His Stolen Bride BN (3 page)

She drew in a breath as she stared at Murdoch MacDougall. He looked nearly every bit
as dashing as the fantasy husband she had conjured up in her dreams, despite his advancing
years. Lines formed by hard battle and good living bracketed his brown eyes. Russet
hair shone in the soft light. He slid his gaze over her without a hint of disappointment
as he approached on blunt-toed shoes. Dare she hope he would care for her? Come to
love her? She swallowed, wary excitement bubbling in her.

“Hello, Campbell.” The elegant chief extended his hand.

Her father smiled. Standing beside him, Averyl’s insides jumbled with anxiety. She
clasped her clammy palms together.

“A pleasure to see you this fine evening,” her father said.

He nodded. “Lady Averyl,” MacDougall greeted, directing his dark gaze to her again.
“You look fetching.”

Averyl warmed under MacDougall’s praise, praying he meant even a word of it. Could
he be the true love her mother had vowed she deserved and instructed her to pray for?

“That she does,” her father affirmed. “And trained to be a fine chatelaine from the
time she stood at my knee.”

His lordship’s smile was all charm. “So you’ve said. ’Tis certain only a fool would
dally before making her his bride.”

“Thank you.” She blushed, hoping he meant such and would see to Abbotsford’s needs,
as well as her heart. Such possibilities made her dizzier than mulled wine.

“Shall we adjourn to supper?” He led them to the raised dais at the head of the room.
“The others will join us later.”

Hazarding a glance in MacDougall’s direction, she saw a faint smile cross his face
as they took their seats. He positioned her to his right, in the chair she would occupy
as his lady wife, should he choose to wed her. The gesture bolstered her confidence
again. When she turned to thank him, she found his attention on two wenches hovering
about, serving food.

Averyl tore her gaze from the servants—comely, at that—in silent rebuke. MacDougall
sought a wife. Love would take time and patience. But his inattention revived her
fear. She wanted more from marriage than an exchange of wedding vows for land. She
yearned for untroubled days and joy-filled nights. To have a man admire her face as
much as her mind. She wanted the kind of consuming love her mother had whispered of
wistfully and often.

Focusing on her trencher, Averyl ignored the giggling maids. An array of dishes she
considered ample food for two meals lay across the long table. The smells of warm
meat and hot bread made her mouth water. How long since the people at Abbotsford had
eaten aught but potatoes, leeks, and a scraggly hare?

One woman set sweet, sugared almonds and roast mutton before Averyl. Another server,
a pretty redhead heavy with child, glared as she filled her cup with Spanish wine.

Was she the MacDougall’s leman? No matter. If they wed, she would change that. Averyl
reached for her eating dagger, determined at this moment to enjoy the feast.

MacDougall sipped his wine, then addressed her father. “Tell me, Campbell, were your
crops plentiful last harvest?”

“Unfortunately nae. Rain was the only thing aplenty.”

At her father’s tight-lipped response, MacDougall nodded. “Averyl’s dower lands are
in Campbell territory, are they not?”

“Aye, within its heart.”

“’Tis as I had hoped.” MacDougall stuffed his mouth with mutton. “Peace must be maintained
in Scotland. This foolish fighting between the Campbells and MacDougalls has gone
on for far too long. ’Tis why my father desired this match, to make peace between
our clans.”

“Aye. Though some o’ the Campbells are against your union with Averyl, once they see
the prosperity brought by peace, they willna be objecting anymore, methinks.”

He stabbed another peace of meat. “War is a foolish distraction. For my lands and
my people, I desire even greater prosperity than my father enjoyed.”

Campbell cleared his throat. “’Tis unfortunate you possess these great lands because
of your father’s death. Despite being my enemy for many years, I know he was the bravest
of men.”

MacDougall nodded politely. “Indeed.”

“I cannot imagine your grief,” Averyl said. “Though it must be of some comfort that
you captured the swine who killed him.”

MacDougall whipped his gaze to her, his dark eyes shadowed with a fury so raw and
boundless it seemed to eclipse the strong angles of his sun-weathered face. Averyl
shivered.

“He escaped from my dungeons neigh on a year past.”

She gasped, ice creeping into her veins like a winter chill. “I had no notion… That
is terrible, indeed. I hope you find the fiend.”

