His Stolen Bride BN

by Shayla Black

  That sound shivered its way down his back.

  Her fair skin glowed golden-pink in the sconce’s light. A delicate nose, firm, high cheekbones, and a small but stubborn jaw lent her a look that was both ethereal and sensual.

  She tilted her head back, as if in worship to the moon. His gaze followed the arch of her neck, the stirring lift of her soft bosom as she inhaled a floral-tinged breath. He found himself drawing in a ragged breath as well.

  Forcing his gaze lower made her no less enticing. Her body was tempting, womanly. Graceful shoulders rose above the inviting curve of her breasts above her small, tapered waist. She must know how much she enticed a man. His mother always had. Why should a Campbell whore be any different?

  Despite his contempt, lust coiled through Drake, pooling heat low in his belly. His enemy’s woman was a surprise—not that such mattered. Lady Averyl was a part of his plan, would soon be a temporary—but necessary—part of his life. Her role in this unfolding drama of vengeance was merely that of a pawn.

  Averyl opened her eyes and looked about. He watched in puzzlement as she looked to her left and right, as well as behind. Had she detected his presence? Cursing, he tucked himself tighter behind the dye house and glanced ’round the side.

  A moment later, Averyl plucked away the white cloth adorning her head. With a shake, she moaned, and a cascade of soft curls tumbled down in touchable flaxen waves that ended at her waist.

  His belly clenched. Striking. Enchanting. Exquisite. The words flowed from his mind.

  As he shoved them away, Averyl lifted her tresses and tossed them about, as if relishing freedom. She arched her lissome body into the evening wind.

  Drake’s pulse went into turmoil.

  Murdoch was unfortunate indeed that he would never know this beauty, even if she was a bloody Campbell, as a wife.

  He smiled with malice. Robbing Murdoch of Lady Averyl’s wifely comforts would be yet another measure of revenge he had not expected but was more than pleased to deny his half brother.

  An older, unfamiliar man stepped into the garden. He raced to Averyl’s side with all urgency, eyes bulging.

  “Child, put your wimple on. What if MacDougall sees you? Though he will see all that hair soon enough, you must not reveal that…mass until after your vows have been spoken.”

  Mass? Drake gaped at the addled man’s words. Her curls looked soft as down. Without them, she would seem somehow…plain, Drake thought. The tresses gave her the appearance of innocence and innate sensuality at once.

  With her money-grasping, Campbell-thinking ways, however, such was surely naught more than illusion.

  “I am sorry, Father. No one was about, and I grew warm.”

  The portly man embraced her. “Would that you were a beauty, lamb, a tall girl with smooth hair and a more generous breast. It pains me to chastise you so. I hope you understand.”

  Averyl nodded stiffly. Drake found himself scowling.

  “Now come inside,” her father instructed. “’Tis time and past you retired. Murdoch just informed me that, on the morrow, you are to be betrothed.”

  A joyous smile lit up her face. She clapped her hands and gave a small shriek of excitement.

  Drake wondered how much she knew—or not—about her choice of husband.

  “Truly?” she asked.

  “Truly. Now, get you inside, girl. You must look well for your betrothal, and this damp air will only curl your hair more.”

  Some of the light left her eyes as she cast them down. “Of course, father. I shall retire directly.”

  The aged lord stayed her when she would have walked away. “I am proud of you, Averyl. In spite of MacDougall’s striking figure, you have not shied from your faults. You do me credit.”

  Averyl turned from her father. Moonlight settled across her solemn face. With a tight squeeze of her lids, she blocked Drake’s view to her luminous, expressive eyes. She bit her lip to hold back tears.

  Anger washed through him. It irritated him nearly as much as her father did. Ramsey Campbell ought to be beaten, at least until he could see the beauty of his daughter’s face.

  As he watched her disappear inside the castle, he shrugged the sensation away. Averyl’s trials, whatever they might be, were of no concern to him.

  Alone now, Drake looked about. Night had fallen completely, a storm was brewing in the angry sky, and the guard he’d gifted with a jug of ale had finally passed out by the wicket gate.

