Ian stared at the trunk. Brother. Money. France. Would taking the lass be worth it? Two hundred and fifty pounds was a fortune it would take him years to earn. All for one night’s tupping. So why did this make him feel queasy, when taking coin to fight had not? "That should be enough to make any man want to awake in the morning." Any man without a conscious, he added silently to himself.
"Aye. Just be sure that you do, and that you do your duty by my niece."
He speared MacIver with a glance, that brooked no argument. "I shall. And she shall do hers as my wife, and accompany me on my journey."
MacIver rubbed his beard and shook his head. "If there is anyone who can bend her to their will, I expect it would be you."
* * *
The prenuptials were all he had expected, and worse. Ian had seen his bride appearing and disappearing like a wraith about the keep, her face hidden behind a translucent linen veil. She must truly be offensive to the eyes to warrant a shroud, he mused.
Lord MacIver had wasted no time in arranging the marriage. By nightfall, he would be wed.
Ian rubbed his jaw, glad for the chance to have shaved. He’d not worn a full beard since leaving home and detested when it grew in. Lord Hunterston wore a fashionable beard, and he be damned if he’d choose to look anything like the bastard. While he’d slept, his clothes had been mended and washed. Truth be known, he’d slept too long, but the bed was the first he’d seen in well over three months and had felt heavenly.
After charming an oatcake from a willing maid in the kitchen, Ian made way for the stable to check on the only thing he could count upon, his horse. He found young Douglas dutifully brushing Merlin’s jet coat to a shine. Ian leaned against the rough-hewn doorframe, watching the lad.
The boy clearly had an appreciation for good horseflesh. It was a pity it would not be developed into a profitable vocation for the boy. He would eventually need someone with the talent for horses. He would need a whole staff of people he could trust once he’d established his own holdings. Perhaps he could talk Lord MacIver into letting the boy come to France with him once things were settled. Ian coughed, trying not to startle him.
The boy turned, his smile brightening. "Good morrow to you, sir."
"Good morrow, Douglas. Has Merlin been a gentleman for you?"
"Oh, aye, sir." He gave the stallion an admiring pat.
"Well, seeing as you two get along so well, perhaps you wouldn’t mind takin’ Merlin out for a wee bit of a run."
The boy’s mouth flew open. "Tru-truly, sir?" he stammered, his eyes bright.
"Aye. ‘Tis not everyone this horse takes to." Douglas beamed at the words of praise.
Ian led Merlin from the stall and fitted the bit and reins to his head.
"Tell me, Douglas, what ken you of the MacIver’s niece?" He hoisted the boy onto the horse’s back.
Douglas looked at him, his eyes big and round. "I’d not talk of her if I were you, sir. I’ve seen for myself the poor men who died in the widow’s bed."
Ian could tell that the rumors of death and whispers of witchery had the boy visibly shaken.
"But have you ever seen her, Douglas?"
"Aye, sir. She’s bonnie. But me mam says she keeps her beauty by magic potions made of men’s blood."
Ian merely nodded. Clearly he wasn’t going to get much more than second-hand woman’s prattle from the lad. He would have to discover his bride’s secrets for himself.
"Start Merlin slow. If he gets his way, he’ll have you run half way across the highlands by eventide."
Douglas’ face brightened at the prospect. "Aye, sir."
Ian watched the pair trot out of the bailey, knowing full well that they’d be at a gallop by the time they reached an open field. He smiled, remembering that fleeting feeling of freedom that left a man breathless and awestruck, and for a moment wished he could just as easily flee his own nuptials.
"You treat Douglas well," a voice murmured from the shadows inside the stable. Ian spun around to see a lad, only a few years older than Douglas, step from the darkness and extend a hand to him. "Archibald Campbell, Earl of Argyll."
Ian guessed he was probably fourteen or fifteen summers, caught in that awkward stage between being in the body of a man and yet not comfortable in it. He was tall and lean, but would fill out well with age. A light breeze blew his straw-colored hair about playfully, at odds with the seriousness of the lad’s expression.
