His Stolen Bride BN

by Shayla Black

  When he’d finished, he approached Averyl. She sat defiantly on a brown woolen blanket. Her small form was nearly swallowed whole by his gray cloak. One bare ivory calf peeked out to tempt him. Her feet bore myriad cuts and scrapes beneath a thin layer of mud. He shook his head. She wanted escape badly, to endure such self-inflicted wounds without complaint.

  He pushed aside a flash of admiration for the Campbell wench. Despite her brave heart, she was naught but a captive.

  Drake rubbed his gritty eyes, his body aching with fatigue. But he could not rest now, not after months of plotting this scheme. And despite the fact his captive clearly had her reasons to crave freedom, he must restrain her. The past must be avenged, his honor restored.

  Murdoch could not win.

  * * * * *

  Cursing the cold rain and chilly wind, Drake dragged his small boat onto the grassy shore, anchoring it upon nearby rocks. He leaned down to retrieve Lady Averyl’s sleeping form and held her against his chest, her satchel slung over his wrist. She trembled against him, drawing his attention to her unnaturally cold skin. Something like disquiet gripped his belly.

  With a frown, he raced up the hillside, across the soft, grassy plain, then down the next hill, into the ravine. Averyl lie still in his arms. Cursing, he pushed the gate open with his shoulder and darted inside his little hideaway, tossing Averyl’s satchel carelessly into a corner. After laying her across his bed, he lit the dark room with several candles.

  Exhaustion and cold pelted him in waves as discomforting as the night’s rain. Across the room, Drake spied his slumbering captive. No doubt, she was chilled to the bone, wearing no more than a shift and a damp cloak.

  He began a warming fire in the hearth, then returned to Averyl. She lay still, alarmingly pale. Fragile and drenched.

  Something annoying nagged at him, something he could not quite place. Guilt? He shoved it aside and set his hands beneath the cloak, rubbing her arms to warm them as he cast his gaze about for a blanket.

  The ice-like chill of her skin could not be ignored, nor the bruises on her thin arms.

  Bruises he knew full well he had created in his urgency.

  By the saints, he had not purposely hurt her. But he would have revenge, no matter the cost—even if that meant taking his place beside Murdoch in the ground outside of Dunollie’s chapel. True, Averyl would emerge from captivity unwed and of questionable virtue, but she would have her life and, someday, the knowledge she had not wed a murderous monster.

  Until she learned of Murdoch’s true nature, until Drake could safely release her to her family, he could protect her from Murdoch’s schemes and her own foolish greed. And have revenge.

  The irony did not escape him, a man accused of murder saving his captive from a highland chief. On another day, years before, he might have laughed.

  Now, he took her chilled hand in his. Snow could not have been colder than her bloodless fingers. The dratted damp wool cloak he had given Averyl during their journey could only be adding to her chill. He cast the garment away with a curse and fished a blanket from his trunk at the foot of the bed.

  As he turned to spread the quilt over her, Drake made the mistake of looking at her.

  Her heart-shaped face seemed fragile, somehow innocent, despite the fact she was a Campbell wedding a MacDougall for gold. The slight point of her chin hinting at the rebellion in her nature. Strands of her long, pale curls were plastered wetly to her cheeks and throat. Making his way to her side, he pushed the wayward curls aside to blend with those dotting her temples.

  Past her pallid, frigid shoulders, his gaze wandered, to her breasts visible through her transparent shift. His breath left his lungs in a hiss.

  The rosy tips of Averyl’s firm breasts stood taut with cold. Gently rounded, they were like twin beacons of seduction giving rise to the red embroidery of the low neckline.

  Lust lurched into his throat, then sped into his loins. He swallowed to force it down and clasped his father’s cross about his neck to remind himself of all that mattered.

  Still, it did not stop him from gazing farther down her body, over her small waist, past the gentle flair of her hips. Drake stopped his perusal again, this time on her sleek, firm thighs and the light-colored thatch visible between them.

  With lightning speed, desire slammed into him once more, shocking him with its strength. His only clear thought was that he wanted to lose himself there. He wanted those thighs around him, open and ready for his entrance.

