His Stolen Bride BN (32 page)

“Gone?” She fought a rising tide of trepidation and asked, “When will he return?”

The other woman sighed, then threw a stare over her shoulder, where a cascade of black,
silken tresses lay.

Behind the woman, near the fire, stood an older man and a huge hulk of a blond warrior
conferring in low voices. Kieran paced beside them, casting an occasional glance their
way. Unease gripped her mercilessly.

Finally, the old man came forward and took her hand in his warm one. “He says he will
not return. He means to kill Murdoch, then release you from your handfast.”

Though the graying man uttered the response Averyl had expected—and feared—somehow
shock wound through her anyway.

“I know you are bound together as man and wife,” the man said. “And I told him ’twas
fiercely wrong of him to leave you.”

Averyl’s heart sought to deny the truth she could not change. Drake had finally rid
himself of the bride he’d taken for revenge. The bride he’d never wanted. Pain seared
her.

“But, as through boyhood,” the old man went on, “my grandson remains obstinate, at
least for now.”

“Your grandson?” echoed Averyl, taken aback.

“Aye. I am Guilford Locke, Earl of Rothgate. You know Kieran, of course. The giant
beside the hearth is Aric. And this sharp-tongued shrew,” he said, putting a loving
arm about the woman, “is Gwenyth, Aric’s wife. As Drake’s bride, you are welcome here
at Hartwich Hall.”

“You’re English,” she blurted.

“I trust you willna hold such against me, lass,” he mocked a brogue and smiled.

Unwanted tears stung her eyes, tears she hated to shed. Drake had rid himself of her,
as he had warned just before Murdoch’s attack and her injury. She raised her watery
eyes to the group, whose kind gazes conveyed empathy without a single word.

“’Tis from himself he runs,” the old earl offered in a low, soothing voice. “He knows
you love him, and it frightens him.”

Drake must have told him—told them all—everything. The rest, Kieran had seen for himself.

Averyl sat up, clutching her blanket with tight fists. “I do not seek to hurt him.”

“One day he will understand,” Aric assured.

She tried not to hear the optimism in the man’s voice, tried not to believe because
it hurt so much. To no avail. The more she struggled to rid herself of the feelings
she had for Drake, the more she failed. And the more anger she felt.

“I must leave, return to Scotland.” She made to rise.

The old man urged her to stay abed with surprising strength. “You’ve yet to heal completely,
and you would be best served to keep clear of Murdoch, lest he hurt you again.”

Averyl could not argue with such logic. Frowning against the rise of fresh, furied
tears welling in her eyes, Averyl yearned to be alone, to think, to scream and rail
at Drake’s cruel desertion. How could he leave her so callously after she’d bared
her heart? Apparently, he could, and without thought, to simply abandon her upon a
stranger’s doorstep.

Her forehead fell to her fist. Why would the earth not open up and take her to the
Purgatory she felt within her?

Why did Drake have to care for her so little?

“Shh, child,” the old man murmured as Averyl sobbed, then rubbed her shoulder with
a comforting hand. “All will be well.”

How Averyl wished that were so. Though she must try, deep down she feared she could
never cast Drake from her heart.

* * * * *

Late October

Sitting up gingerly among her blankets, Averyl squeezed her eyes shut against the
sight of the small chamber next to Aric and Gwenyth’s. Even after two months without
Drake, the lack of his warmth and touch first thing in the morn tore through her heart
like a jagged stake. And now she could add some strange illness that plagued her through
each day. She felt tired, even after a full night’s sleep. Her stomach churned unpleasantly,
rolling like the waves upon a stormy sea.

Leaping from the bed as a sudden crest overcame her, Averyl searched out the pitcher
she kept by her bedside and clutched it as she heaved forth the contents of her nearly
empty stomach.

Gasping for air, she felt the sweat break out along her forehead, between her tender
breasts. It only compounded the pain in her heart. She hated the reality of awaking
without Drake each day, of being without him every night. Everything inside her wanted
to cry, to protest that Drake’s departure had stripped away half of her soul.

Averyl cursed her weakness, for given his continued absence, ’twas clear he did not
reciprocate even a fraction of her sentiment.

