She stopped short. He was close enough to sense a shiver running the length of her, causing the veil to flutter ever so slightly.
"Does the night ahead trouble you so?" he asked, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. For as tall as she was, her bones were delicate underneath his touch.
"I suppose the unknown is always troublesome." The slight tremor in her voice betrayed her discomfort.
He turned away, shutting the door behind them, thinking of how he could distract her from worrisome thoughts.
"Is this where the others died?" He knew the moment he’d uttered the words that they’d been a mistake.
She stamped over to the bed, whipped the coverlet back, then lifted her head a notch higher as she glared defiantly at him.
"Aye. Care to inspect the bed for weapons?"
He laughed. She’d been offended by his question, not hurt, and the boldness of her reply pleased him.
"Nay. I only asked of curiosity. I shouldn’t like to be surprised by a ghost in the midst of my first night with my bride." He moved closer, and reached out, offering her a hand, as he would to a skittish mare. "Don’t fear lass. I’ll live this night."
She looked at his hand, but did not take it. Her tone was cold and raw even as heat radiated off of her skin. "How can you be so sure?"
His skin prickled. Ian shook off the sensation. If she would not take his hand, then he would make sure she did not mistake his intent.
Her spine lost all the stiffness she had mustered as he moved toward her, blocking out the rest of the room. The sharp green scent of rosemary filled her nose.
"I’m sure because, my bonnie bride, I’ve no plans to sleep," he teased, reaching to lift the veil from her face.
Her hands came down lightly upon his and she noticed the muscles in his jaw flex, then relax. How much further she could press him was uncertain.
"Do you expect us to continue the night with you in a veil?"
"Nay. Only allow me to lift it."
Ian dropped his hands.
Henna had done little to prepare the girls in her clan for their marriage bed, save tell them how a man would mount them like an animal and to be silent until they were done. To this point, Ian had given her no reason to doubt that he would be kind rather than harsh, but as she had no way of kenning what might happen, she was nervous all the same. Compounding her worry was the knowledge that the protective she’d poured into his drink had been merely a last desperate attempt. She had no idea if it would really save him or not. This could very well be their last conversation, as it had been with Harold and Magnus.
She shivered at the thought, and closed her eyes to steady herself. Now was not the time to keep him at bay. He needed to take her virginity, and she assumed, the quicker the better. She tugged away the veil.
A sensual smile curled his firm lips and sent a warm heat rushing through her. His eyes were bright in a way that had nothing to do with drink, and everything to do with pleasure.
Out in the hall the cacophony of clanging claymores and banging pans echoed as the revelers began their efforts to keep the newly wed couple on edge.
"Will they be up to see us to bed?" he asked, as he gently cupped her face in his hand and traced along her cheek with his the pad of his thumb. His touch was possessive, but soft.
"I think not. As much as tradition bids it, I think they believe the witch would curse them should they do it."
Ian shifted his touch and lifted her chin with his palm. The way he looked into her eyes made her believe in that precise moment he could divine the very nature of her soul.
"Are you a witch?" It was barely a whisper, but shook her to the core.
"Nay." Her heart pounded harder in her chest and her desire-muddled brain cleared for an instant. Was he a witch pricker under another guise? Did he plan to take her at her most vulnerable, now no one could gainsay him and condemn her for coins from the kirk? As her mind spun in a panic, his next words brought those thoughts to a screeching halt.
"Then how do you explain the spell you’ve cast over me?"
She was momentarily stunned. He was daft, that was the only explanation for it. He thought himself under a spell?
"The powder I gave you was a protective, nothing more."
His lips tilted upward in a teasing grin and his fingers undid the leather strip that bound her plaited hair.
"I know. The earl indicated I should trust you. I drank it and am no worse for it."
"But you protested at dinner."
"Aye." His fingers sunk into her hair, and unwound the plait, sending shivers of a different sort coursing through her.
"Doesn’t it bother you that I’ve not a husband who’s survived the wedding night?"
"Nay," he murmured as he threaded one hand into her loose hair, then pulled her into the powerful embrace of his arms with the other. "For one, I’m not like your other husbands. For another, you’ll not kill me."
A burning jolt flashed through her and she pushed back from him.
"‘Tis not I that will be your undoing, but something far stronger." His touch scorched her skin.
He straightened, his voice laced with a deadly calm. His eyes narrowed.
"You think me weak? Is this why you’d claim such a thing? Do you not wish to share your bed? Is there someone else you would have rather married?"
His grasp on her arms dug deep enough to hurt. She gasped, and felt the blood leave her face. Her stomach flipped with dread. Dear St. Bridget, she had offended him.
"Nay! There is no one."
She screwed together all her courage and with shoulders held back and chin high, stepped back toward him.
"My uncle paid you to take me to wife. I can remove the claims of being a devil’s maiden no other way. If you’ll not, then return the coins to him and leave me. He only hired you because he heard told that you were afraid of nothing."
His face lost all emotion, but his eyes were too bright. He yanked his shirt off, tossed it to the floor and stepped toward her, close enough that she could sense the frisson of heat between them.
"If this is merely a transaction, then toss your skirts up, and let’s be done with it." His flippant tone made her eyes widen.
