by Shayla Black
There she saw Drake, leaving the swelling roar of those eager to watch the fight. Tense, watchful, he searched about the pastry stand, then glanced behind the tree.
Grimacing when he again started in her direction, Averyl thanked God, for once, for her lack of height and curves, and continued through the throng. She breathed so hard she could scarce hear the lute player’s musical routine beside her.
Glancing about, Averyl feared she could not run in the open spaces past the fair’s perimeter without Drake’s watchful stare spotting her. And from experience, Averyl knew she had no hope of outdistancing him. She needed to hide quickly, until night fell, when she would assume her captor believed her gone.
A bright red tent decorated with golden moons and silver stars caught her eye. Beyond caring who or what lay inside, Averyl ducked within its confines.
At first, she saw no one within. She heard only the familiar sounds of vendors hawking their wares outside and the faint tinkling of bells. The pungent odor of spicy incense wafted to her. She turned to discover the source of the smell. Just beyond the edge of the faint glow, Averyl found herself looking into the oldest face she had ever seen.
“Come. Sit,” she said.
The small woman had skin lined with knowledge and life. She gestured to the empty chair across the scarred, circular table.
“You are frightened.” The woman’s stare pierced Averyl until she looked away in discomfort. She glanced over her shoulder and through the curtain. Drake was nowhere in sight.
“Sit,” the woman commanded again.
Knowing she had nowhere else to run, Averyl complied, slowly sliding into a huge, dark-wood chair.
“You run from somebody?” the crone asked, her oddly accented voice crackling with each word. Before Averyl could reply, the woman amended, “It is from one man that you run.”
Averyl gasped, her hand raising to her chest. The woman was a spaewife. Could such people really tell the futures of others?
The woman’s eyes followed the gesture, and her olive-skinned face lit up in a mysterious smile. “Give me your palm.”
When Averyl hesitated, the woman reached across the table, a bracelet of gold dangling from each wrist, and seized her hand.
Though Averyl was alarmed and wondered if the woman didn’t belong in an asylum somewhere, she was intrigued.
The woman turned Averyl’s palm up and studied it, tracing the sign of the cross with a silver coin. For several long moments, the fortuneteller’s gaze did not waver.
When the woman looked up, her eyes were focused at some distant point. Her face reflected a series of emotions before she settled on a smile. Her attention returned to Averyl.
“Ah, a fortune worth telling,” she commented, her voice thick and exotic, clearly not Scottish.
The wisdom in her fathomless eyes disturbed Averyl. “Say naught. I do not wish to know of my health, wealth, or happiness.”
“What of your future husband?” The crone smiled. “You wish to know of that, yes? Yes, you do. For now, I shall start with your past. Your mother has been dead many years.”
“Aye,” Averyl admitted, disturbed and frowning.
“You are betrothed, no?”
“Aye.” How could this crone know such? Perhaps this spaewife did have special powers?
“But there is another. He is close and he searches for you. He separates you from your intended.” The old woman peered into the air. “It will be thus in the future as well.”
A stab of dread pierced Averyl’s stomach. Did the woman believe she would never find her way back to Murdoch MacDougall’s side to become his wife? It mattered not, for no one could see the future. Could they?
Before Averyl could protest, the mysterious hag frowned suddenly, her cloudy eyes racing over Averyl’s palm. “The past is vital. Learning it will unlock the key to your future. Then you will find the answer to your hopes for both coin and love.”
Averyl bit her lip, her mind racing. Though everyone wanted to hear they would be happy and rich, Averyl paused, considering the woman’s words. Had she not discovered for herself that the past drove Drake and filled him with hate?
“My betrothed and the other man in my life, what has passed between them?” Averyl asked, surprising herself.
The woman paused, brow furrowing in concentration. “They have known each other for many years and share a common bond.”
A bond? Before Averyl could decipher that puzzle, the woman’s bony, bejeweled fingers snaked across the table and took Averyl’s other hand in a surprisingly strong grip. The length of purple ribbon fell from her fingers, to the table. “The man you run from, who gave you this gift”—she nodded to the scrap of satin between them—“is your future. Your destiny.”
