The MacDougall wanted her for a wife!

Averyl’s head swam with the notion and warmed her blood with relief as she fingered the lavish bracelet of rubies he had placed upon her wrist—a prelude to their betrothal. It mattered not that he wed her only to cease the wars between their clans. In the years to come, she would give him no cause to regret his decision, despite her plain face.

Averyl entered her chamber in Dunollie’s keep after the evening meal, as all the castle’s inhabitants sought their beds. Though she doubted sleep would come this night, she vowed to try. She must look her best for tomorrow’s betrothal ceremony.

Shedding her embroidered belt and its matching brocade gown, Averyl stood clad in her chemise, shivering at the room’s chill. She frowned at the pair of weak flames seeming to hover above the candles in the corner, then stared at the empty grate beside it. MacDougall had ordered a fire for her. Wondering at his lazy servants, Averyl made her way to the door with every intent of calling for help.

A noise came, a shuffling behind her. She cast a quick glance at the two small windows. Neither was open to invite the night’s breeze. And the shuffle had been too large for a mouse.

As her heart began to thud, Averyl turned slowly to see what—or who—had invaded her chamber.

Suddenly, the meager light from the candles to her right flickered and died.

Averyl cried out, her heart pounding, as the detested dark enveloped her. The black she despised closed in, choking her courage and logic.

Would she live to see her marriage to MacDougall? Or would she die now? Would it hurt?

The icy rush of her blood heralded prickling apprehension. Cold sweat beaded its way across her skin as her heart threatened to beat out of her chest. No brutal attack came—yet—as she struggled to peer into the frightening, endless black.

But an intruder was here. She sensed it. Felt it. Averyl listened but still heard naught except blood churning in her ears, multiplied by the chilling silence. Saw nothing but shadowed night. Fear pulled at her as mercilessly as a stretching rack.

She glanced about the night-draped room again. Still, the murky gray-black revealed no one, naught sinister.

But the tingling sensation of a hot gaze upon her took root and grew.

Her heart pounded, quickening to a frenzied beat. Fear battled logic. The silence turned thick, tense.

“Who comes?” she called, voice shaking.

Utter hush met her query. The room stood still, clasped in the dark shadows. The wind gave a mean rumble outside.

The stare upon her intensified, like a hunter closing in on its prey, focusing on her linen-clad shoulders, her bare legs. Averyl’s heart chugged faster as a low-pitched throb vibrated through her body, gathering strength.

Sweet Mary, where was the door? How fast could she run?

Suddenly, a broad palm covered her mouth as a hot hand seized her arm, pulling her against a large form in a coarse woolen garment.

Terror washed over her in a cold, consuming wave. Gasping, Averyl tried to face the threat and struggle from the harsh grip. She opened her mouth to scream but could not force the sound past the strength of heavy fingers over her lips.

Straining over her shoulder for a glance of the fiend, she saw silvery moonlight beam through the window, illuminating a mere corner of the intruder’s face. The fearsome specter draped in a brown tunic hovered over her. Nature’s light cast harsh emphasis on his hard jaw and sprawling shoulders.

A moment later, the clouds blanketed the moon again. The room fell into chilling darkness. A sharp clap of thunder followed, echoing her racing heart.

Defined now by shadows, the man leaned closer. A scream tore at her throat, trapped still by his hand over her mouth.

Lightning fast, the stranger backed Averyl to the mattress and, with the press of his free hand to her shoulders, flattened her against it.

Nay! Her heart beating like a wild beast, Averyl squirmed and writhed for freedom, kicking at his stomach, his shins. He grabbed her ankles and clamped them between strong thighs, rendering her legs immobile.

Bile and terror rose in her throat. Sweet Mary, who was this villain? Why would he be here, staring with cold menace?

How would she escape?

Averyl grunted, straining against his grasp as fear swallowed her. Lungs aching, heart pounding, she watched the male figure bend over her, his palm still securely clamped over her mouth, silencing her calls for help.

Fists clenched, she punched him, arms thrashing, landing blows to his arms and face. He seemed not to notice, even when she pushed futilely against his solid chest. His insistent fingers merely seized her wrists and lowered her arms to her sides. With her mouth free, she opened it to scream. His returning hand stopped the sound before she could utter it.