"My, lord." He bowed his head in greeting. "What brings you to Ballochyle?"
"The death of my father. The MacIver is my ward," the young earl responded simply, unfazed by the question. "And you?"
"A marriage."
The young man cocked his head to one side, his hazel eyes full of speculation. "You must be Hunter then."
Ian nodded.
"I’ve heard much about you," the young earl stated, stroking his hairless chin. "They call you the immortal mercenary."
Ian lifted his chin, the scar across his throat tightening. He hated when they called him that. Blood and death. Fighting and fear. What kind of legacy was that? He shrugged off the black curling feeling it caused in his gut. "It is merely a token title, my lord. We all take the hand of death at some time."
The lad walked past Ian, indicating with a tilt of his blonde head that he would like Ian to walk with him. Ian fell into step beside the Argyll.
"Know you much of the Campbells, Hunter?"
"Only what I’ve heard, my lord."
"And what have you heard?" the Earl of Argyll asked, clasping his hands behind his back as they walked.
"That for the most part the clan remains loyal to King James, but there is dissension, especially since your father’s death."
"Aye, that would be the surface of it." He nodded. "There are many who would as soon kill me as hold the clan through me."
Ian glanced at the Earl, surprised by the statement. The lad’s mouth was set in a grim line, his expression still and serious. They crossed the bailey, and Ian took note of the lad’s caution not to be overheard.
"Is it as bad as that, my lord?"
Argyll halted his steps and squinted up at the sun, then turned to look at Ian, his gaze piercing and direct.
"Aye. ‘Tis why MacIver fosters me and serves as both my guardian and protector. He’s an honorable man, but he holds a two edged-sword in his hands. While he serves as my ward, he dare not use the powers to his own advantage knowing the Campbells might retaliate if he did. My clan is far too close to the crown. Whoever holds Clan Campbell, holds the ear of the king himself." He paused, taking a moment to look around at the people who passed by. "I believe that my kinsmen, Magnus and Harold, died in my stead when they wed the MacIver’s niece."
The weight of his observation struck Ian deeply and suspicion prickled his skin. It was one thing for a clan to disagree and quite another for blood to turn against blood, as his brother had done to him. Ian stared into the earl’s young face. The pain hidden in the hazel eyes was a deep reflection of his own secret torment. In that moment, Ian recognized a kindred soul. One who had no family to rely on. But why was the earl so trusting of him? Had the MacIver told the Earl of Argyll to place faith in him?
They reached the edge of the bailey and could walk no further. Argyll turned away and clasped his hands behind his back. A light breeze ruffled the loose folds of his fine linen shirt. "While the Campbells have always stood for the crown, there are some who would follow the king’s cousin, the Earl of Bothwell, in his bid for the throne. They’d like nothing better than to strip the strongest support the crown has from underneath the king, and topple the throne to their favor."
In his travels as a mercenary, Ian had seen enough of the squabbles among Scotland’s lords to know the treachery inherent in their search for power. Clan turned against clan for far less serious infractions than determining the religious bent of the nation. Bothwell’s efforts had sharply divided the loyalty of the lords.
"And where do you stand, my lord?"
>
"That is something I’ve not yet decided. My father’s loyalty to James brought the clan much wealth and power, but the price was high. I do not ken if it is yet worth it. The king panders to Elizabeth, as it suits him. He wishes to inherit the crowns of both countries, and who wouldn’t? But his true intentions are yet shrouded in mystery. We will have to see which way the wind of England blows."
The boy’s astute knowledge of Scottish politics surprised Ian. As long as Elizabeth sat on the throne, Scotland’s future was insecure. The earl turned to walk back toward the stables and Ian followed.
"I would like you to teach me to fight as you do." The statement came as a command rather than a request.
Ian looked at the purposeful set of the earl’s shoulders.
"Why me, my lord?"
The Earl of Argyll looked Ian in the eye.
