by Shayla Black
“Nay,” she refused. “You cannot save him.”
“Have faith, lass. Aric and I rescued Drake from Dunollie once before.”
Averyl thrust a hand upon her hip. “Do you not think Murdoch will remember such and take different measures? He is not a fool. Cursed and greedy, aye, but not dimwitted.”
Aric frowned. “If we do not go, what think you must be done?”
“You will go, and I will go with you as—”
“Nay!” protested Kieran.
“Never,” vowed Aric.
“’Tis for neither of you to decide.” Averyl glared at them both. “Drake is my husband. True, he loves me not, but he is the father of this babe. I will not stand by idly when I have the power to see him freed.”
“You cannot mean to give in to this threat and wed Murdoch. Such is not even possible since you are wed to Drake,” Aric reminded.
“Drake and I are but handfast. By law, if Drake agrees to release me from the union and I say I wish freedom, we are wed no more.”
“You would actually wed Murdoch?” Kieran asked as if she’d scattered her wits about Hartwich Hall.
“If I must to free Drake, aye.”
“But what of the babe?” Aric asked. “Murdoch will not want him if he takes you to wife.”
“I know as much, but I will protect him. You worry about freeing Drake,” she ordered, mouth set in an inflexible line. “Now, when I gain entrance to Dunollie, I can distract Murdoch and sneak you two inside so you might rescue Drake. Once he is free, I will leave Murdoch and return to Abbotsford.”
“Much too dangerous,” Aric said.
“I agree,” Kieran added. “’Tis more than daring, love. It is foolhardy, and the journey would be difficult besides. Best if you stay here and let us—”
“Perhaps you did not hear me,” she broke in, determined. “I will go to Scotland and find a way to free Drake. If you leave without me, I will follow. If you think to deny me, I will travel alone.”
Averyl feared she might have to carry out her threat. She remembered her brief moments of freedom just before her handfast, how dangerous and violent men could be to a woman traveling alone. But she would do what she must to see Drake freed. Maybe then, she could set him from her heart and move on with her future.
Aric gripped her shoulder. “Averyl, please consider again what you plan. In your condition, you tire easily.”
“I will fight it.”
“Such is not good for you or the child. He may come too early if you do not rest well.”
“Death is not good for his father, either,” she argued. “I must do what I am able and pray to God to watch over my bairn.”
Kieran took her hand. “Aric and I are trained to fight this manner of battle. I pray you, let us do this.”
Averyl felt tears, all too common these days, burn her eyes. “Nay. I go, with or without you. And I leave come morn.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Nearly a fortnight later, Averyl, with her gown billowing about her legs, took in the formidable fortress that was Dunollie. Gloom fell over its towers and walls, drawn gray against the bleak morning sky. ’Twas as if the sun never fell upon its grounds, light and hope never dwelt within its walls.
“Are you certain you want to do this, love?” said Kieran, real concern visible beneath his rogue’s charm.
“Aye. My bairn needs his father.” Even if his father needs me not. Frowning, she rubbed a hand over her rounded belly.
“Let us do this,” said Aric quietly.
But the reluctant respect in his eyes, and that she had seen in Guilford’s before leaving Hartwich, spurred her on.
“Do you recall the plan?” she asked instead, needlessly. Aric would see to the details, while Kieran would risk all to see this rescue complete.
“Aye,” assured Kieran.
Aric nodded, squeezed her shoulder, and released her.
Averyl took a deep breath to quell her quivering innards, then marched toward Dunollie. Determination beat soundly inside her as she prayed to God Almighty that her mission would be successful. Somehow, someway, this danger would pass. That, she must believe or be doomed.
Still, what must Drake feel, locked up in a dank, dark corner of Dunollie’s dungeon for weeks now? Did he await death? Fight it? Or simply expect it?
Pushing grim thoughts aside, Averyl gathered a flowing cloak about her she hoped would hide her advancing pregnancy for a bit and approached Dunollie’s gates with squared shoulders.
