Chapter 8

Abrielle suppressed the overwhelming urge to run screaming from the chapel in rising panic. She knew that to all but a handful of onlookers, she appeared calm and elegantly regal, and that was as it must be. The miracle she'd prayed would stop the wedding had not arrived, but she counted it a minor miracle of sorts that she had managed to repeat the vows that would bind her now and forever to the grotesque man at her side.

At last, and far too soon, the priest pronounced them man and wife. Abrielle laid her hand upon her groom's arm. Even that scant intimacy made her want to recoil and she wondered how she would make it through the coming hours, much less the dreaded night that would follow. A small, tight knot formed in the pit of her stomach and remained as she and her new husband traversed the banquet hall to greet their guests. Lords and ladies alike rose to their feet and toasted the occasion with uplifted cups and a wealth of good wishes intermingled with hearty banter. Abrielle concentrated on maintaining an appearance of happiness and was successful until she happened to turn her head and caught a glimpse of a man all but hidden within a shadowed corner of the stairs. Instantly the knot in her belly became tighter, and bigger.

Raven stood with arms folded across his broad chest, watching the proceedings with a hard, somber expression. Nothing in his face indicated the path of his thoughts, yet Abrielle felt the weight of his unrelenting gaze as surely as if it were a hand upon her shoulder. She told herself it was only natural that being stared at in such a dogged manner should pull her gaze back in that direction, again and again, no matter how diligently she steered it elsewhere. She assured herself it had nothing at all to do with how magnificent Raven looked in his black plaid, the impeccable white of his shirt a flattering contrast to his long dark locks. Nor did it have to do with what had transpired the night before or the buzzing in her head and tingling of her bottom lip whenever she thought about the way his dark head had slowly bent and…

She would not think about that. Not tonight, not ever again. What was done, was done. But she was a married woman now, she reminded herself, ignoring an inner shudder; she was honor bound to act accordingly…and see to it that Raven did the same.

To that end she put her back to where he stood. She forced a smile and lingered in mindless conversation and counted to one hundred before allowing herself a fleeting glance beyond the gathered revelers to find him still watching. Abrielle looked away, smiled at comments she barely heard from people she didn't know, and looked back to find his attention just as rapt. And inscrutable. Really, what was the man thinking? And what was she thinking to allow his audacious behavior to distract her on this of all nights.

There was much toasting of the bride and groom throughout the wedding feast, and with each tankard of ale or goblet of wine he emptied, Desmond grew increasingly inebriated and less and less bearable to his young bride. On numerous occasions, Abrielle's costly raiment received a liberal dousing, causing her bridegroom to chortle in amusement as he wiped vigorously at the spills that dotted her breasts and lap. Sitting dutifully quiescent beside him proved almost more than Abrielle could bear. It was even more difficult to tolerate his sticky lips brushing her cheek and his teeth nibbling at her throat. His attentions reminded her of some evil serpent searching for a place to begin his meal.

Once she was in the master's bedchamber, Abrielle tried to subdue the violent tremors that beset her as she sought to prepare herself mentally for that moment when her bridegroom would arrive at their chamber door. She found herself reassuring her mother, when her mother was trying to console her.

Elspeth's lips trembled as she wavered on the verge of fresh tears, but upon taking in a deep breath, she forbade herself to cry any more than she had already, knowing that if she started sobbing, it would benefit no one. Seeking to discipline herself, she straightened her trim back and lifted her chin. Even so, it was a lengthy moment before she could trust herself to speak without her voice faltering.

"I never once dreamt that by accepting Vachel's proposal of marriage I would also be ushering you into a union with Desmond de Marlé. I'm so very, very sorry, my dear. When I chose to follow my own heart, I failed to consider the arduous trials that you might be facing because of my selfish actions."

Slipping her arms around her mother, Abrielle held her closely, fighting back encroaching tears as she met her parent's gaze. "You've always told me to look ahead with hope toward the morrow, Mama, and that's what I must do now…trust that some good will come from my marriage to Desmond." Though her heart was heavier than she seemed able to bear, Abrielle forced a smile, feeble though it was. "I shall pray that in time our union may prove beneficial. Now find your bed, Mama, I'll be fine."

