Chapter 3

The wedding was only three days away, and Abrielle was grateful that she had her dear friend Cordelia with her in this time of fear and worry. She needed someone to confide in, someone to distract her from her cares. She was to wed Desmond immediately after the annual de Marlé hunt, so she had no wish for the entertainment to be over quickly.

"According to the men, the signs point to a good hunt," Abrielle remarked dismally as she and Cordelia ventured forth from de Marlé's keep.

Cordelia cast a glance awry toward the crowded courtyard whence they had just made their departure. "With so many of Lord Weldon's friends and previous participants protesting Desmond's new regulations and threatening to leave if the previous ones aren't reinstated, 'twill be surprising if there even is a hunt."

Abrielle shuddered at the thought of the wedding taking place even earlier.

Already several hunters who had been Weldon's closest friends had stalked out in an outraged huff over the new rules that Thurstan, Desmond's nephew, had presented. Among the men who had remained, many had become embroiled in angry squabbles with Desmond's cohorts, who had shown up in large number. All had been presided over by Thurstan, a haughty, cold young man who looked upon Abrielle with a distaste she found curious.

"A more insufferable group I've never met in my entire life," Cordelia remarked derisively. "I'm fairly certain they're representative of the dregs to be found mucking the bottom of a cask of wine. 'Tis always best to throw the residue out."

If only that were possible, Abrielle thought wistfully, and not for the first time. Unfortunately she had not that choice, nor any other to rid herself of Desmond and his odious associates. Her future, such as it was, as well as her family honor, rested on a successful union between them. The marriage agreement might as well be a dungeon cell without a door for all the hope she had of freeing herself.

As much as Abrielle and Cordelia had sought to remove themselves from the numerous arguments that were even now being provoked within the courtyard, they glanced knowingly at each other as several more of Weldon's friends left the structure and stalked down the length of the drawbridge, where they promptly motioned for their horses to be brought forth. In a few moments, they had taken their departure. It was just another example of the ire that Desmond, his companions, and his nephew had managed to cause since the first hunter had arrived. They had changed so many rules, from who decided the winners—once an impartial group of elders, and now merely Thurstan—to the obscene size of the purse needed to enter.

"Abrielle, you know there could be another reason that so many noblemen are leaving," Cordelia said slyly.

Abrielle winced at her friend's less-than-subtle reference to the food served at the keep under Desmond, and regretfully conceded in a small voice. "It is rather…plain and unappealing."

"Promise me you'll do something about this when you're the mistress here. The older cook seems especially cantankerous, and by the looks of her, I'd be willing to wager she wields a war ax as well as any brigand and eats a goodly amount of her own cooking."

Abrielle spread her hands in a helpless gesture. "Frankly, I have no idea why Desmond tolerates the cooking. For a man trying to move up in the world, he's not trying very hard to impress anyone in that area."

Indulging herself in the autumn-scented breezes wafting across the drawbridge, Abrielle sighed and paused a moment to look around. After being confined within the smoke-filled courtyard much longer than she had thought she could tolerate, the fresh air seemed especially invigorating.

She could fully understand why Weldon had chosen to build his keep in this area, for the scenery was no less than breathtaking. Some furlongs upstream, a tributary branching off from the river wound its way through thick forests before flowing beneath the drawbridge upon which they now stood. The stream not only supplied the moat surrounding the keep, but also continued on a winding path beneath the smaller bridge that led to the serfs' dwellings, easily providing the families there with an abundance of fresh water.

The keep had been well conceived by Weldon de Marlé, under whose supervision it had been meticulously constructed with the intent that it would serve him, his family, and their descendants as an impenetrable fortress well into the future. From its numerous battlements and parapets, a defensive response could be launched from a vantage point of some safety to counter any attack that came against it. Drawbridges fore and aft could be raised to provide a refuge for its inhabitants if enemies were to attack. Weldon had been not only a valiant warrior but also a man of great vision and intelligence. Providing sufficient provisions were stored within its walls before an army laid siege to it, the keep had the potential to offer protection for several months for those living within the confines of its exterior walls.

Still, as much as Abrielle could appreciate the security of the keep as well as the serenity and beauty of its surroundings, the knowledge that she would soon be residing within its stone walls with an odious husband did much to augment the melancholy that had been cruelly assailing her spirit since she had offered her freedom in exchange for her stepfather's. The fact that she was now committed to marrying such a repulsive individual was enough to bring her threateningly close to retching.

