Everlasting

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  “That’s no business of yurs,” mumbled Desmond, his drunken smirk growing as he thought of something that would more adequately appease his deepening desire for retribution. “Truth be, yu bloody Scotsman, I’d enjoy seeing yur severed head stuck upon a pike beyond the drawbridge of this very keep! Then every time I’d ride past yur putrefying skull, I’d be able to laugh at the memory of yur futile efforts to seize Abrielle for yurself.”

  “If ye believe ye can do better than those poor men ye sent ta die upon my sword, I canna think of one more prone ta idiocy than ye.”

  The taunt caused Desmond’s bulging eyes to flare, vividly attesting to his mounting rage.

  Abrielle stood at a loss, despairing of this confrontation ending well. For now, at least Desmond was distracted from her, but she couldn’t leave Raven here to take the brunt of Desmond’s foul temper. Raven was setting himself up to be murdered, what with all of Desmond’s friends still housed within the keep, ready to kill any Scotsman.

  An amused half smile curved Raven’s lips as he further taunted, “Still, if ye should be of a mind ta try ta kill me yourself, then I’ll gladly give ye leave ta choose the weapons we’d be using. Or is it your wont ta murder me in me sleep whilst no one is around ta see your deeds? Ye’re like a fat old rat what comes out of his hole at night, skittering here and there ta see what foul mischief he can get inta whilst others are sleeping. But I’ve ways of dealing with the likes of such vermin. Feeding their carcasses ta the cats would surely save burying them.”

  “Yu filthy Scot-tish beggar! I’ll show yu who’s lame-witted!” Desmond railed. “Mark my words, ’twill be yur remains the cats’ll be feasting on this very night!”

  “If ye’re set on accomplishing that feat yourself, Squire, then ye’d best bear in mind what your men failed ta consider. Afore I ever became an emissary, I was trained ta be a warrior, so ’tis a rare occasion that I dinna fight back. But then, I expect ye’ll be remembering that from our encounter in His Majesty’s palace. Ye ran off then with your tail tucked betwixt your buttocks. Had ye any courage ta claim, ye’d have led your men inta the forest yourself instead of merely telling them where me da and I could be found.”

  The taunt was too much for Desmond to bear with any degree of calm prudence. Whatever logic he had been able to lay claim to prior to the wedding had for the most part flown after guzzling copious tankards of ale. He was thoroughly incensed, goaded beyond the core of reason, which at the moment was most fragile.

  A foul, guttural oath issued forth as Desmond lunged toward the taller man with fingers curled into claws. Come what may, he intended to tighten them around his adversary’s throat until he was thrashing about on the floor in the throes of death. A second before Desmond reached his antagonist, the Scotsman stepped deftly aside, allowing the squire an open path to plow on past.

  A sharp, fearful gasp was promptly snatched from Desmond’s throat as he saw before him the stone stairs down which he had deliberately pushed his half brother to his death months ago. Desperately he strove to untangle his stumbling feet and dig in his heels, but to no avail. A thumping heartbeat later he was teetering on the brink of that very same precipice whereon his lordship had wavered, experiencing firsthand the sudden stark terror that he had once fantasized his elder brother would feel prior to setting into motion his murderous deed. His short arms flailed wildly about in a frenetic attempt to halt his forward momentum. Alas, he couldn’t recover his equilibrium, no matter how desperately he strove to stop himself from falling.

