Those three words hung as heavy as an anvil in the weighty wake of silence. Even the lark beyond their window ceased his cheerful song. Averyl held her breath, heart pounding like a frightened rabbit as Drake stiffened below her.
After the wild, golden joining of their bodies and hearts, the fact that she loved Drake should not stun him. Yet clearly her admission of such had shaken him, down to his very core.
From the jolt of shock evident on his face, she saw that his peace was gone.
Though their bodies lay still joined in slick intimacy, Averyl felt an insidious separation sever the closeness they had shared, as surely as if he had taken his broadsword to a ribbon.
Something within her cried out as he set her away, his back taut, lending credence to her fear. Knees cushioned by pungent earth, Averyl clutched the hard span of his shoulders, yearning to hold him to her until he understood he had nothing to fear from her love.
Drake would not be held. With a shrug, he rose to his feet without a word, never meeting her questing gaze.
Watching in painful silence as he hurriedly donned his clothes with little care, Averyl searched for the words to chase away the chill between them, despite the warming summer morn. To assure him she would never crush the heart his thoughtless mother had scarred years ago. To convince him she would never misuse him, hurt him, cast him aside.
No words came to mind.
’Twas as if he refused to look at her, face her. Holding back hot tears, Averyl dressed in silence, wishing she knew what to say.
The silence stretched on. The tense breadth of his shoulders told her eloquently there would be no discussion of her feelings. His fear, his rage, stood between them as effectively as a boiling ocean.
Still, Averyl could not let him walk away.
“Drake?”
Finally, his dark gaze reluctantly slid over her face before coming to rest on his boots. “I am sorry.”
An iciness crept across Averyl’s skin as she reached for him. “Sorry? Nay, you must not be. I seek nothing, but simply to tell—”
He cut her off with a sharp wave of his hand. “’Tis but a matter of time before you would want your feelings returned. Even now, your eyes plead. Nay.” He shook his head, directing his angry gaze to the roof. “Love is naught but a painful trap designed to twist a man inside out. I will not fall into it.”
Averyl watched in mute pain as her husband walked out the cottage door. Dark clouds drifted across the sun, obscuring the sunlight, just as Drake had obscured her hope.
He withdrew further, in a way he had not done even in the earliest days of her captivity. She swallowed fiercely.
Aye, she’d known his views on love and hoped, perhaps without reason, that she could change them. The furious slam of the gate reached her ears and beyond mocked her. Drake wanted nothing between them now but separation.
She stood on shaky legs, fighting the tears of despair that stung her tired eyes. The smells of burning wood, coffee and…Drake triggered a barrage of memories. She recalled their first kiss so many weeks ago, Drake sharing his bitter fury at his mother’s cruel betrayal, the times they had joyfully joined their flesh as man and wife, his tenderness upon witnessing her fear of the dark.
Drake was a hard man to know, complex, often hidden. But Averyl thought she had solved the puzzle, dug into his heart to find the hurt that pained him. She’d even thought to heal it.
This morn proved only that she knew nothing.
Deciding against any breakfast for her roiling stomach, Averyl prepared and poured fresh wine warmed above the dwindling orange fire. She sipped, scarcely noting the brew’s bitterness.
And now that she’d uttered of love, she must face the consequences.
A gentle splash took her from her thoughts. A ripple in her wine, coupled with warm, salty tracks running down her face, slammed her with a new wave of despair.
One sob, followed by another, shattered her odd calm. The fist clutching her stomach tightened. Averyl thrust her lukewarm wine away and lowered her head to her hands, letting her tears flow unchecked.
By God’s fury, why could Drake not love her? She groaned. Why did her caring have to hurt them both? Even now, she felt as if she had laid vulnerable her body and heart for his misuse, knowing he would do naught else.
And why, by the saints, did he allow the specter of the past to destroy their chance at any sort of future?
* * * * *
Four hours later, Drake had yet to return. Averyl tidied the cabin after she’d ceased her tears, then chopped some cheese and bread for lunch, her stomach rioting at their sour smell.
Pacing the cottage’s small space, Averyl stared into the ashes of the morn’s fire and realized Drake would not return for their midday meal. She grabbed a handful of her silken gown, anxiety rising within her.
Where had he gone? She prayed he had remained on the island, not venturing far away, particularly not to anywhere Murdoch might find him. Biting her lip, her imagination conjured visions that he had been hurt, even killed, because she had driven him away with her three revealing words.
