Everlasting

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  “Do not speak so to me,” she hissed, “or I will know who lacks honor.”

  She whirled about and retreated, intent on reaching the closest safety, her parents’ bedchamber, and not stopping until she did.

  Raven followed at a distance, then waited directly outside the heavy door until he detected the sound of the wooden bar being eased into place on the other side. Her safety mattered to him more than it ought, certainly more than was wise.

  He ran his hand down his face with a soft groan. Why did he lose all sense of restraint when he was near Abrielle? He’d promised himself he would handle all dealings with her as befit a distant acquaintance.

  Then he saw her standing alone in the moonlight, a fairy princess with curls the color of sunrise tumbling about her shoulders, her lithe graceful form more tempting in her soft cotton gown than any woman he’d ever seen dressed in velvet and jewels. And he’d seen his share of women, dressed and undressed; more than enough not to respond to a glimpse of pleasing curve or hint of enticing hollow like a green boy yet to steal his first kiss. Yet somehow simply looking at Abrielle robbed him of caution, and perhaps—as she suggested—a bit of the uncompromising honor he prided himself upon.

  God, the woman was right about him, and he despised his weakness where she was concerned. If he were half as smart as he was proud, he would do as he’d sworn before coming and stay as far away from her as possible for the duration of his visit. If he were just a bit smarter than that, he would leave now, in plenty of time before the wedding ceremony itself, which he fully expected to be an exercise in torment. He did not need to see Abrielle before the church doors in her lace and finery to know the sight of her could make his knees want to buckle and slam his heart into his ribs so hard it hurt. Or that seeing her given to de Marlé, before man and God, would make him want to bellow an ancient war cry and steal her away at sword point.

  Damn, he should leave tonight, this very moment, he thought, knowing he had no intention of following his own good advice. Leaving would be cowardly and Raven Seabern was no damn coward. Nay, he would stay and give the sniveling squire his petty satisfaction. He would stay and do something that would take more guts than any battle or brawl or beating that went before. He was a royal emissary, trained to keep even the most riotous emotions in check, a skill that in his world could mean the difference between blessed life and certain death; he would stand in silence and watch the only woman who’d ever touched him to his very core, without so much as placing a gloved fingertip on him, marry another man.

  THE NEWLY RISING sun glimmered through the lower branches of the trees lining the hills along the eastern horizon, with its rosy glow tingeing the heavily swirling mists drifting eerily over the marshy terrain that partially surrounded the keep. Within the enclosed courtyard of the well-fortified edifice, serfs with lackluster eyes and cheeks noticeably sunken scurried about in anxious haste as they laid heavily laden trenchers before the hunters. When the trays were whisked away, many of the serfs were seen hurriedly cramming whatever meager scraps were left into their mouths.

  More than a score of hunting hounds were creating an underlying cacophony of pleading whines and snarls as they sought to keep close to their masters. A well-placed boot or the heavy end of a sturdy staff evoked sudden yelps and usually sent the dogs scurrying off in every direction, whence they soon ventured forth again to lick up whatever scraps of meat had fallen from overflowing platters being borne by hastening serfs.

  Sitting among those whose greed set their minds aflame with various schemes to seize whatever prizes they could pilfer were men of quieter, subtler natures who took the hunt seriously and were confident of their own abilities. Leaving others to their wily wrangling and overloud boasting of past pursuits, these men silently inspected the straightness of their spears and arrows. The pair of Scotsmen was firmly a part of this latter group.

  Raven casually honed several spears to a sharper point in preparation for the boar hunt on the morrow. The fact that he and his father knew no one in attendance had been expected. In spite of the fact that his friends in the highlands had been wont to question his rationale for accepting an invitation to attend the nuptials of one who would likely prove a treacherous enemy, Raven hadn’t been able to forget the bonny lass he had rescued, nor could he ignore the fierce desire he felt to possess her. She seemed to him a delicate flower whose beauty was beyond measure. To mature into a full-fledged woman, she would have to be gently nurtured, and there was scant chance of that happening in the hands of a fiend like de Marlé. Raven feared she would not long survive under his abuse.

