His Stolen Bride BN (12 page)

“Well, now. That is interesting.”

“Her eyes are so wide and green.” Drake cursed.

He had noticed the color of her eyes?

Locke gave a resigned sigh. “I know not what to do.”

“Of course you do.” The other man laughed. “Bed her.”

“She is my captive, not my leman.”

“I do not see this as a problem. Would she resist you?”

Again, Drake paused. Averyl held her breath, wondering if he knew how he repelled
her, yet how often she thought of him…

“With every breath she took. ’Tis not an option, Kieran.”

“Nonsense. ’Tis always an option, my friend.”

* * * * *

Minutes later, Drake and the stranger, Kieran, entered the small cottage. Averyl’s
mind whirled in a confused daze. Forcing aside her myriad questions about Locke’s
belief of Murdoch’s guilt, she gazed at the stranger.

He was nearly as tall as Locke, their broad statures betraying them both as warriors.
This Kieran appeared a few years younger, but Averyl knew not if that was fact or
a product of the man’s perpetual grin.

The stranger’s hair was a dark mahogany, liberally laced with auburn, his eyes a startling
shade between blue and green. His face held a hint of boyishness, confirmed by dimples—then
belied by the mischief dancing in his gaze. He smiled, looking much friendlier than
her captor, like a man who enjoyed life.

Soon some pull induced Averyl’s gaze back to her captor’s dark visage. His intent
stare held hers. Did Drake really think her beautiful?

’Twas foolish to wonder such. She should concern herself only with whether the stranger
might be persuaded to aid her.

“This is Kieran Broderick.” Locke turned to the other man. “My friend, Lady Averyl
Campbell.”

With a smile, Kieran lifted her hand to brush his lips across her fingers. “’Tis a
pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

Unaccustomed to such a flattering gaze, she withdrew her hand. “Greetings.”

Then realizing only the rogue Kieran could help her escape, she offered him a smile.
Aye, ’twas unlikely such a man would find her worthy of attention; a smile was all
she had to offer.

Kieran surprised her by smiling back.

A pause settled in the air, blooming with tension. Drake broke the silence. “Averyl,
go outside and retrieve Kieran’s belongings.”

“’Tis your captive I am, not your slave,” she snapped.

Kieran laughed. “An answer Gwenyth would give.”

Who was this Gwenyth? And why did Drake scowl so?

Kieran added, “Well, ’tis clear our brooding Drake is unhappy. Lass, if you would
gather my bag, I would consider it a favor.”

A quick glance at Locke revealed a scowl. Good. Her smile widened. “I shall see to
your things right away.”

Averyl let herself out the door. Drake watched, his gaze remaining on her alluring
backside until she was out of sight.

Christ’s blood, why did he want her so? Why had she smiled so sweetly for Kieran?
Might Averyl be like his treacherous mother: Another man, another conquest? Diera
had never lacked a reason for her flirtations. What would Lady Averyl’s reason be?
And how would he stop her?

“Kieran,” Drake began abruptly. “Averyl is here to serve my purpose. Do not trifle
with her.”

“Trifle?” His friend frowned. “I would not intrude upon your…claim.”

“’Tis no claim,” he growled.

“Oh, aye. You desire her, do not wish to, yet want no other to have her.”

Drake cursed. Kieran could be annoyingly perceptive. “She is a wench, and a Campbell
one at that.”

“Aye, as well as a fragile, wee thing whose only sin was in agreeing to wed Murdoch.”

“Thus far.”

Kieran sighed in exasperation. “Drake, you cannot punish her for Diera’s sins.”

Drake felt his composure crack from the foundation upward, spearing him with a bolt
of anger. “No more than you withhold your heart from women because of your mother’s
doings.”

“We speak of you and the lady.” Kieran looked angry for the first time Drake could
recall. “Averyl is not responsible for your pain. She did not destroy your father
with betrayals. Diera did that alone.”

“I need no reminder that my mother was a whore.”

“Forget it. She is dead. Gone. Life is now.”

Drake whirled away. Though Kieran spoke true, Drake refused to forget. He let his
pain fester, hoping ’twould remind him that to trust a woman would be heedless. Diera
had crushed his proud father’s heart. At her hand, Drake had learned the perfidy of
which women were capable and the depths of a man’s anguish. But with Averyl, he feared
that lesson would be easy to forget if he touched her lush, fragrant flesh under a
shadowed moon.

