least, given her homeliness, she would not have to concern herself with his lustful
attentions. The desirous glance he had seemed to give her at the inn had been naught
but a mirage, another reason to distrust the dark.
He dropped the log into the flames. Averyl’s heart pumped furiously, nearly obliterating
the sizzle and roar of the fire.
Locke looked up. Their eyes met. Jet brows rose as his assessing gaze traveled her
face, then dipped to take in her bare shoulders. Averyl clutched the blanket beneath
her chin like a frightened child would a beloved parent.
“Are you well?” he asked.
“I have on not a stitch of clothing,” she shrieked. Eyes narrowing, she accused, “You
did this.”
“You’ll not find another soul for miles.”
“You—you… For what purpose did you bear me, fiend?” She prayed he had not ravished
her for revenge.
“My purpose was not lascivious, if that is your concern.”
Lips curved up in a cool smile, he turned away. Averyl knew his denial should relieve
her. Embarrassment flared to heated life instead. He, too, found her ugly, enough
to laugh at the notion of touching her. She bit her lip, appalled that her pride stung
so fiercely.
Knowing he thought her plain should set her at ease. ’Twas foolishness to feel aught
else. She should be glad to be alive and unharmed, not worried what a murdering varlet
thought of her.
Locke stacked another log on the blazing fire that heated the dingy room. “I sought
to prevent you from catching your death, Lady Averyl.”
Her gaze flew to him in surprise. “You know my name?”
“That and more,” he said, facing her again. His silky rasp set her nerves on alert.
“You hail from Abbotsford, near the English border. You were born April fourth, 1469.
Your middle name is Elizabeth.”
She clutched her quilt tighter as he crossed the room to stand less than arm’s distance
away. Locke’s dark eyes held her wide gaze captive with frightening ease. Her heart
pumped faster. The air between them seemed scarce as she fought to breathe.
“You are Ramsey Campbell’s only child,” he went on. “Your English mother was sister
to the Duchess of Portsmouth. She died in September of 1475, when you were but six
years old. You had almost become betrothed to Murdoch MacDougall, a stranger to you.”
He hooked a finger beneath her chin. “You are an impoverished innocent who believes
herself plain.”
Averyl twisted away from his disquieting touch, mouth wide open. Though she knew almost
nothing of Locke, he had whittled her entire existence down to a few curt sentences.
He had ripped through the barrier protecting her memories and hiding her fears. Stripped
her soul bare. Studied her life for his evil purpose. Exposed her in a way nakedness
never could.
“H—how did you learn so much of me?”
He shrugged. “That is unimportant now.”
Unimportant that her life had been examined by a stranger? That her most private,
shameful beliefs were known by a murdering madman? She found nothing unimportant about
having a sinfully handsome butcher stare at her as if she were an aberration of nature.
“It bloody well is not. Tell me.”
“You are in no position to give orders.”
His unreadable gaze slid over her face, dropping to her bare shoulders, before he
turned to the hearth. A vexing mix of shame and relief slid through her at his silent
snub. Her bony shoulders would never tempt a man like him—and all the better.
“Where have you brought me?” she demanded.
He whirled to her again, his gaze slicing the distance between them. “To a heavily
vegetated ravine on an isolated isle. If you hope a traveler will find you and take
pity, you hope in vain. There’s but one way off of this island, and I have hidden
the boat. I also enclosed the ravine with a locked gate topped by pikes.”
“Say you that I am trapped here until I hand you my future? Until my people starve
and
attentions. The desirous glance he had seemed to give her at the inn had been naught
but a mirage, another reason to distrust the dark.
He dropped the log into the flames. Averyl’s heart pumped furiously, nearly obliterating
the sizzle and roar of the fire.
Locke looked up. Their eyes met. Jet brows rose as his assessing gaze traveled her
face, then dipped to take in her bare shoulders. Averyl clutched the blanket beneath
her chin like a frightened child would a beloved parent.
“Are you well?” he asked.
“I have on not a stitch of clothing,” she shrieked. Eyes narrowing, she accused, “You
did this.”
“You’ll not find another soul for miles.”
“You—you… For what purpose did you bear me, fiend?” She prayed he had not ravished
her for revenge.
“My purpose was not lascivious, if that is your concern.”
Lips curved up in a cool smile, he turned away. Averyl knew his denial should relieve
her. Embarrassment flared to heated life instead. He, too, found her ugly, enough
to laugh at the notion of touching her. She bit her lip, appalled that her pride stung
so fiercely.
Knowing he thought her plain should set her at ease. ’Twas foolishness to feel aught
else. She should be glad to be alive and unharmed, not worried what a murdering varlet
thought of her.
Locke stacked another log on the blazing fire that heated the dingy room. “I sought
to prevent you from catching your death, Lady Averyl.”
Her gaze flew to him in surprise. “You know my name?”
“That and more,” he said, facing her again. His silky rasp set her nerves on alert.
“You hail from Abbotsford, near the English border. You were born April fourth, 1469.
Your middle name is Elizabeth.”
She clutched her quilt tighter as he crossed the room to stand less than arm’s distance
away. Locke’s dark eyes held her wide gaze captive with frightening ease. Her heart
pumped faster. The air between them seemed scarce as she fought to breathe.
“You are Ramsey Campbell’s only child,” he went on. “Your English mother was sister
to the Duchess of Portsmouth. She died in September of 1475, when you were but six
years old. You had almost become betrothed to Murdoch MacDougall, a stranger to you.”
He hooked a finger beneath her chin. “You are an impoverished innocent who believes
herself plain.”
Averyl twisted away from his disquieting touch, mouth wide open. Though she knew almost
nothing of Locke, he had whittled her entire existence down to a few curt sentences.
He had ripped through the barrier protecting her memories and hiding her fears. Stripped
her soul bare. Studied her life for his evil purpose. Exposed her in a way nakedness
never could.
“H—how did you learn so much of me?”
He shrugged. “That is unimportant now.”
Unimportant that her life had been examined by a stranger? That her most private,
shameful beliefs were known by a murdering madman? She found nothing unimportant about
having a sinfully handsome butcher stare at her as if she were an aberration of nature.
“It bloody well is not. Tell me.”
“You are in no position to give orders.”
His unreadable gaze slid over her face, dropping to her bare shoulders, before he
turned to the hearth. A vexing mix of shame and relief slid through her at his silent
snub. Her bony shoulders would never tempt a man like him—and all the better.
“Where have you brought me?” she demanded.
He whirled to her again, his gaze slicing the distance between them. “To a heavily
vegetated ravine on an isolated isle. If you hope a traveler will find you and take
pity, you hope in vain. There’s but one way off of this island, and I have hidden
the boat. I also enclosed the ravine with a locked gate topped by pikes.”
“Say you that I am trapped here until I hand you my future? Until my people starve
and
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