Drake crept into the quiet of Murdoch’s chamber. His guards were nowhere in sight.
Finally, now, revenge would be his.
Aye, but it had cost him life with Averyl, the babe she would bear—and his heart.
Pushing the thought away, he stared at his sleeping half brother as moonlight spilled through the windows bared to the coming dawn. And he hesitated. Why had he never been as close to the brother with whom he shared blood as he had with the warrior brothers of his heart, Kieran and Aric?
He frowned. Like the biblical Cain slew Abel, Drake readied to kill his brother, too. Suddenly, he wondered if his father would be disappointed. And why he felt naught but dread.
Drawing from the anger he’d gathered during his life, Drake swallowed and drew his blade. Still he hesitated, uncertain.
Murdoch woke suddenly and opened his eyes.
Slowly, he focused on Drake. Their gazes locked.
“You!” Murdoch’s eyes bulged with recognition. “’Tis hoping I have been you would come for your death, my brother.”
Fury tightening his gut, Drake shook his head. “No one here will die but you and ’twill be by my hand!”
Murdoch spit in his face. “You will prove nothing but your own bloodlust if you kill me.”
“The clan already believes me dangerously mad, thanks to you. I have naught to lose by ending your worthless life.”
With that, Drake charged Murdoch, who rose from bed clad in his braies and hopped to the floor. With a flash of an arm, Murdoch grabbed his own blade from the nearby trestle table.
Cursing, Murdoch charged, lunging with gritted teeth. Drake sidestepped the oncoming blade, then thrust at his half brother. The short blade missed its mark by a breath.
Before Murdoch could recover, Drake rushed toward him and took a wild stab at his chest. Murdoch jumped from the knife’s path and scrambled across the room.
“Where is your warrior’s training now?” taunted Murdoch.
Drake knew his anger was building dangerously, had felt it from the moment Murdoch awakened. He drew in a breath, seeking calm. He found only Murdoch’s sneer dominating his gaze.
Murdoch grinned. “How will you feel when I make your wife mine and take her to my bed? And I will, even if her belly is ugly and swollen.”
A spark of an image, Averyl tied to Murdoch’s bed, swept through his mind. Anger exploded in Drake’s veins, and he gripped the knife tighter. By hell, the fiend deserved to die.
“You will never know,” vowed Drake.
Attacking Murdoch once more, Drake growled at the man as he shifted in the shadows. His blade made contact with skin. Murdoch howled as his cheek bled onto his bare chest. He reached up to swipe the blood away, retreating.
The blood only gladdened Drake.
“Bastard!” cursed Murdoch.
Before he could move, Drake lunged again. Murdoch backed into a bench beside the fireplace. It crashed to the wooden floor, deafening in the early-morn silence.
A thick, still moment passed. Drake looked back to Murdoch, who lifted his blade again. Raising his own in answer, Drake made ready to fight once more.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
“Guards!” called Murdoch.
Fear sliced through Drake like a claymore through flesh. If the guards came, he would be caught. His revenge would be incomplete. They would slay him instantly.
He would never see Averyl again.
“Soon,” he promised, sheathing his knife and darting out the door.
Two guards rushed down the hall. Drake elbowed one, who groaned in pain. Whirling about, he punched the other in the face. Then he ran, blood pounding in his ears, his body burning for air, until he reached the tunnel.
There stood Aric and Kieran.
And Averyl.
The air completely left Drake, and his heart pumped faster at the sight of her, though he had ceased running. She looked bedraggled and tired, her ill-fitting gown torn and hanging off one shoulder. Her rounded belly nearly disappeared beneath her tent of a gown.
Relief, joy, an urge to possess her, all rushed warmth through his body. Drake dashed toward her and drew her into his arms. With an unsteady hand, he brushed the pale curls from her face. With the other, he felt their child growing.
“How do you fare, my wife?” His voice sounded thick.
Averyl looked at him, confusion and yearning tangled in that hazel gaze he had missed so for six months. He understood her emotions and felt connected by their touch.
Before she could answer, Kieran spoke up. “Drake, greet her later. The guards are searching the bailey now.”
Whirling around, he saw Kieran was right. Reluctantly, he released his wife but clutched her hand in his.
“Kieran,” he said, “go first. Scout the tunnel for guards.”
With a nod, Kieran jumped into the ground and disappeared.
“Drake, you next. I can fight the guards. You are exhausted. Take your wife and go.”
