Chapter 1

AUGUST 24, 1135

She knew his name was Raven Seabern, that he was here at Westminster Castle in the service of his king, and she was aware of something else as well, that the tall, raven-haired Scotsman was staring at her again. But she was the Lady Abrielle of Harrington, daughter of a late Saxon hero of the Crusades, stepdaughter of a Norman knight who had also gained high esteem for his brave years of service in the Holy Land, both to be honored here tonight, and she would give the man's attention the lack of regard it deserved. For here, at the court of King Henry, she was being paid the admiration of so many men. She turned away quickly and nodded to her mother's soft-spoken praise of the interior grandeur of the great hall of Westminster Castle. Two massive hearths dominated the room at each end, with flames roaring higher than a man. Tapestries kept out the chill drafts and depicted scenes of men in battle or men at the hunt. The stitches were colored in royal crimson and gold, the deepest blue of a king's robe, the startling green of dark forest. Never had Abrielle been in a castle so magnificent in its display of wealth and power. And she had been invited by the king himself.

She wanted to savor this happy occasion, as nights such as this had become sadly rare in her life since her father's death and her stepfather's recent difficulties. It was hard to be at ease, however, much less concentrate, with the Scotsman's vivid blue gaze following her with an intensity to which she was not accustomed. And as if his staring were not unsettling enough, the man seemed to possess some mysterious power over her own traitorous gaze, as time and again she found it straying in his direction, despite her resolution not to reward his attention in any way. Thus far, she'd caught herself before indulging in anything more than a swift sideways glance or guarded perusal from beneath the sweep of her long, dark lashes, but in fact she had no need to look his way simply to confirm the fact that he was watching her yet again. It was as if his keen appraisal were tangible; she could feel it, the heat and weight of it, as surely and distractingly as if he were trailing a silken feather over her skin.

He was but one of the many men who had shown interest in her in recent days. Ever since her arrival in London with her mother, Elspeth, and her stepfather, Vachel de Gerard, Abrielle had received the overwhelming regard of noblemen looking for a suitable wife. Though Vachel did not yet have a title, it was assumed that King Henry this night was ready at last to confer such honors on a man known for his heroic deeds on the great Crusade. As a title brought with it lands and income, all knew that afterward, Abrielle's dowry would increase substantially. During her short stay in London, men had come and gone from her stepfather's apartments within Westminster Castle, presenting themselves first to her parents, then to her.

Those who had done so were men of honorable intentions, which it would seem the Scotsman was not, as for all his apparent fascination with her, he kept his distance. Even now he stood beside King Henry on the other side of the great hall. Tall and powerful, decked out in bonnet and plaid, he was of an age perhaps a score and ten, mayhap two or three years beyond. But it wasn't only his height and impressive display of muscle and sinew that caused him to stand out from the rest of the noblemen gathered by the king to converse and await the announcement of dinner. There was about him an air of confidence that he wore as easily as he did his colors.

Or so it seemed to Abrielle, who could hardly judge for certain when she'd never heard him utter a single word or seen him without the distance and clamor of a crowded hall between them. Other men spoke to her of the fine evening air, or pointed out the treasures and paintings displayed beneath the light of thousands of candles, but not the Scotsman. It troubled Abrielle that his reserve caused her even a slight twinge of disappointment. She should not expect more from a stranger, a foreigner born, a man serving as emissary to King David of Scotland, one whose loyalty lay with those who had so often through the centuries ravaged the northern English lands in which she was born and bred.

He was the very last man she should be wasting her time thinking about, especially on a momentous eve such as this. For tonight she was concerned with matters of far more import, as the king's words would seal her fate, determining whether life held for her despair or joy. Sufficient largesse toward her stepfather would bring the maiden a boon dearly sought but rarely won, gained only with a very large dowry. 'Twas the gift of choosing her husband from among the best of the land.

She turned away and back to her stepfather and mother, whose excitement suffused her with pride. So much would be happening this night—reward for Vachel, a loyal servant of the king, but also a poignant ceremony that evoked a heartrending memory for Abrielle. Recognition for Berwin of Harrington's efforts in the Crusade was scheduled to take place this very evening, and King Henry was in agreement that some esteem should be shown to her late father as well as others who had fought in that campaign. At the Norman court, many Saxons had gathered, after spending countless months striving to have some homage bestowed upon their friends and kinsmen who had fought in the Holy Land, especially since the death of Lord Berwin of Harrington. It had been their way of throwing their own gauntlet at the feet of the unsavory Norman who had gone out of his way to provoke her parent and then, upon accepting his angry challenge, humiliate him for his lack of skill in defending himself. To their regret, the Norman had deftly delivered a deathblow that had left Berwin's family and friends grieving over his loss.