Or most like, he simply avoided her. The haunted countenance he’d worn after her confession more than told her how much her words had shaken him. How unwelcome they had been.
Yet she could not see what harm her admission had done. Though she wished for his return of the sentiment, she did not expect one. She had even told him so, only to be rebuffed.
Fine. ’Twould be a cold day indeed before she repeated such a heartfelt emotion.
As the sun waned in the dim afternoon sky, Averyl perused the perimeter of her ravine cell, waiting and listening for his return, vowing that when he did, she would keep all words of love, and any incriminating others, to herself until the time had come for them to part, if only he would come back soon.
By nightfall, she’d seen no sign of him.
Again, she prepared their meal, pacing, cursing, crying. Concern remained, but irritation had joined as the hours ticked by, chafing like gritty sand against her skin.
Admittedly, telling Drake of her love had been far from wise, but he needn’t have scurried off like a deer from a huntsman. ’Twas not as if she had demanded any display of his feelings in return. Indeed, he was hiding from her like the veriest of babes! And over three little words.
With a huff, Averyl sat down to a solitary supper, determined to enjoy her colcannon without him, despite the fact she disliked cooked cabbage. Determined, in fact, to enjoy every moment of his absence. He would not be around to watch her, taunt her, tempt her to unrequited emotions. She could prepare for bed in privacy, enjoy the last of the wine.
And most like, Drake sat out on the island somewhere, huddled against the chilly fog rolling in, oblivious to all but himself, his wants, and his selfish needs, as usual.
Pushing most of her brash-smelling dinner away untouched, Averyl stood with a stomp. Her captivity, indeed their entire marriage, had been about Drake and his wishes. What of her? Her own needs? Her feelings? Doubtless, Drake was too rooted in whatever foolish thoughts populated his head to realize she had thoughts and desires of her own.
That time, she vowed, had come to a halt.
She, too, had feelings, which ran as thick and sure as his. His past was littered with tragedy, but her own had been as well. Did she use that as an excuse to hurt others, to turn away from whatever love and solace was offered her? Nay. She accepted it, gratefully. Nor did she have any difficulty in admitting her own feelings in return.
So why did Drake believe himself different? Certainly even he had run out of tragedies and excuses.
Averyl paced the cottage’s dirt floor and paused at the window. Clouds dimmed the moon’s white glow, and she smiled.
Her errant husband, when he returned, would soon learn he was not the only one whose sentiments mattered.
* * * * *
By the position of the thin moon in the gray-black sky, Drake determined the hour somewhere close to midnight. Weary and troubled, he opened the ravine’s gate.
His haunting thoughts of Averyl returned. Why had she spoken those damned words? Why had his pulse quickened in joy?
He was a fool, no more, no less, for hiding upon the shores of his own island, away from his own cottage until he felt certain his bride was hours deep in sleep. He, who had never backed away from a necessary battle, never dismissed a worthy opponent, had left Averyl behind and hidden like a coward. The realization filled him with shame.
Still, naught had changed. In the morn, she would awaken, and he would tell her of his decision.
Inside the cottage, he expected no more than the remnants of an evening fire to keep her fear of the dark at bay. But as he pushed the door open, nothing in his imagination prepared him for the sight of Averyl fully dressed before a roaring fire, candles lit all about the room, matching the determined flames in her eyes. Clearly, she had no intention of retiring soon.
“So you’ve finally returned?” she said acidly before he could even wonder why she did not yet sleep. “Have you finished brooding or do you wish to sulk more?”
He winced at her sarcasm and realized he had once again underestimated her mettle. Once, Averyl might have curled up into a ball and cried herself to sleep over his callous behavior. Now, she met him face-to-face, hands positioned upon her hips, clearly as ready for battle as any warrior.
Drake stepped around her, anxious to avoid this confrontation. He’d rarely known how to handle the sensitive and self-doubting girl she’d once been. He had even fewer ideas how to manage the woman spitting such resolution from her eyes.
“There is much you do not know or understand,” he told her.
Though there was only one fact of which Averyl was unaware, ’twas a fact she would likely find terrible.
“Nay, I cannot understand,” she countered, “because you refuse to tell me all. ’Tis only part of your tale you give, parts that make no sense. You hide from me in every other way, while you have demanded and coaxed until I have bared all my thoughts and fears.”
“Averyl, I but spare you from ugliness.”