“Nay, ’tis my fight. Go down and see Averyl safely out.”
Drake squeezed her hand again. She squeezed in return.
“Send her down. I will catch her.” And with a reluctant sigh, Aric disappeared into the narrow opening.
“Follow Aric,” he commanded Averyl, releasing her hand. “Hurry!”
Nodding, she sat at the opening and began to ease herself down with caution. But her swollen belly caught on the rim. Grunting, she tried to squeeze through, but Drake could see she was stuck.
He knelt, frantically digging at the lip of the tunnel to widen it. ’Twas to no avail; mud and rocks continued to slide into place, preventing Averyl from escape.
She closed her eyes and bit her lip to hold in a cry. He could tell from her flush and the panic in her eyes.
“Go,” she said finally. “Do not let him catch you.”
The idea horrified him. “I will not leave you here.”
“You must,” she argued. “Or Murdoch will kill you.”
“I will not leave you!” he ground out.
Suddenly, she gasped. Before Drake could discern her trouble, a pair of rough hands grabbed his shoulders, jerked him about, and planted a fist in his face. Pain erupted in his head. The last thing he saw before blackness consumed him was Murdoch arriving to lead a screaming Averyl away.
* * * * *
That night, the guards of Dunollie brought Drake up to the solar, where Murdoch looked out the window at his ill-gotten domain. Averyl lay upon his bed, bound at the wrists and ankles. Firelight revealed a tired, pale face, but she appeared not to be ravished or hurt. She sent him a tentative smile as Murdoch’s guards led him to his half brother’s side, then moved to stand outside the door. He smiled back through his pain, hoping she could not see the blood through his shirt from Murdoch’s fresh lash marks.
The villain turned to face him, his mouth twisted with a malicious curve. “So, you’ve finally awakened. Feeling well?”
“Swive off.” His voice was flat, inflectionless.
Murdoch grunted. “Not yet, for I have a proposition.”
“You have naught I wish for,” Drake vowed.
“Freedom, perhaps.” Murdoch strolled closer, measuring his steps slowly around Drake. “From pursuit. From blame.”
The idea tempted Drake. Aye, he wanted that—so badly hope burned in his gut, roiling. He craved peace. He yearned for his clansmen to know of his innocence. But he also wanted Murdoch to pay for his guilt.
“Have you aught to say?” prompted Murdoch. “I offer everything you could wish for.”
Not everything, not as long as Murdoch remained the respected Lord Dunollie. Still, he could play Murdoch’s game. “At what price?”
“Relinquish Averyl from this fool’s handfast. Once you do, I will see you freed and absolved of guilt.”
“He agrees!” came Averyl from across the room.
Drake turned to Averyl in alarm. What was the woman thinking, consigning her future to a murdering monster?
“I will not release you,” he refuted, then turned to glare at Murdoch.
“Drake, he will kill you if you do not let me go.”
Though Averyl’s voice held a pleading tone, he ignored it.
“You wanted me not anyway,” she continued. “Now you will be free.”
She believed that, still. Drake closed his eyes and sighed. If she only knew how deeply, how completely, he wanted her now, forever…
“My wife is mine,” he said finally.
“I can easily kill you and wed her,” Murdoch reminded.
“You will likely do such anyway, no matter what I say. Is that not right?” he challenged. “Kill me and let us end this.”
“Drake, nay!” she cried. “Do not give up for me!”
“Silence, you Campbell whore,” Murdoch commanded, then turned back to Drake. “Upon the blood we share, upon my mother’s grave, I vow I will free you if you release her from your handfast.”
Eyes narrowed, Drake studied Murdoch. Never had he looked more serious, and Drake nearly believed him. But even if Murdoch’s words were truth, he would never let Averyl go.
“Accept his vow, Drake. Go!”
Leave her here to suffer a cruel union with Murdoch? Leave her here to warm his bed day after day, year after year? “Nay.”
“You would sacrifice your life for a Campbell wench?” Murdoch challenged.
“Aye,” he whispered, feeling Averyl’s gaze burn his profile.
“You love her.” Murdoch’s voice accused him.
More than anything, he thought, resisting the urge to look at her. “She is my responsibility. I will not see her hurt as long as I draw a breath.”
“How noble,” Murdoch sneered. “If you wish death, it will be so.”
Crossing the room, Murdoch came to stand beside Averyl, then caressed her cheek with the back of his finger. Drake restrained an urge to race across the room and beat Murdoch into oblivion for touching Averyl. He restrained himself, knowing Murdoch only sought to infuriate him.