“As do I.” He leaned closer. “Drake Locke is an English butcher. A violent man with
a volatile disposition.”

How great Lord Dunollie’s grief must be. She admired his composure, knowing how much
she still missed her mother ten years after death and darkness had taken her. “Murder
is a terrible way to lose a parent.”

“Truly dreadful,” he assured. “The viciousness of the murder shocks me each time I
think upon it.”

Averyl restrained an urge to touch his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. “Think you
he might return to do you harm as well?”

MacDougall turned a black gaze upon her. “The demon will try, for his hate demands
me also dead in a bath of blood.”

She trembled at the image. How terrible for Murdoch to endure the enmity of a man
both heartless and evil. She hoped never to encounter the terrible beast.

“Does he have a motive for such hate?”

“Averyl,” her father warned. “Enough.”

MacDougall swirled the wine in his goblet. “I’ve said too much. Forgive me, lass.
Such unpleasantries are better left unspoken. Certainly, they are not meant for the
ears of a lovely lady.”

She nodded, grateful to his lordship for smoothing over the awkward moment. It seemed
that MacDougall did not anger easily. Nor was he perturbed by forthright conversation.
That bolstered her hope of a successful match. “Forgive me for speaking of things
painful.”

“Of course,” he assured with a tight smile.

Averyl nodded and cut into her fish. She could well understand the pain of his loss.
However, his refusal to speak of his father’s death baffled her a bit. After all,
what could be more shocking than a murder?

* * * * *

Evening shadows lengthened across Dunollie’s garden when Drake sneaked onto the quiet
ground. He ducked behind the thick of a rosebush, waiting for the right moment to
steal inside the keep.

Tonight, he would finally seek vengeance. This insufferable waiting would finally
end. He could avenge his father’s murder, as well as repay Murdoch for his mistreatment
in the hell of Dunollie’s dungeon.

A movement, a blur of color to his right, made Drake whirl around. Between the waxy
leaves of his cover, he tensed, willing his breathing to silence. He assessed possible
escape routes as his gaze sought the source of his alarm.

An unfamiliar figure swayed down a nearby path with movements like a willow in a gentle
breeze. Though distance and dim lighting obscured her face, the natural grace of her
motions, along with her delicate silhouette, marked her a woman.

Curious, he slid from the hedges, closer, taking refuge behind the dye house a few
feet from the garden’s new occupant.

Drake watched as she wandered through the summer foliage. She fingered hyacinth stalks
of various blues as they stood proudly, boasting delicate pastel petals, then plucked
a climbing rose of perfect pale yellow.

By the flash of white teeth, Drake knew she smiled. His curiosity rose again as her
smile faded, replaced by a melancholy mantle.

He shook the observation away, reminding himself he had come to exact revenge, not
take in the garden’s scenery.

Still, Drake did not remove his gaze from the woman as she raised the rosebud to her
small red mouth. He noticed then a heavy bracelet encircling her wrist. The bauble
had been that of Murdoch’s mother. If a new woman wore it, ’twas likely a betrothal
gift. The elaborate jewelry looked more a manacle than an ornament on her fragile
wrist.

This mystery woman was Lady Averyl Campbell. She would be Murdoch’s downfall—and Drake’s
key to success. ’Twas of no consequence that the Campbell woman was beauteous.

He watched Averyl stroll toward a riot of pink mums. She paused beneath a torch illuminating
the garden and reclined against the stone wall of the keep. Holding the small bloom
to the curve of her breast, she closed her eyes with a feathery sigh.

That sound shivered its way down his back.

Her fair skin glowed golden-pink in the sconce’s light. A delicate nose, firm, high
cheekbones, and a small but stubborn jaw lent her a look that was both ethereal and
sensual.

She tilted her head back, as if in worship to the moon. His gaze followed the arch
of her neck, the stirring lift of her soft bosom as she inhaled a floral-tinged breath.
He found himself drawing in a ragged breath as well.

Forcing his gaze lower made her no less enticing. Her body was tempting, womanly.
Graceful shoulders rose above the inviting curve of her breasts above her small, tapered
waist. She must know how much she enticed a man. His mother always had. Why should
a Campbell whore be any different?