One of his unyielding arms reached beneath her shoulders, scooping her against his broad chest. Trepidation burned through her blood. She turned her face away from his hand.

“Nay!” she screamed, but thunder muffled her cry.

“Not another word,” he warned.

The stranger’s voice told her he was Scottish, but held a slight English clip. Who was he? Why had he come?

Averyl’s mind raced as he fit his other arm beneath her knees and scooped her against him. In desperation, she writhed and shrieked as he left the room, but he held her head against his shoulder, muffling her cries.

Fear burned her like a cauldron’s fire as he descended the stairs. Where did he take her? A creaking door precipitated the cool night wind, which served as her only answer.

She looked up, beyond his determined chin and strong nose, feeling his hot breath mingle with the howl of wind tugging at her cap. The garden. Mercy, would anyone see her here?

Knowing ’twas not likely, terror blazed her anew. Fingers bared, Averyl reached out to claw his unfamiliar face. He dodged her attack and set her on her feet.

She made ready to run, but the fiend grabbed her arms, holding them against her sides, then brought her body to his, trapping her thighs between his, despite the monk’s robe he wore.

His breadth and height eclipsed her, obscured her in black shadow. With little effort, he held her against his hard form and covered her mouth with his hand.

“I’ve no wish to hurt you,” he said, his voice low, smooth.

Not believing him, Averyl jerked away from his touch. “You—you forced me from my chamber. If not to hurt me, why?”

“I will explain in good time,” he promised into the wind’s yowling.

Aye, when it was likely too late. Averyl opened her mouth to yell for help. He slapped a warm palm over her lips once more.

“Do not make me gag you,” he warned, then bent to his boot to retrieve a knife.

Averyl’s heart bolted faster than lightening at the sight of his silvery blade. She bit into the salty flesh of his palm and tasted blood. With a curse, he tore his hand away. Into the stiff wind, she screamed for her life. He clamped his hand over her lips again and searched about for intruders. To her shock, no one came to her rescue.

“I give but one warning, wench,” he bit out.

Her attacker reached for her, a cloth in hand—a knife in the other. She couldn’t breathe as she struggled, tearing at his hair, kicking his shins. She succeeded only in slipping to the mud below, falling to her knees before him.

Kneeling, he scooped her up, until her feet were beneath her once more. She cringed in dread, panting, as he—and his menacing blade—loomed closer. Averyl wanted to run, but the vicious silver dagger glinted with danger in the stark moonlight.

Averyl closed her eyes, bracing herself for the tearing of her flesh, for the end of her life. Surprise rippled through Averyl when he merely bound her mouth shut, then ripped Murdoch’s ruby bracelet from her cold skin with his blade.

Did he but seek to thieve it from her?

With his hot fingers clamped about her wrist, he dragged her over to the square building nearest the enclosure wall. She stumbled at his rapid pace, mud coating her bare feet.

He paused before the small structure. The kirk, she realized, spotting the pale cross gleaming in the moonlight.

The intruder held the bracelet to the dark wood and arched the knife into the enormous door. She started at the thump of the blade as he anchored the bauble in place, leaving it to dangle like a war trophy.

“Murdoch will know who has taken you,” he said.

Averyl wondered how.

When he turned to face her again, her captor gathered her against his solid length once more. Averyl pushed against the steel of his chest, resisting his tight grasp as he crept to the wicket gate. He pushed her through it, then ducked to follow close behind, holding her about the waist all the while. Averyl nearly tripped on a pair of sentries lying against the curtain wall, each clutching a jug of ale in drunken, snoring slumber.

She would have no help there. Panic rising, Averyl tried to wriggle from his grip—to no avail.

Her captor clasped one strong hand around the back of her neck, then tore the lacy cap from her head with the other. As he coiled his fingers through her unruly curls, her gaze flew to his. Her breath turned shallow. By the moon’s light, Averyl could see the chiseled planes of the brute’s hard face, framed by inky hair. His piercing dark eyes loomed dangerously close.

