With a grunt of effort, Averyl lowered the poker, aiming for the back of Locke’s shaggy, dark head.
As if sensing her intent, he ducked and dodged to the side. The poker struck his shoulder with a low thud.
Then he cursed as he turned to face her. Annoyance stormed across his angled face. With a scowl, he stared at her, then stripped the poker from her grip.
Though her stomach tightened with fear, she regarded him with unblinking defiance. “Though I am certain you glower at everyone who displeases you, you scare me not.”
He returned her stare with a raised brow and silence.
“Do you practice that look in a glass, hoping to scare people from their sanity?” she snapped. “For it works not.”
Besides extreme irritation, he looked somewhat surprised that she had dared such an attack. And intent that she should not hit him again, by the way he gripped that iron poker.
His silence unnerved her, until she began to feel like a child who’d been caught filching a sweet and now awaited punishment. She crossed her arms over her chest. Aye, she had never thought herself long on courage, but Drake Locke would not cow her without a single word.
“More than once I have heard you speak, so I know you can.” She sent a challenging stare his way.
The corners of his flat mouth began to curl, though she would hardly call such a smile.
“I can speak when I have need. I do not practice my glowering in a glass. And you’re a fool if you have not the sense to be scared of me, though I expect a lack of sense from a bloodthirsty Campbell wench.”
After that, Drake resumed his silence. Why did she seem full of bravery one moment, then speak needily of love in another? And if she sought love, why did she wed for money? He shook his head, hoping to dislodge the mystery she presented, and gripped the iron poker between tight fingers.
Lady Averyl had opened the cottage’s shutters to the morn’s light. It filtered in with a brilliant summer cheer that lit upon her fair hair, seeming to alight it with a thousand different shades of gold as it tangled in a pale entwining and tumbled across one shoulder. She stood before him, seemingly determined to be brave.
Averyl reminded him of Botticelli’s Venus, ethereal yet elemental. Lust pierced him like a longbow through armor, despite the fact she had done her best to put a dent in his skull. Drake wanted to tousle her, engage the fiery side of her spirit. Arouse her, possess her. Bury his hands in her riotous curls and bed her.
Foolish. Dangerous. So unlikely to ever happen.
He must focus on his revenge, never forget that Averyl was an intelligent woman, gifted with perhaps an even craftier ability to entrance and confuse than his mother had possessed. For he saw now that Averyl’s fragility was an illusion, just as his desire for her was a curse.
Drake held the poker between them. “Careful, else this could injure someone.”
“If only it would, preferably by making a dent in your skull.”
Her dress clung lovingly to the slight curve of her breasts as she moved with furied conviction. Thick and hot, a fresh wave of desire settled in his loins. Why could Averyl have not been as plain as she believed? And meek besides?
Shoving the questions aside, he took the last step toward Averyl, watching her eyes grow wider. With fear and fury, aye. But something new. What? Curiosity? Challenge?
“And I would gladly hit you again, harder.”
How unusually…honest she was. Tenacious and rampageous, too, just like his friend Aric’s lady wife, Gwenyth. He frowned. But Gwenyth possessed not the tendency to sentiment and greed his captive and his mother shared. Averyl was indeed a puzzle.
Drake gripped the poker. “Then I consider myself warned and will put this from temptation’s way.”
“You cannot keep me here!”
“I can and I am.”
The sound of her curse followed him as he made his way outside. That he ignored as he shut the door between them.
Then he heard a sob, quiet, muffled. Drake strained closer to the window to hear. Was that shrew-mouthed Averyl?
Again it came. Aye, ’twas her. Drake frowned as something foreign bit at his gut. It could not possibly be guilt. This revenge was necessary, his very life. Then why did he feel…badly?
Drake set the poker aside. Had he not learned to ignore a woman’s tears from infancy? Aye, and why Averyl’s should bother him, he could not fathom. Shoving his fingers through his hair, he searched for clarity—only to find a muddle where logic normally lived. Damnation.
Averyl sniffled. Drake’s gut clenched. He rubbed the aching shoulder she had struck to remind him she was the enemy. But imprisoning her now seemed…wrong. Frowning, he wondered when had he deemed his act unjust. After he’d beheld those bright eyes in her comely face and seen her fiery desperation?