Although many of her Saxon kin had yet to arrive for the wedding, Abrielle had already sensed that those who had were maintaining a cool reserve in the midst of their less-than-genteel host and his odd assortment of vulgar companions. She could certainly understand her kinsmen's annoyance with the situation in which they found themselves. Most of Desmond's acquaintances were strongly prejudiced against Saxons, as if they were themselves notable figures with impeccable lineages instead of undisciplined rowdies lacking prestige, titles, or wealth.

Most of the elderly women had removed themselves fairly quickly from the crowded courtyard and had gathered on an upper floor of the keep near the warmth of a hearth. Along with Cordelia and some of their distant cousins, Abrielle had lent an arm to those forced to limp along on wobbly limbs or climb stairs with the aid of gnarled walking sticks. Upon reaching their destinations, a mischievous gleam had come into the eyes of the ancients as they shooed the younger women away, threatening to exchange spicy tales about them in their absence. There, in softly muted, deeply worried tones, the elders did indeed discuss the forthcoming nuptials as they offered a variety of conjectures on the questionable fate of the young bride, if she'd fare any better than the squire's previous two wives, or if, in view of her youth and quick mind, she'd actually be the one to survive him.

Cordelia glanced around as she heard ponderous footfalls on the drawbridge behind them and then mentally groaned as she espied their portly host scurrying toward them. It took no mental feat of logic to determine that Desmond de Marlé was absolutely delighted with what he had managed to arrange for himself, for he was beaming with joyful enthusiasm.

Surreptitiously Cordelia leaned near to whisper a warning. "Behold, yon lecher hastens to his beloved."

Abrielle issued a muted groan, realizing her nightmare was already coming to fruition. Dipping her head as if espying something of interest in the stream, she hurriedly pleaded beneath her breath, "Stay with me, Cordelia, please, I pray. Otherwise, I shall panic and be tempted to run away."

The flaxen-haired woman heaved a laborious sigh as if reluctant to be anywhere within close proximity to the man. "Desmond repulses me to the core of my being," she admitted in a muted tone. "Nevertheless, I've always prided myself in being a truly loyal friend, so I shan't desert you."

To say that Abrielle felt trapped by the swiftly approaching man would have definitely been an understatement. Even so, she gathered what aplomb she could muster and faced her intended with a smile that in spite of her best efforts was hopelessly strained.

Striding almost on the squire's heels was the tawny-haired nephew, Thurstan, who had earlier aroused her ire as well as the anger of many of Weldon's friends. He seemed fully aware of himself, for his nose was held at a haughty elevation as he glanced about. In spite of the fresh autumn breezes, his nostrils seemed pinched, as if he detected something foul in the air. A full head taller than the squire, he was quite lean and muscular. His clothing and accessories were stylish and well made. The neckband and sleeves of his black gown were accentuated with a woven green braid. Black suede boots were trimmed with appliqués of green leather resembling the fronds of a fern, a design that also embellished his dagger's sheath and the money pouch that hung from a belt worn at a fashionable angle over his narrow hips.

His stylish appearance contrasted sharply with the deplorable condition of the serfs who were scurrying about the keep or in the compound beyond the narrow footbridge traversing the stream. Although they had seemed clean, well fed, and very cheerful while Weldon was alive, Abrielle had seen enough serfs during her present visit to realize a sinister change had occurred since his death. There were now many thin, gaunt features and lash marks across arms and faces of a goodly number of them. Indeed, most of them seemed fearful of Desmond and his nephew.

For one purported to have inherited great wealth from his half brother, Desmond didn't seem averse to a vast number of serfs wearing filthy rags and going about their duties unwashed, to the extent that a scented handkerchief was now required to block the stench of their bodies as they came near to do some service. At least when she became mistress, there would be much she could do to remedy that situation. She might not be able to improve her own dismal lot, but she would find what happiness and satisfaction she could in helping these other wretched souls. She would insist that everyone who worked within the confines of the keep bathe and have suitable clothing with which to maintain a tidy appearance. But most important, she would see that they were all well fed, from the youngest to the oldest, regardless of their ability to work.

"My dear Lady Abrielle," Desmond gushed, holding out his pudgy hands, as if fully expecting to receive hers with equal zeal as he halted before her.

