His Stolen Bride BN (11 page)

“You will think me foolish,” she demurred.

“No fear is foolish if it truly frightens you.”

Averyl bit her quivering lip, then drew in a deep breath. “I… When I was six years,
the MacDuffs lay siege to Abbotsford. M-my mother took me from my bed, up into one
of the towers for safety.” She clinched her hands in her lap and pressed her lips
together. “At-at the top, darkness abounded. A pair of rough hands wrenched me from
her grasp. I heard her scream…but could see naught.” After another shaky breath, she
pressed on. “Hours passed while I cried her name into the silence. Come morning, sunlight
revealed that she’d been strangled.”

A pang hit him in the chest. A new urge to hold her assailed him, and he gave into
it, much against his will. She’d been no more than a wee lass when such tragedy occurred.
Little wonder she’d clutched onto him as if her life depended upon it.

“You will be safe here,” he whispered. “This I vow.”

“Thank you,” she whispered into his neck.

Drake continued to hold his captive, swallowing against an odd need to hold her. Kiss
her. Had he sampled that mouth once before? One simple taste would tell the truth.

“Averyl?” he called as the wind whispered around them.

She lifted her face to him, and the moon broke free from the imprisoning black clouds.
Silver light illuminated her pure ivory features, the bright hazel eyes. Drake felt
his loins tighten as he lowered his mouth and took hers.

She stiffened and froze. Drake softened his kiss, despite the surge of hunger gnawing
at him.

He tasted the sea’s salt on her lips, as well as a hint of wine and something uniquely
her. Something delectable.

Something
familiar
.

Though he had solved the mystery of his dream, Drake held fast, savoring her lips,
again sweeping his mouth over hers. To his surprise, her mouth turned pliant against
his own. If her kiss was a ploy, so be it. He would feel the pleasure before her machinations
came.

But such thoughts were dangerous. His mother had nearly killed his beloved sire with
her honey-laced cruelty. He must not forget that.

Drake tore his mouth away. “I did not dream of another kiss, did I?”

Even in the muted moonlight, he saw Averyl flush pink. She wiggled free from his embrace,
and he released her.

“I— In my search for your key, you reached for me…”

Was that so? In his dream, he had been the one to seek her mouth with his own, to
seek satisfaction in her body, true. If their mouths had truly mated before she fled
the cottage, had he been responsible, not her manipulation?

Drake swallowed his uncertainty. He was not an uncertain man, and though her reply
made sense, he did not like that answer, one that meant she haunted him in his sleep.

“You did not find my boat, I take it?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Nay, as you can well see.”

Her bitter tone incited that ill feeling in his gut again. Though ’twas not guilt,
he vowed. Still, he had taken her from her family and future. ’Twas up to him to ease
her plight.

“I recall long days in Murdoch’s dungeon,” he said softly. “Freedom was a fantasy.
But on many days a ray of sunlight would penetrate the cracks of the castle walls.
I would oft concentrate so hard on that light, on my remembrances of the outdoors,
I could imagine myself there.”

In the moonlight, her eyes grew wide with recognition. “Aye. When the clouds parted,
I could see land, could imagine it beneath my feet, yet not reach it for the sea.”

“The Mull of Kintyre is but four miles west.”

Averyl shivered, and Drake draped his arm about her again. She stiffened until he
drew her small icy feet in his grasp. Her sigh shivered its way down his back.

How could he feel anger, protectiveness, lust, and remorse within the span of minutes?
Had he gone mad, or did Averyl bewitch him?

“Where have you put my shoes?” she asked, allowing him to keep her feet in his grasp.
“I found them not in my satchel.”

“I hid them for just this reason.” He shrugged an apology.

Did he feel contrite? Nay, ’twas lack of sleep. Naught else. Certainly not her allure.
Or his conscience.

“’Tis time to return to the cottage, Averyl. I mean you no harm, but neither will
you escape.”

“So you merely mean to destroy my future and Abbotsford?”

Drake shoved aside the damned ill feeling her words engendered. “Murdoch will pay
for his sins. You are his currency. Accept that, else we will spend many more nights
here, playing this game you will not win.”