“Nay, you selfish knave,” she said through clenched teeth. “You keep me in darkness, telling me scattered tales of your past that make little sense when put together so you do not have to reveal yourself.”
Drake turned to face her, the blood within his body suddenly very still. How had she stumbled upon that truth?
“’Tis late and I am tired. Rest—”
“I will rest when I have need to,” she argued. “At this moment, I want answers.”
“I have no more to give you.”
“Can you do aught but lie? Or is that all you know?”
Her fiery green gaze blazed with determination, with fury. Again that sense of shame, the feeling that he owed her the truth crept through him. Perhaps after all the trials he’d put her through, he did owe her something more. More, as long as the worst secret could remain his.
“Damn you!” she railed before he could recover from his guilt. “I do not dispute you were accused of murder or that you were blamed. But why you? Why not another member of the clan?”
Drake chose his words carefully. “Murdoch hates me most.”
Averyl’s delicate forehead wrinkled into a disbelieving scowl. “Why should he? ’Twas he who bedded your mother, not the other way around.”
“Bedding my mother was just another way to show defiance to Lochlan and prove his hatred of me at once. But his loathing started long before then, when we were but children.”
The suspicion shadowing Averyl’s face showed she remained unconvinced. “You still speak in riddles, you rogue. Why should he hate you most, and how could one child come to despise another for a lifetime?”
Drake forced nonchalance into his shrug. “Only Murdoch possesses the answers to your questions. I do not presume to know what is in his mind.”
Averyl clenched her fists. “You know—or at least possess a very good idea.”
Shrugging, Drake turned away, refusing to say more.
“Your revenge is against Murdoch, and you, too, hate him. Now, even if you say you know nothing of the reasons for his enmity for you, you certainly know the root of yours for him.”
He could hardly dispute her. “’Tis true that I came to hate him while still a child.”
“For…?” she trailed off impatiently, clearly awaiting an answer.
Drake sighed wearily and sat before the crackling fire. Mayhap, telling her this little bit would hurt nothing. “For his cruelty to me, to Lochlan.”
“For seducing your mother?”
“If Diera had not turned to Murdoch, she would just as easily have found another to warm her sheets. ’Twas her nature,” he sneered.
“None of what you say makes sense,” she declared, stomping closer. “Though I cannot say such surprises me in the least!”
Drake watched the swish of her skirt, heard the slide of her boots upon the dirt floor and wondered what to say now.
“’Tis the truth,” he defended.
“Aye, but ’tis no more than your usual attempt to disguise the whole truth by revealing a few facts. Tell me!” she insisted. “For I cannot understand how this childhood hatred you describe, coupled with Murdoch’s seduction of your mother, which you claim was not uncommon anyway, would lead Murdoch to blame you for his father’s murder. Or why you would seek to kill him. None of that adds up to your bitter rage and determination for revenge. Why did you not simply try to clear your villainous name and remember that Murdoch and your mother both enjoyed causing others pain?”
He stood and walked past her again, this time to the open-shuttered window and the fathomless inky night beyond. “There is ample proof of my guilt, none of my innocence beyond my word. I cannot allow Murdoch’s deeds to go unavenged. Remembering that he and my mother were cut from the same cloth only inflames me further.”
“Why?” she demanded, standing but a breath behind him.
The scent of her floral skin, the sound of her tortured struggle for understanding suddenly coupled with memories of her lovemaking, of her tears. A hollow place in his chest ached.
Aye, she deserved better than he’d given her. She deserved the truth. But if he gave it, would she ever speak to him again?
“You cannot understand,” he said finally, defeated. What plagued him to want her gone even as he craved her near?
“I tire of hearing such a truth, for I cannot understand what you will not explain! And I tire as well of your unpredictable behavior. Passionate one minute, cold the next. Caring in the eve, remote by morn. Can you not see how this hurts me?” She crept closer, until her breath was a whisper in his ear. “Or are you like your mother and simply do not care?”
Drake whirled to face her, a new fury roaring in his ears. “What did you say?”
“’Tis not deaf you are,” she challenged, chin raised. “I asked why you cannot find some way to resolve the past and get on with your future. Perhaps you are more like Diera than you realize. Mayhap you enjoy destroying others for the pleasure—”
“Damnation, never.” His gaze bored into the depths of her troubled eyes. There he read anguish and anger, bewilderment and desperation. And need. That was his undoing. “You seek the truth, my lady wife. As you wish. But ’tis sorry you will be.”