From outside, the castle looked devoid of activity, almost ghostly against the morn’s fog. Averyl pushed aside her breath-stealing anxiety and, head bowed, trod toward the drawbridge.
“Who comes?” questioned a disheveled guard.
She swallowed, knowing she could not turn back now. “Averyl Campbell. I’ve returned to wed your lord.”
Wide-eyed in obvious shock, the man nodded and escorted her into the gatehouse.
As they passed through the stirrings of the lower bailey, then through the second gatehouse and the middle bailey, Averyl held her breath. A thousand things could go wrong with this scheme that had once seemed so logical. Today, with her stomach hopping and her heart pounding, naught of this seemed rational.
The snores of some lean gray hounds and the scuffle of a black cat chasing a plump rat broke the silence. Averyl shivered as the guard took her into the keep, up the stairs, into the great hall to await Murdoch’s audience.
“Sit, my lady.” He sent another guard after their lord, then began stroking a dirty hand over his straggling beard.
The great hall, indeed the whole castle, seemed to seep a gloom she had not noticed before her abduction. Forcing herself to sit, Averyl wondered if she felt the keep’s sense of tragedy now because she knew the history of its grievous inhabitants.
Fear roared inside her, adding an extra thrum to her heart. What if Murdoch wanted naught of her but her death? What if his letter was no more than a ruse?
What if ’twas not?
Clenching her hands into nervous fists, Averyl watched the wiry sentry retreat upstairs. Would Murdoch come immediately? She prayed soon to know her fate—and Drake’s.
The air about her thickened as she waited.
Into the firelit great hall entered a man, not Murdoch. His rolling gait and shorter stature told her that right away. Still, she found something familiar about his uneven profile and shaggy brown hair. But her concerned thoughts could not stray from Drake long enough to solve such a mystery.
The man turned to the table and saw her sitting there. Instantly, he gasped, staring as if he had seen some specter.
“Averyl?”
He knew her name? “Aye,” she called, peering closer, until recognition dawned. “Cousin Robert! What do you do here at Dunollie?”
Though Robert was the son of her father’s brother, of late he had not been much welcomed by her father or the rest of the clan. And now she found him upon MacDougall land?
“Your father…he”— Robert shrugged—“well, he wished me to come here and see if Drake Locke had set you free or you had been yet found. And here you are!”
“Drake is a MacDougall,” she corrected almost without thought, then frowned. “Why would my father send you? Why not come himself?”
Shrugging, Robert turned away to call for a mug of ale, then sat, head bent. “Too much to be done at Abbotsford, I am certain. So, you are looking well, even a bit plump for once. Drake Loc— MacDougall fed you well, I take it?”
Self-consciously, Averyl gathered the cloak about her middle and frowned. “Well enough. Have the Campbells and MacDougalls refrained from fighting whilst I’ve been away? Is that why you stay at Dunollie?”
Robert gave her a vigorous nod. “’Tis a good faith gesture, but one that is appreciated, I am sure.”
Though Averyl was uncertain Robert could be trusted, he was kin. Certainly he w
as more an ally than Murdoch. “Have you seen Drake since Murdoch captured him? Where is he?”
“In my dungeon, as I said in my letter,” called Murdoch from the top of the stairs.
That low voice chilled Averyl. She gritted her teeth against the fear creeping within her as he descended the stairs.
“Leave us,” he said to Robert without so much as a glance.
To her shock, the ever-unruly Robert rose to do Murdoch’s bidding without a by-your-leave.
“Are you ready to wed me?” asked Murdoch once Robert was gone.
Nay. Never. “Aye.”
He smiled smugly, victoriously. Averyl itched to slap him.
“A priest will be here on the morrow to perform the task.”
The man she had almost been betrothed to possessed a piercing, crafty gaze. No doubt, he was clever and ruthlessly prepared to reap the benefits of his treachery. Why had she noticed none of this before?
