Averyl opened her eyes to find Drake sitting beside her bed, staring. Though she heard the bustle and voices of the townspeople on the street below and saw the blank expression Drake wore, remembrances of the previous night rushed upon her mind like a blizzard—cold and unavoidable. ’Twas impossible to forget a rejection so painful.

Closing her eyes, she held fresh tears at bay. How easily Drake had walked away from her and their marriage bed. In no other way could he have told her so clearly she lacked beauty. All his pretty words and past denials to the contrary had been exposed as falsehoods. Lies surely designed to subdue her while he exacted revenge on the man she’d sought to marry. And like a fool, she had willingly played his pawn last night—nay, his whore—panting and aching at his touch.

When she opened her eyes, she wanted to look anywhere but at his tall, unreachable figure and the inky waves of his hair but he and his unerring stare would see her cowardice if she surrendered again to her hurt. Instead, Averyl brought the blankets beneath her chin and glared.

The withdrawal on Drake’s sharp features told her naught had changed since the hours past midnight she’d waited for his return, finally succumbing to tears of humiliation near dawn when she realized he would not return. Aye, she had hoped to remain chaste, but not knowing he found her unbearable.

“How soon can you dress?” he asked, his voice without inflection. “Less than the half hour?”

Did he have nothing else to say? Nay, she thought bitterly, what would he? She sickened him, even as a traitorous part of her pined foolishly for the burn of desire she had felt before he abandoned her to a lonely midnight. Still she felt the slide of Drake’s hands upon her skin, his earthy scent enveloping her, now taunting her.

She refused to be his fool any longer.

“Aye.”

“Good. Gordan and Edina are surely awaiting us to break their fast.”

Cringing at the thought of facing hosts who expected a couple in love, Averyl said, “Eat without me. I hunger not.”

“We go together,” he contradicted. “The Gibsons will have no reason to suspect their efforts to see us happy last eve were for naught.”

Everything within her rebelled. ’Twas humiliating enough to have her own groom profess his revulsion of her, but to be ordered about as well… ’Twas not to be borne. “They will surely think ill indeed, knowing you spent your night elsewhere.”

Averyl could have bitten her tongue the moment the words escaped. Drake merely stood, rising to his imposing height above her, and raised a stiff brow.

“I was in the empty room next to this. They know naught.”

Averyl froze. Had he heard her pacing, her tears through these thin walls? She prayed God Drake had been deaf to the misery his scorn brought.

Of course, she could have welcomed his absence if he had used his anger to take her by force. But nay, he had nearly seduced her virtue from her, then brutally stripped her of pride when he had turned away.

She shrugged, feigning apathy. “They are your friends, not mine. I care not what they think.”

But she did care, not only about the Gibsons and their opinions, but about Drake. In spite of his abduction and rejection, she felt a better—if broken—man beneath. Aye, he was misguided, thinking revenge would bring salvation, seemed to prize the screaming white scars upon his back as a reminder of his hate. But he was the same man who cared about her fear of darkness. The same man who had hurt naught, except her pride. The husband who now looked at her with dark eyes that held naught—but for that something wild and needy he tried to hide.

Drake needy? She might well have taken a potion that sapped her logic for all she made sense today. What a fool.

Peace, she craved just a moment of it. Of privacy, where she could collect her thoughts without the distraction of his presence, where she would not have to remember the soft magic of his touch—or the hard scorn of his distaste as he rolled away.

Emerging from the bed in naught but her chemise, Averyl rose and paused to grab her dress, conscious of Drake’s watchful eyes upon her. With all due haste, she thrust the dress over her head, then opened the door, lacing the garment as she entered the hall.

Drake swore and rushed to her side, pulling her back into the room. He slammed the door shut with a broad palm.

“Have you lost your senses? You cannot leave half-dressed.”

“The state of my dress matters not to you. If I were now raped by the barbarians of last eve, ’twould matter not to you!”

He grasped her arm then spun her to face him. “Do not put false words into my mouth. I would never let them touch you.”

“Why? Because you do not want another trampling upon your property?”

He grabbed her chin and held it tightly. The expression on his taut face matched his black silence—something volatile, an explosion moments from erupting.

If she had angered him, it hardly mattered. Theirs was not a real marriage. It never would be, not with his refusal to believe in love, and revenge and revulsion lying between them. Averyl returned his scowl with a defiant stare.

Finally, he spoke in a controlled voice. “Until the next twenty-second of June, you are my wife. That is reason enough.”

“I did not want the role.”

“I do not recall asking if you would like to assume it.”

“’Tis true, you snake. You bullied me into it surrendering my future and jeopardizing my home and vassals. For that, I shall never forgive you.”

At that, he slowly released her. An emotionless mantle overcame his face. “I expected naught less.”

