Averyl woke, a soft feather bed beneath her. Something tugged at her, a foreboding that all was not well. Images rushed back to her of a tall brigand stealing her from her very bed. From her betrothal. Had a knave truly dragged her away from her future? Nay, could be no more than a nightmare.

Then she recalled his face, all hard angles and midnight eyes, as well as the angry chill in his manner.

Eyes closed, she frowned against memory. But she could not deny the truth. The man who had stripped her of MacDougall’s costly gift, then carried her into the darkness—he was real.

To a small inn he had taken her. The tang of fruit lingered in her mind, as his odd, heated glance stayed in her mind… His name… Drake Locke. Lochlan MacDougall’s murderer.

Her captor.

Averyl’s eyes flew open wide at the truth. She scarcely had time to note the unfamiliar old room and the heavy thud of her racing heart before she felt the warm quilt slide down.

Over her naked breasts.

With a gasp of shock, she jerked the covers about her chin. A thousand frightening images of what might have happened while she slept roared in her head, all too appalling to contemplate.

Averyl searched about for something—clothing, a clue, the rogue who had stripped her. Her gaze skated over a carved wooden chair. A blazing fire spit into the silence, hissing, cracking, lighting her Spartan surroundings.

He held her in a cottage, she guessed, from the wattle and daub walls, as well as the thatched roof. A battered table, a trunk and the bed beneath her occupied the tidy domain. Simple and functional, the room possessed no colors, no softness.

Her satchel lay on a blackened hearth, near two sturdy black boots, which moved suddenly to face her. She swallowed as fear nipped at her composure. Her gaze traveled up a powerful pair of muscled legs outlined in dark hose, past lean hips. Her stare paused at his tapered waist and broad chest, covered by a simple dark green tunic, then slid upward over the might of wide shoulders, to the remarkable face from her nightmares last eve.

A shortness of breath assailed her. Drake Locke was no beautifully savage product of her imagination but real flesh and blood—and genuine danger.

Her captor lifted a log to feed the hearth’s dying fire. The strength apparent in the thick coil of his arms pricked her with a strange heated trepidation.

At least, given her homeliness, she would not have to concern herself with his lustful attentions. The desirous glance he had seemed to give her at the inn had been naught but a mirage, another reason to distrust the dark.

He dropped the log into the flames. Averyl’s heart pumped furiously, nearly obliterating the sizzle and roar of the fire.

Locke looked up. Their eyes met. Jet brows rose as his assessing gaze traveled her face, then dipped to take in her bare shoulders. Averyl clutched the blanket beneath her chin like a frightened child would a beloved parent.

“Are you well?” he asked.

“I have on not a stitch of clothing,” she shrieked. Eyes narrowing, she accused, “You did this.”

“You’ll not find another soul for miles.”

“You—you… For what purpose did you bear me, fiend?” She prayed he had not ravished her for revenge.

“My purpose was not lascivious, if that is your concern.”

Lips curved up in a cool smile, he turned away. Averyl knew his denial should relieve her. Embarrassment flared to heated life instead. He, too, found her ugly, enough to laugh at the notion of touching her. She bit her lip, appalled that her pride stung so fiercely.

Knowing he thought her plain should set her at ease. ’Twas foolishness to feel aught else. She should be glad to be alive and unharmed, not worried what a murdering varlet thought of her.

Locke stacked another log on the blazing fire that heated the dingy room. “I sought to prevent you from catching your death, Lady Averyl.”

Her gaze flew to him in surprise. “You know my name?”

“That and more,” he said, facing her again. His silky rasp set her nerves on alert. “You hail from Abbotsford, near the English border. You were born April fourth, 1469. Your middle name is Elizabeth.”

She clutched her quilt tighter as he crossed the room to stand less than arm’s distance away. Locke’s dark eyes held her wide gaze captive with frightening ease. Her heart pumped faster. The air between them seemed scarce as she fought to breathe.

“You are Ramsey Campbell’s only child,” he went on. “Your English mother was sister to the Duchess of Portsmouth. She died in September of 1475, when you were but six years old. You had almost become betrothed to Murdoch MacDougall, a stranger to you.” He hooked a finger beneath her chin. “You are an impoverished innocent who believes herself plain.”