  Drake whipped his gaze away. He was not a randy boy lacking control. Averyl was cold; he could warm her. It meant naught.

  Quickly, he sliced the wet, diaphanous garment from her shivering body, trying not to look…or think of all the possible ways he could touch her. But image after vivid image of her ivory skin and welcoming arms around him flashed into his mind.

  Muttering an earthy curse, he tucked her beneath his blankets and turned toward the fire. Why her? He’d seen more comely women. Hell, even bedded a few. She was his captive, Murdoch’s betrothed, and a Campbell. She would shrink from him in horror if she knew his gaze had touched her every curve.

  Yet his body wanted her still.

  Drake cursed, forcing his mind elsewhere. He had accomplished his first goal—to abduct the woman Murdoch must wed. Yet he’d come away surprised. Averyl had proven herself a strong, resourceful woman—no mere pawn.

  Sitting back, he stared into dancing flames. Averyl had not been, as he’d assumed, living in luxury. Nor was she the spoiled and vain creature his mother had been. But she was still a fool. ’Twas admirable to seek coin for her home and people, to sacrifice herself to the ruthless Murdoch. Or did she simply love gold enough to bed down with a merciless man of means?

  Drake stood. Averyl and her reasonings mattered not. Nor did his lust for her. His father’s death, as well as his own torture, demanded revenge. When he released Averyl, he would give her enough funds to repair her keep and plant new crops.

  If he still lived.

  Frowning darkly, he prepared a pallet by the door. As for his lust, he must ignore it. Mayhap a bit of sleep would cure him of this want.

  Averyl moaned in her sleep. Despite Drake’s vow moments ago, his imagination reeled with images of their bodies damp with passion, limbs tangled in urgent need. Nay, he had no need to seduce the wench. But no matter how he told himself to forget the idea, his cock ached long into the night to know how fulfilling such a seduction would be.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Averyl woke, a soft feather bed beneath her. Something tugged at her, a foreboding that all was not well. Images rushed back to her of a tall brigand stealing her from her very bed. From her betrothal. Had a knave truly dragged her away from her future? Nay, could be no more than a nightmare.

  Then she recalled his face, all hard angles and midnight eyes, as well as the angry chill in his manner.

  Eyes closed, she frowned against memory. But she could not deny the truth. The man who had stripped her of MacDougall’s costly gift, then carried her into the darkness—he was real.

  To a small inn he had taken her. The tang of fruit lingered in her mind, as his odd, heated glance stayed in her mind… His name… Drake Locke. Lochlan MacDougall’s murderer.

  Her captor.

  Averyl’s eyes flew open wide at the truth. She scarcely had time to note the unfamiliar old room and the heavy thud of her racing heart before she felt the warm quilt slide down.

  Over her naked breasts.

  With a gasp of shock, she jerked the covers about her chin. A thousand frightening images of what might have happened while she slept roared in her head, all too appalling to contemplate.

  Averyl searched about for something—clothing, a clue, the rogue who had stripped her. Her gaze skated over a carved wooden chair. A blazing fire spit into the silence, hissing, cracking, lighting her Spartan surroundings.

  He held her in a cottage, sh
e guessed, from the wattle and daub walls, as well as the thatched roof. A battered table, a trunk and the bed beneath her occupied the tidy domain. Simple and functional, the room possessed no colors, no softness.

  Her satchel lay on a blackened hearth, near two sturdy black boots, which moved suddenly to face her. She swallowed as fear nipped at her composure. Her gaze traveled up a powerful pair of muscled legs outlined in dark hose, past lean hips. Her stare paused at his tapered waist and broad chest, covered by a simple dark green tunic, then slid upward over the might of wide shoulders, to the remarkable face from her nightmares last eve.

  A shortness of breath assailed her. Drake Locke was no beautifully savage product of her imagination but real flesh and blood—and genuine danger.

  Her captor lifted a log to feed the hearth’s dying fire. The strength apparent in the thick coil of his arms pricked her with a strange heated trepidation.