Although her stepfather of three years, himself an honorable Norman knight of the realm, had escorted her and her mother to the palace for the event, Abrielle knew the honors that were to be bestowed upon her father's memory were at first tantamount to a glove being flung across Vachel's cheeks. For he had been assured by others among the knights that at last it was his turn for recognition from the king. He had spent nearly a decade defending Jerusalem and been deemed a hero by many.

Abrielle knew numerous individuals who were as deserving of the honor that was to be bestowed upon her father's memory, not just Vachel but also her late betrothed, Weldon de Marlé, another Norman who had proven himself to be among the noblest of heroes during that campaign. Shortly after his return home, he had begun building a keep, during which time he had petitioned her stepfather for her hand in marriage. Sadly, after completing his keep, he had fallen to his death the day before they were to be married, leaving her as bereft as a widow true, but without the sweet memories of love to sustain her.

Dearest Weldon could not be here to see Vachel's reward for service well done, but sadly, his only kinsman, Desmond de Marlé, had somehow managed to be present. How he had done so was difficult to fathom, as he had a repugnant air, being lecherous in the extreme, with eyes full of greed and lust within his too-round face. She could only believe that he had convinced some errant page or servant to accept a generous sum for allowing him access. Several months before they were to be married, Weldon had introduced her to his only kinsman, and thereafter the most unpleasant Desmond had been inclined to dog her heels. Since Weldon's death, the ogre's propensity to intrude into her life had increased by an alarming degree. Little had she imagined after receiving word of Weldon's accident that she would then find herself contending with his dastardly half brother on a fairly frequent basis. Although Desmond had been in dire financial straits before Weldon's death, he was now basking in the wealth her betrothed had left behind and obviously using it in order to get close to her. Now in the heat of the king's great hall, his face glistened with sweat, his overlarge eyes watched Abrielle with a fascination that unnerved her.

She knew she had much to be thankful for in the support of her lifelong friend, Cordelia of Grayson, who with her family was attending the London festivities. Cordelia, a great heiress, received her own share of attention from the men in the hall, and Abrielle hoped that together later this night they would relive the evening and discuss all the men they'd met.

Cordelia watched with great satisfaction as the men of king's court became enthralled with her truly beautiful best friend, one whose appearance was bested only by the kindness of her nature. Her very favorable translucent blue-green eyes, rosy cheeks, and swirling reddish curls made her irresistible to a goodly number of men. Although Lord Weldon had been nigh to two score and five years of age when he had asked the lady to marry him, he had nevertheless been totally smitten by her beauty and eager to wed her. Having known her friend as long and as well as she had, Cordelia was convinced that Abrielle had been genuinely pleased by their betrothal and been looking forward with eager anticipation to their wedding, only to suffer grievous remorse when news of his death had come. It was encouraging to see evidence that her companion had recovered from the tragedy enough to show some interest in other handsome men.

As a blast from a horn announced the serving of the great feast, Abrielle and her parents and Cordelia and her parents, Lord Reginald Grayson and the Lady Isolde, moved to their table just below the king's dais. Abrielle, on display to many, felt that she looked her very best for the ceremony honoring her late father. Although the gown had originally been made for Elspeth for her wedding to Vachel a trio of years ago, after that event it had been carefully wrapped and stored in a coffer. The iridescent beads and bejeweled embroidery of deepest blue delicately adorning the gown from ornate collar to hem made no less than a stunning work of art that had taken numerous servants untold weeks to finish.

That had been when coins and servants had been fairly plentiful. However, in the family's present dire circumstances, it was a rare occasion indeed when mother and daughter could garb themselves in beautiful attire and attend elaborate functions. Prior to his death, Berwin had provided for them very well, and so had Vachel before his father, Willaume de Gerard, had broken a promise he had made to his younger son prior to accepting financial assistance from him in the form of both money and goods. Although Willaume had sworn to return such to his son at the earliest moment possible, he had obviously failed to remember from whom he had received such help, for he had left everything to his elder son, Alain, who had been responsible for his father's financial straits in the first place.

Before tonight's recognition, Vachel had been forced to consider just how dire his own family's future was going to be if he didn't recover some of the help he had also extended to his knights. Like him, they had returned to England to find many of the nobles refusing to give out honors and titles lest the kingdom be impoverished, yet whenever he saw others basking in the wealth and titles they had managed to glean from frivolous deeds, Vachel was wont to resent their refusal to give him a title. Elspeth was everything he had ever hoped to have in a wife, especially since his first one had been less than pleasant and had died in childbirth cursing his name. In view of their deepening impoverishment, he feared he would eventually lose Elspeth's love and respect. But at last tonight would come a reckoning, a reward from the king for his years of hazardous service.