Averyl twisted away from his disquieting touch, mouth wide open. Though she knew almost nothing of Locke, he had whittled her entire existence down to a few curt sentences. He had ripped through the barrier protecting her memories and hiding her fears. Stripped her soul bare. Studied her life for his evil purpose. Exposed her in a way nakedness never could.

“H—how did you learn so much of me?”

He shrugged. “That is unimportant now.”

Unimportant that her life had been examined by a stranger? That her most private, shameful beliefs were known by a murdering madman? She found nothing unimportant about having a sinfully handsome butcher stare at her as if she were an aberration of nature. “It bloody well is not. Tell me.”

“You are in no position to give orders.”

His unreadable gaze slid over her face, dropping to her bare shoulders, before he turned to the hearth. A vexing mix of shame and relief slid through her at his silent snub. Her bony shoulders would never tempt a man like him—and all the better.

“Where have you brought me?” she demanded.

He whirled to her again, his gaze slicing the distance between them. “To a heavily vegetated ravine on an isolated isle. If you hope a traveler will find you and take pity, you hope in vain. There’s but one way off of this island, and I have hidden the boat. I also enclosed the ravine with a locked gate topped by pikes.”

“Say you that I am trapped here until I hand you my future? Until my people starve and my home crumbles to the ground?”

Locke returned to her side. His face hovered mere inches from hers, where she could hear his breath, scent something spicy and warm upon him.

“Until you turn ten and eight,” he clarified. “Your father, if he pretends to be any kind of man, will find another method of fixing the ills of your people. Wedding his daughter to a wealthy man he scarce knows is common enough but foolish.”

“My father sought a good match. He is a wise man—”

“But a blind one.” Locke strode away to tend the fire.

Averyl stared at her captor, a frown creasing her brow. He clearly held the mistaken belief that MacDougall was some manner of villain. How, when Locke himself had done nothing but act barbarously? And for what reason did he think her father blind?

Before she could question him, he turned to face her again.

“The gate has but one key.” He paused to fish it from a small pouch within his codpiece at the apex of his hose. “Have no doubt, I would feel your touch should you try to retrieve it. But then, if you put a hand in this pocket, I would assume you sought something else.”

“You have a depraved mind. I doubt you possess anything worth touching, other than yon key.”

Locke shrugged as if her opinion meant naught to him. Likely it meant even less. Still, his gaze traveled over her shoulders, the swells of her breasts, once more.

Disturbed by his inspection, she pulled the blanket up higher. “Release me now.” As hoped, her words returned his attention to her face. “I vow to wed someone other than the MacDougall, even cousin Robert, if ’twill please you.”

He shook his dark head, clearly disbelieving. “You desire Murdoch’s funds too badly. Besides, I need you here until your next birthday.”

“This abduction is senseless,” she railed. “Why do you care if the MacDougall and I are wed?”

His unnerving, unwavering gaze whipped back to her face. Refusing to back down, she glared in return.

“We have discussed this. My motives concern you not.”

A new flash of fury seared her. Did he not understand the consequence of his actions on her life? Aye, he did. The heartless monster would end her hopes, crush any chance of restoring Abbotsford and enjoying a loving husband’s arms. “Concern me not? Your selfish revenge will cost me my future.”

He paused, jaw taut. “When I am able, I will give you coin to save your home.”

“When you are able?” she countered, clutching the sheet below her chin in a tight grip. “’Tis not enough. What husband will share Abbotsford with me? Whose children will occupy its halls? Your vengeful need will ensure I lose an honorable man willing to call me,” she pointed to herself, “his lady wife.”

He approached again, face alive with anger. His penetrating eyes, tousled dark hair, and three days’ growth of beard all lent him the look of a ruthless warrior. She refused to back away when he sat beside her, the mattress dipping with his weight.

“Honorable man?” he queried, grasping her arm. “You know naught of Murdoch. Do not be taken in by his pretty smile or his money. My revenge will see justice done, save the hides of your English cousins, and rectify the damage of Murdoch’s evil.”

“His evil?” she countered, anger a hot flow in her blood. “Have you forgotten your own misdeeds?”

A chill slashed across his lean face, filling the dark contours with shadow.

“Murdoch put forth the coin for Lochlan MacDougall’s murder and pointed the finger at me. I mean to make him pay for that.”

