His Stolen Bride BN (5 page)

He peered silently as he turned to a table behind him. “We have a lengthy journey
ahead of us. Eat, then we will talk.”

Her captor handed her a flask of wine, a bit of bread, and a small piece of reddish-yellow
fruit she had never seen. She bit into it and grimaced at the sour taste.

Scowling, he grabbed the fruit from her. “You must peel this before you eat it.”

“What is it?” she asked suspiciously, watching his deft fingers peel back the rind
with ease.

“Have you never seen an orange?”

He pulled the last of the rind away, then handed the fruity orb to her. Not about
to confess they’d never had the funds for such exotic frivolities at Abbotsford, Averyl
broke off a section and gingerly took a bite. After all, she must keep her strength
if she intended to escape.

An unfamiliar tang burst in her mouth. A wonderful taste, sweet, sour and juicy at
once. A droplet ran to the corner of her lips. Tilting her head back, she mopped the
juice up with the tip of her tongue.

With a sigh of pleasure, she lifted the flask to her mouth and found her captor’s
gaze on her.

If heat had an expression, his epitomized the word. He stared at her mouth. His dark
eyes flared above the taut hollows of his cheeks. Time stopped. A heartbeat. Two.
In silence.

He looked at her like her father’s men looked at the beauteous Becca back home, as
if he…desired her. Averyl drew in a shaky breath, feeling her own heartbeat answer.

Then his look disappeared, replaced by an annoyed scowl that settled over his handsome
face.

Averyl felt herself flush at her foolishness. No man would pine for so homely a maid
as she—and certainly not a man so fine of face as her captor.

She took a self-conscious swallow of the sweet wine, then another, before she set
the flask aside. “Take me back to Dunollie Castle.”

Her words engendered no reaction. “Why should I?”

She hadn’t expected that question. “I am to wed the MacDougall chief.”

“Are you betrothed? Is that why you wore his bracelet?”

“Aye. He called the bracelet a betrothal gift, and the priest was to come this morn
to witness—”

“Then you are not truly betrothed.” A flicker of something—relief?—crossed his features.
“I see no reason to return you.”

The ruin her mother’s beloved Abbotsford would become if she did not wed MacDougall
taunted her. “But…I-I love him.”

At that, her captor leaned indolently against the wall and scoffed in disbelief.

“Love is a word men bandy about to coax hesitant wenches into their beds.”

“’Tis not so,” she protested, eyes wide. “Mistrals sing prettily of love—”

“To entertain,” he cut in.

“Chivalrous knights fight to protect their loves.”

“Think you men need an excuse to make war?” He raised a challenging brow.

His tone called her foolish and naïve, and it raised her hackles.

“You must return me. My home—”

“Will still be standing when I am through with you.”

“But its people—”

“Will not suffer in your absence.”

“Stop interrupting me, you…you varlet. My people
will
suffer greatly in my absence!”

He grunted, neither his face nor voice showing concern as he stood again. “What did
you seek from this match?”

“You refuse to listen to me, so I’ve naught to say.” She crossed her arms over her
chest.

“Would you have me believe this is a love match?” he said, disbelief heavy in his
voice. “Is it MacDougall’s fat coffers that attract you most? Is that love to you?”

She glared at him. “Of course not. ’Tis more.”

“But you do not deny that you sought his funds.”

“Nay, but I think him a fine man.”

“Fine?” he grunted bitterly.

“He is, you fiend!” This knave would never convince her to think ill of the man she
planned to wed.

“Thick-witted wench,” he grumbled.

She raised her chin, refusing to heed his insults, his contempt. “You know me not.”

“What little I know is enough,” he spat. “Though why a wily wench like you should
wish to wed a scoundrel like Murdoch befuddles me.”

He peered at Averyl, as if she were a puzzle he sought to solve. But she would not
explain her dream of a caring husband, of a life filled with joy and love absent since
her mother’s death, to him. He would only mock her further.

“Do you believe yourself so unworthy that you cannot fathom a better man would want
to wed you?” he asked.

Shock zipped through Averyl at his intimate knowledge of her fears. “How…how did you
know?”

She did not realize she had blurted out her question until he answered. “I know much,
my lady.”