Despite his contempt, lust coiled through Drake, pooling heat low in his belly. His
enemy’s woman was a surprise—not that such mattered. Lady Averyl was a part of his
plan, would soon be a temporary—but necessary—part of his life. Her role in this unfolding
drama of vengeance was merely that of a pawn.

Averyl opened her eyes and looked about. He watched in puzzlement as she looked to
her left and right, as well as behind. Had she detected his presence? Cursing, he
tucked himself tighter behind the dye house and glanced ’round the side.

A moment later, Averyl plucked away the white cloth adorning her head. With a shake,
she moaned, and a cascade of soft curls tumbled down in touchable flaxen waves that
ended at her waist.

His belly clenched.
Striking. Enchanting. Exquisite.
The words flowed from his mind.

As he shoved them away, Averyl lifted her tresses and tossed them about, as if relishing
freedom. She arched her lissome body into the evening wind.

Drake’s pulse went into turmoil.

Murdoch was unfortunate indeed that he would never know this beauty, even if she was
a bloody Campbell, as a wife.

He smiled with malice. Robbing Murdoch of Lady Averyl’s wifely comforts would be yet
another measure of revenge he had not expected but was more than pleased to deny his
half brother.

An older, unfamiliar man stepped into the garden. He raced to Averyl’s side with all
urgency, eyes bulging.

“Child, put your wimple on. What if MacDougall sees you? Though he will see all that
hair soon enough, you must not reveal that…mass until after your vows have been spoken.”

Mass?
Drake gaped at the addled man’s words. Her curls looked soft as down. Without them,
she would seem somehow…plain, Drake thought. The tresses gave her the appearance of
innocence and innate sensuality at once.

With her money-grasping, Campbell-thinking ways, however, such was surely naught more
than illusion.

“I am sorry, Father. No one was about, and I grew warm.”

The portly man embraced her. “Would that you were a beauty, lamb, a tall girl with
smooth hair and a more generous breast. It pains me to chastise you so. I hope you
understand.”

Averyl nodded stiffly. Drake found himself scowling.

“Now come inside,” her father instructed. “’Tis time and past you retired. Murdoch
just informed me that, on the morrow, you are to be betrothed.”

A joyous smile lit up her face. She clapped her hands and gave a small shriek of excitement.

Drake wondered how much she knew—or not—about her choice of husband.

“Truly?” she asked.

“Truly. Now, get you inside, girl. You must look well for your betrothal, and this
damp air will only curl your hair more.”

Some of the light left her eyes as she cast them down. “Of course, father. I shall
retire directly.”

The aged lord stayed her when she would have walked away. “I am proud of you, Averyl.
In spite of MacDougall’s striking figure, you have not shied from your faults. You
do me credit.”

Averyl turned from her father. Moonlight settled across her solemn face. With a tight
squeeze of her lids, she blocked Drake’s view to her luminous, expressive eyes. She
bit her lip to hold back tears.

Anger washed through him. It irritated him nearly as much as her father did. Ramsey
Campbell ought to be beaten, at least until he could see the beauty of his daughter’s
face.

As he watched her disappear inside the castle, he shrugged the sensation away. Averyl’s
trials, whatever they might be, were of no concern to him.

Alone now, Drake looked about. Night had fallen completely, a storm was brewing in
the angry sky, and the guard he’d gifted with a jug of ale had finally passed out
by the wicket gate.

He had missed every possibly lethal clue while watching Murdoch’s betrothed. Drake
frowned at his lack of concentration, knowing he could ill afford such distraction.
In two hours, the course of his life, and Murdoch’s, would forever change.

But perhaps Lady Averyl’s would change most of all.

The MacDougall wanted her for a wife!

Averyl’s head swam with the notion and warmed her blood with relief as she fingered
the lavish bracelet of rubies he had placed upon her wrist—a prelude to their betrothal.
It mattered not that he wed her only to cease the wars between their clans. In the
years to come, she would give him no cause to regret his decision, despite her plain
face.

Averyl entered her chamber in Dunollie’s keep after the evening meal, as all the castle’s
inhabitants sought their beds. Though she doubted sleep would come this night, she
vowed to try. She must look her best for tomorrow’s betrothal ceremony.