MacIver’s eyes darted around the room again, then froze. Ian followed his gaze. An enraged Lord Rorick Campbell shoved through the crowd in the chamber. His fair hair and beard were wild, his attire spattered with mud.
"Where is the chamberlain?" he bellowed. "I demand to see the king!"
The chamberlain stepped forward. He sniffed in dismissal, looking down his thin pointed nose at the minor nobleman.
"Go home, my lord, and change your clothing. You’re not fit to be in his majesty’s presence."
Campbell yelled, his face beetroot red, and grabbed the chamberlain by the throat.
"My son is dead, killed by a witch, and you dare to refuse me access to my king!"
Women screamed, the peacock lords scattered as if Campbell carried a deadly disease. Only the servants were left to leap upon Campbell’s back as they tried to free their master.
MacIver grabbed Ian’s arm, drawing his attention. Desperation flashed across the shorter man’s face.
"Tell me you’ll do it," he begged. "I need to know now!"
Ian glanced between the men once more, his skin prickling. What did the death of Campbell’s son have to do with MacIver’s niece? Within him grew the certainty that his brother had nothing to do with this offer. He’d learned long ago to trust his instincts.
"I want half the coins before the vows are said," Ian answered, mostly to gauge just how desperate the MacIver was.
The smaller man nodded as he sidled around Ian, out of Campbell’s view, as the hostile man pushed toward the head of the room.
MacIver cringed. "Aye," he said, then his gaze sharpened, "but I’ll have your sworn word of honor that you’ll not betray our agreement. She must be married and deflowered within the fortnight. And you won’t get the first portion until you arrive at my home, Castle Ballochyle, in county Argyll, for the ceremony."
Ian hesitated. He had never in his life broken his word once he’d given it. The certainty that this was a choice opportunity grew within in him. Nearby the servants had wrestled Campbell to the floor.
The MacIver thrust out his hand.
"Will you do it?" he again pleaded.
Brother. Money. France. The thought that he would finally have the chance to avenge himself on his brother made Ian extend his hand.
"Agreed," he said with a grim smile.
MacIver breathed out in relief, and shook Ian’s hand, sealing their bargain.
"Castle Ballochyle, as soon as you can arrive," he said with a curt nod, then as swiftly as he appeared, he wove his way toward the large doors of the king’s audience chamber in such a way to keep Campbell from seeing him. Not that Campbell could see much at the moment. The man lay pinned on the ornate marble floor.
"Are you mad?" The chamberlain wheezed, his voice hoarse as he massaged his throat. "Attack me and you attack the king himself!"
"She bewitched him," Campbell moaned, his body growing slack beneath those who held him.
The chamberlain huffed in dismissal and stalked back to his post beside the large golden doors.
Ian was ready to leave. He’d got more than he’d come for. Now not only did he have a means to get to France, he’d have a wife too. He shook his head. God spare him from such fools as Campbell. Witches. What superstitious rot.
Ian edged his way to the side of the room to get through the crowd more easily, but curiosity got the better of him. He eased toward the nearest group of men.
"What’s happened?"
The man glanced at him, then shrugged. "Lord Campbell wants Sorcha MacIver brought to trial as a witch for his son’s death."
That explained MacIver’s hurry. The large doors at the other end of the chamber opened, admitting the next plaintiff into the king’s presence.
"Has any called the kirk or the witch pricker to verify it?"
"Nay. Charles MacIver and the Earl of Argyll would not allow it, even though Campbell’s heir was the second to die in the widow’s marriage bed." The man jerked his head at the entry to the king’s audience chambers. "MacIver is probably in there arguing that he has an offer of marriage for his niece and that she must be allowed to marry and prove Campbell’s accusations false."
For an instant Ian’s heart stopped, then resumed its strong beat again. He should have been angry with Lord MacIver at the deception, but instead felt only a buzz of interest in his veins.
His betrothed was considered a witch by her own clan. It was unexpected, but good to know the odds. Not that it mattered. He’d never been a superstitious man, and at this point, he’d marry the very Devil himself if it would get him out of the hell his life had become.
* * *
Two days later, pounding hooves on the hard-packed earth of the bailey, left no doubt her uncle had returned from Edinburgh. He’d left determined to stand up for her at court, despite Rorick’s accusations.
Sorcha flew down the stone steps and through the great hall. She ran at him and flung her arms around his neck when he entered. Never had she been so glad to see her uncle in all her life.
He pulled her arms from around his neck, and set her away from him. Sorcha felt the hope within her chest shrivel.
"What happened? Where’s Rorick? What did— "
Her kinsman raised a hand and cut her off mid-question.
"We have an honored guest coming to stay with us. You must make ready the castle for his arrival, and make sure a feast is prepared."
His answer was no answer at all, damn his eyes. "Am I safe? What’s happened?"
He refused to meet her gaze, but laid his hand on her shoulder and gave it an awkward pat. A bargain had been struck, but not one she would approve of.
"Am I safe?" Her voice cracked this time.
He sniffed, then clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing.
"As safe as I can make you, lass."
She reached a hand out to stop him so he would look her in the eye. "Och, Uncle Charles, what have you done?"
