Chapter 14

Where would ye like me ta sit?" Raven asked.

Abrielle did not answer immediately. She did not need to stare at the sweat-damp fabric clinging to every sinew and bulge on his broad chest to know that being alone with him was worse than unwise, it was dangerous. Yet her imprudent gaze refused to be steered in any other direction. She was seldom as certain of anything as she was that she would live to regret it if she did not that very instant announce that she was very sorry, but there was no need for him to sit at all since she had changed her mind and he would have to have his wounds tended elsewhere. But the blood on his face was now dripping onto his very distracting chest, and more dried blood was visible through the numerous rips and tears, and regardless of the danger she might be in, she could not in good conscience let his injury fester.

"You may sit on the bench by the fire," she told him finally, using her most no-nonsense tone. "And, if it doesn't pain you too much, you might swing the cauldron over the flames. There is already water inside."

He did as she asked, and then began to unlace his gambeson.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

He peered at her over the collar, his dark brows raised. "Did ye na say ye would treat my wounds?" She nodded at him, somewhat confused by his question.

"Ye would prefer ta tend them through my garments?" he inquired, eyeing her soberly, as if that were a perfectly acceptable choice.

"Nay, I only…I thought…I'm sorry, of course you must remove your garment."

He began to do so and winced.

"You need help," she observed, starting toward him without pausing to think.

"Mayhap," he agreed. "I could send for my squire. I can manage the unlacing, but the thing is stiff with blood in places and difficult ta lift over my head."

Abrielle bit her lip and weighed the awkwardness of undressing him against the risk of spending more time alone with him, sweaty and half dressed, as they waited for his squire to be summoned and arrive.

"No need," she said, deciding in favor of haste in the matter. "Since I'm already here, I can help in your squire's stead." She endeavored to sound brusque and efficient, rather than reveal her true state, which was one of fear, apprehension, and, she had to admit to herself, excitement. She didn't want to be alone with him like this, helping him disrobe, feeling all shaky and strange inside.

She moved only close enough to touch him with outstretched arms, but he swung around, cutting that cautious distance in half, as he lifted his arms over his head. Grasping the bottom edge of the loosened gambeson, she tugged upward.

"Ouch." It was far more bark than whimper, but more than enough to cause Abrielle to stop the moment the word was uttered.

"I think," he said, sidling even closer, close enough for her to feel his breath on her neck when he gazed up at her, "that 'tis best we do this very, very slowly."

As innocent as she was, Abrielle was woman enough to deduce that the sudden heaviness of his breathing was not due to pain alone. He was as disturbed by their nearness as she was; she heard it in his rough-edged burr and saw it in the heat in his eyes.

"That is one approach," she acknowledged, swaying toward him just long enough to secure her grip on the garment. "But I am of the mind 'tis best to rip it off in one motion. Like this," she added, doing so.

"God's soul, woman," he muttered.

"I'm sorry to have caused you pain, but it really is best over and done with." She eyed him worriedly. "Did I hurt you overmuch?"

His attempt to scoff ebbed into a cough. "Just a wee bit, lass. And 'tis grateful I am for your care, no matter the cost. 'Tis an angel of mercy ye are."

He was left with only a linen shirt and the leggings worn beneath his chain mail. The shirt had a dark patch of blood across his ribs, and it stuck to his skin when he moved. He loosened the laces and was about to pull the shirt off when Abrielle stopped him. After dipping a cloth in the warm water, she gently pressed it over the wounded area, moistening the shirt until she was satisfied she could pull it away from his skin easily.

"Stand up," she said. He obeyed and Abrielle took the open front of his shirt in her hands. "I promise it won't hurt this time."

Slowly, her touch whisper-soft, she floated the shirt away from his body, leaving him standing before her naked from the waist up. She had to close her eyes until she remembered how to breathe. Though there was a wide scrape across his ribs that even now continued to bleed slowly, she could only see the width of his chest and the smooth, curving slopes of his muscles. She knew he was looking down at her, but she did not dare meet his gaze.

It was when a drop of blood from his face splashed onto his chest that she was brought back to herself. "You may sit now," she told him, her own knees feeling weak, and when she, too, was seated, she dipped a clean cloth into the heated water and pressed it gently to his face.

"Hold this here while I see to your ribs. I do not think the wound there is so deep."

"Aye, I took a blow from a lance. More of a scrape than anything. The bruise will be bonny."

