Everlasting

  There were huzzahs and raised tankards of ale toward the head table, and Raven saw Abrielle and her mother smile at each other.

  Vachel hefted the bag. “Please come forward and draw your stone.”

  As one by one each knight pulled out a stone, there were good-natured cheers or jeers, and much slapping on backs. But when it was Raven’s turn to pick, the hall turned silent, but for the whispers of the ladies. Raven met Abrielle’s cool gaze, and she only lifted her chin. He drew out a red stone, and he understood that the resulting cheers were from men on the opposite team. Those on his own team only muttered to one another. Ah well, it was truly an individual sport, after all, and he was certain that by the end, he would succeed in helping his own team to win.

  “Besides the horses and armor you capture,” Vachel continued, and a shout went up, “there will also be a sizable purse to the knight who performs the best. We well-seasoned knights will make that decision.” He looked among several graying and balding men, who all nodded knowingly. “And lastly, to this champion knight will be awarded an even greater gift, a kiss from your hostess, Lady Abrielle.”

  The cheers and applause were deafening, and Raven lifted his goblet in toast to her, as did every other man in the hall. A kiss from Abrielle was in truth the only prize he wanted; he alone of all the men in the hall knew the precise softness of her lips and the sweetness of her warm breath on his skin. Aye, it made him want her more, made him want her madly, made him burn for her. And it made him more determined than ever that this was a prize he would share with no man.

  In response to the cheers, Abrielle smiled and her cheeks colored. She was by far the most beauteous woman in attendance. Though she was newly a widow, and still clothed in black, the somber color only served as the setting for the riotous beauty of her copper tresses, and the shining light of her blue-green eyes. Raven knew in that moment that every eligible bachelor in the hall was determined to win her kiss—and her hand. They were, one and all, bound for disappointment, for they would have to defeat him for the honor; he had never approached an event wanting to win more than he did now. He had yet to impress her, so perhaps a feat of arms would at least draw her attention.

  Abrielle felt hot with embarrassment and pleasure as she looked out over the sea of men cheering her. She was trying to pretend that it was for her alone these men lusted, rather than her wealth, and for the most part she succeeded, determined to enjoy the tournament.

  As the minstrels began to play again, Vachel came to stand beside her and Elspeth.

  “I think the tournament was a wonderful idea, my dear,” Elspeth said to her husband.

  “Only if it helps Abrielle,” he reminded her.

  Abrielle slid her hand into his arm and gave him a gentle squeeze. “Your help is all I could ask for.”

  “’Tis a shame that Raven Seabern will have no help.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, her gaze finding him in the crowd, where he stood alone with his father.

  “His position is precarious. You saw the reaction of those on his own team to his presence. They will not willingly defend him. It’ll be as if he competes alone, a team of one.”

  “Then perhaps he should not have entered,” she murmured.

  Vachel gave her a sardonic look. “And did you think he’d just give up in his quest for you? He is a proud, determined man.”

  “You sound as if you approve of him.”

  “I do not necessarily approve of him as your husband. And neither would most of the people in attendance. I have heard that Thurstan has been whispering in many ears, fomenting hatred of the Scots. If war should break out, and you were married to Raven, I know you would be torn in your loyalties.”

  “Although your first loyalty is always to your husband,” Elspeth added.

  Abrielle said nothing, for she had no plans to ever face such a dilemma. Yet always, if she wasn’t concentrating, her gaze would wander to Raven. She didn’t want to have to worry about him on the morrow. She had not thought that he might be attacked by men fighting for the same team. But as he stood smiling and talking to his father, he looked so at ease, so confident. He probably wanted the purse more than he wanted her, for he was impressed with wealth. She would not worry, she told herself, for his foolish need to enter was not her concern.

  When Abrielle was escorted away for another dance, Vachel looked down at his wife and frowned. “She protests far too much where Raven is concerned.”

  “I know,” Elspeth murmured as she slid her hand into his. “I think she is frightened to give her heart to any man.”

  “I am to blame,” Vachel said heavily. “If it weren’t for me, she never would have felt she had to marry Desmond de Marlé. I think even the betrothal scarred her.”

  “And the fear of what she would face. God granted her freedom from such a nightmare, but I’m worried she’ll never find peace.”

  Vachel squeezed her hand. “God has been looking after our Abrielle. Trust in Him.”

  BY MIDMORNING, WHEN the sun peeked out of an overcast sky, Abrielle shaded her eyes and found herself looking again for Raven. She sat in stands built for the occasion, running along the main field of the melee. But since there were no boundaries, only some of the battles were fought before her, while others were chased through the countryside only to disappear within woodland.

  She could still hear the hoarse war cries at the opening horn as the two opposing teams had ridden hard at each other. The clash of their weapons had been fierce, and more than one knight had been unhorsed and taken captive almost immediately. Throughout the morning, several men had been carried to the healers’ tent, but she had heard of no deaths, thank God.

