His Stolen Bride BN (30 page)

Drake and Averyl bolted up the ravine’s incline, past the splintered gate, and through
the narrow opening to freedom. He heard the distant footfall of Murdoch’s men gaining
on them.

“Hold tight, love!” he called in her ear.

She slumped against him in reply.

Fear slammed into Drake as he put his arm about Averyl’s waist. Something thick, wet
and sticky greeted his fingers. In horror, he brought his hand before his face.

Red.

Oozing warm blood covered his palm, sheathed his fingers. Drake’s gut churned as he
realized the sentry’s knife, intended to kill him, had maimed Averyl instead.

Nausea ground its way through him, along with bone-biting cold. And denial. She could
not be hurt. She could not die. He would not allow it, by damned!

Sweating and cursing, Drake stopped before the small cave hiding his boat. Gingerly,
he laid Averyl upon the ground, his heart racing at the pale shock of her face, her
heavy, closing eyes. Wave after sickening wave of a prickly-cold sensation flooded
him when he saw the side of her purple dress darkening at her ribs.

He cursed, knowing he must get them both away from this island now if he had any hope
of keeping her alive. A panicked glance behind him confirmed that Murdoch drew closer
and his men, all giving chase, were not far behind.

Drake’s grip tightened about Averyl’s waist in fear, clutching her against his chest.
“Averyl? Can you hear me?”

“Hurts,” she croaked, eyes cracking open. “Like fire.”

Fear squeezed the air from his chest. “Do not move.”

Her eyes slid shut again. She made no reply.

Both cursing and praying, Drake ripped into the cave’s nearby opening, uplifting the
camouflage of plants and rocks with lightning speed, and dragged the tiny boat into
the water. A cursory glance revealed the oars within the bobbing wooden craft. Murdoch’s
own vessels were nowhere in sight.

After sprinting back to his wife, Drake cradled her against him as he darted for the
little boat. Easing her down across the bottom, he pushed away from the shore just
as Murdoch appeared atop the cliff above the beach, the one on which Averyl had confessed
to her fear of the dark.

He vowed then she would not become another casualty. He would sell his soul if he
must so she would not die.

Murdoch shouted, fist raised, as his men joined behind him. His half brother’s threats
were gobbled up by the crash of the waves and the frantic beat of his own heart.

Drake absently noticed his adversaries turning away, no doubt in search of their own
boats, before he turned his attention to his wife. How badly had she been hurt?

He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the pain and guilt that assailed him. This
was his fault. His anger, his arrogance, might well cost this fiery woman with the
heart of an innocent her very life. He should have plotted better, anticipated Murdoch’s
cunning, put Averyl out of harm’s way once they were wed.

But he had desired her with him, beside him. He had thirsted for her, wanted her like
a gasping man wants his next breath. And for his selfishness, his lack of restraint,
she was paying the price.

In a terrifying instant, Drake knew anger, a helpless, clawing fear, a willingness
to bargain with God that certainly mirrored his father’s emotions as he lay over Diera’s
deathbed.

Was this searing pain the wretched love Averyl wanted him to feel?

Pushing his thoughts away, Drake ripped off his shirt and tore away Averyl’s bodice.
The jagged length of a gash seesawed along her ribs, seeping blood. Panic bit into
his gut, coupled with the brackish stench of sea salt. Drake placed his shirt over
the wound and covered it with his trembling hands, then resumed his frantic rowing.
He could do nothing more until they reached safety.

God’s blood, she looked so fragile and unmoving, so painfully pale. Fear filled him
with a sharp, serrated ache.

He vowed then that if—nay, when—she recovered, he would put her, and his own heart,
from harm’s path. No matter what the cost, he would put Averyl away from him so she
would never be in jeopardy again.

After a tensely slow fortnight of travel marked by Averyl’s fevers and his fear, Drake
dismounted, his body leaden with exhaustion. Averyl still lay sleeping peacefully
in the farm cart he’d stolen upon reaching the main land.

During those ten interminable days, he’d traveled by her side, providing sustenance,
aid, and prayer as she recovered. During those bleak nights, he’d held her hand, sponged
her face, and swore to himself he would never endanger her life again.