  He had missed every possibly lethal clue while watching Murdoch’s betrothed. Drake frowned at his lack of concentration, knowing he could ill afford such distraction. In two hours, the course of his life, and Murdoch’s, would forever change.

  But perhaps Lady Averyl’s would change most of all.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The MacDougall wanted her for a wife!

  Averyl’s head swam with the notion and warmed her blood with relief as she fingered the lavish bracelet of rubies he had placed upon her wrist—a prelude to their betrothal. It mattered not that he wed her only to cease the wars between their clans. In the years to come, she would give him no cause to regret his decision, despite her plain face.

  Averyl entered her chamber in Dunollie’s keep after the evening meal, as all the castle’s inhabitants sought their beds. Though she doubted sleep would come this night, she vowed to try. She must look her best for tomorrow’s betrothal ceremony.

  Shedding her embroidered belt and its matching brocade gown, Averyl stood clad in her chemise, shivering at the room’s chill. She frowned at the pair of weak flames seeming to hover above the candles in the corner, then stared at the empty grate beside it. MacDougall had ordered a fire for her. Wondering at his lazy servants, Averyl made her way to the door with every intent of calling for help.

  A noise came, a shuffling behind her. She cast a quick glance at the two small windows. Neither was open to invite the night’s breeze. And the shuffle had been too large for a mouse.

  As her heart began to thud, Averyl turned slowly to see what—or who—had invaded her chamber.

  Suddenly, the meager light from the candles to her right flickered and died.

  Averyl cried out, her heart pounding, as the detested dark enveloped her. The black she despised closed in, choking her courage and logic.

  Would she live to see her marriage to MacDougall? Or would she die now? Would it hurt?

  The icy rush of her blood heralded prickling apprehension. Cold sweat beaded its way across her skin as her heart threatened to beat out of her chest. No brutal attack came—yet—as she struggled to peer into the frightening, endless black.

  But an intruder was here. She sensed it. Felt it. Averyl listened but still heard naught except blood churning in her ears, multiplied by the chilling silence. Saw nothing but shadowed night. Fear pulled at her as mercilessly as a stretching rack.

  She glanced about the night-draped room again. Still, the murky gray-black revealed no one, naught sinister.

  But the tingling sensation of a hot gaze upon her took root and grew.

  Her heart pounded, quickening to a frenzied beat. Fear battled logic. The silence turned thick, tense.

  “Who comes?” she called, voice shaking.

  Utter hush met her query. The room stood still, clasped in the dark shadows. The wind gave a mean rumble outside.

  The stare upon her intensified, like a hunter closing in on its prey, focusing on her linen-clad shoulders, her bare legs. Averyl’s heart chugged faster as a low-pitched throb vibrated through her body, gathering strength.

  Sweet Mary, where was the door? How fast could she run?

  Suddenly, a broad palm covered her mouth as a hot hand seized her arm, pulling her against a large form in a coarse woolen garment.

  Terror washed over her in a cold, consuming wave. Gasping, Averyl tried to face the threat and struggle from the harsh grip. She opened her mouth to scream but could
not force the sound past the strength of heavy fingers over her lips.

  Straining over her shoulder for a glance of the fiend, she saw silvery moonlight beam through the window, illuminating a mere corner of the intruder’s face. The fearsome specter draped in a brown tunic hovered over her. Nature’s light cast harsh emphasis on his hard jaw and sprawling shoulders.

  A moment later, the clouds blanketed the moon again. The room fell into chilling darkness. A sharp clap of thunder followed, echoing her racing heart.

  Defined now by shadows, the man leaned closer. A scream tore at her throat, trapped still by his hand over her mouth.

  Lightning fast, the stranger backed Averyl to the mattress and, with the press of his free hand to her shoulders, flattened her against it.

  Nay! Her heart beating like a wild beast, Averyl squirmed and writhed for freedom, kicking at his stomach, his shins. He grabbed her ankles and clamped them between strong thighs, rendering her legs immobile.

