His Stolen Bride BN (10 page)

She did not answer. Moonlight penetrated the darkness through a crack beneath the
door, which Locke no longer blocked. Stark alabaster rays illuminated the floor, and
Averyl seized upon the light as a sign from God. With it, she could see no specters
hovered near—as well as half of his hose.

The other half lay trapped beneath Locke’s hip.

Biting her lip, Averyl resolved to continue with her plan. She sat beside him and
reclined on one elbow, hoping to gain better position to pry the pouch from beneath
him. Stealing a glance at his face to see, she saw he slept still.

Thankful for his slumber, she leaned closer, touching a trembling palm to the ridged
plain of his bare abdomen. She drew in a sharp breath at the feel of his hard flesh
and swallowed to conquer the urge to abandon her plan in the face of her pounding
heart.

He moved not at her touch, and she continued on her quest, easing another hand beneath
his thigh. The intimacy of her actions seeped into her. She’d never touched a man
thus. Had never been this close to one.

Nor had she ever been abducted by a murderer.

Averyl forced herself to concentrate on his identity and nefarious plan…not the curious
breathlessness she felt at the feel of his skin. Yet the warmth of his big body penetrated
her anxiety with something stronger.

Bringing her hands closer together, nearer the codpiece, Averyl held her breath, trying
to ignore the feel of Locke’s warmth upon her fingers. Another inch, mayhap two, and
the pouch would be free. She resisted the notion that Locke could hear the thunderous
rhythm of her heart.

Her captor shifted again, giving her access to his pocket. Yanking it to her chest,
Averyl slipped her hand into the scratchy wool, still warm from the most male part
of his body. He had a good amount of coin, judging from the jingle within, but she
resisted the urge to take any. She would find a way to Murdoch’s side without resorting
to Locke’s thievery.

Averyl reached, her fingers stretching. Finally, she felt a cold length of metal.
She closed her palm around the long object and lifted it from the pouch. The slender
beam of moonlight beneath the door told her ’twas a key.

Clutching it, she made to rise. Her captor shifted into her, throwing her off balance.
Averyl fell to her back with a quiet thud.

She tried to find her feet, but Locke draped the length of his battle-hardened arm
over her stomach and rolled toward her, half of his big body covering hers.

“Averyl?” came the sleepy inquiry again, a whisper.

She lay completely still, save for the drilling of her heart. She must think of a
way to leave his slumberous embrace without waking him—not of the scents of sandalwood
and something muskier that clung to his skin.

Slowly, she inched away, grasping the key in one hand, eyes tightly shut. Locke tightened
his hold about her and sidled closer, until more of his massive chest eclipsed her,
pinning her to the floor beneath him.

He turned his head away from the door, toward her. His eyes remained closed. “Hmmm.”

At his soft moan, her skin erupted with chill bumps. Heat swept through her. Why,
under his touch, did she no longer feel her fear of the dark?

Shaking away the foolish thought, she chastised herself. Locke merely slept, clutching
his captive, the vessel of his revenge. He did not seek to protect her, and she must
escape while defending herself against the dark’s demons.

Averyl frowned, wondering too why he had not awakened.

Knowing she did not have time to solve that mystery, she lay still until his breathing
deepened once more. Just as she moved to make good her escape, Locke’s hand lifted
from the curve of her waist upward.

His warm fingers covered her breast.

She gritted her teeth to rein in a gasp. The foreign sensation, like a flare of lightning,
erupted within her. A hot and cold ache pervaded her as her flesh tightened and her
nipples pebbled beneath his touch. An urge to arch to him in offering blinded her
for a moment. If he could give so much pleasure in his sleep, what measure could he
give when alert?

Nay, she would not think so…wantonly. The moment’s surprise merely masqueraded as
pleasure. She would learn if he slept still, then find a way to flee.

Easing from his touch, Averyl turned her face to his. He breathed deeply, evenly,
with closed eyes. Did that not mean he slept still?

“Averyl,” he whispered sleepily again.

She stilled as he wrapped his hand about her nape and drew her close, so close. Breath
trapped in her chest, she felt his other hand slide up her waist, to cover her breast
again. She jumped, startled—and found her mouth an inch from his.