He grabbed her arm and hauled her against his body, denying the niggling fear this might be the last time she allowed any such intimacy. She leaned into him, pliant, trusting. Inhaling, he filled his head with her soft floral scent. Slowly, he pressed against her, wondering how betrayed she would feel once he had revealed all and how much she would hate him for concealing so much for so long.
“Your betrothed, the man you nearly wed to save Abbotsford from ruin, we share a common bond. We share a father.”
Averyl’s concentration quickly dissolved into white-faced shock. “Lochlan? He was…?”
“My father as well.”
“Then Murdoch is—”
“My half brother,” he confirmed.
Shock dominated Averyl’s open-mouthed expression. After a still, awful moment, she writhed for escape, drawing out of his embrace. Drake let her go, regret and fury weighing upon him.
Drifting silently to the hearth, Averyl sat as if dazed. “Why would you use me so against your own brother?”
Drake sighed, running his hand across his tired face. He could almost see the disillusion crystallizing in Averyl’s eyes. Remorse tugged at him.
“My father and mother wed several years after Murdoch’s own mother met her grave. I know not why Murdoch always hated me, but he did. He tried to drown me when I was a boy of three.”
Averyl gasped, disbelief and horror pasted on her pale countenance. Drake merely continued on.
“When I was but six, he abandoned me in the forest until my father found me two days later. In my tenth year, I visited home from my knight’s training. He put a snake in my bed. At twelve, he poisoned my food. While a child, I endured his superior age and strength each time I came home, along with his unreasonable hatred, never knowing the reason behind it. I still do not understand it. That is God’s truth.”
“By the saints.” Averyl’s voice trembled.
Drake pushed on. “As I grew, the rows he and my father had became more heated. My father threatened to send him away, up north to an uncle of cruel reputation. In retaliation, Murdoch, then a young man, seduced my mother. Not because he wanted her or cared for her, but because my father did.”
“And you found them together.”
Drake nodded. “He arranged the liaison in the solar, knowing full well I enjoyed spending my evenings there.”
“He plotted just to hurt you?”
Pain and shock laced her voice. Drake refused to believe her tone, take succor from it.
“At first, I believed that. I later realized he arranged it thus so I would tell our father. I was the one person whose word Lochlan would never doubt.”
“Why did Murdoch not arrange for your father to find them? Would that not have been simpler?”
Drake’s sweating hands curled into fists. “Our father would likely have killed him on the spot, so great was his love for my mother. Murdoch is no fool; he knew that.”
Averyl frowned her confusion. “What had Murdoch to gain by angering your father?”
“At first I could think of naught but pure spite for the threat to send him away. Later, after Murdoch left of his own accord for life at court, he and my father began exchanging letters. Murdoch made clear he only desired that Lochlan exile me and my mother, and claimed that he had only bedded her to prove her a faithless bitch not worthy of our father’s devotion. He was also quick to point out that the child of such a whore could only be baseborn and without honor.”
Anger fired Averyl’s expression. “Certainly your father did not succumb to such manipulation.”
“Nay, as Murdoch discovered. After Diera died, my father grieved for months—then rewrote his will, forcing Murdoch to wed you before you turned eight and ten.”
“But ’tis a strange provision.”
Drake shrugged. “Not really. The war between the Campbells and the MacDougalls needed to end. My father believed marriage for such a cause would help Murdoch mature into a better man. And until such an event transpired, Lochlan made me tanist of the clan. Had I not been accused of murdering him, I, not Murdoch, would have assumed the role of chief upon our father’s death.”
Comprehension began to dawn in gray tones upon Averyl’s chalky face. “So Murdoch had Lochlan killed and you blamed.”
He nodded. “After my mother’s death, he arranged for some butcher in Campbell colors to attack Lochlan on the battlefield. Murdoch himself was in Glasgow.”
“Such explains why Murdoch sent for me, hinting of a wedding, months before we expected a summons.” Averyl placed a trembling hand over her mouth.
“You refused him?”
“’Twas just after Christmas when we received his letter. My father demurred, citing the harsh weather and the illness of my people. We were not able to travel to Dunollie until ’twas nearly June.”
Drake nodded, wanting the conversation over. He had never told anyone so much, not even Kieran or Aric. Refusing to dwell on why he had spoken so to Averyl, he closed his eyes, feeling the ache of his muscles, the pounding in his head.
“So Murdoch had you falsely accused for Lochlan’s murder so he could become chief?” she asked, disturbing the silence.
