His Stolen Bride BN (17 page)

With that, the woman released Averyl, then turned away. Still stunned, Averyl rose
slowly. The shining purple ribbon lay bright and new on the table before her. She
stared at it and thought of the man who had given it to her. Drake had not meant it
as a gift, had felt no affection in the purchase. But something inside her refused
to leave it behind.

Cursing herself a fool, she snatched the ribbon from the table and tied it about her
braid as she exited the dim tent.

Outside, Averyl found that dusk had descended upon the fair. By all appearances, the
townsfolk were still celebrating. Bright streamers hung from every home in sight.
A ring of wooden poles had been stuck into the soil to form a circle from which lanterns
hung, outlining a crude dance floor, now occupied by a handful of the town’s drunken
inhabitants.

Beyond the fair lay unmerciful darkness and no way to shield herself if its terrors
preyed upon her. Trembling, Averyl lamented that she had not thought of such sooner.

She clung to a giant oak at the outskirts of the fair, making certain Drake was nowhere
in sight. Men milled about everywhere, some with ladies beside them, others partaking
of ale and one another’s companionship. None possessed Drake’s height or controlled
carriage, inky waves, or muted elegance.

He was gone.

A sigh escaped her lips as she wondered if she would ever see him again.

What foolishness!
Relief should fill her, not a hollow ache within her breast. He wanted her not as
a woman, not for her heart, but as a pawn. ’Twas the truth, despite the crone’s intriguing
words.

Drawing in a deep breath, Averyl vowed she would not miss him. Not for an instant
beyond this one. Or this one…

She frowned. Drake would never miss her, and she must concentrate on that reality,
not some fantasy her imagination and body clung to.

Pushing away from the tree, she made one last scan of the crowd. Three men loomed
close, soldiers, judging from the heavy swords swinging at their thighs. With their
shrill whistle and a lascivious leer, Averyl knew they had spotted her—alone.

A blade of trepidation sliced her when one began in her direction, his eyes never
wavering. The other two followed.

Averyl ran into the dark, fighting her fear, hoping this once the black air would
devour her, conceal her. An anxious glance over her shoulder confirmed they pursued
her. Indeed, one sprinted after her while the others laughed at the sport.

Her heart pounding, lurching against her chest, Averyl picked up her skirts and ran
faster. The flat ground beneath her feet provided nowhere to hide. No tall bushes
nearby to give cover. And a quick scan behind her revealed the men still followed—and
gained ground.

Her toe connected with something solid, and without warning, she tumbled to the soft
earth in a heap of bruised knees and scraped hands. Behind her, she heard another
chorus of laughter.

Ignoring her aches, she staggered to her feet. Before she could escape, a harsh hand
grasped her arm. She screamed.

“What have we here, lass? All alone, are ye now? Ye canna leave before the party haes
started.”

“I—I search for my husband.” She stared into a rough face of browned teeth and mean
eyes. Her heart pounded in fear.

“Is that so? We dinna see any men here but us. So if your husband is fool enough to
leave ye alone, we’d consider it our privilege, nay, our right, to be enjoyin’ yer…company
this eve.” He brushed her breast with his fingers.

Behind him, his duo of companions laughed. Averyl struggled against them in horror,
praying she could find an escape.

“As the lass’s husband, enjoying her ’tis my right, and mine alone,” the familiar
voice cut into the silence.

Averyl looked beyond the miscreant to find Drake standing behind them all, sword drawn.
Relief shocked every crevice of her body with a warm comfort. Now she would be safe.

Drake stood a head taller than any other. He eclipsed the varlets in breadth, and
if Drake’s scowl bore any truth, determination, too.

The fiend holding her wrist gave a sickly laugh, his smile slipping. The other men
backed away. “Ach, we were just teasin’ now, weren’t we, lass?”

Drake speared her with a questioning glance. She answered with a wobbly shake of her
head.

His jaw clenched in fury. “Be gone with you before I make you part of tonight’s stew.”

The rotten-teethed ogre opened his mouth to protest. Drake took a menacing step forward,
shining silver blade clenched in his fist.

“Give me a reason,” Drake invited silkily. The wild look on his face welcomed violence.

The rogue slinked away.