No more than a half hour later, Abrielle's qualms were magnified tenfold as Desmond staggered drunkenly through the anteroom into the bedchamber where she awaited him. His bloodshot eyes seemed to protrude even more than usual from his pudgy face as he stared at her lying upon his bed clothed in nothing more than a gossamer gown. As if he were already savoring a luscious sweetmeat, his tongue flicked slowly over his lips.

In spite of her ongoing efforts to assure herself that she could tolerate whatever happened during her initiation into wedlock, Abrielle hardly imagined that her bridegroom would throw himself upon her, and she screamed in sudden fright. Fear reached spiraling heights as he tore open the lace bodice of her nightgown and thrust a hand inside, evoking a pained whimper as he seized her breast. She bit into her bottom lip to keep from screaming and promptly tasted blood.

She feared she wouldn't be able to survive the night, much less their first conjugal mating. Considering Desmond's cruelty thus far, she could only wonder what further harm she'd be subjected to if she were to stay with her besotted bridegroom one moment longer. The way he was progressing, the threat of being cruelly raped seemed very, very real. Abrielle knew she would have to flee from the man for the sake of her own sanity, if not for her very life.

Loosening his grip on her, Desmond began throwing aside the coverlets. Recognizing that this would likely be her only chance to escape, Abrielle hurriedly rolled away from her drunken bridegroom and leapt from the bed. At first she had no real destination in mind, only a goading desire to flee to a place of safety.

Desmond's furious bellow lent wings to her bare feet, and in rising panic, she raced toward the antechamber, snatching up her dressing gown from the chair where she had left it as she passed. Flinging wide the door, she dashed into the corridor in spite of the fact that she was still having difficulty dragging on her robe. She glanced to the left, whence she could foresee no help emerging, for there were no other chambers along the corridor. Promptly she whirled in the opposite direction, knowing the passageway would lead her fairly quickly to the stairs to the lower floor where her parents' chambers were located. It seemed the only place she could seek refuge.

She heard uneven footsteps on the floor, readily affirming the fact that Desmond was giving chase. Abrielle dared not even consider what he would do to her if he managed to catch her. Indeed, her life might well be forfeited if she allowed him that advantage.

Racing down the passageway with a zeal born of desperation, she gave no heed to the hazards of trying to find her way in a poorly lit and totally unfamiliar corridor. She chanced a brief glance over her shoulder and was relieved to find her bridegroom panting heavily as he stumbled through the hallway behind her, at times momentarily running a hand along the stone wall as if seeking much-needed support. She prayed fervently that he wouldn't have the endurance to follow her to her parents' chambers or, if he did, that her stepfather would be far more worried about displeasing her mother than his host. In view of Desmond's drunken condition, that premise was not at all far-fetched. Vachel was not known to have much patience with those who imbibed beyond acceptable limits.

"Abrielle, come back here!"

To her surprise, his voice was soft, as if even in his inebriated state, he realized that being discovered chasing his bride would make him look the fool.

"If you don't stop, then by heavens I'll see you locked away in the depths of this keep. Then you can be assured I will make you pay for what you're doing. Believe me, your back won't look so fine and lovely after a cat-o'-nine-tails has marred it! Once you've had a taste of its wicked tongues, you'll beg for mercy and come crawling to me on your hands and knees."

His warning sent icy shards of dread shivering through every fiber of her being. In spite of the fact that she believed her bridegroom to be completely capable of beating her senseless or even worse, she could not bring herself to yield to his demands. If she halted, she had no doubt that she'd have to endure the forced consummation of their marriage, and that act seemed far more heinous to her than any painful torture or horrible beatings.

Abrielle chanced a glance behind her in an effort to gauge the distance between herself and her besotted groom. In the next instant, a cry of pain escaped her as she stubbed her bare toe on an uneven stone. Stumbling awkwardly about as she tried to regain her balance, she careened into the wall, nearly knocking herself senseless.

Desmond sprang forward, much faster than Abrielle would have imagined for one so roundly proportioned and well into his cups. The realization that she was in danger penetrated the enveloping fog in which she found herself, causing her heart to leap in sudden fear. The horrible dread of being trapped again in her groom's malevolent clutches quickly prodded her to her senses, and she whirled away, frantically trying to avoid his outstretched hand. His fingers caught in her long, loosely swirling hair, but in a desperate quest for freedom she snatched free, in the process sacrificing more than a few meager strands to his unrelenting grasp. She raced onward with frantically beating heart, all too keenly aware that her life was in serious peril.

