His Stolen Bride BN

by Shayla Black

  “Aye, my father married that English slut, Diera, and got a brat on her. But the son of such a woman will never bear the MacDougall name, not from my tongue.”

  Wallace nodded. “As you wish, my lord.”

  The placating expression on his cousin’s face annoyed Murdoch. But the business of capturing his half brother loomed more important. “Drake cannot have taken Averyl too far, certainly not to that grandfather of his in England. Not yet, anyway. We must find them, and soon.”

  Wallace shuffled his feet. “With all due respect, my lord, what if Drake has killed her?”

  “He would not,” Murdoch growled. “Such an event would release me from my father’s cursed machinations.”

  “Drake has always dared much,” Wallace pointed out.

  “On that we agree, but to kill her would gain him naught and gain me everything.”

  “Could you not declare the girl dead? Such would give you leave to marry another with more wealth and connections—”

  “It must be her, unless I can produce her corpse. My father’s will states that I will inherit only after I wed Averyl and end this bloody feud with the Campbells.”

  “Ah, so you must find her and marry her?”

  He clenched his jaw, cursing his father’s manipulations from beyond the grave. “Precisely.”

  Moments later, a castle guard appeared with an elderly stoop-backed peasant, a fisherman. He shuffled in, his slow movements relating pain. His stark silver hair accented black eyes that glittered with anticipation.

  Murdoch chafed with impatience. “Well, what news do you bring?”

  The old man’s gnarled fingers gripped his weathered cane for support as he lowered himself into the nearest chair. “’Tis an honor to meet ye, me lord.”

  “Indeed.” Murdoch ended the chatter with a glare. “Tell me where to find my half brother so I may say the same.”

  “Aye, me lord. I saw him two days past.”

  “Alone?” Murdoch hovered over the peasant.

  “Nay. ’Twas with a woman he traveled.”

  “Describe her,” he demanded.

  “I dinna see her weel. She was a wee thing, mind ye. Her hair was fair, as was her skin.”

  Murdoch nodded. The description seemed accurate enough. “Which way did they travel? Could you tell?”

  “Aye, me lord, I could.”

  * * * * *

  After her bath, Averyl returned to the cottage as twilight painted the Scottish sky a misty blue-gray. Relief seeped through her when she lit two tapers in the dark dwelling and discovered herself alone.

  Quickly, she ran a brush through her hair, braided it, and tucked it beneath her cap. Frowning into the glass, she wondered why she bothered. Perhaps her mass of curls would revolt her captor, ensure he kept his distance. Still, she hated to see them loose, to be reminded of all her faults…

  With a sigh, she sat on the bed. Why had she not been born with silky hair and rosy cheeks like Becca? The mass of her pale curls next to an equally pale face made her look sickly. Her wisp of a figure did naught to dispel the image.

  Bother! Her appearance mattered not. She would wed Murdoch, who had seemed pleased enough with her, when she emerged from this hell. And while here, she had no wish for Locke to think her attractive. He was Murdoch’s enemy, a murderer who would use her for his revenge, at the expense of her future. He was no more than a hate-crazed beast.

  Aye, but that odd moment of heat she had once seen in his eyes while she ate his orange made her…restless. No denying, he was sinfully handsome. Under other circumstances, he would never cast a second glance in her direction. Such a realization annoyed her.

  Nay, she hoped Locke thought her ugly. Returning to Dunollie and the MacDougall, to the match she might still make, and the certainty that she could see Abbotsford’s great keep prosper for her mother’s memory—nothing more mattered.

  Locke entered the dwelling as the sun began to fall. Averyl turned to face him—only to find him bare-chested.

  She felt her eyes go wide as her gaze covered him. The dark, golden skin of his impossibly broad shoulders glistened with water droplets. So did the powerful torso that tapered into a lean, muscled waist. Struggling for her next breath, she watched a droplet descend from his navel, down over his rigid abdomen, to the tangle of hair that narrowed into a thin line…into the waist of his breeches—and lower.