For a long moment, Averyl stared at Drake, her captor, her rescuer, her handfast husband-to-be.
Though she’d found this trouble in trying to escape him, she knew only comfort at
his return. She resisted an urge to throw herself into his sheltering arms and thank
him. A gesture he would not welcome, judging from the black blaze of his eyes and
the white fury around his taut mouth. As he sheathed his sword, his gaze traveled
over her methodically, leaving no inch untouched, especially the ribbon at her braid.

“Drake, I—”

He silenced her with a hand. “Later. Now, follow me.”

With that, he turned his back on her, not waiting to see if she followed. He knew
she would; she really had no other option. Tonight had proven she could not return
to Dunollie without hazard. Indeed, she had not progressed beyond the first town.

Straightening her bodice, Averyl darted after him, too frightened to stay behind.
Though it seemed irrational to place her safety in the hands of a man everyone believed
capable of murder, she did. Despite his fury with her, Drake still calmed her fear
of the dark with his mere presence. And he had proven, once again, that he would not
harm her.

And since he kept her safe, was there a chance the
spaewife
spoke true? Was Drake, perhaps, innocent of Lochlan MacDougall’s murder? Was he her
destiny?

* * * * *

Drake glanced over his shoulder, watching an oddly subdued Averyl follow. He suspected
lingering fear quieted her, since he would never imagine her contrite. And though
it pleased him not, Drake admitted he, too, would have run, given Averyl’s chance.

Still, the admission did not make his mood less foul.

He sighed in disgust. ’Twas not anger at Averyl that soured his disposition, though
her repeated attempts to escape annoyed him. Nor was it knowing what he must do now.
Instead, he pictured her, again and again, at the mercy of the vile vagabonds who
had captured her. Even now, fury erupted through his veins, tightening his hands into
fists.

He had wanted to kill them. To engage each in hand-to-hand combat, then steal the
life from them. What Drake did not know was why. Why such a violent urge? ’Twas ugly
but common enough for beasts like them to overpower a woman. Even the rapes he’d heard
in Dunollie’s dungeons had not filled him with this illogical need for blood lust,
a need he had curbed for Averyl’s benefit, as well as his own hunted hide.

Again, why? ’Twas as important to him to protect her as it was that she not see him
as a vicious killer.

Why?

Pushing the haunting question aside as they reached the gathering again, Drake waited
for Averyl. She stopped beside him and cast a questioning glance at him with wide
hazel eyes.

She feared him, too. In a different way, but still feared him. And he liked it not.
Something within his chest tightened, and he forced his temper to calm and his voice
to gentle.

“Give me your hand, Averyl.”

She stared at him for long moments, as if trying to guess his intent. Drake stifled
the remnants of his anger to remove the severity from his expression. Finally, she
put cold fingers into his.

He closed his palm around hers and gave a gentle squeeze. “You are safe. I will let
nothing or no one harm you.”

After staring at their joined hands for a heartbeat, she looked up with such stunning
trust that he lost a breath. “I believe you.”

Trust.
Her words near shattered him. He’d not received that in so long, not since the bloody
accusations of near two years past. She believed him. Her vow rippled pleasure through
him.

“Come with me, then.”

Without awaiting her response, he moved forward, hand clasped about hers, closer to
the crowd. He spotted a couple bouncing a laughing toddler on their knees. They looked
more than adequate.

“Excuse me, good sir, madam. Could you spare a moment?”

“Aye, indeed,” said the man, handing the baby aside and smoothing down his shock of
red hair.

Beside him, Drake could feel Averyl’s puzzled stare. The feel of her hand in his urged
him on with anticipation.

“I declare this lady and I are handfast.”

Averyl gasped at his side. Glancing quickly at her frozen ivory countenance, Drake
squeezed her hand as she tried to pry it away and rushed to address the couple. “You
are our witnesses.”

The young woman cradled the toddler and tittered with delight. “’Tis so romantic.”
She smiled at Averyl. “I remember my wedding night.” With a sigh, she added. “As will
ye.”

Sitting beside her, the man flushed.

Drake smiled, hoping no one would take note of the pale shock frozen on his new bride’s
face. “Thank you, kind sir, good lady. We are obliged.”