Wildly, she shook her head. Such was not possible. Locke had killed Murdoch MacDougall’s sire. How could her abductor possibly claim Murdoch had been responsible?

“’Tis not so… Murdoch said—”

“Murdoch said?” he countered sharply. “So it must be true?”

Drake stood, arms crossed over his broad chest like a warrior who had no doubt of a battle’s outcome. The snug fit of dark gray hose and black boots accentuated long, muscled legs. His emerald tunic strained across the breadth of his shoulders, making Averyl aware that if he had lied and truly planned to kill her, she had little chance of stopping him.

Beneath an ominous scowl, his black eyes blazed with a riot of emotions. If Murdoch was a childhood fantasy, Drake Locke represented a darker demon, the antithesis of all she’d sought in life, like the untamable dragon of old lore.

Just like those dragons, Locke was immeasurably dangerous.

“At least he presented facts. What have you to say but threats and oaths?”

“Here is a fact: I was given not a moment to speak in my own defense.” His tone was bitter, his eyes bleak. “No one cared how a blood-wet knife came to rest betwixt my feet. Within hours, your Murdoch convinced the clan of my guilt. They cheered like drunkards at a fair when he vowed to torture, then kill me.”

Averyl did not doubt Murdoch’s judgment had been correct, though the swiftness of his justice did seem abrupt. Still, she refused to be drawn into whatever game he played with his lies.

“How does preventing my marriage to MacDougall gain you revenge?” she asked.

He cocked a brow. “You know not about the will?”

“What will?”

He muttered a nasty oath and began to pace. “God’s teeth.”

Averyl winced at his curse. “What will?”

“’Tis of no consequence now,” he asserted, frowning.

Averyl knew from the strength of his grasp and the intensity of his dark eyes that he spoke false. The will was of consequence. Great consequence, she suspected.

“I demand you tell me what will you speak of.”

“You make too many demands, wench.” His stern face reiterated that he would tell her no more on the subject now.

“So what will you do to me?” she asked.

His gaze brushed her face, her shoulders, before he looked away. “I told you last eve I’ve no wish to harm you.”

Averyl shook her head, refusing to believe Locke’s empty assurances. “And what of Lord Dunollie? You despise him.”

“Aye.”

The taut face and harsh eyes before her revealed his intent. “Enough to kill him, is that not so? That is your plan.”

“Aye.”

She needed to escape, to warn Murdoch, but how? Locke had already defined her isolated prison hell. Somehow, she would have to succeed, catch Locke’s guard down…if it ever fell.

He grabbed her bare shoulders with hot palms, pulling her frighteningly close. “Make no mistake, he will kill me, too. Upon his first chance.”

Averyl scowled; her mind raced between finding a way to escape and understanding Locke’s bizarre scheme. “You intend to kill Murdoch, yet you believe you will die as well?”

“Aye.” He jerked his hands from her and turned away to pace.

“And believing you will die, you carry through with your plan?” Her sharp tone reflected her incredulity.

“Of course.”

“’Tis insane. Inhuman. Have you no wish to live, no regrets about killing others? Have you no feelings about dying?”

He whirled to face her, jaw clenched.

“I do not kill off the battlefield. For Murdoch, I will make an exception.”

Shrugging the tension from his broad shoulders, he continued, “As for my own death, I have no life as a fugitive. If I have feelings about my death, they matter not. Emotions are a weak man’s luxury I can ill afford.”

Averyl could not stop her widening eyes or gaping mouth. “No one can extinguish their emotions thus. You cannot blow out the contents of your heart, as you do a—a candle.”

He sliced through her objection with a cutting glance. “You are wrong. Such feeling reeks like a pit of slimy water. Having seen others drown there before, I will not be dragged into those murky depths.”

She was in a nightmare beyond her worst imagining. She’d barely believed herself abducted, but to be entrapped with this emotionless ruffian? He plotted to kill the man who would save her home, the man she’d waited a lifetime for. It could not be borne. She must escape, tonight.

Tears came to her eyes, constricting her throat. “Why in God’s name do you plot this mad scheme?”

“As I’ve said, revenge,” he answered tersely.

“A man so close to the grave does not need vengeance.”

“I prefer to die in peace.”