"It already is," she said drily. She decided to pretend he was simply any other man, one of many she'd treated in the past, but the ruse just did not work. Touching his skin made her feel things she was sure no decent maiden should feel. She could hear his breathing as if it were her own, smell the tang of his smooth skin, and see the pulse beating in the intriguing hollow of his throat.

She quickly stepped away and opened her cache of herbs. Grinding several together, she made a paste and spread it across the wound, before winding long strips of fresh linen about his torso to keep the area clean.

"You can don your shirt," she said with great relief when it was done.

"Over my face?" he asked, the bloody towel still pressed to his cheek.

She felt foolish and knew her own face was afire. "My apologies. I'm so tired that I cannot keep my mind on the task at hand."

"Ah. Then 'tis but fatigue I feel when I'm near ye and every other thought and care turn ta naught?" he asked softly.

"How should I know what it is you feel?" she snapped, and though she tried to scowl as she reached for the towel in his hand, her touch was gentle. She carefully pulled it away from his face and washed the wound, troubled to see that it still bled freely. "I fear I'll need to stitch this closed."

"Or burn it," he suggested matter-of-factly, shrugging when she looked aghast. "I've had that done before."

"It has not been done by me, and not on your face."

"So, ye dinna want ta ruin my handsome looks?"

"You flatter yourself," she retorted. "Have you considered that I do not want to be the cause of making you even more frightening to animals and small children?"

"Needle and thread, it is," he agreed.

She was thankful for the rare lighthearted moment, hoping to hide the effect he truly had on her. Something had changed between them, or mayhap something had changed inside her. 'Twould take more thought to sort it out than she could hope to muster with the double distraction of his body that she'd just watched perform feats of strength and daring, and the expression of undisguised interest on his darkly handsome face. It would be easy to let herself be carried away at moments such as this, if not for the fact that his easy charm was a reminder of the time he hadn't bothered to be nearly so amiable to her. Say what he might in defense of his treatment of her on their first meeting, of his refusal to court her when he could have, a woman in her position needed to be certain of a man, and she could never be certain about Raven. She could not allow herself to forget that only now was he choosing to use his charm on her, that he'd not deemed her worthy before.

"This will hurt," she said as she settled near him with the threaded needle in hand.

"I'll manage, lass," he replied, his tone warmly reassuring.

The only way she could comfortably work on his face was to stand above him. But he was so large that even with him seated on the bench, she barely had to bend over to work on him. She was hesitant when first she had to push the needle into his flesh, but he didn't even flinch, so she quickly pulled it through the other side.

His eyes were so blue as he looked at her, his lashes so dark and long, she simply had to force herself to think about something else; she decided to comment on the tournament, saying, "My stepfather tells me that Thurstan's attack on you was a legal maneuver."

He waited until she was pulling on the thread to say, "'Twas, therefore I knew ta be prepared, especially with one such as he."

"But the rest of the field had been competing all day. To just wait until the end like that…"

"But he didna win that way, because he couldna collect enough captives."

"I don't think he cared about winning as much as attacking you."

"Concerned about me, lass?" His low voice rumbled through him, through her hands that rested on his face.

"I'm concerned about fairness," she answered primly.

"Och, there's nothing fair in war."

"But this wasn't war!" she remarked hotly.

"It's always war ta men like Colbert. All part of the game, ye know."

She held the needle back to study him. "How can you take this all so blithely, when you could have been killed?"

"And would ye have grieved for me?"

"As I would for any fallen champion," she told him. "There. 'Tis done. And with your handsome face more or less unaltered."

He laughed softly as she looked about quizzically. "Shears…shears," she murmured to herself. "I know you're here somewhere."

"Use your teeth," urged Raven.

She rolled her eyes. "It would tug on your stitches."

"I can bear it…can ye?"

There was a dangerous gleam in his eyes and Abrielle knew he was thinking about how close she would have to get to him to do as he was daring. She wanted to curse the blood of the bold Berwin of Harrington that coursed through her veins, rendering her so often incapable of tamping down the desire, indeed, the need, to meet a challenge offered. As if in slow motion, she bent forward, gripping the knot with her fingers to keep the tension away from his face, then bit the thread in two. His moist breath on her neck was hot and thrilling. She felt his arms come around her hips and stiffened, pushing against his shoulders.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, bothered by how breathless her voice sounded.

"I'm about my prize now."

"But it should be given in public, where all can see that I fulfilled my part of the bargain."

"Worry not, lass, they'll assume I took my kiss in private."

