As the door scraped shut, Ian went to her. He moved to place a hand on her shoulder and thought better of it, letting it sink to his side. The less he touched her, the less he would think of climbing into the bed beside her, of her silken skin and of how her hollows would taste under the cloak of night.
God help him. He was already becoming hard at the thought. He shook his head. He’d made his decision and wasn’t a person to change his mind easily. He wanted her to come to him out of her own desires, not because she needed the deed done. He would not let himself become subject to his need for a woman and be called an animal again as he had by Mary. There was no need so great he could not master it.
"It has been a long day. Go to bed, and I’ll keep watch."
She looked up at him. "I’ll die you know. They’ll think me a witch for certain on the ‘morrow and Rorick will see me burned."
Ian gently took her hand, then stepped to the bed and flipped back the coverlet.
"I tell you, she’ll not check with evidence on the winding sheet to suggest you’ve been bedded." He sat her gently on the edge of the bed.
Her head hung low and her foot brushed back and forth, moving the rushes and dried herbs on the floor with a hushed rasping.
Ian lifted her chin with his finger, the softness of her skin and the faint fragrance of heather that clung to her tantalizing him. He managed to tilt his lips into what he hoped would pass for a smile.
"I’d rather you give your maidenhood to a man you love. Consider it my bride’s gift to you."
Her gaze darted away from his and she began to tremble, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth in a way that made him think how it might feel if his lips were to take their place.
Damn him for his own honor. He’d pay a price for it with an aching groin. He took a deep breath and shifted his weight to relieve the unwanted pressure he felt. She had no idea how dearly the gift cost him.
When she finally did look at him, there was an aching softness about her face, her eyes pleading. "You will not make me your wife?"
He almost gave in. He tenderly brushed back a wisp of her raven tresses, fighting for control of his own needs.
"Not this night."
A wicked gleam sparked in the blue depths of her eyes. "But surely, as a man, you need not love to act. There’s evidence enough of it." She boldly grazed her fingers along the hardened length of him.
An electric bolt pierced straight through him. Ian sucked in a harsh breath and blew it out slowly. His voice tightened with strain.
"An animal ruts. A man controls himself. I won’t take your maidenhood from you merely because I can. There is evidence on the sheets. That is all you need to be safe from the midwife."
And that was when his wife turned on him.
"Aye. Perhaps for now, but what of the man who takes my virginity once you’ve left for France without me? He’s bound to notice."
Ian’s blood thickened, his hands curling into fists. He hadn’t realized how possessive the simple ceremony had made him. It was best to once and for all rid her of the notion that she could stay in Scotland without him.
"I’ll not leave without you."
She looked up at him, her skin turning sallow as she lost the color in her cheeks. "And what if I want you to?"
"This isn’t a love match. This is a contract. In the bargain you are to gain protection of your life. I am to gain a wife. You will accompany me to France."
She shot up from the bed.
"Nay! We have no bargain until you lie with me."
He gave her a lethal smile. "Oh, I have every intention of doing just that, but not until I’m certain it is me you want and not just the post I can offer you."
Ian firmly grasped her shoulders and sat her down again on the bed, this time not as gently.
"It’ll not be this night, lass. We will complete our contract soon enough when you agree to go with me as a proper wife should and leave this Godforsaken land for a better life."
Sorcha sputtered. "You can’t mean it! You have to do this thing, tonight!"
He stood up and leveled his gaze at her.
"Actually, as long as everyone believes you to be without your maidenhead, you are safe and I have done my job. Only you and I know different. To oust me would be to place yourself in jeopardy again." He leaned against the wall and crossed his long legs. "So, your choice is this. Agree to go to France, or remain a virgin wife."
She balled her fists, her shoulders shaking.
"Why do this?"
"I need legitimate heirs, not a wife an ocean away. All the money in the world can’t give me what you can."
Sorcha fell back against the mattress and laid her arm across her eyes. "If I were able I would go with you, I would. But I can’t do it. There are things here you can’t see and do not know that bind me here."
"We shall see."
She dragged the covers over herself and turned her back to him. "Your decision will only end with me in an early grave."
"Not if I have anything to do with it." He crossed to the opposite side of the room, as far from her as he could get, before settling against the cold stone of the floor with the wall at his back. She pulled the coverlet over herself and Ian leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
He would think of battle, of claymores screaming and the sting of swords. He willed himself to see the hills scattered with heather and the silent bodies of the dead, of blood, red and flowing—not the flow of the red coverlet that draped and pooled intriguingly around the soft curves of her body. He rubbed the cut on his finger lightly to focus himself. His plan to fool the midwife would work. He would be sure of that.
He watched her curl the covers around her slender shoulders. Her dark head lay in stark contrast on the pale sheets, black on white. She turned to look at him, focusing her glistening eyes intently on him.
A small sigh escaped her lips. "If I don’t see you in the morn, know I thought well of you."
He turned away and shut his eyes to block out the sight of her alone and inviting in the big bed.
"Go to sleep," he murmured in reply.
She turned over in the vast bed, tucking her head against the pillow, but was keenly aware of his presence in the room as she drifted to sleep.