* * * * *

The thud of footsteps outside the cottage woke Averyl. She sat up in bed, expecting
Locke to stroll into the dwelling with the knowledge of their kiss glittering in his
dark eyes.

Flushing at the remembrance, she lowered her head into her hands with a sigh, then
batted a hand at the sleep-mussed hair lying in a tangle about her. How could a tyrant
without care for anyone but himself, without feeling at all, rouse her blood? Soothe
her with his unexpected understanding of her fear?

Footsteps approached the door. Averyl’s stomach fluttered.

She would not dwell on him or their kiss. ’Twas folly. He did not and would not have
feelings for her. The kiss, her fears, meant naught to him. His patience could mean
even less to her, for she would never desire, much less love, a man with no heart.
That he’d aroused any feeling in her save hate was no more than happenstance.

Jumping from the bed, Averyl struggled to shove her hair beneath her wimple. Chiding
herself for the foolish vanity, she grabbed her dress and thrust it on. Still, Locke
did not appear. Instead, to her amazement, she heard two men conversing. One voice,
the more somber one, she recognized as Locke’s. The other was unfamiliar.

The strength of the voices grew as they approached Locke’s dwelling, until the men
stopped just outside. Her heart picked up its pace. Who was this stranger? Might he
help her escape?

Curiosity and hope soared within her as she crept toward the window and eased open
the shutter. Silently, she crouched beneath, listening for any piece of information
that might aid her escape.

“You look weary, my friend.” She recognized the voice as Locke’s. “Did you travel
all night?”

“Aye, most of it. But with a little sleep and a warm wench, I will be better than
new,” the stranger quipped.

“As always.” An irony Averyl did not understand resounded in her captor’s voice. “Tell
me what news you bring.”

“If you expected good news, I am bound to disappoint. When Murdoch discovered Lady
Averyl missing, he bellowed like a wounded hound. He cursed you and the day you were
born.”

Surprisingly Locke laughed, a rich, baritone sound that projected into the small cottage,
flowing over her senses rather like warm honey.

“What then?”

“After he realized cursing would help him not in finding his bride, he began gathering
his allies to seek you out.”

“As I expected.”

As he expected?
Averyl felt shock reverberating through her half-clad body. Locke sounded frighteningly
calm, as if he abducted women every day.

’Twas possible, she acknowledged with a thud of fear.

Abduction was a common occurrence for daughters and wives. Many came to accept their
captivity. Averyl knew she should do the like, if only for her safety. Despite his
assurances to the contrary, Locke might be provoked to rape or murder, as was the
fate of many captives.

But she refused to accept her bonds.

“Murdoch has again demanded your death,” the stranger said. “This time, on sight.
He means to have your blood on his hands. Watch your back, my friend.”

“His wishes mean naught.”

“But as he searches for you, he travels with a priest.”

“A priest?”

“Aye. One to perform his marriage vows to the Lady Averyl just before your last rites.”

Averyl frowned at the terrible image. Would her gallant chieftain really order such
a barbaric wedding?

“Murdoch would have starved or beaten me to death in his dungeons,” Drake argued.
“Should we come to combat, I am his equal. And if I die, ’twill be knowing I fought
for honor and vengeance. At least with Lady Averyl in my keep, I have a chance to
best him by striking at the heart of his greed.”

Greed?
Of what did Locke speak?

“We shall have to think of some alternative if you want to keep her. For upon your
last journey to Dunollie, a member of the Clan MacDougall spotted you docking a boat
at Ardrossan and told Murdoch such two days past. He is convinced you hide on one
of these isles and will search each until he finds you.”

A long minute of silence passed before her captor finally responded, his tones gravelly.
“That is not good news.”

Reining in a cry of glee, Averyl balled her fists and smiled. Locke was trapped, as
well he knew. She would be free of the handsome barbarian who imprisoned her, hid
her shoes…kissed her until she could scarce breathe. Murdoch would find her soon and
make her his wife. All would be well.

“Since Murdoch believes Lady Averyl harbors some measure of love for him and will
make every attempt to flee, he is determined he and his priest will be waiting when
she does.”

