Everlasting (32 page)

 
Frantic to learn who was weeping and what had prompted it, she
struck sparks against a flint to light several tapers in the candelabrum beside her bed before slipping a robe over her nightgown. Upon snatching up the fixture, she held it aloft to light her way as she hurried into the antechamber. For the sake of caution, she pressed an ear against the door, but all seemed quiet, at least at the moment.

 
“Who is out there?” she queried.

 
“M’lady, don’t ope…!”

 
Recognizing her maidservant’s voice, she set aside the candleholder and then paused as she heard what sounded like a slap, followed by a muted groan. Abrielle’s hackles stood up, for it seemed evident that some brutish knave was cuffing Nedda about.

 
Appalled, she lifted the oak plank from its niches and, after hurriedly setting it aside, snatched the portal open. Her eyes immediately fell on Nedda, who was garbed in a robe and nightgown. At the moment the woman was lying on her side on the floor. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth and across her cheek. Standing behind the woman was an enormous oaf whose face was badly scarred and heavily bearded. A voluminous bush of gray-streaked black hair flowed around his massive shoulders.

 
An intensely foul odor drew her gaze askance. A startled gasp was wrenched from her as she espied a shorter, somewhat wider version of the huge lummox who towered over Nedda pressed against the wall beside her door. Like his companion, his gray-streaked hair was so wild and woolly that it was impossible to tell where his hair ended and his facial bush began. For barely an instant he grinned at her with rotting teeth fully in evidence, and then, as she whirled about in a frantic effort to return to her chambers, he leapt forward to seize her.

 
Retreating with a startled gasp, Abrielle sought to slam the door in the brigand’s face, but he pushed it inward with such force that she was sent stumbling across the antechamber. Crashing into a chest near her bedchamber door, she experienced a sudden, sharp pain as
her head hit the stone wall behind it, nearly knocking her senseless. Stunned, she slithered over the top of the chest, past its decorated doors, and finally came to rest on the rug. From there, she peered as if through a long tunnel at the short, rotund beast who sauntered near.

 
Leaning his head aslant to align his face with hers, the man grinned at her in obvious amusement. “Me name’s Fordon, if ’n ye be a-wonderin’.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the larger oaf standing over Nedda. “That’s Dunstan.”

 
“What do you want?” Abrielle mumbled, making every effort to clear her befuddled senses as she pushed herself upright against the decorative chest. It was a piece that Lord Weldon had brought back from the Crusades. She had never realized before how hard and solid it was until forced to confront it head-on.

 
In the hall beyond the open doorway, she saw the taller oaf, Dunstan, grasp Nedda by her nightcap-covered hair and, with one hand, haul her to the tips of her toes. With an amused chortle, he sent the servant whirling into the antechamber, where, after several rotations, she fell into her mistress. Abrielle had been making every effort to get to her feet in spite of the fact that her senses had been knocked badly askew. Once again she was sent sprawling, this time in a crumpled heap beneath Nedda.

 
Frustrated, bruised, and seething with rage, Abrielle waited as the servant extricated herself and finally reclaimed some measure of her sorely bruised wits as she sat upright against the chest again, whence she glared at the two brutes who grinned back at them. Abrielle was definitely in a mood to serve vengeance upon the obnoxious pair, but hadn’t yet figured out how she could manage that. At the same time she was wont to wonder how they would enjoy being buried piecemeal in the decorated chest that had recently caused her so many bruises.

 
Abrielle extricated her hand from her tangled clothing and wiped the back of it across her bruised mouth, but paused at the moisture she felt. Glancing down, she found her knuckles smeared with blood.

 
Nedda readily tore a strip from the hem of her own nightgown and folded it over several times. In spite of being badly bruised from the beating she had received at the hands of Dunstan, she pressed it firmly against her mistress’s lip in an effort to stem the bleeding. Tossing a glare toward the oafs, the servant curled her lips in rampant disdain as she gave the men a scathing perusal. “Ye vile brutes! Ye both aught ta be hanged!”