"Squire, how goes your day?" she asked, unable to ignore the quavering weakness in her voice.

"Very well indeed, my dear," Desmond responded. "But how could it not be when I see before me an exquisitely beautiful and wondrous young lady who is about to make me the happiest person alive? At such a moment, a man is wont to think everything in the world suits him."

Managing to present some semblance of a cordial smile, Abrielle grudgingly complied with his unspoken request by settling her fingers within his grasp. She found his puffy hands nauseatingly soft, strongly hinting of a slothfulness that was likely thriving since so many serfs attended his every need. In the next moment, a rising panic swept through her as Desmond clasped both her hands and, in an eager display of affection, began to cover them with moist, greedy kisses, evoking within her a shuddering revulsion that threatened to send her flying to the nearest convenience to throw up her latest meal. Far more difficult to suppress, however, was the sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach that had much to do with the realization that once they were married, she'd have no right to withhold herself from the man.

Abrielle quickly averted her gaze from the rotund squire, only to find herself confronting Thurstan's probing gaze. His eyes were a strange yellowish green, fringed with brown lashes and shadowed by thick, tawny brows. His high cheekbones, straight nose, and equally crisp chin seemed sharply chiseled, yet his mouth was overly soft and expressive, as evidenced by the sardonic smile that drew up a corner of his lips. If she could ascertain anything from his smirk, she could believe that he was also a very perceptive individual who had recognized her repugnance for what it was and seemed highly amused by it.

Resentful of the younger man's close scrutiny, Abrielle took herself mentally in hand and deliberately turned aside without acknowledging the man. Upon facing her intended, she said, "I was beginning to wonder if you were even aware that I was here, Desmond. You seemed so involved straightening out numerous details for the hunt that I was beginning to feel slighted."

Desmond chortled in amusement. "Banish such an inconceivable thought from your lovely head, my dear. I assure you with all sincerity that I did not dismiss you from mind. Be assured that I am counting the days and hours that must pass ere we are wed. If I were able to hasten them on their way, I would surely do so."

In spite of his averred enthusiasm, Abrielle preferred to think of that event not at all. Without issuing a yea or a nay, she swept a hand about to indicate her lifelong companion. "I believe you're acquainted with the Lady Cordelia of Grayson. Lord and Lady Grayson have accepted your invitation to attend our wedding and are at this very moment visiting my parents in the chambers you have so graciously provided."

"Of course! Of course!" Desmond cheerily responded, bending his plump body forward several times in a manner that clearly evidenced his delight in being in the company of those with fine lineage. "Although this marks the first occasion of our actual introduction, my lady, I can assure you that I've been distantly acquainted with your parents for some time now."

Cordelia smiled gingerly and dared to lift a brow. "And they you, Squire."

The innuendo within her friend's reply made Abrielle wonder if she had erred by insisting that Cordelia remain beside her. Although they were in full accord with their mutual abhorrence of the squire, there were occasions when Cordelia wasn't nearly as subtle around people she disliked as caution might have dictated. But then, Abrielle reminded herself, her friend did not have the same need to be cautious.

Cordelia, unlike Abrielle, had not lost a most worthy betrothed to fate, and her beloved father to his own overabundance of stubborn pride, leaving her in a most precarious position in a world where a man's protection was not merely a luxury for a woman, but a matter of survival. It did not rest on Cordelia's pampered shoulders to save her stepfather from ruin and her mother from public humiliation. Not that Abrielle would wish any of that on her dear friend, not for a single moment. She desired only that fate had had a different future in mind for her…one in which she did not have to sell her heart to save the family she loved, one that did not have her destiny quite so entwined with the misfortunes of men.

Were the place where she found herself other than what it was, it wouldn't have bothered Abrielle in the least to have her friend sparring with the man, since he was no match for Cordelia intellectually, but any tiff between the pair would likely cause tensions to rise in her own family, especially since Elspeth disdained Desmond as much as Cordelia did.

It seemed excellent timing that a fish flipped into the air from the water beneath the drawbridge. Considering the fact that most drawbridges traversed moats notoriously stagnant and overgrown with an abundance of weeds, Abrielle was relieved to have something she could boast about while Desmond was in their midst. "Cordelia, did you see that? Imagine having a moat filled with fish so near at hand!"

