Her mouth dropped open as he stalked toward her. She squealed, dragging the covers with her as he leaped over the bed.
He caught her easily. In one quick movement, Ian flipped her onto her back, pinning her hands above her head. Her face seemed flawlessly calm, but her eyes betrayed her with a flicker of fear and anger.
His jaw tightened. He did not wish to scare her.
"What will it take before you trust me? Have I not proven the evil you fear powerless against me? Have I not protected you from that midwife who’d condemn you? My God, what do you want?"
She stared at him, her eyes losing their fire and turning still and deep like a bottomless loch. Her lips parted; her breath became short and soft, her voice a quiet rasp laced with unspoken pain.
"What I want, ye cannot give."
Ian thrust away from her, the sting of her words more painful than the cut of a claymore. He raked his fingers through his hair and stalked over to his breeches, still pooled on the floor. His gut instincts had been true. She had no want of him save this one act. The knowledge festered within him.
"Get up," he growled.
He watched from the corner of his eye as she mutely obeyed, taking the coverlet to shield herself from him. He snatched up his breeches and began to yank them on one leg at a time, even as he continued to take pleasure in the creamy slope of her shoulders and curve of her hips. He noticed that she had likewise collected her clothing and begun to dress, her back to him. Her calm in this moment only infuriated him, making him feel like a green swain.
"You’ll not leave my side, today. Is that understood?"
Her head popped through the top of her shift, the hem of it skimming the rounded curves of her thighs.
"Won’t that seem a bit odd?" She pulled her hair from underneath the fabric, letting the black river of it cascade down her back.
Ian swallowed. His reaction to her ran hot and cold. All intensity. For all the times she galled him and goaded his pride, he was still stubbornly attracted to her. It would take all of his discipline, and more, to keep his promise of her bride’s gift and not take it from her.
He lowered his voice, so only she could hear. "Nay, we’ve to go a-thigging. The clan will expect us to be close by one another. But I don’t want you to be by yourself, today. I’ll not give Henna a chance to get you alone, do you ken?"
"Aye."
"Besides, won’t we look besotted with each other?" He looked over his shoulder and gave her a sarcastic smile.
Sorcha raised an eyebrow at him, as if he were mad.
* * *
Together, they went downstairs and ate the fare that had been left out on the table to break their fast. The oatcakes were supplemented by a special treat of honeyed milk and Sorcha’s spirits lifted slightly. Perhaps the thigging would not be as bad as she anticipated. After all, now that she could claim a husband who had lived through the night, perhaps the townsfolk would be more receptive.
Ian ate hastily, then stood up from the table.
"Are you ready then, wife?"
Sorcha nodded. She rose from the table, smoothing her skirt, and took a deep breath. At least she had kept him from becoming attached to her. She would keep up their precious pretense, though their vows were not consummated, and in a fortnight, he would be gone. He’d be safe from death, and she would still have her heart intact. At least she hoped as much.
Ian walked nearly a step ahead of her, his long stride difficult to match. A confidence she envied radiated from his every movement. Her uncle had suggested they venture first to the home of the cloth merchant. As one of the most respected men in the village, his acceptance could smooth the way for them with the rest of the villagers.
"I’ll say nothing to them. I want to make that clear to you," he insisted in a commanding tone low enough for only her to hear. "‘Tis your people. You shall ask the thig of them." The milk in her stomach soured and curdled as a heaviness settled deeper over her.
When they arrived at the merchant’s home, Ian rapped firmly at the oak door. The sound echoed against the walls within. When there was no answer, he knocked again and glared at her. The door opened a fraction and a balding man with a florid complexion and great jowls peered out. Ian stood silently and stared, his arms crossed firmly across his broad chest.
She stepped forward and gave a tentative smile.
"Good morrow to you, Tevish. We’ve come to beg a thig of you to bless our marriage."
