His Stolen Bride BN (2 page)

The place of worship had not changed since his boyhood. The wooden benches and colorful
stained glass above the altar called up memories of long-ago masses spent squirming
beside his father, while Firtha scolded him to behave. He shoved away the memory.

Only the present mattered.

Only revenge would suffice.

Success now might end nearly two years of hell and forever alter his life—as well
as that of his murdering half brother. This plan would gain him retribution for the
unknown killer’s blade in his father’s heart, plunged there at Murdoch’s order. Mayhap
this vengeance could end the accusation of murder that hung about his head like a
black cloud, for which he’d nearly died in this very castle’s dungeon.

Most likely, the scheme would also cost him his life.

Drake crept across the deserted chapel, then pulled the hood of the coarse woolen
monk’s robe about his face and settled onto the hard, narrow bench. Within seconds,
his old governess, Firtha, trod into the holy place, always at dawn, her gait slow
now with age. The golden glow of many candles illuminated her softly lined face as
she slowly knelt before the white candle in the red globe and crossed herself.

“Firtha?” he whispered beside her.

She gasped, and he lifted a silencing finger to his lips.

“Master Drake, o-oh, thank the Lord yer alive!” she whispered.

He smiled, clasping her soft, worn hands in his, and helped her to her feet. “No thanks
to Murdoch.”

“Why hiv ye not returned sooner? Hiv ye been unwell, lad? The way his lordship treated
ye—”

“My health is returned.” Drake gritted his teeth against the reminder of his painful
days in Murdoch’s dungeon. “Coming here has simply been too dangerous.”

“Aye, ye should not have come at all. ’Tis dangerous still. His lordship has offered
a reward for yer head, lad, and still rants aboot yer mischief. Make no mistake, he
vows to see ye dead this time.”

Drake scowled, his mouth taking a grim turn. “If I’m destined for hell, I intend to
take him with me.”

Firtha shook her head. “Ye foolish man, go to England, to yer grandfaither. Dinna
let Lord Dunollie’s hate destroy ye.”

Drake began shaking his head before Firtha even finished speaking. “I will not hide
like a coward while Murdoch enjoys the gains from his treachery. All of his other
deeds I could have ignored, but my father…not that. Never.”

“Then ye maun keep searching fer clues, something to prove yer innocence—”

“If any such piece of evidence ever existed”—Drake cut in—“surely Murdoch has destroyed
it. He is no fool.”

“Ni, but he is verra arrogant.”

Drake released the old woman’s hands and fingered his father’s silver cross, which
hung about his neck as a constant reminder of his love and duty for his sire. “Aye,
but ’tis unlikely we will ever know the truth.”

The lack of other witnesses to his father’s murder both puzzled and tore at him. Murdoch
had carefully plotted the entire incident to take place in the dark, among the summer-thick
branches of century-old trees, away from the melee. Many of the clan’s most important
men could attest to the fact Murdoch had been in Glasgow the morn of the brutal deed
and had behaved with all appropriate shock upon hearing of Lochlan MacDougall’s murder.

Drake cursed, wondering again why he had not expected his half brother to plot something
so ruthless. A foolish underestimation, indeed. One he would not make again.

“How did ye sneak in? His lordship haes posted a dozen men in the barbican to keep
intruders out while the Lady Averyl is here.”

He smiled. “I spent many years here, stealing in and out to avoid my mother’s wrath,
if you recall. Murdoch cannot stop me.”

“Always a knave, ye were, since ye looked up to me knees.” Firtha smiled. “If ye’ve
an appetite, Alpina has baked a loaf of bread this morn.”

He grinned as she clucked over him like a mother hen with her chick. “I shall worry
about the rumblings of my stomach later. As for now, I must ask for your help.”

“No askin’ needed, lad. Ye ken I will help in whate’er way I can.”

A shuffling nearby made Drake tense. He lunged for a darkened corner. At the sound
of retreating footsteps, relief sluiced through him.

“Isna safe here,” Firtha whispered. “Follow me.”

Drake trailed Firtha down the steps adjacent to the kirk, then through a dimly corridor.
He opened the small portal, ducking to enter a little-used corner of the castle’s
vaults.

After using the torch on the corridor’s wall to light the tallow tucked away in his
robe, Drake shut the door behind them. The scents of mildew and damp stone wafted
in the air. The
plink
of a water drop in the distance filled the tense silence.

