His Stolen Bride BN (21 page)

Averyl placed protective hands over her stomach. Drake saw the gesture, which warmed
and irritated him at once. Still, the impact of his words on her soft face could not
be discounted, though he’d begun to see two of her. Shock had replaced her anger,
concern overridden anxiety. A curious softness took up residence in his chest.

Raking a hand through his long hair, Drake was annoyed to find that it shook. “My
father was a proud man. A fierce warrior who put fear into the hearts of many on the
battlefield. My mother stripped him of that. He held Diera while she bled. He cried
like a child as he chanted his love for her over and over, as if it were some talisman
against death.” Drake frowned, bitterness seething in his gut. “As she drew her last
breath, she told him to rot in hell.”

“Oh, Drake. How terrible,” she whispered, her words like a soothing balm on the chafed
surface of his soul. He closed his eyes against a suddenly swaying world.

“Aye,” he said. “’Twas bad enough until Murdoch framed me for a murder I did not commit,
the murder of a man I loved well.”

Trembling, Averyl rose and placed a soft hand on Drake’s taut arm. He stared at her,
his eyes anguished yet unfocused.

Sliding her hand in his, Averyl squeezed his warm palm. Her heart pained for him,
for she understood now what a bitter threat he thought love to be.

Given his knowledge of Dunollie and of his nemesis, Averyl could only assume that
the soothsayer at the fair had spoken true of some bond the two men shared. Perhaps
Drake’s father had been a soldier for Lochlan MacDougall, mayhap even one of his clansmen.
Not only had his father most likely watched the more powerful Lochlan take to his
mother’s bed, he’d known she had also bedded down with the chief’s son. A terrible
tragedy for Diera’s ambition or passions to have wrought.

She soothed a hand over Drake’s clenched fist. “I am heartily sorry.”

“’Tis in the past, and I do not want your pity,” he spat, wiping the melancholy from
his sharp features. “’Tis your body I seek now, the sweet surrender I should have
taken last night.”

He reached for her, the dark tones in his face matching his voice. His warm palm slid
across her shoulder, gliding down her tingling arm, before he wrapped his fingers
around her elbow. Averyl trembled with awareness, wondering why she always reacted
to Drake this way, even when he presented the mask of an inebriated, irrational stranger,
even when he lashed out in pain.

“You want revenge, not me.”

Bitterly, he laughed. “I want you.”

“But—”

“My mother showed me early that a man should never leave a woman’s bed untended. Diera’s
passions were too strong to go long without a lover.” He paused, his gaze invading
her soul. “I will not be fool enough to make that mistake with you.”

“I’m not your mother,” Averyl corrected warily.

“’Tis true enough, but you are more dangerous,” he said huskily. “You make me feel.”

Averyl absorbed that shocking news as Drake grasped her other arm and hauled her against
his chest. His eyes, though half-closed now, gleamed with a golden, hungry light that
made her heart pound. “I want in your arms. Your verra bed, lass. To feel your sweet
mouth”—he swayed, then steadied himself—“your sweet mouth beneath mine.”

He swerved again, his head rolling to one side, eyes closed. She scarcely had time
to wrest the tin cup from his limp fingers before Drake sank into the chair behind
him. His snores moments later told her there would be no more talk that night.

Averyl lifted a quilt over her sleeping husband with shaking hands. Sleep softened
his angled features, the hard slant of his mouth. He looked tired, and after speaking
so much of the past he clearly hated, Averyl knew he needed whatever brief rest the
ale could give him.

Disillusionment was exhausting, as experience had taught her. Hope, a brief, shining
star against the backdrop of her life, always died a slow, wearying death, leaving
behind only bleak reality. Learning to live without her mother, without her father’s
approval, and most recently without a husband’s adoration, had taught her to understand
such bitterness. Drake had learned, too, from his mother’s rejection, Murdoch’s cruelties,
and the Clan MacDougall’s murder accusations.

His self-imposed distance made sense now. After Diera’s betrayal, he had sealed off
his heart from any possible hurt that might mirror his beloved father’s. Drake needed
love. Instead of feeling the hunger for it, as she did, he guarded himself with mail-clad
barricades so tight he could not see that truth.