The man’s small, beady eyes narrowed. She had once fancied his son Rob some three years past. When they had found the lad, he was crumpled like a discarded rag doll in the high green grass, his neck broken and his father’s horse crippled, screaming in agony beside him. Tevish had blamed her for the accident to all who would hear.
Tevish looked at her pointedly, and sniffed, then thrust out a cellar of salt through the partially open door.
"Not that it’ll do you much good, but here it is." He slammed the door shut in her face.
While anyone else would have greatly appreciated the expensive gesture his gift represented, Sorcha withered inside. A cellar of salt. He sought to ward off witchcraft. With such a reception, she already knew the tenor the rest of the day would take.
At every home they came to it was much the same. Ian hung back, and she begged for the thigging. While the townsfolk complied, they did so behind the protection of their doors, keeping their children safely behind their skirts. Each time it stung a little less, as she gradually grew numb to their rejection.
She knew she couldn’t explain these feelings to her new husband. He was a mercenary. He’d learned to master his feelings in order to survive and probably would expect her to do the same. Only she couldn’t. Not any more.
For nearly as long as she could remember, she had borne the looks and accusations of her clan for nothing more than a simple childhood accident. Combined with the death of her father, Harold, Magnus and Rob, she was a virtual pariah among her own people. She craved more than just a kind word now and again from Archibald, the only person who deemed her worth a friendship. She needed to feel connected again to the world, and yet had no idea how to make it happen without risking what little she had left.
By the time they plodded back toward the keep, her arms were full—a rosary made of jet, a rowan seedling tied with scarlet thread, a crimson shawl and so much more—nearly all talismans against witchcraft.
They had almost made it through the bailey when Henna’s form hobbled before them from behind the stables.
"Surely, you’d not forget to come and ask a thig from Henna, would you, lass?"
Sorcha bristled. The voice alone brought her age-old fears crashing back upon her in a seething blackness that crowded her brain. In the back of her head a nagging clawed at her. There was more to Henna than met the eye and a reason beyond the obvious for the woman’s every action.
Sorcha straightened her shoulders, preparing for whatever onslaught the crone had arranged.
"Nay, we’ve but to rest a bit before we come to you. I believe my husband to be hungry for his midday meal." She looked toward Ian, pleading with him to agree, her eyes saying what she could not.
Ian stepped before her, giving the old woman a courtly bow and a smile that would make any woman’s heart melt.
"Pardon me for my rudeness to you earlier this morning, Mistress Henna. We’ve only been saving the best for last. Would you prefer us to come and get our thig now before the meal?"
Sorcha’s mouth dropped open in astonishment at the change in him. His flattery of the midwife shocked her. Was he dunderheaded? Could he not see that the midwife was pressing about the thig only to be sure and check for the maidenhead? Never in her life had Henna had a kind word for her. The woman despised her and the feeling was nearly mutual.
Almost imperceptibly, the older woman’s face softened at Ian’s compliment and manners.
"Follow me, young man." She wagged a crooked finger and began to waddle away. "It will take but a moment."
Ian grasped Sorcha’s arm, pulling her with him as he followed Henna.
She wanted to hit him. How in the heavens did he plan to work this out?
"Are you daft, Hunter?" she whispered to him as they walked.
"Nay, lass, I only plan to buy us more time. Allow this to be the thig I take this day. She looks harmless enough."
Sorcha shrugged and bit her bottom lip. She couldn’t fathom what he planned, but gave a silent prayer it would work. They entered the small, thatch-roofed hut behind Henna. The rafters hung low, blackened with age as much as smoke from the peat fire that smoldered in the center hearth. She noted that Ian bent slightly to accommodate his height.
Henna motioned for them to sit while she crossed to the wooden chest near her bed. She bent down, lifting the lid and dug out a scrap of plaid. Ian rose from his chair and assisted her to the table, giving his seat to the midwife.
"‘Tis kind of you to invite us in, Mistress Henna." The woman’s weathered lips lifted in a smile, revealing missing and blackened teeth. Ian’s charm seemed to have addled the crone, Sorcha marveled.
