Her gaze intensified. "What are you here for then?"
"I’m to wed the MacIver lass."
She gasped as if he’d slapped her.
"What, think you that I’m unsuitable?"
"Nay, it’s just …"
"Just what?"
He leaned closer, enough to catch a tantalizing taste of the soft fragrance that cloaked her. It was earthy and soft like the spring flowers after a rain. The scent pulled at him, deep within, like a forgotten dream one struggles to return to when awakened too soon. It was pure, and yet elemental, but he was too jaded to believe in either.
The tip of her tongue darted out to wet her lips and she swallowed unevenly. The innocent gesture stirred an unfamiliar rush of desire. She brought thoughts to mind that he hadn’t contemplated since he’d chosen this destructive path of a mercenary life.
Her gaze darted about the wood as if she were afraid of being overheard.
"Don’t marry the widow, sir. You’ll be dead before sunrise."
He cocked a brow and stroked his chin to give the impression that he considered her suggestion, when really he knew he’d do nothing of the sort, despite the temptation that she offered.
"Really? Then I should have asked for more." He shrugged. "Ah well, there’s no hope for it now. I’ve already given my word to the MacIver." He leaned toward her, intentionally bringing them closer. "And I never go back on my word."
Her eyes softened and the barest hint of a blush stained her milky skin. She stepped back a pace. Interesting. Perhaps he had been too quick in his assessment of her earlier brazenness.
"Please reconsider, sir. You should avoid marriage to her at all costs."
"And why is that? You’ve already warned me about dying."
She clasped her hands. "Aye, but her clan is against her. They think her a witch." Her voice thinned with desperation.
"What’s she done to cause such hatred among her own?"
Her eyes widened. "Nothing!"
Ian thought her response too vehement for a mere bystander. "‘Tis easy enough for you to say. You must like her to come to her defense."
She looked down at her feet. "Aye. I like her well enough."
He scratched at the dark stubble along his jaw and nodded as if he understood, trying to draw more information out of her.
"They think her a witch, then?"
His lack of concern at her revelation appeared to catch her off guard. She glanced up and him, her brows lifted.
"Aye, but ‘tis not the truth."
"Why are you so sure?"
"I know her well."
He suspected as much. A familiar itch started in his palms. The same thing he felt when his instincts told him something was out of place and dangerous. Possibly lethal. He flexed his hands, trying to ignore the sensation and sharpen his focus. Maybe he could pry more information from her.
"Do, you?" He leaned against a gnarled old oak, feigning just enough disinterest to keep her from suspecting his motivations. "What is she like?"
"Quick of mind, a healer and kind-hearted."
It was an honest answer, but nothing that would give him what he wanted to know most. He resorted to a charming smile.
"And is she bonnie, like you?"
She shuddered, her face crimping in a most unbecoming fashion.
"She’s quite homely, then." Ian rubbed his finger against his mouth. What would lies taste like on those lips? The same as they had on Mary’s?
She paused, her eyes brightening, as if she sensed a weakness in him. "Aye, sir. Homely as they come, and riddled with pestilence."
Ian let out a loud peal of laughter. She was certainly lying to him and not very convincingly. His attraction to her caused him to relax despite his suspicions, but damn itch in his palms still remained. "As much as I appreciate the warning. It’s come too late. I cannot go back on my vow to wed her."
"But even if you wed her, she’ll not go with you when you leave."
He arched a brow. "Is that so?"
She leaned forward, her face eager, as though she knew she had his interest.
"Aye. Ask the MacIver if you must, but she’s sworn to stay at Ballochyle."
He sighed and glanced at his boot for a moment, just to make her believe for an instant that she had won, then back at her.
"Och. Well I guess the MacIver would ken best. If she’s meant to be locked in a tower to protect others the rest of her life, I’ll not gainsay him." He bent forward, leaning close to her, letting the full weight of his determination settle about him like a dark cloak. His voice became low, almost menacing. "This is a paying job. I’m a mercenary. I have a contract and I’m marrying the lass."