“Aye. He still had friends within the clan, powerful friends willing to believe the murder was all my doing, some English conspiracy with my grandfather to gain power. Once they convinced the others that I most stood to benefit from Lochlan’s untimely death and produced the bloodied knife I pulled from my father’s body, ’twas not long before I became a condemned man.”
“And Murdoch, being your father’s eldest son, was restored to power.”
“Aye. He convinced them that no will, written in grief over such a paltry thing as a woman’s death, and an English one at that, was important enough to keep the rightful heir from becoming chief.”
“By the blessed Virgin,” she breathed. “So Kieran and Aric freed you, and you vowed revenge.”
He nodded grimly.
“Oh, Drake. ’Tis a terrible tale indeed.”
She placed her hand in his, her face solemn. Drake looked down at their palms, clasped together skin to skin. He felt something sharp and hot sting his eyes.
Gritting his teeth in effort, he pulled his hand away. “I do not seek your pity.”
“’Tis not pity I give you,” she assured.
“Then what?” he asked, wary.
“Advice. ’Tis clear to me that you let past words and deeds rule your future. You must make your own,” she urged. “Do not let your mother and father’s enmity destroy you.”
Confusion eddied through Drake. She spoke as if he had any say in past matters, as if he could change or forget them with a sweep of his hand. “Of what foolishness do you speak?”
“You need not shout,” she said. “I but try to help. You see, I realized yesterday morn that I had allowed my father’s opinion of me to color my belief of myself. I had allowed his words and deeds to control my thoughts and actions. You do the same, though you do not see it.”
Fury and incredulity fought for Drake’s tongue. “Am I to forget what’s been done and pretend I am not wanted for my father’s slaying?”
She sighed. “Of course not. ’Tis a fact that nothing will change. But in the case of love, you allow your parents’ bitter union to control your feelings, and it should not be so.”
Wishing he could shake some sense into her, he grabbed Averyl’s elbow. “Listen to me, woman. Love started this chain of events, my mother’s death, my father’s murder. What love did to my family now forces me to take my revenge, to see Murdoch into poverty before he draws his final breath. Aye,” he said, answering the shock on her white face. “I want him to die knowing that all he has plotted to gain has been taken from him. When you turn eight and ten, he will lose the money and power for which he had our father murdered. Then I will kill him.”
“None of that is love, but hate. Would you let hate and Murdoch end your life as well? What would happen then?”
Drake’s jaw clenched. “The money and position transfer to our cousin Wallace.”
“’Tis not the money I ask about. Think of what Murdoch can do to you!”
“And should I run, hide like the veriest of cowards? Nay, I will see my revenge finished and end the damage love has wrought upon us all.”
Averyl sat quietly, her expression grim. “Love did nothing evil. You but blame it for what you choose to do.”
“You think love will grant you harmony? I have used you every chance I had. I use you still. That is love? That gladdens your heart?”
With a tight pinch to her luscious red mouth, Averyl rose and walked to the door. “Aye, though you cannot see it. I hope you soon realize we could have a future together, despite this mess, if you could free your soul from the past.”
With that, she disappeared into the moonlit night, her anger apparently greater than her fear. Drake sighed raggedly, feeling the heavy hammer of his own pulse as he ran shaking fingers through his hair. ’Twas a tangle indeed.
Disjointed thoughts chased one another through his head, allowing him no peace. At the crux of his ruminations were Averyl and her words. Were his beautiful wife and her advice the sainted answer his hollow heart needed to heal? Or the ultimate pawn he and Murdoch would eventually destroy?
* * * * *
Drake fell asleep before the fire, awaiting Averyl’s return. He woke, knowing not what time it was. Only the grit within his aching eyes and the watery sun trying to penetrate the dirty window told him he had not slept long.
Rising, he stretched his stiff shoulders and neck, then cast his gaze to the bed, expecting to see his wife lying there in repose. He expected to feel that rush of desire, of possession, she never failed to engender in him.
He found the bed empty.
Anxiety seared through his gut like a flaming blade. Had she escaped finally, driven away by the truth? Found her way out of the locked gate and discovered the location of his boat?
His heart lurched against his chest as he envisioned Averyl, tall in courage but short on physical strength, trying to navigate his tiny boat across the choppy waters separating Arran from the main of Scotland.