The wind wailed in the blackness. One of her pale curls lifted with the breeze to smooth across his cheek, skim his neck.

“You cannot escape me,” he vowed. “You are only likely to injure yourself trying.”

Her every muscle trembled from exertion, from fear, as she yanked the gag from her mouth. “Y-you plan to k-kill me?”

Averyl had not thought her assailant could look any angrier. Not until she witnessed every muscle in his face tighten.

“If you die, ’twill not be by my hand.”

The words did not reassure her, and the man said nothing more before he placed the gag over her mouth again and rose. Grasping her wrists together tightly, he dragged her through a dark, dank tunnel for long minutes, then out into the storm’s fury again, to a pair of horses tethered in the distance. She stumbled behind him, body stiff, resisting every step of the way.

Turning to one horse, the stranger checked the ties holding a satchel that looked to be hers. How had he obtained her belongings?

Before she could begin to guess the answer, the knave doffed the monk’s robe and tossed it aside. Beneath, he stood taller, broader than she had first thought. He wore a simple black tunic and hose, perfect to become one with the night.

The man mounted the dark gray animal, pulling her up in front of him so she, too, straddled the saddle. He clutched her to his chest, preventing any further opportunity to escape.

Gazing back at the stone keep so close, yet so far away, her captor growled, “Buaidh no bas.”

Conquer or die.

Averyl gulped. Did he seek to conquer her?

The villain urged his mount forward. Though she fought to free her hands so she might jump and run, he held them too tight. She tried to scream past her gag and prayed someone would hear and follow, that Murdoch would rescue her. No one emerged from the castle as it stood stout against the shrieking wind.

Dunollie Castle shrank in the distance behind them as he took their journey at a canter. The dervish charted their course from the main road, into a dense forest. Rain began to fall, punctuated by an occasional flash of wicked lightning as they rode farther and farther away from her father, her future—and her only hope of saving Abbotsford.

The thought staggered her. Only his mercy stood between life and death. Terrified, she sent a promise upward to do whatever God wanted, if only He helped her escape.

The man behind her must have felt her shudder, for he covered her with his cloak, as if she were cold. As he reached around her to fasten it, his fingers brushed her neck. His scalding touch on her chilled skin multiplied Averyl’s dread.

Loathing and fury overcame her. Summoning her energy, Averyl squared her shoulders and stiffened her spine so she no longer leaned against the devil.

Minutes slipped into hours that became a cold, wet misery as they galloped seemingly toward the bowels of hell. Finally, the sun crept above the horizon, its slow pace mirroring her weariness. She scratched at her heavy eyes. Her back ached as much as her cramped legs. Pressing sharp nails into her palms to remain alert, Averyl straightened away from her captor once more. But she could not avoid the hard thrust of his thighs cradling hers.

As she fought to keep her heavy eyes open, his warmth lured her closer to his sheltering body, against all good sense. As if sensing her weariness, he touched an oddly gentle hand to her shoulder and settled her body against his before her heavy lids slid inexorably shut.

 

* * * * *

 

Averyl awoke, feeling a soft bed beneath her. The woodsy crackling of a fire penetrated her senses. How long had she slept?

The clink of a goblet told her she was not alone. Fear chased away the vestiges of sleep.

Her eyes sprang open, and she spotted a man—her captor—sitting on a scuffed wooden chair in an unfamiliar room. The golden light did naught to soften his features.

Hazarding a glance about, her gaze took in the shabby brick walls of a small room seemingly that of an inn, though not necessarily a reputable one.

The events of the night rushed her memory in an icy stream. Not only had he abducted her but he had not told her his plans now that he had her caged. Ransom her? Rape her? Kill her?

Or all three?

The glow of the fire thrust his hard, chiseled profile into stark relief. ’Twas clear the man had nothing soft about him, not in dress, face, or manner.

Standing taller than Lord Dunollie or her father, he possessed massive shoulders and hands. If he planned to kill her, ’twould be no feat for him at all. How could she fend off a man of such size and strength?

Suddenly, he turned to face her. Gasping, she willed herself to bolt, but he filled the small room as he stood and settled dark eyes upon her.