Much to Abrielle's amazement, she recognized the Scotsman among the men talking and laughing with the king, at a place of honor at the head table. As they were awaiting the servant's approach with a warm bowl to wash their hands, Cordelia nudged her. "Aye, there is a man fine to look at."

Abrielle quickly looked away from the head table, feeling a flush bloom in her cheeks. "The king is too old for me to even—"

But Cordelia only laughed and slyly whispered, "You cannot fool me, my dear Abrielle. You are not the only woman looking at that handsome Scotsman, for every last one of us here by now knows that his name is Raven Seabern, and he is an emissary for his majesty, King David of Scotland, an ambassador for his country to this Norman court."

"There is a Scotsman at the head table?" Abrielle asked innocently, then gave a faint smile when Cordelia only rolled her eyes and covered her mouth against escaping mirth. "Cordelia, if there is any man not even worth thinking about, it is one such as he. King Henry may have married King David's sister, and given rise to the peace between our two kingdoms, but you and I both know the deep resentment experienced by our own kinsman in the north. Terrible deeds have been done in the name of both countries on the borderlands, and both you and I are well aware that people do not easily forget."

Cordelia cocked her head, her eyes impish with delight. "Oh, I don't know, Abrielle. Can a woman not look at a handsome man and forget where he comes from? Do not a pleasant brogue and a masculine smile make for a warm summer's evening?"

Abrielle sighed at her friend's playfulness, but inside she experienced a feeling of unease that would not go away. Would tonight's festivities be interrupted by the arguing of prideful men? She saw more than one of her father's neighbors here to honor him, yet giving the head table narrow-eyed looks of anger that could be directed only at the Scotsman.

"Cordelia, I cannot even imagine taking such light pleasure in something so serious," Abrielle said, leaning into her friend so that their parents could not hear. "Even looking at him makes me feel disloyal. There is strife enough in our land betwixt Saxon and Norman; I need not marry someone who might well add to the tension felt by many."

"Did I say anything about marriage?" Cordelia asked.

Abrielle frowned at her, then reluctantly began to laugh. "Nay, you did not. And this only goes to show you that I have been too deep in my cares. Tonight is for enjoyment."

"Then enjoy it, Abrielle," Cordelia replied softly, touching her friend's arm. "You of all women deserve it."

As the dinner was served, the two young women gaped in awe at the stuffed peacocks carried over the servants' heads as they paraded about the hall, still looking like live birds floating in a river. Every course of the meal brought such satisfaction to their mouths and stomachs. They ate more than they spoke, and Abrielle felt a nervous tension thrum through her for the rest of the evening's ceremonies. They could not be certain what would happen, and for the first time since Weldon's death, she felt full of possibilities. She glanced at her mother and stepfather, saw their own hope in the loving looks they gave each other. If Norman and Saxon could come together as they had, then she had to believe that there was a chance for her own happiness.

To her surprise, she could hear much of what went on at the high table, and Cordelia nudged her when a nobleman asked Raven Seabern how he had come by his given name. The deep, gravelly tones of the Scot's voice caused the strangest of shivers across Abrielle's flesh. She knew she should not listen in on the conversation of others, but he so openly played to the crowd that he obviously meant his story to be heard. His voice was sonorous, its rough burr evoking the fierce, wild land from which he'd sprung. She had no choice but to listen.

"When my mother was expecting me, she awoke in the middle of the night ta the sound of pecking on her window. It persisted, it did, until she got out of bed and opened the shutters. In came a raven, as bold as ye please, and cocked his head at my mother." Slipping into a deep brogue, he quoted her. "‘Saints alive,' said she, ‘ye act as if ye belong here,' whereupon the bird flew out and returned a moment later with a tiny branch he had plucked from my mother's rosebush. Considering that my da hadn't returned home, she was a-frettin' he may've been thrown from his horse or waylaid by brigands. She had a servant hitch up a cart and drive her along the lane that my da usually took upon his return home. The raven flew ahead, he did, and ta my mother's surprise, he led them straight ta my da, who'd been crossing the river when the planks fell through the bridge, dropping his steed inta the chilly water and himself firmly betwixt two rocks. My da was nearly frozen from the crisp winds, but our servant pulled him free and started rubbing some life back into his limbs. Thereafter, my mother found good reason ta be thankful for ravens, and decided when I was born ta name me Raven in appreciation."