He seemed determined to believe he was utterly alone in this world and even more determined
to convince himself that he preferred life in solitude. Only ’twas not true. Averyl
saw now his great need, even as he continued to deny it.

A sad smile floated across her mouth. Drake could pretend evil, could try to convince
her of his harmful intent. She knew better, indeed probably understood more than he
wished.

With a light touch of her finger, she caressed his stubbled cheek. He needed the very
comforts she sought: understanding, acceptance, to believe that someone cared.

’Twas her duty as his wife to provide them. But the burgeoning sentiment in her heart
had only to do with a bond she now felt linked them. Aye, she understood him, knew
him.

Cared for him.

’Twas a foolish feeling, one he would never return for many reasons, chief among them
his scarred heart and her homeliness. Still, she clung to her notion like a treasured
secret. She could treat him well when the rest of the world wished him ill and hope
he held some regard for her. That seemed her only recourse, for to tell him of her
sentiment would only drive a wedge between them the size of Abbotsford’s debts.

* * * * *

Drake woke the next morning to the assault of sunlight and Averyl cheerily humming
by the stove, clad in modest gray and one of those frilly white caps he hated. Groaning,
he rolled away from his pallet and donned his breeches, feeling as if a hairy creature
had taken up residence in his mouth and a marching army now lived inside his head.

He also felt as if his senses had taken leave of him last night.

Turning to him, Averyl gazed at him with soft eyes and a face flushed. “Would you
break your fast?”

Food?
He grimaced and shook his head.

A moment later, she sat down with some heated wine and a bread. Drake watched her,
wondering when his head would cease aching…and what Averyl thought of his foolish
loose tongue.

Aye, he remembered—with unfortunate clarity—what he had told her in his drunken state.
Never, from the day he had taken Averyl from Dunollie, had he intended to tell her
of the past, particularly the goriest of details, the kind which he’d revealed last
night.

Then he’d seized her in his drunken grip, likened her to his mother, and all but told
her he wanted to swive her.

Damnation! Could he have been any more thoughtless?

Whispering a curse, he strode to the window and glared out. The late morn air held
a breeze. The sun shone upon the tufts of green grass swaying across the ravine floor.
Drake sighed.

Averyl did not need to know of his past, of his mother and father, what motivated
him to seek revenge. She had no notion what linked him to Murdoch, nor would he tell
her.

More power over him Averyl did not need, for as the ache in his head subsided, the
ache in his loins grew. A yearning to be beside her seized his logic. He wanted her
in a way that went beyond mere desire. ’Twas not something he understood—or liked.
But Drake feared nothing he did, short of lowering her to his mattress and taking
her repeatedly until he could no longer want, would change his craving for her.

Still, he owed her an apology—more than one—for his behavior last night. For his surly
mood of late. For allowing her to believe he’d thought her too homely to consummate
their marriage.

“Are you certain you’ve no wish to break your fast?” came her soft inquiry from across
the room.

“Aye,” he said, facing her. “I must fish, else we will have no meal this eve.”

A wistful yearning filled her eyes with green, just as spring did the land. “Aye.”

On silent footsteps, he approached, softened by her expression, the lonely turn of
her mouth. Averyl’s melancholy disturbed him, even pained him in some silent way.

He frowned. “Averyl, I know when we were last here you did not leave this cottage
much for the out of doors.”

“True.” Her smile looked tight and grim. “As a child, my father used to tell me I
liked sun too much, for it gave me freckles upon my nose.”

Drake pictured her, all blond curls, freckles, and mischief darting about the green
Scottish hills, laughing, pretending…

He shook the image away, disgruntled with the thought he had taken that pleasure from
her. “Would you like… You could walk along the beach whilst I fish, if it would please
you.”

Her hazel gaze flashed up to his, full of appreciation and excitement, like a child
with an unexpected sweet.

“It would please me greatly.”

Together, they left the cottage. Ascending the steep hill to the gate, Drake turned
and retrieved the key. He unlocked the barrier and let her through with a wave of
his hand.

