His Stolen Bride BN (4 page)

Shedding her embroidered belt and its matching brocade gown, Averyl stood clad in
her chemise, shivering at the room’s chill. She frowned at the pair of weak flames
seeming to hover above the candles in the corner, then stared at the empty grate beside
it. MacDougall had ordered a fire for her. Wondering at his lazy servants, Averyl
made her way to the door with every intent of calling for help.

A noise came, a shuffling behind her. She cast a quick glance at the two small windows.
Neither was open to invite the night’s breeze. And the shuffle had been too large
for a mouse.

As her heart began to thud, Averyl turned slowly to see what—or who—had invaded her
chamber.

Suddenly, the meager light from the candles to her right flickered and died.

Averyl cried out, her heart pounding, as the detested dark enveloped her. The black
she despised closed in, choking her courage and logic.

Would she live to see her marriage to MacDougall? Or would she die now? Would it hurt?

The icy rush of her blood heralded prickling apprehension. Cold sweat beaded its way
across her skin as her heart threatened to beat out of her chest. No brutal attack
came—yet—as she struggled to peer into the frightening, endless black.

But an intruder
was
here. She sensed it. Felt it. Averyl listened but still heard naught except blood
churning in her ears, multiplied by the chilling silence. Saw nothing but shadowed
night. Fear pulled at her as mercilessly as a stretching rack.

She glanced about the night-draped room again. Still, the murky gray-black revealed
no one, naught sinister.

But the tingling sensation of a hot gaze upon her took root and grew.

Her heart pounded, quickening to a frenzied beat. Fear battled logic. The silence
turned thick, tense.

“Who comes?” she called, voice shaking.

Utter hush met her query. The room stood still, clasped in the dark shadows. The wind
gave a mean rumble outside.

The stare upon her intensified, like a hunter closing in on its prey, focusing on
her linen-clad shoulders, her bare legs. Averyl’s heart chugged faster as a low-pitched
throb vibrated through her body, gathering strength.

Sweet Mary, where was the door? How fast could she run?

Suddenly, a broad palm covered her mouth as a hot hand seized her arm, pulling her
against a large form in a coarse woolen garment.

Terror washed over her in a cold, consuming wave. Gasping, Averyl tried to face the
threat and struggle from the harsh grip. She opened her mouth to scream but could
not force the sound past the strength of heavy fingers over her lips.

Straining over her shoulder for a glance of the fiend, she saw silvery moonlight beam
through the window, illuminating a mere corner of the intruder’s face. The fearsome
specter draped in a brown tunic hovered over her. Nature’s light cast harsh emphasis
on his hard jaw and sprawling shoulders.

A moment later, the clouds blanketed the moon again. The room fell into chilling darkness.
A sharp clap of thunder followed, echoing her racing heart.

Defined now by shadows, the man leaned closer. A scream tore at her throat, trapped
still by his hand over her mouth.

Lightning fast, the stranger backed Averyl to the mattress and, with the press of
his free hand to her shoulders, flattened her against it.

Nay!
Her heart beating like a wild beast, Averyl squirmed and writhed for freedom, kicking
at his stomach, his shins. He grabbed her ankles and clamped them between strong thighs,
rendering her legs immobile.

Bile and terror rose in her throat. Sweet Mary, who was this villain? Why would he
be here, staring with cold menace?

How would she escape?

Averyl grunted, straining against his grasp as fear swallowed her. Lungs aching, heart
pounding, she watched the male figure bend over her, his palm still securely clamped
over her mouth, silencing her calls for help.

Fists clenched, she punched him, arms thrashing, landing blows to his arms and face.
He seemed not to notice, even when she pushed futilely against his solid chest. His
insistent fingers merely seized her wrists and lowered her arms to her sides. With
her mouth free, she opened it to scream. His returning hand stopped the sound before
she could utter it.

One of his unyielding arms reached beneath her shoulders, scooping her against his
broad chest. Trepidation burned through her blood. She turned her face away from his
hand.

“Nay!” she screamed, but thunder muffled her cry.

“Not another word,” he warned.

The stranger’s voice told her he was Scottish, but held a slight English clip. Who
was he? Why had he come?