Hours later, in the darkness of the night, she gasped. Sorcha couldn’t breathe. Her lungs were beginning to burn. The smoke choked the life from her. Fire singed her clothes and ate at her hair, the smell of it filling her nose. She heard groans of other women in the flames. No, it wasn’t right—it was the groans of a man she heard.
She bolted upright from her nightmare, her skin clammy with premonition and sweat. In the dark she could see Ian still sat tucked against the wall. She held her breath waiting to hear him. He uttered another groan and shuddered, his arm clutching his stomach as he writhed.
Sorcha moved quickly to his side, feeling his forehead and cheeks for heat. He was warm to the touch, but not fiery as Magnus and Harold had been.
"Where does it hurt?"
"My gut— " He swore, gritting his teeth. "I thought that brew you gave me was to prevent this."
"Well, you haven’t died, have you?"
"Nay. But to be honest, it doesn’t feel much better than bleedin’ to death." He curled forward, tucking his knees to his chest and groaned.
She had to act quickly. Before she’d been afraid she’d given him too big a dose of the protective powders, as it was only a desperate gesture, a superstitious effort laced in hope, but perhaps she’d misjudged his size.
"I’ll be back soon."
He grunted in reply.
"Try to keep quiet. If any of the others hear you, they’ll come looking." She quickly slipped from the room and padded down the stone stairway.
Grabbing a tankard in the kitchen, she quickly ladled water into it and searched her pockets for the pouch of powder. In the moon’s light, she watched about a quarter of the white granules slip into the surface of the liquid. She bit her lip. What if it still
weren’t enough for him? How much had her mam used for her father when he went to battle? She could not remember. She lifted the pouch and tapped it, dumping the remainder into the cup, and said a quick prayer. She stirred it quickly with her finger, then hastened back to the chamber, her heart pumping hard and fast.
Ian lay on the floor, curled into the shape of a new baby, the curve of his back facing her.
Fear choked her. She blinked, narrowing her eyes for a sign of movement in the darkness. Was he dead already? Her chest tightened with fear, and she inhaled to relieve it. The air remained scented with the dry smells of heather and rushes, the mustiness of old wood and stone. Death did not linger yet.
Ian stirred. Sorcha dropped to her knees and rolled him toward her. Lifting his head, she pushed the edge of the tankard to his lips.
"Drink!"
His lips touched the brew, drawing it into his mouth. He yanked back, spewing it. "God’s teeth, what foul mixture is this?"
"‘Tis the same as before, only in water. Finish it!"
"If I do, it’ll only find its way back out again!"
She held his nose and brought the tankard back to his mouth.
"Try it now."
He gulped at the liquid, then pulled away from the rim, breathing heavily. Distrust lingered in his gaze.
"Remind me never to take you into battle as a caregiver," he sputtered.
"You must get to the bed. Can you walk?"
"Leave me be. I’d rather not move."
"As you wish," she said as she brushed the sweat-dampened hair from his forehead.
"Sorcha?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
Her heart constricted with his words, and she swallowed hard. She set the empty tankard aside and held his head in her lap as he lay on the floor. Once his eyes became heavy and his chest began to rise and fall with a steady rhythm, the tightness about her lungs eased as did the stiffness in her neck and shoulders.
He hadn’t died.
She leaned over, careful not to disturb him, and pulled a blanket from the bed. She bundled it beneath his head and tucked the rest about him. Sorcha crawled back into the bed, exhausted by the incident, her heart still pounding. She prayed he would live until morning. As her heart slowed, deep sleep claimed her, and for a moment there was peace.
She startled out of her sleep for a second time that night when a hand clamped over her mouth.
"Take off your clothes," the male voice hissed in her ear. Sorcha strained to see who directed her and tensed further when she saw Ian’s shadowed outline in the half-light of early morning. She must have slept for several hours.
She dug her fingers into his hand, peeling it away from her mouth.
"I’ll do no such thing!" For a man near death, he seemed alive enough now.
"If you want to live, you will. There’s no time to argue. Footsteps are coming. Do you want me to protect you or not?"
Hastily she slipped her shift over her head, tossed it in a heap on the floor, then settled back into the warmth of the covers. Only then did she recognize the sensation of his bare skin, all of it, next to her own.
Startled, she jerked up, determined to launch out of bed. Ian wrapped a thick arm around her, pulling her swiftly back down to the mattress and against him.
A knock sounded at the door. Before either could bid entrance, it creaked open and in shuffled her uncle with Henna close on his heels.
The woman pushed past Lord MacIver, nearing the bed.
"You see, Henna. The man’s not only alive, but in fine spirits," her uncle said, pulling Henna back towards the open door.
"‘Tis not what removes the mark of the Devil, my laird." The crone moved toward the bed once more, her candle held high. "I’ve to see for myself if Lucifer still holds her a maiden."
"See here!" Ian bellowed, the covers pooling to his bare waist as he sat up.
Sorcha grabbed what she could of the blankets, burrowing deeper into them and the shadows, her skin suddenly a cold shroud and poor protection against the midwife’s narrowed eyes.
