"Aye."
The old man barely shook his head in disapproval, but she noticed. She suspected everyone else in the gathering had as well. A chill threaded down through her veins, cooling her blood. They expected him to die. Then they would turn and burn her. Her stomach clenched.
Thus far she had done nothing different this time from when she had married Magnus and Harold, and they had both died. Tonight would be different. Tonight she would give him a protective draught such as her mam would have made. She had scoured her mam’s books, searching for anything that might make a difference this night. It may not work, but it was all she could think of and better than doing naught and watching yet another man die.
The kinsman’s voice droned on. She ignored most of it, and wasn’t aware that her kinsman had stopped until, without warning, the mercenary placed his large hand at her back. Her stomach contracted at the branding sensation, her heart pounding harder. He pulled her close, his hot hands leaving an imprint on her skin, even as they left it and skimmed the edge of her veil.
"Well, wife, am I to have a kiss to seal our vows?" To her his voice sounded smooth and dark, making her insides curl. The smell of rosemary and mint soap she’d made herself mingled with the scent of clean male beside her in a heady combination.
Sorcha pulled insistently at his hands.
"A kiss is not necessary to seal the vows, but if you must, could you not kiss me in the courtly fashion?" she asked with an overly honeyed voice.
Challenge flashed in his eyes, making the jet color all the more absorbing. He might be a mercenary, but he certainly did not enjoy taking orders. His callused hand grasped hers; his fingertips brushed in a feather-soft touch of her wrist that she felt all the way to the tip of her slippers. Sorcha watched the pulse of his throat quicken beneath the jagged edges of the scar. He lifted her hand. His breath skimmed her flesh, warming it.
Sorcha suppressed a shiver. The air beneath her veil instantly became too heavy to breathe. A shimmering sensation collected within her, warning her that this man was dangerous. An unnatural flash of heat thrummed just beneath her skin and her usually steady knees weakened like wax held to a flame, even though she locked them.
His firm lips brushed her skin, making her stomach flip and tighten as it had in the woods. The pressure of his mouth increased as he kissed her too warm flesh.
He glanced down at her. The unmistakable mark of determination smoldered in the dark depths of his gaze. A predatory smile curled his lip. His reaction unnerved her and she instinctively stepped away. But he was quicker.
He wrapped a firm arm about her waist, trapping her in his embrace. Sparks shot across her skin as if she were a blade and he were flint. "And now, I would like to look upon my bride." He snaked his fingertips to the edge of her veil, lifting it.
Sorcha reared back, pushing against his chest with her hands.
"‘Tis bad luck for you to see me before the marriage bed!" She had intended to bed him under the cover of dark, never revealing herself as the woman he had met in the woods. She hoped that if he never saw his bride, it would be easier for him to leave her behind as she wished.
His grip around her waist tightened, bringing him intimately close, her thighs pressing against his. Every inch of him touching every inch of her was hot and hard, and utterly unyielding. "‘Tis worse luck if I do not," he said, his words edged with menace.
Sorcha tamped down the surge of defiance he raised in her and relented. Even in her fear of his discovery, part of her wanted him to look upon her, wanted to see the reaction he would have when he discovered her duplicity. Would he hate her then? Perhaps that would be the saving of him. A man could not both hate and love the same woman, could he?
She yielded, letting him lift the veil she had worn for days. As he peeled the translucent fabric back from her face, she watched anger pass through him, hardening his shoulders and the line of his neck beneath the dark curls. But it evaporated instantly leaving behind something she feared more--a glow of triumph radiated about him like the mane of a lion.
"So ‘tis my lady of the wood, whom I wed," he growled deeply.
She lifted her chin, giving him no other response.
Like a cat stalking prey, her new husband closed in, lifting a hand, sliding the tips of his fingers along her cheek to cup her jaw with his palm.
A tremor shook her.
"Now I should like to kiss my bride properly."