  His wildly thumping heart pounded in his ears and against the inner wall of his chest. In an expanse of time that spanned the chasm between life and death, an eternity flashed before his mind’s eye. Precipitous views, perhaps comparable or mayhap totally dissimilar to those his elder half brother had glimpsed in the swiftly fleeting moments prior to plunging to his death, filled Desmond’s mind with a swiftly burgeoning dread. His breath caught again in a ragged gasp as terror cauterized his very being with his own expanding visions of what seemed his hellish doom. There was only darkness at the bottom of the stairs, yet he had sat through enough burial services for those he had killed to have committed to memory many of the dire warnings in those messages. All too vividly he recalled the tormented ravings of his own mother who had writhed in abject terror of what her delirium had created. Like her, Desmond felt as if he could see demons writhing beneath him in a twisted, indistinct mass and, in the midst of their agony, lifting their arms in plaintive appeal for some sublime angel of mercy to release them from their torment. Other specters from that dark, foul abyss seemed to beckon to him and await his presence with evil, leering grins, as if they were the doomed gaolers of that despicable place. Then, as if the horror he was experiencing weren’t enough to cauterize his very being with terror, whitish vapors seemed to pass before his mind’s eye, forming an image that reminded him of his half brother. Shaking his head sadly, the ghostly apparition pointed downward toward the dark chasm opening up beneath him.

  “I never meant to push you down the stairs, Weldon,” Desmond blubbered as drool dribbled unheeded down his chin. “It was an accident! You have to believe me, brother! I adjure you not to take revenge upon me for what happened that night! You must have mercy! You must let me live! Please have pity!”

  Raven and Abrielle both experienced a strange tingling along their napes as they looked at each other. Never before had they heard so much terror evident in the cries of a person facing death as they were now hearing in Desmond’s desperate pleading.

  Desmond tried mightily to find something to hang on to to halt the momentum that was swiftly building. Briefly, in passing, he braced his forearm against the buttressing stone wall, but his flabby muscles could not sustain his weight for even a fleeting moment. Of a sudden, he was plummeting head over heels in an awkward, flopping descent of the stairs, during the course of which muffled grunts escaped his throat. Then his head slammed into the wall, knocking it strangely askew his neck. Though his tumbling descent continued on unchecked, no further sound issued forth from his flabby throat. Finally his rotund form came to rest beside the newel post on the lower level, and there he lay, his limbs sprawled wide, his mouth gaping open, his eyes staring vacantly upward.

  It seemed an uncommonly long passage of time that he lay sprawled at the bottom of the stairs where he had come to rest after flopping face up on the stone floor. Only a wan glow from flickering candles cast from some distance away lent a vague hint of where Desmond’s body lay. From where they stood on the landing, neither Raven nor Abrielle could see into the murky gloom well enough to determine if he had been knocked unconscious by the fall or if his silence was merely a ploy to draw them near, much like a spider waits for its victims to become entangled in its web before pouncing on them and inserting its deadly venom. If the situation was indeed the latter case, then surely Desmond intended to exact harsh revenge, if not on both of them, then surely on his young bride, ere the night had passed.

  The night had exacted a heavy toll upon Abrielle’s composure, to the degree that she was now shaking uncontrollably. She remembered Desmond calling out his brother’s name…

  Had he seen Weldon’s ghost? Or had that merely been his past murder haunting him?

  Even as Abrielle crept cautiously down the stairs behind Raven, her trembling legs seemed so unreliable that she feared any moment they would collapse beneath her and send her tumbling headlong down the stairs into her bridegroom’s arms. It didn’t matter whether Desmond was alive or dead. The thought of that possibility raised nettling hackles on the back of her neck, the like of which she was sure she would never forget.

  “Please be careful,” she urged Raven shakily, noticing the lower half of Desmond’s right arm was hidden beneath him. Rampant distrust of the man spurred her trepidations to an even higher level. “He may have a dagger hidden within his clothing and is merely waiting for you to draw near. He will surely kill you if he can.”

  Wary of deception, Raven pa
used on the step just above the squire and, with the toe of his boot, nudged the elder’s hip in an effort to evoke some reaction. There was none, not even a groan, only a rippling effect of his body, much like a dead asp being wiggled by its tail.

  Stepping across the grotesquely sprawled form, Raven went down on a knee and pressed two fingers against the flabby throat in an effort to find a throbbing beat. After a moment he decided his search was futile, for if the man had been alive, he certainly wouldn’t have been able to hold his breath long enough to continue any kind of ploy. Yet Raven was wont to consider the many ramifications that Desmond’s death would likely provoke and how best to protect the lady from ugly suspicions being cast her way.

