His Stolen Bride BN

by Shayla Black

  Footsteps approached the door. Averyl’s stomach fluttered.

  She would not dwell on him or their kiss. ’Twas folly. He did not and would not have feelings for her. The kiss, her fears, meant naught to him. His patience could mean even less to her, for she would never desire, much less love, a man with no heart. That he’d aroused any feeling in her save hate was no more than happenstance.

  Jumping from the bed, Averyl struggled to shove her hair beneath her wimple. Chiding herself for the foolish vanity, she grabbed her dress and thrust it on. Still, Locke did not appear. Instead, to her amazement, she heard two men conversing. One voice, the more somber one, she recognized as Locke’s. The other was unfamiliar.

  The strength of the voices grew as they approached Locke’s dwelling, until the men stopped just outside. Her heart picked up its pace. Who was this stranger? Might he help her escape?

  Curiosity and hope soared within her as she crept toward the window and eased open the shutter. Silently, she crouched beneath, listening for any piece of information that might aid her escape.

  “You look weary, my friend.” She recognized the voice as Locke’s. “Did you travel all night?”

  “Aye, most of it. But with a little sleep and a warm wench, I will be better than new,” the stranger quipped.

  “As always.” An irony Averyl did not understand resounded in her captor’s voice. “Tell me what news you bring.”

  “If you expected good news, I am bound to disappoint. When Murdoch discovered Lady Averyl missing, he bellowed like a wounded hound. He cursed you and the day you were born.”

  Surprisingly Locke laughed, a rich, baritone sound that projected into the small cottage, flowing over her senses rather like warm honey.

  “What then?”

  “After he realized cursing would help him not in finding his bride, he began gathering his allies to seek you out.”

  “As I expected.”

  As he expected? Averyl felt shock reverberating through her half-clad body. Locke sounded frighteningly calm, as if he abducted women every day.

  ’Twas possible, she acknowledged with a thud of fear.

  Abduction was a common occurrence for daughters and wives. Many came to accept their captivity. Averyl knew she should do the like, if only for her safety. Despite his assurances to the contrary, Locke might be provoked to rape or murder, as was the fate of many captives.

  But she refused to accept her bonds.

  “Murdoch has again demanded your death,” the stranger said. “This time, on sight. He means to have your blood on his hands. Watch your back, my friend.”

  “His wishes mean naught.”

  “But as he searches for you, he travels with a priest.”

  “A priest?”

  “Aye. One to perform his marriage vows to the Lady Averyl just before your last rites.”

  Averyl frowned at the terrible image. Would her gallant chieftain really order such a barbaric wedding?

  “Murdoch would have starved or beaten me to death in his dungeons,” Drake argued. “Should we come to combat, I am his equal. And if I die, ’twill be knowing I fought for honor and vengeance. At least with Lady Averyl in my keep, I have a chance to best him by striking at the heart of his greed.”

  Greed? Of what did Locke speak?

  “We shall have to think of some alternative if you want to keep her. For upon your last journey to Dunollie, a member of the Clan MacDougall spotted you docking a boat at Ardrossan and told Murdoch such two days past. He is convinced you hide on one of these isles and will search each until he finds you.”

  A long minute of silence passed before her captor finally responded, his tones gravelly. “That is not good news.”

  Reining in a cry of glee, Averyl balled her fists and smiled. Locke was trapped, as well he knew. She would be free of the handsome barbarian who imprisoned her, hid her shoes…kissed her until she could scarce breathe. Murdoch would find her soon and make her his wife. All would be well.

  “Since Murdoch believes Lady Averyl harbors some measure of love for him and will make every attempt to flee, he is determined he and his priest will be waiting when she does.”

  Averyl’s heart leapt again. Murdoch would aid and protect her once she managed to escape. ’Twas a hopeful sign that he cared for her.

  “I will see that she cannot,” Locke replied flatly.

  Leaning in for a closer listen, Averyl resisted her sinking hopes.

  “Can you tell me she has not tried to leave?” He sounded doubtful indeed.