Though another might never have discerned the subtle change in her friend's melodious tones, Cordelia readily sensed Abrielle's nervous tension. She could hardly blame her for being anxious. For some time now it had seemed that whenever Desmond was afoot, strangely perplexing events were wont to happen, not the least of which dealt with the disappearances of people strongly opposed to the man as well as the theft of jewels, paintings, silver plates, golden goblets, and other costly treasures. No evidence yet had confirmed the possibility that Desmond was guilty, but that didn't mean he was innocent of any of those deeds, only devious enough to get away with them. Lest she blunder on in her avid abhorrence of the man, Cordelia deemed it necessary for the sake of her friend to distance herself from the couple, and crossed to the far side of the bridge.

Abrielle was thankful that Cordelia was not only intelligent but also keenly perceptive in a variety of ways. It was now necessary to be wary, considering that she would soon be Desmond's wife. Weldon's death had served to make Desmond a very rich man, far more than those of his first two wives had done, but all three deaths had greatly benefited her repugnant betrothed, which often left her wondering now if their passing had been something deliberately planned by the very one who had profited from it.

Avoiding the steward's gaze, Abrielle reluctantly bestowed her attention upon Desmond and somehow managed to quell the nausea as she posed a question in sweetly muted tones. "Did you wish to speak with me about some particular matter, Desmond?"

Her use of his given name brought a smile of pleasure to his lips. "I was certainly hoping to, my dear. As you may be aware, Sir Vachel has presented the last draft of our marriage agreement for me to look over and sign. Except for several clauses here and there, I see nothing untoward to hinder the events that have thus far been planned for our wedding. Thurstan keeps my business affairs in order and is far more astute than I am in determining the practicability of such a contract. In this instance, he advises only a few minor changes ere the agreement is fully executed…"

"Does this mean that you're now suffering doubts about the terms that you and my stepfather earlier agreed upon?" Abrielle asked, wishing she could rejoice, but feeling a cold dread at the thought of a future without this match. She would have to bluff her way through this. "If so, then I shall have to carry this news posthaste to my parents, since there is so little time remaining before the nuptials. We were under the impression that you were in full accord with everything that had been laid out when you finalized it with your personal seal and announced that we could be married after the hunts. It seems a poor late hour indeed to bring up other issues after the pact has been sanctioned by both parties. I can only wonder what you are now expecting."

"Actually, there are only a few minor changes that need to be made ere the wedding," Desmond hastened to assure her. Chortling, he tried to brush off any cause for concern with a casual wave of a plump hand. "I'm sure any differences your father and I may have over the actual wording of the agreement can be easily settled and another document written within the next pair of days, well in time for our wedding."

Abrielle certainly wasn't going to encourage the man by suggesting that a correction so near to that event would be easily tolerated, especially by her or her stepfather. "If you haven't already noticed, Desmond, then you should be made aware that my stepfather has become rather adamant about this matter, so if you're now of a different persuasion, then he should be informed posthaste." She risked an outright lie, hoping to force the man to back down. "I have no doubt that before Sir Vachel takes up the matter with you again, he will be speaking with several petitioners who've recently come forth to express their own interest in having me as their wife."

"Perhaps that would be wise—" Thurstan began in a gracious tone.

She felt a chill of fear that the nephew might be able to sway his uncle, leading to Vachel's ruin.

But Desmond interrupted the man with an abrupt, slashing gesture of his hand as he tossed an angry glower toward him. Forcing a smile as he turned to her again, he hastened to assure her, "There is no need for that, my dear. The terms are acceptable as is."

Abrielle barely withheld her sigh of relief. She had no way of knowing who had cautioned the squire on the generous sum the marriage agreement would require him to bestow upon her once the vows were exchanged, not to mention the sizable fortune she'd reap upon his death. She could only conclude by Thurstan's attempt to urge her to consider other proposals that he may have been the one to broach the feasibility of a less lucrative stipend, which in turn caused her to wonder what he expected to personally gain from it. As Desmond's only relative, did he want more of the wealth that was now promised to her family?

If Desmond had failed to consider all aspects of the agreement beforehand, then she could only believe that he was not as astute as a man of properties should be. After all, his wealth had come to him through the efforts of others and was nothing he had actually earned through prudent deeds or foreign ventures as a soldier of the realm. Perhaps he was wont to let wealth sift fairly quickly through his fingers.