His statement hit her like an icy gust of wind. “You selfish cur! You destroy my life so you can go to your self-imposed death in peace? I would love to see hardship forced on you. Mayhap it would teach you to appreciate another’s pain.”

The hard line of his jaw tightened. “I understand pain. I lived it in Murdoch’s dungeons. Now he will live it.”

Locke was cruel and barbaric, and if she knew how to curse, she would tell him how much she despised him, in a way he could assuredly understand.

He rose and strode to the door. “Should you like to bathe, there is a pond outside. When you’ve finished, your clothing is in your satchel, which I set in the corner.”

His suddenly cool tone rankled her. “Outside? How convenient. Had you planned to watch?”

His dark eyes slid over her bare shoulders and quickly swept her form outlined by the thin quilt, before returning to her face. His eyes were no longer cold. Averyl’s pulse jumped.

“Do you invite me?”

Fury rose, arming her words with fire. “I would not invite you to hell, though it’s where you deserve to be.”

He reached her in less than a heartbeat. His fingers twisted around her arm, pulling her close. Averyl struggled to maintain hold on the quilt.

“Open your saucy mouth all you like, but remember I control whether or not you eat, bathe, wear clothing, speak—your whole life. And I control it indefinitely.”

 

* * * * *

 

Dismayed, Averyl did not, could not, move. Two months ago, she had been giggling with Becca, the daughter of Abbotsford’s steward. Now she was captive of a brutal stranger on an isolated isle. This nightmare that had ensnared her life swirled around her, creating a torrent of confusion. Naught made sense, least of all why Locke had abducted her.

The will he refused to speak of was the key, but she knew nothing of the document, least of all who had written it.

Running bare through the chilly cottage, Averyl retrieved a shift from her satchel. Tears scalded her throat, but she refused to shed them. Instead, she settled the thin garment over her, wondering if the elusive will was tied to the sordid incident Murdoch had refused to discuss with her.

She could not think on that now. She must concentrate on the moment, seize any method of escape Locke might have overlooked. For she did not believe he intended to do nothing more than keep her beneath his roof until she turned a year older. What her role would be she did not want to contemplate.

Resolving she would not give up, Averyl searched her luggage for something to wear. Tossing out garment after garment, she sighed in frustration. Blast it, the bag was filled with only her finest dresses, those suitable to mark her as MacDougall’s lady wife. Fragile garments that would not travel well and showed more of her small bosom than she liked.

Snatching a purple dress to her breast, she decided the choice mattered not. The display was not for Locke. Her infuriating captor would not note if she looked well or care how much skin she bared. His searching glances meant naught. Perhaps he had merely wondered how a chief of Murdoch’s ilk could marry a girl so lacking in womanly charms. Certainly, a man as magnificent in face and form as Locke could have any woman he desired. The unfeeling beast had no reason to spare her a second glance.

Worse, his imperious manner told her Locke was accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. Tugging her dress over her small frame, Averyl vowed to be the most rebellious captive ever. With all her strength and courage, she would fight him until she found freedom—and her way back to the MacDougall.

For that, she’d need a weapon. Her gaze scanned the room. Nothing she could use to harm him rested in the basket of fruit on the three-legged table. There was naught ominous about the hearth, blackened by frequent use, or the motley collection of small pots, kettles, and wooden spoons dangling inside on a stick. And nary a knife in sight. She skimmed over an old spindle-backed chair, a cypress basin with a clay pitcher, and her satchel in the corner. Naught of use.

Then her gaze zeroed in on the thin object leaning in the corner. The iron poker he’d used to stoke the fire. Yes, she would knock him unconscious, steal his key, free herself from this ravine prison, and find his hidden boat. ’Twas so simple.

Averyl dashed across the room. Her fingers slid around the cold metal. Relief swelled inside her as she hoisted the weapon over her head. It weighed more than she had anticipated. But she could lift it once; once was all she would need.

A moment later, she heard the thump of Locke’s booted footsteps outside. Averyl scurried across the floor, purple dress swishing about her legs, and moved toward the door. Then climbing on the hearth, she hid behind the portal as Drake swung it open.

He stood motionless, towering in the doorway, the breadth of his shoulders spanning the door’s frame as he scanned the room. Instantly, her breathing shallowed with his presence, her spine tingled with his nearness.

Pushing her anxiety aside, she took a breath behind him and lifted the weapon.