Her shoulders sagged in defeat.
An unusual pang speared him in the chest. He had somehow wounded this unusual lass and now, for some unexplainable reason, felt compelled to compensate for it.
"How about if I pay you a coin to lead me to MacIver’s?"
Her eyes met his. "Now that’s a change, a mercenary willing to pay." She let out a small gasp, then bit her lip, as if uncertain and wishing she could take the words back.
He grinned. God’s teeth she tempted him. Who was she?
"Will you walk with me to the township or shall I take you there?"
"Nay, I cannot. I’ve to finish my gathering before midday."
Not one to be put off so easily when he had something in mind, Ian persisted. "Will I see you at the keep, then?"
She stiffened, her eyes shaded with distrust. "Are you unfaithful to your bride already?" She turned away from him and began stroking Merlin’s neck. "You’d do better to keep your thoughts where they belong. You’ll need your wits, if you’re to keep your vows." She turned to look at him, the edge of her hood obscuring part of her face in shadow. "You’re off the main trail through the wood by about a furlong. I can guide you to it, but then I must go."
She slid her arm out of his grasp and began to walk away, his horse following beside her.
In two quick strides, he was walking on the other side of the horse.
"What is your name, lass?" He tried to peer around Merlin’s great head to get another good look at this mysterious woman, but could see little beyond the tip of her straight nose peeking past the edge of her hood.
"What would you like it to be?" she murmured in reply.
"Why won’t you give me an answer?"
"I did. It was merely something you didn’t expect." She hesitated a moment. "If you follow this trail, you should see Ballochyle when you reach the edge of the wood."
Ian could clearly see the trail ahead, but he was far from ready to give up on the lass who had so deeply aroused his interest. He reached down and grasped the reins just above where her slender fingers held them, resisting the temptation to grasp her hand and not let go.
"How can I thank you properly if I don’t ken your name?"
"You needn’t thank me at all. ‘Tis every man’s obligation to help out those lost in the woods. The MacIver would have it no different." But the pinkish tint coloring her cheeks told him the truth. She’d been far bolder with him than she had intended. More lies.
"Aye, but I want to thank you in a thousand ways." She moved away and Ian caught her small hand. With practiced ease, he ran the pad of his thumb across the silk of her creamy wrist, tracing small swirls along her skin.
He detected the distinct shiver of her beneath his touch, but her eyes were misted with passion, not fear. Her innocent response pleased him.
"Thank you, kindly, lady of the wood. I hope you deign to meet me at the keep." Ian brought her hand to his lips, opened it and gently kissed her tiny palm.
She yanked her hand away as though his touch had burned her. Fear, stark and vivid, flashed in her eyes. With not so much as a word, she turned and ran, melting into the wood like a fey creature.
Chapter Three
Ian approached the small gathering of well-maintained squat stone buildings. Capped with thatch, they lined the dirt street, if it could be cal
led a street. The cooling evening air settled over the village. Several brown chickens scurried through the dust, chased by an errant hound. The unexpected movement caused Merlin to snort.
He swore lightly under his breath and calmed the horse. The normal din of a village market was missing as he walked past the closed stalls and shut doors. The quiet seemed eerie in this place, and drew his already taut nerves tighter. As he passed, he noted the glances and stolen looks the townsfolk made from behind half-shuttered windows.
Ian swatted at a wayward lock of hair dangling in his face. He must look a sight. He hadn’t had a chance to purchase clothing for some time, and his current garb needed a thorough scrubbing. He never wore his best when traveling. There were times when his rough appearance could be to his advantage. This was not one of them.
Merlin’s hooves clopped against the hard-packed earth as Ian led the horse through the unfamiliar village. Darkness crept closer. The failing light cast the worn edges of gray stone blocks of the keep on the hill, in jagged shadow, making them resemble the scales of a slumbering dragon, huge and uninviting.
