Everlasting (20 page)

 
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.

CHAPTER 9

 
A frantic tapping on the chamber door snatched Abrielle abruptly awake after a fretful night of tossing and turning. In light of the many trepidations to which she had mentally subjected herself after her panic-stricken flight through the halls of the keep and, perhaps more acutely, after forcing herself to occupy her bridegroom’s chambers, she had reason to wonder if she had closed her eyes for longer than a moment. Throughout the torturous night, the frightening reenactment of Desmond’s fall had kept running over and over in her mind, plaguing her mercilessly. When she considered the consequences she would suffer if anyone had witnessed her desperate flight or, later, her terrifying confrontation with Desmond in the hallway, she could foresee a trial of demonic proportions taking place in the very near future.

 
She’d have no viable defense against the accusations that could be hurled against her. With the possible exception of her mother, Cordelia, and other close friends, everyone in the keep would likely be of the opinion that as a new bride, she should have submitted herself dutifully to her bridegroom, no matter how loathsome and vile she had found him to be.

 
But if she had merely dreamt that her bridegroom had been killed tumbling headlong down the stairs, then her torment would surely begin anew. Better she die now by some merciful stroke of fate than be constantly subjected to Desmond’s mental and physical abuse the rest of her life. That would indeed be an earthly hell whence there’d be no escape, at least until one of them died.

 
Even as far-fetched as it was for her to fear that Desmond was still alive after Raven had pronounced him dead, she was plagued by images of the man stumbling through the chamber door with blood trickling down the side of his face. She would not find any reprieve, of that she was sure, for he would then be intent upon beating her senseless for having run away from him.

 
Such ominous thoughts sent shards of prickling dread shivering down her spine. Thus, when a frantic rapping of knuckles actually sounded upon the portal, Abrielle was so startled that her heart nearly leapt from her breast. It wasn’t difficult to imagine why she had trouble finding her voice in the following moments.

 
“Yes, who is it?” she finally called out in an unusually high-pitched squeak, the best she could manage under the circumstances.

 
“M’lady, m’ name is Nedda. I was brought here ta the keep yesterday ta be yer maidservant, but alas, I fear I’ve come this mornin’ bearin’ grave news. Do I have permission ta enter yer chambers, m’lady?”

 
Abrielle slumped back upon the pillows as her heightening tensions began to wane to a more tolerable level. Grave news could only mean one thing: affirmation that Desmond was dead. As much as she might have been appalled by her own callousness weeks ago, she felt as if an enormous weight had just been lifted from her mind. Indeed, she likened the announcement to a reprieve from a sentence of death. Who but her own mother could have possibly understood the overwhelming relief she was presently feeling at the realization that Desmond was now dead and that she would not have to submit herself to his
hateful dictates or, perhaps more important, to his brutal husbandly attentions?

 
“Yes, Nedda, of course. Please come in,” Abrielle replied, thankful she had had the presence of mind not to place the wooden bar across the portal to secure her privacy. The maidservant would have considered it strange indeed had she bolted the door while awaiting her bridegroom.

 
After scurrying through the antechamber, an older woman as much as twoscore and five or so years of age, garbed in a black gown and a wimple, entered the bedchamber and approached the canopied bed wherein her new mistress reclined against several pillows. Having tugged a sheet beneath her chin, Abrielle peered at the servant warily, wondering whether she’d prove a friend or a foe. The gentle empathy evident in the soft hazel eyes and smile readily assuaged Abrielle’s brewing fears. Indeed, if the compassion the maidservant evidenced counted for something, then she could believe she was a very kindly individual.

 
“M’lady, ’tis sad I am ta have ta bring ye such news so soon after yer weddin’ vows, but I fear the brumes o’ gloom were wont ta visit this keep durin’ the night,” the older woman announced in a soft, solemn voice. “No sooner were ye wed than yer poor husband was taken…”

 
“My poor husband?” Abrielle hated falsehoods, but knew it was needful to cast suspicion away from herself as well as from others. She was shaking uncontrollably as she clasped a trembling hand to her throat and stared at the elder. In spite of the lengthy moment in which she sought to find the nerve to trust her voice, she finally managed to ask, “Dear Nedda, what are you trying to tell me?”

 
The servant heaved a forlorn sigh, collecting her wits for the task the steward had given her. “M’lady, sometime durin’ the night, likely whilst he was makin’ his way ta these very chambers, yer bridegroom…Squire de Marlé…took a dreadful tumble down the stairs.
There he was, poor man, decked out in his wedding finery, lying knotted up near the bottom step. The ones what discovered him say he likely tripped and struck his head against the stone wall afore tumblin’ ta the bottom, seeing as how there was blood smeared on the stones higher up and his temple had a horrible-lookin’ bruise and an open gash…”