Her gentle smile, the one that curled her pink mouth and brought joy to her eyes,
flashed across her face. Before he could stop himself, Drake found himself responding
in kind.

With a shy duck of her head, she stepped through the gate, onto the grassy plateau
above. Drake followed, watching the swish of her flowing gray skirts about her hips.

A recent rain had muddied the earth, bringing its scent, along with Scottish wind
and a sea salt about them. As he moved to stand beside Averyl, she cast him a blushing
glance.

He felt an odd sense of contentment move through him, warm like a soft wind upon a
hill in summer, or thick like honey on fresh bread.

“What did you do when you were younger?” she asked, peering at him. “Were you a stern
child, always bent to study?”

Drake smiled at the image. “Nay, I made much mischief, so my father sent me to train
as a knight when I was seven. There, I met Kieran and another friend, Aric.”

“You have been friends a long time?”

Drake found himself answering with pleasure as the years rolled away and he remembered
the past. “As boys, we were ever wayward, thanks mostly to Kieran. Aric tried to remain
the voice of reason. I…was always somewhere in the middle. I took my duties seriously
but did not turn from frolic very often.”

“You and Kieran and Aric are close still?”

“Very.” He nodded almost to himself. “A man could not have better warriors at his
back, nor friends beside him. They are like brothers.”

Drake hesitated, wondering if he should say more. But something about the gentle harmony
of the conversation lulled him. He much liked the idea of talking with Averyl without
threats and ugly words between them.

“Aric and Kieran rescued me from Murdoch’s dungeons. Had they not, death would have
come soon.”

Her gaze turned soft. “No wonder you hold great affection for them.”

Drake sobered. “Aye. I owe them my life.”

Together, they began down the hill that led to the quiet roar of the beach and the
endless sea beyond. Averyl took a step upon the decline, then another—before she slipped.

While she wobbled to right her balance, Drake reached for her falling form. He caught
her around the waist and set her upright once more as the soft flower of her scent
awashed him.

He could not bring himself to take his hands off of her.

“Drake?” Averyl sent him a questioning stare.

“I would not have you fall,” he said, tightening his hold on the slight curve of her
waist, fingers resting near her hip.

She seemed to relax into his touch. Drake glanced down as the summer sun pierced the
clouds, shooting golden rays to light her hair with the brilliance of a halo. Sweat
beaded his brow. Damnation and hell, how he wanted his own wife.

“I know of your mother, Drake. ’Tis sorry I am. Children deserve better.”

“It means naught.” Not wanting to discuss her, Drake shrugged her words away with
a frown as they reached the shore.

Reluctantly, he released his grip on Averyl. The water lapped against rock and sand
alike, and gulls wailed above. Averyl looked good beside the sea, like a water nymph
resting upon land, letting the breeze play with her curls.

Shoving aside such fanciful thoughts, Drake waded out to the chilled water and dragged
his nets to the damp sand.

“Did your father care at least?” Averyl asked suddenly. “Were you close?”

All manner of feelings stirred, leaving him with a mood he recognized as grief.

“Aye,” he answered. “He was steadfast and kind and caring. The very things your father
should have been with you.”

Averyl shook her head. “I could not be…the daughter he wanted. If I could, perhaps
he would be proud to call me his.”

Drake released the nets and gripped her hands in his. “You did not disappoint him.
’Twas his own foolishness that did not allow him to see the good in you.”

She hesitated, contemplating. “Do you think so, truly?”

She wanted to believe him so badly, her expression said. All the yearning and uncertainty
in her soft heart appeared upon her fragile face. He felt the strangest, strongest
urge to kiss away her fears, assure her of her beauty.

Their gazes clung. Pleasure and want rippled through him.

“Truly,” he murmured finally. “I am certain.”

Then she smiled, something timid yet full of hope and appreciation. He stopped—moving,
breathing, blinking.

“Thank you.”

Though she squeezed his hands in appreciation, her eyes held a measure of care that
spoke to him, like a siren calling his name upon the wind. Desire pooled in his gut,
along with something he did not recognize, something gentler.