His Stolen Bride BN (6 page)

Spindly limbs tore at his face like a cat’s claws. He swore and swiped at a streak
of blood on his cheek, then sprinted after Averyl again, led by the sounds of dried
twigs snapping beneath her bare feet. Though such must hurt her in the morning chill,
she made no sound as she pressed on.

Flashes of the dark cloak she wore appeared, flapping in the cold air between the
summer-green trees. He heard her panting, as if her lungs were near bursting for air.
Putting one boot in front of the other, he gave chase, wondering when she would tire.

In the next moments, he realized his rapid footsteps were gaining him ground. Inches
in front of him, she fought for another sharp breath. Drake reached out to seize her.

Wrapping his arm about her waist in an implacable grip, he yanked her to his chest.
With his hands about her surprisingly small middle, she cried out in protest.

Panting, he turned her to face him. “Have we not struggled enough for your liking?”

She thrashed in his grip. “I will fight you until I die.”

Drake brought her closer to still her. Her firm breasts met his chest. A scorch of
sensation blazed through him. The rebuke on his tongue died.

She smelled like a trickle of rain on summer grass and some small flower he’d plucked
as a child from his mother’s garden.

Lust pierced him with a hot thrust, enveloping his body.

Beneath his hands, his stare, she stilled. As she tilted her head back to gaze at
him with greenish pools of defiance, an urge to thrust his fingers through the damp
waves of Averyl’s pale curls and kiss her witless assailed Drake.

Frowning, he peered at her. How could he want
her
? He was no celibate monk pining after any woman’s flesh. And as womanly charms went,
hers were lovely, but she was his enemy’s bride, his pawn only. She was the means
to his revenge, not a woman he could slake his lust upon—even if she would have him.

“Damn you,” he hissed. “I’ve had little sleep in three days, and you try my patience.
Stop this foolishness.”

“I would be foolish if I did not seek my freedom.”

Drake’s only reply was a growl. He hoisted his captive over his shoulder and carried
her back to the inn with teeth clenched. Past the innkeeper’s shocked wife and up
the dilapidated stairs they went, until he set her down on the bed with a disgusted
grunt and tied her to its post. Shooting her stiff form a warning glare, he turned
away to pack up their belongings and douse the fire.

When he’d finished, he approached Averyl. She sat defiantly on a brown woolen blanket.
Her small form was nearly swallowed whole by his gray cloak. One bare ivory calf peeked
out to tempt him. Her feet bore myriad cuts and scrapes beneath a thin layer of mud.
He shook his head. She wanted escape badly, to endure such self-inflicted wounds without
complaint.

He pushed aside a flash of admiration for the Campbell wench. Despite her brave heart,
she was naught but a captive.

Drake rubbed his gritty eyes, his body aching with fatigue. But he could not rest
now, not after months of plotting this scheme. And despite the fact his captive clearly
had her reasons to crave freedom, he must restrain her. The past must be avenged,
his honor restored.

Murdoch could not win.

* * * * *

Cursing the cold rain and chilly wind, Drake dragged his small boat onto the grassy
shore, anchoring it upon nearby rocks. He leaned down to retrieve Lady Averyl’s sleeping
form and held her against his chest, her satchel slung over his wrist. She trembled
against him, drawing his attention to her unnaturally cold skin. Something like disquiet
gripped his belly.

With a frown, he raced up the hillside, across the soft, grassy plain, then down the
next hill, into the ravine. Averyl lie still in his arms. Cursing, he pushed the gate
open with his shoulder and darted inside his little hideaway, tossing Averyl’s satchel
carelessly into a corner. After laying her across his bed, he lit the dark room with
several candles.

Exhaustion and cold pelted him in waves as discomforting as the night’s rain. Across
the room, Drake spied his slumbering captive. No doubt, she was chilled to the bone,
wearing no more than a shift and a damp cloak.

He began a warming fire in the hearth, then returned to Averyl. She lay still, alarmingly
pale. Fragile and drenched.

Something annoying nagged at him, something he could not quite place. Guilt? He shoved
it aside and set his hands beneath the cloak, rubbing her arms to warm them as he
cast his gaze about for a blanket.