He’d invaded her life, storming her very soul as he had Dunollie’s defenses. She turned
a burning glare on him. Fury assailed her. “God’s blood, what do you want with me?”

“Tell me precisely what you seek from this betrothal.” The flickering firelight revealed
the determined heat in his fathomless, black-fringed eyes.

“It is my duty to marry as my father sees fit.”

He shot her a suspicious stare. “Though you may possess many virtues, you’ve not shown
me much obedience.”

She resisted an urge to run across the room and kick him. “Why should I not wed a
wealthy man with enough soldiers to protect my crumbling keep? I want a husband and
children and money in our coffers. I refuse to wonder any longer if my home will fall
about my feet and our vassals will starve come winter.”

“Your conditions are harsh?” His voice reflected the same surprise evident in his
frown.

“Entire families die each year we cannot feed them.”

He paused, seeming to weigh her answer, and raked a hand through his dark hair. Finally,
something seemed to penetrate his armor of arrogance.

“Could you not find another husband to provide all you require?”

“Not anyone wealthy enough to overlook our impoverishment.”
Or blind enough to overlook my deficiencies.

He looked skeptical. “No one else offered?”

“My penniless cousin Robert did, but my father refused him. You must understand, the
MacDougall seeks my dower lands in the Campbell territory that once belonged to the
MacDougalls. With them, he will bring more peace and prosperity between our clans.”

The mean sound the man spit out could scarcely be called a laugh. “Aye, he will continue
to tell you how much he desires peace with your kin, up until the morn he attacks
them.”

She jerked away from his touch. “I will not believe such a lie. Murdoch MacDougall
is a man of honor.
He
would never resort to thieving a maid from her bed for some nefarious end.”

A tightness in his jaw, a momentary flattening of his full mouth betrayed his anger.
Still, the violence she sensed leashed within him never surfaced. “You think not?”

“I care not what
you
think,” she tossed back. “I demand you release me. I shall be ruined if you do not.”
The horrifying possibility of losing her home and her best chance at a contented marriage
sank in with her statement. “The MacDougall might not wed me at all.”

He answered with a cynical grunt. “He would wed you, ruined or nay. He needs you as
desperately as you wish to wed him.”

“Then return me,” she near pleaded.

“Nay.”

She placed belligerent hands on her hips. “Why do you seek to prevent our marriage?
What manner of man would abduct a maid upon her betrothal?” A knave. A miscreant.
She gasped, feeling the blood drain from her cheeks.

A maniacal butcher.

The truth of his identity hit her like an icy sheet of Scottish winter rain. She swallowed—hard.
Her abductor’s disconcerting gaze followed her every move.

“Oh, dear heaven.” Her voice trembled as she braced herself on shaky arms. “I know
you are the English murderer—the butcher of Lochlan MacDougall!”

He drew in a deep breath, eyes blazing black fury. Beneath taut shoulders, he clenched
large fists, sending Averyl’s pulse back into turmoil.

“You are Drake Locke.” Even her voice shook now.

Frantic, she looked across the room, toward the door and freedom. Before she could
rise and attempt to escape, he flew across the room and anchored his hands on either
side of her head, trapping her against the bed. Her mind racing, she tried to roll
away and find her feet. The stranger caught her wrists and pulled her back against
the mattress, this time bracketing his hands around her waist to prevent her escape.

The pressure of his fingers seared through her clothing, into her skin. His presence,
hot and looming, enveloped her. Dark, shaggy hair brushed the tops of his shoulders,
longer than current fashion dictated, and framed a square, angry face. The corded
muscles of his neck stood visible above the imposing breadth of his shoulders. The
man was no one to trifle with.

Yet she had to risk everything for escape.

“I suppose Murdoch told you that.” His voice rumbled from his chest, much like the
thunder above.

She nodded unevenly. “Why should you seek to prevent my marriage to him?”

The hard line of his jaw tensed again. “Revenge. He owes me a debt. You are my payment.”

She shook her head, imagining all the ways in which he might think to extract payment
from her. “Do not touch me.”

“I do not seek to claim your…charms.”

That he seemed to believe she had none filled her with relief and anger at once. Still,
Averyl hesitated.