  “Aye, and more than once.”

  “Then she may well succeed, my friend. If she wants freedom from you badly enough, she may find it.”

  Another long pause. Averyl stood stock-still, poised beneath the window in the hope Locke might see reason and release her.

  “Perhaps you are right. I shall have to think. Murdoch cannot be allowed to escape murder without punishment.”

  Averyl bit her lip mercilessly to hold in her outrage. Again, Locke intimated Murdoch had participated in his own father’s murder. ’Twas an insult. The MacDougall would not commit such a heinous act. Her captor merely had this stranger duped into believing his wicked lies. By his own admission, Locke sought to kill Murdoch MacDougall.

  “I could kill him myself for his treatment of you,” said the other man.

  Locke grunted in response. “Someway, somehow, I vow Murdoch’s hate and lust for power will cost him.”

  “I shall help you. My ideas are always more interesting.”

  At that, her captor scoffed. “Always? I would hardly call peeking at crones bathing in the river an interesting idea.”

  “So you remember that? I thought in ten years’ time you might forget.”

  “Never.”

  “I told you I assumed Guilford’s younger maids would bathe as well,” the stranger defended.

  “You would know more of their bathing habits than I.”

  “These days, aye.” The man’s voice was mischief itself.

  “Do you return to the village and Dunollie?” Locke asked. “I could use the spy.”

  “Murdoch needs mercenaries and pays well besides.”

  “Learn what you can and send me word.”

  “I will, friend,” the stranger answered.

  “As always, I thank you.”

  “And I accept.” The stranger’s voice carried a note of humor. “And since we’ve concluded our business, you must tell me how you fare with your captive. I assume any bride of Murdoch’s would be some manner of horned she-demon.”

  Locke did not respond for long moments. Averyl tensed, and the pause dragged onward as he paced the hard-packed earth outside, twigs snapping beneath his boots.

  “Averyl is not horned. But a she-demon…”

  “So she has been difficult?” the man asked.

  “She is no weak-willed wench, but nothing I cannot manage.”

  “What is she like?” the man persisted.

  “Always interested in the women.” There was amusement in Drake’s voice. “She is well-spoken and sharp-witted.”

  And though Averyl knew Locke complimented her, it stung her pride that he found nothing else about her worthy of comment, particularly in light of their kisses. She shoved the feeling aside, refusing to care what the brigand thought of her.

  “When do I meet her?” the stranger asked.

  Averyl heard footsteps coming toward the door and tensed. Before she could act, Drake spoke again.

  “Later. She sleeps, and ’tis best for now if she stays thus.”

  “As you wish. Pray tell me, what does she look like?”

  “A young maiden,” Drake replied without inflection.

  But not a fair one, Averyl thought and wanted to cringe.

  The stranger laughed. “Firtha called her lovely. Has your pretty face finally failed you with a woman?”
<
br />   “Kieran, I’ve no reason to charm the wench.”

  Tattered pride lacerated Averyl like a whip on the wind. Locke thought of her as nothing but the means to an end. What else did you expect, fool? She clenched her fists, wishing she could ignore the ache his painfully honest remark caused, yet not understanding why she sought the miscreant’s good opinion when she wanted naught but escape.

  The stranger paused before teasing, “That means she is most homely or already besotted. Which is it?”

  Locke said naught.

  “You are never one for many words, my friend. But such silence… I can only assume you want her badly.”

  “Kieran…” Her captor’s voice held a warning.

  “After fifteen years of friendship, do you not think you can tell me the truth?”

  “God’s teeth.” He sighed heavily. “You know me too well. Averyl is so damned fair, she knocks the breath from me each time I gaze at her.”

  Beneath the window, Averyl stopped breathing as shock wound its tingling tendrils throughout her. Did Locke speak true? Nay, he lied to ease his friend’s curiosity, surely.

  Then why had he kissed her last night, not once but twice?

  “Well, now. That is interesting.”

