His Stolen Bride BN (36 page)

She closed her eyes and bit her lip to hold in a cry. He could tell from her flush
and the panic in her eyes.

“Go,” she said finally. “Do not let him catch you.”

The idea horrified him. “I will not leave you here.”

“You must,” she argued. “Or Murdoch will kill you.”

“I will not leave you!” he ground out.

Suddenly, she gasped. Before Drake could discern her trouble, a pair of rough hands
grabbed his shoulders, jerked him about, and planted a fist in his face. Pain erupted
in his head. The last thing he saw before blackness consumed him was Murdoch arriving
to lead a screaming Averyl away.

* * * * *

That night, the guards of Dunollie brought Drake up to the solar, where Murdoch looked
out the window at his ill-gotten domain. Averyl lay upon his bed, bound at the wrists
and ankles. Firelight revealed a tired, pale face, but she appeared not to be ravished
or hurt. She sent him a tentative smile as Murdoch’s guards led him to his half brother’s
side, then moved to stand outside the door. He smiled back through his pain, hoping
she could not see the blood through his shirt from Murdoch’s fresh lash marks.

The villain turned to face him, his mouth twisted with a malicious curve. “So, you’ve
finally awakened. Feeling well?”

“Swive off.” His voice was flat, inflectionless.

Murdoch grunted. “Not yet, for I have a proposition.”

“You have naught I wish for,” Drake vowed.

“Freedom, perhaps.” Murdoch strolled closer, measuring his steps slowly around Drake.
“From pursuit. From blame.”

The idea tempted Drake. Aye, he wanted that—so badly hope burned in his gut, roiling.
He craved peace. He yearned for his clansmen to know of his innocence. But he also
wanted Murdoch to pay for his guilt.

“Have you aught to say?” prompted Murdoch. “I offer everything you could wish for.”

Not everything, not as long as Murdoch remained the respected Lord Dunollie.
Still, he could play Murdoch’s game. “At what price?”

“Relinquish Averyl from this fool’s handfast. Once you do, I will see you freed and
absolved of guilt.”

“He agrees!” came Averyl from across the room.

Drake turned to Averyl in alarm. What was the woman thinking, consigning her future
to a murdering monster?

“I will not release you,” he refuted, then turned to glare at Murdoch.

“Drake, he will kill you if you do not let me go.”

Though Averyl’s voice held a pleading tone, he ignored it.

“You wanted me not anyway,” she continued. “Now you will be free.”

She believed that, still. Drake closed his eyes and sighed. If she only knew how deeply,
how completely, he wanted her now, forever…

“My wife is mine,” he said finally.

“I can easily kill you and wed her,” Murdoch reminded.

“You will likely do such anyway, no matter what I say. Is that not right?” he challenged.
“Kill me and let us end this.”

“Drake, nay!” she cried. “Do not give up for me!”

“Silence, you Campbell whore,” Murdoch commanded, then turned back to Drake. “Upon
the blood we share, upon my mother’s grave, I vow I will free you if you release her
from your handfast.”

Eyes narrowed, Drake studied Murdoch. Never had he looked more serious, and Drake
nearly believed him. But even if Murdoch’s words were truth, he would never let Averyl
go.

“Accept his vow, Drake. Go!”

Leave her here to suffer a cruel union with Murdoch? Leave her here to warm his bed
day after day, year after year?
“Nay.”

“You would sacrifice your
life
for a Campbell wench?” Murdoch challenged.

“Aye,” he whispered, feeling Averyl’s gaze burn his profile.

“You love her.” Murdoch’s voice accused him.

More than anything,
he thought, resisting the urge to look at her. “She is my responsibility. I will not
see her hurt as long as I draw a breath.”

“How noble,” Murdoch sneered. “If you wish death, it will be so.”

Crossing the room, Murdoch came to stand beside Averyl, then caressed her cheek with
the back of his finger. Drake restrained an urge to race across the room and beat
Murdoch into oblivion for touching Averyl. He restrained himself, knowing Murdoch
only sought to infuriate him.

His half brother smiled, then let his finger drift down Averyl’s neck, to an enlarged
breast. “When she came to me, willing to trade her freedom for yours, I sent notice
to the others in the clan we would soon have a wedding. They travel to Dunollie even
now.”