He stopped and stared at her, his face turning that particular shade of red she’d come to recognize when she displeased him.
"I’ve more than done my duty by you, you ungrateful chit. God only knows why I extend my patience with you so. If it weren’t for my brother and his wretched wife." He shook his head and stalked away from her.
Sorcha expected no less. He would give no sign of affection, and if she ever did dare question him, the conversation abruptly ended at the mention of her mam, Morgana MacIver.
Sorcha wrapped her arms around herself. Her future was uncertain. She’d pray in the meantime that it was salvation, rather than damnation, that came to visit their hall.
During the next week she supervised cleaning the castle and preparing for the feast, but with each passing effort, the prickling sensation that tingled at the nape of her neck grew more intense.
Their guests could come at any time. Sorcha measured out the spices to be used in seasoning the best dishes of their feast, determined that everything should be ready at a moment’s notice. She was surprised that her uncle allowed her access to the spices. He’d always been thrifty and only allowed spicing on great occasions.
A chill, that had nothing to do with the cool air in the larder, lifted the downy hair on her arms. She sensed Archibald’s presence behind her before he spoke. It was always like that with him.
He stood at the top of the small set of steps that led out of the storeroom. She turned to face him.
"What brings you here? Surely you’ve not gained an interest in women’s work?" Sorcha gave the lordling a teasing grin.
He lifted a brow and leaned against the doorframe.
"Nay, but if you persist in vexing me, I will not tell you about our visitor."
Her hands went numb, and the chest of expensive cinnamon she held nearly slipped from her fingers.
"You know who ‘tis?" She set the chest aside, her hands unsteady.
"Well, not exactly who, but I know what he is."
A knot swelled in her belly, twisting and
curling. She rubbed her dampened palms on the overskirt of her gown. Oh God above, let it not be a witch pricker, or worse yet, King John himself. His hatred of witchcraft was acute enough he’d likely as not finish his fine meal and then have her marched off to be burned. She swallowed the thickness building in her throat.
"Who comes?"
"Your betrothed."
A bubble of hysterical laughter welled up in her chest. "Surely you jest. I will not believe Uncle Charles as daft as that. No man with a rattle in his brainbox would marry me."
Archibald stood erect, his slender shoulders pressed back, and crossed his arms.
"A man would if he was being paid enough."
Her knees gave way and she sagged down to the bottom step. How could her uncle willingly send yet another man to his death? It would merely be the weight of another soul heaped upon her shoulders. Perhaps in his mind it was worth the coin, and the man’s life, to be rid of her.
"No dowry is worth a man’s life." She sighed and scrubbed her face with her hands. She shifted her gaze back to Archibald, hoping for some sign that he knew more. "You must have some idea of who it is."
Archibald shrugged. "I ken only that the MacIver plans to marry you off yet. He asked the use of my signet ring to seal the dispensation."
"So, ‘tis my own wedding he’s had me prepare for." Angry heat crept into her cheeks followed by a cold splash of icy dread that sluiced down her spine. She could not defy her uncle’s order to marry. She could not change the minds of her clan if she lost another husband. But she could prevent another death—if there were no groom.
Chapter Two
The distinct heavy gait of a shod horse moving through the woods stopped Sorcha mid-step. Her pulse grew louder, echoing the thud of the horse’s hooves. Sorcha curled her gloved fingers around the dirk strapped to her belt.
The worn knife was more suited to her task of cutting plants than protection, but she could use it in defense if needed. That, and a handful of the stinging nettle leaves slapped in the face of an attacker, would give her a chance to escape. Surprise would still be her best ally.
Flipping the hood of her dark green woolen cloak over her head, she tried to disguise herself in the thick foliage surrounding her. She crouched low near the forest floor and waited until she could see the stranger clearly.
After so many days of returning to the wood to lay in wait, she’d begun to despair in her plans to intercept her unlucky groom. If the stranger riding toward her now proved to be him, she’d do her best to persuade him to forget his bride. Until she could unravel the strangeness of the situation that surrounded her, she dared not risk another’s life.
Her fingers and toes began to throb as her heartbeat pounded faster. The stranger came closer to her hiding place. His dark chestnut hair lay close to his head, never touching his broad shoulders, and his massive steed was blacker than sin. He was obviously lost. No one familiar with these woods would veer away from the road through the tangle of brambles and fallen trees brought on by the fierce winter storms. That boded well.
She needed to get rid of the man as quickly as possible.
The hidden glens and hollowed trees of this forest served as her playground as a child. Hiding had been a game then, but that was before the fire—
Sorcha tugged her worn satchel over her shoulder, then followed him at a distance.
The stranger guided his mount around a fallen log, gazing at the narrowing deer path before him. His dark head bobbed with the gait of his horse and his shoulders sagged with weariness. Sorcha kept low in the undergrowth beneath the outstretched canopy of ash and oak.
Absorbed in watching him, she neglected the placement of her steps. The sharp crack of a brittle twig startled both her and the rider. His horse lurched forward.
She held her breath, her heart beating hard and fast in her throat.