Never would he be such a fool. If he took the fair Averyl to his bed, his heart would
remain untouched.

* * * * *

The following morn, Averyl awoke before the sun, hoping to sneak a private word with
Kieran. True, he had not given any indication in his manner that he would aid her
escape, but she prayed for it.

Grabbing her red silken dress from beside the bed, she slipped it over her shift,
protecting her skin from the morning chill. A quick glance across the room proved
her captor slept, his large body sprawled across the door. In the dwindling firelight,
she saw one brawny arm strewn above his head, the other bulged across the lean power
of his chest.

How would such mighty arms feel about her, holding her tight against a heart filled
with love and devotion?

Her pulse picked up, and she crossed herself in reproach. Sweet mercy, she was a fool
to desire the very man she must escape, to feel aught for the captor who thought her
an inconsequential pawn in his vengeful scheme.

Averyl raised both hands to secure her wimple, then tiptoed around the corner, to
the cottage’s empty room, where Kieran had bedded down the previous night. She winced
at the quiet click of the latch as it gave way beneath her fingers, but did not hear
Locke rouse from his pallet to pursue her.

Inside, the room lay dark. None of the flickering firelight made its way into the
gray-black depths before her. Cursing her lack of foresight and her fear, Averyl turned
to seek a candle.

Drake Locke stood squarely in her path, his broad chest bare, his dark hair mussed,
his scowl grim.

“If you seek Kieran, look no more. He left an hour past.”

Hope crashed to her toes with the impact of a boulder. Damnation! She had hoped Kieran
would see her off this isle. But Murdoch was still coming, and until he did, she would
do everything possible to ensure that he found her.

“Nay. I but heard an odd noise and thought perhaps—”

“Kieran might be awake to listen to your pleas for help?”

Averyl raised her chin and sailed past him, into the golden-orange firelight. “I’ve
no need of his assistance, for Murdoch is coming to get me, is he not?”

As she turned to him with a triumphant grin, Locke paused. A small half-smile raised
the corner of his mouth. The gesture on another might have comforted Averyl. On him,
the smirk sent a twinge of foreboding through her blood.

After a nod, her captor said, “Aye. He comes. You heard that when eavesdropping on
my conversation with Kieran?”

“’Twas hard not to hear you,” she defended, bristling. “Besides, now that the truth
is out, you can do naught but surrender.”

“Naught but surrender?”

He lifted a dark brow, alarming Averyl with another slice of disquieting suspicion.
Without logic, she found herself taking a step backwards.

“Murdoch will find and kill you if you do not release me.”

Locke stepped forward and grabbed her arm. “You speak true. He might find me. And
he might kill me if he does. But if I die, I will make sure he finds hell as well.”
With a jerk on her arm, he brought her closer, closer to the countenance dominated
by night-shaded eyes and vengeful determination. “Do not think I will release you
so easily. I have devised another plan, one that ensures Murdoch cannot win his greedy
game, even if you escape.”

Averyl sucked in a shocked breath and jerked her arm from his grasp. “Of what nonsense
do you speak? You have already abducted me. You cannot mean to defile me. Did you
not say Murdoch would wed me anyway?”

“Aye, he would wed you, even if you were round with my child. You see, though he is
chief of the clan now, he cannot fully inherit its riches or power until he weds you.
’Twas spelled out thus in Lochlan’s will.”

“Lochlan? Murdoch’s father?”

Locke’s jaw hardened, along with the bleak cast of his eyes. “Aye, Murdoch’s father.
So I will nae…defile you.”

Averyl raised her chin proudly. More than like, his words to Kieran of her beauty
had been naught but lies. She had always known that ugly truth.

She stifled disappointment and glared at him. “’Tis good fortune that we will be spared
so unpleasant a deed.”

“Unpleasant?”

He reached for her. Refusing to back away from him again, she stood her ground, her
heart pounding inside her chest. His palm gripped her cheek as his thumb caressed
her jaw, down to her mouth, leaving a trail of tingles in his wake.

“I will not find bedding you an unpleasant task.”