Assailed by the woodsy musk of his scent, the feel of his nearness and intimate touch,
she froze in shock. And wonder.

He settled his mouth over hers. Soft, warm lips covered her own. Mingling breaths,
a rush of sensation, an explosion of wonderment. His mouth swept over hers lightly,
lingered and nipped, tasting of nightly ale and manly allure.

Averyl drew in a deep breath. The room seemed to spin about her. His lips, so tender…
An utter puzzle. Could one so evil really taste so pleasing? Touch as if gentle?

He groaned, startling her. Averyl broke the kiss and eased away, then scrambled to
her feet. Her lips tingled, and she placed cold fingers against them, aching for another
taste of tenderness.

Nay. She must concentrate on escape.

Praying he did not awaken, she backed away through the hated dark, heart pounding,
until her legs encountered the bed. Smothering a gasp, she scurried about the room,
gathering her satchel and a quilt from the bed. She shut the door softly behind her,
hoping the sound would not wake him.

Barefooted and shaking, her heart drumming, she sprinted through the obsidian night,
up the steep hill to the gate, hoping to leave behind the demons of the dark—and her
captor.

Her trembling fingers inserted the key and turned it. The gate swung open. Freedom
was hers! She had naught to do but master her childhood fear, find Locke’s boat, and
cast away from his prison isle. And she might be hours away before he woke to find
she’d fled. She would be with Murdoch soon. They would wed. Abbotsford would be safe.

With a low cry, she burst through the thick shrubbery, into the night, a wild animal
suddenly freed from its cage. At the top of the hill, she drew in a deep breath of
pungent salt air and glanced above at clouds of ashen gray that obscured the moonlight
to a faint ghostly glow. Averyl clenched her fists as a damp sheen of fear bathed
her face.

She must forget the villains and ghosts, and remember Locke’s boat. Aye, it was most
important now. She must have it to return to the MacDougall.

Averyl listened to the sounds of crashing waves about her, pelting her from all directions.
Where would he hide it? A cave, most like. A dark, black hole hiding the unknown.
She cringed against the dark.

Then she squared her shoulders, vowing that for escape, she’d endure the pitch cavern.
Staying could only be more dangerous. With Locke, she feared for more than her safety.

She rummaged through her satchel for footwear. Dresses and shifts she unearthed, but
naught resembling her shoes. Knowing she did not have enough time or light for a more
thorough search, she tossed the blanket about her shoulders as protection from the
chilly darkness and headed for the shore, scanning all about for blood-thirsty ghouls.
If she must search the perimeter of the island, that she would do.

Upon reaching the rocky shore, Averyl found a scrap of sandy soil and began walking,
guided by the milky reflection of the weak moonlight on the silver water. She scanned
the land for anything that resembled a boat or a place to hide one, vowing she had
not come this far and risked Locke’s wrath for naught. Nor had she succumbed to the
bewildering pleasure of a kiss she had enjoyed far too well to be thwarted.

Drake rolled to his back and stretched, delicious languor flooding his limbs. Ah,
such sweet dreams of Lady Averyl, of her fine berry lips beneath his. Her warm breast
in his palm. He clutched the dream tight, clinging to the fantasy.

He reached for his pillow and encountered scratchy wool. His fingers followed the
garment to its end, only to find his open codpiece.

Bolting to his feet, Drake’s gaze sought the bed. Rumpled. And empty.

“Averyl!” he shouted as his fingers dug into the pouch in his grasp. Coin after coin
he withdrew until the pocket lay empty. He cursed and made a quick search of the remainder
of the cottage, only to have his fears confirmed.

She’d taken the key and her satchel and fled.

Pulling on his hose and tunic, Drake wondered how he could have let the vixen past
him. Had he been so weary from three sleepless nights that deep slumber prevented
him from hearing her escape? He thrust on his boots. Perhaps his wanton dream of Averyl
had hindered him from waking as she escaped.

Or had that been a dream?

He touched a finger to his mouth, determined to learn the truth. If she had used her
wiles to escape him, he would make her regret it. His father had proven clearly the
depths to which a man’s soul could sink in order to win a lady’s favor. He would not
be manipulated by her perfumed flesh. Aye, Averyl churned his blood. That he would
not deny, but never would he allow his loins to transcend logic.

