His Stolen Bride BN

by Shayla Black

Averyl sat quietly, her expression grim. “Love did nothing evil. You but blame it for what you choose to do.”

  “You think love will grant you harmony? I have used you every chance I had. I use you still. That is love? That gladdens your heart?”

  With a tight pinch to her luscious red mouth, Averyl rose and walked to the door. “Aye, though you cannot see it. I hope you soon realize we could have a future together, despite this mess, if you could free your soul from the past.”

  With that, she disappeared into the moonlit night, her anger apparently greater than her fear. Drake sighed raggedly, feeling the heavy hammer of his own pulse as he ran shaking fingers through his hair. ’Twas a tangle indeed.

  Disjointed thoughts chased one another through his head, allowing him no peace. At the crux of his ruminations were Averyl and her words. Were his beautiful wife and her advice the sainted answer his hollow heart needed to heal? Or the ultimate pawn he and Murdoch would eventually destroy?

  * * * * *

  Drake fell asleep before the fire, awaiting Averyl’s return. He woke, knowing not what time it was. Only the grit within his aching eyes and the watery sun trying to penetrate the dirty window told him he had not slept long.

  Rising, he stretched his stiff shoulders and neck, then cast his gaze to the bed, expecting to see his wife lying there in repose. He expected to feel that rush of desire, of possession, she never failed to engender in him.

  He found the bed empty.

  Anxiety seared through his gut like a flaming blade. Had she escaped finally, driven away by the truth? Found her way out of the locked gate and discovered the location of his boat?

  His heart lurched against his chest as he envisioned Averyl, tall in courage but short on physical strength, trying to navigate his tiny boat across the choppy waters separating Arran from the main of Scotland.

  Running out the cottage door in search of his wife, Drake pictured her drowning, dying, calling out to him for help… Sweat beaded on his forehead, ran down to his brow. His heart pumped faster as he searched the ravine, calling her. Panic rang with the peal of thunder in his ears when she made no reply.

  A quick inspection proved the gate was still locked, the key still in his pocket. Drake took one breath, then another, assuring himself she could not be far, could not be harmed.

  Parting the thick island foliage before him, Drake stomped through to find Averyl slumbering by the trickling green waters of the pond. He exhaled in relief, unclenching his fists, and sat on the ground beside her.

  She looked in harmony with nature, her creamy skin the perfect foil against the lush Scottish grass, the sheen of her gold curls surrounded by the rich purple of heather. She resembled one of nature’s blossoms, nestled here among the vibrant colors of God’s land, like the lilies floating atop the water beside her.

  His gut tightened with both desire and self-disgust. No matter how much he denied the truth to Averyl herself, Drake knew, felt it deep within, that he had come to care about her.

  Too much.

  ’Twas why he worried about her safety, why he’d made love to her when he should not. The reason he had wanted her to believe in her beauty. And the reason he’d told her, and no one else, the entire truth of his past.

  ’Twas the reason he was tempted to tell her he would try to love her in the way she had dreamed of since girlhood, for at least as long as he lived. And the reason he could do no such thing, for she failed to see the truth: Animosity had plagued the love his parents shared. And Averyl’s notion that he possessed buried fear that controlled his life was rubbish. Nor could he dishonor his father by forgoing revenge for love.

  But that did not stop him from aching for her.

  Drake sidled closer to his wife, resisting the urge to run his fingers through her tresses, glide his hand across the sunlit splendor of her delicate cheeks. His entire body clenched like a fist. His hand trembled at his side.

  Revenge and the clan’s condemnation did not allow for emotions, he told himself. He had never intended their marriage to be one of anything but convenience and revenge.

  And the idea of opening what was left of his heart to Averyl and allowing her the kind of power Diera held over Lochlan turned his stomach to a cold block of fear. He could not endure the tumult of feeling flowing between them, wondering what he might do next to earn her displeasure, fearful that any day she might grow weary of his attention or of life on the run.

  Aye, she claimed to love him today and clearly meant such. His mother had probably once uttered those same words to his besotted father.

