Chapter 4

Shall we join Cordelia?" Abrielle asked Desmond as she swept a slender hand about to indicate her friend, surprised and relieved that the trepidation, nay the revulsion, she felt to her very core did not cause her to tremble. She was more than willing to allow her friend to serve as a human bulwark between them. She could only wonder who would function in that capacity after they were wed, and to hope against hope that she could continue to conceal the feelings of dread and impending doom that never ceased threatening to rise up and consume her.

Upon reaching the far side of the drawbridge, she stared down into the moat as she struggled to create an impression of serene pleasure. Tolerating a kiss on her cheek proved another test of forbearance that made her wonder what could be found to treat his horrible breath. Although she knew she had no choice but to face the fact that she was now destined to become Desmond's wife, she began to fear that her badly flawed pretense would soon be dashed asunder and she'd run sobbing in remorse to the spacious chambers that she and her parents had been given. Regrettably, the commitment she had made was dragging her down into a pit of despair whence she feared there would be no escape.

When Desmond begged a moment to go speak with a nearby servant, she gladly granted him her permission. Cordelia stood quietly while Abrielle braced an arm on a buttressing rail and settled her chin glumly upon the heel of her hand. "I wish I could look forward to the nuptials with as much enthusiasm as the men are evidencing for the upcoming hunt."

Cordelia hesitated, and then softly asked, "How can you marry a man you're unable to trust? A man whom you and all others loathe? When you wrote about the wedding, I must confess that I was shocked."

Abrielle glanced over her shoulder to make sure the squire was still well occupied. "It was either that or see my family come to ruin. Vachel has been brought to impoverishment due to his generosity to his late father and to his knights," she admitted.

Cordelia gasped. "What are you saying? That you must marry that ogre because of your stepfather's ill-considered actions?"

"The fault was not his." Abrielle hurried to explain the injustice done by Vachel's father. "Vachel was willing to face destitution rather than force me to accept Desmond's proposal. I chose to spare him, and my mother, that shame."

Cordelia clasped her friend's hand as she looked with tear-filled eyes into the blue-green orbs. "And some people think only knights have such noble traits."

"Say nothing of this to anyone," Abrielle urged. "Vachel would not take it well if people thought his father had been unfair. He'd be hurt by any criticism they'd be wont to bestow upon the elder. Considering that he was a little addled toward the end, he might not have been aware of what he was doing."

"If you would permit me, I will only speak of this to my parents, who truly have the highest regard for Vachel. 'Twill be in tribute to him that I will share this with them."

"To them and no other," Abrielle agreed. Thoughtfully she stared off into the distance as the softly wafting breezes lifted her kirtle.

"What are you thinking now?"

A doleful sigh slipped from Abrielle's lips. "Though I'm ashamed to admit my feelings after accepting Desmond's proposal of marriage, I do disdain the man more than anyone I've ever known."

Cordelia recognized her friend's loss of hope in the overly restrained way she conveyed her lack of regard for her future husband, and laid a gently consoling hand upon Abrielle's sleeve. "Ofttimes, when one approaches the unknown, circumstances may look the bleakest and most threatening. From experience, I know you have a valiant spirit and will rise above your fear. Did you not rescue me from a horrible drowning when we were children, though you were terrified of going into the icy waters after me?" Freshening tears welled within Cordelia's green eyes as she added, "If not for your valiant spirit and victory over your own qualms, I would not be here today."

Abrielle's own vision grew misty as she recalled their childhood and the frightening incident that had sent prickling shards of terror coursing through her being. Her own fear had seemed as painful as the icy slush she had been forced to tread to reach her friend. If not for the goading dread that she was about to lose her dearest companion, she might never have found the courage to go into the frigid depths after her.

"I know I must take heart," Abrielle admitted, and then heaved a dismal sigh as she considered what she would soon be facing, "but at the moment, my future looks so bleak that even drowning in an icy stream seems preferable. Truly, the horrors I'll be facing as the wife of such a despicable creature seem so overwhelming that I have to wonder if I'll be able to endure them."