The man pulled the reins tight. "Steady, Merlin," he coaxed in a deep voice, as the dark stallion pawed at the damp mix of leaves and earth. The rider whipped his head around, his eyes narrowing as he searched for the source of the sound. He reached for the broadsword strapped to his mount. It slid with a metallic hiss from the scabbard.
She ducked her head, praying the green of her cloak was enough cover in the undergrowth to hide her. She wasn’t ready for her presence to be revealed.
A doe, too unsettled by their presence to remain, bounded past her and out into the clearing. Sorcha remained tense until she heard the creak of leather as the stranger shifted in his saddle. But the soft thud of his feet on the forest floor tightened every muscle, preparing her to run. His footsteps moved closer.
Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she feared he could hear it.
Instantly a manacle-like grip captured her wrist and wrenched her upward.
Sorcha let out a squeal as her feet slid on the slick leaves landing her flat up against his hard, very male body. Her skin stung at the intimate contact, so unlike anything she had encountered before.
"Are you shadow or substance?" He scowled at her, his eyes a soulless brown so dark, they were nearly black. The firm line of his mouth, deep cleft in his chin and a thick shadow of beard on his face only added to his fierce appearance. A thin white line cut a jagged path into the dark hair from beneath one ear across this throat.
Awareness, heat and a throbbing ache centered itself at her core. Sorcha forced the words out past the choking beat of her heart. "Since you’re holding my arm fit to crush it, I’d say I’m real enough."
He gritted his teeth and loosened his grip enough for her to step away from their shoulder to toe contact, but not enough to let her escape him completely.
Ian cursed himself for letting his reactions falter. The long hours on the road to Ballochyle had made his bones weary and his muscles stiff, but he hadn’t stopped.
If he stopped, he would sleep. If he slept, he would dream. And if he dreamed, he would see his faithless bride Mary there—naked in his brother’s arms, her red hair a cascade of fire that burned his very soul.
Ian raked his eyes over the woman in his grasp to get a better look at the little spy. She twisted her arm, her fingers digging at his hand, trying desperately to free herself. His hold tightened.
"Why are you following me?"
She locked her gaze on him. The icy fire in her blue eyes struck him bone deep. They were like Mary’s—clear and blue like the frozen waters of a loch in the midst of winter. Despite the disquieting similarity, he found himself unable to look away.
Smooth, dark brows hinted at hair the color of a raven’s wing hidden beneath the protective cover of her hood. Her features were delicately carved of ivory, and a pair of full dusky lips held promise, but revealed nothing. The subtle sweetness of wildflowers and the greeness of the wood swirled about her. She remained aloof and distant, the rapid pulse in her wrist the only sign he had affected her.
The woman lifted her chin. "I might ask you the same," she countered calmly.
Her composure amazed him. She was either a brave woman or, like Mary, a practiced liar. Ian released her at the thought. The woman pulled her hand into the folds of her protective cloak and backed away beyond his reach.
He quirked a brow. "So, you’ll not give me an answer, then?"
She simply stared at him, her bearing as regal as a queen of the forest and of all the elves and fairies who bided there.
Even though he had touched her, his sleep-deprived mind was addled enough to think her still a vision produced from his own imagination.
"I suppose not," he continued. Ian feared that if he made any quick movements she might run, so instead he shifted to a more relaxed stance and gave Merlin’s neck a long stroke.
"Is the MacIver township close?" he asked more casually than he felt.
She nodded, but remained mute, her eyes luring him in.
"I have business with Lord MacIver."
Still she said nothing.
"I will not believe you’ve lost your powers of speech thi
s quickly," he teased. "I heard you speak but a moment ago."
"You must bring the MacIver news." Her voice sounded sweet, blending in natural harmony with the subtle sounds of the wood surrounding them.
Ian stiffened in surprise at her intuitive words, his senses on edge.
"Aye." He was certainly awake now, every nerve vibrating. His suspicion kicked up a notch. "Why do you ask?"
"I didn’t ask. I merely stated the obvious. You seek out the laird and say you have business with him." Her eyes trailed boldly down his form, before her gaze came back to meet his own.
Ian suppressed a grin at her brazen assessment. Most of the ladies at court would never dare talk with him, let alone show their frank interest.
"You cannot be of clan Campbell, since I’ve never seen you. And I don’t think you much care for things Scottish since you wear the clothes of an Englishman." Her gaze flicked to Merlin. "You have a light pack and saddle, meaning you travel often, and your sword is hardly something a farmer would wield."
"‘Tis a good deduction."
She tilted her head, her gaze sharpening. "How long do you plan to stay?"
Without meaning too, he realized he had already revealed too much to her. But he could not let her go just yet. Perhaps he, too, could gain something from their meeting that would help him. "Long enough to see the job done, and gain my pay."
She cocked her head to the side the way an inquisitive bird might, and pinned him with her vivid blue eyes. "Are you a mercenary?"
"Aye." Suspicion sharpened his senses making him intimately aware of the heat that radiated off her. He had enough enemies that traps were suspected even with prospective employers. And there was no better, or least suspect, bait than a woman. He’d paid dearly for that lesson.
The Spellbound Bride Page 2