  The cottage suddenly felt smaller and warmer.

  Without a word, he draped his tunic across the back of the spindle-backed chair. His thick arms were those of a seasoned warrior, corded and veined with muscle. Scattered scars appeared, a nick here, a gash there, all long healed.

  As he moved, Averyl saw the play of hard-muscled flesh across his shoulder blades. She swallowed at the reminder of his power, which gave him the strength to hurt her if he chose.

  He stepped beside the candle and bent to his boot. The golden flame lit on his wide back and the dozens upon dozens of puckered scars that crisscrossed there, some screaming red, some a painfully mute white.

  She gasped.

  Locke whirled to face her, dark eyes glittering, hostile.

  “My scars offend you?”

  “N-nay. I but… You…” she stammered. “I had no—”

  “You can thank the honorable man you sought to marry for them. Murdoch does enjoy a hearty whipping.”

  Cold shock assaulted her system as she stared in silence. Nay. Could not be true. Hate merely deluded Locke, devouring the core of his soul. He wanted her to think only the worst of the MacDougall.

  What if Locke spoke the truth?

  She shuddered. No human being deserved such mistreatment, whatever his crimes.

  Scowling, Locke changed the subject. “Have you eaten?”

  “Nay.” Her voice trembled. “I have not an appetite.”

  His gaze sliced to hers, eyes narrowing as if to probe her thoughts. He strode toward her, a challenging glint in his eyes that did not bode well.

  A voice within Averyl screamed to back away. Her pride would not let her.

  “Do you find my scars so repulsive that you cannot eat?”

  He was too near, his mood sharp and dangerous, like the edge of a blade. Averyl tried to control her uneven breathing, to break the hold of his dark gaze on hers. Locke’s stare stayed, allowing no retreat.

  “I fear nothing about you,” she answered, chin raised.

  “Then why do you shake?” Locke turned away and stalked across the room. “You’ve no need to skitter about like a frightened rabbit. You are safe with me. Unless you wish it, I will not touch you.”

  “Perhaps I would not skitter were your disposition more pleasant,” she retorted through clenched teeth.

  As he faced her once more, his eyes narrowed. “’Tis a fool you are if you think I will behave any particular way so that you may regard me as pleasant.”

  “Then a fool I must be.” She infused her voice with a razor edge. “I had supposed that a man with a beating heart, with feelings, would perhaps attempt some measure of civility, in light of the fact my future is ruined.” She paused. “Oh, but you haven’t any feelings, have you? ’Tis doubtful you even possess a heart. How foolish of me to forget.”

  “I can see your father did not teach you to dull the sharp edge of your tongue.”

  “Nor would I have listened.”

  Jaw taut, he turned away once more. “Go to bed. I’ve no interest in sparring with you further this night.”

  “I’ve no interest in sparring with you at all.”

  That said, Averyl whirled to the bed in the center of the room. Having conducted a tour of the small cottage, she knew the dwelling had but one other room—one which lay empty, void of any furnishings, much less a bed. She swallowed, then cast a surreptitious glance back at her captor.

  “Where will you sleep?”

  Wearing a smile, he dragged his
gaze over the rumpled bed.

  “You cannot!”

  The smile widened. “Do you fear for your virtue?”

  “Aye.” Realizing she’d just implied that Locke would want a homely maid like her in his bed, she flushed. “Nay.”

  She swallowed again. Would he take her, if only because he had no other woman available to ease his manly urges?

  With a resolute shake of her head, she clarified, “I know naught of your plans or thoughts.”

  “You know not if I desire you.” He raised a jet brow. “Is that not the question?”

  Heat, part excitement, part chagrin, coursed through her. She cast her glance to the uneven mud floor. Could he possibly want her? She opened her mouth, but no words came forth.

  “Should I wonder if you desire me?” he whispered.

  Averyl risked a glance in his direction. Her gaze followed Locke as he smoothed a hand across his bare chest…and lower. His flat palm stretched over hard muscle. Her heartbeat quickened.