Drake paced. She was a pawn in his scheme. An intriguing pawn, aye, but a pawn all the same. True, she had a home to rebuild and vassals to aid. She had a right to a wedded life, if she foolishly chose it. And he wanted her in his bed. But all must wait until justice had been served.
* * * * *
Averyl crept outside minutes after Locke. Within moments, she discovered he spoke true. Escape would be near impossible.
The ravine, steep as a cliff all about, was a narrow strip of land hidden by an abundance of wild heather and short grass, brambles, rock, and eternal Scottish mist. So far up did its vertical walls reach, she could scarcely see to the land above.
Giant oak trees sheltered the hideaway from prying eyes by fanning the sky with their far-reaching branches. The ancient trees swayed with the wind, their leaves forming a wall of lush green that convinced outsiders nothing lay below nature’s display of summer. Beyond that, she heard the tempestuous crash of the surf against the isle’s shore.
The gate he spoke of would indeed keep her trapped. Averyl stared up at its impossible height and the razor-edge of the pikes atop it, lethal and smiling, as if inviting her to court death. Anger welled in her throat, burned her belly.
Locke had her trapped, damn him. He had no right to intrude thus upon her life. What would become of Abbotsford, its vassals and gardens, should this captivity last? What of the village, her heritage, her father?
What would become of her?
The barbarian had ruined her plans to wed. If she wished to save them, she needed the key to the gate. He knew such.
She must steal the key. To accomplish such a feat, she would have to search his pocket—when he did not wear his hose. For that, Locke would have to be asleep. She refused to put her hands anywhere near his powerful thighs and manly secrets. He was bold enough to believe she encouraged him and more than male enough to bed her, if only for sport.
Averyl bit her lip. She plotted rebellion against a known killer. ’Twas foolish, but she could not remain. If she did, her future would disappear like a drop of water in an ocean. And the hate that seemed to permeate his every word and gesture might seep into her soul. Indeed, ’twas certain. Already she was learning to hate him back.
* * * * *
Murdoch entered the solar, striding past his leman’s belly, with a curse on his lips. She scurried forward to greet him. He silenced her with a glare and proceeded to his chair.
“I hiv had a bath prepared for ye,” she whispered.
One glance at her coy expression sent his temper soaring. “Back to the kitchen with you, wench. I’ve much to do.”
Whores, every last one, from his first woman, to this last. Naught changed. Each used their bodies for their gain.
Murdoch eyed the pouting redhead as she exited with a protective hand over her rounding belly. Aye, she’d made no secret of the fact she sought a husband of consequence to claim her and her brat.
He stripped off sweaty traveling clothes and sank into the warm water with a sigh. Though she’d vowed the child was his, Murdoch knew he had not been the only man between her thighs. And a fool she was if she believed the simple wifely act of preparing a bath would induce him to give up on Lady Averyl.
Damn his half brother, Drake. Averyl had been missing for nearly four days, and they had found only the sketchiest clues regarding her whereabouts. Still, he refused to rest. After scrubbing himself clean, he rose.
His bride no doubt looked for him each day with her lovesick gaze, awaiting rescue. He would not let her down.
Murdoch dressed quickly. His plan was in motion. When the two were found, Averyl and the wealth of land—land that had once belonged to MacDougalls—along with the power that came with their marriage would be his. As for Drake, he sincerely hoped the whelp of his father’s English whore found hell even more torturous than the slow death Murdoch vowed to provide.
After a brief knock, Wallace, his cousin and steward, entered the darkening room.
“Come in,” he barked. “What news have you?”
“We have word from the west,” Wallace said. “A man claiming connection to Clan MacDougall possesses information.”
Murdoch stopped pacing. “Does he come here?”
“Aye, within the half hour.”
Nodding with satisfaction, Murdoch clenched his fists. “And our soldiers, are they still searching?”
“Morn and eve.”
“I have looked through filth and down countless dusty roads for Lady Averyl.” He turned accusing eyes to Wallace. “Do not disappointment me with more failure.”
Clearing his throat, Wallace assured, “We will see justice served for Drake MacDougall.”
Anger roared until Murdoch heard it pound in his ears. “Drake is not a MacDougall. He is not worthy of any name but his whorish mother’s.”
“But your father was wed to—”
“Aye, my father married that English slut, Diera, and got a brat on her. But the son of such a woman will never bear the MacDougall name, not from my tongue.”
Wallace nodded. “As you wish, my lord.”
