Read Online Everlasting by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss - Free Book Online
Authors: Kathleen E. Woodiwiss
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pinched, as if he detected something foul in the air. A full head taller than the squire, he was quite lean and muscular. His clothing and accessories were stylish and well made. The neckband and sleeves of his black gown were accentuated with a woven green braid. Black suede boots were trimmed with appliqués of green leather resembling the fronds of a fern, a design that also embellished his dagger’s sheath and the money pouch that hung from a belt worn at a fashionable angle over his narrow hips.
His stylish appearance contrasted sharply with the deplorable condition of the serfs who were scurrying about the keep or in the compound beyond the narrow footbridge traversing the stream. Although they had seemed clean, well fed, and very cheerful while Weldon was alive, Abrielle had seen enough serfs during her present visit to realize a sinister change had occurred since his death. There were now many thin, gaunt features and lash marks across arms and faces of a goodly number of them. Indeed, most of them seemed fearful of Desmond and his nephew.
For one purported to have inherited great wealth from his half brother, Desmond didn’t seem averse to a vast number of serfs wearing filthy rags and going about their duties unwashed, to the extent that a scented handkerchief was now required to block the stench of their bodies as they came near to do some service. At least when she became mistress, there would be much she could do to remedy that situation. She might not be able to improve her own dismal lot, but she would find what happiness and satisfaction she could in helping these other wretched souls. She would insist that everyone who worked within the confines of the keep bathe and have suitable clothing with which to maintain a tidy appearance. But most important, she would see that they were all well fed, from the youngest to the oldest, regardless of their ability to work.
“My dear Lady Abrielle,” Desmond gushed, holding out his pudgy hands, as if fully expecting to receive hers with equal zeal as he halted before her.
“Squire, how goes your day?” she asked, unable to ignore the quavering weakness in her voice.
“Very well indeed, my dear,” Desmond responded. “But how could it not be when I see before me an exquisitely beautiful and wondrous young lady who is about to make me the happiest person alive? At such a moment, a man is wont to think everything in the world suits him.”
Managing to present some semblance of a cordial smile, Abrielle grudgingly complied with his unspoken request by settling her fingers within his grasp. She found his puffy hands nauseatingly soft, strongly hinting of a slothfulness that was likely thriving since so many serfs attended his every need. In the next moment, a rising panic swept through her as Desmond clasped both her hands and, in an eager display of affection, began to cover them with moist, greedy kisses, evoking within her a shuddering revulsion that threatened to send her flying to the nearest convenience to throw up her latest meal. Far more difficult to suppress, however, was the sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach that had much to do with the realization that once they were married, she’d have no right to withhold herself from the man.
Abrielle quickly averted her gaze from the rotund squire, only to find herself confronting Thurstan’s probing gaze. His eyes were a strange yellowish green, fringed with brown lashes and shadowed by thick, tawny brows. His high cheekbones, straight nose, and equally crisp chin seemed sharply chiseled, yet his mouth was overly soft and expressive, as evidenced by the sardonic smile that drew up a corner of his lips. If she could ascertain anything from his smirk, she could believe that he was also a very perceptive individual who had recognized her repugnance for what it was and seemed highly amused by it.
Resentful of the younger man’s close scrutiny,
His stylish appearance contrasted sharply with the deplorable condition of the serfs who were scurrying about the keep or in the compound beyond the narrow footbridge traversing the stream. Although they had seemed clean, well fed, and very cheerful while Weldon was alive, Abrielle had seen enough serfs during her present visit to realize a sinister change had occurred since his death. There were now many thin, gaunt features and lash marks across arms and faces of a goodly number of them. Indeed, most of them seemed fearful of Desmond and his nephew.
For one purported to have inherited great wealth from his half brother, Desmond didn’t seem averse to a vast number of serfs wearing filthy rags and going about their duties unwashed, to the extent that a scented handkerchief was now required to block the stench of their bodies as they came near to do some service. At least when she became mistress, there would be much she could do to remedy that situation. She might not be able to improve her own dismal lot, but she would find what happiness and satisfaction she could in helping these other wretched souls. She would insist that everyone who worked within the confines of the keep bathe and have suitable clothing with which to maintain a tidy appearance. But most important, she would see that they were all well fed, from the youngest to the oldest, regardless of their ability to work.
“My dear Lady Abrielle,” Desmond gushed, holding out his pudgy hands, as if fully expecting to receive hers with equal zeal as he halted before her.
“Squire, how goes your day?” she asked, unable to ignore the quavering weakness in her voice.
“Very well indeed, my dear,” Desmond responded. “But how could it not be when I see before me an exquisitely beautiful and wondrous young lady who is about to make me the happiest person alive? At such a moment, a man is wont to think everything in the world suits him.”
Managing to present some semblance of a cordial smile, Abrielle grudgingly complied with his unspoken request by settling her fingers within his grasp. She found his puffy hands nauseatingly soft, strongly hinting of a slothfulness that was likely thriving since so many serfs attended his every need. In the next moment, a rising panic swept through her as Desmond clasped both her hands and, in an eager display of affection, began to cover them with moist, greedy kisses, evoking within her a shuddering revulsion that threatened to send her flying to the nearest convenience to throw up her latest meal. Far more difficult to suppress, however, was the sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach that had much to do with the realization that once they were married, she’d have no right to withhold herself from the man.
Abrielle quickly averted her gaze from the rotund squire, only to find herself confronting Thurstan’s probing gaze. His eyes were a strange yellowish green, fringed with brown lashes and shadowed by thick, tawny brows. His high cheekbones, straight nose, and equally crisp chin seemed sharply chiseled, yet his mouth was overly soft and expressive, as evidenced by the sardonic smile that drew up a corner of his lips. If she could ascertain anything from his smirk, she could believe that he was also a very perceptive individual who had recognized her repugnance for what it was and seemed highly amused by it.
Resentful of the younger man’s close scrutiny,
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