"What thig have you for us, good wife?" he continued, moving to stand behind Sorcha. The warmth of his broad hand came to rest on her shoulder. Sorcha shifted slightly in the chair, her senses alert to the danger that charged the air.
Henna peeled the bit of plaid away from the contents it covered. Inside lay a wee gown of the softest ivory linen that smelled of the old wool that had covered it and age.
"I once wished for children of my own," she said, pausing. She smoothed the delicate garment with a wrinkled hand. "But I settled for bringin’ those I could into the world. Now the time has come for me to pass this to another who would do what I could not." She pulled back from the baby gown and looked up meaningfully at Ian.
Ian reached out for the gift, but before he touched it, Henna’s claw-like hand grabbed the much larger hand and turned it palm up. She brushed a weathered thumb across the wound in his finger. An unwelcome chill swept through Sorcha. They were to be found out. The trickery Ian thought to pass as her maiden’s blood wouldn’t work.
"‘Tis a deep cut, lad. Infection could settle here easily," the midwife murmured, her eyes glittering, growing sharp again. "How did you come by it?"
Ian shifted his weight. "‘Twas nothing but accident some days ago as I sliced my meat during evening meal."
Henna nodded, releasing his hand and allowing him to pick up the gift off the small wooden table.
"Odd that it should be straight as that in the side of the finger for an accident," she muttered, loud enough to convey to them both.
Panic exploded in Sorcha’s chest. She bolted to her feet.
"We thank, you, Henna, for the bonnie bairn’s gown. It will come in useful," she said, her words rushed, fueled by her fear.
Ian shot her a quelling glance, which she dismissed. Did he not see how the woman planned to use this gown as an excuse to check her maidenhead?
Henna’s brow furrowed. Ian reached for Henna’s hand, giving it a small squeeze.
"‘Twas a lovely thig, Henna, far more than we deserved. We’ll be sure to bring the bairn so you can see how it fits him." The midwife’s face again smoothed at his words.
"I shall be waiting for him then," she replied.
She watched them leave her cottage, aware of their hushed and agitated voices. The laird’s niece did not trust her completely. Ever since she had reached an age to be mistress of the keep, there was little she could do to keep Sorcha in her place. Her resentment of the girl deepened a notch. Each day the little wretch looked more like Morgana, her mother, the bitch that had stolen the love of Mattias MacIver from her after Mattias had already got her with child.
Aye, she could have returned to the Campbell clan in ruin, but she was made of sterner stuff and had given birth alone and in secret. Once she discovered that the babe’s leg was twisted and deformed, she had dared not carry him back and declare him the son of Mattias MacIver. They would have mocked her and driven her away. So instead, she’d done the only thing she could think of. She’d delivered her son into the care of her cousin and his wife and refused to tell Mattias what had become of his son.
Henna clenched her hands tight against the very thought of the woman who’d taken her place at Lord Mattias MacIver’s side and eventually born her husband a royal bastard among their other children. She’d delivered Sorcha into the world for Morgana only to have her own child, the rightful MacIver heir, pushed aside because of it. It had taken so long to get to this point. So long to get what was hers by right.
The fact that Hunter had not died from her brew told her that Sorcha’s skills in herb blending were improving despite her efforts to keep her from the knowledge of healing Morgana had amassed.
She would have to try something else. If she were to exact her due from the MacIvers, and win the royal favor that would bring things back around full circle, then it would take more than she had anticipated. That stupid Argyll lad though to use her to win Sorcha’s hand, but, just as she intended, when she’d told him of Sorcha’s true birth, the young earl’s appetite for power had been whetted. What better way for him to assure his place in the monarchy than have his child be sired of royal blood? And what better way for her to ensure that the stripling would be removed from power once James took the throne of England, than to have him linked to Bothwell’s treasonous plans?
Henna went round the back of her cottage and took a pigeon from the special cove she kept for herself. She tied the small note that bade Duncan to come to her about the bird’s scrawny leg, then threw it to the air.
