Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
80 Fifth Avenue, Suite 1101
New York, New York 10011
www.diversionbooks.com
Copyright © 2010 by Theresa Meyers
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce
this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For more information, email [email protected].
First Diversion Books edition April 2010.
ISBN: 978-0-9845151-0-3 (ebook)
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thriteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
The Spellbound Bride
In loving memory of my mother, Regina Anna Emig Ronk.
Without you, I never would have learned the joys of reading, let alone how to write. You were my first teacher, my dear friend and the best grandmother ever. We had too short a time, but you made a world of difference to everyone who knew you.
This one’s for you.
Special thanks to:
Karla Baehr and Jennifer Hansen, tea with you makes sanity possible. To Cherry Adair, Mary Buckham, Pat White and Sharron McClellan, you are the people I turn to when the writing life gets bumpy, thanks for being there to set me straight. To my high school sweetheart and husband, Jerry, who may not always be right, but frequently is more often than not, thank you for your insights, you always make it better. And to the librarians at Arizona State University—researching the details of witch trials in Scotland couldn’t have been accomplished without your help.
Prologue
Year of Our Lord 1593, Castle Ballochyle, Scotland
Naked as the day she was born, Sorcha MacIver shivered and pulled the scarlet coverlet up beneath her chin, praying that by morning she would not end a virgin widow, yet again.
She wriggled deeper into the large marriage bed prepared for her and Magnus Campbell stirring the scent of heather from the fine linen sheets. Her ears filled with the loud shushing sound of her own heartbeat. But even through the sound of her own blood, she could still hear the wedding guests, men from both her clan and his, howl and laugh, banging pots and claymores in a drunken shivaree to keep the newlyweds from sleep on the other side of the thick oak door. She needed no such encouragement. Every sense intensified, balanced on a blade’s edge.
Her bridegroom, Magnus, wasn’t old, nor was he weak, but he would likely die this night, because one simple, cruel fact threaded throughout her existence; everyone who loved her, died.
Most had been quick, and all unexpected, but they had all been different—some by fire, others by accident, and one that appeared to be poison. It perplexed Sorcha, but all her dwelling on how it could be changed had amounted to nothing thus far.
The curse dwelt within in her as surely as the venom in a spider, safe to the spider and deadly to all those around it. So while she knew she should have accepted the strange reality of her fate, her heart kept up the fey hope that an answer could be found, allowing her to challenge death and protect those she loved.
As Magnus turned toward the bed, the fire crackled in the hearth, sending up a shower of glowing red sparks. Sorcha gazed at him a moment, assessing her groom once more, as she twisted the crimson cloth in her hand. He still owned the slenderness of youth, but the flickering firelight revealed a form planed with muscle that one day would prove as powerful as any warrior’s. His hair radiated in a golden halo around his head and his arousal jutted out proudly. Despite all his fine assets, she hoped he lived long enough to take her damnable virginity and outpace the curse that plagued her.
Sorcha squirmed, torn between a virgin bride’s natural uneasiness and the unfamiliar stirrings of hope. She knew Magnus only a little, having met him at clan gatherings over the years, but she could have done far worse in an arranged marriage. There was no doubt that Magnus was braw. The lasses snapped after his heels like well-trained hunters, but appearances could be deceiving. Sorcha stifled a cough from the sudden dry itch at the back of her throat. Yes, he appeared strong, capable and virile, and was among the most important of their clan connections, but was it enough? That was the thing she had yet to ken, wouldn’t ken until she’d let him take her. He pulled back the coverlet, then slid in beside her, his cool thigh brushing hers.
She started at his touch. Surely every virgin, was nervous, but for her it was so much worse. Just the possibility that he battled the curse even now sharpened her attention to his every move, his every breath.
Magnus rolled onto his side facing her, then propped himself up on his elbow. Despite his youth and the charming tilt of his lips, it was her own inexperience she saw reflected in his eyes. He reached a gentle hand forward, stroking her dark hair, curling a black tendril against his finger. Sorcha inhaled, forcing herself to relax and lean into his touch. At least he hadn’t grabbed for her, as many men would have, thinking to take their rights when and how they pleased.
"Husband," she said, smiling, her throat and shoulders relaxing a little more with each passing moment.
He grinned in response. "I won’t mind at all making you mine tonight." His uncertain voice broke on the last word.
Sorcha couldn’t resist letting her smile widen as the daring urge to tease him just a little came over her.
"Aye. We should be making fine use of your sword."
The humorous light in his eyes faded.
Her stomach dropped. What had she said? Had her teasing offended him?
He gasped, then gagged. His face suddenly twisted in pain and he wrenched around on the bed to empty his stomach over its edge.
Sorcha bolted upright in panic.
"What is it?" Her own throat tightened making it hard to breathe as she leaned over his back.
His body spasmed as again he retched. She recoiled, the sour scent of fear from her own skin mixing with the stench of vomit.
It was happening again! Kicking, shoving, she fought free of the bedclothes and leaped from the bed screaming. Heedless of her nakedness she raced to the bedchamber door and threw it open.
