His Stolen Bride BN (37 page)

Murdoch raised the sword above Drake’s neck.

Averyl drew a deep breath and shouted,
“Wait!”

Within moments, all eyes turned toward Averyl. Annoyance, confusion, and shock burned
in the gazes of the staring MacDougalls. She swallowed, her throat raw from screaming.

Murdoch faced her as well, masking his irritation so the members of his clan might
not see his fury with his bride to be. ’Twould not look good only hours before vows
were exchanged.

“Have you aught to say, my lady Averyl?”

His voice shivered down her back with its insidious smoothness. But the slight narrowing
of his dark eyes gave his anger away.

Still, she meant to save Drake’s life and could not be cowed by the threat upon his
face now.

Briefly, she dropped her gaze to her husband. He tried to shake his head, as if to
stop her actions, despite Murdoch’s cruel hold upon his hair.

In return, she gave him a slight nod, then lifted her chin. “What evidence have you
he killed his father?”

Murdoch groaned, as if disgusted with such a foolish question. “Witnesses, dear lady.
A bloody blade in his fist.”

She frowned and cast a quick glance at Drake. Even beaten and upon his knees, he somehow
looked proud and honest. Pain and dread clutched at her heart.

“Who are these witnesses?” she demanded. “What did they see?”

“My lady,” said Murdoch with exaggerated patience. “Duff and Wallace have already
told the clan all they witnessed. This man is condemned to die for his crimes.”

“What did this Duff and Wallace see?” she demanded, ignoring him. “Did they truly
observe Drake stab his father?”

“
Ni,
ye Campbell wench,” called one man. “But I saw the half-English bastard with the
bloody blade betwixt his fingers.”

The crowd murmured its angry agreement.

“Who are you?” she asked, trying desperately to hang onto her bravado. If the onlookers
smelled her fear, her uncertainty, Drake would lie dead within moments.

“I be Duff.”

She nodded, pleased. “And is Wallace here?”

“Aye,” said another smaller man as he stepped forward, a frown upon his surly face.

“Did either of you witness Lochlan’s stabbing?”

Both paused, hesitated. The crowd looked on in curiosity.

“We dinna,” Wallace answered finally. “But who else had reason to kill our lord?”

“Aye!” chanted a few members of the crowd.

“He claimed another did the evil deed and ran over the hill, but I dinna believe such
a falsity,” spat Duff.

“But you cannot disprove that,” she pointed out.

“Ni,”
he said. “I canna disprove it, but—”

“In a moment,” Averyl interrupted, holding up her hand to stay his protest.

“Hold yer tongue, wench. Ye canna prove Drake innocent,” shouted a man from the crowd.

Rumblings of agreement, sprinkled with an occasional “aye” sounded about her. Averyl
repressed the urge to bite her lip, show any weakness that these fighting men might
pounce upon.

“And you cannot prove him guilty, either,” she pointed out. “Before Lochlan’s murder,
is there one of you who would have doubted Drake loved his sire with his whole heart?”

A pause settled over the twenty or so men about her. Silence lingered until finally
broken by a “
ni
” or two. A few shook their heads.

“When he was a wee lad, Drake wasna ever farther away from his father than a shadow,”
said one.

“Exactly,” she affirmed. “As a man, he felt no less affection. But Murdoch and his
father, did they not argue?”

Again, a thoughtful still settled over the group. A few looked at one another as if
for confirmation before casting speculative glances at Murdoch.

“’Tis a fool’s game she plays with words. I wasna there when my father died, and well
you all know it.”

“Aye, but Drake did not say he saw
you
run over the hill that morn, but another. Is that not so?” She speared Drake with
a glance that demanded an answer.

He hesitated. Murdoch tightened his brutal grip in Drake’s hair. But Drake managed
to nod anyway.

“Did your father not make Drake tanist in your stead?”

“Aye, ’twas why he killed my beloved sire,” cried Murdoch.

“Or ’twas why you had Lochlan butchered and Drake blamed, so neither of them might
stand in your way.”

Expressions of surprise and conjecture dominated the crowd.

“Is the lass right?” asked one man.

“Our chief hated his father somethin’ fierce,” came a voice from behind.

“I believe Murdoch did hate his father,” said Averyl. “’Twas why he bedded his father’s
wife and got her with child.”