  Sitting back upon his haunches, he lifted his head and peered up at Abrielle. “If I’m na mistaken, my lady,” he said in a softly muted tone, “ye’ve naught else ta fear from the squire. I’m thinking his neck may’ve been broken during the fall.”

  A shocked gasp escaped Abrielle as she clutched a trembling hand over her mouth and sank against the stone wall, sliding bonelessly until she was sitting inches from Raven. Not only was she shaking to the very core of her being, but her heart was hammering so wildly that she couldn’t seem to breathe, much less think.

  “What am I to do?” she queried in a desperate whisper. All she could think of was the financial agreement that would leave her a very rich woman and, at the same time, cast all manner of suspicions upon her as well as on her stepfather.

  “What am I to do?” she repeated, a dozen or more discordant thoughts streaking through her brain. “What will I say happened?” She pressed her clenched hands to her breast. “Surely Desmond’s friends will think I am somehow to blame…how can they not when he only just joined me in our chambers and now we are out here…with him lying dead on the stairs? What if someone saw me running away from him through the halls? How will I ever be able to explain?”

  “Ye’ll explain nothing,” Raven replied.

  Seeing her in such distress tore at his heart, but not so much that he had not already assessed the situation fully. It was unlikely anyone had witnessed what had just transpired. Desmond’s nephew Thurstan had shut himself up in his quarters, as if sulking in protest over the squire’s marriage or mayhap merely biding his time until he could turn the two Scots out on their ears. All the other guests had either left or withdrawn to their own chambers. Raven was in a position to know that since he’d meandered through the halls, seeking to release some of his bitterness after watching the innocent Abrielle pledge to love and honor de Marlé. Her sweet innocence and utter vulnerability had been driven home to him last night when he’d make the mistake of kissing her and he hadn’t been able to sleep knowing how she would be spending this night. It was no accident he had been close by to hear her cries.

  “Explain nothing? How can I not explain?” demanded Abrielle, deeply distraught. She hugged herself tightly, blinking through a blur of tears. “I must think on what to do.”

  Raven reached for her clasped hands and held them in the warm haven of his own as he dragged her to her feet. “Do not think. Just listen. You will return ta the squire’s chambers and remain there till someone brings ye news of his demise.”

  “But…”

  He squeezed her hands. “Shh. Just listen…and trust me.” He saw the way she bit her lower lip and added, “At least trust me for this one night. Considering the squire’s lengthy delay in making his way ta ye, ’twould na be unreasonable for anyone ta suppose ye’d fallen asleep waiting for him ta join ye. Just be assured, my lady, ye’ve done nothing for which ye should feel any shame. De Marlé’s own drunkenness and his hatred of me led ta his death, nothing more. Ye’re innocent of any wrongdoing. Can ye believe what I’m telling ye?”

  She was nearly frantic with fear of what might happen should the circumstances surrounding Desmond’s death be found out. “But I ran from him. I couldn’t bear to be with him. I was afraid…”

  “Ye had good reason ta be fearful, my lady. The man was despicable, caring nary a whit for anyone but himself. He sent out men ta kill us, though they lacked the skill ta appease his murderous bent. What did he care if they didna return alive? All he wanted was my death, and he didna care if they lived or died, as long as the blame was cast elsewhere. He could as easily have killed ye in a fit of temper had ye na fled his chambers. As for that, didna he threaten ta do ye harm whilst he was chasing ye? Who knows what injuries might’ve happened ta ye had ye stayed with the man. By the way he called Lord Weldon’s name, perhaps in the end he cried out in guilt for his part in the man’s death.”

  His words made sense, and she latched on to them with relief. Yet in that frozen moment, she truly considered Raven. Why had he been roaming the halls on her wedding night? He now knew the terrible deed she’d instigated by running away from her lawful husband—would Raven want something in exchange for his silence? She remembered the way he’d flirted with her even though he knew she was almost a married woman. Worse, she remembered his kiss and her own weak protest, and her stomach tightened in worry and shame until she felt truly ill.