Shock rippled through Averyl. Drake, her destiny? The crone must be daft. Yet she’d known of Drake’s gift…
“You are much mistaken,” she said, rising.
The woman’s wrinkled grip tightened. “Sit, child.”
Averyl felt compelled by the ageless knowledge in the woman’s black eyes and complied.
“This cannot be,” Averyl insisted. “He cares not for me.”
Her hacking laugh sent a shiver down Averyl’s spine. “He cares. You will love him, and he”—she raised a dramatic jet brow—“will love you equally, if not more.”
Love? The unconditional giving of tenderness and trust from Drake? Such was not possible. “Now you truly are mistaken.”
Clucking her tongue, the woman shook her gray head. “Look beyond his words and deeds, deep into his eyes. Give him your trust. There, you will find a treasure.”
Confusion eddied and swirled within her. Only the worst kind of man could speak his words and commit his deeds. “I will not trust a murderer who would force—”
“Never would he force you to give of your body. Nor did he kill. Look to the face of another suitor for that.”
Another suitor? She could only mean Murdoch. But ’twas impossible. Was it not?
Averyl bowed her head, her mind whirling. The soothsayer believed Drake innocent, as did Kieran and the Gibsons. Was such possible? Drake had maintained that Murdoch MacDougall had framed him for the heinous murder. Averyl sighed in confusion, wishing she could escape the old woman and her riddles.
Clutching Averyl’s palm, the woman went on. “Yes, consider your lover’s innocence. Once you realize the truth, you will give yourself willingly. This man will treasure your love and innocence. It is a gift he has had from no other.”
Give herself willingly? While Averyl could not deny Drake’s rousing kisses had the power to melt her, she would never bed down with the man. Not when she had the MacDougall to return to, not when she had her land, her people—and her heart—to save.
Averyl bolted up from her seat. “I must go.”
The woman’s worn grip on her hand tightened, refusing her leave. “The secrets of your lover’s past are dark ones. Inside is a man with a tender heart and a needy soul.”
When Averyl opened her mouth to argue, the woman spoke. “Let time unfold and do not fear your destiny. Go now. He searches for you.”
With that, the woman released Averyl, then turned away. Still stunned, Averyl rose slowly. The shining purple ribbon lay bright and new on the table before her. She stared at it and thought of the man who had given it to her. Drake had not meant it as a gift, had felt no affection in the purchase. But something inside her refused to leave it behind.
Cursing herself a fool, she snatched the ribbon from the table and tied it about her braid as she exited the dim tent.
Outside, Averyl found that dusk had descended upon the fair. By all appearances, the townsfolk were still celebrating. Bright streamers hung from every home in sight. A ring of wooden poles had been stuck into the soil to form a circle from which lanterns hung, outlining a crude dance floor, now occupied by a handful of the town’s drunken inhabitants.
Beyond the fair lay unmerciful darkness and no way to shield herself if its terrors preyed upon her. Trembling, Averyl lamented that she had not thought of such sooner.
She clung to a giant oak at the outskirts of the fair, making certain Drake was nowhere in sight. Men milled about everywhere, some with ladies beside them, others partaking of ale and one another’s companionship. None possessed Drake’s height or controlled carriage, inky waves, or muted elegance.
He was gone.
A sigh escaped her lips as she wondered if she would ever see him again.
What foolishness! Relief should fill her, not a hollow ache within her breast. He wanted her not as a woman, not for her heart, but as a pawn. ’Twas the truth, despite the crone’s intriguing words.
Drawing in a deep breath, Averyl vowed she would not miss him. Not for an instant beyond this one. Or this one…
She frowned. Drake would never miss her, and she must concentrate on that reality, not some fantasy her imagination and body clung to.
Pushing away from the tree, she made one last scan of the crowd. Three men loomed close, soldiers, judging from the heavy swords swinging at their thighs. With their shrill whistle and a lascivious leer, Averyl knew they had spotted her—alone.