He rubbed the stiffness from his neck and tried to imagine the waiting bride who lived within. He prayed that homely or not, she was a sensible sort that could be made to understand her place. An unwilling wife did not appeal to him.
Ian battled with himself every step closer he came to Ballochyle. For the entire journey he had tried to convince himself there was no betrayal in marrying for money, if both parties knew the terms of the agreement. There was no shame in accepting pay for his services.
That was, after all, what his life had become. But deep down, there were still doubts that rankled in his gut. According to MacIver, his bride-to-be had no wish for a proper marriage and Ian had no intention of staying in this wretched country. A strange situation to be bound in matrimony to a person you never planned to see again.
Certainly he’d get what he needed out of the bargain, wouldn’t he? There would be enough coin to carry through with his plans, and bedding a lass as well, but unless his bride accompanied him to France, what would those plans amount to?
Without an heir to pass his inheritance to, all his work to build a new life would simply fall back into his brother’s hands at his death. He had to have an heir. And, he couldn’t very well leave his son to be raised without a father’s guidance and possibly under the despicable eye of Lord Hunterston.
A cold tremor coursed through him as he recalled the bitterness of Mary’s betrayal. He had opened the door to his brother’s apartments to find her twined about the bastard.
She’d run after him in the hallway, naked except for the gaping emerald silk dressing gown she had thrown about herself. She had kissed him. A mind-drugging kiss he would never forget. Then she had cleaved his heart in half.
"I have to marry Malcolm. My family needs the money, Ian. There’s nothing I can do."
Ian wiped his hand over his mouth, wishing he could rid himself of the bitter taste that lingered there. Love should be worth more than lifeless coins and empty promises. He could not, would not, sink as low and ruin this lass’s life as Mary and his bastard brother had his.
Even if this marriage to the MacIver girl were to be a sham in all but the vows and act of consummation, he could not do it in good conscience without making an effort to convince the lass first of the sense in going with him when he left Scotland. He may have sold his sword, but he would not sell his honor or his future.
Unless he could convince the MacIver’s niece to go with him, the money to take back his holdings in France would have to be gained elsewhere. What he needed was a wife. One that would accompany him to France and give him an heir, or two.
Ian halted. So what if she was as homely and as stubborn as the lady of the wood had said? His spirits dipped a little lower. He stiffened his spine. There was no wrong in marrying a homely lass, in fact perhaps that was just what he needed. A woman no man would covet. A woman totally unlike Mary.
And he had agreed to marry the lass and had sworn it. No, in his zeal to acquire the wealth necessary for his plan, he’d not thought beyond the coin. Until now.
Ian trudged to the keep. He would marry the lass and complete his contract. He could do no less and keep the honor of his word intact.
He reached the arched doors of the keep just as darkness settled. The temperature had dropped, but he barely felt it, his hide having spent so many a night in wood and field since he’d left Hunterston. He pounded the aged wood with the flat of his rounded fist and waited for a reply. When no one came, he tried again.
A lanky man, his brows pinched together, answered his knock. From his sour disposition, Ian guessed he had been the unlucky soul sent from his dinner to fetch the door.
"What would you be wanting?" the man grumbled.
"I’m here at the request of the MacIver of Ballochyle to marry his niece."
The man crossed himself, grunted and opened the door giving Ian entrance.
Ian didn’t budge, earning an even greater scowl from the man who was a full foot shorter than himself. He still held Merlin’s reins and wanted his horse taken care of first.
"Is there someone at the stables who can see to my horse?"
The man pointed a bony finger to the dim, flickering light at a nearby low-roofed building. "Aye. Ask young Douglas to see to it." The door swung closed in Ian’s face, landing not more than an inch from his nose.
"Well, Merlin, seems they’ve not heard what a fine catch their laird’s niece is," Ian whispered sarcastically as he led his stallion to the stables.
The scents of fresh straw and horse greeted Ian as he entered the well-kept stables. Young Douglas proved to be a bit more hospitable than the man at the keep. Ian noted the sparkle in the lad’s eyes as he looked over Merlin.
