His Stolen Bride BN

by Shayla Black

  “Nay, he would only like you—all of us—to believe such.”

  She dropped her chin to her knees, now curled up to her chest. The waves and curls of her golden hair shimmered over her shoulders, past her waist, skimming her hips. No doubt, Drake was a lucky varlet to have felt the artless sensuality of her touch.

  Beside her, he shifted his tight hose when Averyl spoke.

  “It must be true. I can see no other way he can hold me with such need, as if naught else in the world matters, only to revile me come morn.”

  The picture she created, along with the tears dusting her cheeks, made Kieran want to beat Drake senseless. Instead, he brushed her tears away with a thumb.

  “As Aric’s wife, Gwenyth, would say, he is a fen-sucked swine and deserving of a swift kick.”

  Averyl lifted her chin and laughed, her sudden smile brightening her face.

  “That looks better on you, love.” He reached for her hand. When she gave it without condition, he squeezed it before raising it to his mouth for a kiss.

  “Thank you,” she whispered softly.

  A few feet behind Averyl, Kieran spotted Drake standing just outside the bushes. His friend’s black gaze fell upon Averyl’s loose curls, then her hand joined in his.

  Raw fury settled on the abrupt angles of Drake’s face. Thankfully, Averyl saw him not. Kieran pretended that he had not seen his friend as well and hoped Drake would not charge in.

  Disengaging his hand from hers, he placed it on his belly and rubbed. “I fear I’m famished.”

  “’Twill be my pleasure to help you, since you have helped me,” she said, rising.

  “You have my thanks, lass. I shall be along directly.”

  After she made her way from the clearing, Kieran turned to his friend. “She is gone. You can come out now.”

  Drake emerged into the clearing only to grab Kieran by his tunic and pull him to his feet. “You would seek to bed my wife?”

  Kieran considered his answer carefully. Though a healthy dose of jealousy might make Drake see his feeling for Averyl, it might also make him run from such.

  Drake roared, “She is not a woman you can chase for sport, to conquer without thought—”

  “She is your woman, and I would never deny your claim. But if she is not a woman to conquer without thought, why do you believe she is a woman to conquer with hate?”

  Drake regarded him with silence, scowling in uncertainty.

  “Think carefully on that,” Kieran advised, then returned to the cottage.

  * * * * *

  “I received word from Guilford last week,” Kieran said over their simple supper of fish and leeks.

  Drake did not reply but merely glanced at his friend. Averyl wondered at his silence, which grew each minute.

  “Aric does well with the new king, Henry. His skill as a warrior is valued,” remarked Kieran.

  “As it should be,” Drake finally replied.

  Then his eyes flickered across her face before returning to his meal.

  “You speak true,” said Kieran. “And Aric makes a fine diplomat as well, which King Henry has discovered and put to good use with those left in the House of York who would make war upon the throne.”

  In answer, Drake merely nodded.

  “And it seems Gwenyth makes him addle-witted with her want of a babe.”

  Again, Drake glanced at her. This time, Averyl felt his gaze burn across her mouth, her breasts, her belly, before it slid away. “They will raise a babe well.”

  “Aye, ’tis the getting of one that seems to be the trouble. Gwenyth is impatient to conceive—and insistent that Aric help her as often as he can spare a moment.”

  Finally, Drake directed a frown at Kieran. “And he complains of this?”

  Kieran laughed.

  Averyl flushed hotly when Drake’s stare passed over her once more. She looked away, only to see Kieran watching her, the smile on his mouth turning questioning.

  “Aric claims exhaustion,” Kieran said, “but never displeasure. And what of you? Any thoughts of a babe?”

  “Nay!” exclaimed Averyl.

  “’Tis not possible,” said Drake at the same time.

  Silence fell across the table as they looked at one another. Averyl gripped her eating knife in her hand, absorbing the desire burning in Drake’s black eyes. She glared in return.

  “Soon that will change,” Drake added.

