His Stolen Bride BN

by Shayla Black

  “Drake?” The woman’s blue eyes narrowed with ire. “The hen-witted fool is gone. And more is the pity, for I should have liked to give him a piece of my mind.”

  “Gone?” She fought a rising tide of trepidation and asked, “When will he return?”

  The other woman sighed, then threw a stare over her shoulder, where a cascade of black, silken tresses lay.

  Behind the woman, near the fire, stood an older man and a huge hulk of a blond warrior conferring in low voices. Kieran paced beside them, casting an occasional glance their way. Unease gripped her mercilessly.

  Finally, the old man came forward and took her hand in his warm one. “He says he will not return. He means to kill Murdoch, then release you from your handfast.”

  Though the graying man uttered the response Averyl had expected—and feared—somehow shock wound through her anyway.

  “I know you are bound together as man and wife,” the man said. “And I told him ’twas fiercely wrong of him to leave you.”

  Averyl’s heart sought to deny the truth she could not change. Drake had finally rid himself of the bride he’d taken for revenge. The bride he’d never wanted. Pain seared her.

  “But, as through boyhood,” the old man went on, “my grandson remains obstinate, at least for now.”

  “Your grandson?” echoed Averyl, taken aback.

  “Aye. I am Guilford Locke, Earl of Rothgate. You know Kieran, of course. The giant beside the hearth is Aric. And this sharp-tongued shrew,” he said, putting a loving arm about the woman, “is Gwenyth, Aric’s wife. As Drake’s bride, you are welcome here at Hartwich Hall.”

  “You’re English,” she blurted.

  “I trust you willna hold such against me, lass,” he mocked a brogue and smiled.

  Unwanted tears stung her eyes, tears she hated to shed. Drake had rid himself of her, as he had warned just before Murdoch’s attack and her injury. She raised her watery eyes to the group, whose kind gazes conveyed empathy without a single word.

  “’Tis from himself he runs,” the old earl offered in a low, soothing voice. “He knows you love him, and it frightens him.”

  Drake must have told him—told them all—everything. The rest, Kieran had seen for himself.

  Averyl sat up, clutching her blanket with tight fists. “I do not seek to hurt him.”

  “One day he will understand,” Aric assured.

  She tried not to hear the optimism in the man’s voice, tried not to believe because it hurt so much. To no avail. The more she struggled to rid herself of the feelings she had for Drake, the more she failed. And the more anger she felt.

  “I must leave, return to Scotland.” She made to rise.

  The old man urged her to stay abed with surprising strength. “You’ve yet to heal completely, and you would be best served to keep clear of Murdoch, lest he hurt you again.”

  Averyl could not argue with such logic. Frowning against the rise of fresh, furied tears welling in her eyes, Averyl yearned to be alone, to think, to scream and rail at Drake’s cruel desertion. How could he leave her so callously after she’d bared her heart? Apparently, he could, and without thought, to simply abandon her upon a stranger’s doorstep.

  Her forehead fell to her fist. Why would the earth not open up and take her to the Purgatory she felt within her?

  Why did Drake have to care for her so little?

  “Shh, child,” the old man murmured as Averyl sobbed, then rubbed her shoulder with a comforting hand. “All will be well.”

  How Averyl wished that were so. Though she must try, deep down she feared she could never cast Drake from her heart.

  * * * * *

  Late October

  Sitting up gingerly among her blankets, Averyl squeezed her eyes shut against the sight of the small chamber next to Aric and Gwenyth’s. Even after two months without Drake, the lack of his warmth and touch first thing in the morn tore through her heart like a jagged stake. And now she could add some strange illness that plagued her through each day. She felt tired, even after a full night’s sleep. Her stomach churned unpleasantly, rolling like the waves upon a stormy sea.

  Leaping from the bed as a sudden crest overcame her, Averyl searched out the pitcher she kept by her bedside and clutched it as she heaved forth the contents of her nearly empty stomach.