  Bile and terror rose in her throat. Sweet Mary, who was this villain? Why would he be here, staring with cold menace?

  How would she escape?

  Averyl grunted, straining against his grasp as fear swallowed her. Lungs aching, heart pounding, she watched the male figure bend over her, his palm still securely clamped over her mouth, silencing her calls for help.

  Fists clenched, she punched him, arms thrashing, landing blows to his arms and face. He seemed not to notice, even when she pushed futilely against his solid chest. His insistent fingers merely seized her wrists and lowered her arms to her sides. With her mouth free, she opened it to scream. His returning hand stopped the sound before she could utter it.

  One of his unyielding arms reached beneath her shoulders, scooping her against his broad chest. Trepidation burned through her blood. She turned her face away from his hand.

  “Nay!” she screamed, but thunder muffled her cry.

  “Not another word,” he warned.

  The stranger’s voice told her he was Scottish, but held a slight English clip. Who was he? Why had he come?

  Averyl’s mind raced as he fit his other arm beneath her knees and scooped her against him. In desperation, she writhed and shrieked as he left the room, but he held her head against his shoulder, muffling her cries.

  Fear burned her like a cauldron’s fire as he descended the stairs. Where did he take her? A creaking door precipitated the cool night wind, which served as her only answer.

  She looked up, beyond his determined chin and strong nose, feeling his hot breath mingle with the howl of wind tugging at her cap. The garden. Mercy, would anyone see her here?

  Knowing ’twas not likely, terror blazed her anew. Fingers bared, Averyl reached out to claw his unfamiliar face. He dodged her attack and set her on her feet.

  She made ready to run, but the fiend grabbed her arms, holding them against her sides, then brought her body to his, trapping her thighs between his, despite the monk’s robe he wore.

  His breadth and height eclipsed her, obscured her in black shadow. With little effort, he held her against his hard form and covered her mouth with his hand.

  “I’ve no wish to hurt you,” he said, his voice low, smooth.

  Not believing him, Averyl jerked away from his touch. “You—you forced me from my chamber. If not to hurt me, why?”

  “I will explain in good time,” he promised into the wind’s yowling.

  Aye, when it was likely too late. Averyl opened her mouth to yell for help. He slapped a warm palm over her lips once more.

  “Do not make me gag you,” he warned, then bent to his boot to retrieve a knife.

  Averyl’s heart bolted faster than lightening at the sight of his silvery blade. She bit into the salty flesh of his palm and tasted blood. With a curse, he tore his hand away. Into the stiff wind, she screamed for her life. He clamped his hand over her lips again and searched about for intruders. To her shock, no one came to her rescue.

  “I give but one warning, wench,” he bit out.

  Her attacker reached for her, a cloth in hand—a knife in the other. She couldn’t breathe as she struggled, tearing at his hair, kicking his shins. She succeeded only in slipping to the mud below, falling to her knees before him.

  Kneeling, he scooped her up, until her feet were beneath her once more. She cringed in dread, panting, as he—and his menacing blade—loomed closer. Averyl wanted to run, but the vicious silver dagger glinted with danger in the stark moonlight.

  Averyl closed her eyes, bracing herself for the tearing of her flesh, for the end of her life. Surprise rippled through Averyl when he merely bound her mouth shut, then ripped Murdoch’s ruby bracelet from her cold skin with his blade.

  Did he but seek to thieve it from her?

  With his hot fingers clamped about her wrist, he dragged her over to the square building nearest the enclosure wall. She stumbled at his rapid pace, mud coating her bare feet.

  He paused before the small structure. The kirk, she realized, spotting the pale cross gleaming in the moonlight.

  The intruder held the bracelet to the dark wood and arched the knife into the enormous door. She started at the thump of the blade as he anchored the bauble in place, leaving it to dangle like a war trophy.

  “Murdoch will know who has taken you,” he said.

  Averyl wondered how.

