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.
CHAPTER THREE
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
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.
CHAPTER THREE
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
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