Burying her face in her hands, Averyl felt tears constrict her throat, tearing the
breath from her chest. How could he care so little for her? Apparently Diera and Murdoch
had hardened his heart so thoroughly, he would trust no one with his emotions.

At the thought, her stomach rebelled again.

Through her misery, she felt a soft hand upon her hair, another supporting her back.

“Ill again?” came Gwenyth’s voice. “’Tis time you admit you carry Drake’s child.”

Averyl lifted her head from the pitcher, both exhausted and embarrassed, and rose
to her feet. Aric stood in the portal, gazing at her with concern. “It cannot be.”

Though she knew such was indeed possible. Her memories flashed vivid visions of she
and Drake, entwined in their pent-up passion, making love against the cottage door
on a warm summer morn. Had they created life in one another’s arms?

Averyl grabbed a blanket to ward off her anxiety and the hint of October chill, then
faced Drake’s friends.

“Are you not his wife?” Aric asked.

“Such means naught.”

He smiled gently. “I know my friend well, too well to believe he is any sort of monk.”

Despite her unsettled stomach, Averyl felt herself blush.

“So such is possible?” he queried.

A babe. A tiny life created by she and Drake. ’Twas an awesome thought. A child with
Drake’s dark eyes she would hold come spring. Both love and fear filled her.

“Aye,” she whispered.

Gwenyth brushed a comforting hand along her back. “I know you feel alone and that
Drake has hurt you. But we are here to comfort you. And since my husband has had little
time of late to worry about conceiving his own babe,” she teased, “I shall have to
dote upon yours.”

She met the woman’s blue eyes. Knowledge and wisdom shone from their lively depths.
Disquieted, Averyl turned away.

“In truth,” Aric continued, “his own actions have hurt him as well. It pained him
greatly to leave you.”

“Do not give me false hope. He cares little for anything but his revenge.”

“That does occupy him greatly,” Aric acknowledged, “but when I last saw him, I saw
a side I thought long buried after Lochlan’s death and his torture. I saw his heart
again.”

Averyl crossed the room to escape the pair and the insidious infusion of hope his
words brought.

“Enough! He wed and seduced me, then discarded me. I meant no more to him than a way
to settle his life-long vendetta with Murdoch.”

Aric sighed heavily. “I think that was his plan. But he came to care for you, which
warred with his mind. Understand that his example of marriage has not been a favorable
one.”

“I know about Diera, and while I think she behaved very ill, that does not justify
what he did to me.”

“Of course not, but he is afraid of caring, of pain. Lochlan’s grief upon Diera’s
death affected him greatly, and he’s allowed no one to get close enough to touch his
heart until you. He knows not how to trust.”

“Then he deserves no more than my pity.”

Turning away again, Averyl peered out the window. A massive tree’s leaves danced gracefully,
despite the biting autumn wind. The River Foss flowed a chilly blue in the distance.

“You love him,” Gwenyth said softly. “Do you not?”

She hesitated. “Nay, no more.”

“You cannot lie to yourself.” Gwenyth closed the space between them in two steps.
She placed kind hands on Averyl’s shoulders when she would have voiced another denial.
“When I was a girl, I lived near an abbey. ’Twas called Sweetheart Abbey. As legend
has it, in 1273, a certain Lady Devorgilla grieved over her loving husband’s death.
To keep him with her always, she had his heart embalmed and set in a silver casket,
which she wore round her neck.”

Averyl arched a pale brow. “I would rather see Drake’s head upon a pike.”

Gwenyth laughed. “There are times he deserves such punishment, no doubt. But I think
you miss him as much as Lady Devorgilla missed her mate.”

Averyl cast her a dubious glance. “Think what you will.”

“Drake needs your heart,” Gwenyth pressed on. “You must look deep inside. Think not
of the hurt but of all you shared, all that could be. Then will find your love still
abounds.”

Her guilty gaze skittered away. “It matters not. We will never see one another again.”

“You plan never to tell him of his child?” Aric asked. “Perhaps your love and the
babe can persuade him to give up this foolish revenge and certain death at Murdoch’s
hands. You could leave together, find peace elsewhere.”

With incredulity, Averyl stared back at the tall warrior. “If he will not risk his
heart for me, I’ll not bring him to my side with a babe. For if he cannot love, he
has no place with this child or with me.”