Cordelia turned aside in an attempt to calm her own troubled spirit. She could only wonder what she would do in Abrielle's stead. Mulling over her companion's abhorrent plight, she did not notice the small company of mounted men approaching until they were halfway down the lane leading to the drawbridge. There were six horsemen in all, but Cordelia felt no inclination to move her gaze past the handsome gray-haired man astride the black stallion prancing in the lead. The horse's smooth-flowing gait was a perfect complement to the proud, majestic bearing of his rider, a Scottish gentleman of an age nearly threescore years. In spite of the man's maturity, Cordelia was certain she had never seen such a magnificent individual or a more admirable mount anywhere within Henry's realm.

Leaning near her companion, Cordelia urged in a hushed whisper, "Abrielle, glance behind you discreetly and tell me if you've ever seen these gentlemen before. If my opinions haven't been led astray by wagging tongues, I could almost swear your future husband detests Scots as much as he loathes our kinsmen, the Saxons. In view of that possibility, 'twould seem these men have ventured into Desmond's pilfered realm without being fully cognizant of the danger."

Abrielle swept the surrounding countryside with a leisurely gaze before honing in on the approaching retinue, and once she did so, everything inside her froze. Then, with a distinct lack of caution or subtlety, she whipped her head around toward Desmond, relieved to find him still flailing his arms as he berated the cowed servant, and it was clear to her that he had not noticed the new arrivals. "Cordelia! Quick…look closely at the second man in the party. Unless my sight fails me, 'tis Raven Seabern!"

Abrielle's heart was pounding so loudly she was certain it must be echoing off the castle walls for all to hear, pounding with alarm, she told herself, alarm and dread, and not at all with excitement. What was the man thinking to come galloping onto de Marlé's property as if 'twere his God-given right to be there, as if he would be welcomed with open arms? Did his brashness blind him to the fact that his very presence, not to mention the fact that he was flanked by a company of Scotsmen, was sure to rile every nobleman within miles?

Stiffening her shoulders in an effort at least to appear composed, she turned and managed to keep her gaze off Raven long enough to glance at the similarly tall, brawny Scot who'd dismounted to stand at his side. The older man took note of her interest and stared back at her with a teasing twinkle in his brilliant blue eyes. When he succeeded in causing a blush to redden her cheeks, his smile deepened into a charmingly wayward grin, revealing gleaming white teeth beneath a massive mustache, the well-groomed ends of which reached past his chin. A deeply chiseled cleft, similar to the one her erstwhile protector possessed, punctuated the elder's cleanly shaven chin. Although the man was well past a youthful age, he wasn't above looking her over in a roguish manner, starting with her slippered toes and ending at the top of her head. Upon completing his assessment, he gave her a flirtatious wink and was rewarded by her startled gasp.

Having witnessed the exchange, Cordelia ducked her head in an effort to hide her amusement from the elder. "He's a bold one, that he is. Do you think he is the elder Seabern?"

Sourly, Abrielle said, "The only difference betwixt the two seems to be their age and the color of their hair."

Continuing to grin, the Scotsman cocked a hoary brow and canted his head at an angle as he peered back at the two women as if wondering what had evoked their interest in him. Then he glanced at Raven and Abrielle felt her own gaze drawn reluctantly in the same direction. She'd managed to avoid meeting Raven's eyes directly until now, fearing not so much what she might see in them as what she herself might feel at the mercy of that intense regard she remembered so vividly, a concern that was well founded. True, with her intended close by, he did not indulge in gazing as boldly as he'd done when they met last. Rather, his mesmerizing blue eyes narrowed in a look of lingering speculation that was still more than enough to cause a heated flush to sweep over her.

A dozen questions raced through her head, all pertaining to his reason for being there, and she was forced to ask herself if the man had lost his senses entirely, or merely just his recollection of that night at the palace when he'd thwarted Desmond's forced tryst with devastating ease, and sent the cowed man scurrying into the shadows like the spineless creature he was. An even more interesting question was whether Raven had knowledge of her betrothal to Squire Spineless, a possibility that made Abrielle's throat constrict as she wondered if that might have had something to do with his sudden appearance.