A dozen wedding guests stood before the opening, their mouths gaping as they ceased to sing and began to stare at her. Behind her Magnus heaved. Sorcha glanced over her shoulder at him, then screamed helplessly as she saw Magnus tumble off the bed into a heap. He thrashed weakly on the floor, his arms and legs moving as if he were trying to call for assistance.
Dear God in heaven.
Sorcha whirled. "Help me!" she shrieked. "Help him!"
Her plea slaughtered the gaiety. Every man and woman turned. Again Magnus retched, a terrible, gagging, rending sound, the sound of a man dying. Rorick Campbell, Magnus’ sire, exploded through the crowd, his belted plaid swinging in tune to his drunken stagger, his fair face flushed with drink.
With a frightened bellow he shoved his way into the nuptial chamber. He collapsed to the ground beside his son, pulling the still vomiting youth into his arms.
"Magnus!" The red of Rorick’s face grew deeper and he trembled as he held his son.
Sorcha’s uncle, Charles MacIver, the
laird of their clan, pushed past her. His thick beard, heavily salted with silver, did little to hide his gaping mouth. Large, dark brows beetled together and his barrel chest heaved with short breaths.
He stopped halfway between the door and the dying bridegroom.
"What is it? What’s happened?" His skin waxed white rather than flushing with the angry red she expected. Although his voice rose to a shout, it didn’t hide the quiver of fear that filled it.
Peering past him, Sorcha stared in terror at Magnus, her skin tightening all at once before numbness slithered across, making everything seem suddenly farther away as if her head, her arms, her very body were wrapped in a thick wadding of wool. She swore she could see the light of life rising out of Magnus as his form stiffened in a convulsion and his eyes bulged. In vain she reached out, as her new husband, the man who might have sired her children and help her escape the curse’s hold upon her, slackened in his sobbing father’s arms.
Sorcha fell back against the doorframe, her legs too weak to hold her. The wood rasped against her skin as she slid to sit on the floor, but it barely registered as her arms wrapped around her knees. Only the tears, hot and desperate, that pricked her eyes and trickled in rivulets down the clammy skin of her cheek, seemed real to her.
Magnus was dead.
There could be no denying the evidence when his corpse lay near enough she could reach out and touch it. The suffocating blackness of the moment pressed in upon her chest, making it difficult to breathe. Magnus had died before her eyes just as Harold, her first husband, had not a year ago. And she was powerless to stop it.
Archibald Campbell, the lad who was still too young to rule as the seventh Earl of Argyll without her uncle’s wardship, dropped to one knee beside her. The wedding guests crowded behind him, gawking, muttering, a few howling now in mourning rather than in celebration.
"What’s happened?" Reaching out, Archibald laid his hand on her bare skin, his fingers lightly brushing her. It seemed odd to find him offering solace, especially when she was the older one by six years. Since they’d grown up together in her uncle’s household, Archibald was as close as any brother to her, and had become her only ally, her only true friend. Sorcha’s mouth quivered in pain and fear and she pulled away from his touch, terrified he may be the next to suffer from her affliction.
She tipped her chin toward her lately departed husband. "Magnus is dead," she whispered, barely capable of speaking the words.
His hazel eyes opened in the same disbelief that held fast to her. His brows narrowed, but his enduring faith in her still showed clearly in his level gaze. Unlike the others, he would not hold her responsible for this death. He grabbed the folded plaid Magnus had left on the chair by the door and gently wrapped her with it to shield her naked state from the onlookers.
Across the room, Rorick staggered to his feet, clutching the lifeless body of his eldest son, and heir, to his chest. Grief, drink and rage contorted his face until he looked nearly inhuman.
"Witch!" he roared, thrusting a finger in her direction. A rumbling murmur began among the guests.
"Nay!" the MacIver trumpeted, the word carrying the keening edge of his own rising fear for his ward, and his own reputation and fortunes by association. He stumbled back, putting himself between his niece and the powerful Campbell warrior, who until this moment had been his greatest ally.
"‘Tis not true. She’s no witch I tell you."
Sorcha lifted her head, a sudden coldness seeping deep into her very bones. Her uncle may have clothed and fed her, kept her from the wet and allowed her to learn to read, but he’d never shown her love. She had always known she was his duty, but nothing more to him, and that her miserable past made him all the more eager to marry her off. He defended himself more than for her. He must believe he would be stuck with her for good if Rorick’s claim tainted her.
The muttering of the guests crowded near the doorway grew louder. Sorcha’s heart dropped into the pit of her stomach. They had heard the same uncertainty in her uncle’s protest.
She could feel the weight of their stares on her, making her want to shrink within herself. Too many times had withering glares been cast her way. The thin veil of mistrust grew stronger despite her efforts to win the clan over.
Dropping her head to her knees, her black hair snaked around her body in thick coils, and Sorcha shivered. Only then did she spy a small slip of folded foolscap on the floor within her grasp.
