His Stolen Bride BN

by Shayla Black

  Hazarding a glance about, her gaze took in the shabby brick walls of a small room seemingly that of an inn, though not necessarily a reputable one.

  The events of the night rushed her memory in an icy stream. Not only had he abducted her but he had not told her his plans now that he had her caged. Ransom her? Rape her? Kill her?

  Or all three?

  The glow of the fire thrust his hard, chiseled profile into stark relief. ’Twas clear the man had nothing soft about him, not in dress, face, or manner.

  Standing taller than Lord Dunollie or her father, he possessed massive shoulders and hands. If he planned to kill her, ’twould be no feat for him at all. How could she fend off a man of such size and strength?

  Suddenly, he turned to face her. Gasping, she willed herself to bolt, but he filled the small room as he stood and settled dark eyes upon her.

  “So, you have awakened.”

  “Who are you?” she demanded, realizing he had removed her gag. “What reason have you for abducting me?”

  Her militant tone was overshadowed by the ill-timed rumbling of her stomach. Averyl pretended not to notice.

  He peered silently as he turned to a table behind him. “We have a lengthy journey ahead of us. Eat, then we will talk.”

  Her captor handed her a flask of wine, a bit of bread, and a small piece of reddish-yellow fruit she had never seen. She bit into it and grimaced at the sour taste.

  Scowling, he grabbed the fruit from her. “You must peel this before you eat it.”

  “What is it?” she asked suspiciously, watching his deft fingers peel back the rind with ease.

  “Have you never seen an orange?”

  He pulled the last of the rind away, then handed the fruity orb to her. Not about to confess they’d never had the funds for such exotic frivolities at Abbotsford, Averyl broke off a section and gingerly took a bite. After all, she must keep her strength if she intended to escape.

  An unfamiliar tang burst in her mouth. A wonderful taste, sweet, sour and juicy at once. A droplet ran to the corner of her lips. Tilting her head back, she mopped the juice up with the tip of her tongue.

  With a sigh of pleasure, she lifted the flask to her mouth and found her captor’s gaze on her.

  If heat had an expression, his epitomized the word. He stared at her mouth. His dark eyes flared above the taut hollows of his cheeks. Time stopped. A heartbeat. Two. In silence.

  He looked at her like her father’s men looked at the beauteous Becca back home, as if he…desired her. Averyl drew in a shaky breath, feeling her own heartbeat answer.

  Then his look disappeared, replaced by an annoyed scowl that settled over his handsome face.

  Averyl felt herself flush at her foolishness. No man would pine for so homely a maid as she—and certainly not a man so fine of face as her captor.

  She took a self-conscious swallow of the sweet wine, then another, before she set the flask aside. “Take me back to Dunollie Castle.”

  Her words engendered no reaction. “Why should I?”

  She hadn’t expected that question. “I am to wed the MacDougall chief.”

  “Are you betrothed? Is that why you wore his bracelet?”

  “Aye. He called the bracelet a betrothal gift, and the priest was to come this morn to witness—”

  “Then you are not truly betrothed.” A flicker of something—relief?—crossed his features. “I see no reason to return you.”

  The ruin her mother’s beloved Abbotsford would become if she did not wed MacDougall taunted her. “But…I-I love him.”

  At that, her captor leaned indolently against the wall and scoffed in disbelief.

  “Love is a word men bandy about to coax hesitant wenches into their beds.”

  “’Tis not so,” she protested, eyes wide. “Mistrals sing prettily of love—”

  “To entertain,” he cut in.

  “Chivalrous knights fight to protect their loves.”

  “Think you men need an excuse to make war?” He raised a challenging brow.

  His tone called her foolish and naïve, and it raised her hackles.

  “You must return me. My home—”

  “Will still be standing when I am through with you.”

  “But its people—”

  “Will not suffer in your absence.”

  “Stop interrupting me, you…you varlet. My people will suffer greatly in my absence!”