Everyone within hearing chuckled, including Abrielle, but her soft laugh caught in her throat when, as though hearing her laugh through the chorus of others, Raven suddenly swung his gaze to her and held her in its dark blue depths. Suddenly she was the captive of those fathomless midnight eyes, and while doubtless those around them went on breathing and speaking normally, Abrielle felt as if she and the Scot were alone in the world. Though 'twas most definitely not a feeling to which she was accustomed, some burgeoning feminine instinct deep within her recognized the fiery gleam in his eyes and understood that he felt the same.

"So what happened to the raven in the story?" someone called out, as from a great distance it seemed to Abrielle. Still, it was enough to break the spell.

"Oh, my mother had him cooked for her vittles the very next day," Raven replied, still holding her gaze.

Abrielle's jaw dropped in astonishment, causing Henry's hearty laughter to reverberate throughout the room. The king could not have helped noticing where Raven had been looking and she found herself the object of the royal stare. His Majesty slapped a hand upon the planks of the table. "The lad's teasing you, my lady, never fear."

Abrielle now found herself the focus of even more inquisitive stares. At her side, her mother glanced at her with interest, and her stepfather, on Elspeth's far side, gave her a frown. She knew he was distracted and wished nothing to go wrong this evening.

Abrielle could see the sudden way that Raven's smile changed from open humor to something more guarded, and she was uncertain of its meaning. Had he, too, realized that she was not one for a man such as he? He clasped a lean hand against the folds of plaid that lay across his black-garbed chest and spoke with a more cautious air. "Forgive my teasing, my lady. The raven stayed with us and was as watchful over my da as a dog over a bone. We never knew the reason for the bird's attachment, excepting my da had a twin who drowned a year earlier. He had a raven that would fly alongside his cart. In any case, the bird stayed with us until he died of old age. So ye see, with the proper incentive, even a bird of prey can be tamed."

Abrielle was relieved when he deliberately turned away from her to respond to something spoken softly by the king. But beneath her relief was an uneasiness she couldn't quite place.

At last the meal was over and the king rose to his full height, presiding over his silent hall. Hundreds of noblemen, knights, and their families waited for what the king would announce. Abrielle saw that Vachel took her mother's hand and squeezed gently, as if in support and courage.

The king spoke ringingly of the great deeds of the Saxons who fought in his name, especially honoring Berwin of Harrington, leaving Abrielle feeling proud of her late father. Her mother had tears in her eyes, and Vachel, unlike other men, showed no jealousy. He obviously loved Elspeth enough to share her with her memories. At last the king came to what affected Abrielle's new family and their future.

"There are thousands of men, both Norman and Saxon, who fought in our name against the Infidels overrunning the Holy Land. The crown extends its deepest gratitude and wishes that every man could have every reward due, but we must balance the good of several men against the good of an entire kingdom. England must remain strong, and her treasury with her. So for now our soldiers have our humblest gratitude and the reward of knowing their service was invaluable. Tonight let us celebrate their accomplishments in song and dance."

The king raised his hand and his minstrels began to play a rousing song on pipe and lute, but Abrielle sat numb, full of disbelief. The king's treasury could no longer afford to be depleted, so there would be no reward for Vachel's long years of service? Where others before tonight received wealth and titles, he would have nothing? The lump in her throat felt as if she would never swallow again, and her eyes, so strangely dry one moment, stung painfully the next. She knew others at the long trestle table were staring at them, muttering to each other, discussing her family's future. To avoid their eyes, she fixed her attention on the goblet before her, a gift from her beloved father, presented to her mere months before his untimely death. Fashioned of silver, it bore runic Saxon writing in a band encircling its center. She clasped her right hand around this family legacy, drawing comfort from the reminder of both her late parent and the noble Saxon heritage she shared with him, as well as strength. For now her thoughts could return to her mother and stepfather, and she turned her aching neck to look at them.

They still held hands, as if frozen together. Elspeth's eyes did not glisten with tears; she was too proud for that. Her chin was lifted with hauteur, and her flashing eyes dared anyone to make remarks. Vachel's grim expression said all. This was a blow he had not expected, and her grief for the man who'd saved her and her mother was intense and painful. How would he bear this new burden?

