His Stolen Bride BN (16 page)

“I wish you had not troubled yourself.”

“No trouble. ’Tis excited we are ye’ve chosen a bride.” She raised a red brow. “Surprised,
mind ye, but excited.”

“This marriage surprises me, too.” Drake cleared his throat. At least that wasn’t
a lie. “But wedding Averyl is something I must do.”

The older woman smiled softly. “I ken that, lad. She’s a beauty, and if ye seek to
wed her, she maun hiv a good heart.”

A woman with Averyl’s beauty good of heart? Such seemed doubtful. Still, Averyl was
willing to sacrifice herself to a depraved demon to save her people and her home.
And instead of demanding jewels and riches in return, she asked to be loved. Her deeds
and wishes were definitely not the act of a selfish shrew, as his mother had been.
Diera had wanted money and constant attention. She had never cared if her son had
been hungry or cold, much less stooped to think of Dunollie’s vassals.

A furrow settled across Drake’s brow that matched the unsettling whirl of his thoughts.
“You always see the best in others, Mrs. Gibson.”

“’Tis the truth I see, and dinna ye be forgettin’ it.”

With Edina’s words in his ears, Drake left the inn.

* * * * *

Two long hours later, Drake unlocked the door to their chamber. Averyl lifted her
gaze to meet his tense one. An uncomfortable moment of silence passed as he scanned
her, from the braid wound about her crown to the pointed tip of her leather slippers
peeking beneath the hem of her purple gown.

“Come,” he said, voice hoarse. “The fair has begun.”

“Fair?” she asked innocently, though her heart pounded.

“Aye, to celebrate Midsummer Eve. There we will handfast.”

Averyl thought to protest leaving their chamber. But escape was impossible within
these four walls. She managed a nervous smile, one she hoped did not appear too eager.

Ignoring his suspicious scowl, she approached Drake. As he enveloped her palm in the
warmth of his, she noticed he had donned a clean tunic of midnight green that made
his dark eyes seem rich like fathomless earth before spring planting.

Feeling a rush of heat skip across her skin, Averyl looked away, but not before she
realized he had shaved away two days’ growth of beard. In honor of their nuptials?

However, Averyl had no doubt that Drake would be much admired by ladies wherever he
went. Today, he would reign supreme over all other men at the fair with his courtly
dress and warrior’s mien. His lips alone made a woman stare, to yearn for the feel
of that wide mouth over her own.

Averyl raised her gaze to his profile and bit her lip at the tense set of his jaw
and brows. She could only imagine his reluctance to take such a homely lass to wife,
despite his words to the contrary. Well, she would never comply with him. A year of
his loveless but tender pity was more than she could bear.

Following him out to the bright sunlight, he led her into the heart of the village.
In the distance, waves churned against the shore, their sound competing with the merriment
of voices raised in cheer somewhere within the dust cloud of shuffling feet. Drake
led her into the heart of the melee.

The brown mist parted to reveal scampering children. Fair maidens sported ribbons
in their flowing tresses while dancing around bonfires. Men set about to prove their
strength in all manner of contests. The aroma of turkey legs, fruit tarts, and St.
John’s bread wafting through the air made her mouth water. Jugglers and fiddlers plied
their trade. Above the din, a young boy announced the next showing of a revue of traveling
players. His hand gestures alone portended the show’s bawdy nature.

Awed, Averyl stared, wide-eyed. Never in all her years at Abbotsford had she seen
anything so busy, so chaotic and magnificent at once. Drake turned to her with a questioning
glance. She answered with wide eyes.

Drake smiled with surprising indulgence. “You like the fair, do you?”

“I have never been,” she admitted, “though I can most earnestly say aye.”

A collection of gaily colored ribbons caught her eye. She gasped as a weathered man
held out a strip of purple-and-gold satin that perfectly matched the hue and trim
of her gown.

“A bonny bauble for a bonny lass?” he asked Drake.

Embarrassment heated her cheeks. She refused to look at Locke beside her. “Good sir,
nay. I have no need—”

“Give her the length of ribbon and be gone,” her would-be husband instructed, tossing
two pence over her head.