  “Never.” Pushing her trencher away, Averyl rose from her chair. “Pardon me,” she murmured to Kieran, then made for the door.

  Emptiness gaped within Averyl as she realized Drake still wanted only to ease his lust. His heart did not call to hers and never would. She had known thus, but to be so reminded pained her.

  She had no more made her way past the table when Drake followed, gripping her arm. “We have not finished with our meal.”

  “I am finished.” Averyl hoped he understood she meant not only her supper.

  After a stiff, silent moment, Drake slipped his hand around her waist and brought her against his chest and the pounding of his heart. The urgency in his hands flowed into her body. A part of her longed to melt against him, to take the affection he surprisingly gave in that moment. But turmoil prevailed in her heart. Naught would change if she gave in. Drake wanted her available to his hunger, while he gave naught of himself. And if she let him, he’d shatter her heart—if he had not already.

  “Release me,” she whispered, hoping he could not see the tears gathering in her eyes.

  Against her, Drake’s body went taut and unwelcoming. A moment later, he stepped away.

  “You cannot run forever.”

  Averyl jerked open the door. “I have no need. You will discard me soon enough.”

  Stomach clenched with pain and fury, she slammed the door, knowing she must put him out of her heart—or admit that she had fallen in love.

  * * * * *

  As the door trembled in the portal, Drake stood mute. Disbelief, shock, and anger warred in his gut, along with something that felt like pain. He cursed, raking a hand through his hair. Did she no longer care about him? Had she ever cared at all? Had her fickle affection turned to his friend?

  A moment later, he felt a heavy gaze upon him from across the room. When he turned about, he was surprised by Kieran’s questioning stare. With Averyl rejection, a rejection that cut him deeply, he had forgotten his friend. But Kieran’s expression said he had been watching carefully his exchange with Averyl.

  Slowly, Kieran spoke. “You care for your hostage bride a great deal.”

  “She is troublesome in her defiance and difficult in her insistence upon love,” Drake defended.

  “That may be so. But the care upon your face, your urge to hold her for something other than sex, bespeaks feeling. ’Tis plain you are not indifferent.”

  Gritting his teeth, Drake made his way back to his chair and sank into it. “I wish to God I were.”

  Kieran leaned across the table, shaking his head. “The woman you held, your wife, there is your something to live for.”

  Drake steeled himself against the hope Kieran’s words brought. “She is merely an ablach, a pawn.”

  The other man’s disbelieving smile grated on Drake’s nerves. “Yet still you seek to hold her close, even when not bedding her. You seek to keep her only for yourself. Many years I have known you and never seen you display such a want.”

  “I—” Drake began as he rose and paced. “She…”

  “You would not show such emotion if she meant naught to you.”

  “What say you?” Drake demanded. “That I grow soft?”

  Kieran smiled. “Nay, my friend. I say you love her.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Two days after Kieran’s departure, Drake called himself every kind of a fool as he held his wife while she slept, while dawn crept through the cottage’s lone window.<
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  He should release her. Only a fool deep in the muck of love would hold her without cause, without seeking her body. And he was not in love, despite Kieran’s suspicions.

  I say you love her.

  Why could he not dismiss those words from his mind?

  Averyl was his wife, and he could hold her for whatever reason he sought. ’Twas his right. Just now, he enjoyed her softness, her scent. Men enjoyed such things.

  Aye, his explanation was simple. Logical. Uncomplicated.

  Then why had he dashed to her side last night when some manner of a dream caused her to cry out in her sleep?

  With his silent comfort, Averyl had quieted quickly, and he could not dismiss that satisfaction. True, sleep was one of life’s necessities, especially while being chased by a pack of angry clansmen bent on execution.

  True, all of it. Yet none of it explained why he felt joy in helping his wife, felt reluctant to release her now.

  Against him she stirred. Moaning softly, she rolled closer and pillowed her head against his chest.