She sucked in a breath, desperate for air, but unable to move. The sharpness of rosemary, mint and potent male surrounded her. The warmth of his skin nearly undid her resolve as he bent down and traced the edges of her mouth with his own firm lips, but did not yet kiss her.
He smelled too of wood and field, leather and soap. Her senses reeled at the intimacy their proximity produced. His lips came down firm and surprisingly supple. They were warm, inviting and made it too easy to forget herself.
And she wanted to. God above, she wanted to sink into the dark oblivion his kiss offered her.
In that instant she wanted to tangle her fingers in his dark hair and enjoy the sensation of his kiss, wanted to forget all those around them—and that she was not supposed to want this, or him. Her reaction to him was unexpected and unwelcome.
She pulled back, reining in her wayward reactions, and forced herself to stare coolly at him. The fire-like intensity wavered his eyes, then flattened into hard, emotionless obsidian. A stab of hurt pierced her when she saw her own hardness mirrored back to her. He straightened, an invisible coat of armor sealing off his contact with her. The woman within her wanted him to find her appealing, but her soul, the part that feared her unnatural bond with death, could not allow him to be attracted to her. What a wretched muddle she found herself in, wanting what could not, must not, be.
"Shall we go to table, then?" she stated without revealing a flicker of the conflicting emotions she felt within.
He nodded with a curt tilt of his head.
Sorcha found she craved a word from him, something to indicate her response had not been mutual, that she had succeeded in putting him off even as he had made her head swim. But Ian remained neutral, his demeanor staid and unreadable. He was every inch an unfeeling mercenary.
Inside she was a quivering mass. His kiss had done things to her no one had ever done before, and yet she knew if she were to protect him, he must never come to have feelings for her.
She steadied her pulse by holding each breath for a few moments longer until she could speak smoothly.
"I would have preferred you left my veil as it was."
"So would I."
His comment stung like a vexed hornet, sharp, painful and pinprick precise.
"Why? Are you so very disappointed in your bride?"
He looked at her. No, through her.
"Nay. My bride is bonnie, intriguing and dare I say— bewitching."
Sorcha flinched at the word.
"But you are clearly not the woman I met in the wood. She was a more passionate creature."
He turned away and belatedly offered her an arm. Something inside her shriveled with a mixture of triumph and unexpected hurt. She had accomplished what she sought to with her actions, and yet the victory was incredibly hollow. Sorcha yanked the veil back in place and lightly placed her hand along his forearm as he led her to the great hall.
Dinner seemed more of a wake than a celebration, though Lord MacIver obviously gave it his best efforts. Ian sat next to his bride, but focused his attention on her clansmen, noting how each eyed him with a mixture of suspicion and doubt. Perhaps they believed he would not last the night and were even now searching for signs he might have succumbed to his bride’s spell. A servant leaned between them, placing a silver goblet between them. She tilted her head toward Ian.
"Husband."
The title felt foreign, but Ian acknowledged it.
She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a confidential tone. "I would ask of you a gift to your bride."
"Aye. What
do you wish?"
"Drink with me from this cup." She wrapped both hands, then deftly tapped a powder into it with a finger that curled over the edge of the rim, making the movement invisible to anyone save himself.
A roar of suspicion coursed through his veins. He’d heard stories from his friend Adair and knew that people could steal themselves against the power of a poison by prolonged exposure in small doses.
"You shall drink first, and I second. But drink deeply. It is a protective I have made for us both. I wish you to live through the night." She handed the cup to him.
"Are you daft?" he asked in a harsh whisper.
The cup came down.
"I swear to you, it is only a protective."
He snorted. "Against what, you?"
Her veil puffed outward with a frustrated breath.
"Will you please drink? I do not want the blame for another death laid at my feet. You may believe yourself immortal, but I don’t." Her voice held an edge of agitation.
"I believe no such rubbish. You’ll not have another death, because I’ll not drink."
Her hands turned white as they gripped the cup.