Swooping an arm around her shoulders, he lifted her up and laid her across his lap as his open mouth plummeted down upon hers. Overcome and overwhelmed, answering his kiss with all the passion she was capable of exhibiting, Abrielle yielded to the intrusion of his tongue, welcoming it tentatively with her own before their passions intensified to a flaming fire that burned within them. She became as hungry for him as he was for her and found herself clinging to him as if they were the only couple in the world. She felt compelled to press close against him as her exploring fingers stroked over his back.

Raven had known that she would be passionate; his fear was that after all her denials, she would not be capable of feeling it for him. She tasted of the sweetest strawberries, all warm and moist, making him think of pressing for more than just a kiss.

Suddenly Abrielle gasped and scrambled off his lap, her breasts rising and falling as she struggled to breathe. "That was…that was…cruel and unfair."

"How so?" he countered. "Ye freely offered a kiss ta the winner, and I always win." His blue eyes were now darker than ever, the color seemingly taken from the most tempestuous of ocean waters.

She cursed herself for having fallen, however briefly, under his spell. "'Twould serve you well to remember that ‘always' is a long time. You'd be wise not to take my lapse in good sense here today as a sign. I will never marry you, for I cannot trust you. Count yourself fortunate to have won the tournament purse, because you'll never have my possessions, you'll never have me." This last she spat out, her blue-green eyes flashing, her wrath that of an outraged lioness.

She turned her back on him and ran, wishing she could closet herself in her own bedchamber, but knowing she had to play the hostess at the final feast of the tournament. Throughout the evening, she smiled and said all the correct things, but she felt like a puppet, as if someone else were telling her what to say. It took every effort not to look at Raven, not to burst into tears of sorrow and anger. She should be choosing among her suitors, but their faces blurred together, their smiles seemed false, and she could not think what to ask to learn about each of them. She felt like a failure, and knew by her mother's troubled frown that her parents were worried about her.

OVER THE NEXTtwo days, the castle once again emptied of visitors, and Abrielle avoided the question of choosing her husband. She knew her mother and Vachel were being patient with her, a kindness she truly appreciated. She made lists of names, and wrote down the reasons each man would make a good husband, but every time she thought of exchanging a wedding kiss, she saw herself in Raven's arms.

Sleep came with difficulty, and on the third night, she thought she would be exhausted enough to finally sleep until dawn, but in the wee hours of the morning she came slowly awake, hearing a muted weeping, interspersed with cries of pain, drifting from the corridor just outside her chambers.

A sudden fear that some sort of tragedy had happened and that her mother was at her door, needing to speak with her, sent a cold chill shivering down her spine. Desmond's fall down the stairs was too fresh in her mind to imagine that such a thing couldn't happen again, perhaps even to one she fervently loved.

Frantic to learn who was weeping and what had prompted it, she struck sparks against a flint to light several tapers in the candelabrum beside her bed before slipping a robe over her nightgown. Upon snatching up the fixture, she held it aloft to light her way as she hurried into the antechamber. For the sake of caution, she pressed an ear against the door, but all seemed quiet, at least at the moment.

"Who is out there?" she queried.

"M'lady, don't ope…!"

Recognizing her maidservant's voice, she set aside the candleholder and then paused as she heard what sounded like a slap, followed by a muted groan. Abrielle's hackles stood up, for it seemed evident that some brutish knave was cuffing Nedda about.

Appalled, she lifted the oak plank from its niches and, after hurriedly setting it aside, snatched the portal open. Her eyes immediately fell on Nedda, who was garbed in a robe and nightgown. At the moment the woman was lying on her side on the floor. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth and across her cheek. Standing behind the woman was an enormous oaf whose face was badly scarred and heavily bearded. A voluminous bush of gray-streaked black hair flowed around his massive shoulders.

An intensely foul odor drew her gaze askance. A startled gasp was wrenched from her as she espied a shorter, somewhat wider version of the huge lummox who towered over Nedda pressed against the wall beside her door. Like his companion, his gray-streaked hair was so wild and woolly that it was impossible to tell where his hair ended and his facial bush began. For barely an instant he grinned at her with rotting teeth fully in evidence, and then, as she whirled about in a frantic effort to return to her chambers, he leapt forward to seize her.

Retreating with a startled gasp, Abrielle sought to slam the door in the brigand's face, but he pushed it inward with such force that she was sent stumbling across the antechamber. Crashing into a chest near her bedchamber door, she experienced a sudden, sharp pain as her head hit the stone wall behind it, nearly knocking her senseless. Stunned, she slithered over the top of the chest, past its decorated doors, and finally came to rest on the rug. From there, she peered as if through a long tunnel at the short, rotund beast who sauntered near.