As long as he remained with her, she was not safe.

While Drake had kept vigil over his wife, he also watched over his shoulder, hoping
Murdoch and his miscreants would not find him until he could get Averyl to safety.
To his relief, they never caught his trail.

Now, Drake found himself in Yorkshire, staring through the early-morning gray at the
massive stone doors of Hartwich Hall. His mood was as black as the threatening storm
clouds.

A peace he had missed emanated from the walls of his grandfather’s castle. Inhaling
deeply, he let the peace soak into him like the sun suffused one after a long day
indoors. He fantasized about such tranquility, dreamed of life without greed, jealousy,
or hate.

But Fate had decreed him a future of revenge, not peace, and ’twas foolish to dream
of aught else.

Today he would say good-bye to his handfast bride, putting an end to the peril on
her life—and his heart, for he could not stay without risking both.

Refusing to dwell upon it, Drake scanned the ivy-draped walls, then the colorful riot
of summer flowers amidst the castle’s quiet. Such reminded him of his grandmother,
Matilde, God rest her soul.

During his boyhood years here, she had provided the motherly touches Diera never had,
the soft voice over a scraped knee, the gentle smile over a deed accomplished. She
had never needed to be the center of anyone’s world, never demanded attention, as
had his mother. Though mother and daughter, Diera and Matilde could not have been
more different.

A fond smile tugged at his mouth. He’d missed his grandmother’s generous ear and sage
advice these last three years since her passing. Averyl, having been motherless for
eleven years, would have appreciated the woman a great deal.

Averyl.

Drake lifted her still-sleeping form into his arms. Warm and dazed, she roused, asking
in a slurred, sleepy voice, “What’re you doing?”

He’d oft wondered the same thing over the past ten days. But he knew; he was leaving
her. As he had told her he would.

Drake swallowed a lump of something thick in his throat and said, “We have stopped.
Go back to sleep.”

Her hazel eyes lifted half-open, slumberously stunning. “Where are we?”

“With…friends.”

Nodding tiredly, Averyl covered her mouth with a half-closed fist and yawned as her
eyes drifted shut once more. She laid her head trustingly against his shoulder and
drifted back to sleep.

Her childlike gestures tugged at Drake’s heart. With a gentle hand, he brushed a dark
curl from her face, his fingers lingering upon her soft cheek, finally regained its
healthy pink.

Holding in a sigh, he approached the castle, dread engulfing him like quicksand. His
heart pounded. The urge to hold on to Averyl tightly swept over him like a hurricane.
Sense won out. To keep her with him would do naught but place her in more danger and
submit his own heart to more of her bewitching. Neither consequence could be risked.

Shifting Averyl’s weight, Drake approached the gatehouse entrance. The guard let him
pass with a few words. Inside the garrison, the main gates remained closed against
the night. A pair of well-armed soldiers admitted him through the wicket gate. His
wife stirred restlessly in his arms.

Within moments, a young page met him in the courtyard, in front of the empty blacksmith’s
forge. Despite the predawn’s murky light, a fresh, friendly glow reflected from his
face.

Drake wondered if he had ever been that young or innocent on his road to knighthood—and
manhood.

“Sir Drake, I bid you welcome. You have come to see your grandfather?” he asked in
gentle inquiry. His gaze traveled over Averyl’s limp form, but he politely held his
tongue.

“Aye.”

“Step this way. I shall tell him you’ve arrived.”

Drake watched the boy disappear down a narrow torch-lit hall, punctuated only by gray
stone walls and silence. The young page returned long minutes later.

“His lordship is eager to see you. He awaits you in the solar.”

In the dusky splendor of the hall, Drake cradled a sleeping Averyl a bit tighter and
set upon the familiar trail to the solar. After passing the brewery and the joiner’s
workshop, where rising workers spotted him and stared, Drake veered through a garden
gate, toward the majestic keep. Up several flights of stairs he trudged. Again, Averyl
lifted her head groggily, only to put it down again at his soft whisper.

With a dry throat and all the enthusiasm of a condemned man, Drake slowly entered
the low-ceilinged domain of the firelit chamber. His gaze found the grayed man, his
formidable figure now softened by old age and good living.