 
Fordon chortled. “Instead, we’re bein’ paid ta take ye both for a little ride.”

 
Abrielle and Nedda looked at each other warily, evoking another laugh from Fordon, who was obviously enjoying their subjugation.

 
Softly murmuring her appreciation for Nedda’s care without averting the glare she bestowed upon the hairy oafs, Abrielle correctly sized them up as slovenly bullies. “Had I a broom, I’d be dusting your fat backsides good and proper,” she muttered in a low, contemptuous tone. “You both smell as putrid as you act. ’Tis certain once you take your leave, these chambers will have to be aired out for at least a fortnight.”

 
“Aye, m’lady,” Nedda agreed, admiring the younger woman’s spirit. Glowering at the men, she curled her upper lip in a sneer. “Though I’m thinkin’ ’twill be at least six months afore their stench is gone.”

 
“What do you want from us?” Abrielle demanded abruptly.

 
“Ye’ll find out soon enough,” Fordon replied with a black-toothed smirk.

 
The candles cast ominously huge shadows of the pair on the walls and ceiling. If possible, Dunstan’s appearance was more unsightly than his shorter companion. An ugly scar slanted across his pudgy face, puckering one eyelid nearly closed before sweeping downward to draw his upper lip into a perpetual sneer. Unlike Fordon, he was so tall and muscular that she had cause to feel like a tiny bird perched on a twig before a monstrous man.

 
Fordon leaned down to smirk at Abrielle. “Now ye’d best be mindin’
yer manners, m’liedy, or else I’ll be clobberin’ ye real hard. And who’s ta say one as grand as yerself will be survivin’ such a beatin’?” Chuckling malevolently, he shrugged his fat, sloping shoulders. “I’m thinkin’ maybe not.”

 
Lowering eyelids disdainfully over a stony stare, Abrielle warned, “If you kill me, you can be assured the villain who sent you will never get his hands on what he’s seeking, ’Tis a simple fact, not a frivolous threat.”

 
Fordon smirked again. “What be he seekin’, m’liedy?”

 
“If you have no idea, then I shan’t be enlightening you. I only suggest that you consider the consequences to yourself and your companion should you kill us. You’ll likely be risking your own death by enraging those who sent you.”

 
Abrielle was convinced that Thurstan was behind this intrusion into her life, no doubt to force her to renounce all claims to Desmond’s wealth, or perhaps even to marry her still. As for her smelly captors, they seemed rather lame-witted, too much so for her to believe them capable of planning this abduction. She trusted them no further than she could outdistance a wild boar, but she trusted Thurstan even less.

 
Chortling at her chary look, the cloddish fellow retreated several steps and then abruptly whipped a long dagger from the sheath he wore at his side, snatching startled gasps from both women.

 
He sniggered. “Scared ye, didn’t I!”

 
Abrielle had little trouble mistaking the pleasure Fordon was deriving by tormenting them, making her wish she had the ability to bring him up short with a double-fisted poke in the nose. At times such as these, she could understand why her father had sought restitution from his enemies, even at the cost of his life.

 
Having endured the brigand’s mischievous humor, Abrielle was wont to bestow a deliberately bland gaze upon him. “May we be permitted to know what you intend to do with us?”

 
Badly decayed teeth came into view again as the burly man grinned back at her. “We’re gonna take ye ta a place far from here, where ye’ll have time ta think about what ye care for most, yer life or the riches ye wheedled from the squire.”

 
“I wheedled nothing from the squire,” she retorted sharply. Although at first she had thought the filthy brigands to be ignorant of what Thurstan was after, Fordon had obviously been playing her along, possibly hoping to learn how much wealth was at stake. “I never wanted to marry Desmond de Marlé, and for that reason, you can be assured I took no part in drafting the marriage agreement or any discussion involving his wealth.”

