His Stolen Bride BN (20 page)

“Why? Because you do not want another trampling upon your property?”

He grabbed her chin and held it tightly. The expression on his taut face matched his
black silence—something volatile, an explosion moments from erupting.

If she had angered him, it hardly mattered. Theirs was not a real marriage. It never
would be, not with his refusal to believe in love, and revenge and revulsion lying
between them. Averyl returned his scowl with a defiant stare.

Finally, he spoke in a controlled voice. “Until the next twenty-second of June, you
are my wife. That is reason enough.”

“I did not want the role.”

“I do not recall
asking
if you would like to assume it.”

“’Tis true, you snake. You bullied me into it surrendering my future and jeopardizing
my home and vassals. For that, I shall never forgive you.”

At that, he slowly released her. An emotionless mantle overcame his face. “I expected
naught less.”

* * * * *

Returning to their room after the morning meal, Averyl swallowed against the rise
of breakfast in her throat. Sitting across from Drake while he played the sated groom…
Her mortification could not have been more thorough, nor her hurt more acute. The
Gibsons had merely smiled, seeming to take no note of her lack of enthusiasm.

No matter, for this visit had come to an end. She had naught to do but gather her
meager belongings.

Of course, she must try to escape again. She’d come to that decision over breakfast.
Legally wed they might be, but Averyl had no wish to live with a man who abhorred
her and sought to use her for his own end. The fact she was idiot enough to have other
feelings for him simply convinced her she could not remain. In fact, she’d come to
realize last night had been a blessing, for her marriage was unconsummated.

Murdoch MacDougall could have it dissolved before they wed, should he still want her
as his wife. She hoped Drake had spoken true in claiming Murdoch must take her to
wife to satisfy his father’s will. If so, mayhap the MacDougall would welcome her
without hesitation. Then Abbotsford would be saved, and she could put the isolated,
infuriating Drake Locke from her mind.

To achieve that, she must concentrate on escape. And this time, she would be more
prepared. ’Twas daylight, for one. And Drake’s mood was nothing short of preoccupied.
Best of all, she’d stolen a sharp knife from Edina’s table for a weapon.

Tucking the blade within the folds of her skirt, Averyl gathered the rest of her belongings.
She turned for the doors, to find a way from the inn, when Drake strode into the room.

“You are packed quickly.” His voice was deceptively calm.

Averyl merely gave him a regal tilt of her head, declining more answer than that,
hoping he could not hear the pounding of her heart, nor the oath poised upon her tongue.

All but stalking across the floor, Drake paused before the open window, then faced
her. “Averyl, do not think that I—” Sighing, he peered out the window behind him.
“Last eve, I…”

Averyl turned away. Any talk of last night could bring naught but ill feelings and
grief. Her life had been too full of those of late.

Drake leaned forward suddenly, then let loose a hearty curse. “What in hell’s name…?”

Shock infused his voice. Averyl whirled to its sound.

“This cannot be!”

She strode to the window, all else forgotten in the face of curiosity. Below, she
saw a large party on fine war horses. Well dressed men at arms rode through the middle
of the street.

Murdoch MacDougall himself sat proudly at the front, not deigning to look at the town’s
peasants clustered about him.

Averyl gasped. Her savior was
here
. He would free her, explain why he’d bedded Drake’s mother. He would save her home.

Before she could find the right words to shout, Drake wound an arm about her waist,
anchoring her against the wall of his chest, and clapped a hand over her mouth.

“You will not breathe a word, my good wife,” he chided.

Fury rose within her, and she tried to bite the salty fingers covering her lips. Drake
subdued her, his gaze trained over her head, on Murdoch.

Well contained, Averyl cast her stare out the window again only to find Murdoch and
his men stopping before the inn. Her eyes widened and her heart raced, as Drake stiffened
and swore.

Had Murdoch discovered them here? If so, what would he and his men do to Drake? Maim
him? Kill him? She swallowed.

After dismounting, the MacDougall stretched and cast his gaze about. Then Averyl noticed
a woman traveling with them, the kitchen wench with red hair, still round with child.

“Can you not waddle faster?” Murdoch snapped at her as she struggled to dismount,
falling to her knees. No one moved to assist her.