Vachel himself could barely think, so confused were his thoughts. The honor due him at last would never be; the reward he'd justly earned had gone to others, and now there was no more to be had. The king did not look at him, but he could feel the eyes of dozens of others, speculative, curious, even grimly amused, as if his woes served only to mark another tragedy that one could relate to the next gossip avid for another's misery. Though he had been at pains to keep secret the true extent of his problems, the fact that he and his small family were close to impoverishment would fairly soon be known to one and all. He would not be able to compensate his knights, nor even to afford the running of a household. Far more devastating to his pride, and to his heart, was the knowledge that his beloved Elspeth and her daughter would be forced to share the grim consequences of his misfortune, consequences that would be immediate and unavoidable. Everyone present there would realize at this moment that Abrielle would not have the great dowry formerly anticipated and the most worthy of those men seeking wives, those best able to provide the standing and security Abrielle deserved, would turn their attention elsewhere in search of a maiden who would bring wealth with her. His stepdaughter would be undeservedly forced to lower her expectations. Worse, she would be ripe for pursuit by unscrupulous men seeking to use her for her beauty, rather than treating her with the dignity a wife deserved. And it was all too possible the maiden would not find a husband at all, bringing more humiliation and heartache to both her and her mother. For who would want to marry a girl with so little to bring to the union?

How was he to stay in Westminster Castle after this? All he could think of was leaving, absorbing his own pain in peace.

Abrielle took a deep, tight breath, watching blankly as the servants cleared away the remains of the feast, dismantling the trestle tables so that the dancing could begin. Only hours ago, she had been the one men flocked to, the one treated as the great heiress. But men and fate, it seemed, were equally capricious, though men were buffeted about by fate, and she by the fate of men. First her father had died before his time, then her noble betrothed, and now the deeds and decisions of her stepfather and of King Henry himself had shaken the very ground on which she stood, taking from her the one thing that could have given her a hand in making her own future, the right to choose her husband. As she stood with her parents, the men who'd once flocked to her for a morsel of kindness now avoided even her gaze. There were true heiresses to fawn over, and she was no longer one of those. Deep inside her something shifted, and a new insecurity rose to engulf her, though she tried to thrust it away. Was there something wrong with her, that only wealth mattered in taking her to wife?

Cordelia was asked to dance by a young man who only yesterday had remained outside Abrielle's door for hours in hopes of catching a glimpse of her. Cordelia's face was a mask of misery as she glanced at Abrielle, barely holding back tears, but Abrielle did not want her to suffer. She sent her dear friend off with a brilliant smile that stabbed her own heart.

She felt her mother's hand slide into hers, and turned to the woman who bore her, who now suffered as equally for Abrielle's pain as for her own. She grieved for both husband and daughter, and Abrielle had to do what she could to alleviate her mother's suffering.

"Mama, how is my stepfather?"

Elspeth sighed and spoke over the cheerful notes of music echoing through the great hall. "He will not speak to me now, not when others can see. But I know the grief and suffering in his heart. This unfairness to him causes me great sorrow. And as for what it does to you—"

"Speak not of it, not here," Abrielle said, giving her mother a brittle smile that she feared might separate her face. "Everything will work out for the best, and this painful evening will soon be forgotten."

But Elspeth's expression was full of doubt, and Abrielle could look at her no longer without feeling the insidious threat of tears. She looked back at the crowd of dancing men and women, keeping her chin lifted as if she had not a care in the world.

And she saw Desmond de Marlé watching her with open interest that he no longer couched with simpering fawning. Nay, he was not one of those men who looked at her for her wealth; he stared with a lustfulness that sickened her to her soul. She quickly looked away lest he think her gaze an expression of interest.

Was he the only type of man she could attract now? A man who would own her like a rare tapestry and hang her about his great hall for all to view and envy?

And he wasn't the only one, she saw with a quiet feeling of growing horror. Men who skulked about the edges of the hall now moved nearer, as if they were rats after only one small piece of cheese.

Yet Vachel stood guard over her, his face impassive, his eyes watchful, and she knew a feeling of temporary relief. But how long could it last? How could he protect her, when he had so little consequence at court?

And then she saw that Cordelia, who'd been given from one dance partner to the next, was now approached by Raven. Inside, Abrielle felt a tightening she couldn't explain, but quickly asked herself why on earth she should feel slighted that the handsome Scot would choose to dance with a wonderful woman like Cordelia? And Cordelia was not just any woman, but the very one who also happened to be her oldest and dearest friend. Later, in the privacy of her chamber, she would sort out her feelings, but for now, she fashioned a dazzling smile so that no one would suspect the turmoil inside her. She also felt true concern for her friend, as Raven had not yet been introduced to Cordelia, yet approached her nonetheless; such behavior did not speak well of his intentions toward her, for he should have presented himself to her father first.