Before the couple could say more, before Averyl could object, he tugged gently on
her arm, and with it, led her back toward the Gibsons, where a feast that awaited
them—and whatever their first night as man and wife would bring.

On their silent journey to the inn, Averyl walked beside Drake, struggling to match
his rapid strides. Everything about his tense posture and shuttered expression bespoke
turmoil. Beside him, she bit her lip, feeling a cauldron of anxiety in her belly.
Did her husband think of the coming night?

Their handfast union was so sudden. And unless her new husband perished, she would
be unable to wed the MacDougall before the bitter winter and Abbotsford’s ruin. Even
knowing that, she could not bring herself to wish for Drake’s demise.

Nay, to save her home, she had but two options. Neither was likely. Drake was hardly
apt to give her any funds, no matter how prettily she begged. Nor was she likely to
see Murdoch so that she might plead with him to save her home. But her home did not
reign supreme in her mind now.

Chirping crickets, green fields, and a damp breeze reminded Averyl she had this summer
night—her wedding night—to face before considering the harsh consequences winter would
bring.

She knew what Drake would expect tonight, at least in the vaguest sense. Her belly
clenched, winding as tightly as the ribbon atop her head. Aye, she would deny him
at every turn. But what if she weakened under the gentle assault of his kisses? What
if she foolishly surrendered?

Casting a glance at her new handfast husband, Averyl felt a new claw of anxiety. Upon
her abduction two weeks ago, she would never have imagined Drake possessed even one
redeeming quality. Yet she realized he had most shown her only the sides of himself
he’d wanted her to know. The gentle comforting, his protective concern, those had
slipped out, she suspected, only to be quickly covered again by his gruff impersonality
or anger.

But she
had
seen those glimpses of a different man beneath. Was the real Drake not a criminal
at all, but a mere man fighting to win back his honor while struggling to accept his
mother’s rejection?

His granite profile and distant mood told her naught.

When they arrived at the Gibsons’, Gordan and Edina were waiting. Mrs. Gibson hugged
Drake as they walked in the door. “So pleased I am, lad. If anyone deserves happiness,
’tis ye.”

Drake returned the plump woman’s smile stiffly while shaking Gordan’s hand. “Thank
you both, for everything.”

Mr. Gibson waved his words away. “Ach, get ye to the table so I can congratulate yer
new bride.”

Drake disengaged his hand from Gordan’s and, with a troubled glance, left for the
inn’s private rooms.

“Lassie, such a long face on yer wedding day?” Gordan said, as Edina hugged her impulsively.
“Could be she is fretful, eh?”

The older woman admonished her husband with a gentle
tsk
. “Now dinna ye be scarin’ the poor lamb.” She held Averyl’s shoulders and smiled.
“Drake’ll be gentle as a dove. I hiv seen how he looks at ye.”

How he looked at her? If it were much different than a nuisance—and a homely one at
that—Averyl would be surprised indeed. Instead, she smiled weakly, knowing not what
to say.

Drake appeared again, and the small group assembled around the table. With a long
stare, Drake poured her a cup of wine. She drank greedily, hoping the liquor would
ease the edge of her disquiet. Then she extended her cup toward him for more.

This time, Edina filled it with a sideways smile at her husband. Gordan returned his
wife’s grin and winked.

The Gibsons’ affection for one another was almost tangible. Averyl ached, wishing
for that happiness. She swallowed another sip of the sweet wine, acknowledging that,
despite the
spaewife’s
avowals, such a love would never blossom between her and Drake. ’Twas impossible.
Though she could see goodness in him, he was still angry, too focused on revenge.
And Averyl could ill afford to do aught else but concentrate on resisting her husband’s
fine face and form and saving Abbotsford.

During the long, uncomfortable meal, Averyl barely tasted the juicy haggis. Mrs. Gibson
seemed more than happy to make most of the conversation, with brief responses from
her doting husband. Drake said little, ate less, and left the table the moment it
was marginally polite to seek ale in the tap room.

As Drake paced before a roaring fire, Averyl felt his restless spirit through the
open door. The unsettled energy radiated, seeking release. Edina and Gordan seemed
not to notice, but Averyl watched his swift, long-legged strides.