  Drake closed his eyes at the encroaching picture of such a bleak marriage that could only lead to his shattered soul.

  Nay, he could not, would not, give Averyl that kind of power over him. He must put distance between them. Now, as he’d decided yesterday, after succumbing to his urge for her.

  He woke Averyl with a gentle shake. Her eyes opened by degrees, revealing her splendid hazel orbs to him slowly. Her languid expression filled him with remembrances and lust. And resolve, for he must sever this tie between them now.

  “Drake?” she asked sleepily.

  He stood and cleared his throat. “I am sending you away.”

  She sat up slowly, confusion rampant in her expression. “Away? From here? From you?”

  “Aye, to—”

  “Do you still run from what you feel? Drake, do not—”

  “I run from nothing, least of all anything I might feel. ’Tis simply safer to send you elsewhere.”

  Averyl stood, denial on her beautiful face. “The MacDougall has searched this island and found nothing.”

  “That does not mean he will not return. ’Tis for the best.”

  “The best for you,” she shot back. “So you do not have to listen to me and risk facing what is in your heart.”

  “Hear me well,” he ground out. “I have naught in my heart!”

  “At least naught you will admit to me. Can you not realize your inability to love is the result of your slavery to the past? Do you not see—”

  “Speak no more on this.” He turned his back to her, determined they would never exchange words of this ilk ever again.

  Before he could stalk away, a sudden noise split the air, an out-of-place crash that sounded frighteningly like the splintering of wood. Every muscle in Drake’s body froze with foreboding a moment before the thunder of horses’ hooves sounded inside the ravine. Instant white-hot fear stunned him.

  “Come out, you bastard,” Murdoch’s too-familiar voice whipped through the air. “I have you trapped!”

  Shock pumped through his veins. Sweating, he fought panic and glanced at Averyl. Her eyes went wide with horror.

  “Come out, you worthless whore’s son,” Murdoch shouted. “You cannot escape this time!”

  “What are we to do?” Averyl whispered.

  Drake grabbed her hand, praying that she would make it out of the ravine alive. “Run!”

  Squeezing his hand, Averyl followed him, sprinting. Over the drum of his pounding heart, Drake heard Murdoch’s men dismount and begin to beat through the green brush in their search. Hiding in the ravine’s brambles and birches, he guided Averyl away from the men.

  Taking hold of her arms, he forced her stare to his. “Hold on to me, no matter what. Do you hear me?”

  “Aye,” came her whispered reply before they began creeping from the bushes as silently as possible.

  Murdoch’s men were visible everywhere but blessedly scattered and on foot as they searched the length of the ravine. Drake made a quick count and estimated there were probably a dozen and a half.

  With a prayer on his lips, he sprinted toward the gate, his hand clutched around Averyl’s so she ran beside him.

  Within instants, Murdoch’s men gave chase. One leapt at them from a clearing, a long, wicked blade in hand, and made a quick swipe at Drake’s chest. He arched, inching
out of death’s way. Over the sound of Averyl’s sudden scream, he urged her on. The rest of Murdoch’s men scrambled to return to follow while Murdoch himself shouted and gave chase.

  Drake and Averyl bolted up the ravine’s incline, past the splintered gate, and through the narrow opening to freedom. He heard the distant footfall of Murdoch’s men gaining on them.

  “Hold tight, love!” he called in her ear.

  She slumped against him in reply.

  Fear slammed into Drake as he put his arm about Averyl’s waist. Something thick, wet and sticky greeted his fingers. In horror, he brought his hand before his face.

  Red.

  Oozing warm blood covered his palm, sheathed his fingers. Drake’s gut churned as he realized the sentry’s knife, intended to kill him, had maimed Averyl instead.

  Nausea ground its way through him, along with bone-biting cold. And denial. She could not be hurt. She could not die. He would not allow it, by damned!

  Sweating and cursing, Drake stopped before the small cave hiding his boat. Gingerly, he laid Averyl upon the ground, his heart racing at the pale shock of her face, her heavy, closing eyes. Wave after sickening wave of a prickly-cold sensation flooded him when he saw the side of her purple dress darkening at her ribs.