Making his way outside, Drake sprinted toward the ravine’s fog-enshrouded gate. He
must find Averyl—before she found his boat and made good her escape. But his dream
of her, soft and willing in his bed, would not leave him. Nor the certainty she had
used her mouth and his lust to manipulate him.

Troubled by the circle of his thoughts, Drake cursed when he found the gate flung
wide. He surged up the steep incline and bolted to the top. There, he halted.

The moonlight dodged in and out of the clouds. Scowling, Drake knelt and searched
the moist earth until he saw the faint tracks of small bare feet. Frozen feet by now,
no doubt. For even though ’twas summer, the night air held a chill.

With urgent steps, Drake followed the soft imprint of Averyl’s footsteps. As he assumed,
she had headed to the shore.

For twenty minutes, he tracked her, gut churning with apprehension. Ordinarily, he
would not believe anyone could so quickly find the cave in which he’d hidden his small
boat. Secreted behind rocks and trees, he’d carefully chosen the spot. Still, Averyl
had proven herself no ordinary woman.

Soon, the sand with Averyl’s tracks skirted around an outcropping of boulders destined
to endure nature’s icy pounding for eternity. The moon disappeared once more beneath
a black strip of angry sky, snatching the milky moonlight away. Blackness oozed where
the muted light once reigned.

Skirting the rocky shore, he climbed slowly upward through the onyx dark, past the
ancient standing stones. At the edge of the heather-dotted cliff, he found Averyl
bathed in shadow, a small mass huddled beneath a white blanket. Her hair whipped behind
her like a sail in the screeching wind as he approached. Her satchel lay next to her,
on its side.

Relief zipped through him. On the heels of that came fury. He needed her here, as
much for her own safety as the success of his plan. She must understand that.

Drake stepped toward her, forming a tongue-lashing in his mind. Then the wind carried
her cry to his ears.

Why did that cry bother him so? More this time than last?

Did she know he approached and seek to win his sympathy? ’Twould be like a woman…all
except Aric’s Gwenyth. She would flail a man with her dagger tongue before showing
him her tears. But with the fair Gwenyth settled happily into married life with his
friend at Northwell, Drake did not believe he’d meet another woman with so forthright
a manner. Particularly not a Campbell.

Drake crouched behind Averyl, ready to berate her. Before he could speak, her tresses
whipped up to graze his cheek. She smelled of salt and those damned white flowers.
He doused pleasure with anger.

“You cannot escape, Averyl. Give me the key.”

She gasped at hearing his voice and turned. Drake expected many reactions, a struggle,
a scream, another run for freedom.

Never did he expect she would throw her arms about him and press her small, trembling
body against him.

Hesitantly, he drew his arms about her. She burrowed closer against him. An urge to
protect her bolted through him, and he frowned against it.

“What ploy is this, little witch?” he whispered into the wind. “Do you seek to confuse
me?”

She shook her head wildly. “I am frightened.”

“Of me?” he asked, puzzled.

Her sob pierced his vexation. She sounded so distraught, so afraid…

“The dark frightens me even more than you,” she confessed in trembling tones. “Please
do not let aught hurt me.”

The hard rock of fury in his gut began to melt as the urge to protect blasted him
once more. He drew her tiny chilled body against him. She’d been out here minutes,
perhaps hours, fearing what she could not see, and trusted
him
to save her?

He stroked the soft waves of her golden hair. “No harm will befall you whilst I am
near.”

She nodded and relaxed against him.

For long moments, she said naught, only clutched him as if he were the rope preventing
her from a death drop over a cliff. He held her only to ease her fears. He did not
feel pleasure at her trust, nor arousal at the firm mounds of her breasts against
him. He noticed not the silken slide of her tresses through his fingers. At least
for no more than a moment or two.

Ach, what a fool. He did notice that—and more, like sounds of soft breath rushing
from her ripe mouth, the satiny skin at her nape. He could scarce do naught but notice.

“How did you come to fear the dark?” he asked, breaking the dangerous spell of silence
about them.