Spellbound & Seduced
Marguerite Kaye
Scottish Highlands, 1822
Two hundred years ago, a witch cursed all the women in Jura Mcnair’s family to be widowed on their first wedding anniversary, until a true and perfect love could break the spell. Jura has chosen a life of loneliness instead of risking the sorrow of losing a husband. Then fate brings handsome Lawrence Connaught to her cottage, and for the first time she realizes the lure of temptation. She may never know love, but just once Jura is determined to experience a taste of forbidden desire…
In loving memory of Jim Binnie. You were in my thoughts when I wrote this story, and I know, if you could read it, that some of the names would make you smile.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Epilogue
Prologue
Christmas Day, 1622. Scottish Highlands
Snow had fallen overnight. In the early hours of the morning, the temperature had dropped sharply, making glittering crystals of the fallen flakes which crunched underfoot as the villagers gathered, the women with their arisaidhs drawn up over their heads, the men with their plaids wrapped tightly around them. Silence reigned as the birds watched mutely from the bare branches of the trees.
A large bonfire had been built, but not to warm the assembled crowd. Its purpose was much more sinister. The atmosphere among the circle of Highlanders was tense, a potent brew of resentment tinged with fear at being forced to endure such a spectacle—on Christmas Day of all days. But the laird had insisted, set upon providing an entertainment second to none for his high-born guests, and the laird’s word was law.
Her bare feet numb, her eyes dazzled by the bleak morning light after days spent in the dank dungeons of the castle, Lillias was consumed by a fury so incandescent she did not feel the bitter cold, though she wore only her ragged shift. Ankles and wrists manacled, she shuffled along the path flanked by two of the laird’s men. The priest’s chanting affected her no more than the irritating buzz of an insect.
The circle of villagers opened sufficiently to allow her entry. In front of her stood the pyre on its platform of stones, taller than she’d expected, much more substantial. Squares of peat were laid around the base; they would burn long and fiercely. Almost, her heart failed her then. Lillias staggered, but pride kept her upright. Boldly, she tossed back the distinctive tawny tangle of hair which marked all of her female kin and stood in the place hollowed out for her at the base of the wooden stack. The witch’s bonfire. Her funeral pyre.
As they fastened the manacles to the stake, Lillias sought her daughter out amongst the curious gazes of the laird’s coterie. Her aura was bile-black and acrid, so different from the soft, glowing cloud which had enveloped Jennifer since childhood. Standing next to her was the man Lillias held responsible for poisoning her daughter’s mind towards her. Seamus, the laird’s son and Jennifer’s husband. The pair of them had branded her an evil witch even though they and all the village knew she used her powers only to do good. The laird had readily accepted their trumped-up evidence, sensing the opportunity for a Christmas entertainment that would be the talk of the glens.
The twigs were lit at the bonfire’s base. Damp with melted snow, the wood and peat caught slowly. The warmth was almost welcome on her chilblained feet, though Lillias knew it was but a shadow of the fierce heat which would slowly consume her.
A man leapt forward from the crowd. ‘For pity’s sake,’ he cried, ‘this woman saved my bairn’s life when all hope was lost. At least grant her the solace of a noose to spare her suffering.’ But the laird shook his head and his men pushed the villager roughly back into the throng.
The first of the flames licked up around her toes. Her manacles heated and began to sear the flesh around her ankles. Lillias’s beautiful golden eyes blazed brighter than the pyre as she summoned her powers. Though her bound hands prevented her from pointing, the fierceness of her gaze directed all others’—villagers, laird, and ladies—at Jennifer.
‘A curse be upon you.’ Her voice carried clear of the smoke, out into the crisp winter air. The villagers drew away as one, with a hiss of simple terror. Even the priest ceased his incessant chanting. With the flames licking at her shift, Lillias needed all her strength and resolution, all the vitriol which she had nursed through the days of captivity following her token trial. ‘For the sin of my betrayal, I place this curse upon you, my daughter. Your precious husband, who loves himself more than you, will die a year to the day upon which you married him.’