  He cursed, knowing he must get them both away from this island now if he had any hope of keeping her alive. A panicked glance behind him confirmed that Murdoch drew closer and his men, all giving chase, were not far behind.

  Drake’s grip tightened about Averyl’s waist in fear, clutching her against his chest. “Averyl? Can you hear me?”

  “Hurts,” she croaked, eyes cracking open. “Like fire.”

  Fear squeezed the air from his chest. “Do not move.”

  Her eyes slid shut again. She made no reply.

  Both cursing and praying, Drake ripped into the cave’s nearby opening, uplifting the camouflage of plants and rocks with lightning speed, and dragged the tiny boat into the water. A cursory glance revealed the oars within the bobbing wooden craft. Murdoch’s own vessels were nowhere in sight.

  After sprinting back to his wife, Drake cradled her against him as he darted for the little boat. Easing her down across the bottom, he pushed away from the shore just as Murdoch appeared atop the cliff above the beach, the one on which Averyl had confessed to her fear of the dark.

  He vowed then she would not become another casualty. He would sell his soul if he must so she would not die.

  Murdoch shouted, fist raised, as his men joined behind him. His half brother’s threats were gobbled up by the crash of the waves and the frantic beat of his own heart.

  Drake absently noticed his adversaries turning away, no doubt in search of their own boats, before he turned his attention to his wife. How badly had she been hurt?

  He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the pain and guilt that assailed him. This was his fault. His anger, his arrogance, might well cost this fiery woman with the heart of an innocent her very life. He should have plotted better, anticipated Murdoch’s cunning, put Averyl out of harm’s way once they were wed.

  But he had desired her with him, beside him. He had thirsted for her, wanted her like a gasping man wants his next breath. And for his selfishness, his lack of restraint, she was paying the price.

  In a terrifying instant, Drake knew anger, a helpless, clawing fear, a willingness to bargain with God that certainly mirrored his father’s emotions as he lay over Diera’s deathbed.

  Was this searing pain the wretched love Averyl wanted him to feel?

  Pushing his thoughts away, Drake ripped off his shirt and tore away Averyl’s bodice. The jagged length of a gash seesawed along her ribs, seeping blood. Panic bit into his gut, coupled with the brackish stench of sea salt. Drake placed his shirt over the wound and covered it with his trembling hands, then resumed his frantic rowing. He could do nothing more until they reached safety.

  God’s blood, she looked so fragile and unmoving, so painfully pale. Fear filled him with a sharp, serrated ache.

  He vowed then that if—nay, when—she recovered, he would put her, and his own heart, from harm’s path. No matter what the cost, he would put Averyl away from him so she would never be in jeopardy again.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  After a tensely slow fortnight of travel marked by Averyl’s fevers and his fear, Drake dismounted, his body leaden with exhaustion. Averyl still lay sleeping peacefully in the farm cart he’d stolen upon reaching the main land.

  During those ten interminable days, he’d traveled by her side, providing sustenance, aid, and prayer as she recovered. During those bleak nights, he’d held her hand, sponged her face, and swore to himself he would never endanger her life again.

  As long as he remained with her, she was not safe.

  While Drake had kept vigil over his wife, he also watched over his shoulder, hoping Murdoch and his miscreants would not find him until he could get Averyl to safety. To his relief, they never caught his trail.

  Now, Drake found himself in Yorkshire, staring through the early-morning gray at the massive stone doors of Hartwich Hall. His mood was as black as the threatening storm clouds.

  A peace he had missed emanated from the walls of his grandfather’s castle. Inhaling deeply, he let the peace soak into him like the sun suffused one after a long day indoors. He fantasized about such tranquility, dreamed of life without greed, jealousy, or hate.

  But Fate had decreed him a future of revenge, not peace, and ’twas foolish to dream of aught else.

  Today he would say good-bye to his handfast bride, putting an end to the peril on her life—and his heart, for he could not stay without risking both.