With disbelief, Averyl saw the coins land in the leather-like hand of the merchant.
The man grinned and handed the scrap of satin to Averyl.

Her numb fingers closed around the ribbon. Drake had bought it for her. Why? Averyl
raised her gaze to his, seeking an answer amidst the churn of hopeful anxiety inside
her.

Drake glanced into the crowd ahead. “The trifle will make you look more the bride
if you tie it ’round your braid.”

Before she could swallow her disappointment that his gesture was no gallant gift,
he grabbed her hand again and pushed farther into the crowd, the ribbon pressed between
their joined hands. Ale and wine flowed freely, despite the early hour. Joviality
and play ruled the afternoon as it settled into dusk, yet she could not revel in the
mood, now reminded of the purpose for their visit.

Following Drake’s lead past two gossiping women hovering about their pastry stand,
they circled a pair of men arguing over a lady’s honor. Beyond them stood a crowd
of couples, many eagerly holding hands, a few risking a stolen kiss. Blushes and knowing
smiles abounded. Here, Drake stopped.

“Hiv ye come to handfast, like us?” a thin-shouldered blond man asked Drake.

Before Drake could form an answer, the shouting men behind them erupted in fury. One
pushed. Another shoved, then followed with a fist. The stricken man stumbled backwards,
knocking her hand from Drake’s.

A moment later, the crowd rushed to look upon this latest sport. Vaguely, Averyl noted
that challenges were issued as women tittered and pointed to the champion of their
choice. She spared the combatants no glance, only Drake, who stood on the other side
of the crowd, scanning the faces about for hers. His intent, searching expression
told her he saw her not. Her breath caught in her throat.

This was her chance for freedom, and she knew she must seize it—now.

Heart pounding, Averyl crouched low and crept from the fight. She ducked beside the
pastry stand, then slid behind a weathered oak. A quick peek back revealed Drake nowhere
in sight.

As she sneaked away, hidden in the crush of townsfolk, her hope soared. A juggler
followed her, performing for coin. She waved him away and glanced over her shoulder
again.

There she saw Drake, leaving the swelling roar of those eager to watch the fight.
Tense, watchful, he searched about the pastry stand, then glanced behind the tree.

Grimacing when he again started in her direction, Averyl thanked God, for once, for
her lack of height and curves, and continued through the throng. She breathed so hard
she could scarce hear the lute player’s musical routine beside her.

Glancing about, Averyl feared she could not run in the open spaces past the fair’s
perimeter without Drake’s watchful stare spotting her. And from experience, Averyl
knew she had no hope of outdistancing him. She needed to hide quickly, until night
fell, when she would assume her captor believed her gone.

A bright red tent decorated with golden moons and silver stars caught her eye. Beyond
caring who or what lay inside, Averyl ducked within its confines.

At first, she saw no one within. She heard only the familiar sounds of vendors hawking
their wares outside and the faint tinkling of bells. The pungent odor of spicy incense
wafted to her. She turned to discover the source of the smell. Just beyond the edge
of the faint glow, Averyl found herself looking into the oldest face she had ever
seen.

“Come. Sit,” she said.

The small woman had skin lined with knowledge and life. She gestured to the empty
chair across the scarred, circular table.

“You are frightened.” The woman’s stare pierced Averyl until she looked away in discomfort.
She glanced over her shoulder and through the curtain. Drake was nowhere in sight.

“Sit,” the woman commanded again.

Knowing she had nowhere else to run, Averyl complied, slowly sliding into a huge,
dark-wood chair.

“You run from somebody?” the crone asked, her oddly accented voice crackling with
each word. Before Averyl could reply, the woman amended, “It is from one man that
you run.”

Averyl gasped, her hand raising to her chest. The woman was a
spaewife
. Could such people really tell the futures of others?

The woman’s eyes followed the gesture, and her olive-skinned face lit up in a mysterious
smile. “Give me your palm.”

When Averyl hesitated, the woman reached across the table, a bracelet of gold dangling
from each wrist, and seized her hand.

Though Averyl was alarmed and wondered if the woman didn’t belong in an asylum somewhere,
she was intrigued.

The woman turned Averyl’s palm up and studied it, tracing the sign of the cross with
a silver coin. For several long moments, the fortuneteller’s gaze did not waver.