It was time Duncan knew his father and his place. If she had her way, her son would sit atop the seat of Lord MacIver as he was, by birth, born to do, and possibly that of Clan Campbell as well once the earlship was without an heir. Until now, she’d kept Duncan’s father a secret from both her son and her cousin in the Campbell clan, who had fostered Duncan as a baby. As far as everyone knew, Duncan was a Campbell. Only she knew the truth. In his veins flowed MacIver blood, the blood of a Laird.
Revenge was near at hand.
Chapter Six
"I thought you were supposed to be protecting me," Sorcha snapped, as she tossed the thigging gifts on the table.
"Aye, I am." Ian picked up the pewter tankard on the long table before him and took a long, unhurried swallow.
"Nay, you put us directly in her path. Had we stayed but a moment longer, she would have demanded for me to spread my legs." She stood over him, her skin flushed in a way that made him wonder if she was pink all over, or only where he could see.
"I think you once again misjudge my abilities, wife. I was assessing the enemy."
"Do you think to charm her into accepting my maidenhead’s disappearance? As if it would just melt away on its own to convince her after you’re gone?" She folded her arms tightly over her breasts, which served only to push them to near bursting over the top of her bodice, and threw a disgusted glance at the pile of thigging gifts on the table. Ian took another long draft of the ale, letting it cool the back of his throat and soothe his heated thoughts of what his wedding night should have been like.
She claimed she wanted him only for the necessity of removing her maidenhead, but her reactions to him both in the wood and in the bedchamber the night before said otherwise. The possibility that he could draw such a response from her intrigued him.
"Well, what say you?"
He set the mug down and paused before answering, shifting in his chair to disguise the source of his discomfort.
"You don’t trust me."
"Trust you? What has that to do with your pathetic attempts to woo the midwife?"
Ian chuckled, stifling it with his hand when he realized her fists were balled tightly on her shapely hips. Perhaps she did not realize just how telling her anger was, nor how it pleased him to know he affected her.
"I believe that you are jealous," he teased.
She turned her back to him
.
"Jealous? I would have to be besotted by you to be jealous and that is not a possibility."
She was unconvincing. Ian had seen Mary try to wheedle her way with protests, but Mary had been far more versed in the art of manipulation than Sorcha.
"And pray tell, why am I so unlovable?" Ian sat back in the chair.
"You’re a professional murderer, for one thing. Not the sort of profession you would want passed onto your children. Someone would always be seeking you out for revenge."
He cocked a brow at her comment and reached for her hand.
"Anything else?" He turned her about and pulled her closer to him. She stood near enough he could smell her skin, nearly taste it.
"You snore."
He suppressed a grin. As long as he had her in his bed to know that he snored, he was making progress. Ian began rubbing small circles on her wrist and palm, noting with satisfaction that her pulse ran faster beneath his fingers.
"And?"
She looked down at him, her eyes growing liquid at his touch.
"And you’ve no proper family."
Her comment, innocent enough, brought a bitter taste to his mouth. He leaned forward, his mood darkening.
"Oh, aye, I have family, but there’s nothing proper about them. I’ve no wish to think, let alone speak, of them again. Is that clear?"
The softness in her face dissipated instantly at his words. His hold on her hand tightened enough to hurt. He eased his grip, not wanting to frighten her further.
She ran her free hand through his hair, her touch soothing him.
"I’m sorry. I didn’t know."
He looked away from her, his anger raw and fresh, stinging as if it were a new wound. He did not want to betray this weakness to her.
"I pray you never know such treachery from your own kin."
Her touch faltered. "Perhaps I already have."
Her cheeks had lost their color. Silently Ian cursed himself. Embroiled in his own bitter memories, he failed to see the fact bluntly put before him today that her own clan held no regard for her. She was as wounded as he, only being a woman, had no way of leaving it all behind until she wed.
The Spellbound Bride Page 8
