His Stolen Bride BN

by Shayla Black

“What will?”

  He muttered a nasty oath and began to pace. “God’s teeth.”

  Averyl winced at his curse. “What will?”

  “’Tis of no consequence now,” he asserted, frowning.

  Averyl knew from the strength of his grasp and the intensity of his dark eyes that he spoke false. The will was of consequence. Great consequence, she suspected.

  “I demand you tell me what will you speak of.”

  “You make too many demands, wench.” His stern face reiterated that he would tell her no more on the subject now.

  “So what will you do to me?” she asked.

  His gaze brushed her face, her shoulders, before he looked away. “I told you last eve I’ve no wish to harm you.”

  Averyl shook her head, refusing to believe Locke’s empty assurances. “And what of Lord Dunollie? You despise him.”

  “Aye.”

  The taut face and harsh eyes before her revealed his intent. “Enough to kill him, is that not so? That is your plan.”

  “Aye.”

  She needed to escape, to warn Murdoch, but how? Locke had already defined her isolated prison hell. Somehow, she would have to succeed, catch Locke’s guard down…if it ever fell.

  He grabbed her bare shoulders with hot palms, pulling her frighteningly close. “Make no mistake, he will kill me, too. Upon his first chance.”

  Averyl scowled; her mind raced between finding a way to escape and understanding Locke’s bizarre scheme. “You intend to kill Murdoch, yet you believe you will die as well?”

  “Aye.” He jerked his hands from her and turned away to pace.

  “And believing you will die, you carry through with your plan?” Her sharp tone reflected her incredulity.

  “Of course.”

  “’Tis insane. Inhuman. Have you no wish to live, no regrets about killing others? Have you no feelings about dying?”

  He whirled to face her, jaw clenched.

  “I do not kill off the battlefield. For Murdoch, I will make an exception.”

  Shrugging the tension from his broad shoulders, he continued, “As for my own death, I have no life as a fugitive. If I have feelings about my death, they matter not. Emotions are a weak man’s luxury I can ill afford.”

  Averyl could not stop her widening eyes or gaping mouth. “No one can extinguish their emotions thus. You cannot blow out the contents of your heart, as you do a—a candle.”

  He sliced through her objection with a cutting glance. “You are wrong. Such feeling reeks like a pit of slimy water. Having seen others drown there before, I will not be dragged into those murky depths.”

  She was in a nightmare beyond her worst imagining. She’d barely believed herself abducted, but to be entrapped with this emotionless ruffian? He plotted to kill the man who would save her home, the man she’d waited a lifetime for. It could not be borne. She must escape, tonight.

  Tears came to her eyes, constricting her throat. “Why in God’s name do you plot this mad scheme?”

  “As I’ve said, revenge,” he answered tersely.

  “A man so close to the grave does not need vengeance.”

  “I prefer to die in peace.”

  His statement hit her like an icy gust of wind. “You selfish cur! You destroy my life so you can go to your self-imposed death in peace? I would love to see hardship forced on you. Mayhap it would teach you to appreciate another’s pain.”

  The hard line of his jaw tightened. “I understand pain. I lived it in Murdoch’s dungeons. Now he will live it.”

  Locke was cruel and barbaric, and if she knew how to curse, she would tell him how much she despised him, in a way he could assuredly understand.

  He rose and strode to the door. “Should you like to bathe, there is a pond outside. When you’ve finished, your clothing is in your satchel, which I set in the corner.”

  His suddenly cool tone rankled her. “Outside? How convenient. Had you planned to watch?”

  His dark eyes slid over her bare shoulders and quickly swept her form outlined by the thin quilt, before returning to her face. His eyes were no longer cold. Averyl’s pulse jumped.

  “Do you invite me?”

  Fury rose, arming her words with fire. “I would not invite you to hell, though it’s where you deserve to be.”

  He reached her in less than a heartbeat. His fingers twisted around her arm, pulling her close. Averyl struggled to maintain hold on the quilt.