  He grunted, neither his face nor voice showing concern as he stood again. “What did you seek from this match?”

  “You refuse to listen to me, so I’ve naught to say.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Would you have me believe this is a love match?” he said, disbelief heavy in his voice. “Is it MacDougall’s fat coffers that attract you most? Is that love to you?”

  She glared at him. “Of course not. ’Tis more.”

  “But you do not deny that you sought his funds.”

  “Nay, but I think him a fine man.”

  “Fine?” he grunted bitterly.

  “He is, you fiend!” This knave would never convince her to think ill of the man she planned to wed.

  “Thick-witted wench,” he grumbled.

  She raised her chin, refusing to heed his insults, his contempt. “You know me not.”

  “What little I know is enough,” he spat. “Though why a wily wench like you should wish to wed a scoundrel like Murdoch befuddles me.”

  He peered at Averyl, as if she were a puzzle he sought to solve. But she would not explain her dream of a caring husband, of a life filled with joy and love absent since her mother’s death, to him. He would only mock her further.

  “Do you believe yourself so unworthy that you cannot fathom a better man would want to wed you?” he asked.

  Shock zipped through Averyl at his intimate knowledge of her fears. “How…how did you know?”

  She did not realize she had blurted out her question until he answered. “I know much, my lady.”

  He’d invaded her life, storming her very soul as he had Dunollie’s defenses. She turned a burning glare on him. Fury assailed her. “God’s blood, what do you want with me?”

  “Tell me precisely what you seek from this betrothal.” The flickering firelight revealed the determined heat in his fathomless, black-fringed eyes.

  “It is my duty to marry as my father sees fit.”

  He shot her a suspicious stare. “Though you may possess many virtues, you’ve not shown me much obedience.”

  She resisted an urge to run across the room and kick him. “Why should I not wed a wealthy man with enough soldiers to protect my crumbling keep? I want a husband and children and money in our coffers. I refuse to wonder any longer if my home will fall about my feet and our vassals will starve come winter.”

  “Your conditions are harsh?” His voice reflected the same surprise evident in his frown.

  “Entire families die each year we cannot feed them.”

  He paused, seeming to weigh her answer, and raked a hand through his dark hair. Finally, something seemed to penetrate his armor of arrogance.

  “Could you not find another husband to provide all you require?”

  “Not anyone wealthy enough to overlook our impoverishment.” Or blind enough to overlook my deficiencies.

  He looked skeptical. “No one else offered?”

  “My penniless cousin Robert did, but my father refused him. You must understand, the MacDougall seeks my dower lands in the Campbell territory that once belonged to the MacDougalls. With them, he will bring more peace and prosperity between our clans.”

  The mean sound the man spit out could scarcely be called a laugh. “Aye, he will continue to tell you how much he desires peace with your kin, up until the morn he attacks them.”

  She jerked away from his touch. “I will not believe such a lie. Murdoch MacDougall is a man o
f honor. He would never resort to thieving a maid from her bed for some nefarious end.”

  A tightness in his jaw, a momentary flattening of his full mouth betrayed his anger. Still, the violence she sensed leashed within him never surfaced. “You think not?”

  “I care not what you think,” she tossed back. “I demand you release me. I shall be ruined if you do not.” The horrifying possibility of losing her home and her best chance at a contented marriage sank in with her statement. “The MacDougall might not wed me at all.”

  He answered with a cynical grunt. “He would wed you, ruined or nay. He needs you as desperately as you wish to wed him.”

  “Then return me,” she near pleaded.

  “Nay.”

  She placed belligerent hands on her hips. “Why do you seek to prevent our marriage? What manner of man would abduct a maid upon her betrothal?” A knave. A miscreant. She gasped, feeling the blood drain from her cheeks.

  A maniacal butcher.

  The truth of his identity hit her like an icy sheet of Scottish winter rain. She swallowed—hard. Her abductor’s disconcerting gaze followed her every move.