Leaning his head aslant to align his face with hers, the man grinned at her in obvious amusement. "Me name's Fordon, if 'n ye be a-wonderin'." He threw a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the larger oaf standing over Nedda. "That's Dunstan."

"What do you want?" Abrielle mumbled, making every effort to clear her befuddled senses as she pushed herself upright against the decorative chest. It was a piece that Lord Weldon had brought back from the Crusades. She had never realized before how hard and solid it was until forced to confront it head-on.

In the hall beyond the open doorway, she saw the taller oaf, Dunstan, grasp Nedda by her nightcap-covered hair and, with one hand, haul her to the tips of her toes. With an amused chortle, he sent the servant whirling into the antechamber, where, after several rotations, she fell into her mistress. Abrielle had been making every effort to get to her feet in spite of the fact that her senses had been knocked badly askew. Once again she was sent sprawling, this time in a crumpled heap beneath Nedda.

Frustrated, bruised, and seething with rage, Abrielle waited as the servant extricated herself and finally reclaimed some measure of her sorely bruised wits as she sat upright against the chest again, whence she glared at the two brutes who grinned back at them. Abrielle was definitely in a mood to serve vengeance upon the obnoxious pair, but hadn't yet figured out how she could manage that. At the same time she was wont to wonder how they would enjoy being buried piecemeal in the decorated chest that had recently caused her so many bruises.

Abrielle extricated her hand from her tangled clothing and wiped the back of it across her bruised mouth, but paused at the moisture she felt. Glancing down, she found her knuckles smeared with blood.

Nedda readily tore a strip from the hem of her own nightgown and folded it over several times. In spite of being badly bruised from the beating she had received at the hands of Dunstan, she pressed it firmly against her mistress's lip in an effort to stem the bleeding. Tossing a glare toward the oafs, the servant curled her lips in rampant disdain as she gave the men a scathing perusal. "Ye vile brutes! Ye both aught ta be hanged!"

Fordon chortled. "Instead, we're bein' paid ta take ye both for a little ride."

Abrielle and Nedda looked at each other warily, evoking another laugh from Fordon, who was obviously enjoying their subjugation.

Softly murmuring her appreciation for Nedda's care without averting the glare she bestowed upon the hairy oafs, Abrielle correctly sized them up as slovenly bullies. "Had I a broom, I'd be dusting your fat backsides good and proper," she muttered in a low, contemptuous tone. "You both smell as putrid as you act. 'Tis certain once you take your leave, these chambers will have to be aired out for at least a fortnight."

"Aye, m'lady," Nedda agreed, admiring the younger woman's spirit. Glowering at the men, she curled her upper lip in a sneer. "Though I'm thinkin' 'twill be at least six months afore their stench is gone."

"What do you want from us?" Abrielle demanded abruptly.

"Ye'll find out soon enough," Fordon replied with a black-toothed smirk.

The candles cast ominously huge shadows of the pair on the walls and ceiling. If possible, Dunstan's appearance was more unsightly than his shorter companion. An ugly scar slanted across his pudgy face, puckering one eyelid nearly closed before sweeping downward to draw his upper lip into a perpetual sneer. Unlike Fordon, he was so tall and muscular that she had cause to feel like a tiny bird perched on a twig before a monstrous man.

Fordon leaned down to smirk at Abrielle. "Now ye'd best be mindin' yer manners, m'liedy, or else I'll be clobberin' ye real hard. And who's ta say one as grand as yerself will be survivin' such a beatin'?" Chuckling malevolently, he shrugged his fat, sloping shoulders. "I'm thinkin' maybe not."

Lowering eyelids disdainfully over a stony stare, Abrielle warned, "If you kill me, you can be assured the villain who sent you will never get his hands on what he's seeking, 'Tis a simple fact, not a frivolous threat."

Fordon smirked again. "What be he seekin', m'liedy?"

"If you have no idea, then I shan't be enlightening you. I only suggest that you consider the consequences to yourself and your companion should you kill us. You'll likely be risking your own death by enraging those who sent you."

Abrielle was convinced that Thurstan was behind this intrusion into her life, no doubt to force her to renounce all claims to Desmond's wealth, or perhaps even to marry her still. As for her smelly captors, they seemed rather lame-witted, too much so for her to believe them capable of planning this abduction. She trusted them no further than she could outdistance a wild boar, but she trusted Thurstan even less.