  At least, given her homeliness, she would not have to concern herself with his lustful attentions. The desirous glance he had seemed to give her at the inn had been naught but a mirage, another reason to distrust the dark.

  He dropped the log into the flames. Averyl’s heart pumped furiously, nearly obliterating the sizzle and roar of the fire.

  Locke looked up. Their eyes met. Jet brows rose as his assessing gaze traveled her face, then dipped to take in her bare shoulders. Averyl clutched the blanket beneath her chin like a frightened child would a beloved parent.

  “Are you well?” he asked.

  “I have on not a stitch of clothing,” she shrieked. Eyes narrowing, she accused, “You did this.”

  “You’ll not find another soul for miles.”

  “You—you… For what purpose did you bear me, fiend?” She prayed he had not ravished her for revenge.

  “My purpose was not lascivious, if that is your concern.”

  Lips curved up in a cool smile, he turned away. Averyl knew his denial should relieve her. Embarrassment flared to heated life instead. He, too, found her ugly, enough to laugh at the notion of touching her. She bit her lip, appalled that her pride stung so fiercely.

  Knowing he thought her plain should set her at ease. ’Twas foolishness to feel aught else. She should be glad to be alive and unharmed, not worried what a murdering varlet thought of her.

  Locke stacked another log on the blazing fire that heated the dingy room. “I sought to prevent you from catching your death, Lady Averyl.”

  Her gaze flew to him in surprise. “You know my name?”

  “That and more,” he said, facing her again. His silky rasp set her nerves on alert. “You hail from Abbotsford, near the English border. You were born April fourth, 1469. Your middle name is Elizabeth.”

  She clutched her quilt tighter as he crossed the room to stand less than arm’s distance away. Locke’s dark eyes held her wide gaze captive with frightening ease. Her heart pumped faster. The air between them seemed scarce as she fought to breathe.

  “You are Ramsey Campbell’s only child,” he went on. “Your English mother was sister to the Duchess of Portsmouth. She died in September of 1475, when you were but six years old. You had almost become betrothed to Murdoch MacDougall, a stranger to you.” He hooked a finger beneath her chin. “You are an impoverished innocent who believes herself plain.”

  Averyl twisted away from his disquieting touch, mouth wide open. Though she knew almost nothing of Locke, he had whittled her entire existence down to a few curt sentences. He had ripped through the barrier protecting her memories and hiding her fears. Stripped her soul bare. Studied her life for his evil purpose. Exposed her in a way nakedness never could.

  “H—how did you learn so much of me?”

  He shrugged. “That is unimportant now.”

  Unimportant that her life had been examined by a stranger? That her most private, shameful beliefs were known by a murdering madman? She found nothing unimportant about having a sinfully handsome butcher stare at her as if she were an aberration of nature. “It bloody well is not. Tell me.”

  “You are in no position to give orders.”

  His unreadable gaze slid over her face, dropping to her bare shoulders, before he turned to the hearth. A vexing mix of shame and relief slid through her at his silent snub. Her bony shoulders would never tempt a man like him—and all the better.

  “Where have you brought me?” she demanded.

  He whirled to her again, his gaze slicing the distance between them. “To a heavily vegetated ravine on an isolated isle. If you hope a traveler will find you and take pity, you hope in vain. There’s but one way off of this island, and I have hidden the boat. I also enclosed the ravine with a locked gate topped by pikes.”

  “Say you that I am trapped here until I hand you my future? Until my people starve and my home crumbles to the ground?”

  Locke returned to her side. His face hovered mere inches from hers, where she could hear his breath, scent something spicy and warm upon him.

  “Until you turn ten and eight,” he clarified. “Your father, if he pretends to be any kind of man, will find another method of fixing the ills of your people. Wedding his daughter to a wealthy man he scarce knows is common enough but foolish.”

  “My father sought a good match. He is a wise man—”

  “But a blind one.” Locke strode away to tend the fire.

  Averyl stared at her captor, a frown creasing her brow. He clearly held the mistaken belief that MacDougall was some manner of villain. How, when Locke himself had done nothing but act barbarously? And for what reason did he think her father blind?