The way of escape was barely visible just ahead, softly illuminated by the moonlight streaming downward through the narrow windows in the lofty turret high above the stone steps. If she could manage to make her descent to the lower level without Desmond actually gaining on her, perhaps she'd be able to reach her parents' rooms before he could catch her. Vachel might even be able to reason with the squire and convince him to be patient with his new bride.

Abrielle chanced a glance over her shoulder in a quest to see how far away her besotted groom was. To her dismay, he was much closer than she had dared to imagine, barely leaving her enough time to swing around the newel. Unless she laid out a ploy to lure him beyond the stairs or to confuse him, her flight would be in serious jeopardy. She was afraid he would then take malicious delight in locking his stubby fingers into her hair again, especially since her scalp was already throbbing. But if it meant escaping her besotted bridegroom, she'd just have to take that chance.

Forcing every fiber of strength she was capable of mustering into her limbs in a desperate attempt to lengthen the distance between herself and her groom, she raced onward through the passageway and then, upon reaching the end of it, whirled to face the besotted ogre.

"Yu'll never be able to escape me now, Abrielle," Desmond boasted confidently in spite of his thickly slurred words and wheezing efforts to breathe. "The wall is to yur back, an' yu've only one path ye can go…and that is past me."

Sweat dappled her bridegroom's brow and ran in heavy runnels down his flushed cheeks. He pressed a hand to the side of his distended belly, as if trying to ease the pain of exerting himself, and then smirked confidently as he waddled toward her.

She tensed as she awaited the arrival of the moment when she might be able to flit past him. Her nerves seemed to stand on end as he sauntered toward her with all the confidence of a tyrant. The closer he came, she reasoned nervously, the better her chances of slipping past him. If too much space were left between them, he'd have enough time to realize what she was about and block her path.

Desmond was no more than an arm's length away when she shot through the opening as if her very life depended on it. Her bridegroom flung out an arm in an effort to catch her, but to no avail, for she spun about like a whirling dervish, easily avoiding his grasp. A foul curse exploded from Desmond's lips.

Racing toward the stairs, she forced every measure of strength she possessed into her limbs. The threat of being caught by her drunken bridegroom proved a very strong incentive indeed.

"I'll catch yu yet," Desmond wheezed irately as he stumbled along behind her, "an' when I do, be assured, I'll teach yu to run from me."

The wan glow of moonlight streaming in from the turret allowed her to see the stairs that were just ahead. She was greatly encouraged to have had her ploy work as well as it had, but she knew she was far from safe. She could hear the plodding footfalls of the oaf behind her, slower than before, but nevertheless persistent.

An instant after facing forward again, Abrielle ran full force into a wall, a tall, warm, firmly muscled wall. She stumbled backward, her senses reeling, and then strong hands caught her up by her elbows, gently steadying her. Befuddled, she lifted her head and found herself staring into a pair of all-too-familiar blue eyes.

She gasped and tried to pull away. "Oh, Raven, nay, get thee gone from here. You must not interfere!"

"Yu vile, dastardly cur! Take yur hands off my wife!" Desmond de Marlé snarled. He was wheezing heavily, having exerted himself well beyond the limits of his usual slothfulness, and in the gloom, his sweaty, reddened face seemed far more bloated than usual. "Yu impu-dent Scottish rogue," Desmond slurred thickly, his words now liberally punctuated by hiccups. He shook a balled-up fist threateningly beneath the noble nose of the taller man and continued his tirade. "Yu've intruded…far too often…in my affairs…An' this time…yu've gone…too far. I'll have yu thrashed…till yur bones show! This is my wife…my keep…filled with my friends…an' countless men…who owe their allegiance to me."

Raven easily knocked aside the pudgy fist with the back of his forearm. There was a dangerous edge of contempt in his soft laugh. "Men ye send out ta do your foul deeds, like the last two who lost their lives, and for what? A promise of a mere pittance as their reward? Or is it true that this allegiance ye brag of is secured not with coin but threats, vile threats against not just their lives but those of innocent wives and children as well. Was that the payment that awaited those men if they didna kill me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ye'll explain nothing," Raven replied.

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

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

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

"But…"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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