"Because I can trust you. My sources tell me you have no reason to want me dead, no reason to want me alive. MacIver tells me you even plan to leave soon, so I’ll no have to worry about your loyalties to the lords of Scotland. And besides," he paused, shrugging his shoulders and smiling, "you’re bloody magnificent in battle. I heard about you fighting for the Frasers. They say you hewed down three times more men than any of the others."
Ian’s stomach shrunk in upon itself, curdled at the memory. The battle had been brutal. He had fought merely to survive and protect those he could once the drums sounded and the men rushed at each other. The memories of screams and groans of the dying, the grassy fields no longer green, but slick red, still made his pulse double and sweat pool at the base of his back.
No, it was nothing to be proud of, but he had survived soaked in Scottish blood and the Frasers had won, until the next squabble precipitated a war of revenge. Such futility disgusted him, but he had earned his money.
Ian nodded, accepting the compliment, although the lad’s admiration was misplaced. "Surely you already have skills, my lord."
"Aye. But my lessons in the art of battle stopped when my father died. MacIver does not trust any of my kinsmen to teach me more."
"From the sounds of it, Lord MacIver has good reason."
"Aye."
Ian turned to bid good day to the earl and return to the stable, but Argyll spoke first. "I have another request to make of you." The earl’s features again became serious.
"And what would that be, my lord?"
"Protect Sorcha and give her your trust. She’s always been good to me, and I would have her treated with the kindness due her."
Ian searched his memory in vain for a face to attach to the name.
"Who’s Sorcha?"
Argyll quirked a brow.
"Your bride, Hunter. Sorcha MacIver."
Until that moment he hadn’t thought to ask his bride’s given name. Ian crossed his arms.
"To tell the truth of it, my lord, I know nothing about my bride save that she prefers not to go with me to France." He focused intently on the lad’s face. "She seems a bit of a mystery. What can you tell me?"
The lad sighed. "Better you hear it from me, than another."
A jolt of regret shot through Ian. He had known there must be more to the tale of witchcraft and the heavy veil she wore than he had discovered.
"And just what would that be?"
"You’re here to marry Sorcha to disprove her a witch."
"Aye, that I am aware of."
"Then you must know she is considered by her own clan to be a devil’s maiden. A maiden, Hunter. One who retains her virginity despite going to her marriage bed twice. Twice wed, twice bedded, twice widowed. It gives a man pause, does it not?"
Ian searched the earl’s face for a sign of deception. What exactly did this stripling expect him to deduce from his wife’s affliction with sorcery?
"And you believe her innocent, because you think her husbands were killed in your stead."
"Aye, that’s exactly what I think."
For the first time since he’d met the woman in the wood, his palms didn’t itch. Finally a bit of truth that made sense. A tension he hadn’t even realized rested in the base of his neck began to release.
Argyll reached up to place a hand on Ian’s shoulder. "But she will die at the stake as witch if you die on your wedding night. That’s why you must trust her. She plans to give you a draft before dinner. I suggest you drink it. It may save your life."
The tension was back in a heartbeat. So was that damn itch. "May save my life? I’d like a stronger assurance I’ll live to see the morning after my wedding night, my lord."
"Think of it as a risk of battle to even out the odds." The young man smiled slightly. "Take the draft she offers. Sorcha dare not have a third husband die in her bed." The earl bowed his head. "Until this evening, then." He strode across the bailey and out of sight.
Ian shook his head and walked to the stable. He sat on a rough, wooden bench and rasped his hands together. This situation became stranger at every turn, and it was already by far the oddest job he’d ever been paid for.
Deep down his gut churned with uncertainty. He’d never bargained for a bride suspected of witchcraft, let alone a warning to trust her implicitly. There were few people he trusted, and absolutely no women.
But what if the young lord was right and she was an innocent pawn? If there were nefarious schemes afoot, he’d better marry and make his way as quickly as possible before becoming ensnared in a situation that could jeopardize his plan.
