The Spellbound Bride

by Theresa Meyers

  "Good eve, my lord. I’ve brought the manservant I’ve told you about."

  Archibald stroked his bare chin. "Step out of the light where I can see you." Duncan limped forward, disguising as best he could the twisted foot that hampered him.

  The young earl’s face puckered in anger.

  "You suggest this thing?"

  Duncan straightened his shoulders. Henna could feel the warm rage pulsating off him, but he was good at hiding it well and kept it in check.

  "I am far more fit in mind than body, my lord." He bowed.

  Henna edged closer to the young lord and spoke softly in his ear. "You need a man loyal to you. With so much unrest among the lords, another pair of keen eyes and ears can be of great service, especially since none would suspect him because of his deformities. His name is Duncan."

  "You have a point. Here now, come closer so I can get a good look at you, Duncan, was it?"

  "Aye, my lord." He shifted closer. Henna noted the quick spasm of pain that flitted across his features before disappearing under the smooth smile and golden blond locks.

  "You’d be catching a few ladies, I daresay, if it weren’t for you being lame."

  Duncan bowed his head. "You are too kind, my lord."

  "Can you ride?"

  "Aye."

  Archibald turned to Henna. "You say I can trust him. Are you willing to stake your life on that?"

  "Aye, my lord. He is absolutely loyal to you."

  "Good. Duncan, I want you to go to Abercairny ahead of me. You’ll leave tonight."

  Chapter Seven

  His bride was clearly terrified.

  Ian sought Sorcha out that evening, determined to have her tell him everything. She’d hidden herself after she’d broken away from him, running out of the room and not coming down to dine in the hall that evening. Being unfamiliar enough with the design of Ballochyle to know where to search for her, the best he could do was corner her when they climbed into bed.

  The candle guttered low, suffocating in melted tallow as he waited for her. Tension sharpened his senses enough to feel her presence when she returned to the room long after he’d gone to bed.

  She lifted the blankets of the bed he insisted they share. The chill of the evening air swept around his bare skin, making it prick with gooseflesh. He pushed his leg back to feel the silken warmth of her skin and instead felt the soft weave of wool.

  Ian bolted upright.

  "You will not wear that to bed again."

  He’d planned to entice the passionate nature from her, to gain her trust so he could find out the entire truth of what vexed her. But that would be next to impossible if she insisted they not touch.

  She lay with her back toward him, her hip a rounded curve beneath the blanket in the wavering light.

  "And why not?"

  It was the second night with his wife. The first had been bad enough. He wasn’t going to let it set a precedent, and he wasn’t about to let her past stand between them.

  "Because, wife, should anyone ever see you like this, they would only assume you couldn’t bear to sleep as God intended next to your husband."

  She rolled over.

  "And you’ve assured me none will come looking for proof of my virginity, so what is your purpose in badgering me? I’m only your wife in name, Hunter. Let us keep it that way and pray you live."

  He whipped the blankets off her. She grabbed at the handful of blankets he held, trying to wrestle them away. Ian used the moment to his advantage and gave the blankets a yank, pulling her fully up against him.

  "You are still my wife and while you are, you’ll lie naked in this bed."

  Sorcha was pressed against his bare chest. He could feel her heart beating and the soft swell of her breasts pressing against him even with her infernal clothing between them. A rush of heat seared his blood. He wanted to feel her, touch her, taste her.

  He felt her body tighten like the drawstring of a crossbow. In a swift movement, she darted up from the bed.

  "I’ll not lie naked in this bed with you in it. ‘Tis dangerous for us both."

  "Take it off." His tone was low, determined and lethal. He inched across the bed toward her.

  "Nay, I’ll not." She turned away from him.

  "You will, wife," he stalked towards her, "or I’ll do it for you."

  Sorcha dashed away, her eyes narrowed. She lifted her chin in a show of defiance against him.

  "You wouldn’t."

  He couldn’t help himself when she had baited the trap so well. His steps were slow and measured like a cat closing on its prey, but his blood roared in his veins, hot and furious. Not caring that she could see his aroused state, Ian placed a hand on either side of her, trapping her against the cold, rough stone of the wall.

  "Aye—I would."

  She swallowed. He watched the movement in her throat, fascinated by the suppleness of her skin and stroked a finger down her the silky slope of her neck. She trembled in response, her eyes growing dark with desire.

  A growl came from deep in this throat. He moved in closer, following the trail of his finger with feather-light kisses. He felt her breath catch.

  He pressed a kiss just behind her ear and whispered hotly against her. "Just like this."

  She relaxed into the sensation. Still kissing her, he slipped his fingers through the laces that held her gown in place and loosened them with a slight tug, then swiftly slipped the dress over her head. The garment fell to the floor leaving her clad in only her undergarments and that seductive feminine fragrance that was uniquely her own.

  Her eyes opened, but before she could open her tempting lips to defy him, he silenced her with a kiss, using his deft fingers to untie the laces that held her chemise closed. He spread it wide enough to slide down the length of her, just as he wanted her to slide down the length of him.

