His Stolen Bride BN (29 page)

“He plotted just to hurt you?”

Pain and shock laced her voice. Drake refused to believe her tone, take succor from
it.

“At first, I believed that. I later realized he arranged it thus so I would tell our
father. I was the one person whose word Lochlan would never doubt.”

“Why did Murdoch not arrange for your father to find them? Would that not have been
simpler?”

Drake’s sweating hands curled into fists. “Our father would likely have killed him
on the spot, so great was his love for my mother. Murdoch is no fool; he knew that.”

Averyl frowned her confusion. “What had Murdoch to gain by angering your father?”

“At first I could think of naught but pure spite for the threat to send him away.
Later, after Murdoch left of his own accord for life at court, he and my father began
exchanging letters. Murdoch made clear he only desired that Lochlan exile me and my
mother, and claimed that he had only bedded her to prove her a faithless bitch not
worthy of our father’s devotion. He was also quick to point out that the child of
such a whore could only be baseborn and without honor.”

Anger fired Averyl’s expression. “Certainly your father did not succumb to such manipulation.”

“Nay, as Murdoch discovered. After Diera died, my father grieved for months—then rewrote
his will, forcing Murdoch to wed you before you turned eight and ten.”

“But ’tis a strange provision.”

Drake shrugged. “Not really. The war between the Campbells and the MacDougalls needed
to end. My father believed marriage for such a cause would help Murdoch mature into
a better man. And until such an event transpired, Lochlan made me tanist of the clan.
Had I not been accused of murdering him, I, not Murdoch, would have assumed the role
of chief upon our father’s death.”

Comprehension began to dawn in gray tones upon Averyl’s chalky face. “So Murdoch had
Lochlan killed and you blamed.”

He nodded. “After my mother’s death, he arranged for some butcher in Campbell colors
to attack Lochlan on the battlefield. Murdoch himself was in Glasgow.”

“Such explains why Murdoch sent for me, hinting of a wedding, months before we expected
a summons.” Averyl placed a trembling hand over her mouth.

“You refused him?”

“’Twas just after Christmas when we received his letter. My father demurred, citing
the harsh weather and the illness of my people. We were not able to travel to Dunollie
until ’twas nearly June.”

Drake nodded, wanting the conversation over. He had never told anyone so much, not
even Kieran or Aric. Refusing to dwell on why he had spoken so to Averyl, he closed
his eyes, feeling the ache of his muscles, the pounding in his head.

“So Murdoch had you falsely accused for Lochlan’s murder so he could become chief?”
she asked, disturbing the silence.

“Aye. He still had friends within the clan, powerful friends willing to believe the
murder was all my doing, some English conspiracy with my grandfather to gain power.
Once they convinced the others that I most stood to benefit from Lochlan’s untimely
death and produced the bloodied knife I pulled from my father’s body, ’twas not long
before I became a condemned man.”

“And Murdoch, being your father’s eldest son, was restored to power.”

“Aye. He convinced them that no will, written in grief over such a paltry thing as
a woman’s death, and an English one at that, was important enough to keep the rightful
heir from becoming chief.”

“By the blessed Virgin,” she breathed. “So Kieran and Aric freed you, and you vowed
revenge.”

He nodded grimly.

“Oh, Drake. ’Tis a terrible tale indeed.”

She placed her hand in his, her face solemn. Drake looked down at their palms, clasped
together skin to skin. He felt something sharp and hot sting his eyes.

Gritting his teeth in effort, he pulled his hand away. “I do not seek your pity.”

“’Tis not pity I give you,” she assured.

“Then what?” he asked, wary.

“Advice. ’Tis clear to me that you let past words and deeds rule your future. You
must make your own,” she urged. “Do not let your mother and father’s enmity destroy
you.”

Confusion eddied through Drake. She spoke as if he had any say in past matters, as
if he could change or forget them with a sweep of his hand. “Of what foolishness do
you speak?”

“You need not shout,” she said. “I but try to help. You see, I realized yesterday
morn that I had allowed my father’s opinion of me to color my belief of myself. I
had allowed his words and deeds to control my thoughts and actions. You do the same,
though you do not see it.”