Lilias’s words held the villagers transfixed. The flames licked higher now, the heat was making her choke, but the pain was, as yet, bearable. ‘And so it will be for each generation of my female kin in the years to come. To them I bequeath my powers and my curse until a true and perfect love does break the cycle.’
Smoke filled her lungs. Pain seared her flesh. Lillias fortified herself with a final look at her petrified daughter and corrupt son-in-law, then closed her eyes and waited for death to take her.
Chapter One
December, 1822
The snow was falling heavily, thick flakes fluttering down from the leaden sky like a lace curtain. Lawrence Connaught reined in his horse and pulled his beaver hat from his head to brush it clean. Blinking away the melting crystals which clung to his lashes, he shook the damp from his hair, which was unfashionably long and curled over the high collar of his many-caped great coat. The rutted road, by London standards no more than a track, meandered ahead of him, dipping and climbing in a most contrary way, which made it impossible to tell how far he had still to travel. The last village was about five miles back. If his mother was to be relied on—which she rarely was—then Dunswaird was another mile, at most two, further on.
‘You’ll spot the place easily,’ Moira Connaught had told her son with a shudder of distaste. ‘It looks more like a medieval keep than a castle. It is quite old but quite plain too. I doubt it will appeal to your architectural sensibilities.’
For once, Lawrence had been inclined to agree with her. Tower-house-style castles were, in his experience, durable but rather dour. He was, however, curious about this unexpected legacy. Dunswaird Castle had come into his ownership following the death of his mother’s uncle, a confirmed misogynist whose will, twenty years out of date, named her brother, Lawrence’s uncle, as heir. Since he had joined his maker some ten years previous leaving a clutch of daughters, all as yet unwed, and had no other male siblings, Lawrence found himself, six months after the death of a relative he had never met, the possessor of his castle and his title, provided he paid, according to some ancient tradition, the price of a thistle and a rose to the crown each Lady Day.
The most recent of Lawrence’s architectural commissions had been completed in October. He had not yet decided on the next. More importantly, he was in urgent need of an excuse to avoid yet another of his mother’s house parties and the parade of eligible young ladies she produced for him in an increasingly desperate attempt to see her eldest son settled. But her eldest son was not in the least bit interested in settling. The very word, so staid and dull, bored him.
Variety was the spice of Lawrence’s life, in both work and women—especially women—at least it had been until recently. Recently, even variety had begun to pall. His boredom threshold was becoming alarmingly low. The thrill of the chase, the witty banter with its double entendres and seductive undertones which he had once enjoyed almost as much as the consummation which followed, now seemed to him pointless. Horrified by the notion that he might be growing arrogant, one of those tedi
ous, seen-it-all boors, he had begun to spend more and more time alone. His last liaison had ended six months ago now, and he felt no inclination to embark upon another. Something was missing from his life, but it was not another affair. He needed a change of a more substantive kind.
‘And change, these Highlands of Scotland most certainly are,’ he muttered to his horse. ‘Though just exactly where I am for the present quite defeats me.” Jamming his hat back on his head, Lawrence set off once more, wondering if he’d been unwise not to spend the night with his baggage at the last inn.
Ten minutes later, and the snow had begun to permeate even the thick grey wool of his greatcoat. He could no longer feel his toes inside his top boots. An eerie silence prevailed. In the strange light, it could be either dawn or dusk. He felt as if he were the only living soul in this bleak, treacherous landscape.
He rode on, concentrating all his energy on remaining in the saddle, too cold and too mesmerised by the whirling snow to notice how far he had strayed from the track until a branch whipped painfully across his cheek. Reining in, he found himself in a densely wooded copse. Already, the hoofprints of his horse were obliterated behind him. Dismounting, he felt his boots sink into deep snow. The light was failing fast. The sky was murky, ominous. Around him, the gnarled branches of the bare trees seemed to be encroaching, reaching out, beckoning. His horse whinnied, straining at the reins, pawing nervously at the ground. He rubbed his gloved hand over its twitching ears, but the animal refused to be calmed, snorting and pulling more forcefully to free itself.