Loud gasps of surprise sounded through the men. The few women present crossed themselves.
Apparently no one had known of that fact. She smiled, praying for victory, heart pounding.

She forged on. “Murdoch had reason and history to hurt his father.”

“Be closin’ your mouth, slut, or I will kill your lover,” Murdoch yelled, holding
the claymore above Drake’s neck.

Averyl’s heart nearly ceased beating at the sight. The crowd murmured, rumbling in
disapproval.

Forcing herself to go on, she shouted, “See, even now, he resorts to murder!”

“What say you, lady?” asked a MacDougall from the crowd, a big man with massive hands,
a short kilt, and a braided beard. “We canna simply let him go.”

“Then ’tis a contest I call for. A fair joust. God will give the man in the right
the strength to be the victor.”

“’Tis fair,” called a clansman to her right.

“I canna disagree,” said another.

“Aye!” cried the kilted man. “Let them fight fairly for right. Let them fight to the
death.”

* * * * *

A scant few minutes later, Drake, in his armor, mounted his steed. To his shock, Kieran
had appeared, dressed in, of all garments, a monk’s robe. His Irish friend doffed
the robe and stood at the ready with lances, a broadsword, and an ax.

Aric strode up to the duo moments later, dressed as a peddler. Drake frowned in question.

Kieran began, “We had a magnificent plan—”

“’Twas adequate,” interrupted Aric. “Averyl’s is better.”

Aye, Averyl’s plan was brilliant. She was a fine woman, and he ached to see her. Drake
stared down the crisp February field for a glimpse.

But his vision blurred with fatigue. He saw only a crowd.

Murdoch, solitary against the sunlight, appeared moments later at the opposite end
of the long field upon his own great mount. His bearing was of calm and readiness.

Damnation!
Drake could feel himself shaking.

How had Averyl thought to suggest this joust? A victory would buy him freedom, and
he thanked her making some of his clansmen see the falsity of Murdoch’s “truth.”

But Drake feared he was in too much pain to fight.

Every movement of the chain mail set his back afire, despite the padded doublet beneath.
His vision blurred again. He felt weaker than a newborn bairn.

Murdoch was a cunning warrior, and Drake wondered how he could best his clever half
brother with so little energy.

Ahead and to his right, he finally spotted Averyl clad in resplendent red silk, clasping
her hands together in prayer. An unknown man stood beside her, arms crossed over his
wiry chest. Drake turned his gaze back to his wife.

By the saints, how he had missed her. He loved her so much, ’twas as if his heart
had ceased to live when he had been without her. But now he feared. What would happen
to her, to their child, if he could not best Murdoch?

He shuddered, afraid he knew the answer: suffer.

“You will best Murdoch; have no fear,” Kieran encouraged. “He is no match against
all your fine training.”

“But I am weak.”

“Here,” said Kieran suddenly, offering bread and water—his first sustenance in nearly
a day.

Ravenous, Drake demolished the hunk of bread, washed it down with the crystal-fresh
water, and handed the flask to his friend. “Bless you for that.”

Kieran flashed a tight smile. “Win. You are by far the better man. Then you can claim
your wife, whom you do not deserve—”

“Shut your mouth, Kieran,” Aric advised in commanding tones.

“He speaks the truth,” Drake admitted.

“As you see,” Kieran piped up before turning directly to Drake. “Marry her in a church,
or I will do it myself.”

Before he could block the vision out, Drake’s mind flashed him a picture of Averyl
in Kieran’s arms, her sweet mouth open in surrender, her silken flesh accepting—

“No one touches my wife but me,” he growled. “And if you test me, you will surely
find yourself missing that cock you’re so proud of.”

With that, Drake nudged his horse to the end of the field.

“God be with you,” called Aric.

Drake prayed He was with him—and Averyl.

Aric turned to Kieran then. “Would you really wed Averyl?”

Kieran hesitated. Aric knew something devilish whirled in the Irishman’s head.

“Unless Averyl and the babe would have suffered, nay. You know I will never wed.”
Kieran smiled. “But the idea revived Drake with the fire of anger, aye?”