The ice-like chill of her skin could not be ignored, nor the bruises on her thin arms.

Bruises he knew full well he had created in his urgency.

By the saints, he had not purposely hurt her. But he would have revenge, no matter
the cost—even if that meant taking his place beside Murdoch in the ground outside
of Dunollie’s chapel. True, Averyl would emerge from captivity unwed and of questionable
virtue, but she would have her life and, someday, the knowledge she had not wed a
murderous monster.

Until she learned of Murdoch’s true nature, until Drake could safely release her to
her family, he could protect her from Murdoch’s schemes and her own foolish greed.
And have revenge.

The irony did not escape him, a man accused of murder saving his captive from a highland
chief. On another day, years before, he might have laughed.

Now, he took her chilled hand in his. Snow could not have been colder than her bloodless
fingers. The dratted damp wool cloak he had given Averyl during their journey could
only be adding to her chill. He cast the garment away with a curse and fished a blanket
from his trunk at the foot of the bed.

As he turned to spread the quilt over her, Drake made the mistake of looking at her.

Her heart-shaped face seemed fragile, somehow innocent, despite the fact she was a
Campbell wedding a MacDougall for gold. The slight point of her chin hinting at the
rebellion in her nature. Strands of her long, pale curls were plastered wetly to her
cheeks and throat. Making his way to her side, he pushed the wayward curls aside to
blend with those dotting her temples.

Past her pallid, frigid shoulders, his gaze wandered, to her breasts visible through
her transparent shift. His breath left his lungs in a hiss.

The rosy tips of Averyl’s firm breasts stood taut with cold. Gently rounded, they
were like twin beacons of seduction giving rise to the red embroidery of the low neckline.

Lust lurched into his throat, then sped into his loins. He swallowed to force it down
and clasped his father’s cross about his neck to remind himself of all that mattered.

Still, it did not stop him from gazing farther down her body, over her small waist,
past the gentle flair of her hips. Drake stopped his perusal again, this time on her
sleek, firm thighs and the light-colored thatch visible between them.

With lightning speed, desire slammed into him once more, shocking him with its strength.
His only clear thought was that he wanted to lose himself there. He wanted those thighs
around him, open and ready for his entrance.

Drake whipped his gaze away. He was not a randy boy lacking control. Averyl was cold;
he could warm her. It meant naught.

Quickly, he sliced the wet, diaphanous garment from her shivering body, trying not
to look…or think of all the possible ways he could touch her. But image after vivid
image of her ivory skin and welcoming arms around him flashed into his mind.

Muttering an earthy curse, he tucked her beneath his blankets and turned toward the
fire. Why her? He’d seen more comely women. Hell, even bedded a few. She was his captive,
Murdoch’s betrothed, and a Campbell. She would shrink from him in horror if she knew
his gaze had touched her every curve.

Yet his body wanted her still.

Drake cursed, forcing his mind elsewhere. He had accomplished his first goal—to abduct
the woman Murdoch must wed. Yet he’d come away surprised. Averyl had proven herself
a strong, resourceful woman—no mere pawn.

Sitting back, he stared into dancing flames. Averyl had not been, as he’d assumed,
living in luxury. Nor was she the spoiled and vain creature his mother had been. But
she was still a fool. ’Twas admirable to seek coin for her home and people, to sacrifice
herself to the ruthless Murdoch. Or did she simply love gold enough to bed down with
a merciless man of means?

Drake stood. Averyl and her reasonings mattered not. Nor did his lust for her. His
father’s death, as well as his own torture, demanded revenge. When he released Averyl,
he would give her enough funds to repair her keep and plant new crops.

If he still lived.

Frowning darkly, he prepared a pallet by the door. As for his lust, he must ignore
it. Mayhap a bit of sleep would cure him of this want.

Averyl moaned in her sleep. Despite Drake’s vow moments ago, his imagination reeled
with images of their bodies damp with passion, limbs tangled in urgent need. Nay,
he had no need to seduce the wench. But no matter how he told himself to forget the
idea, his cock ached long into the night to know how fulfilling such a seduction would
be.

Averyl woke, a soft feather bed beneath her. Something tugged at her, a foreboding
that all was not well. Images rushed back to her of a tall brigand stealing her from
her very bed. From her betrothal. Had a knave truly dragged her away from her future?
Nay, could be no more than a nightmare.