Running out the cottage door in search of his wife, Drake pictured her drowning, dying, calling out to him for help… Sweat beaded on his forehead, ran down to his brow. His heart pumped faster as he searched the ravine, calling her. Panic rang with the peal of thunder in his ears when she made no reply.
A quick inspection proved the gate was still locked, the key still in his pocket. Drake took one breath, then another, assuring himself she could not be far, could not be harmed.
Parting the thick island foliage before him, Drake stomped through to find Averyl slumbering by the trickling green waters of the pond. He exhaled in relief, unclenching his fists, and sat on the ground beside her.
She looked in harmony with nature, her creamy skin the perfect foil against the lush Scottish grass, the sheen of her gold curls surrounded by the rich purple of heather. She resembled one of nature’s blossoms, nestled here among the vibrant colors of God’s land, like the lilies floating atop the water beside her.
His gut tightened with both desire and self-disgust. No matter how much he denied the truth to Averyl herself, Drake knew, felt it deep within, that he had come to care about her.
Too much.
’Twas why he worried about her safety, why he’d made love to her when he should not. The reason he had wanted her to believe in her beauty. And the reason he’d told her, and no one else, the entire truth of his past.
’Twas the reason he was tempted to tell her he would try to love her in the way she had dreamed of since girlhood, for at least as long as he lived. And the reason he could do no such thing, for she failed to see the truth: Animosity had plagued the love his parents shared. And Averyl’s notion that he possessed buried fear that controlled his life was rubbish. Nor could he dishonor his father by forgoing revenge for love.
But that did not stop him from aching for her.
Drake sidled closer to his wife, resisting the urge to run his fingers through her tresses, glide his hand across the sunlit splendor of her delicate cheeks. His entire body clenched like a fist. His hand trembled at his side.
Revenge and the clan’s condemnation did not allow for emotions, he told himself. He had never intended their marriage to be one of anything but convenience and revenge.
And the idea of opening what was left of his heart to Averyl and allowing her the kind of power Diera held over Lochlan turned his stomach to a cold block of fear. He could not endure the tumult of feeling flowing between them, wondering what he might do next to earn her displeasure, fearful that any day she might grow weary of his attention or of life on the run.
Aye, she claimed to love him today and clearly meant such. His mother had probably once uttered those same words to his besotted father.
Drake closed his eyes at the encroaching picture of such a bleak marriage that could only lead to his shattered soul.
Nay, he could not, would not, give Averyl that kind of power over him. He must put distance between them. Now, as he’d decided yesterday, after succumbing to his urge for her.
He woke Averyl with a gentle shake. Her eyes opened by degrees, revealing her splendid hazel orbs to him slowly. Her languid expression filled him with remembrances and lust. And resolve, for he must sever this tie between them now.
“Drake?” she asked sleepily.
He stood and cleared his throat. “I am sending you away.”
She sat up slowly, confusion rampant in her expression. “Away? From here? From you?”
“Aye, to—”
“Do you still run from what you feel? Drake, do not—”
“I run from nothing, least of all anything I might feel. ’Tis simply safer to send you elsewhere.”
Averyl stood, denial on her beautiful face. “The MacDougall has searched this island and found nothing.”
“That does not mean he will not return. ’Tis for the best.”
“The best for you,” she shot back. “So you do not have to listen to me and risk facing what is in your heart.”
“Hear me well,” he ground out. “I have naught in my heart!”
“At least naught you will admit to me. Can you not realize your inability to love is the result of your slavery to the past? Do you not see—”
“Speak no more on this.” He turned his back to her, determined they would never exchange words of this ilk ever again.
Before he could stalk away, a sudden noise split the air, an out-of-place crash that sounded frighteningly like the splintering of wood. Every muscle in Drake’s body froze with foreboding a moment before the thunder of horses’ hooves sounded inside the ravine. Instant white-hot fear stunned him.
“Come out, you bastard,” Murdoch’s too-familiar voice whipped through the air. “I have you trapped!”
Shock pumped through his veins. Sweating, he fought panic and glanced at Averyl. Her eyes went wide with horror.
“Come out, you worthless whore’s son,” Murdoch shouted. “You cannot escape this time!”
“What are we to do?” Averyl whispered.
Drake grabbed her hand, praying that she would make it out of the ravine alive. “Run!”
Squeezing his hand, Averyl followed him, sprinting. Over the drum of his pounding heart, Drake heard Murdoch’s men dismount and begin to beat through the green brush in their search. Hiding in the ravine’s brambles and birches, he guided Averyl away from the men.
