His Stolen Bride BN (8 page)

Averyl dashed across the room. Her fingers slid around the cold metal. Relief swelled
inside her as she hoisted the weapon over her head. It weighed more than she had anticipated.
But she could lift it once; once was all she would need.

A moment later, she heard the
thump
of Locke’s booted footsteps outside. Averyl scurried across the floor, purple dress
swishing about her legs, and moved toward the door. Then climbing on the hearth, she
hid behind the portal as Drake swung it open.

He stood motionless, towering in the doorway, the breadth of his shoulders spanning
the door’s frame as he scanned the room. Instantly, her breathing shallowed with his
presence, her spine tingled with his nearness.

Pushing her anxiety aside, she took a breath behind him and lifted the weapon.

With a grunt of effort, Averyl lowered the poker, aiming for the back of Locke’s shaggy,
dark head.

As if sensing her intent, he ducked and dodged to the side. The poker struck his shoulder
with a low thud.

Then he cursed as he turned to face her. Annoyance stormed across his angled face.
With a scowl, he stared at her, then stripped the poker from her grip.

Though her stomach tightened with fear, she regarded him with unblinking defiance.
“Though I am certain you glower at everyone who displeases you, you scare me not.”

He returned her stare with a raised brow and silence.

“Do you practice that look in a glass, hoping to scare people from their sanity?”
she snapped. “For it works not.”

Besides extreme irritation, he looked somewhat surprised that she had dared such an
attack. And intent that she should not hit him again, by the way he gripped that iron
poker.

His silence unnerved her, until she began to feel like a child who’d been caught filching
a sweet and now awaited punishment. She crossed her arms over her chest. Aye, she
had never thought herself long on courage, but Drake Locke would not cow her without
a single word.

“More than once I have heard you speak, so I know you can.” She sent a challenging
stare his way.

The corners of his flat mouth began to curl, though she would hardly call such a smile.

“I can speak when I have need. I do not practice my glowering in a glass. And you’re
a fool if you have not the sense to be scared of me, though I expect a lack of sense
from a bloodthirsty Campbell wench.”

After that, Drake resumed his silence. Why did she seem full of bravery one moment,
then speak needily of love in another? And if she sought love, why did she wed for
money? He shook his head, hoping to dislodge the mystery she presented, and gripped
the iron poker between tight fingers.

Lady Averyl had opened the cottage’s shutters to the morn’s light. It filtered in
with a brilliant summer cheer that lit upon her fair hair, seeming to alight it with
a thousand different shades of gold as it tangled in a pale entwining and tumbled
across one shoulder. She stood before him, seemingly determined to be brave.

Averyl reminded him of Botticelli’s Venus, ethereal yet elemental. Lust pierced him
like a longbow through armor, despite the fact she had done her best to put a dent
in his skull. Drake wanted to tousle her, engage the fiery side of her spirit. Arouse
her, possess her. Bury his hands in her riotous curls and bed her.

Foolish. Dangerous. So unlikely to ever happen.

He must focus on his revenge, never forget that Averyl was an intelligent woman, gifted
with perhaps an even craftier ability to entrance and confuse than his mother had
possessed. For he saw now that Averyl’s fragility was an illusion, just as his desire
for her was a curse.

Drake held the poker between them. “Careful, else this could injure someone.”

“If only it would, preferably by making a dent in your skull.”

Her dress clung lovingly to the slight curve of her breasts as she moved with furied
conviction. Thick and hot, a fresh wave of desire settled in his loins. Why could
Averyl have not been as plain as she believed? And meek besides?

Shoving the questions aside, he took the last step toward Averyl, watching her eyes
grow wider. With fear and fury, aye. But something new. What? Curiosity? Challenge?

“And I would gladly hit you again, harder.”

How unusually…honest she was. Tenacious and rampageous, too, just like his friend
Aric’s lady wife, Gwenyth. He frowned. But Gwenyth possessed not the tendency to sentiment
and greed his captive and his mother shared. Averyl was indeed a puzzle.

Drake gripped the poker. “Then I consider myself warned and will put this from temptation’s
way.”

“You cannot keep me here!”

“I can and I am.”