 

* * * * *

 

Returning to their room after the morning meal, Averyl swallowed against the rise of breakfast in her throat. Sitting across from Drake while he played the sated groom… Her mortification could not have been more thorough, nor her hurt more acute. The Gibsons had merely smiled, seeming to take no note of her lack of enthusiasm.

No matter, for this visit had come to an end. She had naught to do but gather her meager belongings.

Of course, she must try to escape again. She’d come to that decision over breakfast. Legally wed they might be, but Averyl had no wish to live with a man who abhorred her and sought to use her for his own end. The fact she was idiot enough to have other feelings for him simply convinced her she could not remain. In fact, she’d come to realize last night had been a blessing, for her marriage was unconsummated.

Murdoch MacDougall could have it dissolved before they wed, should he still want her as his wife. She hoped Drake had spoken true in claiming Murdoch must take her to wife to satisfy his father’s will. If so, mayhap the MacDougall would welcome her without hesitation. Then Abbotsford would be saved, and she could put the isolated, infuriating Drake Locke from her mind.

To achieve that, she must concentrate on escape. And this time, she would be more prepared. ’Twas daylight, for one. And Drake’s mood was nothing short of preoccupied. Best of all, she’d stolen a sharp knife from Edina’s table for a weapon.

Tucking the blade within the folds of her skirt, Averyl gathered the rest of her belongings. She turned for the doors, to find a way from the inn, when Drake strode into the room.

“You are packed quickly.” His voice was deceptively calm.

Averyl merely gave him a regal tilt of her head, declining more answer than that, hoping he could not hear the pounding of her heart, nor the oath poised upon her tongue.

All but stalking across the floor, Drake paused before the open window, then faced her. “Averyl, do not think that I—” Sighing, he peered out the window behind him. “Last eve, I…”

Averyl turned away. Any talk of last night could bring naught but ill feelings and grief. Her life had been too full of those of late.

Drake leaned forward suddenly, then let loose a hearty curse. “What in hell’s name…?”

Shock infused his voice. Averyl whirled to its sound.

“This cannot be!”

She strode to the window, all else forgotten in the face of curiosity. Below, she saw a large party on fine war horses. Well dressed men at arms rode through the middle of the street.

Murdoch MacDougall himself sat proudly at the front, not deigning to look at the town’s peasants clustered about him.

Averyl gasped. Her savior was here. He would free her, explain why he’d bedded Drake’s mother. He would save her home.

Before she could find the right words to shout, Drake wound an arm about her waist, anchoring her against the wall of his chest, and clapped a hand over her mouth.

“You will not breathe a word, my good wife,” he chided.

Fury rose within her, and she tried to bite the salty fingers covering her lips. Drake subdued her, his gaze trained over her head, on Murdoch.

Well contained, Averyl cast her stare out the window again only to find Murdoch and his men stopping before the inn. Her eyes widened and her heart raced, as Drake stiffened and swore.

Had Murdoch discovered them here? If so, what would he and his men do to Drake? Maim him? Kill him? She swallowed.

After dismounting, the MacDougall stretched and cast his gaze about. Then Averyl noticed a woman traveling with them, the kitchen wench with red hair, still round with child.

“Can you not waddle faster?” Murdoch snapped at her as she struggled to dismount, falling to her knees. No one moved to assist her.

The girl struggled to her feet and said something Averyl could not hear, something that caused Murdoch’s long body to tense in fury.

“We have not the time to stop for you to relieve yourself again. You slow me down and yet have the nerve to complain of pains and discomforts? I grow weary of this.”

Again the woman answered quietly. Averyl watched in outrage. Beside her, Drake dropped his hand from her mouth and shifted his taut arms more tightly around her.

Murdoch’s vicious backhand across the woman’s cheek caused her fragile neck to snap back—and Averyl to gasp. Such a blow would surely leave a bruise come morn.

Beside her, Drake’s mouth twisted in a sneer of contempt. “There is the man you sought to wed.”

Averyl flinched at that truth.

“You could help it very much by closing your legs to every man who walks your way,” Murdoch sneered. “Remember that the next time you want a man to claim your brat.”

With a dismissive wave, he turned to a shorter man beside her. “Wallace, see to her care before she nags me to death.”

With a nod, the woman and the soldier disappeared, presumably inside the inn. Averyl felt cold with shock. True, she’d wondered for some time if Murdoch was the dream lover she sought, but she had thought him steadfast, kind. His callousness of a woman so clearly in delicate discomfort sent horror curdling in her belly.

“’Tis cruel,” she whispered.

Drake nodded. “Especially since the bairn is his.”

“But Murdoch said—”

“That she made herself available to any man? No man at Dunollie would be fool enough to dally with Murdoch’s leman. Few men find a tumble worth their lives.”