She reached for it, her hand trembling, knowing instinctively from the uncomfortable cramp in her gut that it was something she did not want to see. She unfolded the stiff scrap.
Scrawled in the unmistakable brownish tint of dried blood were three words that hit harder than a slap in the face.
I told you.
She threw it down as though it had burst into flame. Deep within, a sick certainty welled up. She was cursed by some dark deadly poison that dwelt insider her, as surely as a viper or a deadly spider. Until she discovered the source of this evil that took anything she dared to love, she could not bear the responsibility for such death indirectly at her hands again. Until now, only Archibald had been spared. But how long could that last when death followed in her wake? Surely there had to been some way to stop this, if only she could find out how.
Rorick pivoted toward Charles MacIver. He still held Magnus in his arms. His lips drew back from his teeth into a fearsome snarl.
"No witch, is it? Then how is it come that two men have died in her wedding bed, leaving her twice married yet virgin still?" He turned his blistering gaze back on her.
She swallowed the thick lump lodged at the base of her throat, unable to speak, let alone offer any explanation. Archibald’s hand tightened on her knee as if he, a boy of just fourteen, could prevent the powerful Campbell warrior and his kin from killing her. How like him to defend her, even with such great odds. Her fractured heart twisted with regret and longing, then shriveling into a tiny charred crisp as hatred twisted Lord Rorick Campbell’s face into a hideous mask she would never forget.
"Devil’s Maiden," he pronounced, damning her before all who heard him. "You’ve done your evil master’s foul work for the last time. I swear on my son’s soul, I’ll see you burned for this."
Chapter One
Ian Hunter hated court.
He hated the way the ornate Flemish tapestries that lined the thick, stone walls of Edinburgh Castle only managed to keep back the worst damp of a Scottish spring. He hated the cloying sweetness of the burning beeswax candles and the way their expensive scent mingled with the stench of too many people, some barely washed, that crowded into this waiting chamber.
Most of all he hated the peacock lords, men like his brother, who surrounded King James the Sixth, all dressed in their lace ruffs and garish silks. Indeed, he hated them so much he refused to come to court dressed anything like them, wearing instead an expensively tooled leather jerkin, green trunk hose, his silver-encrusted black leather scabbard and a hardness about him that warned people to stay out of his way.
The tight pull of the scar across his neck, eased as he relaxed and prowled through the chamber. Looking lethal had its advantage. He might be a second son, and an outcast, but there wasn’t a man in the room who didn’t acknowledge his battle skills as a mercenary. If his appearance kept away the men, all of them fearing they might be cut down for one wrong word, it attracted the sidelong glances and breathy whispers of the court ladies, all dressed in velvets and glittering gold-shot samite gowns.
As Ian neared the opulent gilded doors of the king’s audience chamber, a stout, older man stepped into his path. Ian shifted right. The bearded man, garbed in severe black from head to toe and relieved only by the silver laird’s badge fastened on his barrel chest, shifted with him, still blocking his path.
"What is this?" Ian growled, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword. "Move out of my path or I shall be forced to move you myself."
The man swallowed.
"I’ve a proposition f
or you."
Ian kept his hand at his sword and said nothing. He still needed another five hundred pounds to complete his plans. If things didn’t go well during his audience with King James, he might require even more. A paying employer was better than no coin at all.
"I’m Lord Charles MacIver, Chamberlain of Argyll for Clan Campbell and the ward of the Earl of Argyll."
Ian shifted his stance to the other foot.
MacIver glanced at the people moving around them. His voice lowered. "I’ve heard what your brother has done to you. I know you need money to reach France and I can pay you five hundred pounds."
Three words rung in Ian’s head. Brother. Money. France. His heart thudded thickly in his chest and his hands itched. This could be a boon or a trap. His eyes narrowed. Interesting that MacIver should appear at this moment to offer him exactly what he needed to free his property from the tax collector’s hold. Either it was another of his brother’s ploys to steal what did not belong to him, or it was a gift from God. Not certain which, Ian let his hand loosen on his sword’s hilt as he waited for the old man to continue.
"Whose blood would you have me spill?"
MacIver’s bushy brows furrowed.
"Marry my niece, no questions asked." His eyes were glazed with uncertainty.
"What nonsense is this?" Surely the man was jesting. One didn’t offer that kind of money simply to marry a lass, unless she was already with child or he truly wanted to be rid of the woman.
MacIver leaned toward him, the wave of his hand warning Ian to speak more quietly. The old man’s gaze softened into something akin to pleading.
"Hear me out. I’m not looking for a husband for her, only a man who’ll trade vows with her, bed her and rise the next morning to swear to her deflowering. You are just that sort of man."
Ian’s eyes narrowed again. If this wasn’t one of his brother’s machinations, then God help MacIver’s ward. What kind of a man paid a mercenary to take his niece’s virginity? MacIver didn’t look like the sort of man to treat his ward poorly. The anguish he suffered lined his face. Perhaps there were other reasons he chose this for her. Poor lass! She must be ugly beyond bearing. Perhaps this was the only way she’d ever marry.
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