stubborn set of his jaw to the fervor in his tone, revealed that Raven was such a man and she recoiled from the prospect of defending de Marlé to him. She fumbled for a response of some kind, finally settling for a halfhearted obligatory, “I trust you do not mean to imply that my betrothed is not honorable.”
“It matters not at all what I think. What matters is what ye think of him.”
She looked into his eyes, fully prepared for a knowing gleam and instead finding understanding, and it was too much to bear.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” she exclaimed, “if you think so poorly of him, why on earth did you accept his invitation?”
“Ta be honest, I was curious.”
“About h
is motives?”
He smiled sardonically and shook his head. “No. He’s not that complicated; his motives were obvious. He wanted me here so he could flaunt his conquest of ye.”
She inhaled sharply. She’d had the same thought, but Raven did not have to know that. “The castle is in near proximity to your country,” she reminded him. “Perhaps he only hoped to show his goodwill to your King David.”
“Then he should have invited King David,” he said drily.
“Do you already so regret coming here?”
His hesitation was long, and the tension rising between them was something new and unmistakable. “Nay, my lady, for the chance ta see ye again, I would have braved far worse.”
There was no one but her about to hear his pretty phrases, leaving no doubt he meant them for her alone. There was a husky intimacy in his voice that was also all new to Abrielle. Her feelings of uneasiness blossomed into yearning—followed quickly by fierce anger. Surely he knew what he was doing, tempting a woman about to be married.