  Did women caress their lovers in such a manner? The thought came, unbidden. Horrified at her musing, she dismissed the question.

  The man possessed not a shred of modesty. Aye, but despite his scars, he had no reason to hide an inch of his well-honed warrior’s body. Her face bloomed with hot color.

  “Wonder not. I will never desire you,” she swore. “Ever.”

  Locke sent a challenging stare in her direction. But he did naught else. Said naught more.

  “You swore you would not touch me,” she reminded.

  “I swore I would not touch you unless you wished it.”

  “That settles our issue, then. Does it not?”

  He cocked his head, his dark stare questioning, measuring. “Perhaps.”

  “Unless you plan to rape me for your perverse pleasure—”

  “I’ve no need to force a woman to my bed.”

  The statement was direct, honest. Averyl did not doubt he had more invitations than he could keep. Her face burned hotter.

  “If that is so, you have no need to force your way into that bed with me,” she concluded, arms crossed over her chest.

  He smiled darkly. “Instead, I will sleep on the floor, by the door, to be certain you do not escape.”

  Realizing she had possibly thwarted her own plan, Averyl turned away, fists clenched. Reviewing her options, she paced.

  How could she escape this eve, without the key, as Locke guarded the door? With the hated dark looming about her like a fiendish specter? Impossible. Still, she must try.

  Suddenly, she caught Locke’s stare in the mirror. Across the barren room, in the flickering candlelight, he watched her.

  For a moment, she beheld the unrestricted view of his golden chest without thought to its brute power. Never had she given any thought that a man’s body might be pleasing. Had she not always thought one was much like another? Here, Locke proved her wrong. What she had interpreted moments ago as fear-inspiring power now struck her differently.

  Through lowered lashes, she studied the ornate silver-and-gold cross hanging between his collarbones, suspended from a thick silver chain. Below that, she examined the hard swells of muscle around his dark nipples and the ridged flesh across his abdomen. Was all of him built that powerfully?

  “Come here, Averyl.” His deep voice resonated about her.

  His command was naught more than a soft challenge. She knew she should ignore it, ignore him. His glittering eyes would not let her.

  Toward him she stepped, chin held high. “I assume this request has a purpose, for I am not your servant.”

  A smile curled the corner of his mouth. “A step closer, if you please. I am in the mood for talking.”

  Averyl snorted her disbelief. “I stand plenty close for talking.”

  “Not tonight.”

  His voice sounded warm, enticing—dangerous to one’s soul. Gathering her composure, she stepped boldly toward Locke. He seemed to thrive on her uncertainty. ’Twould be a hard-fought battle before she showed it again.

  Mere inches separated them. The heat of his body, the scent of wood and musk, assailed her. He took her hand in his.

  Averyl held in a gasp at his warm touch. When he began stroking her palm with his thumb, she drew in a deep breath to calm her alarm. Even so, tingles of sensation assailed her, while his velvety eyes invited. She swallowed.

  “Do you know the ways of men and women?” His voice stroked and incited her to something she had never felt. If he had naught but hate within him, how could his voice be so warm?

  She raised her chin, hoping he could not see her tremble. “What I know or not is none of your affair.”

  “Perhaps I should ask instead if you wonder about the feel of a man’s kiss. The touch of his hand where you ache?”

  Lips parted, eyes wide, she stared at his dark face, into his knowing eyes. Yes, secretly, shamefully, on long, cold nights in her solitary bed, she did wonder.

  “I—I…” she stammered, betraying her answer.

  A smile curved his full lips, making him seem an entirely different man, one without anger or revenge dominating his heart. “’Tis as nature intended.”

  The feather-light touch of his fingers teased their way up the bare inside of her arm. His words, his touch, shot a shocking ache from her center through her limbs. The drumbeat of her pulse erupted into a march.

  “Have you imagined more?” His gaze, a flash of heat, pierced her with a sharp answering want. “Wondered about the feel of a man on top of you? Inside of you?”

  Gasping, she recoiled, face flaming, and tried to wrench from his grasp. “Nay! ’Tis unseemly.”