He was lost. He knew he was lost, though he refused to accept it, and there was a part of him which welcomed the fact, for at least it was a change. Determined to choose any way rather than none, Lawrence stumbled, dragging his reluctance mount, towards what looked like a path leading through the copse, but almost immediately the naked branches swallowed him up with their snagging limbs. He turned back, but must have missed his direction, for the next path looked wholly unfamiliar. Another turn, and he was in another small clearing.
The clutching branches of the desiccated forest snatched at his greatcoat, his hat, his hair as he stumbled in and out of rabbit holes and partially frozen streams indiscriminately, with no aim save to escape from this godforsaken place. ‘This is ridiculous,’ Lawrence muttered, quite disconcerted by the impenetrable landscape. A noise to his right made his terrified steed rear up. Lawrence whipped round in an effort to retain his tenuous grip on the reins, caught a glancing blow to his head from a low bough, and only just retained his balance.
Through the trees, a thin spiral of smoke caught his eye. Shakily, he managed to remount, pointing his horse in the direction of the smoke, forcing his way through and out of the forest. The cottage was white, thatched, almost obscured by the snow, which was falling heavier than ever. Dizzy and weak from the blow he had sustained, Lawrence clung swaying and semi-conscious to the saddle.
A voice, a female voice, musical and low, murmuring words he could not understand made him open his eyes. Gaelic. His mother’s language, though almost the only words of it he knew were the curses and insults she used to rain down upon his father when they were at odds.
The woman’s tawny hair was the first thing he noticed. Long and luxurious, it trailed all the way down her back. Her eyes, he noticed next. Golden, he thought, though maybe they were hazel, almond-shaped, fringed with dark, dark lashes. A pink, full mouth. A perfect nose. ‘I don’t speak Gaelic,’ Lawrence said, stumbling over the one phrase he’d been able to persuade his mother to teach him.
‘Don’t try to move, you’ve a nasty cut on your forehead.’
She spoke English with a delightful lilt. Those eyes, they were like liquid amber, he had never seen such a colour before. Her gown of plain brown wool was old-fashioned, the bodice laced at the front, fitted to the waist, quite unlike the Empire line so popular in London. She had an ethereal look about her, as if she was not quite of this world. ‘Who are you?’
‘Jura, Jura Mcnair.’
‘I am Lawrence Connaught.’ He looked around at his surroundings. ‘Where am I?’
‘In my cottage.’
A fire burned brightly in the hearth that was set into the gable end, a heavy black iron kettle hanging from a hook in the chimney simmering over it. His greatcoat and hat were draped over a chair, steaming gently. Lawrence struggled to sit up from the cushioned wooden settle on which he seemed to be sprawled. ‘I was in the woods. Lost. The snow. I remember now, my horse…’
‘He’s in the shed with my milk cow. You must have fainted, for I found you unconscious on the doorstep. I had a hard task of it, getting you inside,’ Jura said with a smile. It had been taxing, but also rather delightful, wrestling this muscular and extremely attractive stranger into her cottage. His expensive clothes, the air of elegance which clung to him despite the toll the weather had taken, made it obvious he was far from home even before he spoke. She could not possibly have met him before, and yet when she had seen him at first, slumped against her doorstep, she’d felt a connection, as if she knew him, or had been expecting him. It was the strangest thing.
‘You’ve hurt yourself,’ she said, delicately touching the blood-crusted cut around which a livid bruise was blooming. His eyes were the blue of rosemary flowers. The bruise throbbed under her fingers. Their gazes snagged. The air crackled, the way it did just before lightning struck.
Lawrence blinked. ‘I hit my head on branch,’ he said. ‘Stupid thing to do. My horse was trying to bolt.’ A violent shiver made his teeth chatter.