  “But what of you? What will you do?” she queried. “Who will you tell?”

  “No one.” He held her gaze through the shadowy gloom. “I’ll be doing the very same…returning ta me own chambers and awaiting the dawning of a new day. Now go.”

  Abrielle turned and hurried toward her late bridegroom’s chambers, feeling as if a thousand eyes watched her from every dark corner. Raven’s words about the dawning of a new day echoed in her head with each step she took. She was as cold as the death that Desmond had just descended to. She was going to keep her silence to protect herself from suspicion. She hadn’t done anything wrong, so why did such guilt fill her? She should be relieved, for she was free of Desmond de Marlé. Yet she still didn’t know how the castle guests would take the discovery of the body—and what they would suspect her of.

  And what was she to do about Raven Seabern? She wished he would depart, that when the new day he spoke of dawned, he would simply be gone, taking his knowledge of this dreadful secret with him. At least part of her wished it. For all the good wishing was likely to do. For better or worse, she knew enough of the man to suspect he would not be so easily dispensed with.

  CHAPTER 9

  A frantic tapping on the chamber door snatched Abrielle abruptly awake after a fretful night of tossing and turning. In light of the many trepidations to which she had mentally subjected herself after her panic-stricken flight through the halls of the keep and, perhaps more acutely, after forcing herself to occupy her bridegroom’s chambers, she had reason to wonder if she had closed her eyes for longer than a moment. Throughout the torturous night, the frightening reenactment of Desmond’s fall had kept running over and over in her mind, plaguing her mercilessly. When she considered the consequences she would suffer if anyone had witnessed her desperate flight or, later, her terrifying confrontation with Desmond in the hallway, she could foresee a trial of demonic proportions taking place in the very near future.

  She’d have no viable defense against the accusations that could be hurled against her. With the possible exception of her mother, Cordelia, and other close friends, everyone in the keep would likely be of the opinion that as a new bride, she should have submitted herself dutifully to her bridegroom, no matter how loathsome and vile she had found him to be.

  But if she had merely dreamt that her bridegroom had been killed tumbling headlong down the stairs, then her torment would surely begin anew. Better she die now by some merciful stroke of fate than be constantly subjected to Desmond’s mental and physical abuse the rest of her life. That would indeed be an earthly hell whence there’d be no escape, at least until one of them died.

  Even as far-fetched as it was for her to fear that Desmond was still alive after Raven had pronounced him dead, she was plagued by images of the man stumbling through the chamber door with blood trickling down the side of his face. She would not find any reprieve, of
that she was sure, for he would then be intent upon beating her senseless for having run away from him.

  Such ominous thoughts sent shards of prickling dread shivering down her spine. Thus, when a frantic rapping of knuckles actually sounded upon the portal, Abrielle was so startled that her heart nearly leapt from her breast. It wasn’t difficult to imagine why she had trouble finding her voice in the following moments.

  “Yes, who is it?” she finally called out in an unusually high-pitched squeak, the best she could manage under the circumstances.

  “M’lady, m’ name is Nedda. I was brought here ta the keep yesterday ta be yer maidservant, but alas, I fear I’ve come this mornin’ bearin’ grave news. Do I have permission ta enter yer chambers, m’lady?”

  Abrielle slumped back upon the pillows as her heightening tensions began to wane to a more tolerable level. Grave news could only mean one thing: affirmation that Desmond was dead. As much as she might have been appalled by her own callousness weeks ago, she felt as if an enormous weight had just been lifted from her mind. Indeed, she likened the announcement to a reprieve from a sentence of death. Who but her own mother could have possibly understood the overwhelming relief she was presently feeling at the realization that Desmond was now dead and that she would not have to submit herself to his hateful dictates or, perhaps more important, to his brutal husbandly attentions?