As she continued to smile and pretend to be enjoying the festivities, she realized that Cordelia and Raven were not dancing, but speaking, quietly and with great absorption, occasionally casting a furtive glance in her direction. Unless her instincts were entirely mistaken, they were discussing her, and when the two suddenly turned to look at her, Abrielle was the one caught staring as her dear friend smiled and the Scotsman frowned. Abrielle held her breath as she wondered what they were about. She had to caution her headstrong friend to be more careful as well, for the Scotsman seemed to be overly bold.

They began to move toward her through the crowd, and with each step she felt dread mixed with a strange chilling excitement that she didn't want to feel. To her horror, Cordelia was doing her the great favor of persuading a man to dance with her, and not just any man, but one whose manner of approaching both young women was questionable. It was true a part of her would not mind a dance with the handsome Scot, only under more appropriate circumstances.

She glanced toward her parents, only to see that they were, quite understandably, speaking intently between themselves. She was obviously doing nothing to attract the Scot, but to her he came, his long stride marked with easy grace and an air of quiet power that made others instinctively move from his path. As he drew steadily closer, Abrielle could not help noting how perfectly his traditional garb fit his frame. It stretched taut across his broad shoulders and chest, and emphasized his lean hips and long legs, as if very talented hands had stitched it with him inside.

It was not his clothes that commanded her attention as he came within a stone's throw, however. An infinitely more gifted artist had chiseled the man himself and she was mesmerized by the raw beauty of his countenance: full dark brows curved above alert blue-black eyes filled with awareness, a slight bump where it had once been broken only added to the appeal of an otherwise perfectly configured nose, and high, sharp cheekbones provided a thrilling hint of the fierce predator. Only his mouth, full and exquisitely shaped, added a touch of softness and…and then he stopped before her.

Cordelia's smile was full of a subtle nervousness that only Abrielle could see. "Abrielle, this gentleman has requested an introduction to you." Neither of the friends spoke aloud about the fact that this was not, could not be, a formal introduction, but they were indeed young women, and eager to learn more of the world, especially when the lesson involved such a devastatingly handsome, devastatingly masculine male. "May I present…"

Raven swept into a bow and spoke solemnly. "Raven Seabern, my lady."

Abrielle managed a curtsy. "I am Abrielle of Harrington," she said, thinking that he was even more skilled at hiding his true feelings than she was. Anyone looking on would believe Raven really had sought to dance with her, rather than being wheedled into so doing by the kindhearted Cordelia.

"And your late father is one of the braw men we honor this night?" Raven asked.

She nodded, not daring to look at Vachel, who also deserved such honor; she was relieved, as well, that her parent had other things to think about in the wake of the king's announcement. Her stepfather would be concerned that she was meeting a man whom he did not know, who had not presented himself to Vachel as custom required. Would he consider it an even deeper dishonor to have a Scot speak to his stepdaughter?

Cordelia placed a hand on her arm. "I asked if there were more like him at home, but he insists he has no brothers."

Raven smiled faintly at Cordelia. "Only my da, but he's become set in his ways since my mother passed on. Ta be sure, lass, ye've the looks that could quicken his heart ta a loud drumbeat were he here."

Abrielle blinked in surprise, not knowing whether to feel affronted. Was Raven flirting with Cordelia brazenly in front of her? She felt greatly conforted when her friend actually giggled in response to the Scotsman's gallant words. "You must understand, sir. I wasn't necessarily asking for any particular purpose." She lifted her shoulders, offering a reason for her question. "I was merely curious."

Abrielle could have groaned at her friend's remark, but just at that moment the musicians began another dance. It was this that Abrielle was truly dreading, as Raven no doubt would feel obligated to dance with her. To refuse outright would publicly dishonor him and herself, but her fierce pride ached to do precisely that. Her fortunes may have changed in the past hour, but she refused to be the object of any man's pity and was frantically searching for a way to balance honor with pride when his deep voice intruded.

"May I have this dance, my lady?"

Abrielle lifted her chin, keeping her voice low so only he could hear. "You honor me with your request, sir, but surely you would enjoy the dance more with your first choice of partner." She gave the slightest of nods toward Cordelia, who'd been drawn into conversation with an older woman on her right.

"I couldna agree more," replied Raven. "Which is why I stand before ye, my lady, hoping beyond reason your kind heart will move ye ta take pity on a clumsy Scots oaf and keep him from appearing a total clod amongst the local talent."

Abrielle couldn't help smiling at how cleverly he'd turned the tables, as she'd been chafing at being the object of his pity and he'd very openly and charmingly made a plea for hers. The man might not have a talent for dancing, as he claimed, but his persuasive skills were of the highest order. Clearly he'd been born to be a diplomat, and when he held out his hand to her, Abrielle couldn't have resisted if she wanted to.