  “Her eyes are so wide and green.” Drake cursed.

  He had noticed the color of her eyes?

  Locke gave a resigned sigh. “I know not what to do.”

  “Of course you do.” The other man laughed. “Bed her.”

  “She is my captive, not my leman.”

  “I do not see this as a problem. Would she resist you?”

  Again, Drake paused. Averyl held her breath, wondering if he knew how he repelled her, yet how often she thought of him…

  “With every breath she took. ’Tis not an option, Kieran.”

  “Nonsense. ’Tis always an option, my friend.”

  * * * * *

  Minutes later, Drake and the stranger, Kieran, entered the small cottage. Averyl’s mind whirled in a confused daze. Forcing aside her myriad questions about Locke’s belief of Murdoch’s guilt, she gazed at the stranger.

  He was nearly as tall as Locke, their broad statures betraying them both as warriors. This Kieran appeared a few years younger, but Averyl knew not if that was fact or a product of the man’s perpetual grin.

  The stranger’s hair was a dark mahogany, liberally laced with auburn, his eyes a startling shade between blue and green. His face held a hint of boyishness, confirmed by dimples—then belied by the mischief dancing in his gaze. He smiled, looking much friendlier than her captor, like a man who enjoyed life.

  Soon some pull induced Averyl’s gaze back to her captor’s dark visage. His intent stare held hers. Did Drake really think her beautiful?

  ’Twas foolish to wonder such. She should concern herself only with whether the stranger might be persuaded to aid her.

  “This is Kieran Broderick.” Locke turned to the other man. “My friend, Lady Averyl Campbell.”

  With a smile, Kieran lifted her hand to brush his lips across her fingers. “’Tis a pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

  Unaccustomed to such a flattering gaze, she withdrew her hand. “Greetings.”

  Then realizing only the rogue Kieran could help her escape, she offered him a smile. Aye, ’twas unlikely such a man would find her worthy of attention; a smile was all she had to offer.

  Kieran surprised her by smiling back.

  A pause settled in the air, blooming with tension. Drake broke the silence. “Averyl, go outside and retrieve Kieran’s belongings.”

  “’Tis your captive I am, not your slave,” she snapped.

  Kieran laughed. “An answer Gwenyth would give.”

  Who was this Gwenyth? And why did Drake scowl so?

  Kieran added, “Well, ’tis clear our brooding Drake is unhappy. Lass, if you would gather my bag, I would consider it a favor.”

  A quick glance at Locke revealed a scowl. Good. Her smile widened. “I shall see to your things right away.”

  Averyl let herself out the door. Drake watched, his gaze remaining on her alluring backside until she was out of sight.

  Christ’s blood, why did he want her so? Why had she smiled so sweetly for Kieran? Might Averyl be like his treacherous mother: Another man, another conquest? Diera had never lacked a reason for her flirtations. What would Lady Averyl’s reason be? And how would he stop her?

  “Kieran,” Drake began abruptly. “Averyl is here to serve my purpose. Do not trifle with her.”

  “Trifle?” His friend frowned. “I would not intrude upon your…claim.”

  “’Tis no claim,” he growled.

  “Oh, aye. You desire her, do not wish to, yet want no other to have her.”

  Drake cursed. Kieran could be annoyingly perceptive. “She is a wench, and a Campbell one at that.”

  “Aye, as well as a fragile, wee thing whose only sin was in agreeing to wed Murdoch.”

  “Thus far.”

  Kieran sighed in exasperation. “Drake, you cannot punish her for Diera’s sins.”

  Drake felt his composure crack from the foundation upward, spearing him with a bolt of anger. “No more than you withhold your heart from women because of your mother’s doings.”

  “We speak of you and the lady.” Kieran looked angry for the first time Drake could recall. “Averyl is not responsible for your pain. She did not destroy your father with betrayals. Diera did that alone.”

  “I need no reminder that my mother was a whore.”

  “Forget it. She is dead. Gone. Life is now.”