Averyl’s mind raced as he fit his other arm beneath her knees and scooped her against
him. In desperation, she writhed and shrieked as he left the room, but he held her
head against his shoulder, muffling her cries.

Fear burned her like a cauldron’s fire as he descended the stairs. Where did he take
her? A creaking door precipitated the cool night wind, which served as her only answer.

She looked up, beyond his determined chin and strong nose, feeling his hot breath
mingle with the howl of wind tugging at her cap. The garden. Mercy, would anyone see
her here?

Knowing ’twas not likely, terror blazed her anew. Fingers bared, Averyl reached out
to claw his unfamiliar face. He dodged her attack and set her on her feet.

She made ready to run, but the fiend grabbed her arms, holding them against her sides,
then brought her body to his, trapping her thighs between his, despite the monk’s
robe he wore.

His breadth and height eclipsed her, obscured her in black shadow. With little effort,
he held her against his hard form and covered her mouth with his hand.

“I’ve no wish to hurt you,” he said, his voice low, smooth.

Not believing him, Averyl jerked away from his touch. “You—you forced me from my chamber.
If not to hurt me, why?”

“I will explain in good time,” he promised into the wind’s yowling.

Aye, when it was likely too late. Averyl opened her mouth to yell for help. He slapped
a warm palm over her lips once more.

“Do not make me gag you,” he warned, then bent to his boot to retrieve a knife.

Averyl’s heart bolted faster than lightening at the sight of his silvery blade. She
bit into the salty flesh of his palm and tasted blood. With a curse, he tore his hand
away. Into the stiff wind, she screamed for her life. He clamped his hand over her
lips again and searched about for intruders. To her shock, no one came to her rescue.

“I give but one warning, wench,” he bit out.

Her attacker reached for her, a cloth in hand—a knife in the other. She couldn’t breathe
as she struggled, tearing at his hair, kicking his shins. She succeeded only in slipping
to the mud below, falling to her knees before him.

Kneeling, he scooped her up, until her feet were beneath her once more. She cringed
in dread, panting, as he—and his menacing blade—loomed closer. Averyl wanted to run,
but the vicious silver dagger glinted with danger in the stark moonlight.

Averyl closed her eyes, bracing herself for the tearing of her flesh, for the end
of her life. Surprise rippled through Averyl when he merely bound her mouth shut,
then ripped Murdoch’s ruby bracelet from her cold skin with his blade.

Did he but seek to thieve it from her?

With his hot fingers clamped about her wrist, he dragged her over to the square building
nearest the enclosure wall. She stumbled at his rapid pace, mud coating her bare feet.

He paused before the small structure. The kirk, she realized, spotting the pale cross
gleaming in the moonlight.

The intruder held the bracelet to the dark wood and arched the knife into the enormous
door. She started at the thump of the blade as he anchored the bauble in place, leaving
it to dangle like a war trophy.

“Murdoch will know who has taken you,” he said.

Averyl wondered how.

When he turned to face her again, her captor gathered her against his solid length
once more. Averyl pushed against the steel of his chest, resisting his tight grasp
as he crept to the wicket gate. He pushed her through it, then ducked to follow close
behind, holding her about the waist all the while. Averyl nearly tripped on a pair
of sentries lying against the curtain wall, each clutching a jug of ale in drunken,
snoring slumber.

She would have no help there. Panic rising, Averyl tried to wriggle from his grip—to
no avail.

Her captor clasped one strong hand around the back of her neck, then tore the lacy
cap from her head with the other. As he coiled his fingers through her unruly curls,
her gaze flew to his. Her breath turned shallow. By the moon’s light, Averyl could
see the chiseled planes of the brute’s hard face, framed by inky hair. His piercing
dark eyes loomed dangerously close.

The wind wailed in the blackness. One of her pale curls lifted with the breeze to
smooth across his cheek, skim his neck.

“You cannot escape me,” he vowed. “You are only likely to injure yourself trying.”

Her every muscle trembled from exertion, from fear, as she yanked the gag from her
mouth. “Y-you plan to k-kill me?”