  She was more beautiful than he had anticipated, her skin softer than pink rose petals, and flushed from their argument. Her intoxicating floral fragrance ignited a fire in his blood. He wanted to touch her, to feel her against him, around him.

  In the coolness of the room, she shivered. Ian pulled her close, her bare skin consuming his reason with the intensity of sensation. He lifted her up and carried her to the bed where he lay down beside her. He kissed her again, tasting her. She softened, relaxing into the kiss.

  "It’s not so bad, now is it?"

  "Nay, not yet." In one swift move, she rolled and cocooned herself in the blankets, leaving him nothing on the bed to cover with.

  For a moment he was shocked, then amused. She had not figured him out as easily as that. He lay down beside her, casually lifting his arms and settling his hands behind his head. He intended to act as if it were a balmy summer evening rather than a chill spring night.

  Sorcha peeked from beneath the covers at him.

  "You’re going to catch your death of cold, as will I, if you persist in this nonsense about sleeping without proper clothing on."

  He stretched with luxurious ease like a contented cat.

  "This is actually quite comfortable. I’ve slept in much colder places than this."

  She tugged the blanket back over her head and huffed.

  Let her keep her small victory, he thought. He was not interested in winning the battle, but the war of wills between them.

  * * *

  The next few nights were no better. She tired of their stalemate, but was determined not to give in. She came to bed without a stitch of clothing, as he had demanded, only to wrap herself in blankets so tightly that he could not see even an inch of her skin. By the fourth night he seemed well and truly tired of the farce and irritable from lack of sleep. The less contact she allowed him to have of her, perhaps the more he would be convinced to leave her behind.

  She evaded him until he sought her out the morning before they were supposed to leave for Abercairny. The air charged with his presence the moment he stepped into the doorway of the little room off the larder, where she kept her herbs. The
deep sound of his voice made her skin tingle.

  "We’ve to pack today for the trip."

  She turned to look at him. His dark eyes bored into her, making her feel as thought he could see into her very heart. She fisted her hands to gain control, but it did nothing for the quick upbeat of her pulse. She took a deep breath, then pointed to the leather satchels on the worn wooden table.

  "Aye. I’ve already started."

  He leaned against the door for a moment, his form radiating power she could sense from across the room.

  "We’re only taking one horse each. You won’t be able to carry much."

  She ignored him as she continued to fill yet another satchel, but it was impossible. The man didn’t merely enter a room, he filled it, consumed it with his formidable presence. He moved beside her the heat from him touching her, although he did not. Ian lifted the flap of the nearest pack, making the earthen jars within clunk dully against each other.

  "Do you always pack so heavily? We are not on a caravan to the Holy Lands." He began picking through the satchel, taking out a small pot and a heavy jar of oil.

  She glared at him. "Put them back."

  He lifted the lid of one and took a whiff of the contents. His nose wrinkled, then shook his head at the noxious smell and quickly set the jar further aside.

  "Why? You’ve no reason for them."

  She lifted her chin in challenge.

  "You’re wrong."

  He returned her glare and reached in the pack further.

  "I think of the two of us, I’ve traveled enough to know what you will and will not need. This— " he said plucking a wooden spoon out of her bags, "is nothing you’ll need."

  Sorcha crossed her arms and tried to think of a tactful way to tell him that he trespassed upon her most personal possessions. Challenging him was not the answer. He rose to challenge. But he was intelligent.

  "Perhaps if you knew what these were for, it would make it easier to understand."

  He shook his head.

  "Nay. I know what I know. You don’t need it all. Women always pack far too much."

  Sorcha bit back the comment that ached to come from her lips. Men. Pig-headed, short-sighted, irritating bunches of sinew and brawn without the common sense God gave a stone. Sorcha tamped down the frustration simmering beneath her skin. Ignorance was no friend. She tried again.

  "I need them in case I haven’t the right mixtures packed with me for healing."

  He sighed in response. "Is that what this is about, then? Can you not make some of them in advance?"

  "Yes, but we chance that they might spoil or become ineffective. Then carrying them would be for naught."

  He glared at the jars and spoon for a moment, then nodded and placed the spoon back into the leather pack.

  "What else do you need, then?"

  Sorcha felt a sigh of relief escape her. Her shoulders eased. At least he seemed willing to consider she might have knowledge he did not. That in itself was an unusual trait in a man.

  "I’ve to gather some plants we’ll need to take with us."

  "I’ll go with you."

  The thought of him tramping along behind her like a great bear made her cringe. Perhaps he didn’t trust her, merely planned to supervise her efforts, getting in the way, more than he helped.

  "There’s no need."

  His face hardened. She’d seen the look enough on him to know it would brook no argument on the matter.

  "Aye. There is. I will not have you out in the woods alone."

  Considering the past few months, Sorcha saw the wisdom of this, even if he still seemed overly protective, and she nodded in agreement.

  "It wouldn’t hurt you to learn a little of this," she murmured. "It is always helpful."

  His kindness to her changed nothing between them, she thought. He may still believe she would accompany him to France after their trip to Abercariny, but she had no intention to do so. Too much lay at stake including Archibald’s life.