* * * * *

Drake glanced at Averyl from the stands. She had remained by his side, exchanged her
freedom for his, proposed this tournament to save his life. Her actions alone told
him she cared. What had he ever done to prove his feelings to her?

He vowed to show her in every way he could that he loved her, that his heart and soul
were completely hers.

If he lived.

Kieran be damned.

Pushing away the grim thoughts, he thrust on his helmet. Moments later, he saw the
signal given and charged.

The horses’ hooves pounded the rich Scottish earth below, matching the nervous thundering
of his heart.

As Murdoch drew near, each raised his lances. Closer, closer… Drake aimed for the
center of Murdoch’s chest and ducked as his half brother took his own aim. A moment
later, Drake felt his lance spear something. Murdoch howled and cursed, and Drake
looked back to see him grip his arm as the small crowd of fighting men cheered for
blood.

On the next course, Drake did not strike Murdoch but felt instead a sharp glance of
his enemy’s blade graze his thigh. Fire seared his flesh as he readied for a third
pass.

Vision blurring momentarily, Drake prayed for fortitude. Kieran had been right those
months ago: Averyl was his reason to live. Today, he would fight for a future with
his wife and their bairn, as well as for revenge and justice.

Urging his mount on once more, Drake made his way toward Murdoch. As they passed,
Drake saw a small blade in Murdoch’s right hand. He feinted moments before Murdoch
might have planted it between his ribs. The crowd shouted for more.

At the end of the field, Drake glanced once more at Averyl, beautifully rounded with
child, then the man by her side. Drake scowled. The man seemed oddly familiar—at least
until his vision blurred once more.

“You look worse for the wear.” Aric offered his flask.

Drake turned down his friend’s offer of water and glanced at the blood trickling down
his thigh. “Aye. I feel such.”

He all but groaned as he made another pass across the field toward his enemy. This
time, Murdoch stabbed his lance into the horse beneath Drake. The animal whinnied
and crumbled beneath him, and he was forced to jump from the animal or be crushed.

Laughing, Murdoch jumped from his own mount and accepted the broadsword his squire
brought.

Drake turned to find Kieran at the ready with a blade. He grabbed it from his friend’s
outstretched hands, then stalked toward Murdoch, ready for the fight. Ready for the
end.

Neither man hesitated in the battle. Instantly, swords clashed and grunts rang out.
Sweat trickling in his eyes, vision blurring again, Drake focused on Murdoch’s determined
face, looked into his cruel eyes.

Before him lay the man responsible for nearly every misery in his life: his childhood
pain, this terrible accusation of murder, his outlaw status, his wife’s fear.
No more!

A new strength roared into him, warming his veins, numbing his pain, his anger, his
heart. All of those would come later, but not until this war was done.

With a growl of fortitude, Drake swung his broadsword at Murdoch, who raised his shield
to counter the blow. With a flash of silver, he raised the blade to Murdoch again,
on the other side. Murdoch staggered back, off balance. Drake charged forward and
kicked Murdoch in the stomach. The blow ripped the air from the chief’s body. Murdoch
slumped to his knees. Drake used the opportunity to kick the sword from his half brother’s
hands and tackle him to the ground.

With a clank of armor, they went down. Drake threw aside his broadsword and, holding
Murdoch to the earth with a forearm at his throat, pulled his dirk from his boot.

His half brother struggled, his face straining with effort until ’twas redder than
his hair. To no avail. Drake felt naught but strength and rightness in his body, the
power to win.

Gripping the dirk, Drake whisked it up to Murdoch’s throat. “Tell me now who you paid
to kill our father.”

“Rot in hell!”

“Nay, I will leave that to you,
brother
. Now, I want the truth. Who killed him?”

Murdoch hesitated. Drake pushed the blade under Murdoch’s helmet and chain mail, against
his bare throat. Aye, ’twas vulnerable he was now, and well he knew it, for the way
his dark eyes bulged with shock and alarm.

Still, Murdoch spat, “I will say naught.”

A slow, killing rage overcame Drake. He wanted to push his blade into Murdoch’s throat
and be done with it. God had determined him the victor, at least according to this
joust. ’Twould not be too difficult to convince the clan of such.

Breathing hard, once, twice, Drake fought the urge to kill. God, how he ached to end
Murdoch’s life. But he could not until he had the truth.