His half brother smiled, then let his finger drift down Averyl’s neck, to an enlarged breast. “When she came to me, willing to trade her freedom for yours, I sent notice to the others in the clan we would soon have a wedding. They travel to Dunollie even now.”
Averyl gasped as Murdoch flattened his palm over her breast. She spit an oath at him and tried to roll away. Drake clenched his fists at his sides and fought his urge to save her. Too much caring or sacrifice from him would mark her a weakness. Murdoch would subject her to cruelties simply to torture him. Better this than rape or worse.
“I will simply plan your execution for the morn of our nuptials. ’Twill be the humiliation among the clan you deserved from the day Diera brought you forth from her whore’s body. And the day you die a traitor is the day I will celebrate by bedding Averyl’s offensively round body until she forgets about you.”
“You cannot make me forget Drake!” she shouted.
Drake understood Averyl’s bravery but wished she comprehended how vicious Murdoch would be if she did not begin playing the willing bride. Could she not see the fury mottling his face?
Aye, he might have eased her road by releasing her—and making her hate him for the rest of his days. But Drake refused to give up his wife until God had taken him from this earth.
“And what do you think will become of Averyl and your child once you are dead?” he asked, grin evil. “They will serve me no further purpose.”
“If you kill them as well, do you not think the rest of the clan will be most suspicious?” When Murdoch did not answer in the next moment, Drake went on in bored tones, mastering his fear in the hopes of distracting Murdoch from that idea. “Are we finished here?”
It worked. Murdoch whipped his gaze to Drake, then crossed the room. Murdoch gave him a hearty slap on the back. Pain burst through Drake’s body. The blood left his face, and he nearly stumbled to his knees.
“Drake?” cried Averyl, concern echoing in her sweet voice.
For her, he forced himself upright. “I am well.”
“Good, I shall be down to see you later.” The butcher flicked his wrist in a mock lash.
Gritting his teeth, Drake held in a groan. “I never doubted it.”
’Twas obvious by Murdoch’s scowl that he did not appreciate Drake’s caustic response. “I swear I will keep you a bare inch from death, you bastard.”
Averyl’s mouth gaped open. Her eyes widened with concern and fear and love. Drake held in a curse, wishing he could spare her this truth.
“’Twould hardly be the first time,” he countered.
“Release her to me and I will spare your life, as well as this pain,” Murdoch demanded.
“Go to hell,” Drake said.
He touched a stricken Averyl with his glance as he strode to the door, the guards who awaited him, and the long night of pain ahead.
* * * * *
A tormenting week passed, so slowly Averyl felt certain she could feel every excruciating moment of uncertainty and sorrow. Firtha, bless her kind soul, had been able to tell her each day that Drake lived. But Murdoch kept his promise to see Drake within an inch of death.
She paced the small chamber in which Murdoch kept her caged, hindered by the fine red silken dress Lord Dunollie insisted she wear for their wedding within the hour. Below, she saw clansmen milling about in their finery.
Faintly, she heard the ocean churning in the distance. Closing her eyes, she clasped her hands and prayed the plan she had devised in the wee hours of the morning would save her husband’s life. ’Twas all she had.
“Lady Averyl?”
She turned to find Firtha standing in the door. Rushing to the older woman, she assisted her inside and closed the door.
“Have you news?”
Frowning, Firtha nodded her graying head. “I couldna find Aric and Kieran this morn to tell them of yer plan. Hiv faith, though, lass, they are wise warriors. And Drake still lives.”
Wringing her hands, she asked, “How does he fare?”
“Lord Dunollie hadna the time to visit the dungeon yestreen, with all the clan arrivin’. Drake is weak, mind ye, but he recovers.”
Averyl sighed, rubbing sleepless eyes with her fingers. “Has this plan any chance at all?”
“If God haes any mercy, aye.”
What Firtha said was true, but Averyl liked it not. She wanted Drake safe, happy, his life devoid of strife. She wished his life filled with love—her love. Yet he seemed to care not himself.
“Why did he choose this, Firtha? For money and clan power, Murdoch might have honored the bargain to release him. Surely his life was worth the risk.”
“His life, aye. But nae yours, lass.”
Her brow furrowed in confusion. “Murdoch will wed me anyway. Drake can do naught to change that. Why would Drake refuse to release me from this handfast?”