Averyl tried to ignore the whisper that made her stomach quiver and her legs unsteady,
and concentrate on the words themselves. “I—I thought you…that we just agreed bedding
me would gain you naught.”

“Aye. Bedding you alone would gain me naught but pleasure. ’Twill be different when
I bed you as my wife.”

“Your w-wife?” Averyl sputtered.

Drake nodded as her eyes widened with pure shock. Her face turned waxen, as white
as her gown. Her dismay was to be expected. It meant naught. For him, it must mean
even less if he wished to succeed.

“Aye, Averyl. I will bind you to me for the next year, irrevocably.”

Horror spread across her face. He looked away from it. It should not anger him, to
be rejected by a Campbell, a wench who thought him scarred and guilty. But fury curled
in his belly.

“We will handfast,” he said. “If I survive until your birthday, you cannot wed Murdoch,
even if he finds you or you escape. When our year of handfasting is done, I will free
you.”

She shook her head, denial spreading across her chalky countenance, radiating from
the suddenly cool greenish depths of her eyes. “Release me. I-I will wed cousin Robert—”

“Nay.” Drake reached out to vow they would wed, to tell her he would be no ogre who
contented himself by beating his wife. As he touched her chilled fingers, she jerked
away.

“Do not touch me,” she hissed. “Ever. I will not call a murderer my husband.”

Before he could stop himself, he flinched against the one barb that had the power
to sting. His hand fell away to clench at his side. Something cold and hard settled
in his chest.

“I will touch you, Averyl, for we will consummate our union. Do not doubt that.”

“Will you force me to your bed?”

“If that is your choice.”

Her distress disturbed him, annoyingly enough. Why, when revenge left no room for
mercy?

She charged him like a pained animal, head tossed back, teeth bared. “You despicable
creature! ’Twas not enough for you to abduct, frighten, and threaten me. Now you would
cut off any hope I have of ever wedding a good man, a chief with the coin to save
my keep and the heart to love me. Instead, you force me to wed you, a murdering knave
without a heart.”

He held her against him, letting the familiar anger wash over him, revive his purpose.
“Murdoch ensured I cut my heart out long ago. He would soon show you how dangerous
are your foolish notions of love.”

“You who seek a selfish end and a senseless death? What know you about the gentle
matters of love?”

Feeling. Always such great displays of emotion and drama.

Drake cursed. “Why desire a sentiment that makes field mice of men and scheming felines
of women?”

“Field mice? Felines?” Her eyes narrowed beneath the fawny arches of her brows. “’Tis
ignorant you are. I know of love’s power, its ability to comfort the lonely, better
the sick, heal the hurting, and humble the arrogant.”

He arched a brow in challenge. “And which of those miracles do you believe love will
wrought in you?”

She tossed her head back, a proud goddess shedding light in the predawn dim. “’Tis
no miracle, for I know that if I am looked upon with eyes of love, I shall never have
to fear.”

Of what did she babble? “Fear what?”

With a sigh of frustration, she stomped past him, toward the cottage’s main room.
“I cannot explain such to a man who refuses to understand.”

Frowning, he watched her small form retreat, her thick golden braid swishing across
her back. Firelight penetrated the thin, cloud-like shift she wore.

He followed her, trying to keep his eyes off the velvet curve of her backside. “No
man can understand when you speak in female riddles.”

“Have you never felt less than perfect?” Before he could answer, she rolled her eyes
and gave a frustrated wave of her hands. “A foolish question. You, I am certain, have
never doubted yourself for a single of life’s moments.”

A remembrance of Lord Carmichael’s disparaging words to his daughter at Dunollie,
at the tears they had nearly engendered, flashed through his mind. The fool thought
herself ugly.

Sighing, Drake approached her. When she would have fled, he grabbed her hand and held
fast. “’Tis misguided you and your father both are.”

“What do you know of my father?” Suspicion painted her features.

“Has he not always told you that you lack womanly charms?”

Averyl’s eyes widened with dismay until the only color on her face was huge green-brown
orbs. “How could you know that?”

He waved her question away. “Your father is a dolt.”

Averyl drew in a breath and bit her bottom lip, all the while regarding him with a
questioning gaze. Drake knew she wondered if he thought her beautiful.