The moment the beautiful young woman was in his arms, Raven Seabern knew he'd made a terrible mistake. He was leading her by the hand into the quickly forming circle as couples young and old merged together. The steps were simple enough to follow as others began to demonstrate their talents and abilities in time with the music, doing a sprightly jig or a tapping of a toe and heel as they moved around in a never-ending wheel of cavorting dancers. Henry's booming laughter evidenced the pleasure he was savoring as he watched his guests enjoying themselves. To be sure, those who had been inclined to think the banquet would be a dull, solemn occasion came quickly to the realization that it had changed into a very lively affair indeed, obviously the sort His Majesty preferred over more somber events such as the one that had just been concluded.

But rather than watching the earlier dancers, Raven had been watching Abrielle far too much this evening, for she was the most stunning creature he had ever seen. From the moment he'd first seen her tonight in the great hall, he'd found it nearly impossible to keep from openly staring. Her red-gold hair tumbled freely as a maiden's should, a shining, flaming glory to the torch that was her beauty. Her pink lips had called to him for kisses; her smooth, creamy skin, glowing beneath the softness of candlelight, had beckoned his trembling fingers to touch and caress. Never before had he felt such a response on merely seeing a maiden.

It was because he'd been watching her so intently that he'd seen the change in her. He'd seen the light of exhilaration so suddenly and utterly extinguished and how, for a fleeting moment, it was replaced with a look of total desolation. It was the sort of look that could break even the hardest heart. It had taken everything in him to avoid her after the banquet, to watch her stand between her parents with quiet courage when no young lords asked her to dance. And that was when he'd realized that her stepfather must have felt it was his time to be honored, and the king's decision had dealt him a blow, thereby affecting this sweet maiden. But how? What secrets did this small family conceal? So taken by her was he that he approached her friend and then her without having been formally introduced to either young woman.

Her young friend Cordelia of Grayson had obviously wanted to help her by presenting Raven as a dance partner He watched her watching him as he approached and saw her every thought reflected in her translucent eyes. Interest, uncertainty, suspicion, dread. All girded with that dauntless pride of hers. She was not the sort to take pleasure in a man trammeled on her behalf and served up to her on a platter…not even by a friend with the best intentions. She clearly had not wanted his attention, and where with another woman he would have felt merely challenged, if he felt anything at all, Abrielle's rejection, delivered with that sweetly slashing smile, cut dangerously deep. Raven rarely encountered an unwilling woman, and rarer still were those occasions when he bothered to exert himself to change her mind. But a man like Raven Seabern got what he wanted, and dance with her he would.

And dance they had, separating as the pattern required, coming together, and joining hands repeatedly. Each time it was as if he were burned, scorched by her beauty and softness. He didn't like feeling as if his own control meant naught. At one point, he lifted her high, his big hands spanning her fragile rib cage. It was then that he saw the tinge in her face and sensed her breathing stop and felt a momentary wonder: Could she, too, be feeling the lure of deep attraction?

The dance was over too soon, and all he could do was escort her back to her parents. Her mother gave him a smile, her stepfather a simple nod, and Abrielle a deep curtsy. And then she wouldn't look at him. After that moment they'd shared on the dance floor, he was even more intrigued by her reticence. He wondered what it portended, though he doubted whether he would ever know for sure, for on the morrow he was yet again to be off in the service of his king, was not even cognizant of when he would return to his beloved highland home.

He left her with a quiet farewell and yet found himself unable to stop watching her. Though he knew her stepfather more than capable, it was obvious the man had an air of distraction this evening as he considered his own future. And unsavory men continued to watch Abrielle. One in particular, squat and overweight, approached Abrielle and bowed to her. When Vachel stepped forward to confront the man, Abrielle laid a hand on his arm and went with the stranger quietly, though it was obvious his touch distressed her. Raven would have to keep watch this evening over this one he perceived as a threat to the maiden.

The difference in dance partners was stark, Abrielle realized in dismay. Raven had moved with the gracefulness of a knight, a man used to wielding a sword as he circled an opponent. Desmond de Marlé, her late betrothed's half brother, lurched through the sweet rushes scattered over the floor. His wet, hot hand gripped hers too hard, and when the dance called for him to touch her waist, she could swear he squeezed as if he were checking the tenderness of a piece of fruit. His eyes devoured her with greed, and she would have run from him, but she did not want Vachel to feel compelled to defend her.

"I will call on you tomorrow, my lady," Desmond said in a confident voice.

"I—but you cannot, my lord," she said, scrambling for appropriate reasons. "My stepfather may have plans that he has not shared with me."