"For a man with experience on the battlefield, you’re cowardly."
Ian bristled. Even though he couldn’t trust anything she said, he was tempted to grab the cup and down it all in one swallow just to fling the comment back in her face. His intellect restrained his instinct.
Instead, he gave her a lethal smile. He kept his voice low and leaned close enough to her to smell the fragrance of heather in her hair.
"I’ll bargain with you, witch," she cringed at the word, which soothed his irritation in some small measure. "You drink first, and I’ll drink second."
She shuddered.
"Very well. If ‘tis the only way to convince you I mean no harm." With one hand she lifted the edge of her veil enough to place her lips on the cup. They were full and soft, just as the skin of her throat and delicate chin were creamy and smooth.
A bolt of surprise ignited his senses. Ian shifted against the discomfort he felt in his groin. Even though her looks were seared upon his mind as the woman of the wood, she’d projected a different image from beneath the veil. Was she sorceress or seductress?
She was bonnie, he’d not lied in that, but the beauty changed and had seemed heightened when they were alone in the woods. Surely she would allow him to see her again before the bedding. And why had she not revealed herself and tried to persuade him not to marry her? He swallowed the building uncertainty tightening in his throat.
She handed the goblet to him, and Ian’s fingers brushed against hers. He saw her stiffen, aware the brief contact had somehow alarmed her.
The knowledge that he affected her pleased him enormously. He at least still held the upper hand.
He grinned, lifting the goblet to his own lips. The rim was still warm from the touch of her mouth. The liquid tasted sweet, not unlike mead, but the flavor was different, as if flowers or something from the forest had been used to sweeten the drink
He watched the faces about the room as he drank deeply. Some seemed to observe him as though they though he might fall dead at any time, while others shuttered their visages with a doubtful knowing, as if his fate were sealed. Only Argyll and Lord MacIver smiled with approval.
He would show them he had no fear. Ian tilted his head back, draining the goblet quickly. For a moment an eerie silence claimed the crowd, then a roar of approval shook the hall.
"Another toast to the couple," a man shouted.
"Aye!" other voices chimed in.
As the goblet was whisked away and replaced with a tankard of ale, Ian’s limbs began to tingle. He concentrated on the sensation and realized his foot had gone to sleep because he’d been sitting too long. His throat tightened. He swallowed. It eased. He glanced at his bride.
Sorcha looked unaffected by the poison. Beneath her veil, her pale skin appeared clear and unmottled. Ian realized his imagination had run amok and dismissed the churning in his stomach as his discomfort at being the center of attention. His brother had always been the one to receive the accolades and admiration. He had grown accustomed to standing on the side and worked best behind the scenes. He grasped the large cup in his hand.
Another MacIver kinsman lifted his cup. "To the bride and groom, happy days, many children and…" He hesitated, looking about the room with uncertainty. "Long life!" A cheer rose up and a smile broke over the man’s face.
Inwardly Ian scoffed at their superstition and his own temerity. He knew in his gut that his bride was no witch. One look had told him that.
Had she been, she would’ve had no reason to approach him in the woods. If, as the young earl had suggested, she were an unwitting part in the political ambitions of another, it was certainly someone astute in the appearance of witchcraft that had crafted her predicament.
Ian glanced at Sorcha. The name whirled in his mind. A sorceress of the heart perhaps, but nothing more. Her head was tipped down, and she picked at the food before her.
He leaned close and spoke low. "Fear not, I promise to live through the night."
"I know."
"Then why are you so glum?"
She shook her head, refusing to answer him.
"I’ve given a bride gift without question and now ask a favor in return."
She responded with an upward tilt of her gaze. He could see the dark fringe of her lashes brush against the fabric of her veil.
"Aye. It is only right. What would you have of me?"
"Trust me—I’ll not hurt you."