Chortling at her chary look, the cloddish fellow retreated several steps and then abruptly whipped a long dagger from the sheath he wore at his side, snatching startled gasps from both women.

He sniggered. "Scared ye, didn't I!"

Abrielle had little trouble mistaking the pleasure Fordon was deriving by tormenting them, making her wish she had the ability to bring him up short with a double-fisted poke in the nose. At times such as these, she could understand why her father had sought restitution from his enemies, even at the cost of his life.

Having endured the brigand's mischievous humor, Abrielle was wont to bestow a deliberately bland gaze upon him. "May we be permitted to know what you intend to do with us?"

Badly decayed teeth came into view again as the burly man grinned back at her. "We're gonna take ye ta a place far from here, where ye'll have time ta think about what ye care for most, yer life or the riches ye wheedled from the squire."

"I wheedled nothing from the squire," she retorted sharply. Although at first she had thought the filthy brigands to be ignorant of what Thurstan was after, Fordon had obviously been playing her along, possibly hoping to learn how much wealth was at stake. "I never wanted to marry Desmond de Marlé, and for that reason, you can be assured I took no part in drafting the marriage agreement or any discussion involving his wealth."

"That don't matter none now, seein' as how he's dead, and ye gots the bloomin' treasure he was a-hoardin'. Problem for ye is, there be those what's considerin' all of it theirs! Right down ta the last bloody coin."

"By your reference to the last bloody coin, I must assume you intend to kill me in order to get it," she accused acidly. "Well, you can tell Thurstan and the other culprits with whom he's in league 'twill be impossible for them to get their hands on what they're wanting if I am slain."

"Ye jes' don't understands what I'm tellin' ye, do ye?" the oaf chided, shaking his head as if lamenting that fact.

Leaning forward again, he pushed his huge face close in front of hers as he displayed his black, rotting teeth in a leering sneer. "If 'n ye don't do what he wants, he's gonna let me start carvin' ye up inta tiny pieces. Then, if ye still refuse, he's gonna let me have the pleasure of killin' yer mother slow and painful like right in front of yer eyes. That's what I do best."

With that ominous boast, the ogre straightened and, holding up the oversize blade, thoughtfully examined it in an all-too-obvious effort to intimidate her. Although Abrielle had trouble subduing the cold dread that had settled around her heart at his threat to harm her mother, she refused to allow them the pleasure of seeing her fear. Surely Thurstan was merely trying to make her so frightened that she would willingly agree to marry him.

Casting a glance toward his companion, Fordon jerked his head to indicate Abrielle. "Tie this one up good and proper. The maid can tote their belongin's ta the cart. If needs be, we'll cut off her fingers and send 'em back as a warnin' ta this one's folks." Having evoked a startled gasp from the servant, he leered down at her and then promptly threw her upon the bed. "Her kin'll likely be eager ta stop us afore we hack the rest of the hag inta tiny pieces."

Dunstan laughed. "That'll scare 'em, all right."

"I'm goin' down now ta see if 'n m'liedy's carriage is awaitin' her," Fordon announced with a chortle.

In Fordon's absence, Abrielle found herself facing the towering boor. At his approach, she kicked at him and struggled frantically.

"If 'n ye wants ta go on breathin', m'liedy, ye'll be needin' ta behave yerself," he snarled, thrusting a pillow over her face and holding it down until she was forced to give up her struggles. "That's more like a liedy should be behavin' herself. Now do what I says or I'll be layin' me fist so hard inta yer face, ye'll be seein' only the backs o' yer eyelids for some time ta come."

Abrielle found herself shoved facedown upon the bed and her wrists clasped in an oversize hand. She sought to thwart the man's efforts, but he braced a heavy knee in the middle of her back and held her down as he bound her wrists and ankles. At last he caught her arm and hauled her to her feet. Tied as tightly as she was, she had little choice but to stand submissively as he wrapped a quilt about her and pushed a dirty rag in her mouth. Leather cords were then wound several times around the quilt, securing it over her torso.

Trussed up much in the manner of a plucked goose for a roasting, Abrielle was tossed back upon the bed, where she was forced to wait in apprehension. However, it wasn't long before she realized her bonds weren't nearly as tight as the man had likely meant them to be, giving her some reason to hope.