“So, you have awakened.”

“Who are you?” she demanded, realizing he had removed her gag. “What reason have you for abducting me?”

Her militant tone was overshadowed by the ill-timed rumbling of her stomach. Averyl pretended not to notice.

He peered silently as he turned to a table behind him. “We have a lengthy journey ahead of us. Eat, then we will talk.”

Her captor handed her a flask of wine, a bit of bread, and a small piece of reddish-yellow fruit she had never seen. She bit into it and grimaced at the sour taste.

Scowling, he grabbed the fruit from her. “You must peel this before you eat it.”

“What is it?” she asked suspiciously, watching his deft fingers peel back the rind with ease.

“Have you never seen an orange?”

He pulled the last of the rind away, then handed the fruity orb to her. Not about to confess they’d never had the funds for such exotic frivolities at Abbotsford, Averyl broke off a section and gingerly took a bite. After all, she must keep her strength if she intended to escape.

An unfamiliar tang burst in her mouth. A wonderful taste, sweet, sour and juicy at once. A droplet ran to the corner of her lips. Tilting her head back, she mopped the juice up with the tip of her tongue.

With a sigh of pleasure, she lifted the flask to her mouth and found her captor’s gaze on her.

If heat had an expression, his epitomized the word. He stared at her mouth. His dark eyes flared above the taut hollows of his cheeks. Time stopped. A heartbeat. Two. In silence.

He looked at her like her father’s men looked at the beauteous Becca back home, as if he…desired her. Averyl drew in a shaky breath, feeling her own heartbeat answer.

Then his look disappeared, replaced by an annoyed scowl that settled over his handsome face.

Averyl felt herself flush at her foolishness. No man would pine for so homely a maid as she—and certainly not a man so fine of face as her captor.

She took a self-conscious swallow of the sweet wine, then another, before she set the flask aside. “Take me back to Dunollie Castle.”

Her words engendered no reaction. “Why should I?”

She hadn’t expected that question. “I am to wed the MacDougall chief.”

“Are you betrothed? Is that why you wore his bracelet?”

“Aye. He called the bracelet a betrothal gift, and the priest was to come this morn to witness—”

“Then you are not truly betrothed.” A flicker of something—relief?—crossed his features. “I see no reason to return you.”

The ruin her mother’s beloved Abbotsford would become if she did not wed MacDougall taunted her. “But…I-I love him.”

At that, her captor leaned indolently against the wall and scoffed in disbelief.

“Love is a word men bandy about to coax hesitant wenches into their beds.”

“’Tis not so,” she protested, eyes wide. “Mistrals sing prettily of love—”

“To entertain,” he cut in.

“Chivalrous knights fight to protect their loves.”

“Think you men need an excuse to make war?” He raised a challenging brow.

His tone called her foolish and naïve, and it raised her hackles.

“You must return me. My home—”

“Will still be standing when I am through with you.”

“But its people—”

“Will not suffer in your absence.”

“Stop interrupting me, you…you varlet. My people will suffer greatly in my absence!”

He grunted, neither his face nor voice showing concern as he stood again. “What did you seek from this match?”

“You refuse to listen to me, so I’ve naught to say.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“Would you have me believe this is a love match?” he said, disbelief heavy in his voice. “Is it MacDougall’s fat coffers that attract you most? Is that love to you?”

She glared at him. “Of course not. ’Tis more.”

“But you do not deny that you sought his funds.”

“Nay, but I think him a fine man.”

“Fine?” he grunted bitterly.

“He is, you fiend!” This knave would never convince her to think ill of the man she planned to wed.

“Thick-witted wench,” he grumbled.

She raised her chin, refusing to heed his insults, his contempt. “You know me not.”

“What little I know is enough,” he spat. “Though why a wily wench like you should wish to wed a scoundrel like Murdoch befuddles me.”

He peered at Averyl, as if she were a puzzle he sought to solve. But she would not explain her dream of a caring husband, of a life filled with joy and love absent since her mother’s death, to him. He would only mock her further.

“Do you believe yourself so unworthy that you cannot fathom a better man would want to wed you?” he asked.

