outside the cottage woke Averyl. She sat up in bed, expecting
Locke to stroll into the dwelling with the knowledge of their kiss glittering in his
dark eyes.
Flushing at the remembrance, she lowered her head into her hands with a sigh, then
batted a hand at the sleep-mussed hair lying in a tangle about her. How could a tyrant
without care for anyone but himself, without feeling at all, rouse her blood? Soothe
her with his unexpected understanding of her fear?
Footsteps approached the door. Averyl’s stomach fluttered.
She would not dwell on him or their kiss. ’Twas folly. He did not and would not have
feelings for her. The kiss, her fears, meant naught to him. His patience could mean
even less to her, for she would never desire, much less love, a man with no heart.
That he’d aroused any feeling in her save hate was no more than happenstance.
Jumping from the bed, Averyl struggled to shove her hair beneath her wimple. Chiding
herself for the foolish vanity, she grabbed her dress and thrust it on. Still, Locke
did not appear. Instead, to her amazement, she heard two men conversing. One voice,
the more somber one, she recognized as Locke’s. The other was unfamiliar.
The strength of the voices grew as they approached Locke’s dwelling, until the men
stopped just outside. Her heart picked up its pace. Who was this stranger? Might he
help her escape?
Curiosity and hope soared within her as she crept toward the window and eased open
the shutter. Silently, she crouched beneath, listening for any piece of information
that might aid her escape.
“You look weary, my friend.” She recognized the voice as Locke’s. “Did you travel
all night?”
“Aye, most of it. But with a little sleep and a warm wench, I will be better than
new,” the stranger quipped.
“As always.” An irony Averyl did not understand resounded in her captor’s voice. “Tell
me what news you bring.”
“If you expected good news, I am bound to disappoint. When Murdoch discovered Lady
Averyl missing, he bellowed like a wounded hound. He cursed you and the day you were
born.”
Surprisingly Locke laughed, a rich, baritone sound that projected into the small cottage,
flowing over her senses rather like warm honey.
“What then?”
“After he realized cursing would help him not in finding his bride, he began gathering
his allies to seek you out.”
“As I expected.”
As he expected? Averyl felt shock reverberating through her half-clad body. Locke sounded frighteningly
calm, as if he abducted women every day.
’Twas possible, she acknowledged with a thud of fear.
Abduction was a common occurrence for daughters and wives. Many came to accept their
captivity. Averyl knew she should do the like, if only for her safety. Despite his
assurances to the contrary, Locke might be provoked to rape or murder, as was the
fate of many captives.
But she refused to accept her bonds.
“Murdoch has again demanded your death,” the stranger said. “This time, on sight.
He means to have your blood on his hands. Watch your back, my friend.”
“His wishes mean naught.”
“But as he searches for you, he travels with a priest.”
“A priest?”
“Aye. One to perform his marriage vows to the Lady Averyl just before your last rites.”
Averyl frowned at the terrible image. Would her gallant chieftain really order such
a barbaric wedding?
“Murdoch would have starved or beaten me to death in his dungeons,” Drake argued.
“Should we come to combat, I am his equal. And if I die, ’twill be knowing I fought
for honor and vengeance. At least with Lady Averyl in my keep, I have a chance to
best him by striking at the heart of his greed.”
Greed? Of what did Locke speak?
“We shall have to think of some alternative if you want to keep her. For upon your
last journey to Dunollie, a member of the Clan MacDougall spotted you docking a boat
at Ardrossan and told Murdoch such two
Locke to stroll into the dwelling with the knowledge of their kiss glittering in his
dark eyes.
Flushing at the remembrance, she lowered her head into her hands with a sigh, then
batted a hand at the sleep-mussed hair lying in a tangle about her. How could a tyrant
without care for anyone but himself, without feeling at all, rouse her blood? Soothe
her with his unexpected understanding of her fear?
Footsteps approached the door. Averyl’s stomach fluttered.
She would not dwell on him or their kiss. ’Twas folly. He did not and would not have
feelings for her. The kiss, her fears, meant naught to him. His patience could mean
even less to her, for she would never desire, much less love, a man with no heart.
That he’d aroused any feeling in her save hate was no more than happenstance.
Jumping from the bed, Averyl struggled to shove her hair beneath her wimple. Chiding
herself for the foolish vanity, she grabbed her dress and thrust it on. Still, Locke
did not appear. Instead, to her amazement, she heard two men conversing. One voice,
the more somber one, she recognized as Locke’s. The other was unfamiliar.
The strength of the voices grew as they approached Locke’s dwelling, until the men
stopped just outside. Her heart picked up its pace. Who was this stranger? Might he
help her escape?
Curiosity and hope soared within her as she crept toward the window and eased open
the shutter. Silently, she crouched beneath, listening for any piece of information
that might aid her escape.
“You look weary, my friend.” She recognized the voice as Locke’s. “Did you travel
all night?”
“Aye, most of it. But with a little sleep and a warm wench, I will be better than
new,” the stranger quipped.
“As always.” An irony Averyl did not understand resounded in her captor’s voice. “Tell
me what news you bring.”
“If you expected good news, I am bound to disappoint. When Murdoch discovered Lady
Averyl missing, he bellowed like a wounded hound. He cursed you and the day you were
born.”
Surprisingly Locke laughed, a rich, baritone sound that projected into the small cottage,
flowing over her senses rather like warm honey.
“What then?”
“After he realized cursing would help him not in finding his bride, he began gathering
his allies to seek you out.”
“As I expected.”
As he expected? Averyl felt shock reverberating through her half-clad body. Locke sounded frighteningly
calm, as if he abducted women every day.
’Twas possible, she acknowledged with a thud of fear.
Abduction was a common occurrence for daughters and wives. Many came to accept their
captivity. Averyl knew she should do the like, if only for her safety. Despite his
assurances to the contrary, Locke might be provoked to rape or murder, as was the
fate of many captives.
But she refused to accept her bonds.
“Murdoch has again demanded your death,” the stranger said. “This time, on sight.
He means to have your blood on his hands. Watch your back, my friend.”
“His wishes mean naught.”
“But as he searches for you, he travels with a priest.”
“A priest?”
“Aye. One to perform his marriage vows to the Lady Averyl just before your last rites.”
Averyl frowned at the terrible image. Would her gallant chieftain really order such
a barbaric wedding?
“Murdoch would have starved or beaten me to death in his dungeons,” Drake argued.
“Should we come to combat, I am his equal. And if I die, ’twill be knowing I fought
for honor and vengeance. At least with Lady Averyl in my keep, I have a chance to
best him by striking at the heart of his greed.”
Greed? Of what did Locke speak?
“We shall have to think of some alternative if you want to keep her. For upon your
last journey to Dunollie, a member of the Clan MacDougall spotted you docking a boat
at Ardrossan and told Murdoch such two
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