The placating expression on his cousin’s face annoyed Murdoch. But the business of capturing his half brother loomed more important. “Drake cannot have taken Averyl too far, certainly not to that grandfather of his in England. Not yet, anyway. We must find them, and soon.”
Wallace shuffled his feet. “With all due respect, my lord, what if Drake has killed her?”
“He would not,” Murdoch growled. “Such an event would release me from my father’s cursed machinations.”
“Drake has always dared much,” Wallace pointed out.
“On that we agree, but to kill her would gain him naught and gain me everything.”
“Could you not declare the girl dead? Such would give you leave to marry another with more wealth and connections—”
“It must be her, unless I can produce her corpse. My father’s will states that I will inherit only after I wed Averyl and end this bloody feud with the Campbells.”
“Ah, so you must find her and marry her?”
He clenched his jaw, cursing his father’s manipulations from beyond the grave. “Precisely.”
Moments later, a castle guard appeared with an elderly stoop-backed peasant, a fisherman. He shuffled in, his slow movements relating pain. His stark silver hair accented black eyes that glittered with anticipation.
Murdoch chafed with impatience. “Well, what news do you bring?”
The old man’s gnarled fingers gripped his weathered cane for support as he lowered himself into the nearest chair. “’Tis an honor to meet ye, me lord.”
“Indeed.” Murdoch ended the chatter with a glare. “Tell me where to find my half brother so I may say the same.”
“Aye, me lord. I saw him two days past.”
“Alone?” Murdoch hovered over the peasant.
“Nay. ’Twas with a woman he traveled.”
“Describe her,” he demanded.
“I dinna see her weel. She was a wee thing, mind ye. Her hair was fair, as was her skin.”
Murdoch nodded. The description seemed accurate enough. “Which way did they travel? Could you tell?”
“Aye, me lord, I could.”
* * * * *
After her bath, Averyl returned to the cottage as twilight painted the Scottish sky a misty blue-gray. Relief seeped through her when she lit two tapers in the dark dwelling and discovered herself alone.
Quickly, she ran a brush through her hair, braided it, and tucked it beneath her cap. Frowning into the glass, she wondered why she bothered. Perhaps her mass of curls would revolt her captor, ensure he kept his distance. Still, she hated to see them loose, to be reminded of all her faults…
With a sigh, she sat on the bed. Why had she not been born with silky hair and rosy cheeks like Becca? The mass of her pale curls next to an equally pale face made her look sickly. Her wisp of a figure did naught to dispel the image.
Bother! Her appearance mattered not. She would wed Murdoch, who had seemed pleased enough with her, when she emerged from this hell. And while here, she had no wish for Locke to think her attractive. He was Murdoch’s enemy, a murderer who would use her for his revenge, at the expense of her future. He was no more than a hate-crazed beast.
Aye, but that odd moment of heat she had once seen in his eyes while she ate his orange made her…restless. No denying, he was sinfully handsome. Under other circumstances, he would never cast a second glance in her direction. Such a realization annoyed her.
Nay, she hoped Locke thought her ugly. Returning to Dunollie and the MacDougall, to the match she might still make, and the certainty that she could see Abbotsford’s great keep prosper for her mother’s memory—nothing more mattered.
Locke entered the dwelling as the sun began to fall. Averyl turned to face him—only to find him bare-chested.
She felt her eyes go wide as her gaze covered him. The dark, golden skin of his impossibly broad shoulders glistened with water droplets. So did the powerful torso that tapered into a lean, muscled waist. Struggling for her next breath, she watched a droplet descend from his navel, down over his rigid abdomen, to the tangle of hair that narrowed into a thin line…into the waist of his breeches—and lower.
The cottage suddenly felt smaller and warmer.
Without a word, he draped his tunic across the back of the spindle-backed chair. His thick arms were those of a seasoned warrior, corded and veined with muscle. Scattered scars appeared, a nick here, a gash there, all long healed.
As he moved, Averyl saw the play of hard-muscled flesh across his shoulder blades. She swallowed at the reminder of his power, which gave him the strength to hurt her if he chose.
He stepped beside the candle and bent to his boot. The golden flame lit on his wide back and the dozens upon dozens of puckered scars that crisscrossed there, some screaming red, some a painfully mute white.
She gasped.
Locke whirled to face her, dark eyes glittering, hostile.
“My scars offend you?”