  Amidst the intimate crinkling of the mattress, the mysterious floral scent of her flesh tugged at his loins. She snuggled the rest of her body closer to his length. He swallowed hard. The length of her arm across him, her unrestrained breasts beneath her linen shift lay against his chest, teasing his memories.

  His manhood rose against her, hard, impatient. Aye, this was the reason he could not let her go. He was weak where her flesh was concerned. The soft thunder of her responses danced at the edges of his mind, taunting him. Drake knew he’d never held another woman like her, never reveled in the soft catch of another’s moan, never felt driven to give every ounce of pleasure possible.

  That did not mean he loved Averyl. Nay, he simply responded to her on a primitive level. Man to her woman, driven by the urge to claim her in every way possible.

  But not because he loved her. True, her wit and spirit, while surprising at first, were not part of her charm. It only meant she was likely to have a scheme of some sort, and not one he liked. After all, she’d hit him over the head with his own fire poker and rushed into the night to steal his boat.

  Unbidden crept in the memory of her tears on the windswept cliff as she clung to him and told him of her mother’s murder, of her fear of darkness.

  Frowning, Drake resisted an urge to comfort her, stroke her bare arm, and ignored an odd warmth growing in his chest.

  Without a doubt, Averyl was a disobedient wench, not the dutiful wife nearly every man wished for. Such was doubly irritating, Drake thought, for he had never wanted a wife, much less a hellion. Why, she had escaped at the fair under his very nose! While that proved her clever, it also proved her foolish. She would have been raped by three drunken fools had he not been following her. Aye, and he would have loved to kill all three of those rogues for such intentions.

  Realizing he’d squeezed Averyl more tightly to him, Drake loosened his hold. A small smile curled at the corners of her tempting red mouth. The warmth in his chest grew to an ache. He shifted on the bed to find a more comfortable position.

  Indeed, she was a damn fool, believing herself homely. Aye, her father had planted the notion in her head, but she’d allowed it to take root and grow. Drake knew he’d been right to scorn such a ridiculous belief. Any sane man would.

  And then there was her blind trust, her faith in him. Once, he’d been touched. Now he realized she was simply too naïve to believe badly of the man she’d wedded and bedded. She knew him not. Not really, despite her words to the contrary.

  God willing, she never would.

  Certainly, his intense desire for her sprang not from her devotion to the foolish concept of love. He found her dogged perseverance in the foreign emotion most irksome. Nothing short of a thousand-man siege could crush her belief. When she believed something, she believed in it fiercely, devoutly. Good qualities to have in the soldier at one’s side, but in a wife? Nay. Though she was intelligent and loyal, who would love a bride possessed of such a wide stubborn streak?

  Drake shrugged. There, he’d proved he could not want her for any reason but her body. And to prove further she meant naught more to him, he would resist even that. He could give up the sweet wine of her kiss, the sugary delights of her skin. And giving up other contact, conversations, for instance, would be no struggle at all.

  He would not miss her in the least.

  “Good morn,” she whispered, her voice heavy, bewitching.

  At the sound, Drake jumped from the bed like a guilty child caught filching a tart, then chastised himself. The woman could hardly read his mind. Shaking off a vague sense of guilt, he reached for his tunic and scrambled to push the garment over his head to cover his erection.

  “Drake?” she called huskily.

  He gritted his teeth, feeling his manhood stiffen further. How could she do that? How could Averyl, with a mere word, incite a pounding need to roll her to her back and make love to her from one sunrise to the next?

  He grunted in reply and turned away to the hearth. Behind him, he heard the rustle of sheets as she left the bed, then the groan that accompanied her stretch each morn. Had it been only last week he’d teased her about her feline movements? And why could he see her body in his mind’s eye reaching for the sun?

  Drake looked down to find his hands trembling. With a curse, he thrust the kettle back to the hearth. “If you want aught to eat, make it yourself.”

  Air. He needed air. Fresh air, not that tinged with Averyl’s floral-scented flesh.

  Whirling around, Drake made for the door. Two, maybe three strides, and he would have peace. The urge to collect her against him, ravage her mouth, brand her forever would blessedly leave him.

