“Please take heart,” Isolde urged in a softly compassionate tone as she laid an arm about her friend’s shoulders. “The day is not over, Elspeth, and, as you well know, on rare occasions miracles have been known to occur. I pray that you and Abrielle will be able to enjoy God’s mercy in this matter, but whether it comes swiftly or takes years, I’ve no doubt that you will both be able to endure what comes and revel in a miracle of mercy whenever it should happen.”
Elspeth smiled in spite of her misery. She had never before realized that her closest companion could be so optimistic. “I know I must try to take heart, my dearest, dearest friend, but with so little time remaining ere the wedding vows are exchanged, ’tis difficult to believe a reprieve will come in time. As much as Vachel may need what Desmond is offering, I loathe the idea of that ogre claiming my daughter as his bride. He’s so despicable!”
“I’ll be fine, Mama. Truly, I will be,” Abrielle stated valiantly as she clasped her mother’s slender hand against her cheek and feigned a smile. “There is really no need for you to fret so much. I’m sure Desmond will treat me kindly.”
Elspeth bestowed a trembling smile upon her daughter, but failed to find any strength in her voice. She could only whisper, “’Twould seem the time has now come for us to join the others.”
Isolde laid a gentle hand upon her friend’s arm. “Cordelia and I will go ahead. Reginald is awaiting us in the chapel.”
Elspeth squeezed her hand. “We’ll be there shortly.”
Isolde swept her arms briefly around each of them and then waited as Cordelia did the same. Tossing back meager smiles over their shoulders, the pair wiped away the tears that streamed down their cheeks and sadly took their leave.
Vachel was awaiting Elspeth and Abrielle in the adjoining room and, upon seeing his wife’s face, had cause to wonder if he had been wise in allowing his stepdaughter to make such a sacrifice for the family.
“You’re looking very lovely, my dear,” he said softly, clasping Abrielle’s hand within his.
“Desmond is no doubt wondering where we are,” she murmured, trying to convey some semblance of enthusiasm. She kept her voice firm, her body from trembling, for she knew how this day was hurting her stepfather.
Vachel glanced aside at his wife in time to see her press a lace-trimmed handkerchief to her trembling mouth. If ever in his life he had felt like a beast, then surely this was that moment. Yet he knew what his small family would suffer in poverty; their lives would be unbearable, with consequences far more grievous than even her marriage to Desmond promised to be.
What was he to do? What could he do? He felt as if his back was to a stone wall and a knife was pressing into his throat, waiting to drain him of his life’s blood. The joyful union he had come to savor with all of his heart would likely never again be the same, with his wife pining away in misery for her daughter.
Elspeth touched his sleeve as she reminded him, “We should go now, Vachel. Desmond is waiting for us.”
Vachel heaved a despondent sigh. At the moment the squire was the last person he wanted to see. “I have no doubt.”
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 aw
aited 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, Abr
ielle 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?”