She drew a deep breath and pulled sharply on the reins of her imagination. Now who was taking leave of their senses? It was one thing for Raven to be passing in the castle hallway, hear her screams and struggles, and come to her rescue; 'twould be quite another for him to travel a distance out of his way, to a place he was not wanted, in order to…what? Abrielle was certain of only one thing; he was not there by invitation. After the humiliation he'd delivered the squire, Raven Seabern would be the last man in all Christendom to be invited. Most likely, she decided in an effort to calm herself, he was there on a matter of import to his king. Whatever his business, it was none of hers, though she would dearly love to know why he'd seen fit to bring along his father.

Cordelia peered at her friend as a mischievous grin bowed her lips upward at the corners. "'Tis my opinion that a young lady should behave herself and not take advantage of that poor, elderly Scot. Why, he's old enough to be your grandfather, and there he is with his heart on his sleeve."

"Whose heart is upon her sleeve?" Abrielle challenged as she cast a meaningful glance askance at her friend. "'Twould seem you're far more taken with this Scotsman."

Cordelia was unable to deny the fact that the man had evoked her interest. "Well, he is very handsome…"

"Then perhaps you should have Raven Seabern introduce you," Abrielle said, trying for a lightheartedness she didn't feel. "The man does owe you the favor of an introduction, after all."

As the shock of Raven's sudden appearance eased, Abrielle felt a wisp of sorrow. For reasons she could not name, seeing him gave rise to thoughts she'd been valiantly struggling to avoid, thoughts of what her life might have been, what it should have been, a full and happy life with a good man and a family of her own. It was the life she'd once looked forward to sharing with the kindly Weldon de Marlé, a girlish dream that had died when he did. There was no longer a place in her life for daydreams and romantic notions, and to wish it were otherwise only added to her misery. Far better to accept that her union with Weldon's brother would be the cruel opposite to anything a young woman would hope for in her marriage, and turn her attention elsewhere. Soon she would have the mundane affairs of a squire's wife to fill her days and occupy her mind, soon, but not yet, and as hard as she resisted, she could not help wondering what it would be like to be married to a man like Raven Seabern. Though she told herself her question arose solely from intellectual curiosity, she had to concede that such a marriage would be exciting and perhaps not entirely unpleasant.

Not that Abrielle could now seriously entertain the idea of marriage to one other than Desmond, as she'd committed herself to saving her family, and she was not one to go back on her word, no matter how loathsome she found the consequences. Besides, the priests said a betrothal contract was as legally binding as a marriage, and she had to acknowledge that her grim future was set.

After they exchanged words among themselves, the new arrivals walked toward the women, leading their horses. And for all that she'd just sworn off wishing for the impossible, Abrielle found herself wishing for all she was worth that she could hitch up her skirts and run from the confrontation. She wished it nearly as much as she wished she'd never met a Scotsman with the name of a predator and the face of a fallen angel, an annoying, arrogant, enticing man with the power to make her feel nervous and feverish and sad all at the same time.

Scarcely a moment before the group of Scots reached them, Desmond suddenly appeared beside Abrielle and Cordelia. Considering how his last encounter with Raven turned out, Abrielle had expected him to be outraged when he recognized the men in the party. But although she detected a hateful gleam in his eyes, it was offset by a forced smile and a strange air of satisfaction that she could not help but think boded ill.

The elder Scot's eyes were even more vividly blue up close, and their twinkle of quick and unquenchable wit even more apparent. But he'd tethered his flirtatious charm and for the moment seemed entirely dedicated to politely claiming the squire's attention. Not so his descendant. Raven was paying no heed to his host and making no effort to hide his interest in the young women by his side. Abrielle grew warm as she became the center of his focus. She had not seen him since the night he'd rescued her, when fear and awkwardness—and the revealing state of her torn clothing—prompted her to make nearly as hasty a retreat as her attacker. Despite the fact that he had shown a most improper interest in her that evening, she knew that she had not properly expressed her gratitude to him. Her concern was how it might be received once he learned she was betrothed to the very villain from whom he'd rescued her, if he did not know already. Would he think her a fool who cared only about wealth, and that her gratitude was tainted by her greed? At the thought, Abrielle bit her lip and had to wonder what was wrong with her, for she was a betrothed woman, for pity's sake, a desperately betrothed woman. And while his opinion of her should not matter, she knew that it did, just as she knew that that must change. At her first opportunity she would thank him for his gallantry and that would be the end of it.