Under the table, he felt her small hand land lightly upon his thigh. The innocent gesture shot sparks to his groin. Ian shifted in his seat and feigned interest in his meal. He did not like that she affected him so intensely.
The last woman ever to do so had been Mary. And that had been a monumental disaster.
"Another toast!" The clansmen were becoming more relaxed and happier as they sunk deeper into their drunken state.
"To the prettiest bride a MacIver ever made," one of the men at a nearby table slurred slightly.
"Aye!" the roomful of revelers replied.
Lord MacIver leaned toward him.
"You’ll need to go a-thigging from door to door on the morrow with the lass."
Ian coughed, choking on a piece of roast lamb. He hadn’t bargained for this, either. What business did the laird have in asking for them to complete tradition when the rest of this was so untraditional?
Ian lowered his voice, ensuring those at the lower tables could not overhear them. "Is there a reason? I thought you made it clear we were to live here while the contract was carried out. We need nothing to start a home of our own here."
His bride touched his shoulder, and he turned to look at her.
"Aye, ‘tis so. But all the same, the people will be more accepting of it as a marriage good and true if you survive the night and go a-thigging on the morrow. You need not collect much from the folk, just enough to make them feel it’s been proper."
Ian leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. The idea of going from door to door, begging for items to start a home with a wife who no intention of staying with him, was preposterous. Worse than that, it stung his pride.
He’d rarely stooped to begging in his life. He’d gone hungry, been wounded, slept in ditches and in fields, but hadn’t begged. The churning sensation in his middle grew.
"I didn’t agree to that," he said tersely.
Her shoulders stiffened.
"Nay. You didn’t agree in words, but ‘tis part of the marriage all the same."
The MacIver coughed. "Will you not do it for your bride’s sake then? I ask only to protect her. Nothing more."
Ian rubbed the base of his neck, then the side of his face, the scar itching and pulling tighter at his agitation. He hated begging. He’d do it for no one. His brother had made him beg for Mary. It was the only time he lowered himself to that level, and he vowed to never repeat it.
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"Aye. I’ll protect her, as we agreed. I’ll even stand beside her to go a-thigging, but I’ll do none of it myself. Agreed?"
The laird nodded. "‘Tis enough."
For the rest of the meal Ian sat in stony silence, observing the people in the room and searching for clues to the subterfuge Argyll alluded to. Among the revelers only himself, the earl, the laird and his bride seemed near sober.
Too bad it wasn’t otherwise. If he could drink himself into oblivion, then perhaps he could wash the tart taste of dislike from his mouth. But his duties this night demanded he keep his senses alert in order to survive.
"Another toast!" came a shout from across the hall. His tankard held only dregs, but even as he reached for it, a quick hand snatched it away.
"Pardon, sir." The blond manservant mumbled as he shoved a full pewter tankard in the low one’s place and limped away.
Ian took the cup and lifted it to his lips for the toast. It was only after he began to drink that he looked over the rim at his bride. Her unblinking profile could have been made of stone, she sat so still. Instinct caused him to stop drinking and set the pewter tankard aside.
He leaned closer and whispered, "Are you ailing, wife?"
She snapped to face him, placing them mere inches apart, her veil and a breathing space the only thing separating them from another kiss. The thought fired his blood.
"I don’t think…nay, I’m fine."
"Then let us retire to our chambers."
Her eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing and dutifully rose.
A silence crept over the hall, dulling the revelry as they realized the bride and groom intended to leave the head table. From the expressions around the room it was though they were watching a man go to the gallows. The palpable tension put Ian on edge, but his gut instinct urged him forward.
He left the hall to follow his bride up the stairs to their private chamber. A heavy oak door swung open on well-oiled hinges to reveal a dimly lit chamber dominated by a bedspread with a blood red coverlet. The candles sputtered making the flames throw odd shapes about the room. A roaring fire made the room hotter than expected. Oddly it seemed more like entering the audience chamber to hell, than a nuptial suite.
The Spellbound Bride Page 5