Averyl gasped as Murdoch flattened his palm over her breast. She spit an oath at him
and tried to roll away. Drake clenched his fists at his sides and fought his urge
to save her. Too much caring or sacrifice from him would mark her a weakness. Murdoch
would subject her to cruelties simply to torture him. Better this than rape or worse.

“I will simply plan your execution for the morn of our nuptials. ’Twill be the humiliation
among the clan you deserved from the day Diera brought you forth from her whore’s
body. And the day you die a traitor is the day I will celebrate by bedding Averyl’s
offensively round body until she forgets about you.”

“You cannot make me forget Drake!” she shouted.

Drake understood Averyl’s bravery but wished she comprehended how vicious Murdoch
would be if she did not begin playing the willing bride. Could she not see the fury
mottling his face?

Aye, he might have eased her road by releasing her—and making her hate him for the
rest of his days. But Drake refused to give up his wife until God had taken him from
this earth.

“And what do you think will become of Averyl and your child once you are dead?” he
asked, grin evil. “They will serve me no further purpose.”

“If you kill them as well, do you not think the rest of the clan will be most suspicious?”
When Murdoch did not answer in the next moment, Drake went on in bored tones, mastering
his fear in the hopes of distracting Murdoch from that idea. “Are we finished here?”

It worked. Murdoch whipped his gaze to Drake, then crossed the room. Murdoch gave
him a hearty slap on the back. Pain burst through Drake’s body. The blood left his
face, and he nearly stumbled to his knees.

“Drake?” cried Averyl, concern echoing in her sweet voice.

For her, he forced himself upright. “I am well.”

“Good, I shall be down to see you later.” The butcher flicked his wrist in a mock
lash.

Gritting his teeth, Drake held in a groan. “I never doubted it.”

’Twas obvious by Murdoch’s scowl that he did not appreciate Drake’s caustic response.
“I swear I will keep you a bare inch from death, you bastard.”

Averyl’s mouth gaped open. Her eyes widened with concern and fear and love. Drake
held in a curse, wishing he could spare her this truth.

“’Twould hardly be the first time,” he countered.

“Release her to me and I will spare your life, as well as this pain,” Murdoch demanded.

“Go to hell,” Drake said.

He touched a stricken Averyl with his glance as he strode to the door, the guards
who awaited him, and the long night of pain ahead.

* * * * *

A tormenting week passed, so slowly Averyl felt certain she could feel every excruciating
moment of uncertainty and sorrow. Firtha, bless her kind soul, had been able to tell
her each day that Drake lived. But Murdoch kept his promise to see Drake within an
inch of death.

She paced the small chamber in which Murdoch kept her caged, hindered by the fine
red silken dress Lord Dunollie insisted she wear for their wedding within the hour.
Below, she saw clansmen milling about in their finery.

Faintly, she heard the ocean churning in the distance. Closing her eyes, she clasped
her hands and prayed the plan she had devised in the wee hours of the morning would
save her husband’s life. ’Twas all she had.

“Lady Averyl?”

She turned to find Firtha standing in the door. Rushing to the older woman, she assisted
her inside and closed the door.

“Have you news?”

Frowning, Firtha nodded her graying head. “I couldna find Aric and Kieran this morn
to tell them of yer plan. Hiv faith, though, lass, they are wise warriors. And Drake
still lives.”

Wringing her hands, she asked, “How does he fare?”

“Lord Dunollie hadna the time to visit the dungeon yestreen, with all the clan arrivin’.
Drake is weak, mind ye, but he recovers.”

Averyl sighed, rubbing sleepless eyes with her fingers. “Has this plan any chance
at all?”

“If God haes any mercy, aye.”

What Firtha said was true, but Averyl liked it not. She wanted Drake safe, happy,
his life devoid of strife. She wished his life filled with love—her love. Yet he seemed
to care not himself.

“Why did he choose this, Firtha? For money and clan power, Murdoch might have honored
the bargain to release him. Surely his life was worth the risk.”

“His life, aye. But nae yours, lass.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion. “Murdoch will wed me anyway. Drake can do naught to
change that. Why would Drake refuse to release me from this handfast?”

Firtha touched a motherly hand to her shoulder. “Ye ken that Drake haes been like
me own son all his life. Always, haes he been stubborn.”

“But ’twas not time for such stubbornness. He could have chosen his freedom and regained
his life!”