Raven and the older man bowed to the two maidens, then turned to face Desmond.

"Squire de Marlé," the elder Scotsman rumbled cheerily in a deeply resonating voice, revealing one more difference betwixt father and son, that Raven's parent spoke in a much heavier brogue. Laying a hand upon his chest, he inclined his bonneted head in an abbreviated bow. "Ye've truly honored us by inviting us ta your keep."

Abrielle swallowed a gasp of surprise at hearing the Scotsman say that he and his son had been invited to the keep, but then, perhaps it was not such a surprise after all. The only possible reason for Desmond to extend an invitation was so that he could have the last laugh by waving her beneath Raven's nose, for of course he would want to be certain Raven saw and understood who was the true winner in this contest. It was Desmond who'd won the prize he'd sought; he'd won full and lasting rights to her heart, her mind, and her body, Lord help her, a thought that made Abrielle feel ill inside. It mattered little that his victory had been secured with gold rather than valor or worthiness, for the agreement was duly settled and soon the deed would be done. And besides, she reminded herself, the memory like a small stab to her heart, Raven had been in no hurry to court her even when he had the chance.

Desmond was gleeful to welcome the latest arrivals, for several reasons. It never hurt to be associated with respected and influential men…even if they were Scots. Far more important, however, he had a score to settle. Since that unfortunate incident at the castle he'd been busily gathering information. In talking with knowledgeable people cognizant of individuals living within the northern climes of Scotland, he'd learned the elder Seabern had for years been a close confidant of Scottish royals and had, in fact, served as second-in-command of the last king's forces. As for his son, he had been serving nearly five years as an important envoy for King David.

You would think being entrusted to carry missives to and fro would have taught him not to stick his nose where it didn't belong, but such was not the case. And so Desmond himself would teach the Scot that lesson and relish every moment of it. He would parade his betrothed before Raven and his esteemed father until he'd driven home the message that he owned her, before man and God, that he alone had the right to touch her, whenever and wherever he pleased, and that no man would ever again dare challenge that right. It would be most satisfying to demonstrate to two such confident and accomplished men how little power they had to control the fate of one beautiful woman.

He could hardly keep from rubbing his hands together in anticipation as he greeted them. "'Tis you and your son who honor me this day by joining me and my guests for the hunt, Laird Seabern." Desmond spared no effort in appearing the cordial host. "I've heard there are no finer hunters in these northern climes than the pair of you. Many of my guests have come here hoping to match your best feats. Indeed, they have begun wagering on the outcome, and I've been told many generous purses have been collected, and more are being added hourly. 'Twill be rich prizes awaiting those who fell the finest stag and the largest boar. Now that you are both here, I'm sure the stakes will be raised significantly. Thus the reason for your invitation to my keep."

Abrielle barely contained a snort of derision, for she doubted if anyone could believe that.

"But I am being remiss in my duties as host," Desmond conceded, and turned briefly to Abrielle and Cordelia. "My ladies, you no doubt remember the Scots emissary from the festivities held within His Majesty's castle, but I believe you haven't yet made the acquaintance of his father, Laird Cedric Seabern."

A lopsided grin stretched across the elder's lips as he clasped Cordelia's slender fingers within his and bestowed a kiss upon the back of her hand. "I've na seen a more winsome pair of lasses in many a year," he claimed. "Ta be sure, ye've brought the beauty of the heavens down ta us mere mortals, and for that, 'tis greatly heartened I am that such splendor exists even for such as I."

Cordelia's fair cheeks warmed with a vivid blush as she smiled back at the elder. "I know the Celtic bards wove magic out of words, kind sir, and 'tis in my mind that you must have inherited the silver from their tongues."

Cedric threw back his hoary head and chortled in delight. "Aye, lass, and if I could steal more, I truly would, just ta make ye smile."