Then she recalled his face, all hard angles and midnight eyes, as well as the angry
chill in his manner.

Eyes closed, she frowned against memory. But she could not deny the truth. The man
who had stripped her of MacDougall’s costly gift, then carried her into the darkness—he
was real.

To a small inn he had taken her. The tang of fruit lingered in her mind, as his odd,
heated glance stayed in her mind… His name… Drake Locke. Lochlan MacDougall’s murderer.

Her captor.

Averyl’s eyes flew open wide at the truth. She scarcely had time to note the unfamiliar
old room and the heavy thud of her racing heart before she felt the warm quilt slide
down.

Over her naked breasts.

With a gasp of shock, she jerked the covers about her chin. A thousand frightening
images of what might have happened while she slept roared in her head, all too appalling
to contemplate.

Averyl searched about for something—clothing, a clue, the rogue who had stripped her.
Her gaze skated over a carved wooden chair. A blazing fire spit into the silence,
hissing, cracking, lighting her Spartan surroundings.

He held her in a cottage, she guessed, from the wattle and daub walls, as well as
the thatched roof. A battered table, a trunk and the bed beneath her occupied the
tidy domain. Simple and functional, the room possessed no colors, no softness.

Her satchel lay on a blackened hearth, near two sturdy black boots, which moved suddenly
to face her. She swallowed as fear nipped at her composure. Her gaze traveled up a
powerful pair of muscled legs outlined in dark hose, past lean hips. Her stare paused
at his tapered waist and broad chest, covered by a simple dark green tunic, then slid
upward over the might of wide shoulders, to the remarkable face from her nightmares
last eve.

A shortness of breath assailed her. Drake Locke was no beautifully savage product
of her imagination but real flesh and blood—and genuine danger.

Her captor lifted a log to feed the hearth’s dying fire. The strength apparent in
the thick coil of his arms pricked her with a strange heated trepidation.

At least, given her homeliness, she would not have to concern herself with his lustful
attentions. The desirous glance he had seemed to give her at the inn had been naught
but a mirage, another reason to distrust the dark.

He dropped the log into the flames. Averyl’s heart pumped furiously, nearly obliterating
the sizzle and roar of the fire.

Locke looked up. Their eyes met. Jet brows rose as his assessing gaze traveled her
face, then dipped to take in her bare shoulders. Averyl clutched the blanket beneath
her chin like a frightened child would a beloved parent.

“Are you well?” he asked.

“I have on not a stitch of clothing,” she shrieked. Eyes narrowing, she accused, “You
did this.”

“You’ll not find another soul for miles.”

“You—you… For what purpose did you bear me, fiend?” She prayed he had not ravished
her for revenge.

“My purpose was not lascivious, if that is your concern.”

Lips curved up in a cool smile, he turned away. Averyl knew his denial should relieve
her. Embarrassment flared to heated life instead. He, too, found her ugly, enough
to laugh at the notion of touching her. She bit her lip, appalled that her pride stung
so fiercely.

Knowing he thought her plain should set her at ease. ’Twas foolishness to feel aught
else. She should be glad to be alive and unharmed, not worried what a murdering varlet
thought of her.

Locke stacked another log on the blazing fire that heated the dingy room. “I sought
to prevent you from catching your death, Lady Averyl.”

Her gaze flew to him in surprise. “You know my name?”

“That and more,” he said, facing her again. His silky rasp set her nerves on alert.
“You hail from Abbotsford, near the English border. You were born April fourth, 1469.
Your middle name is Elizabeth.”

She clutched her quilt tighter as he crossed the room to stand less than arm’s distance
away. Locke’s dark eyes held her wide gaze captive with frightening ease. Her heart
pumped faster. The air between them seemed scarce as she fought to breathe.

“You are Ramsey Campbell’s only child,” he went on. “Your English mother was sister
to the Duchess of Portsmouth. She died in September of 1475, when you were but six
years old. You had almost become betrothed to Murdoch MacDougall, a stranger to you.”
He hooked a finger beneath her chin. “You are an impoverished innocent who believes
herself plain.”