  Of Raven, she had seen little. She was almost embarrassed to admit to herself that she had marked the shape of his helmet in her mind, as well as the attacking raven emblazoned on his shield, so that she would know him when she saw him again. He had knocked an opponent from his saddle at the opening horn, but after grabbing the reins of the other man’s horse, he’d galloped away with his prize into the trees, probably searching for his team’s pavilion. As he did so, Elspeth sat down beside her.

  “And how are you feeling, Mama?” Abrielle asked

  Elspeth was pale, but she nodded. “Fine, my dear. I was able to eat some bread, so I am much improved. Have you seen—”

  When she broke off, Abrielle lifted a brow. “Raven? Not very subtle, Mama.”

  “I only ask because your stepfather is concerned that he is a vulnerable target.”

  “Not all that vulnerable,” Vachel said, coming to sit beside them. “I just heard that he’s unhorsed five men, and his team’s pavilion is filling up with his prizes. In fact, isn’t that him now?”

  Abrielle tried to pretend disinterest, but watched avidly as several horsemen came thundering out of the trees. Raven was in the lead, but then Abrielle realized that he was being chased by four knights. Others blocked his path, and as he wheeled his horse about, one knight’s lance struck him a glancing blow across his hauberk, flinging him from the saddle. The crowd gasped and rose as one, and Abrielle knew many were hoping to see Raven captured, his tournament at an end. But he rolled to his feet and unsheathed his sword in one motion. While mounted knights milled around him, he fought savagely, parrying their sword thrusts, slashing toward their horses until they were forced to retreat one at a time or risk losing their mounts—or their own legs. At last one knight fell as he attempted to escape Raven’s sword, and Raven snatched up the man’s reins and vaulted into the saddle. To Abrielle’s surprise there were people in the stands who cheered his triumph and display of courage.

  Without thinking, she was on her feet, laughing and cheering with them. She told herself it was simply good manners; if she did not participate wholeheartedly in her own tournament, how could she expect anyone else to? Admiring Raven’s skill on the field was not the same as approving of him. No matter what the swift and too frantic beating of her foolish heart might suggest.


  “Have you seen Thurstan?” she asked her stepfather when the combatants had again disappeared into the trees.

  Vachel hadn’t, but later in the afternoon, when the sun began to set, and the knights were close to exhaustion, Thurstan and several of his men rode onto the field, their helms undented, no blood seeping from beneath their chain mail.

  “Vachel,” Abrielle said, “do they look refreshed to you? Perhaps they have been taking advantage of a refuge to rest.”

  Vachel shook his head. “It is a trick some use in tournaments, to wait until most of the field is spent, and then gallop on and defeat your opponents. It is a legal maneuver, but not very honorable.”

  “Thurstan and his men are targeting Raven,” Elspeth said, clutching Abrielle’s sleeve.

  Raven had been riding away, leading a captured knight from the field, when Thurstan and his men surrounded him. Raven proceeded to defend his captive from being taken, all while unhorsing several of Thurstan’s men. Though Thurstan himself struck several blows across Raven’s shield and helm, he did not make the attempt to challenge Raven alone. One knight raced at Raven from behind, and the crowd gasped and rose to its feet when the knight’s sword was raised high. At the last moment Raven sensed the attack and met it with his shield. The knight fell hard from his horse and lay still, heaped awkwardly on the trampled earth.

  At that moment the horn sounded an end to the tournament. From her place in the stands, Abrielle was not conscious of how frantically worried she had been that something would happen to Raven until that instant, when the breath she’d been holding whooshed out of her and she felt her palms sting where the nails of her clenched fingers had dug small half-moons.

  Someone brought a healer onto the field and the knights withdrew to count their winnings. Only Raven remained, standing with shoulders squared, his long hair waving about his shoulders like a victory flag as he waited to see how his opponent had fared. At last they carried the fallen knight off the field, removing his helm as they did, and Abrielle saw it was Sir Colbert. As they passed before her, she could see him stir and was relieved. In spite of the fact that he had attacked Raven from behind and then fallen, she knew the melee could have degenerated into a real battle if he’d died.

  In the stands, Vachel and the older men gathered together and spoke in quiet tones, deciding the champion of the tournament. It wasn’t long before he nodded, turned to face the crowd, and lifted his hands for the attention of the spectators. Knights walked or limped or helped one another as they assembled to hear Vachel speak. “Good people, we give thanks that no one was killed today, nor were there any injuries more serious than broken bones. My fellow judges and I have given much thought to our selection for the best knight of the tournament, but in the end, our decision was almost unanimous. For taking twelve men hostage, defending them against others, and generously sharing his winnings with his teammates, we award the top purse to Raven Seabern.”

  Abrielle was not at all surprised—or sorry—to hear Raven proclaimed the victor. He deserved the honor. She was a bit surprised, however, when several dozen people cheered him and she assumed it was due to his unexpected generosity. Whether he was buying their goodwill or attempting to ease hard feelings, it didn’t matter. She searched the crowd and found him with his father. As the laird helped remove his chain-mail hauberk, she saw bloodstains on the padded gambeson he wore beneath and winced silently. The blows he took must have been powerful indeed to do such damage. And when he lifted his head, she saw a gash streaming blood on his cheek, where his visor must have cut him. Once free of the heavy mail, he stood, and judging from the exhaustion evident in his slow movements, she realized he was being driven by fierce pride alone. As he came forward for his purse, he did not limp or falter.