Cordelia swept a hand aside to indicate her companion. "Have you made the acquaintance of my friend Lady Abrielle?"

"Another of fine, rare beauty," Cedric claimed as he rubbed his palms together in glee. "By heavens, if the sights are so wondrously fair so near ta this keep, then I'll be moving in and making myself at home."

Abrielle laughed nervously, preferring the safety of Cedric Seabern's teasing to the unsettling and intense gaze of his son, a look that spoke of only one thing—possession. His regard evidenced the arrogance and boldess he had so clearly displayed at the banquet in London. "I must warn you, Laird, there are many Normans presently housed behind those walls. Were I you, I wouldn't enter lest you're familiar with sword and buckler."

There was an awkward pause, as all present reflected on the past hostilities between their respective countries.

He winked down at her. "Then I guess I'd better be finding some weapons for myself and my son, for 'tis there I think we'll find our chambers."

Stepping before Cordelia, Raven drew her hand to his lips and placed a light kiss upon her fingertips. "I'm pleasured ta see ye again, my lady. I am sure that my da would agree, we've not seen such beauty since we last saw ye at Henry's palace."

Cordelia smiled and swept a hand about to indicate her companion. "Mayhap you'll remember my friend the Lady Abrielle."

Abrielle wanted to wince, for she had not confided in her companion about Desmond's attack or Raven's heroic deeds. Cordelia had no way of knowing just how well Raven was sure to remember her, or why. To her relief, he gave no hint of what had transpired, responding to her friend's query with a respectful nod.

"Of course. 'Tis also a pleasure ta see ye again, Lady Abrielle. Squire de Marlé is truly a fortunate man ta have claimed such a wondrously fair bride for himself. I canna but imagine the ardent swains who'll be left languishing over their loss."

Raven sensed de Marlé's beady eyes studying him and told himself it was for that reason alone he reached for Abrielle's hand. After the briefest of hesitations, she placed it lightly atop his outstretched palm. He felt her slight tremble as he curled his fingers around hers and slowly drew her hand to his mouth.

Raven would have to have been a dullard not to know the real reason for his invitation; the squire wanted to watch Raven's reaction to seeing him with his bride-to-be, seeing him touch her, dance with her, hold her. He resolved that first he'd give the fat little cockroach something worth watching.

He bent his head to her hand and then purposely stopped with but a hairsbreadth between his mouth and her pale silken flesh. He glanced up, holding her gaze, his senses thrumming with awareness of the feel and scent of her, and the way she caught her breath even as he used his own warm breath to caress the back of her hand, delighting in the resulting gooseflesh along her slender arm. He hoped the squire was watching closely, for it took a master of the art to draw so much from a woman by doing so little, and Raven knew he was a master. He allowed the contact to stretch for another silent second, then another, and then he quickly touched her hand with his lips and let her go.

Abrielle's hand drifted bonelessly to her side as her whole body tingled, as if from hundreds of bee stings, and her head was spinning. And still she could sense the tension between Desmond and Raven. "Thank you for your generous compliments, Sir Raven," she said, hoping to strike just the right balance between cordial and reserved that would cause Desmond to cease glowering and wipe a bit of the smugness from Raven's face. "Your tongue is as gilded as the setting sun, noble sir."

"Now my da, here, can assure ye that he raised me up ta be a man of truth, my lady, and so I am. Ye can take me at my word when I say that ye and the Lady Cordelia are rare gems of great beauty. As a man, I find myself much in awe of ye both."

But not, thought Abrielle, so much in awe he'd been moved to favor her with such a kiss when it might have mattered.

Cordelia dared not admit her own appreciation of such a handsome man, yet she was quite mischievous and couldn't resist questioning him in front of de Marlé, even though she already knew the answer to her query. She would delight in having Raven's status underscored in the presence of the rotund squire, who himself was doubtless already cognizant of the Scotsman's privileged position. "How came you to be at the palace for Lord Berwin's dedication? Or should I ask such a question?"