  “Open your saucy mouth all you like, but remember I control whether or not you eat, bathe, wear clothing, speak—your whole life. And I control it indefinitely.”

  * * * * *

  Dismayed, Averyl did not, could not, move. Two months ago, she had been giggling with Becca, the daughter of Abbotsford’s steward. Now she was captive of a brutal stranger on an isolated isle. This nightmare that had ensnared her life swirled around her, creating a torrent of confusion. Naught made sense, least of all why Locke had abducted her.

  The will he refused to speak of was the key, but she knew nothing of the document, least of all who had written it.

  Running bare through the chilly cottage, Averyl retrieved a shift from her satchel. Tears scalded her throat, but she refused to shed them. Instead, she settled the thin garment over her, wondering if the elusive will was tied to the sordid incident Murdoch had refused to discuss with her.

  She could not think on that now. She must concentrate on the moment, seize any method of escape Locke might have overlooked. For she did not believe he intended to do nothing more than keep her beneath his roof until she turned a year older. What her role would be she did not want to contemplate.

  Resolving she would not give up, Averyl searched her luggage for something to wear. Tossing out garment after garment, she sighed in frustration. Blast it, the bag was filled with only her finest dresses, those suitable to mark her as MacDougall’s lady wife. Fragile garments that would not travel well and showed more of her small bosom than she liked.

  Snatching a purple dress to her breast, she decided the choice mattered not. The display was not for Locke. Her infuriating captor would not note if she looked well or care how much skin she bared. His searching glances meant naught. Perhaps he had merely wondered how a chief of Murdoch’s ilk could marry a girl so lacking in womanly charms. Certainly, a man as magnificent in face and form as Locke could have any woman he desired. The unfeeling beast had no reason to spare her a second glance.

  Worse, his imperious manner told her Locke was accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. Tugging her dress over her small frame, Averyl vowed to be the most rebellious captive ever. With all her strength and courage, she would fight him until she found freedom—and her way back to the MacDougall.

  For that, she’d need a weapon. Her gaze scanned the room. Nothing she could use to harm him rested in the basket of fruit on the three-legged table. There was naught ominous about the hearth, blackened by frequent use, or the motley collection of small pots, kettles, and wooden spoons dangling inside on a stick. And nary a knife in sight. She skimmed over an old spindle-backed chair, a cypress basin with a clay pitcher, and her satchel in the corner. Naught of use.

  Then her gaze zeroed in on the thin object leaning in the corner. The iron poker he’d used to stoke the fire. Yes, she would knock him unconscious, steal his key, free herself from this ravine prison, and find his hidden boat. ’Twas so simple.

  Averyl dashed across the room. Her fingers slid around the cold metal. Relief swelled inside her as she hoisted the weapon over her head. It weighed more than she had anticipated. But she could lift it once; once was all she would need.

  A moment later, she heard the thump of Locke’s booted footsteps outside. Averyl scurried across the floor, purple dress swishing about her legs, and moved toward the door. Then climbing on the hearth, she hid behind the portal as Drake swung it open.

  He stood motionless, towering i
n the doorway, the breadth of his shoulders spanning the door’s frame as he scanned the room. Instantly, her breathing shallowed with his presence, her spine tingled with his nearness.

  Pushing her anxiety aside, she took a breath behind him and lifted the weapon.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  With a grunt of effort, Averyl lowered the poker, aiming for the back of Locke’s shaggy, dark head.

  As if sensing her intent, he ducked and dodged to the side. The poker struck his shoulder with a low thud.

  Then he cursed as he turned to face her. Annoyance stormed across his angled face. With a scowl, he stared at her, then stripped the poker from her grip.

  Though her stomach tightened with fear, she regarded him with unblinking defiance. “Though I am certain you glower at everyone who displeases you, you scare me not.”

  He returned her stare with a raised brow and silence.

  “Do you practice that look in a glass, hoping to scare people from their sanity?” she snapped. “For it works not.”