A blade of trepidation sliced her when one began in her direction, his eyes never wavering. The other two followed.
Averyl ran into the dark, fighting her fear, hoping this once the black air would devour her, conceal her. An anxious glance over her shoulder confirmed they pursued her. Indeed, one sprinted after her while the others laughed at the sport.
Her heart pounding, lurching against her chest, Averyl picked up her skirts and ran faster. The flat ground beneath her feet provided nowhere to hide. No tall bushes nearby to give cover. And a quick scan behind her revealed the men still followed—and gained ground.
Her toe connected with something solid, and without warning, she tumbled to the soft earth in a heap of bruised knees and scraped hands. Behind her, she heard another chorus of laughter.
Ignoring her aches, she staggered to her feet. Before she could escape, a harsh hand grasped her arm. She screamed.
“What have we here, lass? All alone, are ye now? Ye canna leave before the party haes started.”
“I—I search for my husband.” She stared into a rough face of browned teeth and mean eyes. Her heart pounded in fear.
“Is that so? We dinna see any men here but us. So if your husband is fool enough to leave ye alone, we’d consider it our privilege, nay, our right, to be enjoyin’ yer…company this eve.” He brushed her breast with his fingers.
Behind him, his duo of companions laughed. Averyl struggled against them in horror, praying she could find an escape.
“As the lass’s husband, enjoying her ’tis my right, and mine alone,” the familiar voice cut into the silence.
Averyl looked beyond the miscreant to find Drake standing behind them all, sword drawn. Relief shocked every crevice of her body with a warm comfort. Now she would be safe.
Drake stood a head taller than any other. He eclipsed the varlets in breadth, and if Drake’s scowl bore any truth, determination, too.
The fiend holding her wrist gave a sickly laugh, his smile slipping. The other men backed away. “Ach, we were just teasin’ now, weren’t we, lass?”
Drake speared her with a questioning glance. She answered with a wobbly shake of her head.
His jaw clenched in fury. “Be gone with you before I make you part of tonight’s stew.”
The rotten-teethed ogre opened his mouth to protest. Drake took a menacing step forward, shining silver blade clenched in his fist.
“Give me a reason,” Drake invited silkily. The wild look on his face welcomed violence.
The rogue slinked away.
For a long moment, Averyl stared at Drake, her captor, her rescuer, her handfast husband-to-be. Though she’d found this trouble in trying to escape him, she knew only comfort at his return. She resisted an urge to throw herself into his sheltering arms and thank him. A gesture he would not welcome, judging from the black blaze of his eyes and the white fury around his taut mouth. As he sheathed his sword, his gaze traveled over her methodically, leaving no inch untouched, especially the ribbon at her braid.
“Drake, I—”
He silenced her with a hand. “Later. Now, follow me.”
With that, he turned his back on her, not waiting to see if she followed. He knew she would; she really had no other option. Tonight had proven she could not return to Dunollie without hazard. Indeed, she had not progressed beyond the first town.
Straightening her bodice, Averyl darted after him, too frightened to stay behind. Though it seemed irrational to place her safety in the hands of a man everyone believed capable of murder, she did. Despite his fury with her, Drake still calmed her fear of the dark with his mere presence. And he had proven, once again, that he would not harm her.
And since he kept her safe, was there a chance the spaewife spoke true? Was Drake, perhaps, innocent of Lochlan MacDougall’s murder? Was he her destiny?
* * * * *
Drake glanced over his shoulder, watching an oddly subdued Averyl follow. He suspected lingering fear quieted her, since he would never imagine her contrite. And though it pleased him not, Drake admitted he, too, would have run, given Averyl’s chance.
Still, the admission did not make his mood less foul.
He sighed in disgust. ’Twas not anger at Averyl that soured his disposition, though her repeated attempts to escape annoyed him. Nor was it knowing what he must do now. Instead, he pictured her, again and again, at the mercy of the vile vagabonds who had captured her. Even now, fury erupted through his veins, tightening his hands into fists.