Shock zipped through Averyl at his intimate knowledge of her fears. “How…how did you know?”

She did not realize she had blurted out her question until he answered. “I know much, my lady.”

He’d invaded her life, storming her very soul as he had Dunollie’s defenses. She turned a burning glare on him. Fury assailed her. “God’s blood, what do you want with me?”

“Tell me precisely what you seek from this betrothal.” The flickering firelight revealed the determined heat in his fathomless, black-fringed eyes.

“It is my duty to marry as my father sees fit.”

He shot her a suspicious stare. “Though you may possess many virtues, you’ve not shown me much obedience.”

She resisted an urge to run across the room and kick him. “Why should I not wed a wealthy man with enough soldiers to protect my crumbling keep? I want a husband and children and money in our coffers. I refuse to wonder any longer if my home will fall about my feet and our vassals will starve come winter.”

“Your conditions are harsh?” His voice reflected the same surprise evident in his frown.

“Entire families die each year we cannot feed them.”

He paused, seeming to weigh her answer, and raked a hand through his dark hair. Finally, something seemed to penetrate his armor of arrogance.

“Could you not find another husband to provide all you require?”

“Not anyone wealthy enough to overlook our impoverishment.” Or blind enough to overlook my deficiencies.

He looked skeptical. “No one else offered?”

“My penniless cousin Robert did, but my father refused him. You must understand, the MacDougall seeks my dower lands in the Campbell territory that once belonged to the MacDougalls. With them, he will bring more peace and prosperity between our clans.”

The mean sound the man spit out could scarcely be called a laugh. “Aye, he will continue to tell you how much he desires peace with your kin, up until the morn he attacks them.”

She jerked away from his touch. “I will not believe such a lie. Murdoch MacDougall is a man of honor. He would never resort to thieving a maid from her bed for some nefarious end.”

A tightness in his jaw, a momentary flattening of his full mouth betrayed his anger. Still, the violence she sensed leashed within him never surfaced. “You think not?”

“I care not what you think,” she tossed back. “I demand you release me. I shall be ruined if you do not.” The horrifying possibility of losing her home and her best chance at a contented marriage sank in with her statement. “The MacDougall might not wed me at all.”

He answered with a cynical grunt. “He would wed you, ruined or nay. He needs you as desperately as you wish to wed him.”

“Then return me,” she near pleaded.

“Nay.”

She placed belligerent hands on her hips. “Why do you seek to prevent our marriage? What manner of man would abduct a maid upon her betrothal?” A knave. A miscreant. She gasped, feeling the blood drain from her cheeks.

A maniacal butcher.

The truth of his identity hit her like an icy sheet of Scottish winter rain. She swallowed—hard. Her abductor’s disconcerting gaze followed her every move.

“Oh, dear heaven.” Her voice trembled as she braced herself on shaky arms. “I know you are the English murderer—the butcher of Lochlan MacDougall!”

He drew in a deep breath, eyes blazing black fury. Beneath taut shoulders, he clenched large fists, sending Averyl’s pulse back into turmoil.

“You are Drake Locke.” Even her voice shook now.

Frantic, she looked across the room, toward the door and freedom. Before she could rise and attempt to escape, he flew across the room and anchored his hands on either side of her head, trapping her against the bed. Her mind racing, she tried to roll away and find her feet. The stranger caught her wrists and pulled her back against the mattress, this time bracketing his hands around her waist to prevent her escape.

The pressure of his fingers seared through her clothing, into her skin. His presence, hot and looming, enveloped her. Dark, shaggy hair brushed the tops of his shoulders, longer than current fashion dictated, and framed a square, angry face. The corded muscles of his neck stood visible above the imposing breadth of his shoulders. The man was no one to trifle with.

Yet she had to risk everything for escape.

“I suppose Murdoch told you that.” His voice rumbled from his chest, much like the thunder above.

She nodded unevenly. “Why should you seek to prevent my marriage to him?”

The hard line of his jaw tensed again. “Revenge. He owes me a debt. You are my payment.”

