inhabitants if enemies were to attack. Weldon had been not only a valiant warrior but also a man of great vision and intelligence. Providing sufficient provisions were stored within its walls before an army laid siege to it, the keep had the potential to offer protection for several months for those living within the confines of its exterior walls.
Still, as much as Abrielle could appreciate the security of the keep as well as the serenity and beauty of its surroundings, the knowledge that she would soon be residing within its stone walls with an odious husband did much to augment the melancholy that had been cruelly assailing her spirit since she had offered her freedom in exchange for her stepfather’s. The fact that she was now committed to marrying such a repulsive individual was enough to bring her threateningly close to retching.
Although many of her Saxon kin had yet to arrive for the wedding, Abrielle had already sensed that those who had were maintaining a cool reserve in the midst of their less-than-genteel host and his odd assortment of vulgar companions. She could certainly understand her kinsmen’s annoyance with the situation in which they found themselves. Most of Desmond’s acquaintances were strongly prejudiced against Saxons, as if they were themselves notable figures with impeccable lineages instead of undisciplined rowdies lacking prestige, titles, or wealth.
Most of the elderly women had removed themselves fairly quickly from the crowded courtyard and had gathered on an upper floor of the keep near the warmth of a hearth. Along with Cordelia and some of their distant cousins, Abrielle had lent an arm to those forced to limp along on wobbly limbs or climb stairs with the aid of gnarled walking sticks. Upon reaching their destinations, a mischievous gleam had come into the eyes of the ancients as they shooed the younger women away, threatening to exchange spicy tales about them in their absence. There, in softly muted, deeply worried tones, the elders did indeed discuss the forthcoming nuptials as they offered a variety of conjectures on the questionable fate of the young bride, if she’d fare any better than the squire’s previous two wives, or if, in view of her youth and quick mind, she’d actually be the one to survive him.
Cordelia glanced around as she heard ponderous footfalls on the drawbridge behind them and then mentally groaned as she espiedtheir portly host scurrying toward them. It took no mental feat of logic to determine that Desmond de Marlé was absolutely delighted with what he had managed to arrange for himself, for he was beaming with joyful enthusiasm.
Surreptitiously Cordelia leaned near to whisper a warning. “Behold, yon lecher hastens to his beloved.”
Abrielle issued a muted groan, realizing her nightmare was already coming to fruition. Dipping her head as if espying something of interest in the stream, she hurriedly pleaded beneath her breath, “Stay with me, Cordelia, please, I pray. Otherwise, I shall panic and be tempted to run away.”
The flaxen-haired woman heaved a laborious sigh as if reluctant to be anywhere within close proximity to the man. “Desmond repulses me to the core of my being,” she admitted in a muted tone. “Nevertheless, I’ve always prided myself in being a truly loyal friend, so I shan’t desert you.”
To say that Abrielle felt trapped by the swiftly approaching man would have definitely been an understatement. Even so, she gathered what aplomb she could muster and faced her intended with a smile that in spite of her best efforts was hopelessly strained.
Striding almost on the squire’s heels was the tawny-haired nephew, Thurstan, who had earlier aroused her ire as well as the anger of many of Weldon’s friends. He seemed fully aware of himself, for his nose was held at a haughty elevation as he glanced about. In spite of the fresh autumn breezes, his nostrils seemed
Still, as much as Abrielle could appreciate the security of the keep as well as the serenity and beauty of its surroundings, the knowledge that she would soon be residing within its stone walls with an odious husband did much to augment the melancholy that had been cruelly assailing her spirit since she had offered her freedom in exchange for her stepfather’s. The fact that she was now committed to marrying such a repulsive individual was enough to bring her threateningly close to retching.
Although many of her Saxon kin had yet to arrive for the wedding, Abrielle had already sensed that those who had were maintaining a cool reserve in the midst of their less-than-genteel host and his odd assortment of vulgar companions. She could certainly understand her kinsmen’s annoyance with the situation in which they found themselves. Most of Desmond’s acquaintances were strongly prejudiced against Saxons, as if they were themselves notable figures with impeccable lineages instead of undisciplined rowdies lacking prestige, titles, or wealth.
Most of the elderly women had removed themselves fairly quickly from the crowded courtyard and had gathered on an upper floor of the keep near the warmth of a hearth. Along with Cordelia and some of their distant cousins, Abrielle had lent an arm to those forced to limp along on wobbly limbs or climb stairs with the aid of gnarled walking sticks. Upon reaching their destinations, a mischievous gleam had come into the eyes of the ancients as they shooed the younger women away, threatening to exchange spicy tales about them in their absence. There, in softly muted, deeply worried tones, the elders did indeed discuss the forthcoming nuptials as they offered a variety of conjectures on the questionable fate of the young bride, if she’d fare any better than the squire’s previous two wives, or if, in view of her youth and quick mind, she’d actually be the one to survive him.
Cordelia glanced around as she heard ponderous footfalls on the drawbridge behind them and then mentally groaned as she espiedtheir portly host scurrying toward them. It took no mental feat of logic to determine that Desmond de Marlé was absolutely delighted with what he had managed to arrange for himself, for he was beaming with joyful enthusiasm.
Surreptitiously Cordelia leaned near to whisper a warning. “Behold, yon lecher hastens to his beloved.”
Abrielle issued a muted groan, realizing her nightmare was already coming to fruition. Dipping her head as if espying something of interest in the stream, she hurriedly pleaded beneath her breath, “Stay with me, Cordelia, please, I pray. Otherwise, I shall panic and be tempted to run away.”
The flaxen-haired woman heaved a laborious sigh as if reluctant to be anywhere within close proximity to the man. “Desmond repulses me to the core of my being,” she admitted in a muted tone. “Nevertheless, I’ve always prided myself in being a truly loyal friend, so I shan’t desert you.”
To say that Abrielle felt trapped by the swiftly approaching man would have definitely been an understatement. Even so, she gathered what aplomb she could muster and faced her intended with a smile that in spite of her best efforts was hopelessly strained.
Striding almost on the squire’s heels was the tawny-haired nephew, Thurstan, who had earlier aroused her ire as well as the anger of many of Weldon’s friends. He seemed fully aware of himself, for his nose was held at a haughty elevation as he glanced about. In spite of the fresh autumn breezes, his nostrils seemed
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