His Stolen Bride BN (28 page)

One sob, followed by another, shattered her odd calm. The fist clutching her stomach
tightened. Averyl thrust her lukewarm wine away and lowered her head to her hands,
letting her tears flow unchecked.

By God’s fury, why could Drake not love her? She groaned. Why did her caring have
to hurt them both? Even now, she felt as if she had laid vulnerable her body and heart
for his misuse, knowing he would do naught else.

And why, by the saints, did he allow the specter of the past to destroy their chance
at any sort of future?

* * * * *

Four hours later, Drake had yet to return. Averyl tidied the cabin after she’d ceased
her tears, then chopped some cheese and bread for lunch, her stomach rioting at their
sour smell.

Pacing the cottage’s small space, Averyl stared into the ashes of the morn’s fire
and realized Drake would not return for their midday meal. She grabbed a handful of
her silken gown, anxiety rising within her.

Where had he gone? She prayed he had remained on the island, not venturing far away,
particularly not to anywhere Murdoch might find him. Biting her lip, her imagination
conjured visions that he had been hurt, even killed, because she had driven him away
with her three revealing words.

Or most like, he simply avoided her. The haunted countenance he’d worn after her confession
more than told her how much her words had shaken him. How unwelcome they had been.

Yet she could not see what harm her admission had done. Though she wished for his
return of the sentiment, she did not expect one. She had even told him so, only to
be rebuffed.

Fine. ’Twould be a cold day indeed before she repeated such a heartfelt emotion.

As the sun waned in the dim afternoon sky, Averyl perused the perimeter of her ravine
cell, waiting and listening for his return, vowing that when he did, she would keep
all words of love, and any incriminating others, to herself until the time had come
for them to part, if only he would come back soon.

By nightfall, she’d seen no sign of him.

Again, she prepared their meal, pacing, cursing, crying. Concern remained, but irritation
had joined as the hours ticked by, chafing like gritty sand against her skin.

Admittedly, telling Drake of her love had been far from wise, but he needn’t have
scurried off like a deer from a huntsman. ’Twas not as if she had demanded any display
of his feelings in return. Indeed, he was hiding from her like the veriest of babes!
And over three little words.

With a huff, Averyl sat down to a solitary supper, determined to enjoy her colcannon
without him, despite the fact she disliked cooked cabbage. Determined, in fact, to
enjoy every moment of his absence. He would not be around to watch her, taunt her,
tempt her to unrequited emotions. She could prepare for bed in privacy, enjoy the
last of the wine.

And most like, Drake sat out on the island somewhere, huddled against the chilly fog
rolling in, oblivious to all but himself, his wants, and his selfish needs, as usual.

Pushing most of her brash-smelling dinner away untouched, Averyl stood with a stomp.
Her captivity, indeed their entire marriage, had been about Drake and his wishes.
What of her? Her own needs? Her feelings? Doubtless, Drake was too rooted in whatever
foolish thoughts populated his head to realize she had thoughts and desires of her
own.

That time, she vowed, had come to a halt.

She, too, had feelings, which ran as thick and sure as his. His past was littered
with tragedy, but her own had been as well. Did she use that as an excuse to hurt
others, to turn away from whatever love and solace was offered her? Nay. She accepted
it, gratefully. Nor did she have any difficulty in admitting her own feelings in return.

So why did Drake believe himself different? Certainly even he had run out of tragedies
and excuses.

Averyl paced the cottage’s dirt floor and paused at the window. Clouds dimmed the
moon’s white glow, and she smiled.

Her errant husband, when he returned, would soon learn he was not the only one whose
sentiments mattered.

* * * * *

By the position of the thin moon in the gray-black sky, Drake determined the hour
somewhere close to midnight. Weary and troubled, he opened the ravine’s gate.

His haunting thoughts of Averyl returned. Why had she spoken those damned words? Why
had his pulse quickened in joy?

He was a fool, no more, no less, for hiding upon the shores of his own island, away
from his own cottage until he felt certain his bride was hours deep in sleep. He,
who had never backed away from a necessary battle, never dismissed a worthy opponent,
had left Averyl behind and hidden like a coward. The realization filled him with shame.