Averyl’s heart leapt again. Murdoch would aid and protect her once she managed to
escape. ’Twas a hopeful sign that he cared for her.

“I will see that she cannot,” Locke replied flatly.

Leaning in for a closer listen, Averyl resisted her sinking hopes.

“Can you tell me she has not tried to leave?” He sounded doubtful indeed.

“Aye, and more than once.”

“Then she may well succeed, my friend. If she wants freedom from you badly enough,
she may find it.”

Another long pause. Averyl stood stock-still, poised beneath the window in the hope
Locke might see reason and release her.

“Perhaps you are right. I shall have to think. Murdoch cannot be allowed to escape
murder without punishment.”

Averyl bit her lip mercilessly to hold in her outrage. Again, Locke intimated Murdoch
had participated in his own father’s murder. ’Twas an insult. The MacDougall would
not commit such a heinous act. Her captor merely had this stranger duped into believing
his wicked lies. By his own admission, Locke sought to kill Murdoch MacDougall.

“I could kill him myself for his treatment of you,” said the other man.

Locke grunted in response. “Someway, somehow, I vow Murdoch’s hate and lust for power
will cost him.”

“I shall help you. My ideas are always more interesting.”

At that, her captor scoffed. “Always? I would hardly call peeking at crones bathing
in the river an interesting idea.”

“So you remember that? I thought in ten years’ time you might forget.”

“Never.”

“I told you I assumed Guilford’s younger maids would bathe as well,” the stranger
defended.

“You would know more of their bathing habits than I.”

“These days, aye.” The man’s voice was mischief itself.

“Do you return to the village and Dunollie?” Locke asked. “I could use the spy.”

“Murdoch needs mercenaries and pays well besides.”

“Learn what you can and send me word.”

“I will, friend,” the stranger answered.

“As always, I thank you.”

“And I accept.” The stranger’s voice carried a note of humor. “And since we’ve concluded
our business, you must tell me how you fare with your captive. I assume any bride
of Murdoch’s would be some manner of horned she-demon.”

Locke did not respond for long moments. Averyl tensed, and the pause dragged onward
as he paced the hard-packed earth outside, twigs snapping beneath his boots.

“Averyl is not horned. But a she-demon…”

“So she has been difficult?” the man asked.

“She is no weak-willed wench, but nothing I cannot manage.”

“What is she like?” the man persisted.

“Always interested in the women.” There was amusement in Drake’s voice. “She is well-spoken
and sharp-witted.”

And though Averyl knew Locke complimented her, it stung her pride that he found nothing
else about her worthy of comment, particularly in light of their kisses. She shoved
the feeling aside, refusing to care what the brigand thought of her.

“When do I meet her?” the stranger asked.

Averyl heard footsteps coming toward the door and tensed. Before she could act, Drake
spoke again.

“Later. She sleeps, and ’tis best for now if she stays thus.”

“As you wish. Pray tell me, what does she look like?”

“A young maiden,” Drake replied without inflection.

But not a fair one, Averyl thought and wanted to cringe.

The stranger laughed. “Firtha called her lovely. Has your pretty face finally failed
you with a woman?”

“Kieran, I’ve no reason to charm the wench.”

Tattered pride lacerated Averyl like a whip on the wind. Locke thought of her as nothing
but the means to an end.
What else did you expect, fool?
She clenched her fists, wishing she could ignore the ache his painfully honest remark
caused, yet not understanding why she sought the miscreant’s good opinion when she
wanted naught but escape.

The stranger paused before teasing, “That means she is most homely or already besotted.
Which is it?”

Locke said naught.

“You are never one for many words, my friend. But such silence… I can only assume
you want her badly.”

“Kieran…” Her captor’s voice held a warning.

“After fifteen years of friendship, do you not think you can tell me the truth?”

“God’s teeth.” He sighed heavily. “You know me too well. Averyl is so damned fair,
she knocks the breath from me each time I gaze at her.”

Beneath the window, Averyl stopped breathing as shock wound its tingling tendrils
throughout her. Did Locke speak true? Nay, he lied to ease his friend’s curiosity,
surely.

Then why had he kissed her last night, not once but twice?