  Despite her protestations, his scent, of earth and man, rose up to confuse her, to plant carnal notions in her head.

  What kind of lover would Locke be? Demanding? Possessive? Or surprisingly tender?

  She stared at his fine, carved features, his incredibly dark eyes. She found no answers therein, only mystery, secrets he seemed to hide.

  Disturbed, she sent her gaze down. She paused at his lips. The bottom one was fuller than the other, but as if to atone for this, the top lip dipped sensuously in the center, adding to his mouth’s appeal. Somehow she knew he could kiss a woman senseless.

  Her pulse soared with anxiety and awareness. She peered at him, wondering why her mind toyed with her thus.

  “I can satisfy your curiosity.” His tone said he could do that—and more.

  Sweet mercy, had he read her very mind? “I want only freedom from you.”

  Cursing her breathy reply, she tried to withdraw her hand from his, to end the disturbing touch. He held fast.

  “I could find more than one way to give you and your sharp tongue delight.”

  More than one way?

  Averyl forced the instant vision of sheets and skin from her thoughts. She mustn’t even consider such.

  Tilting her chin upward, she still could not help wondering why he offered. Did he see something beautiful in her that other men, even her own father, did not?

  Of course not. He merely sought to confuse and use her. She must not lose sight of that.

  “Release me. I will not, for a moment more, allow this torture. Think you I wish to give my maidenhead to the swine who took me from my bed and family, then ruined my life? If so, sir, you hold entirely too high an opinion of yourself.”

  Locke clenched his jaw and scowled. “I shall restrict myself from torturing you, as you put it,” he said, releasing her. “But I suggest you keep your straying gaze elsewhere, else I will treat your stare as an invitation.” He grabbed a blanket from the bed and strode past her. “Good night.”

  * * * * *

  Averyl lay stiffly in darkness blacker than soot. She drew in a deep breath, refusing to succumb to the familiar frozen terror. Locke had given her little choice but to seek escape during night’s most shadowed hour.

  At t
he base of the door, she heard his deep, even breathing. Though he slept, Averyl could not. Would not, despite the comfort of the mattress beneath. Escape beckoned. And the location of Locke’s codpiece was crucial.

  Straining to see her captor through the frightfully inky room, Averyl pushed her fear aside and rose from the bed. The cold earthen floor beneath her feet shocked her, and she made a mental note to grab her satchel before leaving.

  Inching forward, she trembled, praying the corners of this dark, foreign room were not haunted with bloodthirsty demons or violent specters. Still, she dared not risk lighting a candle for fear of waking the mortal beast by the door.

  She stepped on a rock and winced, biting her lip to stay silent. Locke’s deep breathing continued, and she crept on.

  At his side, Averyl knelt and, like a blind woman bobbing for an apple, felt the floor around his body for the codpiece attached to his hose. She knew he’d placed it somewhere at his side, for she had heard the rustle of cloth as he’d disrobed in the dark. Averyl refused to wonder which other garments he’d removed, how much of his taut skin he had bared to the night.

  After another tap or two, she felt a long length of cloth beneath her hand, thankfully void of a leg. Hope welling within her, she clasped the fabric and vowed to follow it until she found his codpiece.

  She encountered a hard, hot, linen-clad thigh instead and jerked her hand away.

  At her touch, Locke stirred and rolled to his back. Face flaming at the intimacy, Averyl tensed and leaned away.

  “Averyl?” His question was slurred with sleep, her own name hardly recognizable.

  She did not answer. Moonlight penetrated the darkness through a crack beneath the door, which Locke no longer blocked. Stark alabaster rays illuminated the floor, and Averyl seized upon the light as a sign from God. With it, she could see no specters hovered near—as well as half of his hose.

  The other half lay trapped beneath Locke’s hip.

  Biting her lip, Averyl resolved to continue with her plan. She sat beside him and reclined on one elbow, hoping to gain better position to pry the pouch from beneath him. Stealing a glance at his face to see, she saw he slept still.