  Before she could question him, he turned to face her again.

  “The gate has but one key.” He paused to fish it from a small pouch within his codpiece at the apex of his hose. “Have no doubt, I would feel your touch should you try to retrieve it. But then, if you put a hand in this pocket, I would assume you sought something else.”

  “You have a depraved mind. I doubt you possess anything worth touching, other than yon key.”

  Locke shrugged as if her opinion meant naught to him. Likely it meant even less. Still, his gaze traveled over her shoulders, the swells of her breasts, once more.

  Disturbed by his inspection, she pulled the blanket up higher. “Release me now.” As hoped, her words returned his attention to her face. “I vow to wed someone other than the MacDougall, even cousin Robert, if ’twill please you.”

  He shook his dark head, clearly disbelieving. “You desire Murdoch’s funds too badly. Besides, I need you here until your next birthday.”

  “This abduction is senseless,” she railed. “Why do you care if the MacDougall and I are wed?”

  His unnerving, unwavering gaze whipped back to her face. Refusing to back down, she glared in return.

  “We have discussed this. My motives concern you not.”

  A new flash of fury seared her. Did he not understand the consequence of his actions on her life? Aye, he did. The heartless monster would end her hopes, crush any chance of restoring Abbotsford and enjoying a loving husband’s arms. “Concern me not? Your selfish revenge will cost me my future.”

  He paused, jaw taut. “When I am able, I will give you coin to save your home.”

  “When you are able?” she countered, clutching the sheet below her chin in a tight grip. “’Tis not enough. What husband will share Abbotsford with me? Whose children will occupy its halls? Your vengeful need will ensure I lose an honorable man willing to call me,” she pointed to herself, “his lady wife.”

  He approached again, face alive with anger. His penetrating eyes, tousled dark hair, and three days’ growth of beard all lent him the look of a ruthless warrior. She refused to back away when he sat beside her, the mattress dipping with his weight.

  “Honorable man?” he queried, grasping her arm. “You know naught of Murdoch. Do not be taken in by his pretty smile or his money. My revenge will see justice done, s
ave the hides of your English cousins, and rectify the damage of Murdoch’s evil.”

  “His evil?” she countered, anger a hot flow in her blood. “Have you forgotten your own misdeeds?”

  A chill slashed across his lean face, filling the dark contours with shadow.

  “Murdoch put forth the coin for Lochlan MacDougall’s murder and pointed the finger at me. I mean to make him pay for that.”

  Wildly, she shook her head. Such was not possible. Locke had killed Murdoch MacDougall’s sire. How could her abductor possibly claim Murdoch had been responsible?

  “’Tis not so… Murdoch said—”

  “Murdoch said?” he countered sharply. “So it must be true?”

  Drake stood, arms crossed over his broad chest like a warrior who had no doubt of a battle’s outcome. The snug fit of dark gray hose and black boots accentuated long, muscled legs. His emerald tunic strained across the breadth of his shoulders, making Averyl aware that if he had lied and truly planned to kill her, she had little chance of stopping him.

  Beneath an ominous scowl, his black eyes blazed with a riot of emotions. If Murdoch was a childhood fantasy, Drake Locke represented a darker demon, the antithesis of all she’d sought in life, like the untamable dragon of old lore.

  Just like those dragons, Locke was immeasurably dangerous.

  “At least he presented facts. What have you to say but threats and oaths?”

  “Here is a fact: I was given not a moment to speak in my own defense.” His tone was bitter, his eyes bleak. “No one cared how a blood-wet knife came to rest betwixt my feet. Within hours, your Murdoch convinced the clan of my guilt. They cheered like drunkards at a fair when he vowed to torture, then kill me.”

  Averyl did not doubt Murdoch’s judgment had been correct, though the swiftness of his justice did seem abrupt. Still, she refused to be drawn into whatever game he played with his lies.

  “How does preventing my marriage to MacDougall gain you revenge?” she asked.

  He cocked a brow. “You know not about the will?”