Still, naught had changed. In the morn, she would awaken, and he would tell her of
his decision.

Inside the cottage, he expected no more than the remnants of an evening fire to keep
her fear of the dark at bay. But as he pushed the door open, nothing in his imagination
prepared him for the sight of Averyl fully dressed before a roaring fire, candles
lit all about the room, matching the determined flames in her eyes. Clearly, she had
no intention of retiring soon.

“So you’ve finally returned?” she said acidly before he could even wonder why she
did not yet sleep. “Have you finished brooding or do you wish to sulk more?”

He winced at her sarcasm and realized he had once again underestimated her mettle.
Once, Averyl might have curled up into a ball and cried herself to sleep over his
callous behavior. Now, she met him face-to-face, hands positioned upon her hips, clearly
as ready for battle as any warrior.

Drake stepped around her, anxious to avoid this confrontation. He’d rarely known how
to handle the sensitive and self-doubting girl she’d once been. He had even fewer
ideas how to manage the woman spitting such resolution from her eyes.

“There is much you do not know or understand,” he told her.

Though there was only one fact of which Averyl was unaware, ’twas a fact she would
likely find terrible.

“Nay, I cannot understand,” she countered, “because you refuse to tell me all. ’Tis
only part of your tale you give, parts that make no sense. You hide from me in every
other way, while you have demanded and coaxed until I have bared all my thoughts and
fears.”

“Averyl, I but spare you from ugliness.”

“Nay, you selfish knave,” she said through clenched teeth. “You keep me in darkness,
telling me scattered tales of your past that make little sense when put together so
you do not have to reveal yourself.”

Drake turned to face her, the blood within his body suddenly very still. How had she
stumbled upon that truth?

“’Tis late and I am tired. Rest—”

“I will rest when I have need to,” she argued. “At this moment, I want answers.”

“I have no more to give you.”

“Can you do aught but lie? Or is that all you know?”

Her fiery green gaze blazed with determination, with fury. Again that sense of shame,
the feeling that he owed her the truth crept through him. Perhaps after all the trials
he’d put her through, he did owe her something more. More, as long as the worst secret
could remain his.

“Damn you!” she railed before he could recover from his guilt. “I do not dispute you
were accused of murder or that you were blamed. But why you? Why not another member
of the clan?”

Drake chose his words carefully. “Murdoch hates me most.”

Averyl’s delicate forehead wrinkled into a disbelieving scowl. “Why should he? ’Twas
he who bedded your mother, not the other way around.”

“Bedding my mother was just another way to show defiance to Lochlan and prove his
hatred of me at once. But his loathing started long before then, when we were but
children.”

The suspicion shadowing Averyl’s face showed she remained unconvinced. “You still
speak in riddles, you rogue. Why should he hate you most, and how could one child
come to despise another for a lifetime?”

Drake forced nonchalance into his shrug. “Only Murdoch possesses the answers to your
questions. I do not presume to know what is in his mind.”

Averyl clenched her fists. “You know—or at least possess a very good idea.”

Shrugging, Drake turned away, refusing to say more.

“Your revenge is against Murdoch, and you, too, hate him. Now, even if you say you
know nothing of the reasons for his enmity for you, you certainly know the root of
yours for him.”

He could hardly dispute her. “’Tis true that I came to hate him while still a child.”

“For…?” she trailed off impatiently, clearly awaiting an answer.

Drake sighed wearily and sat before the crackling fire. Mayhap, telling her this little
bit would hurt nothing. “For his cruelty to me, to Lochlan.”

“For seducing your mother?”

“If Diera had not turned to Murdoch, she would just as easily have found another to
warm her sheets. ’Twas her nature,” he sneered.

“None of what you say makes sense,” she declared, stomping closer. “Though I cannot
say such surprises me in the least!”

Drake watched the swish of her skirt, heard the slide of her boots upon the dirt floor
and wondered what to say now.

“’Tis the truth,” he defended.