Averyl took in Drake’s words in solemn shock. Edina’s tale, along with Drake’s warnings and Murdoch’s actions, painted an ugly picture of the man she’d nearly wed. A man with whom life could not have been peaceful, much less happy, particularly if he had killed his father, as Drake claimed. As she now feared he was capable. She could nae have loved a monster like that. And it stood to reason he had no real wish to wed her, either, other than to fulfill the terms of his father’s will.

Such meant that, if she could escape Drake, ’twould not be to seek Murdoch. Marriage to such a man would be like a descent into hell, permanent and fraught with evil. But what to do now?

Swallowing a hard lump of truth, Averyl realized she could not escape Drake’s velvet prison. Not yet, for she had nowhere to run. Abbotsford lay too far away, and her father would only try to wed her off to the odious Murdoch again. And there was that binding matter of her handfast to Drake…

He had her well and truly trapped—but only for now.

“Where to, my lord, since we found naught on the western isles?” the man named Wallace returned to ask Murdoch.

Beside her, Drake smiled. Apparently their hidden cottage had not been breached. Something that made little sense, something that felt oddly like relief, slid through her.

The MacDougall paused, rubbing his thumb against the square block of his chin. “Ask the innkeepers within if they’ve seen the swine and that scrawny bitch.”

Panic infused Averyl as she gazed wide eyed at Drake. Looking shockingly unruffled, he released her and grabbed her valise. “We must be away.”

“Where? They will find us before we can safely flee.”

He shook his head, sparing another glance out the window. “Gordan and Edina will lie for us, much as I’m loathed to see them do it. They will give Murdoch naught. But we must not linger, in case he demands to search the inn.”

“Aye,” she whispered as he pushed her toward the door.

“They slept here just last night says the innkeeper’s wife,” the voice outside told Murdoch.

Averyl froze. Were Drake’s friends Murdoch’s as well? Had they betrayed him?

“And?” the MacDougall barked with impatience.

“They left early this morn, headed north.”

Drake smiled once more at the blatant lie. Averyl felt her tension ease.

After a pause, Murdoch added, “The Highlands offer many places to hide. But Diera’s by-blow cannot hide forever.”

“’Tis true,” Murdoch’s henchman, Wallace, added.

Beside her, Drake tensed, nostrils flared, jaw strained. Without thought, Averyl placed her hand on his arm in a gesture of comfort.

“Let us search the rooms in case he left aught behind,” Murdoch called, then ducked out of sight, through the inn’s main door.

Averyl’s heart lurched in her throat. Drake merely glanced at her, brows raised, before he shot her a wolf’s smile and dropped her valise.

She shivered as he crossed the room and withdrew a knife strapped inside his boot. Without hesitation, without flinching, he drew the blade across his palm, unearthing a ribbon of crimson blood across his browned skin. Stomach churning, mind racing, Averyl watched as he swiped his injured hand across the white sheet, staining it red.

When Drake turned back to her, mischief filled the corners of his smile. “Let Murdoch think what he will of that.”

Bitterness rose. Nay, he wanted her not, but would let his own blood to have others believe he did. Her belly clenched. ’Twas fury, she swore, not pain.

Drake wanted Murdoch to feel certain she had shared those tangled sheets with him like the most intimate of lovers. Why? As a statement of possession? Of revenge?

Still wearing a grin, her husband wrapped a kerchief about his hand and grabbed her valise with the other before showing her out the door and down the back stairs, away from the foul sounds of Murdoch’s curses.

As Drake’s hand rested protectively at the small of her back, Averyl found herself unaccountably grateful that he had taken her from Murdoch’s clutches, despite her resentment. Despite the fact she knew her new husband could not love her.

 

* * * * *

 

Upon a choppy but uneventful boat ride back to Arran and their hidden cottage, evening fell. With it, desire and memories of Averyl’s soft body and willing moans rose.

Once inside the damp cottage, Drake turned his back to his virgin bride and sloshed ale into a tin cup. Her wide hazel eyes stabbed at his conscience as did his memories of her midnight tears the night before. Raising the mug to his mouth, he downed the contents in one quick swallow, then poured more. He repeated the process twice within seconds, hoping at once to drown his lust and his guilt.

Aye, how he wanted her. Burned to possess her. Should, in fact, take her tonight—now—to make their handfast binding.

But he could not make himself do aught that might hurt her.

Still, he recognized that one could not be had without the other. Christ’s oath, she wanted love, some fool’s notion of devotion and chivalry that existed not.

A quick glance at her pacing near the door revealed a cautious expression, her greenish eyes still accused. Maybe she did not understand what love really meant, what it wrought. How could she? As a sheltered innocent, she could not know what he did, had not seen the devastation left in love’s wake.

Drake paced, downing another long swallow of the bitter brew in his cup. He could tell her, aye. But would she understand?

Mayhap the problem was his. Averyl had never professed to love him, just to be seeking love itself. Perhaps he assumed more since she would not leave his mind.