"Uncle, may I speak with you for a moment?" Thurstan requested in a muted tone, looking gravely concerned. "I truly believe the agreement needs to be clarified for your benefit. You need to reconsider—"

"I've made up my mind," Desmond stated resolutely, punctuating his statement with a quick, slashing gesture. "No changes will be necessary. You may go."

The lean features of the younger man stiffened noticeably as he was curtly dismissed. Beneath lowering brows, the yellow eyes seemed to shoot flinty shards at the older man. Abrielle could hardly mistake Thurstan's resentment at being brushed aside so callously.

Thurstan stalked back along the drawbridge to the inner courtyard, dismissed as if he were a servant, and his hand itched to draw his sword and be done with his uncle once and for all. How dare the man be the second de Marlé to deny Thurstan his proper inheritance! Weldon had promised such to him, and then died before having the chance to change his will. And now Desmond was freely throwing money at some chit of a girl, when it only took a real man to show a woman what she was worth. Thurstan vowed silently that he was not through manipulating his uncle.

If Desmond was aware of the younger man's exasperation, he gave no indication that he cared one way or the other, directing his attention to Abrielle. "Have I told you how sublimely lovely you are, my dear? Definitely the most winsome lady I've ever seen."

Abrielle felt her stomach convulse. "Please, Desmond, such extravagant praises embarrass me. To be sure, I feel so unworthy."

"Oh, but you are worthy, my dear. Infinitely so! In all my travels I've never seen a more beautiful woman."

Abrielle feigned a coyly skeptical laugh. "Then I shall have to question the extent of your travels, sir, for I fear the distance may have been extremely limited."

Desmond was wont to silently agree, but would never have openly admitted it. His half brother had been the clever, ambitious one in the family, venturing as a crusader far beyond his homeland, not only returning a valiant hero but also with greater wealth and fame than when he had left, no doubt the difference a devoted mother could make in the life of her offspring. From what Desmond had overheard from neighbors in his youth, Weldon's mother had been an imposing lady whose lineage had reaffirmed and strengthened the dignity and honor of her husband's house. Not so the wily chambermaid who had sought by devious methods to assuage the father's grief over his wife's mysterious death, the result of a witch's potion that had later been used again, only in smaller portions, to muddle the mind of the father.

By such schemes, his mother had brought about the birth of her bastard son and had then managed to shame the befuddled man into marriage by claiming that he had raped her during his delirium. She had even been inclined to brag on her accomplishments to her son. She had unleashed the last of her secrets as she lay dying of a vile, torturous disease.

Using the knowledge his mother had spilled that night, Desmond had learned much in the way of changing one's destiny by the use of strange, ofttimes hallucinogenic and poisonous concoctions. Thereafter, he had used the secret potions on those who had possessed what he had coveted or had unwittingly stood in his way as he strove for greater riches and gain. He could not now name how many he had poisoned throughout his lifetime. They had slipped from his memory as easily as dark shadows moving past him through the night.

And in all of this he was assisted by his half sister, Mordea, who'd been raised among the witches who had been his mother's friends. No one knew of his relationship to Mordea, and he'd been able to hire her as the castle's cook, keeping her close enough to take advantage of her knowledge—and close enough to make sure she didn't reveal any of his own secrets. She kept promising to expand her knowledge of cooking, but he had to tread lightly where she was concerned.

After being saddled with his first wife, he had been greatly relieved when he had found the right occasion to dispense a potion to relieve himself of her during childbirth and, later, after marrying his second wife, disposing of her in much the same manner, in each case making certain that he alone could claim their possessions.

He was proud of the fact that no one had yet discovered how he had been able to dispense with his half brother. A few droplets of a particular potion in Weldon's wine had allowed him to push the much taller, stronger man down the stone stairs beyond his chambers. It had amused him to watch the imposing figure tumbling down the steps, knowing if the fall didn't kill him, other measures certainly would. To ensure that he had an alternative plan in case his first attempt failed, he had carried a heavy cudgel tucked within his robe. As it turned out, it hadn't proven necessary once Weldon's head struck the stone barrier buttressing the stairs. Even now, he was wont to chuckle over how smoothly everything had gone that singular evening. It had certainly meant a new, more profitable beginning for him, and further confirmed in him the steadfast belief that he was in full control of his own destiny and would now have whatever he desired.