  Gasping for air, she felt the sweat break out along her forehead, between her tender breasts. It only compounded the pain in her heart. She hated the reality of awaking without Drake each day, of being without him every night. Everything inside her wanted to cry, to protest that Drake’s departure had stripped away half of her soul.

  Averyl cursed her weakness, for given his continued absence, ’twas clear he did not reciprocate even a fraction of her sentiment.

  Burying her face in her hands, Averyl felt tears constrict her throat, tearing the breath from her chest. How could he care so little for her? Apparently Diera and Murdoch had hardened his heart so thoroughly, he would trust no one with his emotions.

  At the thought, her stomach rebelled again.

  Through her misery, she felt a soft hand upon her hair, another supporting her back.

  “Ill again?” came Gwenyth’s voice. “’Tis time you admit you carry Drake’s child.”

  Averyl lifted her head from the pitcher, both exhausted and embarrassed, and rose to her feet. Aric stood in the portal, gazing at her with concern. “It cannot be.”

  Though she knew such was indeed possible. Her memories flashed vivid visions of she and Drake, entwined in their pent-up passion, making love against the cottage door on a warm summer morn. Had they created life in one another’s arms?

  Averyl grabbed a blanket to ward off her anxiety and the hint of October chill, then faced Drake’s friends.

  “Are you not his wife?” Aric asked.

  “Such means naught.”

  He smiled gently. “I know my friend well, too well to believe he is any sort of monk.”

  Despite her unsettled stomach, Averyl felt herself blush.

  “So such is possible?” he queried.

  A babe. A tiny life created by she and Drake. ’Twas an awesome thought. A child with Drake’s dark eyes she would hold come spring. Both love and fear filled her.

  “Aye,” she whispered.

  Gwenyth brushed a comforting hand along her back. “I know you feel alone and that Drake has hurt you. But we are here to comfort you. And since my husband has had little time of late to worry about conceiving his own babe,” she teased, “I shall have to dote upon yours.”

  She met the woman’s blue eyes. Knowledge and wisdom shone from their lively depths. Disquieted, Averyl turned away.

  “In truth,” Aric continued, “his own actions have hurt him as well. It pained him greatly to leave you.”

  “Do not give me false hope. He cares little for anything but his revenge.”

  “That does occupy him greatly,” Aric acknowledged, “but when I last saw him, I saw a side I thought long buried after Lochlan’s death and his torture. I saw his heart again.”

  Averyl crossed the room to escape the pair and the insidious infusion of hope his words brought.

  “Enough! He wed and seduced me, then discarded me. I meant no more to him than a way to settle his life-long vendetta with Murdoch.”

  Aric sighed heavily. “I think that was his plan. But he came to care for you, which warred with his mind. Understand that his example of marriage has not been a favorable one.”

  “I know about Diera, and while I think she behaved very ill, that does not justify what he did to me.”

  “Of course not, but he is afraid of caring, of pain. Lochlan’s grief upon Diera’s death affected him greatly, and he’s allowed no one to get close enough to touch his heart until you. He knows not how to trust.”

  “Then he deserves no more than my pity.”

  Turning away again, Averyl peer
ed out the window. A massive tree’s leaves danced gracefully, despite the biting autumn wind. The River Foss flowed a chilly blue in the distance.

  “You love him,” Gwenyth said softly. “Do you not?”

  She hesitated. “Nay, no more.”

  “You cannot lie to yourself.” Gwenyth closed the space between them in two steps. She placed kind hands on Averyl’s shoulders when she would have voiced another denial. “When I was a girl, I lived near an abbey. ’Twas called Sweetheart Abbey. As legend has it, in 1273, a certain Lady Devorgilla grieved over her loving husband’s death. To keep him with her always, she had his heart embalmed and set in a silver casket, which she wore round her neck.”

  Averyl arched a pale brow. “I would rather see Drake’s head upon a pike.”

  Gwenyth laughed. “There are times he deserves such punishment, no doubt. But I think you miss him as much as Lady Devorgilla missed her mate.”

  Averyl cast her a dubious glance. “Think what you will.”