  Besides extreme irritation, he looked somewhat surprised that she had dared such an attack. And intent that she should not hit him again, by the way he gripped that iron poker.

  His silence unnerved her, until she began to feel like a child who’d been caught filching a sweet and now awaited punishment. She crossed her arms over her chest. Aye, she had never thought herself long on courage, but Drake Locke would not cow her without a single word.

  “More than once I have heard you speak, so I know you can.” She sent a challenging stare his way.

  The corners of his flat mouth began to curl, though she would hardly call such a smile.

  “I can speak when I have need. I do not practice my glowering in a glass. And you’re a fool if you have not the sense to be scared of me, though I expect a lack of sense from a bloodthirsty Campbell wench.”

  After that, Drake resumed his silence. Why did she seem full of bravery one moment, then speak needily of love in another? And if she sought love, why did she wed for money? He shook his head, hoping to dislodge the mystery she presented, and gripped the iron poker between tight fingers.

  Lady Averyl had opened the cottage’s shutters to the morn’s light. It filtered in with a brilliant summer cheer that lit upon her fair hair, seeming to alight it with a thousand different shades of gold as it tangled in a pale entwining and tumbled across one shoulder. She stood before him, seemingly determined to be brave.

  Averyl reminded him of Botticelli’s Venus, ethereal yet elemental. Lust pierced him like a longbow through armor, despite the fact she had done her best to put a dent in his skull. Drake wanted to tousle her, engage the fiery side of her spirit. Arouse her, possess her. Bury his hands in her riotous curls and bed her.

  Foolish. Dangerous. So unlikely to ever happen.

  He must focus on his revenge, never forget that Averyl was an intelligent woman, gifted with perhaps an even craftier ability to entrance and confuse than his mother had possessed. For he saw now that Averyl’s fragility was an illusion, just as his desire for her was a curse.

  Drake held the poker between them. “Careful, else this could injure someone.”

  “If only it would, preferably by making a dent in your skull.”

  Her dress clung lovingly to the slight curve of her breasts as she moved with furied conviction. Thick and hot, a fresh wave of desire settled in his loins. Why could Averyl have not been as plain as she believed? And meek besides?

  Shoving the questions aside, he took the last step toward Averyl, watching her eyes grow wider. With fear and fury, aye. But something new. What? Curiosity? Challenge?

  “And I would gladly hit you again, harder.”

  How unusually…honest she was. Tenacious and rampageous, too, just like his friend Aric’s lady wife, Gwenyth. He frowned. But Gwenyth possessed not the tendency to sentiment and greed his captive and his mother shared. Averyl was indeed a puzzle.

  Drake gripped the poker. “Then I consider myself warned and will put this from temptation’s way.”

  “You cannot keep me here!”

  “I can and I am.”

  The sound of her curse followed him as he made his way outside. That he ignored as he shut the door between them.

  Then he heard a sob, quiet, muffled. Drake strained closer to the window to hear. Was that shrew-mouthed Averyl?

  Again it came. Aye, ’twas her. Drake frowned as something foreign bit at his gut. It could not possibly be guilt. This revenge was necessary, his very life. Then why did he feel…badly?

  Drake set the poker aside. Had he not learned to ignore a woman’s tears from infancy? Aye, and why Averyl’s should bother him, he could not fathom. Shoving his fingers through his hair, he searched for clarity—only to find a muddle where logic normally lived. Damnation.

  Averyl sniffled. Drake’s gut clenched. He rubbed the aching shoulder she had struck to remind him she was the enemy. But imprisoning her now seemed…wrong. Frowning, he wondered when had he deemed his act unjust. After he’d beheld those bright eyes in her comely face and seen her fiery desperation?

  Drake paced. She was a pawn in his scheme. An intriguing pawn, aye, but a pawn all the same. True, she had a home to rebuild and vassals to aid. She had a right to a wedded life, if she foolishly chose it. And he wanted her in his bed. But all must wait until justice had been served.

  * * * * *

  Averyl crept outside minutes after Locke. Within moments, she discovered he spoke true. Escape would be near impossible.