Sorcha licked her dry lips with a quick flick of her tongue, her gaze darting away from him for a moment so she could regain her internal balance. He did not intend to hold back on his husband’s duty as she had anticipated, but any chance she had hoped for a gentle deflowering had vanished. Her insides twisted.
"Do you not think we might talk a bit first or at least kiss, again?"
He stroked his chin and walked over to the bed, then settled his gaze on her. It smoldered with a heat she could feel across the room.
"I was under the impression you only wanted the services rendered expediently and to be done. Did you want a lover then?"
She shook her head.
"Nay, I don’t want a lover, but neither do I feel right about this." She pressed a hand to her head. How could she explain she wanted him to be gentle?
Ian shrugged and leaned back against the bedpost, resting his spine against the wood, completely indifferent to her turmoil.
"It makes no difference to me, wife. I can just as easily do without."
She threw up her hands in frustration and strode over as close to him as she dared.
"But I can’t. You have to do this, but you could at least make it pleasant." There. She had not begged him, but at least she had said something.
His gaze lifted to meet hers. He deliberately glanced at the bed, then slowly raked her with a searing gaze that made a liquid heat pool low in her belly.
"Oh, I could easily make it pleasant enough for both of us."
He pushed away from the bedpost, took her by the shoulders and lifted her aside, then stamped past.
"But I’ll lie with you only if I please. And you haven’t pleased me yet."
The warmth that had overtaken her senses instantly evaporated. Her mouth gaped like a beached fish.
Of all the pompous, asinine men.
"But they’ll, they’ll look!" she stammered. She had to make him understand the seriousness of what she faced. "The village midwife will check to see on the morrow if I still hold my maidenhead. If I do, then Rorick and his men may as well truss me up and start gathering firewood."
He turned, just enough to bring them face to face. The sheer power he radiated made her skin feel too tight. He tilted her chin upward with a stroke of his finger that left her breathless, then bent slowly down until there remained a fraction of space between their lips. She could feel his warm breath, still sweet with ale, against her mouth, causing her to recall his very real, very potent kiss.
"We’re wedded. That changes everything." He brushed her lips with his, neither kissing her, nor denying her the pleasure of his touch. "I can solve your dilemma, my sweet, and neither of us need bother with anything more."
Sorcha closed her eyes expecting his kiss, expecting that he would give in and do his husbandly duty, but instead, she felt cool air brush her cheek as he stalked away from her to the bed and shoved aside the coverlet.
"They’ll not check as long as there’s evidence on the sheets and we both claim it is yours." Taking out his dirk, he ran the sharp blade along the edge of his finger. A crimson line swelled and darkened. Ian reached into the bed and smeared his blood on the sheets.
"There. No one will dare to check now."
He might be braw, but obviously the muscle between his ears was underworked.
"And you believe it so easy?" she muttered, fisting her hands upon her hips.
He braced his legs apart and crossed his arms over his bare chest, his male confidence completely ludicrous to her.
"Aye."
"And what of when Henna wishes me to spread my legs?"
"She’ll do no such thing."
She spun away from him and began pacing.
"But she will!" she insisted, her voice thinning as the strain of explaining the situation yet again to this thick-headed lout of a husband wore on her. "She’s done so each time."
He smiled, radiating confidence. "The most critical skill one needs in battle is to understand your enemy. If there is evidence on the sheets of your maiden’s blood, the midwife would show herself a fool to check you."
She huffed.
"This is not a battle! I don’t need strategy— "
He grasped her as she passed him, holding her still long enough to force her gaze to meet his.
"Then why hire a mercenary?"
She knew he baited her, but her frustration could not be controlled. She sighed.
"It had to be someone not from the clan. Someone who will go away when the job is done."
The wrong part of him hardened at her response. Instead of prolonging the enjoyment of their banter, her innocent words pointed to the ugly truth that calcified his heart. He was once again merely being used for his skills, then discarded.
Of course he wanted her and could enjoy the mating, but that wasn’t enough anymore. Not since Mary had made him feel like a rutting animal when he’d touched her, then tossed him aside for money.
Sorcha’s hands spread over his chest, making fire explode across his skin.
"Ian."
Her use of his given name melted away the bitterness with the greater heat of desire.
She moved her hands across him, fanning the flame.
"I ask you be a husband to me this one night only to save my life. They will burn me if I can’t prove I’m not a devil’s maiden."
How could he resist the temptation she so willingly offered? He pulled her against him, letting the want of her overrule his self-loathing at his own needs.
The soft swell of her breasts and short, quick breaths only fed his hunger. Loving her would be sweet. He’d desired her the moment he’d touched her in the wood. He had every intention of bedding his new wife eventually, but she would know he did it not because of weakness, nor for coin. It would be because she wanted him to.
Ian held her gently, his fingers threading into the warm black silk of her hair and cupping the back of her head as he tried desperately to ignore the warm feminine scent of her.
"What am I to do with you, lady of the wood?"
Sorcha locked her piercing eyes on him, a serious calm stilling her features, but a playful smile making her full lips even more inviting to his kiss.