She shook her head, imagining all the ways in which he might think to extract payment from her. “Do not touch me.”

“I do not seek to claim your…charms.”

That he seemed to believe she had none filled her with relief and anger at once. Still, Averyl hesitated.

Could she believe a fiend ruthless enough to steal a sleeping woman from her chamber, coldly murder a man? Nay.

Locke moved closer, until he stood inches away. A curious tingling began in her belly. Danger, she was certain, and fear, for she felt it in every nerve of her body.

“Do you plan to kill me?” Her voice trembled.

Wrath and pain tightened his features. “I told you I do not. I have no lust to shed any blood, save Murdoch’s.”

“Ransom me, then?”

“Nay. ’Tis not money I seek, unlike you.”

She ignored his contempt. “Then why have you taken me?”

“So I can be certain you do not wed yourself with Murdoch before you turn ten and eight.”

Though he seemed serious, Averyl could not believe such a tale. As if he would simply hold her at his side for the coming ten-month and expect nothing.

“You cannot mean to keep me for three seasons.”

“I can and I will.”

“And if I agree to wed someone other than MacDougall, will you release me?” If he said yes, she could simply return to Dunollie and wed MacDougall.

Her captor’s dark eyes narrowed. “I must first be certain that you will not be…persuaded to accept Murdoch’s suit.”

She forced a laugh. “I have no wish to incur your wrath.”

His gaze showed suspicion. “But you have no wish to give up such a match, either.”

Gritting her teeth, Averyl struggled to find another tactic. She must escape the rogue. He seemed every bit as evil and heartless as Murdoch claimed.

“But I will. I vow it,” she fibbed, desperate.

“You are a wretched liar. Mayhap I would accept your tale if you did not fidget.”

“You make me nervous.”

“As you make me, so I shall watch you closely.” With a grunt, he turned away. “Sleep now. We leave in three hours.”

He returned to the other side of the room. When he found the sofa, he lay on the too-short piece and shut his eyes.

“By the way, if you try to leave, I will hear. And if you escape, look over your shoulder. I will not be far behind.”

 

* * * * *

 

Drake lay still for the next half hour, fighting the sleep for which his body ached. The fire had died to mere embers whose shadowy flames danced on the roof’s bowed wooden ceiling. Across the small space, Lady Averyl lay, eyes gently closed. Her breathing told him she slept not.

Holding in a curse, he closed his own eyes, waiting for the Campbell wench to find slumber. Drake knew he had hoped in vain when he heard Averyl slip from her blankets and grab his cloak from the floor between them. With a quiet swish, she draped the garment about her, over her thin shift.

Opening his eyes a fraction, he watched her tiptoe toward the door. Silhouetted by the gray mist of the dawn filtering through the room’s small window, she paused and stared at her satchel lying on the ground at her feet.

As Averyl stole a nervous glance over her shoulder, Drake feigned sleep once more. A heartbeat later, she walked on, leaving her bag untouched.

Instead, she crept out the door and down the inn’s stairs, treading as silently as the moon through the sky.

Drake rose and peered out after her, now convinced she had not arisen to answer nature’s call. He followed, scowling.

Averyl darted down the stairs and faded into the dark of the inn’s empty common room. With a curse, Drake hurtled down the stairs after her.

At the bottom, he found no one, heard nothing. Cautiously, he let his gaze circle the room. Damnation, she was small and quick and could probably find a thousand places to hide.

Behind him, a door squeaked open. By the sun’s wan morning light, he watched Averyl dash outside. He gave chase, catching sight of her in time to see her sprint down a grassy hill.

Drake pursued her, though, truth told, her determination to escape surprised him. Hysterics he had expected, his mother’s favorite tactics. Not Lady Averyl. Despite the fact she was lost in unfamiliar surroundings and had no funds or horse to see her back to Dunollie, she continued to vie for freedom. Murdoch’s money and her keep, this Abbotsford, clearly meant something to her.

She stopped at the bottom of the hill and peered into the dawning landscape. “Nay, ’tis east?” she questioned, suddenly turning about.

As Averyl faced him, her gaze settled upon him. Her hazel eyes widened like endless twin fields. She gasped.