  The ravine, steep as a cliff all about, was a narrow strip of land hidden by an abundance of wild heather and short grass, brambles, rock, and eternal Scottish mist. So far up did its vertical walls reach, she could scarcely see to the land above.

  Giant oak trees sheltered the hideaway from prying eyes by fanning the sky with their far-reaching branches. The ancient trees swayed with the wind, their leaves forming a wall of lush green that convinced outsiders nothing lay below nature’s display of summer. Beyond that, she heard the tempestuous crash of the surf against the isle’s shore.

  The gate he spoke of would indeed keep her trapped. Averyl stared up at its impossible height and the razor-edge of the pikes atop it, lethal and smiling, as if inviting her to court death. Anger welled in her throat, burned her belly.

  Locke had her trapped, damn him. He had no right to intrude thus upon her life. What would become of Abbotsford, its vassals and gardens, should this captivity last? What of the village, her heritage, her father?

  What would become of her?

  The barbarian had ruined her plans to wed. If she wished to save them, she needed the key to the gate. He knew such.

  She must steal the key. To accomplish such a feat, she would have to search his pocket—when he did not wear his hose. For that, Locke would have to be asleep. She refused to put her hands anywhere near his powerful thighs and manly secrets. He was bold enough to believe she encouraged him and more than male enough to bed her, if only for sport.

  Averyl bit her lip. She plotted rebellion against a known killer. ’Twas foolish, but she could not remain. If she did, her future would disappear like a drop of water in an ocean. And the hate that seemed to permeate his every word and gesture might seep into her soul. Indeed, ’twas certain. Already she was learning to hate him back.

  * * * * *

  Murdoch entered the solar, striding past his leman’s belly, with a curse on his lips. She scurried forward to greet him. He silenced her with a glare and proceeded to his chair.

  “I hiv had a bath prepared for ye,” she whispered.

  One glance at her coy expression sent his temper soaring. “Back to the kitchen with you, wench. I’ve much to do.”

  Whores, every last one, from his first woman, to this last. Naught changed. Each used their bodies for their gain.

  Murdoch eyed the pouting redhead as she exited with a protective hand over her roundin
g belly. Aye, she’d made no secret of the fact she sought a husband of consequence to claim her and her brat.

  He stripped off sweaty traveling clothes and sank into the warm water with a sigh. Though she’d vowed the child was his, Murdoch knew he had not been the only man between her thighs. And a fool she was if she believed the simple wifely act of preparing a bath would induce him to give up on Lady Averyl.

  Damn his half brother, Drake. Averyl had been missing for nearly four days, and they had found only the sketchiest clues regarding her whereabouts. Still, he refused to rest. After scrubbing himself clean, he rose.

  His bride no doubt looked for him each day with her lovesick gaze, awaiting rescue. He would not let her down.

  Murdoch dressed quickly. His plan was in motion. When the two were found, Averyl and the wealth of land—land that had once belonged to MacDougalls—along with the power that came with their marriage would be his. As for Drake, he sincerely hoped the whelp of his father’s English whore found hell even more torturous than the slow death Murdoch vowed to provide.

  After a brief knock, Wallace, his cousin and steward, entered the darkening room.

  “Come in,” he barked. “What news have you?”

  “We have word from the west,” Wallace said. “A man claiming connection to Clan MacDougall possesses information.”

  Murdoch stopped pacing. “Does he come here?”

  “Aye, within the half hour.”

  Nodding with satisfaction, Murdoch clenched his fists. “And our soldiers, are they still searching?”

  “Morn and eve.”

  “I have looked through filth and down countless dusty roads for Lady Averyl.” He turned accusing eyes to Wallace. “Do not disappointment me with more failure.”

  Clearing his throat, Wallace assured, “We will see justice served for Drake MacDougall.”

  Anger roared until Murdoch heard it pound in his ears. “Drake is not a MacDougall. He is not worthy of any name but his whorish mother’s.”

  “But your father was wed to—”