The sound of her curse followed him as he made his way outside. That he ignored as
he shut the door between them.

Then he heard a sob, quiet, muffled. Drake strained closer to the window to hear.
Was that shrew-mouthed Averyl?

Again it came. Aye, ’twas her. Drake frowned as something foreign bit at his gut.
It could not possibly be guilt. This revenge was necessary, his very life. Then why
did he feel…badly?

Drake set the poker aside. Had he not learned to ignore a woman’s tears from infancy?
Aye, and why Averyl’s should bother him, he could not fathom. Shoving his fingers
through his hair, he searched for clarity—only to find a muddle where logic normally
lived. Damnation.

Averyl sniffled. Drake’s gut clenched. He rubbed the aching shoulder she had struck
to remind him she was the enemy. But imprisoning her now seemed…wrong. Frowning, he
wondered when had he deemed his act unjust. After he’d beheld those bright eyes in
her comely face and seen her fiery desperation?

Drake paced. She was a pawn in his scheme. An intriguing pawn, aye, but a pawn all
the same. True, she had a home to rebuild and vassals to aid. She had a right to a
wedded life, if she foolishly chose it. And he wanted her in his bed. But all must
wait until justice had been served.

* * * * *

Averyl crept outside minutes after Locke. Within moments, she discovered he spoke
true. Escape would be near impossible.

The ravine, steep as a cliff all about, was a narrow strip of land hidden by an abundance
of wild heather and short grass, brambles, rock, and eternal Scottish mist. So far
up did its vertical walls reach, she could scarcely see to the land above.

Giant oak trees sheltered the hideaway from prying eyes by fanning the sky with their
far-reaching branches. The ancient trees swayed with the wind, their leaves forming
a wall of lush green that convinced outsiders nothing lay below nature’s display of
summer. Beyond that, she heard the tempestuous crash of the surf against the isle’s
shore.

The gate he spoke of would indeed keep her trapped. Averyl stared up at its impossible
height and the razor-edge of the pikes atop it, lethal and smiling, as if inviting
her to court death. Anger welled in her throat, burned her belly.

Locke had her trapped, damn him. He had no right to intrude thus upon her life. What
would become of Abbotsford, its vassals and gardens, should this captivity last? What
of the village, her heritage, her father?

What would become of her?

The barbarian had ruined her plans to wed. If she wished to save them, she needed
the key to the gate. He knew such.

She must steal the key. To accomplish such a feat, she would have to search his pocket—when
he did not wear his hose. For that, Locke would have to be asleep. She refused to
put her hands anywhere near his powerful thighs and manly secrets. He was bold enough
to believe she encouraged him and more than male enough to bed her, if only for sport.

Averyl bit her lip. She plotted rebellion against a known killer. ’Twas foolish, but
she could not remain. If she did, her future would disappear like a drop of water
in an ocean. And the hate that seemed to permeate his every word and gesture might
seep into her soul. Indeed, ’twas certain. Already she was learning to hate him back.

* * * * *

Murdoch entered the solar, striding past his leman’s belly, with a curse on his lips.
She scurried forward to greet him. He silenced her with a glare and proceeded to his
chair.

“I hiv had a bath prepared for ye,” she whispered.

One glance at her coy expression sent his temper soaring. “Back to the kitchen with
you, wench. I’ve much to do.”

Whores, every last one, from his first woman, to this last. Naught changed. Each used
their bodies for their gain.

Murdoch eyed the pouting redhead as she exited with a protective hand over her rounding
belly. Aye, she’d made no secret of the fact she sought a husband of consequence to
claim her and her brat.

He stripped off sweaty traveling clothes and sank into the warm water with a sigh.
Though she’d vowed the child was his, Murdoch knew he had not been the only man between
her thighs. And a fool she was if she believed the simple wifely act of preparing
a bath would induce him to give up on Lady Averyl.

Damn his half brother, Drake. Averyl had been missing for nearly four days, and they
had found only the sketchiest clues regarding her whereabouts. Still, he refused to
rest. After scrubbing himself clean, he rose.

His bride no doubt looked for him each day with her lovesick gaze, awaiting rescue.
He would not let her down.