  When he turned to face her again, her captor gathered her against his solid length once more. Averyl pushed against the steel of his chest, resisting his tight grasp as he crept to the wicket gate. He pushed her through it, then ducked to follow close behind, holding her about the waist all the while. Averyl nearly tripped on a pair of sentries lying against the curtain wall, each clutching a jug of ale in drunken, snoring slumber.

  She would have no help there. Panic rising, Averyl tried to wriggle from his grip—to no avail.

  Her captor clasped one strong hand around the back of her neck, then tore the lacy cap from her head with the other. As he coiled his fingers through her unruly curls, her gaze flew to his. Her breath turned shallow. By the moon’s light, Averyl could see the chiseled planes of the brute’s hard face, framed by inky hair. His piercing dark eyes loomed dangerously close.

  The wind wailed in the blackness. One of her pale curls lifted with the breeze to smooth across his cheek, skim his neck.

  “You cannot escape me,” he vowed. “You are only likely to injure yourself trying.”

  Her every muscle trembled from exertion, from fear, as she yanked the gag from her mouth. “Y-you plan to k-kill me?”

  Averyl had not thought her assailant could look any angrier. Not until she witnessed every muscle in his face tighten.

  “If you die, ’twill not be by my hand.”

  The words did not reassure her, and the man said nothing more before he placed the gag over her mouth again and rose. Grasping her wrists together tightly, he dragged her through a dark, dank tunnel for long minutes, then out into the storm’s fury again, to a pair of horses tethered in the distance. She stumbled behind him, body stiff, resisting every step of the way.

  Turning to one horse, the stranger checked the ties holding a satchel that looked to be hers. How had he obtained her belongings?

  Before she could begin to guess the answer, the knave doffed the monk’s robe and tossed it aside. Beneath, he stood taller, broader than she had first thought. He wore a simple black tunic and hose, perfect to become one with the night.

  The man mounted the dark gray animal, pulling her up in front of him so she, too, straddled the saddle. He clutched her to his chest, preventing any further opportunity to escape.

  Gazing back at the stone keep so close, yet so far away, her captor growled, “Buaidh no bas.”

  Conquer or die.

  Averyl gulped. Did he seek to conquer her?

  The villain urged his mount forward. Though she fought to free her hands so she might jump and run, he held
them too tight. She tried to scream past her gag and prayed someone would hear and follow, that Murdoch would rescue her. No one emerged from the castle as it stood stout against the shrieking wind.

  Dunollie Castle shrank in the distance behind them as he took their journey at a canter. The dervish charted their course from the main road, into a dense forest. Rain began to fall, punctuated by an occasional flash of wicked lightning as they rode farther and farther away from her father, her future—and her only hope of saving Abbotsford.

  The thought staggered her. Only his mercy stood between life and death. Terrified, she sent a promise upward to do whatever God wanted, if only He helped her escape.

  The man behind her must have felt her shudder, for he covered her with his cloak, as if she were cold. As he reached around her to fasten it, his fingers brushed her neck. His scalding touch on her chilled skin multiplied Averyl’s dread.

  Loathing and fury overcame her. Summoning her energy, Averyl squared her shoulders and stiffened her spine so she no longer leaned against the devil.

  Minutes slipped into hours that became a cold, wet misery as they galloped seemingly toward the bowels of hell. Finally, the sun crept above the horizon, its slow pace mirroring her weariness. She scratched at her heavy eyes. Her back ached as much as her cramped legs. Pressing sharp nails into her palms to remain alert, Averyl straightened away from her captor once more. But she could not avoid the hard thrust of his thighs cradling hers.

  As she fought to keep her heavy eyes open, his warmth lured her closer to his sheltering body, against all good sense. As if sensing her weariness, he touched an oddly gentle hand to her shoulder and settled her body against his before her heavy lids slid inexorably shut.

  * * * * *

  Averyl awoke, feeling a soft bed beneath her. The woodsy crackling of a fire penetrated her senses. How long had she slept?

  The clink of a goblet told her she was not alone. Fear chased away the vestiges of sleep.

  Her eyes sprang open, and she spotted a man—her captor—sitting on a scuffed wooden chair in an unfamiliar room. The golden light did naught to soften his features.