  “Oh, dear heaven.” Her voice trembled as she braced herself on shaky arms. “I know you are the English murderer—the butcher of Lochlan MacDougall!”

  He drew in a deep breath, eyes blazing black fury. Beneath taut shoulders, he clenched large fists, sending Averyl’s pulse back into turmoil.

  “You are Drake Locke.” Even her voice shook now.

  Frantic, she looked across the room, toward the door and freedom. Before she could rise and attempt to escape, he flew across the room and anchored his hands on either side of her head, trapping her against the bed. Her mind racing, she tried to roll away and find her feet. The stranger caught her wrists and pulled her back against the mattress, this time bracketing his hands around her waist to prevent her escape.

  The pressure of his fingers seared through her clothing, into her skin. His presence, hot and looming, enveloped her. Dark, shaggy hair brushed the tops of his shoulders, longer than current fashion dictated, and framed a square, angry face. The corded muscles of his neck stood visible above the imposing breadth of his shoulders. The man was no one to trifle with.

  Yet she had to risk everything for escape.

  “I suppose Murdoch told you that.” His voice rumbled from his chest, much like the thunder above.

  She nodded unevenly. “Why should you seek to prevent my marriage to him?”

  The hard line of his jaw tensed again. “Revenge. He owes me a debt. You are my payment.”

  She shook her head, imagining all the ways in which he might think to extract payment from her. “Do not touch me.”

  “I do not seek to claim your…charms.”

  That he seemed to believe she had none filled her with relief and anger at once. Still, Averyl hesitated.

  Could she believe a fiend ruthless enough to steal a sleeping woman from her chamber, coldly murder a man? Nay.

  Locke moved closer, until he stood inches away. A curious tingling began in her belly. Danger, she was certain, and fear, for she felt it in every nerve of her body.

  “Do you plan to kill me?” Her voice trembled.

  Wrath and pain tightened his features. “I told you I do not. I have no lust to shed any blood, save Murdoch’s.”

  “Ransom me, then?”

  “Nay. ’Tis not money I seek, unlike you.”

  She ignored his contempt. “Then why have you taken me?”

  “So I can be certain you do not wed yourself with Murdoch before you turn ten and eight.”

  Though he seemed serious, Averyl could not believe such a tale. As if he would simply hold her at his side for the coming ten-month and expect nothing.

  “You cannot mean to keep me for three seasons.”

  “I can and I will.”

  “And if I agree to wed someone other than MacDougall, will you release me?” If he said yes, she could simply return to Dunollie and wed MacDougall.

  Her captor’s dark eyes narrowed. “I must first be certain that you will not be…persuaded to accept Murdoch’s suit.”

  She forced a laugh. “I have no wish to incur your wrath.”

  His gaze showed suspicion. “But you have no wish to give up such a match, either.”

  Gritting her teeth, Averyl struggled to find another tactic. She must escape the rogue. He seemed every bit as evil and heartless as Murdoch claimed.

  “But I will. I vow it,” she fibbed, desperate.

  “You are a wretched liar. Mayhap I would accept your tale if you did not fidget.”

  “You make me nervous.”

  “As you make me, so I shall watch you closely.” With a grunt, he turned away. “Sleep now. We leave in three hours.”

  He returned to the other side of the room. When he found the sofa, he lay on the too-short piece and shut his eyes.

  “By the way, if you try to leave, I will hear. And if you escape, look over your shoulder. I will not be far behind.”

  * * * * *

  Drake lay still for the next half hour, fighting the sleep for which his body ached. The fire had died to mere embers whose shadowy flames danced on the roof’s bowed wooden ceiling. Across the small space, Lady Averyl lay, eyes gently closed. Her breathing told him she slept not.

  Holding in a curse, he closed his own eyes, waiting for the Campbell wench to find slumber. Drake knew he had hoped in vain when he heard Averyl slip from her blankets and grab his cloak from the floor between them. With a quiet swish, she draped the garment about her, over her thin shift.