"Just about anything you like, so long as it involves divesting me of my virginity."
Her long fingers mimicked his own earlier actions at the ceremony, tracing his cheek and skimming along his jaw. The feather-light caress brought a blinding rhythm to his blood, the rhythm growing faster and harder as her touch lingered.
Ian blew out a slow, deliberate breath. His baser animal rose to the surface, overcoming his logic. The thinness of his voice betrayed his dwindling control.
"Aye."
Sorcha lifted his hand to her mouth, her skin many shades lighter than his own weathered hide. Her lips parted, the whispered warmth of her words seared his senses. She pressed a kiss to the center of his palm, just as he had to her in the wood. Her lips were moist, soft and hot, which made him immediately think of what else might be.
Ian tore his hand from her grasp and swiftly pulled her to him. He kissed her, harder and with more intent, than he had at the ceremony. She tasted of honey mead and temptation. He pulled back, aware his aggressiveness might frighten her.
The soft subtleness of passion had brought a rosy stain to her cheeks. He inhaled the floral fragrance lingering in her hair and the gossamer womanly scent that cloaked her skin.
A seductive smile blossomed, making her seem all the more enchanting. Rather than frightening her, his aggressive kiss made her bolder. She lifted up on her toes and kissed him with passion enough to make the pulsing in his body spread from head to toe.
For an instant, suspicion tempered his need. He swallowed hard. Was she an accomplished liar? Did she feign her interest? A chill brushed his heated skin. Had the others, who had died in this room, been political pawns or sacrifices to a blacker side of her soul? Damn him, but he didn’t much care. He wanted her. All of her. Now.
Ian felt the swell of her hips grind against his rigid shaft. Need surpassed suspicion. He groaned, claiming her mouth.
Sorcha pressed herself against him, matching his own intensity. Ian slid his hands down the length of her back and across her bottom, exploring her shape as he continued to kiss her.
His experienced hands eased the fabric away from her shoulder, allowing it to drop down far enough to reveal the ripe curve of her breast to his roaming touch. He grazed the soft white silk of it with his finger, eliciting a soft whimper from her. This was more like he expected.
The door burst open.
Sorcha thrust away from him, shielding herself with her arms crossed over her bared chest.
Ian lunged for his sword.
Chapter Five
Lord MacIver walked in with his drunken kinsmen in tow.
"Hie! It seems they’ve begun without us!" A roar of drunken laugher followed.
Ian lowered his sword and reached for the coverlet, tossing it back over the bed to cover the blood-smeared sheets, then grasped his bride about the waist pulling her close. She had yanked her clothing back into place, but her hair remained loose, begging for his touch.
Out of instinct Ian moved his arm protectively about her shoulders.
"There was no need for you to see to us," Ian said.
"Aye," Lord MacIver shook his head, placing a weathered hand on his shoulder. "But tradition bids it so for a proper marriage."
Deep down it galled him that MacIver was trying so hard to make this appear to be a proper marriage, rather than a paid contract. To him it was permanent and binding, but not a love match. His bride may not know that she was bound for France, but it mattered not. They were married and she was his. He certainly did not wish to climb into bed surrounded by her suspicious kinsmen.
Sorcha leaned into his
side, laying her hand over his heart. The touch went far deeper than his skin, vibrating through him.
"He’s only doing it to assure our safety."
Despite the kindness of her touch, her words slapped him. Ian pulled her away from his chest, holding her arms and looked her in the eye.
"Does he not trust me to keep you safe?"
A wet sheen brightened the unending blue of her eyes.
"Nay." Ian heard the distinct tremor of sadness in her voice. "He does not trust me to keep you safe."
The insult struck home, a precise arrow piercing his pride. He stiffened, his hand running back over the nape of his neck, his fingers running over the familiar scars, each one a painful lesson. Did he not ply trade as a mercenary? Was he not able to defend himself well enough in battle? Did his bride really think so little of his abilities? He would let her know the kind of man he was.
He stepped forward, taking his best commander’s stance against the onslaught of her kinsmen filling the chamber. "I’ve spent plenty of years getting into a bed. I believe I can manage it fine without the lot of you looking on."
"Well get aboot it then," shouted someone from the back of the crowd.
"Aye!" chimed in a few more male voices.
"Get out!" Ian roared pointing at the open door.
An uncomfortable quiet stilled the revelers, followed by a noticeable souring of their faces and sulk to their shoulders as they shuffled out of the door. He’d made no friends with his insistence. She was his now.
Ian gritted his teeth. Until now, he had acted the willing participant. No more. He’d have his wife, without interference from her kin.
Her small hand touched his back.
Ian whipped around.
"What?" It came out harsh and abrupt.
Shocked surprised registered on her face. She creased her brows, her lips tightening into a firm line.
"I was going to give you my thanks—," she muttered, spurning him with a swift turn of her shoulders.
Ian relaxed. He had not meant to snap at her. Whatever intimacy they had enjoyed for a brief moment had evaporated, leaving the room cold between them.
He felt the fool. For whatever reason, here was a woman who could make him forget his purpose, his hard-earned lessons, his rule: never trust a woman.
The Spellbound Bride Page 6