The girl struggled to her feet and said something Averyl could not hear, something
that caused Murdoch’s long body to tense in fury.

“We have not the time to stop for you to relieve yourself again. You slow me down
and yet have the nerve to complain of pains and discomforts? I grow weary of this.”

Again the woman answered quietly. Averyl watched in outrage. Beside her, Drake dropped
his hand from her mouth and shifted his taut arms more tightly around her.

Murdoch’s vicious backhand across the woman’s cheek caused her fragile neck to snap
back—and Averyl to gasp. Such a blow would surely leave a bruise come morn.

Beside her, Drake’s mouth twisted in a sneer of contempt. “There is the man you sought
to wed.”

Averyl flinched at that truth.

“You could help it very much by closing your legs to every man who walks your way,”
Murdoch sneered. “Remember that the next time you want a man to claim your brat.”

With a dismissive wave, he turned to a shorter man beside her. “Wallace, see to her
care before she nags me to death.”

With a nod, the woman and the soldier disappeared, presumably inside the inn. Averyl
felt cold with shock. True, she’d wondered for some time if Murdoch was the dream
lover she sought, but she had thought him steadfast, kind. His callousness of a woman
so clearly in delicate discomfort sent horror curdling in her belly.

“’Tis cruel,” she whispered.

Drake nodded. “Especially since the bairn is his.”

“But Murdoch said—”

“That she made herself available to any man? No man at Dunollie would be fool enough
to dally with Murdoch’s leman. Few men find a tumble worth their lives.”

Averyl took in Drake’s words in solemn shock. Edina’s tale, along with Drake’s warnings
and Murdoch’s actions, painted an ugly picture of the man she’d nearly wed. A man
with whom life could not have been peaceful, much less happy, particularly if he had
killed his father, as Drake claimed. As she now feared he was capable. She could nae
have loved a monster like that. And it stood to reason he had no real wish to wed
her, either, other than to fulfill the terms of his father’s will.

Such meant that, if she could escape Drake, ’twould not be to seek Murdoch. Marriage
to such a man would be like a descent into hell, permanent and fraught with evil.
But what to do now?

Swallowing a hard lump of truth, Averyl realized she could not escape Drake’s velvet
prison. Not yet, for she had nowhere to run. Abbotsford lay too far away, and her
father would only try to wed her off to the odious Murdoch again. And there was that
binding matter of her handfast to Drake…

He had her well and truly trapped—but only for now.

“Where to, my lord, since we found naught on the western isles?” the man named Wallace
returned to ask Murdoch.

Beside her, Drake smiled. Apparently their hidden cottage had not been breached. Something
that made little sense, something that felt oddly like relief, slid through her.

The MacDougall paused, rubbing his thumb against the square block of his chin. “Ask
the innkeepers within if they’ve seen the swine and that scrawny bitch.”

Panic infused Averyl as she gazed wide eyed at Drake. Looking shockingly unruffled,
he released her and grabbed her valise. “We must be away.”

“Where? They will find us before we can safely flee.”

He shook his head, sparing another glance out the window. “Gordan and Edina will lie
for us, much as I’m loathed to see them do it. They will give Murdoch naught. But
we must not linger, in case he demands to search the inn.”

“Aye,” she whispered as he pushed her toward the door.

“They slept here just last night says the innkeeper’s wife,” the voice outside told
Murdoch.

Averyl froze. Were Drake’s friends Murdoch’s as well? Had they betrayed him?

“And?” the MacDougall barked with impatience.

“They left early this morn, headed north.”

Drake smiled once more at the blatant lie. Averyl felt her tension ease.

After a pause, Murdoch added, “The Highlands offer many places to hide. But Diera’s
by-blow cannot hide forever.”

“’Tis true,” Murdoch’s henchman, Wallace, added.

Beside her, Drake tensed, nostrils flared, jaw strained. Without thought, Averyl placed
her hand on his arm in a gesture of comfort.

“Let us search the rooms in case he left aught behind,” Murdoch called, then ducked
out of sight, through the inn’s main door.

Averyl’s heart lurched in her throat. Drake merely glanced at her, brows raised, before
he shot her a wolf’s smile and dropped her valise.

