His Captive Bride by Shelly Thacker Read Free Book Online Page A

marketplace.”
    He stepped into the pool of moonlight that poured through the open shutters.
    Avril gasped, staring at him in open-mouthed astonishment. “ You! ” she choked out. “You are the trader who ran into me at the street corner.”
    Her pounding heart seemed to fill her throat as she gaped at him. It was unmistakably the same tall, heavily muscled rogue who had collided with her. The same fierce, rugged face. The same bronzed skin and sun-colored hair, utterly at odds with the moonlight all around him.
    “As I recall,” he said sardonically, one corner of his mouth curving, “it was you who ran into me.”
    Avril felt a rush of dizziness, just as she had in Antwerp—mayhap because he seemed familiar , in a way she could not explain. There was something about his deep, quiet voice. Something in his gaze.
    He had eyes of the palest blue, like a clear, cool lake reflecting a summer sky.
    And as he regarded her silently, the unnerving sensation she had felt upon first meeting him shimmered through her once more—a dazzling heat, as if the sun had tumbled from the heavens to fill every fiber of her being. The impact swept over her so suddenly, so powerfully, it robbed her of breath, voice, of her very senses.
    Even as she struggled to give the feeling a name, she sensed, somehow, that he felt it, too. Which only mystified and unsettled her all the more.
    Shaken, she managed to tear her gaze from his, and realized that he no longer wore the homespun tunic and cloak of a trader. He was garbed in naught but a pair of close-fitting brown leggings, leather boots, and a gold armband encircling one thick bicep. A sheathed sword and knife hung from his belt.
    Every hard plane and angle of his shoulders and chest and powerful arms was exposed to view. From his unyielding stance to the blunt tips of his fingers, he looked as strong and solid as the rocks that sliced up the sea below his keep.
    He moved away from the window, and a moment later the center of the room flared with the glow of fire, as he used flint and steel to light the candles in an iron candle-stand. The golden warmth flickered over his back and arms, casting every muscle and sinew in sharp relief.
    “Put the weapon down,” he said without looking at her.
    Avril shivered. It was not a suggestion but a command. He spoke in the same way he moved—with an air of authority. As if he owned not only this place but everything in it.
    She felt renewed fear curl in her belly. But she did not comply. She tightened her hand around the blade’s hilt, ignoring the sting in her injured palm.
    Carrying one of the candles, he moved even closer to light a second candelabra. Avril held her ground—and, in the growing brightness, felt surprised to see that she was not in a bedchamber after all.
    There were cook pots, copper utensils, and a cauldron beside the hearth. A table for eating in one corner. Shelves that held linens and soaps for washing, next to a rain barrel. This odd dwelling seemed to be some sort of long, one-room home.
    Finished with his task, her abductor glanced toward her, mouth open as if he meant to issue another command. But then his gaze fastened on the revealing silk kirtle and skimmed down her body, taking in every inch of skin illuminated by the light.
    Those pale azure eyes suddenly darkened in a blaze of heat. Avril inhaled sharply, filled with feminine alarm at the obvious direction of his thoughts. Every instinct urged her to flee, yet she could not move. And could not understand the tingle that coursed through her limbs, holding her fast.
    “I left a tunic for you.” His voice sounded even deeper than before. A muscle flexed in his lean jaw. “Did you not see it?” He nodded toward the foot of the bed, where a garment of black velvet lay draped over a trunk.
    “I-I was more interested in finding a way out!” She tried to keep her voice from wavering, looked at the distant door. Wondered if she dared try to run past him. “Where am