“N-nay. I but… You…” she stammered. “I had no—”
“You can thank the honorable man you sought to marry for them. Murdoch does enjoy a hearty whipping.”
Cold shock assaulted her system as she stared in silence. Nay. Could not be true. Hate merely deluded Locke, devouring the core of his soul. He wanted her to think only the worst of the MacDougall.
What if Locke spoke the truth?
She shuddered. No human being deserved such mistreatment, whatever his crimes.
Scowling, Locke changed the subject. “Have you eaten?”
“Nay.” Her voice trembled. “I have not an appetite.”
His gaze sliced to hers, eyes narrowing as if to probe her thoughts. He strode toward her, a challenging glint in his eyes that did not bode well.
A voice within Averyl screamed to back away. Her pride would not let her.
“Do you find my scars so repulsive that you cannot eat?”
He was too near, his mood sharp and dangerous, like the edge of a blade. Averyl tried to control her uneven breathing, to break the hold of his dark gaze on hers. Locke’s stare stayed, allowing no retreat.
“I fear nothing about you,” she answered, chin raised.
“Then why do you shake?” Locke turned away and stalked across the room. “You’ve no need to skitter about like a frightened rabbit. You are safe with me. Unless you wish it, I will not touch you.”
“Perhaps I would not skitter were your disposition more pleasant,” she retorted through clenched teeth.
As he faced her once more, his eyes narrowed. “’Tis a fool you are if you think I will behave any particular way so that you may regard me as pleasant.”
“Then a fool I must be.” She infused her voice with a razor edge. “I had supposed that a man with a beating heart, with feelings, would perhaps attempt some measure of civility, in light of the fact my future is ruined.” She paused. “Oh, but you haven’t any feelings, have you? ’Tis doubtful you even possess a heart. How foolish of me to forget.”
“I can see your father did not teach you to dull the sharp edge of your tongue.”
“Nor would I have listened.”
Jaw taut, he turned away once more. “Go to bed. I’ve no interest in sparring with you further this night.”
“I’ve no interest in sparring with you at all.”
That said, Averyl whirled to the bed in the center of the room. Having conducted a tour of the small cottage, she knew the dwelling had but one other room—one which lay empty, void of any furnishings, much less a bed. She swallowed, then cast a surreptitious glance back at her captor.
“Where will you sleep?”
Wearing a smile, he dragged his gaze over the rumpled bed.
“You cannot!”
The smile widened. “Do you fear for your virtue?”
“Aye.” Realizing she’d just implied that Locke would want a homely maid like her in his bed, she flushed. “Nay.”
She swallowed again. Would he take her, if only because he had no other woman available to ease his manly urges?
With a resolute shake of her head, she clarified, “I know naught of your plans or thoughts.”
“You know not if I desire you.” He raised a jet brow. “Is that not the question?”
Heat, part excitement, part chagrin, coursed through her. She cast her glance to the uneven mud floor. Could he possibly want her? She opened her mouth, but no words came forth.
“Should I wonder if you desire me?” he whispered.
Averyl risked a glance in his direction. Her gaze followed Locke as he smoothed a hand across his bare chest…and lower. His flat palm stretched over hard muscle. Her heartbeat quickened.
Did women caress their lovers in such a manner? The thought came, unbidden. Horrified at her musing, she dismissed the question.
The man possessed not a shred of modesty. Aye, but despite his scars, he had no reason to hide an inch of his well-honed warrior’s body. Her face bloomed with hot color.
“Wonder not. I will never desire you,” she swore. “Ever.”
Locke sent a challenging stare in her direction. But he did naught else. Said naught more.
“You swore you would not touch me,” she reminded.
“I swore I would not touch you unless you wished it.”
“That settles our issue, then. Does it not?”
He cocked his head, his dark stare questioning, measuring. “Perhaps.”
“Unless you plan to rape me for your perverse pleasure—”
“I’ve no need to force a woman to my bed.”
The statement was direct, honest. Averyl did not doubt he had more invitations than he could keep. Her face burned hotter.
“If that is so, you have no need to force your way into that bed with me,” she concluded, arms crossed over her chest.
He smiled darkly. “Instead, I will sleep on the floor, by the door, to be certain you do not escape.”
Realizing she had possibly thwarted her own plan, Averyl turned away, fists clenched. Reviewing her options, she paced.
