His Stolen Bride BN by Shayla Black

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