"Alas, my lady, I am usually but a stranger ta such lofty places, except when I serve as ambassador for my own king, David of Scotland. Then I must travel hither and yon, wherever the need takes me. 'Tis not often that my duties afford me the opportunity ta indulge in the company of such winsome lasses as I see before me here."

As Cordelia had thought, the exchange greatly annoyed their host, and both she and Abrielle could readily surmise that Desmond's patience was at an end. "Kindly make yourselves known to my steward. He will show you and your father to your chambers. Tonight we'll feast and make merry in the banquet hall. Come early morn, the men will gather for a stag hunt, and the following day, boar. Those who bring back the most impressive trophies will be honored that same evening. On the third day hence, the Lady Abrielle and I will be exchanging our wedding vows and celebrating our union with a banquet later that same evening. Of course you'll both attend as special guests of mine."

He might as well have spoken his true purpose aloud, Abrielle thought, but he was wasting his time if he hoped to get a rise from Raven. The Scotsman had never shown serious interest in her, so why would he care whom she married? It was only she who was being hurt by this cruel joke.

"Ta be sure, we'll be marking each occasion with our presence," Raven assured the man, laying a hand upon the folds of plaid across his chest as he inclined his head and retreated several steps. "We're honored ta be among your guests."

In response to the remark, Desmond nodded perfunctorily.

Straightening to his full height, Raven cast his gaze about as though admiring the scenery surrounding them, but only Abrielle had his attention. He was not surprised by the realization that he had remembered the lady in infinite detail. But then, no other woman had even come close to ensnaring his heart as she had done during their initial meeting. She was watching him, too, although he sensed a coolness about her. She was a woman betrothed, of course, but she also seemed to be taking great pains to avoid his gaze, the reason for which he could not fathom.

Desmond held forth an arm in silent invitation to his bride-to-be. It was impossible not to compare the gesture with Raven offering his hand in similar fashion only moments before. If ever she had been whisked from fantasy into harsh, morbid reality within the passage of a moment, then Abrielle was convinced such an occurrence took place the instant she laid a trembling hand upon the squire's sleeve. She loathed touching him, yet she found no viable escape and was forced to feign a smile in spite of the fact that she felt as if a ponderous weight was now crushing her heart. If only Raven hadn't accepted Desmond's spiteful invitation. She wouldn't now have to look at him and imagine herself married to someone like him, handsome and bold. Why did she always have to force herself to remember that he had had his chance, that he clearly hadn't even wanted to court her properly, to present himself to her stepfather at the apartment Vachel had taken in Westminster Castle for their stay in London? She could only assume he was looking for a wealthy bride, and in her despondence, she truly wondered if that's all a man cared about. Bitterly, she knew she was no less guilty, for it was the only reason she was marrying the squire.

Desmond preened with pride as he paraded her past the Scotsmen, nodding to each in turn before leading her away. As they entered the open courtyard, the guests occupying the area came forward to offer salutations and wishes for a joyous union. Abrielle heard only half of what was being said and, when presented a question, could only smile with a dull sense of numbness as de Marlé answered in her stead. He readily assured them that she was as anxious to wed as he, and although her silence seemed to convey a mutual accord with his claims, inwardly she felt as if she were a spiritless puppet with a fixed smile painted on its face and its strings being manipulated by the man at her side.

Continuing on by a ragged scrap of lackluster resolve, Abrielle traversed the inner courtyard with that same fake smile pasted on her face. The feeling of being emotionally empty inside was almost more than she could bear. Had there been a moment of freedom wherein she could have found a hidden niche, she would have fled to such a place and sobbed out her heart in unrelenting anguish until she had no more tears to spill. Nothing she had ever experienced before had seemed more akin to the horrors of a dark netherworld than the bleak, empty passages of time through which she was now passing, all because she was destined to become the bride of a despicable ogre. Had she been walking a stony path toward an ominous block upon which she'd be required to rest her head and awaiting her there was a hooded executioner clasping an ax, she would have felt no less dismayed.