How could she escape this eve, without the key, as Locke guarded the door? With the hated dark looming about her like a fiendish specter? Impossible. Still, she must try.
Suddenly, she caught Locke’s stare in the mirror. Across the barren room, in the flickering candlelight, he watched her.
For a moment, she beheld the unrestricted view of his golden chest without thought to its brute power. Never had she given any thought that a man’s body might be pleasing. Had she not always thought one was much like another? Here, Locke proved her wrong. What she had interpreted moments ago as fear-inspiring power now struck her differently.
Through lowered lashes, she studied the ornate silver-and-gold cross hanging between his collarbones, suspended from a thick silver chain. Below that, she examined the hard swells of muscle around his dark nipples and the ridged flesh across his abdomen. Was all of him built that powerfully?
“Come here, Averyl.” His deep voice resonated about her.
His command was naught more than a soft challenge. She knew she should ignore it, ignore him. His glittering eyes would not let her.
Toward him she stepped, chin held high. “I assume this request has a purpose, for I am not your servant.”
A smile curled the corner of his mouth. “A step closer, if you please. I am in the mood for talking.”
Averyl snorted her disbelief. “I stand plenty close for talking.”
“Not tonight.”
His voice sounded warm, enticing—dangerous to one’s soul. Gathering her composure, she stepped boldly toward Locke. He seemed to thrive on her uncertainty. ’Twould be a hard-fought battle before she showed it again.
Mere inches separated them. The heat of his body, the scent of wood and musk, assailed her. He took her hand in his.
Averyl held in a gasp at his warm touch. When he began stroking her palm with his thumb, she drew in a deep breath to calm her alarm. Even so, tingles of sensation assailed her, while his velvety eyes invited. She swallowed.
“Do you know the ways of men and women?” His voice stroked and incited her to something she had never felt. If he had naught but hate within him, how could his voice be so warm?
She raised her chin, hoping he could not see her tremble. “What I know or not is none of your affair.”
“Perhaps I should ask instead if you wonder about the feel of a man’s kiss. The touch of his hand where you ache?”
Lips parted, eyes wide, she stared at his dark face, into his knowing eyes. Yes, secretly, shamefully, on long, cold nights in her solitary bed, she did wonder.
“I—I…” she stammered, betraying her answer.
A smile curved his full lips, making him seem an entirely different man, one without anger or revenge dominating his heart. “’Tis as nature intended.”
The feather-light touch of his fingers teased their way up the bare inside of her arm. His words, his touch, shot a shocking ache from her center through her limbs. The drumbeat of her pulse erupted into a march.
“Have you imagined more?” His gaze, a flash of heat, pierced her with a sharp answering want. “Wondered about the feel of a man on top of you? Inside of you?”
Gasping, she recoiled, face flaming, and tried to wrench from his grasp. “Nay! ’Tis unseemly.”
Despite her protestations, his scent, of earth and man, rose up to confuse her, to plant carnal notions in her head.
What kind of lover would Locke be? Demanding? Possessive? Or surprisingly tender?
She stared at his fine, carved features, his incredibly dark eyes. She found no answers therein, only mystery, secrets he seemed to hide.
Disturbed, she sent her gaze down. She paused at his lips. The bottom one was fuller than the other, but as if to atone for this, the top lip dipped sensuously in the center, adding to his mouth’s appeal. Somehow she knew he could kiss a woman senseless.
Her pulse soared with anxiety and awareness. She peered at him, wondering why her mind toyed with her thus.
“I can satisfy your curiosity.” His tone said he could do that—and more.
Sweet mercy, had he read her very mind? “I want only freedom from you.”
Cursing her breathy reply, she tried to withdraw her hand from his, to end the disturbing touch. He held fast.
“I could find more than one way to give you and your sharp tongue delight.”
More than one way?
Averyl forced the instant vision of sheets and skin from her thoughts. She mustn’t even consider such.
Tilting her chin upward, she still could not help wondering why he offered. Did he see something beautiful in her that other men, even her own father, did not?
Of course not. He merely sought to confuse and use her. She must not lose sight of that.
“Release me. I will not, for a moment more, allow this torture. Think you I wish to give my maidenhead to the swine who took me from my bed and family, then ruined my life? If so, sir, you hold entirely too high an opinion of yourself.”