  As he feared, Averyl blocked his path, stopping his barreling gait by placing her small, warm hands upon his chest.

  His heart pounded, and he cursed beneath his breath as his eyes slid shut. He’d had her, dozens of times now, more than he’d had any one woman. Why could she not leave his thoughts? Why could he not cleanse himself of this unruly desire?

  “Wait,” she entreated, pale curls streaming to her waist in a silken curtain. “I would talk to you this morn.”

  Drake made fists at his side in an effort to keep his hands from her. “I’m in no mood for talk, woman.”

  When he stepped around her, the image of her, ethereal, warm, burned in his mind. He clenched his fists harder.

  Just before he reached the cottage door, he felt Averyl’s hand at his elbow. “Why not release me?” she asked. “I will not wed Murdoch. You know I can never share a life with such a man, much less the intimacy of a marriage bed.”

  With a swift rush of indrawn breath, Drake admitted he could not bear to see such, either.

  “Since our marriage is consummated, he cannot wed me.”

  What Avery said was true. But the thought of letting her go enflamed a barrage of refusals within him. The issue of her safety remained. And he was certain, if he thought for a moment more, he could conceive other reasons why she should not leave.

  As Drake looked at Averyl, it seemed to him as if she brought out something that opened the festering wounds of the past, ripped aside the barriers of his heart. He felt. Not lust. Such was simple to classify. Nay, he felt a rush of too much at once. Guilt, desire, fear—all easy to note. But there was more… He wanted to turn to her, find succor in her arms. He yearned to cling to her, fit her against him and hold on until the tidal wave of feelings swept past him.

  Drake knew he should run, flee from her presence before he did something he would regret, something to make her believe he loved her. He should let her go. And he would, soon.

  “Nay,” he said finally. “You will stay with me.”

  “Why keep me? You care less for me than your muddy boots.”

  Gritting his teeth, he snapped, “Would I have bothered to rescue my muddy boots from three randy attackers?”<
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  “Maybe you should have let them have me.” She shoved a curl behind her ear. “’Twould have saved you from plying me with lust that is naught more than convenient and fleeting.”

  “Convenient? Oh, aye. ’Tis so opportune to desire you until I feel near exploding. ’Tis so fleeting, I spend entire days and nights hard for wanting you.” He grabbed her, bringing her face beneath his. “I’ve spent hours of late thinking of how I could make you cry out beneath me, atop me, before me, around me. I dwell on using my hand to make you scream, my mouth to give you pleasure. And that’s before I would use my body to completely make you mine. What say you to that, wife?”

  Averyl stared, speechless. What could she say? Heaven above, were even half of that true… Nay, he had mentioned his lust, not love.

  But Lord knew she was weary of denying her love for him.

  Averyl chewed on her lip thoughtfully. Her mother’s wisdom about seizing love when it appeared filtered through her mind. Could she, even if ’twas only for today? Even if he may never love her?

  Such would be naught but foolishness.

  Ah, but someday soon, he would leave her. What would she have of the man she loved but memories?

  Swallowing, Averyl stood locked in indecision.

  “Well, what say you?” he barked, challenging her.

  He claimed to want her. Lord knew, she loved him. Could she let him leave her forever without taking something for herself by which to remember the only man who would ever possess her heart? Nay, and she wearied of resisting what she wanted more than her next breath.

  Now, all she could think upon was satisfying her need to be whole with him once more.

  She loved him, and ’twas no use denying that anymore.

  Averyl stared at Drake. The white tunic he wore clung to his wide shoulders and sculpted torso, boldly outlining his ridged chest. She swallowed, transfixed by his beautiful, blatant masculinity. He smelled of man and earth and sun.

  Averyl cleared her throat. “I say do what pleases you.”

  Drake cast a shocked glance at her, the bronze power of his hands clenching at his sides. Images of those hands upon her, stroking, exciting her, sent pleasure rippling through Averyl.