LATE INTO THEnight, Abrielle lay in rigid repose upon a narrow bed in the small room adjoining the chambers her parents were occupying. Staring fixedly at nothing more significant than the silken panels draped around the tester, she found it difficult to even breathe, much less sleep. A morbid heaviness lay over her spirit, a feeling no doubt evoked by the fact that only a few, paltry days separated her from the ceremony that would forever bind her to Desmond de Marlé. Whenever she considered what she would have to submit to in order to fulfill her wifely obligations, it seemed a prelude to another descent into a pit of despair. If not for fear of waking her parents, she would have succumbed to the overwhelming sobs that were threatening to burst free. She had committed herself to a hell on earth by giving her word, and not only would she not take it back, she could not.

Unable to bear the conflict within her, she finally tore herself free from her narrow bed and fled into the outer hall in a burgeoning quest to find absolute solitude for just a few moments so no one would hear the sobs that were threatening to break free and overwhelm her. When she finally halted, she found herself in a corridor leading to the tower stairs. Her nightgown clung to her, and her bare feet were nearly frigid against the stone floor. Her long hair tumbled in wild disarray around her shoulders and over her bosom, providing a mantle of warmth against the chill pervading the hall.

The only light came from the moon shining through a lofty turret. The leaded panes of glass cast their muted colors and reflection upon the stone floor. In spite of her mood of utter hopelessness, Abrielle took comfort in simply being alone in a place where she could cry aloud if need be, and tears were increasingly shed as her wedding day grew closer. Her peace of mind was brief; after only a few moments of solitude she had the uneasy sense that someone was nearby. Alarmed, she peered intently into the surrounding blackness and wondered who might be watching. Desmond? Since their arrival, it seemed he was always lurking about, hiding in some nook or cranny…that is, hiding as well as a man of his girth could hide. He was obsessed with spying upon her. 'Twas yet another in an ever-growing list of reasons she prayed God might send a miracle in time to stop the wedding.

Had Desmond followed her tonight, hoping to catch her unaware the way he had at Henry's castle? Was he so greedy for her flesh he would seek to deny her a few final hours of peace and privacy? Anger and revulsion coursed through her. Of course there was also the possibility it was someone unknown to her skulking in the shadows. It hardly bode well for her future that she could not say whom she would most detest encountering in the middle of the night in this dark isolated corner, her betrothed or a total stranger.

A scraping sound by the tower steps, like boot heel on rough stone, brought her conjecturing to a hasty halt.

"Desmond?" she called out, thankful her steady voice betrayed none of the trepidation she felt, for it would do little good to give in to her fear. Even if someone were to hear her screams, Desmond's word was law here. And it would be foolhardy to hope for a conveniently passing gallant to again come charging to her rescue, especially considering the distinct dearth of gallants in her life these days. She could honestly name only one, and even so foolhardy a Scot might be reluctant to intervene a second time.

She had but one recourse and that was to rescue herself. After all, she'd gotten herself into this predicament, hadn't she? She was convinced her stalker was Desmond, in spite of the fact that he hadn't answered when she called his name. It would be like him to remain silent just to prolong her misery. The little toad was probably hoping that if she were sufficiently frightened she would collapse in his arms with gratitude when he finally showed himself. Abrielle nearly snorted at the thought, for the odds were better that she would flap her arms and fly out of there than that she'd cozy up to him of her own free will.

She would wait him out, knowing he had to step forward eventually, and when he did she would remain calm and make him see it was to both their advantage for him to respect her family's dignity—as well as a gentleman's duty to invited guests in his home—and restrain himself until they were officially wed. If that failed, she was prepared to hoist her skirts and bolt before he could lay hands on her. God help her, she would not surrender her body to that lecher one second sooner than required by the terms of the devil's bargain they'd struck.

The silence stretched until Abrielle was certain her nerves would shatter. Finally there was the sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, and a shadow fell across the patch of moonlight at her feet. She still could not see well enough to make out who it was and instinctively she grasped the fabric of her gown, poised to flee for her life. "Desmond?" she demanded more forcefully. "Is that you?"

The shadow moved, and a voice too deep, too masculine, and far too appealing to belong to the squire said, "Nay, Lady Abrielle. I can only pray ye're not overly disappointed."