* * *
Steam drifted up from the small iron pot in the flames. Henna, the MacIver clan’s midwife, sniffed at the wet air scented with bark and herb and crumbled another handful of dried mistletoe into the boiling liquid. "Power to overcome," she murmured, stirring the green bits of plant down into pot.
The door of the cottage opened and a blond man entered, quickly closing the door behind him.
"Did any see you?"
"Nay. I came just as you bid, mother."
"Good. Would not do to have that Argyll stripling knowing more than suits me."
He limped toward the bed and sat down atop the wooden chest next to it, resting his twisted leg. She wondered for a moment if she was asking too much of him.
"Is it aching you?"
He cocked his head to the side. "When doesn’t it?"
His words comforted her. He was tough enough to fulfill his destiny. He had to be. She lifted a finger.
"Power eases even the worst pain. Soon enough you’ll have what you need, but for now drink a little of this while I finish my work."
She pulled a small leather flask from beneath her cloak and handed it to him.
"Is it a herbal?"
Despite his ruined body, his mind had become sharper than most. Henna smiled.
"Nay, just good strong drink, Duncan."
Golden light glinted in his eyes. He grasped the flask and tipped it back, gulping down the contents and laying the empty flask on the table.
"Are you nearly done with it? I’ve still got to return to the main keep to be there when the other Campbells arrive."
"Aye. Nearly done." She lifted a spoonful of the liquid and sniffed. A little at a time, she filled a smaller black leather flagon with the liquid, then handed it to Duncan.
"See that the groom gets this only after he’s eaten. That way it will sit in his stomach long enough to do its work and earn us the coin and favors we’ll need to place you where you deserve to be."
He nodded his blond head and raised the flagon. "To victory—and a short life."
Henna smiled. "My sentiments exactly."
Chapter Four
That night, the flickering firelight of the torches licked along the walls of the small stone chapel, leaving shifting shadows and shapes in their wake The dusty scent of neglect clung to the stones, augmented by the acrid smoke of the burning torches and the heat of too many bodies in the small space.
Sorcha’s blood pumped hard in her veins as she left her uncle’s arm. She stepped forward toward the mercenary and her elder ki
nsman, who was to perform the specially arranged ceremony.
About a dozen of the MacIvers, half as many Campbells, and the Earl of Argyll stood crowded together. As intertwined as varied colors in a plaid, the MacIvers were more Campbell than not.
They owed the large clan their allegiance, even if they had been freed from paying out the calp to the Campbell Chief. But ever since the MacIvers had taken in the young seventh Earl of Argyll at the sixth Earl’s untimely death at the king’s bidding, the Campbells had tried many tactics to integrate the clans completely. The marriage of Sorcha to not one, but two, of their lesser lairds’ sons was to have accomplished that.
Judging by the unfriendly faces of the Campbells, they were not pleased with her uncle’s choice for her most recent groom. And while she didn’t worry for herself, she worried for young Archibald.
The Campbells would stop at nothing to crush her clan in the flit of an eyelash if ill befell the boy because of her own recent misfortunes, and Rorick Campbell’s pledge to see her burned. The male voices in the room stopped rumbling and the room fell silent.
The fresh heather she’d woven in a ring about her head poked through her veil in places. The heat of her skin made the small, purple bell-like flowers release a sweet, fresh, earthy scent, but it did not override the sour smell of fear that suffused the room. She fixed her eyes on the mercenary beside her.
It was hard to see the details of his face through the translucent fabric of her veil. What her eyes could not see, her mind supplied in vivid detail even down to the small cleft in his chin. Now that she stood next to him again, he was much taller than she recalled. While she stood equal in height to most men in her clan, she came only to his shoulder, making her feel decidedly small.
Though her kinsman’s speech was quick and clipped, it slowed in emphasis as he finished his question to her, "—to be your husband, in sickness and health, poverty and wealth, until such time as God should part you by death?" Sorcha stiffened and stared unflinching into the old man’s eyes. He raised a bushy brow.
She made her reply firm and assured so none could doubt her commitment.
The Spellbound Bride Page 4
