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threat to the maiden.
     
      The difference in dance partners was stark, Abrielle realized in dismay. Raven had moved with the gracefulness of a knight, a man used to wielding a sword as he circled an opponent. Desmond de Marlé, her late betrothed’s half brother, lurched through the sweet rushes scattered over the floor. His wet, hot hand gripped hers too hard, and when the dance called for him to touch her waist, she could swear he squeezed as if he were checking the tenderness of a piece of fruit. His eyes devoured her with greed, and she would have run from him, but she did not want Vachel to feel compelled to defend her.
     
      “I will call on you tomorrow, my lady,” Desmond said in a confident voice.
     
      “I—but you cannot, my lord,” she said, scrambling for appropriate reasons. “My stepfather may have plans that he has not shared with me.”
     
      “I know what happened to him tonight,” Desmond said, not bothering to lower his voice.
     
      Abrielle cringed, wondering who could overhear his loud voice. “Please, my lord—”
     
      “He might need the friendship of a man of influence such as me.”
     
      His insistence on pushing himself on her only served to strengthen her courage. “My lord, I must insist that you speak with my stepfather.”
     
      “Oh, believe me, girl, I will.”
     
      When the music ended, he left her on the dance floor instead of escorting her back to her parents. When she made her way to them, her mother began, “Abrielle, that horrid man—”
     
      Vachel interrupted with a stern voice. “My lady wife, speak not a word that others may hear.”
     
      Biting her lip, Abrielle moved back into her place between them. Oh, how she wanted this evening to be over, but that would not put an end to their troubles. She would continue to see worry in her mother’s eyes and cold pride in Vachel’s. A hollow sickness inside Abrielle could not be appeased.
     
      And to make matters worse, Raven was watching her again. There was no look of flirtation in his eyes as he gave so many other women, confirming her suspicion that their dance had meant nothing to him, but then, why should it have, as she was no longer worth his notice. He had focused his attention on her when all still thought she would soon have a great dowry, then made her acquaintance inappropriately once Vachel’s hopes for a title had been dashed; she had to ask herself what the Scots emissary knew of her stepfather’s dashed dreams. Nonetheless he had danced with her, but seemed to have judged her unworthy after having spent some time with her; truly men werebeasts, for only a beast could show such interest in her, then withdraw it so cruelly after deeming her of insufficient value without property.
     
      She tried to distract herself by watching His Majesty, who bade a servant to crisscross a pair of swords on the floor before directing the musicians to play an appropriately swift ditty on the lutes. To her surprise, Raven allowed himself to be drawn reluctantly forward. What could he be about?
     
      After a sweeping bow to the king, he began a high-stepping dance over the swords. It was a dazzling display of footwork as Raven struck toe and heel to the floor with amazing quickness, weaving his way over and around the weapons, the clicking of shoe leather on stone its own kind of music. A clumsy Scottish oaf indeed, thought Abrielle, enthralled, and she was not alone, for the performance drew an ever growing audience, including many young maidens whose sharp, feminine gasps were interspersed with delighted giggles whenever his kilt flew dangerously high.
     
      “My goodness, I don’t think he’s wearing anything underneath it,” Cordelia gasped in shock as she joined Abrielle within the circle of spectators. In spite of the fact that the fair-haired woman’s cheeks were evidencing a deepening blush, she was closely attentive to the swishing movements of the wool.
     
      Abrielle