  Refusing to dwell upon it, Drake scanned the ivy-draped walls, then the colorful riot of summer flowers amidst the castle’s quiet. Such reminded him of his grandmother, Matilde, God rest her soul.

  During his boyhood years here, she had provided the motherly touches Diera never had, the soft voice over a scraped knee, the gentle smile over a deed accomplished. She had never needed to be the center of anyone’s world, never demanded attention, as had his mother. Though mother and daughter, Diera and Matilde could not have been more different.

  A fond smile tugged at his mouth. He’d missed his grandmother’s generous ear and sage advice these last three years since her passing. Averyl, having been motherless for eleven years, would have appreciated the woman a great deal.

  Averyl.

  Drake lifted her still-sleeping form into his arms. Warm and dazed, she roused, asking in a slurred, sleepy voice, “What’re you doing?”

  He’d oft wondered the same thing over the past ten days. But he knew; he was leaving her. As he had told her he would.

  Drake swallowed a lump of something thick in his throat and said, “We have stopped. Go back to sleep.”

  Her hazel eyes lifted half-open, slumberously stunning. “Where are we?”

  “With…friends.”

  Nodding tiredly, Averyl covered her mouth with a half-closed fist and yawned as her eyes drifted shut once more. She laid her head trustingly against his shoulder and drifted back to sleep.

  Her childlike gestures tugged at Drake’s heart. With a gentle hand, he brushed a dark curl from her face, his fingers lingering upon her soft cheek, finally regained its healthy pink.

  Holding in a sigh, he approached the castle, dread engulfing him like quicksand. His heart pounded. The urge to hold on to Averyl tightly swept over him like a hurricane. Sense won out. To keep her with him would do naught but place her in more danger and submit his own heart to more of her bewitching. Neither consequence could be risked.

  Shifting Averyl’s weight, Drake approached the gatehouse entrance. The guard let him pass with a few words. Inside the garrison, the main gates remained closed against the night. A pair of well-armed soldiers admitted him through the wicket gate. His wife stirred restlessly in his arms.

 
; Within moments, a young page met him in the courtyard, in front of the empty blacksmith’s forge. Despite the predawn’s murky light, a fresh, friendly glow reflected from his face.

  Drake wondered if he had ever been that young or innocent on his road to knighthood—and manhood.

  “Sir Drake, I bid you welcome. You have come to see your grandfather?” he asked in gentle inquiry. His gaze traveled over Averyl’s limp form, but he politely held his tongue.

  “Aye.”

  “Step this way. I shall tell him you’ve arrived.”

  Drake watched the boy disappear down a narrow torch-lit hall, punctuated only by gray stone walls and silence. The young page returned long minutes later.

  “His lordship is eager to see you. He awaits you in the solar.”

  In the dusky splendor of the hall, Drake cradled a sleeping Averyl a bit tighter and set upon the familiar trail to the solar. After passing the brewery and the joiner’s workshop, where rising workers spotted him and stared, Drake veered through a garden gate, toward the majestic keep. Up several flights of stairs he trudged. Again, Averyl lifted her head groggily, only to put it down again at his soft whisper.

  With a dry throat and all the enthusiasm of a condemned man, Drake slowly entered the low-ceilinged domain of the firelit chamber. His gaze found the grayed man, his formidable figure now softened by old age and good living.

  “Drake, it is you. When Lionel, my page, told me you had come, I was not certain if ’twas true. Are you well?” The old man’s bushy gray brows slashed down into a frown.

  “Murdoch has not yet stretched my neck, as you can see.”

  “Aye, and lucky for you.” He glanced again at Averyl. “And the girl? She must be Averyl Campbell.”

  His gaze drifted down to the delicate lines of Averyl’s face pillowed against his shoulder. Drake felt a tight vice of pain in his chest as he realized this would be the last time he would ever hold his wife.

  Resisting an urge to clasp her closer, he answered, “Aye.”

  Something like approval filled his blue eyes. “Put her on yon bed, then come speak with me by the fire.”