Because she had been a child then. Drake had shown her more of life, of her own heart. He had challenged her to see the good—and bad—in others. For that, she would be forever changed.
“I must see Drake first.”
Murdoch shook his head. “Why force yourself to see your tormenter once more, my lady? Do not think about Drake Locke or his ill treatment of you another moment. Think of our future instead.”
“Drake MacDougall is the only reason I have come.”
Dark eyes narrowed, Murdoch tensed.
Before he could say aught, Averyl went on, feeling oddly calm and in control. “I know you have no interest in wedding me, other than to receive the funds and power left to you in your father’s will, the father you shared with Drake. I know also that you duped this entire clan into believing Drake guilty of Lochlan’s murder when, in fact, the crime was yours.”
Averyl sat stiffly, heart pounding, awaiting Murdoch’s reply. Fury she expected. Denials, indignation, false assurances—all were the means he could try to disarm her.
Instead, he laughed grimly. “’Tis a surprise, that Drake would tell you of our dirty family history. I suppose you will ask me next why I swived his bitch of a mother for a year.”
Averyl tried not to flinch at such crudity. “Nay, that I understand perfectly. So does he. And naught you have to say on that subject will interest me. I came here to accept your bargain. Once I speak with Drake and be assured of his good health and his release, I will be your bride.”
Murdoch shook his head. “You will see him after the wedding, not before.”
Suspicion tightened her belly. Certainly Murdoch would take great pleasure in having her see Drake chained. Why did he hesitate, then?
“I fear, my lord, that will not do,” she said with mock sweetness. “For you see, Drake took me as a handfast bride June last. So until he releases me from the union, I am not free to wed you.”
The assured smirk on Murdoch’s face slid off, replaced by a furious horror.
In two huge steps, he closed the remaining distance between them and grabbed her arm. With it, he jerked her to her feet and ripped the cloak from her body.
His burning black gaze fell immediately on her swollen belly.
“You let him fuck you?” he shouted, then cursed. “Most like more than once if he got you with child.”
With his free hand, he struck her violently across one cheek. “You faithless whore! I thought you had merely gotten fat.”
Pain exploded in her head, and Averyl would have fallen to the stone floor if not for Murdoch’s unyielding grip holding her upright.
Dangling, Averyl found her feet beneath her and swallowed a lump of bile in her throat. She must stand strong. She must not fail. Her life and that of her babe’s, as well as Drake’s future, were at stake.
“Did you hate him even as he rutted upon you? Or did you fall in love?”
Sensing the truth would only free the rest of the restraint holding in his anger, Averyl parried. “It hardly matters. I’ve come, as you requested. Let us see this thing done.”
He wound his hand about her throat. “I’ll not have you pining for the wretch after we wed. The clan will talk.”
As Murdoch squeezed her neck, Averyl choked and gasped for air, trying to work up enough saliva to spit in his face.
“Do you hear me?” Murdoch squeezed harder. “Agree, or I will cut this child from your womb and leave you to bleed.”
She believed him.
At Averyl’s nod, Murdoch loosened his grip.
Collapsing to her knees, Averyl drew in huge draughts of air and shivered from the evil tone of his voice. White specks whirled in her vision. Fear clawed in her gut. She shoved it aside.
“Free Drake, and I will wed you. I vow you will never see me pine for him. But if you ever harm my child—or hire someone to harm him—I will tell the rest of your clan what I know of Lochlan’s murder.”
As a threat, Averyl did not think it would scare Murdoch. After all, she lacked pertinent facts, like the identity of the man he had paid to see Lochlan murdered. She also lacked proof. But Murdoch knew that not.
Murdoch laughed. “This foolishness actually aids my cause, you Campbell slut.” He released her as if he found the contact distasteful. “You see, I do not have Drake in my dungeon. In fact, I have no notion where to find him. I had hoped to bring you back to Dunollie, wed and bed you, then find that miserable scoundrel so I might end his life.”