  Cedric pursed his mustached lips as he contemplated the blade he had been honing and then elevated his gaze to meet his son’s. “We hadn’t a chance ta talk of this earlier, so I’ll be asking ye now. I warned ye that de Marlé might be craving revenge, and now that I’ve seen the look in his eyes, I believe it even more so.”

  Raven glanced at his father. “Ye don’t find his sudden camaraderie convincing?”

  Cedric snorted. “Lad, would ye mind telling your old da why ye insisted upon venturing inta this trap like some blind beggar?”

  Raven bestowed a wry grin upon his parent. “I know ye’ve na been a widower so long that ye canna admire a pretty face right along with the rest of us, Da. Ye’ve seen for yourself how bonny the lass is.”

  “Please tell me ye mean the Lady Cordelia.”

  “Nay, ’tis Abrielle who’s struck her arrow deep in my heart.”

  Cedric sighed and shook his head. “I was afraid of just that when I saw the keen way you looked at her yesterday, and that’s before I took note of the way the lady was looking back. Didna I hear some wild rumor whirling about on the winds that the lass is spoken for? Was that not our reasoning for venturing ta this here keep, ta attend the nuptials betwixt de Marlé and his lady fair?”

  The younger man shrugged. “If ye’ll remember, Da, I didna ask ta be invited. The good squire did that on his own. It’s true I would have preferred the poor lass not be tied ta such a man, but the contract’s been signed and I have to accept it.” Even as he said it, everything in him roiled in protest. To distract himself as much as his father, he turned to a different subject. “Of course it does make me wonder even more what he’s about. It might be far-fetched ta suppose he means ta do us both ill, but then again, ’twould prove interesting. Might be I could add some excitement ta the occasion.”

  “I’m not sure Abrielle would consider violence breaking out in the middle of her wedding ‘interesting.’” Cedric slowly waggled his gray head. “Aye, ta be sure, lad, ye’d then have a right ta defend yourself. Still, taking inta account the poor man’s nearly twice your age and weight and no taller than your shoulders, any altercation ye’d be starting betwixt the two of ye wouldna seem entirely fair ta that brood of vipers he calls his friends.”

  “Oh, I dinna intend ta invite it, Da,” Raven assured his sire. “And the lady has made it obvious she wants no help from the likes of me. Yet I feel…guilty.”

  “There be no need for that, lad. Ye dinna even ken the reasons she chose such a man.”

  “Desperation, Da, what else could it be?”

  “Whatever it is, ’tis not our concern.”

  Raven made a noncommittal sound, thinking those words weren’t any more convincing coming from his father than they had been when he said them to himself.

  ABRIELLE SPENT THE first day of the hunt with the women. They’d all gathered to see off the men, cheering and shouting and waving tokens of their affection. She could not help but notice that wherever the two Scotsmen rode, the crowd quieted, as if they did not want to encourage the enemy. Desmond’s cohorts took to jeering in a most dishonorable manner, and Abrielle did not want the celebration of her marriage to turn ugly and have someone hurt. When at last Desmond looked at her, she gave him an appealing glance, and with a wave of his hand, he quieted his raucous men. The two Scotsmen rode forth in dignity, but Abrielle knew the uneasy quiet did not bode well
. And she saw Desmond glance at her again, his small eyes narrowed.

  That night, when the hunters brought back their spoils, it was obvious that Cedric had claimed the honor of bagging the largest and most majestic stag, and would win the first purse. So large was the stag that even Thurstan could not claim another the winner, though Abrielle thought he hesitated enough over the carcasses.

  At supper, no one wanted to share the trestle table with Raven and his father. The two men ate heartily as if they had no concerns, but how could they miss the tense resentment from both Saxon and Norman alike? Cordelia and Abrielle exchanged a worried look.