  “Drake needs your heart,” Gwenyth pressed on. “You must look deep inside. Think not of the hurt but of all you shared, all that could be. Then will find your love still abounds.”

  Her guilty gaze skittered away. “It matters not. We will never see one another again.”

  “You plan never to tell him of his child?” Aric asked. “Perhaps your love and the babe can persuade him to give up this foolish revenge and certain death at Murdoch’s hands. You could leave together, find peace elsewhere.”

  With incredulity, Averyl stared back at the tall warrior. “If he will not risk his heart for me, I’ll not bring him to my side with a babe. For if he cannot love, he has no place with this child or with me.”

  Gwenyth sighed. “Drake needs time and your love. Search your heart for forgiveness. He will return, I vow.”

  “As of now, I must devote my attentions to something more pressing than Drake’s fragile heart. I know Guilford has sent funds for the people at Abbotsford, but I wish to go there, help in whatever way I can to see them through the coming winter.”

  “You cannot,” Aric warned. “Were you to return home, Murdoch would certainly find you.”

  Averyl considered the truth in his words. “That is so, but still I wish to go.”

  “You and your babe will be in danger if Murdoch finds you, only to learn that you are wed and with Drake’s child.”

  A fact, that. Averyl sighed, weighing her options. “But my people…”

  “Will be well cared for,” Aric assured. “Guilford promised such. Stay here. Now that Kieran plans to leave and join another army and I’m off again on the king’s business, there is no man we trust to accompany you on such a long journey. You would have to travel alone.”

  Remembering the would-be attackers Drake had saved her from at the Midsummer’s Eve fair, she shuddered. The brutal rogues would have thought little of taking her virtue for their pleasure. But the familiar faces of her childhood servants and friends, gaunt with hunger, swam before her eyes. She had to know they lived, not starved. And what of her father?

  Aric crossed his arms over his massive chest. “If you go, you will not only jeopardize your own life and limb, but all of Drake’s plans. He has sacrificed everything sacred to him, most especially his heart, to achieve vengeance for his father’s murder. Either you will die on the journey alone, allowing Murdoch to obtain his bloodied inheritance, or Murdoch will capture you in Scotland and Drake will die in trying to protect you from that butcher. Think of your marriage, your child, and your true feelings for your husband before you decide.”

  With that, Aric and Gwenyth left. Averyl turned back to the window, scarcely seeing the browning grass in the gray autumn chill. She saw Drake, his struggle against the evil of which he was wrongly accused, his inner turmoil. An image of his body lifeless as a cackling Murdoch hunched over him with glee assailed her, and she hugged herself in fear.

  And no matter how much she had come to resent him for using and abandoning her, she knew she could place him in no further danger.

  Until her birthday in February and the end of Murdoch’s threat, she could do naught else but rely on Guilford’s good will, feel her unborn babe grow inside her, and find a way to shut Drake out of her heart for good.

  * * * * *

  Late January

  In the midst of blizzards and chill, the morn dawned crisp and clear. Averyl rose from her bed and stretched, feeling more eighty and eight than nearly ten and eight.

  The growing size of her belly added a new dimension to her sleepless discomfort. Soon, the flowing gowns she and Gwenyth had made to accommodate her expanding waist would no longer fit. Though anxious to hold the precious child already kicking and turning within her, the thought of growing larger in these last three months of her pregnancy depressed her further.

  Then there was Drake. ’Twas not that she missed him any longer, yet he had stolen some part of her spirit when he’d left her here at Hartwich, some portion of her innards she had yet to recover. Listlessness prevailed daily, confusing the exaltation of knowing she would soon be a mother with the somber ebbs of realizing she would do so alone.

  A soft knock preceded Gwenyth’s entrance. Her chatty cousin Nellwyn followed. “Good morn, Averyl.”

  “To you, as well, Gwenyth,” she said quietly. “Good morn, Nellwyn. How fares your daughter this day?”