“Over yours? Lass, ye ken the man he is. He wouldna leave ye to Lord Dunollie’s cruelty
as long as his life can spare ye.”

“But—”

“Do ye not ken he loves ye, lass?”

Averyl’s heart constricted, ceased beating. More than anything, she wished to believe
that love, not a sense of duty to her, resided in his heart. But now, with his life
in jeopardy, it mattered not. She loved him and would do all within her power to save
him.

The clatter of footsteps climbing the stone stairs stopped aught Averyl could say.

Instead, she pushed Firtha toward the door. “Go. See if Aric and Kieran have come
for the ex— for this farce.”

With a nod, the older woman was gone. A moment later, one of Murdoch’s guards appeared
and led her outside, into the crisp, brilliant February sunlight.

Tomorrow she would turn eight and ten.

Today, if Murdoch had his way, she would watch her beloved die and wed the heartless
villain responsible. Aye, she prayed to God he would stop this impending disaster.

But saw not anyway short of a miracle He could.

She swallowed as the guard led her to the front of the crowd. The Clan MacDougall
formed a circle of bodies, mostly men, across the winter-crisp green field behind
Dunollie. Their mood was righteous, eager to see an innocent man die.

In the center of the circle, the guards parted. To her horror, Drake stood in the
center, stripped to the waist. His face was bruised and cut. Blood smeared from his
mouth and tangled with the dungeon’s dirt. One eye was swollen shut, and his bound
wrists throbbed an angry red with rope burns—but nothing alarmed her more than the
raw lash wounds open and oozing on his arms, chest and back. He looked haggard, waxen,
lifeless—and frighteningly near death.

She glanced at the monster she had once sought to wed and saw pure bloodlust in his
eyes.

Averyl knew the instant Drake saw her. Time stopped, along with her heart. The air
sizzled. She resisted the urge to run to him, heal him, tell him she loved him.

Before she could give in to the urge, a passing chapman nudged her, nearly knocking
her off balance. She scarce paid note to the peddler until he said, “Beg my pardon,
good lady.”

Aric!
She whirled to him, scarce believing what her ears told her. But ’twas true.

She opened her mouth to say something. He shook his head in warning.

“We will save him,” Aric whispered. “Fear not.”

“Nay, ’tis a plan I have,” she murmured in return. “One that might spare him and prove
him innocent at once.”

Surprise sharpened Aric’s features before he smoothed them once more.

“What mean ye have no need for a bonny bauble?” he roared for the benefit of the nearby
folk.

“Tell Kieran as well,” she whispered, then spoke up. “I’ve no need for your wares,
chapman. Be gone with you.”

Averyl felt herself tremble as Aric blended into the growing crowd. On the other side
of the circle, she spotted a monk who looked suspiciously like Kieran. A quick downing
of his hood and a wink proved her right. She sent him a shaky smile before turning
her attention back to Drake. No longer would he meet her gaze.

To her left, the impatient crowd parted, and Murdoch strode through the opening, stopping
at Drake’s side.

The evil wretch pushed Drake to his knees and, grabbing a handful of hair, shoved
his face to the ground.

“Behold, my friends and my kin, a murderer. A traitor. Today, he dies.”

The crowd turned raucous, cheering, chanting. Averyl closed her eyes, wondering if
she could even hope to win the support of the onlookers or if her cause was a hopeless
one.

“He is an English whore’s bastard and not worthy of his MacDougall name!”

“Aye!” shouted someone from the crowd.

Murdoch’s squire made his way to his master’s side then, dragging a huge, sharpened
claymore. Dread twisted in her belly, until she felt both nauseous and dizzy.

Grabbing the weapon, Murdoch stabbed it into the ground at his feet, then jerked Drake’s
face to the crowd again.

“For your crimes against the Clan MacDougall and its last chief, Lochlan, your very
father, the lairds have sentenced you to die.”

“You and I both know I killed him not,” Drake insisted.

“Silence!” bellowed Murdoch. “Your time for talking is done. Your time for dying is
now.”

Drake risked one last look at her then, his face lined and anxious. Averyl felt her
heart constrict with pain, need…regret, denial.

Then the familiar warmth of his dark eyes was whisked away by Murdoch’s cruel hand
as he forced Drake’s face to the grass.