His Stolen Bride BN Page 15

  The more Drake held her, the more he ached to have her. Yet as she spoke, the more he feared his hasty possession tonight would pain her, not in body but in heart.

  Before he could dwell on the unpleasant reality, his lips covered hers, softly demanding of her sweetness. She resisted, her warm fingers splayed against his chest as if to ward him off. Refusing defeat, Drake renewed his onslaught, reaping of the honeyed harvest of her mouth. He gave desire free rein, drinking of her lips, drawing her stiff form closer.

  His pulse leapt. His skin came alive with sensations of warmth and velvet. The faint scent of spiced flowers, of Highland rain, registered as he groaned and wrapped his fingers in her silken tresses, flowing loose and enticing. She could tempt the most pious of monks.

  With a pained cry, Averyl moved to push him away. Drake held fast, possessing her mouth again, tasting, teasing.

  Tearing her mouth away, she breathed, “Why?”

  Drake let her gaze delve into her—deep—willing her to understand what he could not deny. “I want this. I want you.”

  Then he possessed her lips again, plundering.

  Averyl’s hands crept from his chest to his shoulder, then about his neck. Her mouth softened to him slowly. He courted, waiting for her trust, her need. She gave it in inches, melting against him, admitting desire. Drake rejoiced in each small surrender, in the long, velvety union of their mouths.

  The kiss seized his breath. As if she knew her power, Averyl shyly touched her tongue to the curve of his lower lip, inciting a shiver.

  Tilting her face up to his, he deepened their kiss and inhaled the feminine allure of her skin. Desire rose within him like the heat of an August noon. His tongue mated with hers, encouraging and insisting. Averyl returned every nuance of his kiss and heightened the flame of his need.

  Their lips met again, urgency spiraling. Drake clutched a handful of her chemise and used it to draw her close enough to feel every inch of his want. She melted into him, her fervor heating the air between them, stirring his lust-filled body.

  He lowered his mouth to her neck, where he nibbled his way across her scented skin. Her soft taste sent a rain of sensation straight down to his aching shaft.

  As he picked up hints of her essence with his tongue, she intoxicated him. Again, he devoured her mouth. Her fervent response held a heady mix of female innocence and a natural instinct to bewitch. And God knew, Drake was only too willing to fall beneath her spell.

  Keeping her mouth captive to his, Drake lifted her against him, cradling her knees into the crook of his arms. The feel of her small, passionate form against him, seemingly so willing, sent his lust careening out of control.

  Drake crossed the room with Averyl in his arms and set her upon the soft bed, where he planned to claim her this night until they both cried exhaustion. Laying her down, he followed her to the soft mattress, taking her mouth once more. She met his unrelenting demand as if she already understood the desperation of desire.

  Averyl moaned in his arms, and Drake felt her cry deep within him. He could wait no longer to have her, all of her.

  With a brush of his hand, her shift fell from her shoulder. He gazed upon her milky flesh, the slopes of her shoulders, the soft rise of her breasts. He worshipped the flesh he exposed with his mouth, lips breathing over soft skin.

  Finally, he pushed her chemise to her waist, sending his tingling palm over the small mound of her breast. He moaned as she arched into his touch. Drake closed his eyes at the dizzying feel of her beneath his hands, feeling lust pound in his body more strongly than the beat of his racing heart.

  He leaned toward her, watching her watch him. Desire pulsed in the air, potent, fast, consuming. Its rhythm doubled, pounded, when his mouth closed around the waiting tip of her breast and she cried out.

  The green of her eyes flared with surprise and want. He stared at her, need roiling within him. Could one woman be so sweet? Could she truly make all those before seem like pale imitations? Aye, he thought as his hand grazed the curve of her waist, then drifted down to the arch of her hip, removing her silken shift in the process.

  On fire, he reached for her hands and brought them to his shirt. “Undress me?”

  At his ragged request, she lifted her eyes to him in uncertainty. She hesitated, biting her lip, swollen from his kiss. Cheeks red, breath fast, she stared, her gaze roving over his shoulders, his chest. Drake sat still, waiting, praying.

  Suddenly, her fingers were in motion, working at his shirt. Inch by inch, she exposed his flesh. Her eyes widened before she consumed him in a heavy-lidded gaze of sultry wonder. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, heard her ragged breathing. Satisfaction seeped into him.

  She pushed one side of the shirt off his shoulder. Drake trembled at the feathered texture of her touch, so light yet inescapable. Impatient, he jerked the garment over his head.

  Slowly, she lifted shaking fingertips to the center of his chest, just below the gleam of his father’s cross. The heat of her touch scorched him.

  Talons of fire licking at him, Drake seized her mouth again, this time with a fervency he did not try to restrain. He whispered wicked suggestions, needful moans, as he touched her. Across her abdomen and the curve of her buttocks, around the heat of her thighs—anywhere she would have him. She gasped, arched, sighed—set him aflame.

  Again, he devoured her mouth, begging and demanding her response at once, until he felt certain she understood he intended to possess each warm inch of her.

  Averyl did not shy away. Indeed, she returned his caress with a sweep of her glance, followed by the lingering touch of her hands up his arms, across his shoulders, until her fingers cascaded down his belly. Drake sucked in a deep breath of heat. With a gaze of eyes so green, she held his stare, as her fingertips made their way across the arch of his brow, the angles of his cheeks, over the sensitive curve of his lip. Drake had never imagined such a caress could make him ache with such hardness.

  Knowing he could passively endure her touch no more, Drake rolled her beneath him, eager to feel her soft body. Her harsh breathing matched his own, as did the want in her eyes.

  Yet for all Averyl’s beguiling ways, she was innocence personified. Like Eve before her fated walk though Eden, sensual but untouched. Pure and unspoiled.

  Until this night. Until him.

  The thought slammed into him. He swallowed hard to push it away.

  If he took her now to satisfy his lust and revenge, aye, ’twould ease his aching manhood. But her virginity would be sacrificed on the altar of revenge. Even from afar, Murdoch would sully the one thing Drake wanted perfect between them. And she would come to hate him for the deed.

  He lay motionless atop her, enduring her frown of curiosity. Still, he did not move.

  Claiming her now would be tantamount to thieving the one gift he could not replace, a gift he had no right to since he did not intend to remain her husband. Knowing this, could he defile her in the name of vengeance, make her a bride of hatred?

  His mind raced. Her surrender was so clear it seemed tangible. She desired him. Was that not enough? Could he not find good in the union of their bodies, without a thought to the past? Or the future?

  Into her eyes he gazed, seeing need and trust shining from their deep hazel depths. Could he really use her so ill?

  Drake fought the answer, but it lay like a serpent, coiling about his need.

  “I cannot do this.” He cursed roundly, then rolled away from her warm nudity.

  “Cannot what?” Shock wound through her voice.

  Drake reached for his shirt and breeches. Calling himself every kind of a fool, he thrust the garments into place. “I cannot touch you, not like this. I will not.”

  Before he could hear her reply, see the questions gathering in her wide eyes, Drake fled, slamming the door behind him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Averyl opened her eyes to find Drake sitti
ng 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.