"‘Tis a fine horse, sir. Are you sure you want me to look after him?" Merlin leaned his great head forward and huffed up and down the boy’s chest and face, causing the lad to laugh. Ian smiled.
"I trust you, lad. Better still, Merlin trusts you. Take good care of him and I’ll give you an extra copper for it." The lad nodded vigorously, then led the huge horse into an empty stall, removed the saddle and halter and began to rub him down with clean straw. Ian watched the boy for a time, making sure Merlin would be well tended.
Satisfied the lad would care properly for his horse, he turned on his heel and headed back to the keep. Ian let himself in through the unlocked door. Most of the meal had been cleared away, leaving only a few men to their drink at the long table in the great hall.
More than food, Ian craved a clean change of clothes and a good bed. Since he’d left home, no, it was not home. His fingernails dug into his palms. It would never be home again after what had happened there—just Hunterston. He flexed his hand, releasing the tight fist. Regardless, such luxuries as clean sheets, a sweet bar of soap and hot water were rare enough that he appreciated them all the more when they were available. He stepped into the hall, aware of the cautious glances he received from the MacIver clansmen.
He immediately recognized Charles MacIver, decked in the rusty red, brown and gray plaid with the silver boar’s head brooch glittering on his chest, seated at the head of the table.
"Hunter. You’ve arrived," he boomed as he left his chair and walked toward Ian.
Ian stood with his feet apart, and crossed his arms over his chest.
"Aye."
"Welcome to Ballochyle." The Lord MacIver extended his hand in welcome.
Ian hesitated. His heart pounded like a war drum before battle. The laird seemed far more imposing and confident in his own surroundings than he had at court.
Ian strode forward and grasped the proffered hand, giving it a good shake. He put the power of his convictions into his voice. "I believe we have some business to conduct in private, Lord MacIver, such as the matter of payment."
MacIver swept a hand outward toward the tables.
"Aye. But first you’ll be needing food and drink afte
r such a journey."
Ian glanced at the tables. As tempting as the food smelled, it didn’t sway him. "Nay, that can wait."
A broad smile lit the laird’s face. "Eager to get on with it, eh, lad? Nothing like earning your coin." The laird winked and slapped him on the back as he passed.
If only it were that easy, Ian thought as he followed the smaller man into an antechamber off the great hall and closed the heavy door behind them both with a heavy thunk against the stone of the keep.
The laird spoke first, his wary glance observing the door. "I know this can’t be easy for you, Hunter. You’re a warrior. Marrying a lass and fighting a battle for pay is far afield."
"Aye. So is marrying a wife that has no intention of staying with her husband." His voice sharpened with an edge of suspicion. "Am I a cuckold already, MacIver? Is that why you bought and paid for a husband for your niece?"
All humor dropped from MacIver’s face, the whites of his eyes growing more pronounced, and the creases deepening in his cheeks.
"Nay! She’s a virgin, for certain. But a bit odd." The older man shook his head, then cupped the back of it with his hand. "I swore an oath to my brother to care for the lass as my own, but God’s teeth, the little baggage won’t tend to a word I say. She’s taken to mothering the Earl of Argyll something terrible, and I won’t stand for him to be coddled."
"Will she go with me to France?"
He rubbed his neck, then shrugged. "I’ve not said a word to her, but I’m certain once she’s bound to you by the church, she’ll follow willingly enough."
"And if not?"
He frowned slightly, his great brows bending. "You could force her."
"Aye. But I won’t. She either will come with me willingly, or we have no contract."
"But I promised to make this worth your while, and I shall." The old man reached into the opening of his shirt and pulled out a key attached to a chain he wore about his neck. The key was still warm when he handed it to Ian and pointed to the chest against the wall.
"There is two hundred and fifty pounds, as promised. The rest will be waiting for you the morning you arise hale and hearty from your marriage bed."
The Spellbound Bride Page 3