Locke clenched his jaw and scowled. “I shall restrict myself from torturing you, as you put it,” he said, releasing her. “But I suggest you keep your straying gaze elsewhere, else I will treat your stare as an invitation.” He grabbed a blanket from the bed and strode past her. “Good night.”
* * * * *
Averyl lay stiffly in darkness blacker than soot. She drew in a deep breath, refusing to succumb to the familiar frozen terror. Locke had given her little choice but to seek escape during night’s most shadowed hour.
At the base of the door, she heard his deep, even breathing. Though he slept, Averyl could not. Would not, despite the comfort of the mattress beneath. Escape beckoned. And the location of Locke’s codpiece was crucial.
Straining to see her captor through the frightfully inky room, Averyl pushed her fear aside and rose from the bed. The cold earthen floor beneath her feet shocked her, and she made a mental note to grab her satchel before leaving.
Inching forward, she trembled, praying the corners of this dark, foreign room were not haunted with bloodthirsty demons or violent specters. Still, she dared not risk lighting a candle for fear of waking the mortal beast by the door.
She stepped on a rock and winced, biting her lip to stay silent. Locke’s deep breathing continued, and she crept on.
At his side, Averyl knelt and, like a blind woman bobbing for an apple, felt the floor around his body for the codpiece attached to his hose. She knew he’d placed it somewhere at his side, for she had heard the rustle of cloth as he’d disrobed in the dark. Averyl refused to wonder which other garments he’d removed, how much of his taut skin he had bared to the night.
After another tap or two, she felt a long length of cloth beneath her hand, thankfully void of a leg. Hope welling within her, she clasped the fabric and vowed to follow it until she found his codpiece.
She encountered a hard, hot, linen-clad thigh instead and jerked her hand away.
At her touch, Locke stirred and rolled to his back. Face flaming at the intimacy, Averyl tensed and leaned away.
“Averyl?” His question was slurred with sleep, her own name hardly recognizable.
She did not answer. Moonlight penetrated the darkness through a crack beneath the door, which Locke no longer blocked. Stark alabaster rays illuminated the floor, and Averyl seized upon the light as a sign from God. With it, she could see no specters hovered near—as well as half of his hose.
The other half lay trapped beneath Locke’s hip.
Biting her lip, Averyl resolved to continue with her plan. She sat beside him and reclined on one elbow, hoping to gain better position to pry the pouch from beneath him. Stealing a glance at his face to see, she saw he slept still.
Thankful for his slumber, she leaned closer, touching a trembling palm to the ridged plain of his bare abdomen. She drew in a sharp breath at the feel of his hard flesh and swallowed to conquer the urge to abandon her plan in the face of her pounding heart.
He moved not at her touch, and she continued on her quest, easing another hand beneath his thigh. The intimacy of her actions seeped into her. She’d never touched a man thus. Had never been this close to one.
Nor had she ever been abducted by a murderer.
Averyl forced herself to concentrate on his identity and nefarious plan…not the curious breathlessness she felt at the feel of his skin. Yet the warmth of his big body penetrated her anxiety with something stronger.
Bringing her hands closer together, nearer the codpiece, Averyl held her breath, trying to ignore the feel of Locke’s warmth upon her fingers. Another inch, mayhap two, and the pouch would be free. She resisted the notion that Locke could hear the thunderous rhythm of her heart.
Her captor shifted again, giving her access to his pocket. Yanking it to her chest, Averyl slipped her hand into the scratchy wool, still warm from the most male part of his body. He had a good amount of coin, judging from the jingle within, but she resisted the urge to take any. She would find a way to Murdoch’s side without resorting to Locke’s thievery.
Averyl reached, her fingers stretching. Finally, she felt a cold length of metal. She closed her palm around the long object and lifted it from the pouch. The slender beam of moonlight beneath the door told her ’twas a key.
Clutching it, she made to rise. Her captor shifted into her, throwing her off balance. Averyl fell to her back with a quiet thud.
She tried to find her feet, but Locke draped the length of his battle-hardened arm over her stomach and rolled toward her, half of his big body covering hers.
“Averyl?” came the sleepy inquiry again, a whisper.
She lay completely still, save for the drilling of her heart. She must think of a way to leave his slumberous embrace without waking him—not of the scents of sandalwood and something muskier that clung to his skin.
Slowly, she inched away, grasping the key in one hand, eyes tightly shut. Locke tightened his hold about her and sidled closer, until more of his massive chest eclipsed her, pinning her to the floor beneath him.