  “It is most unseemly that guests are treated so,” Abrielle murmured to her friend.

  Hesitantly, Cordelia said, “You are not yet the mistress of this keep.”

  “I know, but these men are behaving as if the Seaberns personally attacked our lands in times past. They’re Highlanders, not the men from just over the border. And if a melee breaks out, will that not ruin everything?”

  “If it delays the wedding, will you not be grateful?”

  “Cordelia!” Lady Grayson gasped, looking around, but no one had overheard them.

  “I do not want to delay the wedding,” Abrielle said firmly, wishing her stepfather didn’t look so despondent as he hunched over his tankard of ale. “But if this will soon be my home, Desmond’s friends must understand common decency. Now they are like a pack of dogs, allowing themselves to be all riled up. And if fighting breaks out, do you not think our fathers will feel forced to become involved?”

  As Cordelia blanched, Elspeth leaned toward her daughter. “Abrielle, you are correct in your concerns. You and I both know how men can behave when they’re past thought. Remember how your late father felt compelled to accept that challenge that took him from us forever.”

  Abrielle shuddered. “I cannot let that happen again.” She rose gracefully to her feet and began to walk across the great hall, stepping through rushes that had not been swept out in months.

  Raven stopped eating when he saw Abrielle moving through the raucous crowd. She was like the proud bow of a boat, leaving ripples of quiet in her wake. Such was her beauty that men stopped eating to stare at her, and Raven knew he was no different.

  “Close your mouth, lad,” his father said with amusement. “Och, soon ye’ll be catching flies that way.”

  Abrielle stopped at table after table, her smile sweet, her melodious voice soothing. They could not hear what she said, but more than one guest gave a last glance at the Scotsmen and sank back onto their benches.

  “What is she doing?” Raven murmured, frustrated that he could only watch and wonder.

  “Calming her guests,” Cedric ventured.

  As intent as he was on Abrielle, Raven made a point of also watching de Marlé’s reaction. At first, when it seemed Abrielle was coming to join him, the squire’s expression was full of pleasure, but as she stopped at more tables along the way, he began glancing at Raven’s table with increasing displeasure. Raven did his best to ignore what was going on, but it wasn’t easy when he was so captivated by the woman’s slightest movement and every hint of emotion that flickered across her face. He couldn’t stop looking at her, and every time he did, he wanted to touch her, to hold that wondrous body against his and assuage his need with her softness. He had been unable to wipe her from his mind this last month, and now being in the same keep with her only made his desire stronger. At that moment he was very grateful for the diplomatic experience that enabled him to sit there expressionless, revealing none of the thoughts and feelings rioting inside. De Marlé might seem like an ignorant man, but he was no fool. His cunning was of the malicious sort, and Raven knew that if the other man’s glare were a sword, his head would have rolled clear across the hall by now.

  To Raven’s great relief, Abrielle did not come to his table, but went instead to her betrothed and gave him her sweetest smile. Raven wished he were free to challenge the man for the right to stare into those lovely blue-green eyes. As if sensing his restlessness, his father touched his thigh briefly in warning, and Raven, still as restless, went back to pretending to concentrate on his meal.

  Desmond gladly took the hand of his beautiful betrothed and held it high before planting a kiss on it. There were good-natured calls now about the wedding night, and he saw Abrielle’s face redden in a virgin’s blush.

  But he could not forget the way she’d calmed his guests, all for the Scotsmen. His plan to avenge himself against Raven Seabern by parading his bride before him wasn’t turning out as he’d planned. True, he knew the Scot still burned for her, but so did every man here, and Raven was doing better than most at keeping his desire submerged.

  Worst of all, he saw how deliberately Abrielle kept her gaze from Raven, as if she was afraid to look too close, afraid of what she might feel.