  Vachel grinned as he handed over a clinking purse, and there was some polite applause as well as the usual angry murmurs. Then, one by one, people began to look expectantly at Abrielle, and she remembered that she, too, played a part in his reward.

  How could she have forgotten about the kiss, and how could she have ever agreed to it in the first place? Too late she realized that she ought to have known Raven would be the winner and that it would come down to this moment. She needed to think and to endeavor to gather her wits about her; she needed to steady her pulse and steel her heart. She needed time, and she had none. That was made dangerously clear when Raven stopped before her and executed a sweeping bow that somehow managed to be chivalrous and mocking at once.

  “My lady,” he said.

  Abrielle bowed her head. If he wanted to play at being gracious, she would oblige. “Sir. Your performance today was spectacular, your skill with a sword and as a horseman no less than dazzling. Would that I could offer a prize more befitting your deeds.”

  “Would that I could pluck the stars from the sky ta rival your beauty,” he replied, his voice pitched low. “’Twould be the only deed near deserving of the prize ye do offer.”

  To her chagrin, Abrielle found she was unable to speak or breathe or look away. Damn him for the way he could so easily turn her composure to melted butter. It was unnerving enough when they were not being watched by scores of chuckling onlookers; this was impossible.

  And then, as quickly as he’d rattled her, he saved her. It was another thing at which the man had proven himself to be so very irritatingly adept.

  “Truth, ’tis this very prize that sustained me these long hours, and I would not rush the claiming, or subject ye ta the dirt and stench I carried from the field. I beg your indulgence; allow me ta bathe and change, for I wouldna want ta converse with ye under these conditions.”

  “Converse?” someone called, while others laughed.

  Abrielle nodded agreement, grateful for any delay. But even as she began to relax, she could not stop looking at the ugly cut high on his cheek. It was still oozing blood, and without thinking she blurted, “Sir Raven, allow me to stitch the wound on your face. You may accompany me to the lady’s solar.”

  “I should bathe—”

  “Think you I have not smelled a man who’s done a day’s work?”

  People around them laughed.

  “The wound needs to be cleansed,” she finished.

  To her surprise, he offered, “I could go ta the healers’ tent.”

  Vachel smiled and put an arm around his shoulders. “And wait to be attended when you are our champion? Nonsense. Abrielle is a skilled healer herself.”

  And so Abrielle found herself walking up to the castle at Raven’s side. She could feel the heat of his exertions still steaming from his body. His face ran with perspiration, and his dark hair was wet with it. She thought she detected him favoring his right leg, but said nothing, her woman’s instinct warning that he was far too proud to admit to it, especially to her. The knowledge of his fierce pride and strength warmed her in a deep and unfamiliar manner.

  The great hall was bare but for servants preparing for the evening’s feast, yet even their eyes were upon the two who walked silently through their midst. Abrielle was grateful at last to be in the dark, torchlit corridors of the keep. When she led him into her solar, she was taken aback to find her maidservants nowhere in sight; then she realized that they were, of course, still in the crowd outside. Which meant that she and Raven would be alone, in a room that suddenly felt very small indeed, while she tended his wounds.

  She glanced around worriedly, uselessly hoping a stray servant might suddenly come forth from some nook or cranny. When none did, she was forced to accept the truth, that she would simply have to take care of him on her own. To that end, she squared her shoulders, drew a deep breath, and reminded herself that she was a healer and her sole reason for being there was to use her skills to do what she’d been trained to do, the same as she would for any man, woman, or child in need of her help. The fact that it was Raven Seabern in need, and that they were alone, mattered naught.

  Then he closed the door and put his back to it, his face bloodied, his dark warrior’s gaze seek
ing hers across the deserted room, and suddenly the fact that he was Raven Seabern and they were alone were the only things that did, indeed, matter.

  CHAPTER 14

  Where would ye like me ta sit?” Raven asked.

  Abrielle did not answer immediately. She did not need to stare at the sweat-damp fabric clinging to every sinew and bulge on his broad chest to know that being alone with him was worse than unwise, it was dangerous. Yet her imprudent gaze refused to be steered in any other direction. She was seldom as certain of anything as she was that she would live to regret it if she did not that very instant announce that she was very sorry, but there was no need for him to sit at all since she had changed her mind and he would have to have his wounds tended elsewhere. But the blood on his face was now dripping onto his very distracting chest, and more dried blood was visible through the numerous rips and tears, and regardless of the danger she might be in, she could not in good conscience let his injury fester.

  “You may sit on the bench by the fire,” she told him finally, using her most no-nonsense tone. “And, if it doesn’t pain you too much, you might swing the cauldron over the flames. There is already water inside.”