  Opening his eyes a fraction, he watched her tiptoe toward the door. Silhouetted by the gray mist of the dawn filtering through the room’s small window, she paused and stared at her satchel lying on the ground at her feet.

  As Averyl stole a nervous glance over her shoulder, Drake feigned sleep once more. A heartbeat later, she walked on, leaving her bag untouched.

  Instead, she crept out the door and down the inn’s stairs, treading as silently as the moon through the sky.

  Drake rose and peered out after her, now convinced she had not arisen to answer nature’s call. He followed, scowling.

  Averyl darted down the stairs and faded into the dark of the inn’s empty common room. With a curse, Drake hurtled down the stairs after her.

  At the bottom, he found no one, heard nothing. Cautiously, he let his gaze circle the room. Damnation, she was small and quick and could probably find a thousand places to hide.

  Behind him, a door squeaked open. By the sun’s wan morning light, he watched Averyl dash outside. He gave chase, catching sight of her in time to see her sprint down a grassy hill.

  Drake pursued her, though, truth told, her determination to escape surprised him. Hysterics he had expected, his mother’s favorite tactics. Not Lady Averyl. Despite the fact she was lost in unfamiliar surroundings and had no funds or horse to see her back to Dunollie, she continued to vie for freedom. Murdoch’s money and her keep, this Abbotsford, clearly meant something to her.

  She stopped at the bottom of the hill and peered into the dawning landscape. “Nay, ’tis east?” she questioned, suddenly turning about.

  As Averyl faced him, her gaze settled upon him. Her hazel eyes widened like endless twin fields. She gasped.

  “I said there would be no escape.” He grasped her wrist.

  Determination stamping her pale features, Averyl yanked free of his hold and darted away, into a thick copse of trees. Damnation, the wench was quick, he thought, following.

  Spindly limbs tore at his face like a cat’s claws. He swore and swiped at a streak of blood on his cheek, then sprinted after Averyl again, led by the sounds of dried twigs snapping beneath her bare feet. Though such must hurt her in the morning chill, she made no sound as she pressed on.

  Flashes of the dark cloak she wore appeared, flapping in the col
d air between the summer-green trees. He heard her panting, as if her lungs were near bursting for air. Putting one boot in front of the other, he gave chase, wondering when she would tire.

  In the next moments, he realized his rapid footsteps were gaining him ground. Inches in front of him, she fought for another sharp breath. Drake reached out to seize her.

  Wrapping his arm about her waist in an implacable grip, he yanked her to his chest. With his hands about her surprisingly small middle, she cried out in protest.

  Panting, he turned her to face him. “Have we not struggled enough for your liking?”

  She thrashed in his grip. “I will fight you until I die.”

  Drake brought her closer to still her. Her firm breasts met his chest. A scorch of sensation blazed through him. The rebuke on his tongue died.

  She smelled like a trickle of rain on summer grass and some small flower he’d plucked as a child from his mother’s garden.

  Lust pierced him with a hot thrust, enveloping his body.

  Beneath his hands, his stare, she stilled. As she tilted her head back to gaze at him with greenish pools of defiance, an urge to thrust his fingers through the damp waves of Averyl’s pale curls and kiss her witless assailed Drake.

  Frowning, he peered at her. How could he want her? He was no celibate monk pining after any woman’s flesh. And as womanly charms went, hers were lovely, but she was his enemy’s bride, his pawn only. She was the means to his revenge, not a woman he could slake his lust upon—even if she would have him.

  “Damn you,” he hissed. “I’ve had little sleep in three days, and you try my patience. Stop this foolishness.”

  “I would be foolish if I did not seek my freedom.”

  Drake’s only reply was a growl. He hoisted his captive over his shoulder and carried her back to the inn with teeth clenched. Past the innkeeper’s shocked wife and up the dilapidated stairs they went, until he set her down on the bed with a disgusted grunt and tied her to its post. Shooting her stiff form a warning glare, he turned away to pack up their belongings and douse the fire.