  And Desmond could not stand for that. His plans would have to be altered. His nephew Thurstan had men held in reserve in case a show of strength was necessary. It was time to call them into action. An attack by thieves would be more believable than having two healthy men suddenly succumb to poison.

  DUSK WAS NIGH as Raven and his father reined their mounts along the far bank of the meandering river some distance from the keep, very near the place where the fast-flowing water rippled over rocky shallows. On this, the second day of the hunt, father and son had glimpsed several boars, none of which had seemed worthy of being pursued, although Cedric had commented that any fresh boar would only improve the castle’s menu. With the number of huntsmen wandering hither and yon, in the process making enough noise to send a variety of animals scurrying off to hidden niches, the more commendable game had been difficult to find.

  Raven and his father had decided to venture farther afield in the opposite direction, not only to seek their quarry in an area to which others would unwittingly drive theirs, but also, hopefully, to stay out of harm’s way from errant arrows and spears. The combination of hilly terrain and fast-flowing streams posed no difficulty for those nurtured throughout their lives within the highlands of Scotland. ’Twas not long before those who trailed in their wake desisted in their attempt and retreated to a more level area of ground closer to the keep.

  The sun was sinking beyond the uppermost pinnacles of the lofty trees when father and son found themselves on the trail of a boar that promised to challenge another record. Moments earlier they had descended to an area near a fast-flowing stream where Raven espied the animal scurrying off into a thicket deeply shaded by towering trees. Silently gesturing to his father, he brought Cedric’s attention to bear upon the animal’s tracks and a freshly broken branch near the base of a larch. Raven leaned from the saddle and, with his spear, brushed aside the lower boughs to reveal an enormous boar, complete with massive curved tusks, taking shelter near the trunk. Immediately an angry squealing rent the silence as the quarry raced forth, leaving the lower fronds swaying wildly in its wake. As the boughs raked his bristly hide, the animal danced aside and thrust about with his tusks in an effort to find his phantom foe.

  Very much in a temper, the boar squealed as it charged into the clearing. At its approach, Raven touched his spurs lightly against his stallion’s flanks, turning the steed to allow him to face the smaller animal directly. The boar fixed its eyes upon this menacing presence looming before it and snorted threateningly as it began tearing up the ground with its tusks, hurling thick tufts of grass helter-skelter. Then, thrusting back upon its hind legs, it launched itself in a forceful race toward the stallion.

  Raven promptly reined his mount aside, allowing the prey to race on past. A moment later, the boar ended its furious charge beneath the wide-spreading boughs of another larch no more than a stone’s throw beyond the place where Raven had halted. The lower branches of the towering tree swayed wildly to and fro as the animal tore through them in a vicious temper.

  Upon emerging from the lower boughs, the boar rushed forward, only to find the man awaiting him with lance held at the
ready. With a mighty thrust Raven sent the spear toward its target, promptly skewering the boar on its shaft. Squealing in agony, the animal twisted this way and that in a frantic attempt to free itself. Gradually its movements slowed and became awkward as it staggered haphazardly in retreat. There, the animal collapsed upon its short legs.

  Raven rose in his stirrups, intending to dismount, but from out of nowhere a spear whizzed past, opening a tiny gash on one cheek. Blood drops flew without his notice. Instinct and knowledge gained from his father’s relentless tutoring over the years took over and he followed the path of the weapon to where its jagged point lodged in the trunk of a tree. From behind came the splashing sound of riders crossing the stream and he quickly reined his stallion about to face them, eager to do battle with an enemy who attacked without warning or provocation.

  Raven looked from the riders back toward the tree and with a quick nudge of his spurs sent his stallion racing in that direction. Without slowing, he grasped the weathered shaft of the brigand’s spear and jerked it from the trunk, tossed it briefly into the air to claim a better grip on it, and with its shank firmly in hand, again reined his steed around. His sire turned as well and together they faced the pair of cloaked, helmeted riders spurring their huge, shaggy steeds toward them.