Gwenyth sighed. “Drake needs time and your love. Search your heart for forgiveness.
He will return, I vow.”

“As of now, I must devote my attentions to something more pressing than Drake’s fragile
heart. I know Guilford has sent funds for the people at Abbotsford, but I wish to
go there, help in whatever way I can to see them through the coming winter.”

“You cannot,” Aric warned. “Were you to return home, Murdoch would certainly find
you.”

Averyl considered the truth in his words. “That is so, but still I wish to go.”

“You and your babe will be in danger if Murdoch finds you, only to learn that you
are wed and with Drake’s child.”

A fact, that. Averyl sighed, weighing her options. “But my people…”

“Will be well cared for,” Aric assured. “Guilford promised such. Stay here. Now that
Kieran plans to leave and join another army and I’m off again on the king’s business,
there is no man we trust to accompany you on such a long journey. You would have to
travel alone.”

Remembering the would-be attackers Drake had saved her from at the Midsummer’s Eve
fair, she shuddered. The brutal rogues would have thought little of taking her virtue
for their pleasure. But the familiar faces of her childhood servants and friends,
gaunt with hunger, swam before her eyes. She had to know they lived, not starved.
And what of her father?

Aric crossed his arms over his massive chest. “If you go, you will not only jeopardize
your own life and limb, but all of Drake’s plans. He has sacrificed everything sacred
to him, most especially his heart, to achieve vengeance for his father’s murder. Either
you will die on the journey alone, allowing Murdoch to obtain his bloodied inheritance,
or Murdoch will capture you in Scotland and Drake will die in trying to protect you
from that butcher. Think of your marriage, your child, and your true feelings for
your husband before you decide.”

With that, Aric and Gwenyth left. Averyl turned back to the window, scarcely seeing
the browning grass in the gray autumn chill. She saw Drake, his struggle against the
evil of which he was wrongly accused, his inner turmoil. An image of his body lifeless
as a cackling Murdoch hunched over him with glee assailed her, and she hugged herself
in fear.

And no matter how much she had come to resent him for using and abandoning her, she
knew she could place him in no further danger.

Until her birthday in February and the end of Murdoch’s threat, she could do naught
else but rely on Guilford’s good will, feel her unborn babe grow inside her, and find
a way to shut Drake out of her heart for good.

* * * * *

Late January

In the midst of blizzards and chill, the morn dawned crisp and clear. Averyl rose
from her bed and stretched, feeling more eighty and eight than nearly ten and eight.

The growing size of her belly added a new dimension to her sleepless discomfort. Soon,
the flowing gowns she and Gwenyth had made to accommodate her expanding waist would
no longer fit. Though anxious to hold the precious child already kicking and turning
within her, the thought of growing larger in these last three months of her pregnancy
depressed her further.

Then there was Drake. ’Twas not that she missed him any longer, yet he had stolen
some part of her spirit when he’d left her here at Hartwich, some portion of her innards
she had yet to recover. Listlessness prevailed daily, confusing the exaltation of
knowing she would soon be a mother with the somber ebbs of realizing she would do
so alone.

A soft knock preceded Gwenyth’s entrance. Her chatty cousin Nellwyn followed. “Good
morn, Averyl.”

“To you, as well, Gwenyth,” she said quietly. “Good morn, Nellwyn. How fares your
daughter this day?”

“Margaret is merry and walking so well,” began the round-cheeked woman. “Heaven above,
I have even seen her climbing the tables in the great hall as if they are her personal
mountain. Of course, I must watch her, for she’s likely to fall, but Gwenyth is kind
enough to help me with that, as you have been. And soon we’ll have your babe to spoil,
which I’m so looking forward to—”

“The letter,” Gwenyth cut in with an indulgent smile.

“Oh, aye.” Nellwyn handed Averyl a sealed parchment. “The messenger says it came from
Scotland. I’m sure ’tis from your father again. He loves you fierce to write so often,”
said Gwenyth’s cousin wistfully, whose own father had cast her aside after she left
her cruel but wealthy husband.

“We shall leave you to read in peace,” said Gwenyth. “Join us in the great hall when
you are ready to break your fast.”