His Stolen Bride BN

by Shayla Black

  “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.

  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.