“I said there would be no escape.” He grasped her wrist.

Determination stamping her pale features, Averyl yanked free of his hold and darted away, into a thick copse of trees. Damnation, the wench was quick, he thought, following.

Spindly limbs tore at his face like a cat’s claws. He swore and swiped at a streak of blood on his cheek, then sprinted after Averyl again, led by the sounds of dried twigs snapping beneath her bare feet. Though such must hurt her in the morning chill, she made no sound as she pressed on.

Flashes of the dark cloak she wore appeared, flapping in the cold air between the summer-green trees. He heard her panting, as if her lungs were near bursting for air. Putting one boot in front of the other, he gave chase, wondering when she would tire.

In the next moments, he realized his rapid footsteps were gaining him ground. Inches in front of him, she fought for another sharp breath. Drake reached out to seize her.

Wrapping his arm about her waist in an implacable grip, he yanked her to his chest. With his hands about her surprisingly small middle, she cried out in protest.

Panting, he turned her to face him. “Have we not struggled enough for your liking?”

She thrashed in his grip. “I will fight you until I die.”

Drake brought her closer to still her. Her firm breasts met his chest. A scorch of sensation blazed through him. The rebuke on his tongue died.

She smelled like a trickle of rain on summer grass and some small flower he’d plucked as a child from his mother’s garden.

Lust pierced him with a hot thrust, enveloping his body.

Beneath his hands, his stare, she stilled. As she tilted her head back to gaze at him with greenish pools of defiance, an urge to thrust his fingers through the damp waves of Averyl’s pale curls and kiss her witless assailed Drake.

Frowning, he peered at her. How could he want her? He was no celibate monk pining after any woman’s flesh. And as womanly charms went, hers were lovely, but she was his enemy’s bride, his pawn only. She was the means to his revenge, not a woman he could slake his lust upon—even if she would have him.

“Damn you,” he hissed. “I’ve had little sleep in three days, and you try my patience. Stop this foolishness.”

“I would be foolish if I did not seek my freedom.”

Drake’s only reply was a growl. He hoisted his captive over his shoulder and carried her back to the inn with teeth clenched. Past the innkeeper’s shocked wife and up the dilapidated stairs they went, until he set her down on the bed with a disgusted grunt and tied her to its post. Shooting her stiff form a warning glare, he turned away to pack up their belongings and douse the fire.

When he’d finished, he approached Averyl. She sat defiantly on a brown woolen blanket. Her small form was nearly swallowed whole by his gray cloak. One bare ivory calf peeked out to tempt him. Her feet bore myriad cuts and scrapes beneath a thin layer of mud. He shook his head. She wanted escape badly, to endure such self-inflicted wounds without complaint.

He pushed aside a flash of admiration for the Campbell wench. Despite her brave heart, she was naught but a captive.

Drake rubbed his gritty eyes, his body aching with fatigue. But he could not rest now, not after months of plotting this scheme. And despite the fact his captive clearly had her reasons to crave freedom, he must restrain her. The past must be avenged, his honor restored.

Murdoch could not win.

 

* * * * *

 

Cursing the cold rain and chilly wind, Drake dragged his small boat onto the grassy shore, anchoring it upon nearby rocks. He leaned down to retrieve Lady Averyl’s sleeping form and held her against his chest, her satchel slung over his wrist. She trembled against him, drawing his attention to her unnaturally cold skin. Something like disquiet gripped his belly.

With a frown, he raced up the hillside, across the soft, grassy plain, then down the next hill, into the ravine. Averyl lie still in his arms. Cursing, he pushed the gate open with his shoulder and darted inside his little hideaway, tossing Averyl’s satchel carelessly into a corner. After laying her across his bed, he lit the dark room with several candles.

Exhaustion and cold pelted him in waves as discomforting as the night’s rain. Across the room, Drake spied his slumbering captive. No doubt, she was chilled to the bone, wearing no more than a shift and a damp cloak.

He began a warming fire in the hearth, then returned to Averyl. She lay still, alarmingly pale. Fragile and drenched.