“Aye, but ’tis no more than your usual attempt to disguise the whole truth by revealing
a few facts. Tell me!” she insisted. “For I cannot understand how this childhood hatred
you describe, coupled with Murdoch’s seduction of your mother, which you claim was
not uncommon anyway, would lead Murdoch to blame you for his father’s murder. Or why
you would seek to kill him. None of that adds up to your bitter rage and determination
for revenge. Why did you not simply try to clear your villainous name and remember
that Murdoch and your mother both enjoyed causing others pain?”

He stood and walked past her again, this time to the open-shuttered window and the
fathomless inky night beyond. “There is ample proof of my guilt, none of my innocence
beyond my word. I cannot allow Murdoch’s deeds to go unavenged. Remembering that he
and my mother were cut from the same cloth only inflames me further.”

“Why?” she demanded, standing but a breath behind him.

The scent of her floral skin, the sound of her tortured struggle for understanding
suddenly coupled with memories of her lovemaking, of her tears. A hollow place in
his chest ached.

Aye, she deserved better than he’d given her. She deserved the truth. But if he gave
it, would she ever speak to him again?

“You cannot understand,” he said finally, defeated. What plagued him to want her gone
even as he craved her near?

“I tire of hearing such a truth, for I cannot understand what you will not explain!
And I tire as well of your unpredictable behavior. Passionate one minute, cold the
next. Caring in the eve, remote by morn. Can you not see how this hurts me?” She crept
closer, until her breath was a whisper in his ear. “Or are you like your mother and
simply do not care?”

Drake whirled to face her, a new fury roaring in his ears. “What did you say?”

“’Tis not deaf you are,” she challenged, chin raised. “I asked why you cannot find
some way to resolve the past and get on with your future. Perhaps you are more like
Diera than you realize. Mayhap you enjoy destroying others for the pleasure—”

“Damnation, never.” His gaze bored into the depths of her troubled eyes. There he
read anguish and anger, bewilderment and desperation. And need. That was his undoing.
“You seek the truth, my lady wife. As you wish. But ’tis sorry you will be.”

He grabbed her arm and hauled her against his body, denying the niggling fear this
might be the last time she allowed any such intimacy. She leaned into him, pliant,
trusting. Inhaling, he filled his head with her soft floral scent. Slowly, he pressed
against her, wondering how betrayed she would feel once he had revealed all and how
much she would hate him for concealing so much for so long.

“Your betrothed, the man you nearly wed to save Abbotsford from ruin, we share a common
bond. We share a father.”

Averyl’s concentration quickly dissolved into white-faced shock. “Lochlan? He was…?”

“My father as well.”

“Then Murdoch is—”

“My half brother,” he confirmed.

Shock dominated Averyl’s open-mouthed expression. After a still, awful moment, she
writhed for escape, drawing out of his embrace. Drake let her go, regret and fury
weighing upon him.

Drifting silently to the hearth, Averyl sat as if dazed. “Why would you use me so
against your own brother?”

Drake sighed, running his hand across his tired face. He could almost see the disillusion
crystallizing in Averyl’s eyes. Remorse tugged at him.

“My father and mother wed several years after Murdoch’s own mother met her grave.
I know not why Murdoch always hated me, but he did. He tried to drown me when I was
a boy of three.”

Averyl gasped, disbelief and horror pasted on her pale countenance. Drake merely continued
on.

“When I was but six, he abandoned me in the forest until my father found me two days
later. In my tenth year, I visited home from my knight’s training. He put a snake
in my bed. At twelve, he poisoned my food. While a child, I endured his superior age
and strength each time I came home, along with his unreasonable hatred, never knowing
the reason behind it. I still do not understand it. That is God’s truth.”

“By the saints.” Averyl’s voice trembled.

Drake pushed on. “As I grew, the rows he and my father had became more heated. My
father threatened to send him away, up north to an uncle of cruel reputation. In retaliation,
Murdoch, then a young man, seduced my mother. Not because he wanted her or cared for
her, but because my father did.”

“And you found them together.”

Drake nodded. “He arranged the liaison in the solar, knowing full well I enjoyed spending
my evenings there.”