Since this morn, he’d begun to wonder what spell she had cast over him. Why could he not tear her from his gaze, absent her essence from his senses, free her from his thoughts?

Drake paused to refill his cup and empty it once again.      “She nearly killed my father.”

A frown wrinkled Averyl’s brow. “Who?”

“My mother.” Eyes narrowed, he turned away with a harsh grunt. “Her perfidy wounded him. The rest”—she shook his head—“nearly ended his will to live.”

When Drake spun toward her again, her face was a study in turmoil. Warmth and liquid fire washed through him.

“The rest?” she choked out. “We spoke of your mother’s seduction at Murdoch’s hands. Is there more?”

He tossed back another long swallow of ale, his fingers tightening around the little cup. “The bairn.”

“Bairn? Your mother conceived another one?”

He nodded, turning away so she could not see his face. Schooling his emotions, he waited for her inevitable question.

“Who sired…”

After a terrible moment of silence, Averyl gasped. Drake gnashed his teeth, thankful that she had spared him the humiliation of answering.

“Murdoch got your mother with child?”

Drake turned toward the horror hanging in her every syllable. “Aye.”

Face white, she placed a trembling hand over her mouth. “What happened then? Your father must have been…”

“Furious,” he slurred. “Hurt. Bewildered to be so betrayed by his wife.” He nodded, tossing back more ale. “Choose any among them. Each fits,” he said, making a sweeping gesture. “But that was not the worst. Not by half.”

Looking into his empty cup, Drake swayed toward the ale and refilled it. “My mother knew there would be reprisals for her faithlessness.” He stared moodily into his cup as if it foretold the past. “She tried to abort and died.”

Averyl placed protective hands over her stomach. Drake saw the gesture, which warmed and irritated him at once. Still, the impact of his words on her soft face could not be discounted, though he’d begun to see two of her. Shock had replaced her anger, concern overridden anxiety. A curious softness took up residence in his chest.

Raking a hand through his long hair, Drake was annoyed to find that it shook. “My father was a proud man. A fierce warrior who put fear into the hearts of many on the battlefield. My mother stripped him of that. He held Diera while she bled. He cried like a child as he chanted his love for her over and over, as if it were some talisman against death.” Drake frowned, bitterness seething in his gut. “As she drew her last breath, she told him to rot in hell.”

“Oh, Drake. How terrible,” she whispered, her words like a soothing balm on the chafed surface of his soul. He closed his eyes against a suddenly swaying world.

“Aye,” he said. “’Twas bad enough until Murdoch framed me for a murder I did not commit, the murder of a man I loved well.”

Trembling, Averyl rose and placed a soft hand on Drake’s taut arm. He stared at her, his eyes anguished yet unfocused.

Sliding her hand in his, Averyl squeezed his warm palm. Her heart pained for him, for she understood now what a bitter threat he thought love to be.

Given his knowledge of Dunollie and of his nemesis, Averyl could only assume that the soothsayer at the fair had spoken true of some bond the two men shared. Perhaps Drake’s father had been a soldier for Lochlan MacDougall, mayhap even one of his clansmen. Not only had his father most likely watched the more powerful Lochlan take to his mother’s bed, he’d known she had also bedded down with the chief’s son. A terrible tragedy for Diera’s ambition or passions to have wrought.

She soothed a hand over Drake’s clenched fist. “I am heartily sorry.”

“’Tis in the past, and I do not want your pity,” he spat, wiping the melancholy from his sharp features. “’Tis your body I seek now, the sweet surrender I should have taken last night.”

He reached for her, the dark tones in his face matching his voice. His warm palm slid across her shoulder, gliding down her tingling arm, before he wrapped his fingers around her elbow. Averyl trembled with awareness, wondering why she always reacted to Drake this way, even when he presented the mask of an inebriated, irrational stranger, even when he lashed out in pain.

“You want revenge, not me.”

Bitterly, he laughed. “I want you.”

“But—”

“My mother showed me early that a man should never leave a woman’s bed untended. Diera’s passions were too strong to go long without a lover.” He paused, his gaze invading her soul. “I will not be fool enough to make that mistake with you.”

“I’m not your mother,” Averyl corrected warily.

“’Tis true enough, but you are more dangerous,” he said huskily. “You make me feel.”

Averyl absorbed that shocking news as Drake grasped her other arm and hauled her against his chest. His eyes, though half-closed now, gleamed with a golden, hungry light that made her heart pound. “I want in your arms. Your verra bed, lass. To feel your sweet mouth”—he swayed, then steadied himself—“your sweet mouth beneath mine.”

He swerved again, his head rolling to one side, eyes closed. She scarcely had time to wrest the tin cup from his limp fingers before Drake sank into the chair behind him. His snores moments later told her there would be no more talk that night.