Something annoying nagged at him, something he could not quite place. Guilt? He shoved it aside and set his hands beneath the cloak, rubbing her arms to warm them as he cast his gaze about for a blanket.

The ice-like chill of her skin could not be ignored, nor the bruises on her thin arms.

Bruises he knew full well he had created in his urgency.

By the saints, he had not purposely hurt her. But he would have revenge, no matter the cost—even if that meant taking his place beside Murdoch in the ground outside of Dunollie’s chapel. True, Averyl would emerge from captivity unwed and of questionable virtue, but she would have her life and, someday, the knowledge she had not wed a murderous monster.

Until she learned of Murdoch’s true nature, until Drake could safely release her to her family, he could protect her from Murdoch’s schemes and her own foolish greed. And have revenge.

The irony did not escape him, a man accused of murder saving his captive from a highland chief. On another day, years before, he might have laughed.

Now, he took her chilled hand in his. Snow could not have been colder than her bloodless fingers. The dratted damp wool cloak he had given Averyl during their journey could only be adding to her chill. He cast the garment away with a curse and fished a blanket from his trunk at the foot of the bed.

As he turned to spread the quilt over her, Drake made the mistake of looking at her.

Her heart-shaped face seemed fragile, somehow innocent, despite the fact she was a Campbell wedding a MacDougall for gold. The slight point of her chin hinting at the rebellion in her nature. Strands of her long, pale curls were plastered wetly to her cheeks and throat. Making his way to her side, he pushed the wayward curls aside to blend with those dotting her temples.

Past her pallid, frigid shoulders, his gaze wandered, to her breasts visible through her transparent shift. His breath left his lungs in a hiss.

The rosy tips of Averyl’s firm breasts stood taut with cold. Gently rounded, they were like twin beacons of seduction giving rise to the red embroidery of the low neckline.

Lust lurched into his throat, then sped into his loins. He swallowed to force it down and clasped his father’s cross about his neck to remind himself of all that mattered.

Still, it did not stop him from gazing farther down her body, over her small waist, past the gentle flair of her hips. Drake stopped his perusal again, this time on her sleek, firm thighs and the light-colored thatch visible between them.

With lightning speed, desire slammed into him once more, shocking him with its strength. His only clear thought was that he wanted to lose himself there. He wanted those thighs around him, open and ready for his entrance.

Drake whipped his gaze away. He was not a randy boy lacking control. Averyl was cold; he could warm her. It meant naught.

Quickly, he sliced the wet, diaphanous garment from her shivering body, trying not to look…or think of all the possible ways he could touch her. But image after vivid image of her ivory skin and welcoming arms around him flashed into his mind.

Muttering an earthy curse, he tucked her beneath his blankets and turned toward the fire. Why her? He’d seen more comely women. Hell, even bedded a few. She was his captive, Murdoch’s betrothed, and a Campbell. She would shrink from him in horror if she knew his gaze had touched her every curve.

Yet his body wanted her still.

Drake cursed, forcing his mind elsewhere. He had accomplished his first goal—to abduct the woman Murdoch must wed. Yet he’d come away surprised. Averyl had proven herself a strong, resourceful woman—no mere pawn.

Sitting back, he stared into dancing flames. Averyl had not been, as he’d assumed, living in luxury. Nor was she the spoiled and vain creature his mother had been. But she was still a fool. ’Twas admirable to seek coin for her home and people, to sacrifice herself to the ruthless Murdoch. Or did she simply love gold enough to bed down with a merciless man of means?

Drake stood. Averyl and her reasonings mattered not. Nor did his lust for her. His father’s death, as well as his own torture, demanded revenge. When he released Averyl, he would give her enough funds to repair her keep and plant new crops.

If he still lived.

Frowning darkly, he prepared a pallet by the door. As for his lust, he must ignore it. Mayhap a bit of sleep would cure him of this want.

Averyl moaned in her sleep. Despite Drake’s vow moments ago, his imagination reeled with images of their bodies damp with passion, limbs tangled in urgent need. Nay, he had no need to seduce the wench. But no matter how he told himself to forget the idea, his cock ached long into the night to know how fulfilling such a seduction would be.