He had wanted to kill them. To engage each in hand-to-hand combat, then steal the life from them. What Drake did not know was why. Why such a violent urge? ’Twas ugly but common enough for beasts like them to overpower a woman. Even the rapes he’d heard in Dunollie’s dungeons had not filled him with this illogical need for blood lust, a need he had curbed for Averyl’s benefit, as well as his own hunted hide.
Again, why? ’Twas as important to him to protect her as it was that she not see him as a vicious killer.
Why?
Pushing the haunting question aside as they reached the gathering again, Drake waited for Averyl. She stopped beside him and cast a questioning glance at him with wide hazel eyes.
She feared him, too. In a different way, but still feared him. And he liked it not. Something within his chest tightened, and he forced his temper to calm and his voice to gentle.
“Give me your hand, Averyl.”
She stared at him for long moments, as if trying to guess his intent. Drake stifled the remnants of his anger to remove the severity from his expression. Finally, she put cold fingers into his.
He closed his palm around hers and gave a gentle squeeze. “You are safe. I will let nothing or no one harm you.”
After staring at their joined hands for a heartbeat, she looked up with such stunning trust that he lost a breath. “I believe you.”
Trust. Her words near shattered him. He’d not received that in so long, not since the bloody accusations of near two years past. She believed him. Her vow rippled pleasure through him.
“Come with me, then.”
Without awaiting her response, he moved forward, hand clasped about hers, closer to the crowd. He spotted a couple bouncing a laughing toddler on their knees. They looked more than adequate.
“Excuse me, good sir, madam. Could you spare a moment?”
“Aye, indeed,” said the man, handing the baby aside and smoothing down his shock of red hair.
Beside him, Drake could feel Averyl’s puzzled stare. The feel of her hand in his urged him on with anticipation.
“I declare this lady and I are handfast.”
Averyl gaspe
d at his side. Glancing quickly at her frozen ivory countenance, Drake squeezed her hand as she tried to pry it away and rushed to address the couple. “You are our witnesses.”
The young woman cradled the toddler and tittered with delight. “’Tis so romantic.” She smiled at Averyl. “I remember my wedding night.” With a sigh, she added. “As will ye.”
Sitting beside her, the man flushed.
Drake smiled, hoping no one would take note of the pale shock frozen on his new bride’s face. “Thank you, kind sir, good lady. We are obliged.”
Before the couple could say more, before Averyl could object, he tugged gently on her arm, and with it, led her back toward the Gibsons, where a feast that awaited them—and whatever their first night as man and wife would bring.
CHAPTER NINE
On their silent journey to the inn, Averyl walked beside Drake, struggling to match his rapid strides. Everything about his tense posture and shuttered expression bespoke turmoil. Beside him, she bit her lip, feeling a cauldron of anxiety in her belly. Did her husband think of the coming night?
Their handfast union was so sudden. And unless her new husband perished, she would be unable to wed the MacDougall before the bitter winter and Abbotsford’s ruin. Even knowing that, she could not bring herself to wish for Drake’s demise.
Nay, to save her home, she had but two options. Neither was likely. Drake was hardly apt to give her any funds, no matter how prettily she begged. Nor was she likely to see Murdoch so that she might plead with him to save her home. But her home did not reign supreme in her mind now.
Chirping crickets, green fields, and a damp breeze reminded Averyl she had this summer night—her wedding night—to face before considering the harsh consequences winter would bring.
She knew what Drake would expect tonight, at least in the vaguest sense. Her belly clenched, winding as tightly as the ribbon atop her head. Aye, she would deny him at every turn. But what if she weakened under the gentle assault of his kisses? What if she foolishly surrendered?
Casting a glance at her new handfast husband, Averyl felt a new claw of anxiety. Upon her abduction two weeks ago, she would never have imagined Drake possessed even one redeeming quality. Yet she realized he had most shown her only the sides of himself he’d wanted her to know. The gentle comforting, his protective concern, those had slipped out, she suspected, only to be quickly covered again by his gruff impersonality or anger.