Murdoch dressed quickly. His plan was in motion. When the two were found, Averyl and
the wealth of land—land that had once belonged to MacDougalls—along with the power
that came with their marriage would be his. As for Drake, he sincerely hoped the whelp
of his father’s English whore found hell even more torturous than the slow death Murdoch
vowed to provide.

After a brief knock, Wallace, his cousin and steward, entered the darkening room.

“Come in,” he barked. “What news have you?”

“We have word from the west,” Wallace said. “A man claiming connection to Clan MacDougall
possesses information.”

Murdoch stopped pacing. “Does he come here?”

“Aye, within the half hour.”

Nodding with satisfaction, Murdoch clenched his fists. “And our soldiers, are they
still searching?”

“Morn and eve.”

“I have looked through filth and down countless dusty roads for Lady Averyl.” He turned
accusing eyes to Wallace. “Do not disappointment me with more failure.”

Clearing his throat, Wallace assured, “We will see justice served for Drake MacDougall.”

Anger roared until Murdoch heard it pound in his ears. “Drake is
not
a MacDougall. He is not worthy of any name but his whorish mother’s.”

“But your father was wed to—”

“Aye, my father married that English slut, Diera, and got a brat on her. But the son
of such a woman will
never
bear the MacDougall name, not from my tongue.”

Wallace nodded. “As you wish, my lord.”

The placating expression on his cousin’s face annoyed Murdoch. But the business of
capturing his half brother loomed more important. “Drake cannot have taken Averyl
too far, certainly not to that grandfather of his in England. Not yet, anyway. We
must find them, and soon.”

Wallace shuffled his feet. “With all due respect, my lord, what if Drake has killed
her?”

“He would not,” Murdoch growled. “Such an event would release me from my father’s
cursed machinations.”

“Drake has always dared much,” Wallace pointed out.

“On that we agree, but to kill her would gain him naught and gain me everything.”

“Could you not declare the girl dead? Such would give you leave to marry another with
more wealth and connections—”

“It must be her, unless I can produce her corpse. My father’s will states that I will
inherit only after I wed Averyl and end this bloody feud with the Campbells.”

“Ah, so you must find her and marry her?”

He clenched his jaw, cursing his father’s manipulations from beyond the grave. “Precisely.”

Moments later, a castle guard appeared with an elderly stoop-backed peasant, a fisherman.
He shuffled in, his slow movements relating pain. His stark silver hair accented black
eyes that glittered with anticipation.

Murdoch chafed with impatience. “Well, what news do you bring?”

The old man’s gnarled fingers gripped his weathered cane for support as he lowered
himself into the nearest chair. “’Tis an honor to meet ye, me lord.”

“Indeed.” Murdoch ended the chatter with a glare. “Tell me where to find my half brother
so I may say the same.”

“Aye, me lord. I saw him two days past.”

“Alone?” Murdoch hovered over the peasant.

“Nay. ’Twas with a woman he traveled.”

“Describe her,” he demanded.

“I dinna see her weel. She was a wee thing, mind ye. Her hair was fair, as was her
skin.”

Murdoch nodded. The description seemed accurate enough. “Which way did they travel?
Could you tell?”

“Aye, me lord, I could.”

* * * * *

After her bath, Averyl returned to the cottage as twilight painted the Scottish sky
a misty blue-gray. Relief seeped through her when she lit two tapers in the dark dwelling
and discovered herself alone.

Quickly, she ran a brush through her hair, braided it, and tucked it beneath her cap.
Frowning into the glass, she wondered why she bothered. Perhaps her mass of curls
would revolt her captor, ensure he kept his distance. Still, she hated to see them
loose, to be reminded of all her faults…

With a sigh, she sat on the bed. Why had she not been born with silky hair and rosy
cheeks like Becca? The mass of her pale curls next to an equally pale face made her
look sickly. Her wisp of a figure did naught to dispel the image.

Bother!
Her appearance mattered not. She would wed Murdoch, who had seemed pleased enough
with her, when she emerged from this hell. And while here, she had no wish for Locke
to think her attractive. He was Murdoch’s enemy, a murderer who would use her for
his revenge, at the expense of her future. He was no more than a hate-crazed beast.