“I need information about Murdoch and the Campbell wench.”

“Weel, Lady Averyl arrived but last eve. I hivna seen much of her.”

Drake grunted in frustration. “Does she regard Murdoch like the demon he is?”

Firtha shook her head. “Lady Averyl looks upon Lord Dunollie as if he were the blessed
Lord Himself.”

“So her mind is weak. I should expect nothing less of a Campbell.” Most like, she
was vain and conniving, as well—just like his English mother, Diera. Drake shook his
head, his blood simmering with contempt.

“Lord Dunollie seems to think a great deal of her,” Firtha added. “He treats her wi’
the charm of the devil himself.”

Drake scoffed. “He can do naught else. The girl’s father remains about, and Murdoch
needs her lands, should he be planning to attack the Campbells, as I suspect.”

“Ach, Campbell is a muddle-mucked oaf. He cares more for the coin this marriage will
bring as for the lassie herself.”

“It is the way of landed daughters,” Drake commented. “Is extra coin the reason Averyl
and her father plot this marriage?”

“Aye. I hiv no doubt aboot that.”

“And since she covets the match, ’tis likely Lady Averyl is as money-hungry as her
father. How like a Campbell to whore themselves for gold,” he sneered.

Clearly, Averyl Campbell and Murdoch deserved each other. But such a union would not
be their fate.

“Why the questions, lad?” Firtha entreated. “Do ye hiv a plan?”

Drake paced and listened to the distant groans of the chaplain and the willing wench
Drake had paid to occupy him. Clearly, the holy man was more concerned with matters
of the flesh than the Holy Spirit.

“The less you know, the safer you will be.”

Firtha bit her lip. “Whate’er you plan, I’m sure ’tis dangerous. Dinna do it.”

“Do not worry over me. What should worry you more is Murdoch’s state of mind when
he discovers the Campbell wench no longer here to wed him.”

With a gasp, Firtha crossed herself. “Yer plan is worse than I feared. Lad, think!”

“It’s my last hope,” Drake growled grimly. “If I can prevent this marriage, Murdoch
can never claim the inheritance for which he had our father murdered.”

“Is that so?”

Drake nodded. “When Murdoch fails to marry the Campbell girl by the day she turns
eight and ten, according to my father’s will, he will lose all his precious coin—and
the keep.”

Firtha paused, then frowned. “Still, ye should no’ risk yer life so.”

“My father would have done no less for me.”

“The devil take Lord Dunollie fer what he’s done to ye.”

“Someday he will, but you must not think like my father and lay the blame entirely
at Murdoch’s feet. Damn my mother, too.”

“But yer faither’s death was his lordship’s doin’. He hired the butcherin’ fiend,
not that English whore.”

In his mind, he again saw Lochlan’s attacker plunge the knife through his father’s
heart. Again, he saw his father collapse in death. Fury settled like a block of ice
within him.

“Firtha, if my plan is to work, I need ask you to pack a satchel of the Campbell wench’s
belongings. Tonight, set it beneath her window.”

Her eyes grew wide. “Forget the past. Escape to England. Find a lady love to care
for ye.”

He glared at her. “I have no desire for one.”

“But ye deserve happiness.”

“Think you a woman will make me happy?” He raised a brow at his old governess. “Should
I wish for a woman to make me as happy as, say, my mother did my father?”

Firtha flinched and fell silent.

Drake pressed on. “I shall never be reduced to cursing a woman and crying for her
in the same breath. Why succumb to love’s tight fist, ever squeezing the life dry
from a man, until he has naught left but the solace of strong drink and the inability
to embrace a willing wench?”

“Isna like that fer most in love,” she argued.

“Still, ’tis possible, and I’ll not take a chance.”

Firtha sighed in defeat. “Weel, will ye return to Arran?”

“Aye, I am best hidden on the isle. Murdoch will not find me there.”

“I pray no’.”

Silently, Drake prayed for that as well. Discovery meant failure—and certain death.

* * * * *

With her home, her heart, and her future at stake, Averyl Campbell couldn’t help but
fidget. How did one sit idle, knowing she must somehow impress a virtual stranger—a
man she had regarded as an enemy most of her life—with the power to fulfill her dreams?