Averyl gasped. Relief, bitterness, and dread scraped at her like the edge of a blade. She had endangered herself and her bairn for a ruse, for naught. Nay!
“With you, I can lure him here to Dunollie,” Murdoch went on. “He may not care overmuch for saving you, but he will save his babe. Drake got his blighted sense of honor from our father, God rest his miserable soul.”
With that, Murdoch made his way to the far side of the great hall and called down the steps. “Malcolm!”
A moment later, a hulk of a Scot, one who rivaled Aric in size, appeared. “My lord?”
“See our guest to her new accommodations…below stairs.”
The dungeon! “Nay!” she choked, feeling the blood drain from her face.
’Twas dark there. Endless ribbons of black would abound, strangling her with fear. Specters—or Murdoch—could do away with her at any time.
Before she could run, the burly, rough-faced man dragged her out of the great hall and down the stairs. She was no match for his strength. Averyl scarcely remained on her feet before one prodded her through another door, then toward a second steep bank of stairs that led into malodorous darkness.
Dread pounded in her heart. What would happen now? Would she live to see her babe born? To see Drake again? Would he come to rescue his babe, only to die?
The giant all but pushed her down the narrow circular stairs. She scarcely kept her balance with the weight of the babe before her and darkness enveloping her all around.
At the bottom of the stairs, straw crinkled beneath her feet. A vile stench crept up her nose, seeping into her stomach with a nauseating intensity. The villainous guard pushed her into a cold stone corner, then shut the iron bars behind them.
Her stomach clenched in fear. “Nay, please! Do not leave me here without light.”
He said naught, simply left her alone with the darkness, memories of her mother’s violent death, and her terrible fear.
She shivered, wishing for the soothing touch Drake had shown her on a windswept hill all those months ago, when she’d been overpowered by her fear of the black night. Its remembrance calmed her. He had made light from darkness that night. And as tears rolled down her face, Averyl could not ignore the truth: Drake always would make light from darkness—at least in her heart.
* * * * *
Early February
Drake had come to find peace. And if he found it in death, so be it.
Averyl would not turn ten and eight for two weeks yet. But Dr
ake had grown weary of waiting for the end, one way or another, of this cloying hate he and Murdoch shared.
Today, one of them would die. Likely, it would be him. Murdoch had allies everywhere. And though older, Murdoch was a fierce warrior, noted as much for his cruelty as for his skill.
Drake knew if he, by chance, lived, his future held naught. His clan would never accept him again. And his temporary bride surely hated him…
Still, this revenge wearied him now, and he wanted it ended for good.
Confined to shadows and secret tunnels, Drake slid within Dunollie’s walls past midnight. Most of the sentries present upon his abduction of Averyl were pleasingly absent on this night, making his trek through the winding passages beneath the castle nearly without risk or constraint.
Such was good fortune, for he would need to save his strength and wits for this last deadly dance with his enemy, his half brother.
Stealing into the keep, he slid into the hidden opening at the mouth of the solar to await his prey. Drake’s thoughts turned, as they often did, to Averyl. If he died today, would she mourn? He gritted his teeth. Most like, she would celebrate this final departure from her life. And someday, she would take a lover, or perhaps another husband, the kind, he hoped, who would love her as she so yearned.
Drake swallowed, staring blindly into the room’s dim surroundings, lit by a single candle. He wished his wife happiness in her future, but the thought of Averyl in another’s arms made his stomach grind. ’Twas a foolish feeling, for she surely hated him. Such was no less than he had earned for wedding and abandoning her, turning away from her while recovering from a near-fatal wound, refusing to succumb to the sort of foolish feelings of which troubadours sang.
Where was she now? Still with Guilford at Hartwich? And whether he died this day or not, Drake vowed he would steal from Murdoch, if he must, to ensure Averyl received enough funds to keep her well forever. ’Twas the least he could do. Besides, he rather liked the idea of stealing from Murdoch some of what should have been his.