Firtha touched a motherly hand to her shoulder. “Ye ken that Drake haes been like me own son all his life. Always, haes he been stubborn.”
“But ’twas not time for such stubbornness. He could have chosen his freedom and regained his life!”
“Over yours? Lass, ye ken the man he is. He wouldna leave ye to Lord Dunollie’s cruelty as long as his life can spare ye.”
“But—”
“Do ye not ken he loves ye, lass?”
Averyl’s heart constricted, ceased beating. More than anything, she wished to believe that love, not a sense of duty to her, resided in his heart. But now, with his life in jeopardy, it mattered not. She loved him and would do all within her power to save him.
The clatter of footsteps climbing the stone stairs stopped aught Averyl could say.
Instead, she pushed Firtha toward the door. “Go. See if Aric and Kieran have come for the ex— for this farce.”
With a nod, the older woman was gone. A moment later, one of Murdoch’s guards appeared and led her outside, into the crisp, brilliant February sunlight.
Tomorrow she would turn eight and ten.
Today, if Murdoch had his way, she would watch her beloved die and wed the heartless villain responsible. Aye, she prayed to God he would stop this impending disaster.
But saw not anyway short of a miracle He could.
She swallowed as the guard led her to the front of the crowd. The Clan MacDougall formed a circle of bodies, mostly men, across the winter-crisp green field behind Dunollie. Their mood was righteous, eager to see an innocent man die.
In the center of the circle, the guards parted. To her horror, Drake stood in the center, stripped to the waist. His face was bruised and cut. Blood smeared from his mouth and tangled with the dungeon’s dirt. One eye was swollen shut, and his bound wrists throbbed an angry red with rope burns—but nothing alarmed her more than the raw lash wounds open and oozing on his arms, chest and back. He looked haggard, waxen, lifeless—and frighteningly near death.
She glanced at the monster she had once sought to wed and saw pure bloodlust in his eyes.
Averyl knew the instant Drake saw her. Time stopped, along with her heart. The air sizzled. She resisted the urge to run to him, heal him, tell him she loved him.
Before she could give in to the urge, a passing chapman nudged her, nearly knocking her off balance. She scarce paid note to the peddler until he said, “Beg my pardon, good lady.”
Aric! She whirled to him, scarce believing what her ears told her. But ’twas true.
She opened her mouth to say something. He shook his head in warning.
“We will save him,” Aric whispered. “Fear not.”
“Nay, ’tis a plan I have,” she murmured in return. “One that might spare him and prove him innocent at once.”
Surprise sharpened Aric’s features before he smoothed them once more.
“What mean ye have no need for a bonny bauble?” he roared for the benefit of the nearby folk.
“Tell Kieran as well,” she whispered, then spoke up. “I’ve no need for your wares, chapman. Be gone with you.”
Averyl felt herself tremble as Aric blended into the growing crowd. On the other side of the circle, she spotted a monk who looked suspiciously like Kieran. A quick downing of his hood and a wink proved her right. She sent him a shaky smile before turning her attention back to Drake. No longer would he meet her gaze.
To her left, the impatient crowd parted, and Murdoch strode through the opening, stopping at Drake’s side.
The evil wretch pushed Drake to his knees and, grabbing a handful of hair, shoved his face to the ground.
“Behold, my friends and my kin, a murderer. A traitor. Today, he dies.”
The crowd turned raucous, cheering, chanting. Averyl closed her eyes, wondering if she could even hope to win the support of the onlookers or if her cause was a hopeless one.
“He is an English whore’s bastard and not worthy of his MacDougall name!”
“Aye!” shouted someone from the crowd.
Murdoch’s squire made his way to his master’s side then, dragging a huge, sharpened claymore. Dread twisted in her belly, until she felt both nauseous and dizzy.
Grabbing the weapon, Murdoch stabbed it into the ground at his feet, then jerked Drake’s face to the crowd again.
“For your crimes against the Clan MacDougall and its last chief, Lochlan, your very father, the lairds have sentenced you to die.”
“You and I both know I killed him not,” Drake insisted.
“Silence!” bellowed Murdoch. “Your time for talking is done. Your time for dying is now.”
Drake risked one last look at her then, his face lined and anxious. Averyl felt her heart constrict with pain, need…regret, denial.
Then the familiar warmth of his dark eyes was whisked away by Murdoch’s cruel hand as he forced Drake’s face to the grass.
Murdoch raised the sword above Drake’s neck.
Averyl drew a deep breath and shouted, “Wait!”