Fury and incredulity fought for Drake’s tongue. “Am I to forget what’s been done and
pretend I am not wanted for my father’s slaying?”

She sighed. “Of course not. ’Tis a fact that nothing will change. But in the case
of love, you allow your parents’ bitter union to control your feelings, and it should
not be so.”

Wishing he could shake some sense into her, he grabbed Averyl’s elbow. “Listen to
me, woman. Love started this chain of events, my mother’s death, my father’s murder.
What love did to my family now forces me to take my revenge, to see Murdoch into poverty
before he draws his final breath. Aye,” he said, answering the shock on her white
face. “I want him to die knowing that all he has plotted to gain has been taken from
him. When you turn eight and ten, he will lose the money and power for which he had
our father murdered. Then I will kill him.”

“None of that is love, but hate. Would you let hate and Murdoch end your life as well?
What would happen then?”

Drake’s jaw clenched. “The money and position transfer to our cousin Wallace.”

“’Tis not the money I ask about. Think of what Murdoch can do to you!”

“And should I run, hide like the veriest of cowards? Nay, I will see my revenge finished
and end the damage love has wrought upon us all.”

Averyl sat quietly, her expression grim. “Love did nothing evil. You but blame it
for what you choose to do.”

“You think love will grant you harmony? I have used you every chance I had. I use
you still. That is love? That gladdens your heart?”

With a tight pinch to her luscious red mouth, Averyl rose and walked to the door.
“Aye, though you cannot see it. I hope you soon realize we could have a future together,
despite this mess, if you could free your soul from the past.”

With that, she disappeared into the moonlit night, her anger apparently greater than
her fear. Drake sighed raggedly, feeling the heavy hammer of his own pulse as he ran
shaking fingers through his hair. ’Twas a tangle indeed.

Disjointed thoughts chased one another through his head, allowing him no peace. At
the crux of his ruminations were Averyl and her words. Were his beautiful wife and
her advice the sainted answer his hollow heart needed to heal? Or the ultimate pawn
he and Murdoch would eventually destroy?

* * * * *

Drake fell asleep before the fire, awaiting Averyl’s return. He woke, knowing not
what time it was. Only the grit within his aching eyes and the watery sun trying to
penetrate the dirty window told him he had not slept long.

Rising, he stretched his stiff shoulders and neck, then cast his gaze to the bed,
expecting to see his wife lying there in repose. He expected to feel that rush of
desire, of possession, she never failed to engender in him.

He found the bed empty.

Anxiety seared through his gut like a flaming blade. Had she escaped finally, driven
away by the truth? Found her way out of the locked gate and discovered the location
of his boat?

His heart lurched against his chest as he envisioned Averyl, tall in courage but short
on physical strength, trying to navigate his tiny boat across the choppy waters separating
Arran from the main of Scotland.

Running out the cottage door in search of his wife, Drake pictured her drowning, dying,
calling out to him for help… Sweat beaded on his forehead, ran down to his brow. His
heart pumped faster as he searched the ravine, calling her. Panic rang with the peal
of thunder in his ears when she made no reply.

A quick inspection proved the gate was still locked, the key still in his pocket.
Drake took one breath, then another, assuring himself she could not be far, could
not be harmed.

Parting the thick island foliage before him, Drake stomped through to find Averyl
slumbering by the trickling green waters of the pond. He exhaled in relief, unclenching
his fists, and sat on the ground beside her.

She looked in harmony with nature, her creamy skin the perfect foil against the lush
Scottish grass, the sheen of her gold curls surrounded by the rich purple of heather.
She resembled one of nature’s blossoms, nestled here among the vibrant colors of God’s
land, like the lilies floating atop the water beside her.

His gut tightened with both desire and self-disgust. No matter how much he denied
the truth to Averyl herself, Drake knew, felt it deep within, that he had come to
care about her.

Too much.

’Twas why he worried about her safety, why he’d made love to her when he should not.
The reason he had wanted her to believe in her beauty. And the reason he’d told her,
and no one else, the entire truth of his past.