"I know what happened to him tonight," Desmond said, not bothering to lower his voice.

Abrielle cringed, wondering who could overhear his loud voice. "Please, my lord—"

"He might need the friendship of a man of influence such as me."

His insistence on pushing himself on her only served to strengthen her courage. "My lord, I must insist that you speak with my stepfather."

"Oh, believe me, girl, I will."

When the music ended, he left her on the dance floor instead of escorting her back to her parents. When she made her way to them, her mother began, "Abrielle, that horrid man—"

Vachel interrupted with a stern voice. "My lady wife, speak not a word that others may hear."

Biting her lip, Abrielle moved back into her place between them. Oh, how she wanted this evening to be over, but that would not put an end to their troubles. She would continue to see worry in her mother's eyes and cold pride in Vachel's. A hollow sickness inside Abrielle could not be appeased.

And to make matters worse, Raven was watching her again. There was no look of flirtation in his eyes as he gave so many other women, confirming her suspicion that their dance had meant nothing to him, but then, why should it have, as she was no longer worth his notice. He had focused his attention on her when all still thought she would soon have a great dowry, then made her acquaintance inappropriately once Vachel's hopes for a title had been dashed; she had to ask herself what the Scots emissary knew of her stepfather's dashed dreams. Nonetheless he had danced with her, but seemed to have judged her unworthy after having spent some time with her; truly men were beasts, for only a beast could show such interest in her, then withdraw it so cruelly after deeming her of insufficient value without property.

She tried to distract herself by watching His Majesty, who bade a servant to crisscross a pair of swords on the floor before directing the musicians to play an appropriately swift ditty on the lutes. To her surprise, Raven allowed himself to be drawn reluctantly forward. What could he be about?

After a sweeping bow to the king, he began a high-stepping dance over the swords. It was a dazzling display of footwork as Raven struck toe and heel to the floor with amazing quickness, weaving his way over and around the weapons, the clicking of shoe leather on stone its own kind of music. A clumsy Scottish oaf indeed, thought Abrielle, enthralled, and she was not alone, for the performance drew an ever growing audience, including many young maidens whose sharp, feminine gasps were interspersed with delighted giggles whenever his kilt flew dangerously high.

"My goodness, I don't think he's wearing anything underneath it," Cordelia gasped in shock as she joined Abrielle within the circle of spectators. In spite of the fact that the fair-haired woman's cheeks were evidencing a deepening blush, she was closely attentive to the swishing movements of the wool.

Abrielle backed away, allowing others to swarm in front of her, confused by the rising feeling of warmth and excitement brought on by watching him. Raven only put on a display to shock the court, not her personally. She thought Cordelia would remain near to watch the entertainment, but instead her friend drifted with her, biting her lip.

"So just tell me what is on your mind," Abrielle said patiently, recognizing Cordelia's pensiveness.

"I saw you dancing with Desmond de Marlé."

Abrielle's only answer was a shudder.

"I heard people talking about him. Do you know he's had two wives, both of whom died in childbirth?"

"Those poor women," Abrielle murmured.

"In more ways than one. It seems he received money from each wife, and then when Weldon was killed falling down the stairs of his newly finished keep, Desmond inherited his true fortune. Doesn't that seem suspicious to you?"

Abrielle searched her friend's face, feeling ill. "Do people think Desmond had anything to do with Weldon's death?"

Cordelia shrugged. "It is only speculation, but he did benefit the most."

"And I lost my future," Abrielle added with a sigh. Then she took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. "But I cannot live in the past. A new opportunity will come, I am sure of it."

Cordelia's expression was too sympathetic, and Abrielle had to look away before tears threatened again.

At last her mother and stepfather approached with the intention of retiring. An evening that began with joyous expectations had plummeted into one of numb despair. Cordelia and her family left the castle, and even Elspeth and Abrielle found themselves alone in their chambers when Vachel expressed a need to walk off his frustrations.

Abrielle stood hugging herself as her mother sadly withdrew into the bedchamber she shared with Vachel and began to undress. Abrielle suddenly realized that she had left behind the drinking goblet given to her by her father. It had to be somewhere in the great hall. She gave no thought to her own safety in her panic at losing such a precious memento. Anxious to retrieve the item before it was forever lost to her, she dashed out of their chambers, in her haste failing to inform her mother that she would be returning to the great hall. Once she reached it, she felt relief to see the goblet where the servants had placed it when taking down the trestle tables so the attendees could dance. With it once again in her grasp, she hurried toward the stairs, not feeling the presence of another until it was too late.