Could she believe a fiend ruthless enough to steal a sleeping woman from her chamber,
coldly murder a man? Nay.

Locke moved closer, until he stood inches away. A curious tingling began in her belly.
Danger, she was certain, and fear, for she felt it in every nerve of her body.

“Do you plan to kill me?” Her voice trembled.

Wrath and pain tightened his features. “I told you I do not. I have no lust to shed
any blood, save Murdoch’s.”

“Ransom me, then?”

“Nay. ’Tis not money I seek, unlike you.”

She ignored his contempt. “Then why have you taken me?”

“So I can be certain you do not wed yourself with Murdoch before you turn ten and
eight.”

Though he seemed serious, Averyl could not believe such a tale. As if he would simply
hold her at his side for the coming ten-month and expect nothing.

“You cannot mean to keep me for three seasons.”

“I can and I will.”

“And if I agree to wed someone other than MacDougall, will you release me?” If he
said yes, she could simply return to Dunollie and wed MacDougall.

Her captor’s dark eyes narrowed. “I must first be certain that you will not be…persuaded
to accept Murdoch’s suit.”

She forced a laugh. “I have no wish to incur your wrath.”

His gaze showed suspicion. “But you have no wish to give up such a match, either.”

Gritting her teeth, Averyl struggled to find another tactic. She must escape the rogue.
He seemed every bit as evil and heartless as Murdoch claimed.

“But I will. I vow it,” she fibbed, desperate.

“You are a wretched liar. Mayhap I would accept your tale if you did not fidget.”

“You make me nervous.”

“As you make me, so I shall watch you closely.” With a grunt, he turned away. “Sleep
now. We leave in three hours.”

He returned to the other side of the room. When he found the sofa, he lay on the too-short
piece and shut his eyes.

“By the way, if you try to leave, I will hear. And if you escape, look over your shoulder.
I will not be far behind.”

* * * * *

Drake lay still for the next half hour, fighting the sleep for which his body ached.
The fire had died to mere embers whose shadowy flames danced on the roof’s bowed wooden
ceiling. Across the small space, Lady Averyl lay, eyes gently closed. Her breathing
told him she slept not.

Holding in a curse, he closed his own eyes, waiting for the Campbell wench to find
slumber. Drake knew he had hoped in vain when he heard Averyl slip from her blankets
and grab his cloak from the floor between them. With a quiet swish, she draped the
garment about her, over her thin shift.

Opening his eyes a fraction, he watched her tiptoe toward the door. Silhouetted by
the gray mist of the dawn filtering through the room’s small window, she paused and
stared at her satchel lying on the ground at her feet.

As Averyl stole a nervous glance over her shoulder, Drake feigned sleep once more.
A heartbeat later, she walked on, leaving her bag untouched.

Instead, she crept out the door and down the inn’s stairs, treading as silently as
the moon through the sky.

Drake rose and peered out after her, now convinced she had not arisen to answer nature’s
call. He followed, scowling.

Averyl darted down the stairs and faded into the dark of the inn’s empty common room.
With a curse, Drake hurtled down the stairs after her.

At the bottom, he found no one, heard nothing. Cautiously, he let his gaze circle
the room. Damnation, she was small and quick and could probably find a thousand places
to hide.

Behind him, a door squeaked open. By the sun’s wan morning light, he watched Averyl
dash outside. He gave chase, catching sight of her in time to see her sprint down
a grassy hill.

Drake pursued her, though, truth told, her determination to escape surprised him.
Hysterics he had expected, his mother’s favorite tactics. Not Lady Averyl. Despite
the fact she was lost in unfamiliar surroundings and had no funds or horse to see
her back to Dunollie, she continued to vie for freedom. Murdoch’s money and her keep,
this Abbotsford, clearly meant something to her.

She stopped at the bottom of the hill and peered into the dawning landscape. “Nay,
’tis east?” she questioned, suddenly turning about.

As Averyl faced him, her gaze settled upon him. Her hazel eyes widened like endless
twin fields. She gasped.

“I said there would be no escape.” He grasped her wrist.

Determination stamping her pale features, Averyl yanked free of his hold and darted
away, into a thick copse of trees. Damnation, the wench was quick, he thought, following.