"I’ll not be bundled out of bed at this hour. Be off with you. You can come later and examine the sheets if you like, but I’ll not have you disturbin’ me and my wife."
The midwife snorted. "As you like. But I’ll get a look at her all the same." The thought made Sorcha’s chest squeeze the breath from her lungs, making it hard to breath.
"Out!" Ian growled.
The woman stalked from the room, throwing them both a withering glance as she left. Her uncle shrugged his shoulders by way of an apology and shut the door swiftly.
"Didn’t I tell you she was a pushy wee thing?" Sorcha mumbled from beneath the covers as she reached for her clothing.
"Getting dressed so soon?" The lazy sensuality that laced his voice sent warning sparked arcing over her nerves.
Sorcha twisted around and found herself staring at his bare chest. Her breath caught in her throat. White scars marred his dark skin. Underneath was muscle, sculpted into hard planes from battle.
Her heartbeat grew louder, filling her ears with its rhythm.
"Aye, I shouldn’t be abed like this with you." She grasped the covers about her bareness and brushed the sleep-raveled hair from her face.
The covers were settled indecently low about his hips. She bit her lip, wishing to see more in one instant and chastising herself the next. Closing her eyes, she turned away from him.
"Pray tell, where do you get the notion that husbands and wives sleep in their clothes?"
Sorcha stiffened. "‘Tis common knowledge enough." A shiver raced along her entire body as his legs shifted and his skin slid against hers beneath the blankets. She had never felt a man’s body so completely next to her own without clothing before. Oh, Magnus had been naked, as had Harold, but both of them were too in the throes of death to be concerned about if she were there or not. She’d not had time to think, to feel. She tucked her hair behind her ear with a shaking hand. Were she honest, she found the situation most intriguing.
A twinge of guilt constricted her chest. She was allowing herself to want more of him, to think of things that could not be. She could not let herself become attached to him. It had to stop. If that meant pretending the shrew and feigning disgust with him, so be it. He would leave to France without her.
He reached forward, gliding a finger along her jaw.
"‘Tis the husband who decides such things, wife. And I prefer you be abed as God created you."
She jerked away, but the searing trail his finger had branded upon her skin remained.
"We’ll catch our death of the cold!" she protested, distancing herself from him and taking part of the covers to shield herself from his assessing gaze.
He lay back, his arm propping him up on the bed.
"Nay," he said as he patted the wrinkled sheet, "not if we share the warmth of the bed together."
She did her best to glare at him. He could not develop an attachment to her. She would not let him. She still needed him to take her virginity, but once that had happened she would need to put distance between them, not daring to tempt whatever evil lurked within her.
She was already feeling too much for him. That alone proved dangerous. Whenever she began to feel too much for someone, they died or left, leaving her with nothing but an aching heart. There was so little left within her that she didn’t dare take the risk on damaging what remained.
"But last night you wouldn’t lie with me. Unless you’ve changed your mind I have no reason to be in bed with you. Have you changed your mind?" she said crisply, trying to make it sound like they were discussing a contract for buying milk.
"Nay lass, only modified it a bit. Your maidenhead belongs only to the man whom you choose to give it to. I ask only that you keep me warm while I share your bed and keep this pretense of ours from being discovered."
Sorcha licked her dry lips. It was a decent enough proposal from a mercenary. It was a completely indecent proposal from her temporar
y husband. Playing at marriage was much more difficult, and dangerous, than she had anticipated.
The skimming of his bare foot along her leg made her judgment waver, but her resolve to have done with the contract, or have none of him at all, cleared her head.
"It’ll do you no good, Hunter. Even once you bed me, I have no intention of going with you to France."
A flicker of hard coldness transformed the shape of his mouth from a smile into a scowl.
"I’ll not share a bed with a wife who pines after another!" His weight on the bed shifted as he climbed out, stark naked and stood beside the bed.
Sorcha stared. She had never seen such a build. If he’d had any sense he would have slit a vein to spread upon the sheets, because had they consummated their vows, she certainly would have been torn asunder. Daylight was inching across the sky, lighting the room with the morning’s blush.
She gulped and mustered what she could of her senses.
"And I’ll not share it with a pig-headed fool! I said naught about another man." She swallowed hard and tried to choose her words carefully. "I am speaking of something far more elusive. No one can control whims of fate."
He quirked a brow, a sardonic smile spreading on his face.
"Then what is a witch?" he asked smoothly.
She stiffened, like a child sloshed with a pail of icy water, then edged to the opposite side of the bed in a backwards crawl, her body tense, her glare firmly fixed on him.
"You have no wish to save me! You’re probably a witch pricker, aren’t you?"
Ian muttered a Gaelic oath. How a woman could jump to such conclusions over a slip of the tongue confounded him.
"That is why you wouldn’t bed me, Hunter, isn’t it? Are they coming even now to collect me for burning? Did the kirk pay you more than my uncle?"
He gritted his teeth. God save him from another superstitious fool. How could she think so when it had cost him dearly not to bed her, even as she lay bare beside him? How much control had he wasted not touching her satin skin or kissing her? His rock hard arousal was evidence enough of his want of her, and she had seen that as bare as could be.
The Spellbound Bride Page 7