 
“That don’t matter none now, seein’ as how he’s dead, and ye gots the bloomin’ treasure he was a-hoardin’. Problem for ye is, there be those what’s considerin’ all of it theirs! Right down ta the last bloody coin.”

 
“By your reference to the last bloody coin, I must assume you intend to kill me in order to get it,” she accused acidly. “Well, you can tell Thurstan and the other culprits with whom he’s in league ’twill be impossible for them to get their hands on what they’re wanting if I am slain.”

 
“Ye jes’ don’t understands what I’m tellin’ ye, do ye?” the oaf chided, shaking his head as if lamenting that fact.

 
Leaning forward again, he pushed his huge face close in front of hers as he displayed his black, rotting teeth in a leering sneer. “If ’n ye don’t do what he wants, he’s gonna let me start carvin’ ye up inta tiny pieces. Then, if ye still refuse, he’s gonna let me have the pleasure of killin’ yer mother slow and painful like right in front of yer eyes. That’s what I do best.”

 
With that ominous boast, the ogre straightened and, holding up the oversize blade, thoughtfully examined it in an all-too-obvious effort to intimidate her. Although Abrielle had trouble subduing the cold dread that had settled around her heart at his threat to harm her
mother, she refused to allow them the pleasure of seeing her fear. Surely Thurstan was merely trying to make her so frightened that she would willingly agree to marry him.

 
Casting a glance toward his companion, Fordon jerked his head to indicate Abrielle. “Tie this one up good and proper. The maid can tote their belongin’s ta the cart. If needs be, we’ll cut off her fingers and send ’em back as a warnin’ ta this one’s folks.” Having evoked a startled gasp from the servant, he leered down at her and then promptly threw her upon the bed. “Her kin’ll likely be eager ta stop us afore we hack the rest of the hag inta tiny pieces.”

 
Dunstan laughed. “That’ll scare ’em, all right.”

 
“I’m goin’ down now ta see if ’n m’liedy’s carriage is awaitin’ her,” Fordon announced with a chortle.

 
In Fordon’s absence, Abrielle found herself facing the towering boor. At his approach, she kicked at him and struggled frantically.

 
“If ’n ye wants ta go on breathin’, m’liedy, ye’ll be needin’ ta behave yerself,” he snarled, thrusting a pillow over her face and holding it down until she was forced to give up her struggles. “That’s more like a liedy should be behavin’ herself. Now do what I says or I’ll be layin’ me fist so hard inta yer face, ye’ll be seein’ only the backs o’ yer eyelids for some time ta come.”

 
Abrielle found herself shoved facedown upon the bed and her wrists clasped in an oversize hand. She sought to thwart the man’s efforts, but he braced a heavy knee in the middle of her back and held her down as he bound her wrists and ankles. At last he caught her arm and hauled her to her feet. Tied as tightly as she was, she had little choice but to stand submissively as he wrapped a quilt about her and pushed a dirty rag in her mouth. Leather cords were then wound several times around the quilt, securing it over her torso.

 
Trussed up much in the manner of a plucked goose for a roasting, Abrielle was tossed back upon the bed, where she was forced to wait in apprehension. However, it wasn’t long before she realized her bonds
weren’t nearly as tight as the man had likely meant them to be, giving her some reason to hope.

 
Dunstan leaned toward Nedda as he displayed black rotting teeth in a sinister grin. A lock of his long, frizzy hair fell forward over his shoulder, swinging past the servant’s nose, causing her to wrinkle it in rampant distaste before turning aside. “We’ll soon be takin’ ye and yer mistress for a long ride, and should the two o’ ye misbehave even a mite…well, I’m here ta make sure ye both regrets it.” For added emphasis, he held the sharp blade up close in front of Nedda’s face until her eyes were fastened on the instrument. Then he twisted it, lending emphasis to the movement with an impromptu sound through the gaps between his teeth. Nedda understood only too well that she’d be killed if she caused him any trouble. Reluctant to allow the brutish man further satisfaction in his quest to frighten her, she nodded once, no more, and gave him a level stare for good measure.