’Twas the reason he was tempted to tell her he would try to love her in the way she
had dreamed of since girlhood, for at least as long as he lived. And the reason he
could do no such thing, for she failed to see the truth: Animosity had plagued the
love his parents shared. And Averyl’s notion that he possessed buried fear that controlled
his life was rubbish. Nor could he dishonor his father by forgoing revenge for love.

But that did not stop him from aching for her.

Drake sidled closer to his wife, resisting the urge to run his fingers through her
tresses, glide his hand across the sunlit splendor of her delicate cheeks. His entire
body clenched like a fist. His hand trembled at his side.

Revenge and the clan’s condemnation did not allow for emotions, he told himself. He
had never intended their marriage to be one of anything but convenience and revenge.

And the idea of opening what was left of his heart to Averyl and allowing her the
kind of power Diera held over Lochlan turned his stomach to a cold block of fear.
He could not endure the tumult of feeling flowing between them, wondering what he
might do next to earn her displeasure, fearful that any day she might grow weary of
his attention or of life on the run.

Aye, she claimed to love him today and clearly meant such. His mother had probably
once uttered those same words to his besotted father.

Drake closed his eyes at the encroaching picture of such a bleak marriage that could
only lead to his shattered soul.

Nay, he could not, would not, give Averyl that kind of power over him. He must put
distance between them. Now, as he’d decided yesterday, after succumbing to his urge
for her.

He woke Averyl with a gentle shake. Her eyes opened by degrees, revealing her splendid
hazel orbs to him slowly. Her languid expression filled him with remembrances and
lust. And resolve, for he must sever this tie between them now.

“Drake?” she asked sleepily.

He stood and cleared his throat. “I am sending you away.”

She sat up slowly, confusion rampant in her expression. “Away? From here? From you?”

“Aye, to—”

“Do you still run from what you feel? Drake, do not—”

“I run from nothing, least of all anything I might feel. ’Tis simply safer to send
you elsewhere.”

Averyl stood, denial on her beautiful face. “The MacDougall has searched this island
and found nothing.”

“That does not mean he will not return. ’Tis for the best.”

“The best for you,” she shot back. “So you do not have to listen to me and risk facing
what is in your heart.”

“Hear me well,” he ground out. “I have naught in my heart!”

“At least naught you will admit to me. Can you not realize your inability to love
is the result of your slavery to the past? Do you not see—”

“Speak no more on this.” He turned his back to her, determined they would never exchange
words of this ilk ever again.

Before he could stalk away, a sudden noise split the air, an out-of-place crash that
sounded frighteningly like the splintering of wood. Every muscle in Drake’s body froze
with foreboding a moment before the thunder of horses’ hooves sounded inside the ravine.
Instant white-hot fear stunned him.

“Come out, you bastard,” Murdoch’s too-familiar voice whipped through the air. “I
have you trapped!”

Shock pumped through his veins. Sweating, he fought panic and glanced at Averyl. Her
eyes went wide with horror.

“Come out, you worthless whore’s son,” Murdoch shouted. “You cannot escape this time!”

“What are we to do?” Averyl whispered.

Drake grabbed her hand, praying that she would make it out of the ravine alive. “Run!”

Squeezing his hand, Averyl followed him, sprinting. Over the drum of his pounding
heart, Drake heard Murdoch’s men dismount and begin to beat through the green brush
in their search. Hiding in the ravine’s brambles and birches, he guided Averyl away
from the men.

Taking hold of her arms, he forced her stare to his. “Hold on to me, no matter what.
Do you hear me?”

“Aye,” came her whispered reply before they began creeping from the bushes as silently
as possible.

Murdoch’s men were visible everywhere but blessedly scattered and on foot as they
searched the length of the ravine. Drake made a quick count and estimated there were
probably a dozen and a half.

With a prayer on his lips, he sprinted toward the gate, his hand clutched around Averyl’s
so she ran beside him.

Within instants, Murdoch’s men gave chase. One leapt at them from a clearing, a long,
wicked blade in hand, and made a quick swipe at Drake’s chest. He arched, inching
out of death’s way. Over the sound of Averyl’s sudden scream, he urged her on. The
rest of Murdoch’s men scrambled to return to follow while Murdoch himself shouted
and gave chase.