When the woman looked up, her eyes were focused at some distant point. Her face reflected
a series of emotions before she settled on a smile. Her attention returned to Averyl.

“Ah, a fortune worth telling,” she commented, her voice thick and exotic, clearly
not Scottish.

The wisdom in her fathomless eyes disturbed Averyl. “Say naught. I do not wish to
know of my health, wealth, or happiness.”

“What of your future husband?” The crone smiled. “You wish to know of that, yes? Yes,
you do. For now, I shall start with your past. Your mother has been dead many years.”

“Aye,” Averyl admitted, disturbed and frowning.

“You are betrothed, no?”

“Aye.” How could this crone know such? Perhaps this
spaewife
did have special powers?

“But there is another. He is close and he searches for you. He separates you from
your intended.” The old woman peered into the air. “It will be thus in the future
as well.”

A stab of dread pierced Averyl’s stomach. Did the woman believe she would never find
her way back to Murdoch MacDougall’s side to become his wife? It mattered not, for
no one could see the future. Could they?

Before Averyl could protest, the mysterious hag frowned suddenly, her cloudy eyes
racing over Averyl’s palm. “The past is vital. Learning it will unlock the key to
your future. Then you will find the answer to your hopes for both coin and love.”

Averyl bit her lip, her mind racing. Though everyone wanted to hear they would be
happy and rich, Averyl paused, considering the woman’s words. Had she not discovered
for herself that the past drove Drake and filled him with hate?

“My betrothed and the other man in my life, what has passed between them?” Averyl
asked, surprising herself.

The woman paused, brow furrowing in concentration. “They have known each other for
many years and share a common bond.”

A bond? Before Averyl could decipher that puzzle, the woman’s bony, bejeweled fingers
snaked across the table and took Averyl’s other hand in a surprisingly strong grip.
The length of purple ribbon fell from her fingers, to the table. “The man you run
from, who gave you this gift”—she nodded to the scrap of satin between them—“is your
future. Your destiny.”

Shock rippled through Averyl. Drake, her destiny? The crone must be daft. Yet she’d
known of Drake’s gift…

“You are much mistaken,” she said, rising.

The woman’s wrinkled grip tightened. “Sit, child.”

Averyl felt compelled by the ageless knowledge in the woman’s black eyes and complied.

“This cannot be,” Averyl insisted. “He cares not for me.”

Her hacking laugh sent a shiver down Averyl’s spine. “He cares. You will love him,
and he”—she raised a dramatic jet brow—“will love you equally, if not more.”

Love?
The unconditional giving of tenderness and trust from Drake? Such was not possible.
“Now you truly are mistaken.”

Clucking her tongue, the woman shook her gray head. “Look beyond his words and deeds,
deep into his eyes. Give him your trust. There, you will find a treasure.”

Confusion eddied and swirled within her. Only the worst kind of man could speak his
words and commit his deeds. “I will not trust a murderer who would force—”

“Never would he force you to give of your body. Nor did he kill. Look to the face
of another suitor for that.”

Another suitor? She could only mean Murdoch. But ’twas impossible. Was it not?

Averyl bowed her head, her mind whirling. The soothsayer believed Drake innocent,
as did Kieran and the Gibsons. Was such possible? Drake had maintained that Murdoch
MacDougall had framed him for the heinous murder. Averyl sighed in confusion, wishing
she could escape the old woman and her riddles.

Clutching Averyl’s palm, the woman went on. “Yes, consider your lover’s innocence.
Once you realize the truth, you will give yourself willingly. This man will treasure
your love and innocence. It is a gift he has had from no other.”

Give herself willingly? While Averyl could not deny Drake’s rousing kisses had the
power to melt her, she would never bed down with the man. Not when she had the MacDougall
to return to, not when she had her land, her people—and her heart—to save.

Averyl bolted up from her seat. “I must go.”

The woman’s worn grip on her hand tightened, refusing her leave. “The secrets of your
lover’s past are dark ones. Inside is a man with a tender heart and a needy soul.”

When Averyl opened her mouth to argue, the woman spoke. “Let time unfold and do not
fear your destiny. Go now. He searches for you.”