‘You need to get dry or you’ll catch your death. Take off those boots and that coat, they’re soaking. I’ll fetch a balm to take away the swelling on the bruise.’
Lawrence hesitated. ‘I don’t want to put you out.’
‘I will be glad of the company, it gets very lonely here. Besides, I doubt you’ll be able to go anywhere in this storm. The snow is over a foot deep already, and it’s dark. You’d only get lost if you tried to continue your journey. Unless… Is someone expecting you?’
They were not expecting him at the castle, he had sent no word, knowing it would not reach whoever was looking after the place before his arrival. Besides, he most decidedly didn’t want to go back out into that cold, hostile landscape, not when there was a warm fire, and the beguiling Jura Mcnair was smiling at him. Lawrence had known more beautiful women, and he had known more overtly alluring ones, but he had never met a woman quite so…so enchanting! He smiled back. ‘No one is expecting me. I’d very much like to stay, if you’re sure I won’t be intruding.’
‘You won’t be, there is only me and Brianag, my cat.’
In fact, Brianag was Jura’s familiar, her confidante, her only real friend. Though it was not like the old days, when her ancestors were shunned and feared because of their powers, the move she had made to this village of Dunswaird, away from the memories of her dear departed mother and away from the dreadful history which blighted her happiness and the happiness of her mother and her mother and so on, back two hundred years, had not been quite the fresh start Jura had hoped. The villagers of Dunswaird were too much in awe of her powers to befriend her, and though she had never given them cause, the women were suspicious of a young unwed female and the men rather too interested.
She was lonely. It was her choice, it was for a fine cause, but she was lonely nonetheless. She missed her mother. She missed having someone to talk with and laugh with and confide in. Though it was impossible, though she herself had been instrumental in ensuring it was impossible, there were days when she longed to know what it felt like to be precious to another, to be us instead of me. There were days when the loneliness made her powers fade, and she felt like a faerie whose wings have wilted. There were days, such as today, when she longed to be wanted not for her spells or her healing powers, but for herself.
Realizing that she’d been staring at him rather covetously, Jura blushed, telling herself she was imagining the seductive quality to his smile. A soft
scraping on the window gave her an excuse to turn away. ‘That will be Brianag wanting in.’
She opened the latch of the window, and a sleek silver cat jumped into the room, shaking out its snow-tipped fur. Jura leaned out of the window. ‘The snow is even heavier now. If it keeps on like this, no one will be going anywhere.’
The tightly laced gown she wore showed off the sensual dip of her spine to her bottom. It was a very nice bottom, Lawrence thought appreciatively. Her gown stopped just above her ankles. As she leaned out of the window, her petticoats rode up, giving him a delightful glimpse of her pretty calves, the backs of her knees. She wore neither shoes nor stockings. She had lovely toes. He had never seen such lovely toes. He should not even be noticing her toes, with his head aching and his clothes sopping.
The long rippling fall of her tawny hair fluttered over her beautifully rounded rump. Were she naked, it would caress her breasts, silken threads, giving him tantalising glimpses of her nipples. Would they be pink, like her mouth, or darker? And would the curls which covered her sex be the same tawny colour of her hair, or darker? Darker, he decided. And her nipples would be darker pink too.
Jura pulled closed the window and turned around, catching him unawares. Embarrassed to discover that his musings had made him hard, Lawrence crossed his legs. For heaven’s sake, what was wrong with him! His libido was not usually so rampant. In fact, given the circumstances, he couldn’t understand why it was even present. The silver cat wound itself around his booted ankle. ‘Bry-an-ack,’ he said, struggling with the soft Gaelic syllables. Dammit, the cat was a sinuous as her mistress.
‘Bree-an-ach,’ Jura corrected him, stooping to pat the creature, affording Lawrence a tantalising glimpse of cleavage. “Do you want me to help you take off your boots?”
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