Taking hold of her arms, he forced her stare to his. “Hold on to me, no matter what. Do you hear me?”
“Aye,” came her whispered reply before they began creeping from the bushes as silently as possible.
Murdoch’s men were visible everywhere but blessedly scattered and on foot as they searched the length of the ravine. Drake made a quick count and estimated there were probably a dozen and a half.
With a prayer on his lips, he sprinted toward the gate, his hand clutched around Averyl’s so she ran beside him.
Within instants, Murdoch’s men gave chase. One leapt at them from a clearing, a long, wicked blade in hand, and made a quick swipe at Drake’s chest. He arched, inching out of death’s way. Over the sound of Averyl’s sudden scream, he urged her on. The rest of Murdoch’s men scrambled to return to follow while Murdoch himself shouted and gave chase.
Drake and Averyl bolted up the ravine’s incline, past the splintered gate, and through the narrow opening to freedom. He heard the distant footfall of Murdoch’s men gaining on them.
“Hold tight, love!” he called in her ear.
She slumped against him in reply.
Fear slammed into Drake as he put his arm about Averyl’s waist. Something thick, wet and sticky greeted his fingers. In horror, he brought his hand before his face.
Red.
Oozing warm blood covered his palm, sheathed his fingers. Drake’s gut churned as he realized the sentry’s knife, intended to kill him, had maimed Averyl instead.
Nausea ground its way through him, along with bone-biting cold. And denial. She could not be hurt. She could not die. He would not allow it, by damned!
Sweating and cursing, Drake stopped before the small cave hiding his boat. Gingerly, he laid Averyl upon the ground, his heart racing at the pale shock of her face, her heavy, closing eyes. Wave after sickening wave of a prickly-cold sensation flooded him when he saw the side of her purple dress darkening at her ribs.
He cursed, knowing he must get them both away from this island now if he had any hope of keeping her alive. A panicked glance behind him confirmed that Murdoch drew closer and his men, all giving chase, were not far behind.
Drake’s grip tightened about Averyl’s waist in fear, clutching her against his chest. “Averyl? Can you hear me?”
“Hurts,” she croaked, eyes cracking open. “Like fire.”
Fear squeezed the air from his chest. “Do not move.”
Her eyes slid shut again. She made no reply.
Both cursing and praying, Drake ripped into the cave’s nearby opening, uplifting the camouflage of plants and rocks with lightning speed, and dragged the tiny boat into the water. A cursory glance revealed the oars within the bobbing wooden craft. Murdoch’s own vessels were nowhere in sight.
After sprinting back to his wife, Drake cradled her against him as he darted for the little boat. Easing her down across the bottom, he pushed away from the shore just as Murdoch appeared atop the cliff above the beach, the one on which Averyl had confessed to her fear of the dark.
He vowed then she would not become another casualty. He would sell his soul if he must so she would not die.
Murdoch shouted, fist raised, as his men joined behind him. His half brother’s threats were gobbled up by the crash of the waves and the frantic beat of his own heart.
Drake absently noticed his adversaries turning away, no doubt in search of their own boats, before he turned his attention to his wife. How badly had she been hurt?
He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the pain and guilt that assailed him. This was his fault. His anger, his arrogance, might well cost this fiery woman with the heart of an innocent her very life. He should have plotted better, anticipated Murdoch’s cunning, put Averyl out of harm’s way once they were wed.
But he had desired her with him, beside him. He had thirsted for her, wanted her like a gasping man wants his next breath. And for his selfishness, his lack of restraint, she was paying the price.
In a terrifying instant, Drake knew anger, a helpless, clawing fear, a willingness to bargain with God that certainly mirrored his father’s emotions as he lay over Diera’s deathbed.
Was this searing pain the wretched love Averyl wanted him to feel?
Pushing his thoughts away, Drake ripped off his shirt and tore away Averyl’s bodice. The jagged length of a gash seesawed along her ribs, seeping blood. Panic bit into his gut, coupled with the brackish stench of sea salt. Drake placed his shirt over the wound and covered it with his trembling hands, then resumed his frantic rowing. He could do nothing more until they reached safety.
God’s blood, she looked so fragile and unmoving, so painfully pale. Fear filled him with a sharp, serrated ache.
He vowed then that if—nay, when—she recovered, he would put her, and his own heart, from harm’s path. No matter what the cost, he would put Averyl away from him so she would never be in jeopardy again.