He turned his head away from the door, toward her. His eyes remained closed. “Hmmm.”
At his soft moan, her skin erupted with chill bumps. Heat swept through her. Why, under his touch, did she no longer feel her fear of the dark?
Shaking away the foolish thought, she chastised herself. Locke merely slept, clutching his captive, the vessel of his revenge. He did not seek to protect her, and she must escape while defending herself against the dark’s demons.
Averyl frowned, wondering too why he had not awakened.
Knowing she did not have time to solve that mystery, she lay still until his breathing deepened once more. Just as she moved to make good her escape, Locke’s hand lifted from the curve of her waist upward.
His warm fingers covered her breast.
She gritted her teeth to rein in a gasp. The foreign sensation, like a flare of lightning, erupted within her. A hot and cold ache pervaded her as her flesh tightened and her nipples pebbled beneath his touch. An urge to arch to him in offering blinded her for a moment. If he could give so much pleasure in his sleep, what measure could he give when alert?
Nay, she would not think so…wantonly. The moment’s surprise merely masqueraded as pleasure. She would learn if he slept still, then find a way to flee.
Easing from his touch, Averyl turned her face to his. He breathed deeply, evenly, with closed eyes. Did that not mean he slept still?
“Averyl,” he whispered sleepily again.
She stilled as he wrapped his hand about her nape and drew her close, so close. Breath trapped in her chest, she felt his other hand slide up her waist, to cover her breast again. She jumped, startled—and found her mouth an inch from his.
Assailed by the woodsy musk of his scent, the feel of his nearness and intimate touch, she froze in shock. And wonder.
He settled his mouth over hers. Soft, warm lips covered her own. Mingling breaths, a rush of sensation, an explosion of wonderment. His mouth swept over hers lightly, lingered and nipped, tasting of nightly ale and manly allure.
Averyl drew in a deep breath. The room seemed to spin about her. His lips, so tender… An utter puzzle. Could one so evil really taste so pleasing? Touch as if gentle?
He groaned, startling her. Averyl broke the kiss and eased away, then scrambled to her feet. Her lips tingled, and she placed cold fingers against them, aching for another taste of tenderness.
Nay. She must concentrate on escape.
Praying he did not awaken, she backed away through the hated dark, heart pounding, until her legs encountered the bed. Smothering a gasp, she scurried about the room, gathering her satchel and a quilt from the bed. She shut the door softly behind her, hoping the sound would not wake him.
Barefooted and shaking, her heart drumming, she sprinted through the obsidian night, up the steep hill to the gate, hoping to leave behind the demons of the dark—and her captor.
Her trembling fingers inserted the key and turned it. The gate swung open. Freedom was hers! She had naught to do but master her childhood fear, find Locke’s boat, and cast away from his prison isle. And she might be hours away before he woke to find she’d fled. She would be with Murdoch soon. They would wed. Abbotsford would be safe.
With a low cry, she burst through the thick shrubbery, into the night, a wild animal suddenly freed from its cage. At the top of the hill, she drew in a deep breath of pungent salt air and glanced above at clouds of ashen gray that obscured the moonlight to a faint ghostly glow. Averyl clenched her fists as a damp sheen of fear bathed her face.
She must forget the villains and ghosts, and remember Locke’s boat. Aye, it was most important now. She must have it to return to the MacDougall.
Averyl listened to the sounds of crashing waves about her, pelting her from all directions. Where would he hide it? A cave, most like. A dark, black hole hiding the unknown. She cringed against the dark.
Then she squared her shoulders, vowing that for escape, she’d endure the pitch cavern. Staying could only be more dangerous. With Locke, she feared for more than her safety.
She rummaged through her satchel for footwear. Dresses and shifts she unearthed, but naught resembling her shoes. Knowing she did not have enough time or light for a more thorough search, she tossed the blanket about her shoulders as protection from the chilly darkness and headed for the shore, scanning all about for blood-thirsty ghouls. If she must search the perimeter of the island, that she would do.
Upon reaching the rocky shore, Averyl found a scrap of sandy soil and began walking, guided by the milky reflection of the weak moonlight on the silver water. She scanned the land for anything that resembled a boat or a place to hide one, vowing she had not come this far and risked Locke’s wrath for naught. Nor had she succumbed to the bewildering pleasure of a kiss she had enjoyed far too well to be thwarted.