Averyl had not thought her assailant could look any angrier. Not until she witnessed
every muscle in his face tighten.

“If you die, ’twill not be by my hand.”

The words did not reassure her, and the man said nothing more before he placed the
gag over her mouth again and rose. Grasping her wrists together tightly, he dragged
her through a dark, dank tunnel for long minutes, then out into the storm’s fury again,
to a pair of horses tethered in the distance. She stumbled behind him, body stiff,
resisting every step of the way.

Turning to one horse, the stranger checked the ties holding a satchel that looked
to be hers. How had he obtained her belongings?

Before she could begin to guess the answer, the knave doffed the monk’s robe and tossed
it aside. Beneath, he stood taller, broader than she had first thought. He wore a
simple black tunic and hose, perfect to become one with the night.

The man mounted the dark gray animal, pulling her up in front of him so she, too,
straddled the saddle. He clutched her to his chest, preventing any further opportunity
to escape.

Gazing back at the stone keep so close, yet so far away, her captor growled,
“Buaidh no bas.”

Conquer or die.

Averyl gulped. Did he seek to conquer
her
?

The villain urged his mount forward. Though she fought to free her hands so she might
jump and run, he held them too tight. She tried to scream past her gag and prayed
someone would hear and follow, that Murdoch would rescue her. No one emerged from
the castle as it stood stout against the shrieking wind.

Dunollie Castle shrank in the distance behind them as he took their journey at a canter.
The dervish charted their course from the main road, into a dense forest. Rain began
to fall, punctuated by an occasional flash of wicked lightning as they rode farther
and farther away from her father, her future—and her only hope of saving Abbotsford.

The thought staggered her. Only his mercy stood between life and death. Terrified,
she sent a promise upward to do whatever God wanted, if only He helped her escape.

The man behind her must have felt her shudder, for he covered her with his cloak,
as if she were cold. As he reached around her to fasten it, his fingers brushed her
neck. His scalding touch on her chilled skin multiplied Averyl’s dread.

Loathing and fury overcame her. Summoning her energy, Averyl squared her shoulders
and stiffened her spine so she no longer leaned against the devil.

Minutes slipped into hours that became a cold, wet misery as they galloped seemingly
toward the bowels of hell. Finally, the sun crept above the horizon, its slow pace
mirroring her weariness. She scratched at her heavy eyes. Her back ached as much as
her cramped legs. Pressing sharp nails into her palms to remain alert, Averyl straightened
away from her captor once more. But she could not avoid the hard thrust of his thighs
cradling hers.

As she fought to keep her heavy eyes open, his warmth lured her closer to his sheltering
body, against all good sense. As if sensing her weariness, he touched an oddly gentle
hand to her shoulder and settled her body against his before her heavy lids slid inexorably
shut.

* * * * *

Averyl awoke, feeling a soft bed beneath her. The woodsy crackling of a fire penetrated
her senses. How long had she slept?

The
clink
of a goblet told her she was not alone. Fear chased away the vestiges of sleep.

Her eyes sprang open, and she spotted a man—her captor—sitting on a scuffed wooden
chair in an unfamiliar room. The golden light did naught to soften his features.

Hazarding a glance about, her gaze took in the shabby brick walls of a small room
seemingly that of an inn, though not necessarily a reputable one.

The events of the night rushed her memory in an icy stream. Not only had he abducted
her but he had not told her his plans now that he had her caged. Ransom her? Rape
her? Kill her?

Or all three?

The glow of the fire thrust his hard, chiseled profile into stark relief. ’Twas clear
the man had nothing soft about him, not in dress, face, or manner.

Standing taller than Lord Dunollie or her father, he possessed massive shoulders and
hands. If he planned to kill her, ’twould be no feat for him at all. How could she
fend off a man of such size and strength?

Suddenly, he turned to face her. Gasping, she willed herself to bolt, but he filled
the small room as he stood and settled dark eyes upon her.

“So, you have awakened.”

“Who are you?” she demanded, realizing he had removed her gag. “What reason have you
for abducting me?”

Her militant tone was overshadowed by the ill-timed rumbling of her stomach. Averyl
pretended not to notice.