She shivered as he crossed the room and withdrew a knife strapped inside his boot.
Without hesitation, without flinching, he drew the blade across his palm, unearthing
a ribbon of crimson blood across his browned skin. Stomach churning, mind racing,
Averyl watched as he swiped his injured hand across the white sheet, staining it red.

When Drake turned back to her, mischief filled the corners of his smile. “Let Murdoch
think what he will of that.”

Bitterness rose. Nay, he wanted her not, but would let his own blood to have others
believe he did. Her belly clenched. ’Twas fury, she swore, not pain.

Drake wanted Murdoch to feel certain she had shared those tangled sheets with him
like the most intimate of lovers. Why? As a statement of possession? Of revenge?

Still wearing a grin, her husband wrapped a kerchief about his hand and grabbed her
valise with the other before showing her out the door and down the back stairs, away
from the foul sounds of Murdoch’s curses.

As Drake’s hand rested protectively at the small of her back, Averyl found herself
unaccountably grateful that he had taken her from Murdoch’s clutches, despite her
resentment. Despite the fact she knew her new husband could not love her.

* * * * *

Upon a choppy but uneventful boat ride back to Arran and their hidden cottage, evening
fell. With it, desire and memories of Averyl’s soft body and willing moans rose.

Once inside the damp cottage, Drake turned his back to his virgin bride and sloshed
ale into a tin cup. Her wide hazel eyes stabbed at his conscience as did his memories
of her midnight tears the night before. Raising the mug to his mouth, he downed the
contents in one quick swallow, then poured more. He repeated the process twice within
seconds, hoping at once to drown his lust and his guilt.

Aye, how he wanted her. Burned to possess her. Should, in fact, take her tonight—now—to
make their handfast binding.

But he could not make himself do aught that might hurt her.

Still, he recognized that one could not be had without the other. Christ’s oath, she
wanted love, some fool’s notion of devotion and chivalry that existed not.

A quick glance at her pacing near the door revealed a cautious expression, her greenish
eyes still accused. Maybe she did not understand what love really meant, what it wrought.
How could she? As a sheltered innocent, she could not know what he did, had not seen
the devastation left in love’s wake.

Drake paced, downing another long swallow of the bitter brew in his cup. He could
tell her, aye. But would she understand?

Mayhap the problem was his. Averyl had never professed to love him, just to be seeking
love itself. Perhaps he assumed more since she would not leave his mind.

Since this morn, he’d begun to wonder what spell she had cast over him. Why could
he not tear her from his gaze, absent her essence from his senses, free her from his
thoughts?

Drake paused to refill his cup and empty it once again.
      
“She nearly killed my father.”

A frown wrinkled Averyl’s brow. “Who?”

“My mother.” Eyes narrowed, he turned away with a harsh grunt. “Her perfidy wounded
him. The rest”—she shook his head—“nearly ended his will to live.”

When Drake spun toward her again, her face was a study in turmoil. Warmth and liquid
fire washed through him.

“The rest?” she choked out. “We spoke of your mother’s seduction at Murdoch’s hands.
Is there more?”

He tossed back another long swallow of ale, his fingers tightening around the little
cup. “The bairn.”

“Bairn? Your mother conceived another one?”

He nodded, turning away so she could not see his face. Schooling his emotions, he
waited for her inevitable question.

“Who sired…”

After a terrible moment of silence, Averyl gasped. Drake gnashed his teeth, thankful
that she had spared him the humiliation of answering.

“Murdoch got your mother with child?”

Drake turned toward the horror hanging in her every syllable. “Aye.”

Face white, she placed a trembling hand over her mouth. “What happened then? Your
father must have been…”

“Furious,” he slurred. “Hurt. Bewildered to be so betrayed by his wife.” He nodded,
tossing back more ale. “Choose any among them. Each fits,” he said, making a sweeping
gesture. “But that was not the worst. Not by half.”

Looking into his empty cup, Drake swayed toward the ale and refilled it. “My mother
knew there would be reprisals for her faithlessness.” He stared moodily into his cup
as if it foretold the past. “She tried to abort and died.”