Determined not to contemplate the question, she cast an absent glance at the fresh
rushes and spotless tables of Dunollie Castle’s great hall. If he agreed to wed her,
the chief of Clan MacDougall would prove he possessed at least some kindness and charity,
like the princely heroes of childhood dreams. Even the Romanesque beauty and prosperity
of his keep seemed out of a fantasy, much different from her barren but beloved home.

Today, he would likely make his intentions known. Today, she must be at her best.

Tucking a wayward curl beneath her linen headdress with trembling fingers, she prayed
Murdoch MacDougall would not refuse her, despite the fact she was less than lovely.
Much less.

“You’ve another curl here,” her father whispered, pointing to her temple. “Tuck that…
Aye. Much better, lass.”

Averyl forced a smile. “Thank you.”

He patted her hand. “I know how trying that unruly hair is. Your mother suffered the
same hardship, bless her soul. Keep your tresses tucked away and no one will be the
wiser.”

Dejection pressed its heavy weight on her. Over the past seventeen years, she had
accepted her homeliness. Today, her father’s familiar counsel hurt, especially now,
when so much hinged on MacDougall taking a liking to her face and form.

“I dressed with care to look my best this morn.” She smoothed a nervous hand over
her pale dress, wondering if she should have chosen the green gown to better match
her eyes.

Her father’s mouth turned down toward his sagging jowls. “No doubt that shade of yellow
is bonny as a bloom. Mayhap if you pinched…” He clamped his thick fingers around her
cheeks. “Aye, that gives you a bit more color.”

With gritted teeth, Averyl turned away, her cheeks stinging. She was a waif, hopelessly
pale and plain. Such mattered not—so long as Murdoch MacDougall made her his bride.
So long as he protected her lands from other warring clans who would see peace destroyed,
along with her late mother’s much-loved keep.

Averyl drew in a deep breath. She could not worry further about her appearance. The
MacDougall would soon enter the room, and she must act her best. Hopefully, a man
of his rank and maturity would appreciate a woman of strong convictions and mind.

Comforted by that hope, she eyed the castle’s great hall. Beautiful jewel-toned tapestries
stretched along the walls above tables massive enough to seat easily one hundred.
A pair of hand-carved chairs stood alone by the fire over a marble chessboard and,
along with the prime condition of his keep, bespoke MacDougall’s wealth. This, no
doubt, thrilled her father, who was but a minor laird in the Clan Campbell. He had
long since sold their tapestries and most of the furnishings to put crops in the ground
and food in their mouths.

“Look at me.” Her father interrupted her reverie.

Averyl turned to him and found his deep blue eyes glowing with concern.

“Remember to watch your tongue, lass,” he warned gently. “Lord Dunollie may not be
accustomed to a woman who speaks her mind. And you must please him, Averyl, else he
may not see this betrothal through and lay out the coin to repair our keep. We canna
afford for your manner to displease him, particularly if your appearance does.”

She balled her hands into fists beneath the embroidered hem of her sleeves. “I will
endeavor to be most proper.”

Refusing to think about the ruination her home would suffer if Murdoch MacDougall
found her too plain, Averyl nodded. She would not allow Abbotsford, her last link
with her beloved mother, to be ravaged again by enemies and poverty.

“Of course, lass. ’Tis simply that I am nervous. You’ve never been away from Abbotsford
to learn the ways of others, and I canna rest until his gold warms my palms.”

“Then why refuse cousin Robert’s offer for me? As a Campbell, he would more likely—”

“Your cousin Robert is a penniless knave and wants only your dower lands, lass. He
couldna help us save Abbotsford.”

She frowned. “What of selling the east acreage? That would bring in enough money to
save Abbotsford.”

“We have trice discussed this, Averyl.” His tone rang with impatience. “God’s blood,
I would not sell your dower lands to repair the keep. The land is your only chance
of wedding well.” He touched a fatherly hand to her shoulder. “Fret not. Lord Dunollie
will agree to this marriage, despite your plain face, when you prove what a capable
wife you will make him.”

Capable, aye. But never comely, not with her mass of curls and her over-large eyes
dominating her pale face. Mistrals sang tales of smiling, pink-cheeked beauties, not
waifs with little to recommend them but an active mind and steely pride.

Averyl jumped to her feet as the distinguished nobleman, dressed in blue brocade,
emerged at the bottom of a rounded staircase. Beside her, her father rose and nodded
in greeting.