  “Margaret is merry and walking so well,” began the round-cheeked woman. “Heaven above, I have even seen her climbing the tables in the great hall as if they are her personal mountain. Of course, I must watch her, for she’s likely to fall, but Gwenyth is kind enough to help me with that, as you have been. And soon we’ll have your babe to spoil, which I’m so looking forward to—”

  “The letter,” Gwenyth cut in with an indulgent smile.

  “Oh, aye.” Nellwyn handed Averyl a sealed parchment. “The messenger says it came from Scotland. I’m sure ’tis from your father again. He loves you fierce to write so often,” said Gwenyth’s cousin wistfully, whose own father had cast her aside after she left her cruel but wealthy husband.

  “We shall leave you to read in peace,” said Gwenyth. “Join us in the great hall when you are ready to break your fast.”

  Nodding as the women left, Averyl turned her attention to the letter in her hand. Her father’s missives of late had brought many blessings. The people of Abbotsford now had food aplenty, as well as clothes and supplies to last through the winter, due to Guilford, bless his kind soul. Such eased her mind greatly, that the people of Abbotsford would not starve.

  The parchment crinkled in her hands as she pried open the seal and unfolded the note. A single glance, filled with words written by an unfamiliar hand. She frowned.

  Lady Averyl,

  I keep Drake as prisoner in my dungeon once more. If you do not wish his blood upon your conscience, return to Dunollie within a fortnight. Wed me, and I will set Drake free, as well as release him from blame of my father’s death.

  If you do not come, with great pain, he dies.

  Murdoch MacDougall, Lord Dunollie

  For a full minute, Avery stood rooted in place. Then she read the letter once more, praying she would find her mind had but played a cruel hoax upon her heart. But ’twas no such game.

  She began shaking. Drake was again trapped in Murdoch’s dungeon. Horror slid through her as she imagined all manner of hell the fiend could force upon her husband. And her own father had likely told Murdoch where to find her. Had he told Murdoch of her marriage as well? The note had given no such indication.

  Averyl closed her eyes. What was she to do?

  Drake might not love her. But she loved him. And he needed her, as their baby would need its father. She could not leave Drake to die, especially not painfully at Murdoch’s hands.

  She had, in fact, one choice. ’Twas risky but necessary. Once, she would never have considered such a risk. Today, she could ima
gine naught else.

  With that, she fled her room in search of Aric and Kieran. She found both training together in the lower bailey.

  The clink of clashing metal greeted her ears as she found the two in damp tunics and chain mail engaged in swordplay. Kieran lunged. Aric parried.

  “You are becoming far too careless,” warned Aric.

  Laughing, Kieran sliced, nearly nicking his friend. “I prefer to think of it as daring.”

  “A man deluding himself so young,” teased Aric, switching his sword from left hand to right, then thrusting and scratching Kieran, “’tis not wise.”

  “At least I am not soft and muddled by love.” Kieran nicked Aric’s arm with a whoosh of his blade.

  Wincing at that comment, Averyl interrupted their play. “Kieran, Aric, I would speak with you.”

  At once, they turned to her, surprise, followed quickly by concern, crossing their familiar faces. Funny how she had come to know them over the months. Aric thought much and said little. Kieran said much and thought little. But of her, they had both become fiercely protective, and for that, she was grateful.

  “Are you well?” Kieran asked.

  Aric’s gaze echoed his friend’s question.

  With an unflinching gaze, she began, “I have not asked since coming here because I did not wish to know, but now I must. Has Drake sent you any word recently?”

  The pair exchanged concerned glances that Averyl little liked.

  “Nay,” said Kieran as Aric shook his head. “Not in two months.”

  At Kieran’s comment, dread plunged Averyl’s stomach down to her toes. She had hoped Murdoch’s letter was naught but a ruse. Now she saw Drake’s capture was indeed possible. Probable even.

  Without comment, she held out the letter to the two men in a trembling hand. Kieran took it, and Aric leaned over his shoulder as they read. The warriors lifted their heads moments later.

  “We will go to Drake,” offered Aric. “Fear not.”

  “Aye, we will,” Kieran added. “He will not remain there long, love. We will make certain Drake does not die.”