  And since her husband had lived nearly a sennight, she felt confident he would leave soon enough. He had his coin, and she had made it plain enough that he could find some other woman to give him children. No one in France would need to know his children were illegitimate.

  In truth, she believed the only reason he had been spared to this point was because she had retained her virginity. And lying with him in a bed, even with a blanket between them, did not keep her mind from temptation. No, no matter how tempting, she would be far better off when he was gone.

  He cleared the sudden thickness in his throat with a muffled cough as she donned her dark green cloak. Sooner or later he would have to reveal his plans for her to accompany him to France regardless of her opinion on the matter. He needed heirs and was determined that she was going to be there to provide them, willingly.

  Dear Saint Ninian, what would she be packing on a voyage that long? He might need to hire an extra horse to carry her things. He stared around at the corner of the kitchen she used for her healing arts and considered the weight of the iron cauldron in the fireplace and the myriad of jars and pots lined in neat rows along the walls over the table. Perhaps he’d even need a cart.

  He saw her stuff a small, white-handled knife into an empty brown leather satchel along a hunk of bread and cheese wrapped in cloth and some twine. She slung the worn pack over her shoulder, and glanced back at him.

  "Are you ready then?"

  "Aye." At least as ready as he could be under the circumstances.

  As he stepped out the door, he realized she was walking away from him.

  "Sorcha. The horses are this way."

  She shook her head.

  "Nay, we cannot pick from the forest if we cannot even touch it. We need to go on foot."

  Ian groaned inwardly. Ye gads, next she was going to tell him they had to pray each time they cut a leaf or uprooted a plant.

  They walked into the deep green of the wood. Without the gait of the horse and the sound of its clopping hooves and creaking leather to soothe him, Ian began to hear the forest in a new way. The sounds were distinct and easily missed. The rustle of the leaves or the croak of the frogs in the burbling water of a stream seemed to sparkle in the quiet.

  Her voice brought him out of his observations.

  "Ah, our first find."

  He watched as Sorcha bent down to examine a small cluster of yellow flowers among heart-shaped leaves, her cloak billowing out around her. She slid the pack off her shoulder and fished out the small knife.

  "Wood violets. These are wonderful to stave off infection." She cut a handful of the leaves and carefully measured and cut a piece of twine to wrap around them.

  Her understanding of healing arts intrigued him. He leaned against the tree.

  "How did you come by this knowledge of plants?"

  "My mother taught us bits when I was young. The rest I learned from the journals she wrote once I learned to read." She stood up, taking the satchel in her hand to a nearby oak tree.

  "Your mother could read and write?"

  "Aye."

  He was astonished. She said it as if it were a common enough trait among women. He liked the idea that she could teach their children such skills.

  Their children—the thought came unbidden and made his member surge. Not from the thought of children, per se, but from the thought of making them. The more he came to know of this bride, the more her enchanting spell wove itself around him. All but his heart. That he kept to himself.

  Sorcha began to cut at the bark, peeling away small chunks of it into her hand.

  "This is oak."

  He titled his head to one side as a dog did when it heard words spoken to it, but struggled to understand what was being said.

  He snorted. "I ken what it is."

  She lifted a brow and stared at him.

  "Do you wish to learn or not?"

  He coughed. "What is it good for?"

  "The powdered bark is used for treating fluxes."

  "
And all this time I just thought it made sturdy furniture and firewood."

  "There’s more than meets the eye in most things we take for granted every day," she chided as she folded the pieces of bark into a cloth.

  As they neared the opening of oaks, his inner sense was pricked by a strangeness about the place. As if it had been abandoned or worse. He noticed the blackened pile of rubble nearby.

  "What was that?"

  Sorcha swallowed.

  "Nothing."

  She averted her gaze, and her shoulders stiffened. She lied to him. There was something about the cottage that clearly shook her to the bone. He eyed the overgrown pile of rock and charred wood.

  "Was that the cottage you spoke of?"

  Sorcha spun around and stared at him.

  "I do not wish to discuss it."

  He pressed her harder. "Tell me what you remember."

  Her skin turned ashen as the color slid from her face.

  "They died there when I was four. All of them. And it was my fault." The vague stare and waxy look of her skin alarmed him. Instinctively he reached out to comfort her. She shook against him, her eyes tightly shut.

  "You were but a child. There is nothing you could have done."

  Her head reared up sharply, her eyes narrowed to slits as if she were waiting for a blow from him.

  "I started the fire that killed them."

  Chapter Eight

  He tightened his grip on her arms and pulled her back against his chest, peering intently into her eyes.

  "You cannot truly believe that."

  "I have no reason to believe otherwise. It is the truth. Henna and some of the others were there when it happened."

  Ian ground his teeth together as his jaw tightened. His wife held to this belief from childhood as though it would alter the course of history if she did not. As an outsider, he could see there was more to the story, and more to her relationship with Henna than she wanted to admit.

  "It is naught but stones and soot. It cannot hurt you. Only you give it the power to control your destiny."

  A heavy sigh wracked her body and she seemed to shrink beneath his touch.

  "I cannot escape what runs in my veins. It is with me wherever I go. I am blood of the blood. A child of a woman called witch. No matter what, that will haunt me until my last breath."