Dunstan leaned toward Nedda as he displayed black rotting teeth in a sinister grin. A lock of his long, frizzy hair fell forward over his shoulder, swinging past the servant's nose, causing her to wrinkle it in rampant distaste before turning aside. "We'll soon be takin' ye and yer mistress for a long ride, and should the two o' ye misbehave even a mite…well, I'm here ta make sure ye both regrets it." For added emphasis, he held the sharp blade up close in front of Nedda's face until her eyes were fastened on the instrument. Then he twisted it, lending emphasis to the movement with an impromptu sound through the gaps between his teeth. Nedda understood only too well that she'd be killed if she caused him any trouble. Reluctant to allow the brutish man further satisfaction in his quest to frighten her, she nodded once, no more, and gave him a level stare for good measure.

Nedda was instructed to pack a small satchel of warm clothing, slippers, and necessities for her mistress and another for herself. In spite of the heavy muck clinging to the worn soles of his boots, he stretched himself out upon the counterpane. Taking no notice of its fine needlework, he crossed his ankles as he watched her pack. Casually, he plied the point of his blade beneath his nails. Abrielle was sure his only intent was to keep their eyes fastened on the shiny blade, as if to lend emphasis to the threat the weapon might pose to them.

Upon Fordon's return, Abrielle was swept from the bed and flung over the brawny shoulder of the taller brigand. Nedda followed closely behind, forced to carry the satchels.

Abrielle was carried ever deeper into the nether regions of the keep. Torches had recently been lit to provide illumination along the stone passageways, evidencing the fact that their abduction had been planned well in advance, perhaps according to Thurstan's instructions.

The iron door at the rear entrance of the keep had been made to withstand any siege an enemy brought against it. Lord Weldon had insisted upon its strength and durability during the planning and building of the stone structure. However, that premise would succeed only when such forces came from outside, not from within the keep itself.

Abrielle was rudely dumped onto a pile of quilts across the corridor from the rear portal. Though she peered intently to see some hint of the moon or the stars beyond the opening, there were none to be seen. Yet, prior to slipping into bed, she had sat for a time within the cushioned cubicle near her bedchamber windows, gazing through the protective iron grille at the wealth of stars visible in the night sky.

A few moments passed before it dawned on her that a black shroud was hanging over the doorway, no doubt in an attempt to prevent anyone outside from espying the light. The presence of a lantern would have likely seemed strange in that area of the keep, which seemed to lend viable support to the idea that her kidnapping had been planned well in advance. Had Thurstan been preparing for this event, even as he ate her food and competed in her tournament?

The candles in the lanterns were snuffed prior to the covering being lifted from the doorway. Immediately moonlight filtered into the lower depths of the keep, lending a silver gleam to the bearded faces of her captors. Upon being swept over Dunstan's shoulder once again, Abrielle was carried through the portal and then dumped into a cart that awaited them, causing her to wince in pain in spite of the quilt that had been tied around her. Her displeasure was not the only one evidenced during that moment, for the shaggy, short-legged steed that had been harnessed to the cart had evidently been dozing until startled awake by the sudden jolt of her weight. He leapt forward, testing the length of his tether.

Feeling decidedly bruised, Abrielle glared after the huge oaf, who gave her no further heed as he strode back through the opening. Next, Nedda emerged and was instructed to toss their satchels of clothing into the cart before climbing in. Then she was bound and gagged in much the same manner as her mistress.

Dunstan and Fordon returned briefly to the interior to retrieve the tallow lanterns and, upon emerging from the keep, tucked them into the end of the cart, whereupon they mounted a pair of shaggy steeds. A third man emerged from the postern door with a pair of pillows and quilts that he tossed into the cart before closing the door. He proved solicitous enough to tuck the pillows beneath the women's heads before covering them with a quilt. Upon freeing the horse, he climbed into the driver's seat and slapped the reins, setting the cart into motion. As his two companions set off down the narrow lane meandering away from the keep, he followed.

Abrielle grimly wondered if she would ever see her family again. She tried to find comfort in picturing their faces and reminding herself how worried they would be when they discovered her gone and how they would spare nothing to find her and bring her home safely. But as time passed and the uncomfortable journey wound on and on, their beloved images faded to make room for another, this one with deep blue eyes, high, sharp cheekbones, and a haunting smile. He would not be smiling when he heard the news of her abduction. Imagining how he would react made her shiver and gave her courage. Whatever else he was, at this blackest of moments, Raven was a strong, unwavering gleam of hope for her to cling to in the darkness.