They dismounted in a place that crunched with fallen leaves, Marcus handing her down to someone before leaping down himself with a grunt.

            She was placed feet first on the ground, felt the cold smoothness of a blade between her ankles. The ropes were cut free. The sack was being pulled off at last.

            She blinked to get the dust out of her eyes, remembered to keep her hands together. Marcus was standing right in front of her. He began to work at the knot behind her head that kept the gag in place, his features totally impartial.

            The gag fell around her neck and then to the ground. Avalon tried to swallow past the dryness in her mouth, touching her tongue to her bruised lips. She saw something in Marcus flare to life at this, his eyes following the movement almost unwillingly before the blankness in his face returned. For the first time she felt a jagged streak of genuine alarm.

            She was in the middle of a circle of men, most in tartans. They were less than thirty, after all, and they stared at her—the crumpled gown with its amethysts, her hair fallen from its coif—as she stared back, trying not to wince at the rush of feeling to her feet.

            There was a herd of fresh horses nearby in the trees, she saw with dismay. Fresh horses. It meant they could ride all day.

            “My Lady Avalon,” said Marcus at last, looking away from her and over to his men. “Meet your new family.”

            She gathered herself, raising her brows as if she were only marginally interested in what he had to say. “I think you must be mistaken.”

            This got her some laughter, a few of the men elbowing each other. Marcus didn’t join them. His eyes roamed over her, held on to their frost.

            “Not at all,” he said. “Avalon d’Farouche has the Kincardine curse.” He indicated her hair and her face in a short gesture. “You are unmistakably Lady Avalon. And I am your husband.”

            “I know who I am, sir, and I know who you are. But you are mistaken in our relationship. I am the bride of Christ.”

            The group of men fell silent. After a long moment Marcus began to laugh.

            It was a deep, chilling sound that brought goosebumps to her skin.

            “Oh, I don’t think so,” he said, piercing her with that feral smile.

            She clenched her fingers into the palms of her hands. The light was growing stronger, allowing her to take in his face in full measure for the first time.

            Dear heavens, he was nothing like his father. He was handsome and elegant, tall where Hanoch had only been burly; sinewy and strong where Hanoch had only been bullish. An Adonis to a Minotaur.

            In daylight his eyes became the palest blue, icy and rimmed with black lashes. His lips were sensual, his chin firm, his nose straight and unbroken. Of course she hadn’t recognized him. Not once in all her years in Scotland had anyone told her she was to marry a god.

            He was examining her too, the trace of that smile still shading his lips. There was no warmth to him at all, only cold, hard will. Perhaps he was not so different from his father, after all.

            “It is true,” she lied, fighting the sensation that she might be drowning. “I am a nun. I took my vows in Gatting.”

            “Really?” His tone implied nothing. She didn’t know what to make of it.

            So he took her by surprise when he pulled her into him and secured her there, using one hand to tangle in the mess of her hair and hold her still for his kiss.

            His body was massive and hard but his lips were skilled, covering hers before she could even draw breath. He slanted his mouth over hers, punishing her. The blood from the cut she had given him mingled between them, warm and salty.

            The sting from his touch swarmed back over her, so much stronger than it had been at the inn, leaving her frightened and yet darkly thrilled. The hum tingled through her again, sparking a prickling heat with his touch, taking her breath and making it short, letting her skin feel every unique sensation of this moment: his kiss, his breath, his scent, the roughness of his cheek against hers....

            His hand in her hair loosened, became less a hold and more a guide, now gently tilting her head back further.

            The pressure of his lips lightened; the kiss grew slower and even more disturbing. There was a new tightness unfurling in her chest, it stretched and filled her whole body, making her acutely aware of him against her, her chest to his, her legs to his, her hands pinned between them. Everything else—the men, the forest, her abduction—faded away.

            Marcus tasted her lips with his tongue, plunging and invading. She gasped as the heat turned to melting honey, making her want to lean into him more, relying on his support.

            He brought his other hand up and cupped her face, no longer holding her prisoner, stroked her cheek, moved his lips over to the side of her mouth and savored her again by gently sucking her lower lip. She felt him smile against her, slow and victorious.

            “No nun ever kissed like that,” he said.

            She pulled back and pressed the point of the dirk she had stolen from him to his neck.

            “Take the lands,” she said, struggling to keep her breath even. At least her hand was steady and sure. The sight of her own blood, now dried and smudged against her wrist, took away the last of that stinging honey he had given her.

            Marcus didn’t move; none of the men did. She was afraid to look away from him, however, to confirm it. He had a challenge in the angle of his head and she could not afford to lose.

            “Be reasonable, my lord,” Avalon said now. “I offer you everything you desire. I will freely give you all my lands, all my money. It’s yours. Only let me go.”

            The winter look grew colder. “Everything I desire?”

            “Come, come,” she said, impatient. “You must agree. You may have all the d’Farouche fortune with none of the trouble of me. How can you resist?”

            He was not afraid, she realized suddenly. Not at all. His manner at best could be said to contain a mild annoyance, as if he were dealing with a troublesome horse on the journey.

            “But what of the curse?” he asked, still mild.

            “Oh, the curse.” Avalon dismissed it with her tone. “Surely you don’t believe in such fantasy, my lord.”

            “It doesn’t matter whether I believe it or not. Everyone else does.”

            “No,” she said.

            “Aye,” he replied, with the beginnings of that chilling smile. “You have the look, Avalon. You meet the requirements. My people will not be content until they have you in the family again.”

            “It is naught but superstition!” she cried, forgetting herself. “You cannot be guided by the fears of a hundred-year-old story! There is no curse!”

            He moved like the wind, knocking her hand away, making the dirk fall to the leaves.

            “It is just a story,” she said to the circle, wanting to convince all of them, including herself.

            Marcus took her arm, turned to his men. “Let’s go.”

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Excerpted from The Truelove Bride by Shana Abé. Copyright © 1999 by Shana Abé. Excerpted by permission of Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.