  Drake whirled away. Though Kieran spoke true, Drake refused to forget. He let his pain fester, hoping ’twould remind him that to trust a woman would be heedless. Diera had crushed his proud father’s heart. At her hand, Drake had learned the perfidy of which women were capable and the depths of a man’s anguish. But with Averyl, he feared that lesson would be easy to forget if he touched her lush, fragrant flesh under a shadowed moon.

  Never would he be such a fool. If he took the fair Averyl to his bed, his heart would remain untouched.

  * * * * *

  The following morn, Averyl awoke before the sun, hoping to sneak a private word with Kieran. True, he had not given any indication in his manner that he would aid her escape, but she prayed for it.

  Grabbing her red silken dress from beside the bed, she slipped it over her shift, protecting her skin from the morning chill. A quick glance across the room proved her captor slept, his large body sprawled across the door. In the dwindling firelight, she saw one brawny arm strewn above his head, the other bulged across the lean power of his chest.

  How would such mighty arms feel about her, holding her tight against a heart filled with love and devotion?

  Her pulse picked up, and she crossed herself in reproach. Sweet mercy, she was a fool to desire the very man she must escape, to feel aught for the captor who thought her an inconsequential pawn in his vengeful scheme.

  Averyl raised both hands to secure her wimple, then tiptoed around the corner, to the cottage’s empty room, where Kieran had bedded down the previous night. She winced at the quiet click of the latch as it gave way beneath her fingers, but did not hear Locke rouse from his pallet to pursue her.

  Inside, the room lay dark. None of the flickering firelight made its way into the gray-black depths before her. Cursing her lack of foresight and her fear, Averyl turned to seek a candle.

  Drake Locke stood squarely in her path, his broad chest bare, his dark hair mussed, his scowl grim.

  “If you seek Kieran, look no more. He left an hour past.”

  Hope crashed to her toes with the impact of a boulder. Damnation! She had hoped Kieran would see her off this isle. But Murdoch was still coming, and until he did, she would do everything possible to ensure that he found her.

  “Nay. I but heard an odd noise and thought p
erhaps—”

  “Kieran might be awake to listen to your pleas for help?”

  Averyl raised her chin and sailed past him, into the golden-orange firelight. “I’ve no need of his assistance, for Murdoch is coming to get me, is he not?”

  As she turned to him with a triumphant grin, Locke paused. A small half-smile raised the corner of his mouth. The gesture on another might have comforted Averyl. On him, the smirk sent a twinge of foreboding through her blood.

  After a nod, her captor said, “Aye. He comes. You heard that when eavesdropping on my conversation with Kieran?”

  “’Twas hard not to hear you,” she defended, bristling. “Besides, now that the truth is out, you can do naught but surrender.”

  “Naught but surrender?”

  He lifted a dark brow, alarming Averyl with another slice of disquieting suspicion. Without logic, she found herself taking a step backwards.

  “Murdoch will find and kill you if you do not release me.”

  Locke stepped forward and grabbed her arm. “You speak true. He might find me. And he might kill me if he does. But if I die, I will make sure he finds hell as well.” With a jerk on her arm, he brought her closer, closer to the countenance dominated by night-shaded eyes and vengeful determination. “Do not think I will release you so easily. I have devised another plan, one that ensures Murdoch cannot win his greedy game, even if you escape.”

  Averyl sucked in a shocked breath and jerked her arm from his grasp. “Of what nonsense do you speak? You have already abducted me. You cannot mean to defile me. Did you not say Murdoch would wed me anyway?”

  “Aye, he would wed you, even if you were round with my child. You see, though he is chief of the clan now, he cannot fully inherit its riches or power until he weds you. ’Twas spelled out thus in Lochlan’s will.”

  “Lochlan? Murdoch’s father?”

  Locke’s jaw hardened, along with the bleak cast of his eyes. “Aye, Murdoch’s father. So I will nae…defile you.”

  Averyl raised her chin proudly. More than like, his words to Kieran of her beauty had been naught but lies. She had always known that ugly truth.