“Drake, it
is
you. When Lionel, my page, told me you had come, I was not certain if ’twas true.
Are you well?” The old man’s bushy gray brows slashed down into a frown.

“Murdoch has not yet stretched my neck, as you can see.”

“Aye, and lucky for you.” He glanced again at Averyl. “And the girl? She must be Averyl
Campbell.”

His gaze drifted down to the delicate lines of Averyl’s face pillowed against his
shoulder. Drake felt a tight vice of pain in his chest as he realized this would be
the last time he would ever hold his wife.

Resisting an urge to clasp her closer, he answered, “Aye.”

Something like approval filled his blue eyes. “Put her on yon bed, then come speak
with me by the fire.”

Drake searched for the courage to relinquish Averyl to his grandfather’s soft mossy-scented
mattress—and a safer life. Though he had faced months in Dunollie's dungeon and armies
of vicious men bent on seeing him dead, he found it nearly impossible to simply release
her. But he did, gently laying her down with a brush of his thumb upon her cheek.
Averyl stirred a brief moment before settling into the mattress. Drake covered her
with a thick blanket folded at the foot of the bed. Reluctantly, he returned to Guilford.

The old man frowned, clearly choosing his words as he bade Drake to sit in a high-backed
Romanesque chair. “Wine?”

Drake shook his head and sat. “I cannot stay. Murdoch’s men hunt me still.”

A furrow creased his forehead. “Unfortunate business. I did not like your decision
to pursue revenge.”

“But you understood it,” Drake pointed out.

“True. Kieran arrived two days past, after Murdoch discovered his identity.”

“Aye?”

“Indeed. He tells me Averyl is your handfast bride. If she is your wife, and you intend
not to stay, why have you brought her here?”

“I hoped you would hide her from Murdoch and his men.”

Guilford scowled. “He will think to look for her here.”

“That is so,” answered Drake with regret. “But now only you can protect her.”

“And you cannot?”

Drake shook his head with remorse, remembering with aching clarity the past ten days.
“Murdoch’s men nearly ended her life when they stormed my hideaway on Arran.”

“Too wounded to travel farther, is she?” Guilford asked, clearly skeptical.

“Nay. Simply dangerous. I must continue to hide until Averyl becomes eight and ten
and until I find a way to kill Murdoch.” Drake rose to escape his grandfather’s probing
look.

“So you abducted her, then wed her. Is that correct?” Censure laced his voice.

Drake nodded like a contrite boy caught at mischief.

“’Twas pure foolishness I hope you regret.”

“In some ways,” Drake replied. “Yet I know well Murdoch would have treated her very
ill as his wife.”

Guilford shot him a reproving frown. “True, but you should not have taken her. You
had no right to force her from Murdoch’s side. ’Tis doubtful she wed you willingly,
either.”

Cursing his grandfather’s perception, Drake admitted, “Aye. And now I cannot give
her the things she seeks, nor can I protect her any longer. Murdoch must not get his
claws into Averyl, particularly before her birthday in February. So I have come humbly
to you for help.”

When Drake knelt at Guilford’s feet, the old man laughed. “You’ve never had a humble
day in your life, boy. Do not think to start now.” He sighed. “What does the girl
seek?”

“Money,” answered Drake. “Her childhood keep falls about her ears, her people starve,
and her father is a dimwitted dolt who knows not how to solve the ills of his vassals.”

Guilford paused thoughtfully. “If funds for Lady Averyl’s home will ease your mind,
then I shall provide it. What else?”

With a sigh, Drake sank back into his chair. How could he explain a yearning he did
not fully understand? “She seeks…affection. Her mother died when she was but a child.
Her father convinced her she was homely and worthless.”

“Ridiculous!” insisted Guilford as he cast another glance at Averyl upon his bed.

“To be sure, but she has grown up believing this and will need friends within these
walls.”

“Of course.” Guilford granted the request with a wave of his hand, as if such required
little effort.

Drake sighed in relief. Averyl would be happy here until her birthday. After that
time, she could return to her father or remain here as his widow, whatever she wished.

He resisted the pain at realizing he would not be beside her as she lived out her
days.

“Aught else?” the old man asked.

“Nay. I thank you for your help.”