The Spellbound Bride

by Theresa Meyers

  "Then I shall have to see to it that you have new air to breathe in a place where no one knows what you have been, only what you are."

  "Is that what you are searching for?"

  "Aye." Ian turned her in his arms holding her in his arms to comfort her. "Do not think on such things, wife. We have enough to do on the morrow without dwelling on the past."

  From a thick copse of trees, Henna watched them. Escape indeed. What kind of revenge would that satisfy to know that Sorcha had escaped to happiness with her hapless husband? None.

  If she was to have the girl accused of practicing the craft without implicating herself, she’d have to move quickly.

  * * *

  The next day Ian, Sorcha and Archibald rode from early morning on, as they made way to Moray’s estate.

  By mid-afternoon Sorcha became weary. Though she had said not a word, he could tell that the journey was harder than she was accustomed to. Her face tightened with fatigue and her back curved with discomfort.

  The fact that she plodded on without a word of complaint, spoke plainly of how much hardship she had endured. In some ways her burden of family problems was greater than his own. At least he suffered no guilt.

  He turned in his saddle. "We’ll stop at the meadow up ahead." Sorcha and Archibald rode side by side a short distance behind him. Archibald leaned over to Sorcha, and whispered something only she could hear that made her laugh.

  Ian twisted away from the scene. He should be the one coaxing smiles and laughter from her. Inside the familiar doubts began to work their dark fingers into his mind. Had she naturally just fallen back, letting him take lead as they rode, or did she prefer the lad’s company? What had Archibald said? Were they planning a tryst?

  Ian shook his head to rid himself of the doubts. He was besotted with her and losing his control in the process. It wouldn’t do.

  There was no way he could keep them all safe if his mind were occupied by the vexing contradictions she posed. It was best if he put some distance between himself and her until she came to her wits and decided she couldn’t resist him.

  They guided the horses to a halt beside a stream, letting the animals have their fill of the cool running water. Sorcha stretched upward, giving Ian a tempting view of her breasts as they pressed firmly against the fabric of her gown.

  A movement on the other side of her caught his notice. The young lord was staring at her with the same rapt attention he had himself. Ian bristled. No matter what his wife swore, the lad had more than platonic ideas in mind. What randy youth didn’t? But eyeing a married woman, and one that had been more of a sister to him? He would just have to make sure Argyll knew a claim was staked.

  As soon as the Earl of Argyll became aware he was under Ian’s scrutiny, he stalked away to the other side of the horses and retrieved his and Sorcha’s packs.

  Ian splashed a handful of cool water on his face and neck and, for Sorcha’s sake, tried to ignore the twisting in his gut.

  She beamed as she took the pack from the earl.

  "Thank you, my lord." From one pack she pulled out a cloth for them to sit on and began to spread it out, giving him an excellent view of her rounded behind.

  He had every intention of exploring those curves for himself.

  She settled herself down on the blanket and Argyll quickly joined her.

  The blood in Ian’s veins began to pound, not with passion but with barely leashed need to defend what was his. He stared at the pair of them sitting so near together.

  Her eyes focused on him. "Aren’t you going to sit down?"

  He glanced at the small blanket and determined he’d be sitting in the grass regardless. There was hardly room for his bulk beside the two of them. He turned away and settled himself against a nearby oak.

  Sorcha worked at dividing the meal and came toward him with his share.

  "Are you sure you won’t join us?"

  "There isn’t room," he stated flatly.

  She looked over her shoulder.

  "I see what you mean. Would you like me to come and join you?"

  The concern in her eyes revealed that she was trying hard to smooth over the situation. He was not helping the matter.

  He reached out, grasped her hand and gave it a small squeeze to reassure her.

  "There’s no need. I’ve been comfortable in my own company for long enough. One more meal shouldn’t matter."

  She shrugged, then turned away, walking back toward Argyll. Ian admired the natural, easy sway of her shapely hips and the smooth, fluid lines of her back.

  The lad grinned at her and patted at the space beside him on the blanket. Ian held himself in check, realizing what it would look like to Sorcha if he challenged the lordling to a battle out of the blue, and trounced him soundly.

  She would be furious with him and any trust he had gained would freeze over quicker than a shallow loch in the dead of winter. She seemed to trust so few people and those, she did, she did blindly. Better for him to keep his cool and think of ways to gain her unwavering affection for himself.

  Sorcha took a drink of the cider she had brought to quench their thirst, the sweet taste of it falling flat on her tongue. Hunter must think her blind not to see the throbbing veins in his neck and taunt shoulders. Something about Archibald had him enraged.

  Och, what was it with men? Did they not understand the simple bonds of friendship that could exist when a man or woman was closer than your own kin? Hunter abruptly left the edge of the meadow and walked in the direction of stream and the horses.

  Sorcha bit into a wedge of tangy cheese and chewed while she let her gaze slip from the boy beside her to the retreating man. Couldn’t Hunter see that Archibald was but a lad? If she needed to step in and protect the earl, she would. She’d not let Hunter’s overwrought sense of protectiveness keep her from helping her one trusted friend.

  She smiled at Archibald. "Will there be any ladies in attendance?"

  He shifted slightly, his eyes darting to Hunter’s back.

  "I cannot be sure. It is a hunting party of sorts."

  "Of sorts?"

  He gave her a sly grin.

  "I’ve a dual purpose in bringing you to Abercariny. We are to pick up your horse, but in truth, it was Lord Bothwell who asked to see you and the Chamberlain of the infant Earl of Moray offered up the estate as a place for us to meet. I saw no harm in the favor when it suited our purpose of getting the mare."

  Why should Lord Bothwell be interested in meeting her? She had no important clan connections, save Archibald. Bothwell was a royal by birth, next in line for the throne should James fail to muster enough support from the sharply divided lords of Scotland. What he could possibly want in meeting her was beyond her ken.

  Sorcha handed Archibald the napkin with the remaining hunks of cheese.

  "Still intrigued by playing at politics?"

  "No worse than you," he gibed in return.

  She gave him a playful shove, but then her smile faded.

  "I never did thank you for standing beside me when, when— " Her throat grew too thick to speak and she cast her glance away to stem the welling tears in her eyes.

  Archibald leaned over and softly brushed the back of his hand against her cheek.

  "It was nothing you wouldn’t have done for me time and again. Magnus didn’t deserve you anyway. We oddities have to stick together."

  She lifted her gaze.

  "Still, thank you. You risked a great deal throwing your lot with mine."

  He chucked her lightly on the chin.

  "You are worth it and more."

  Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the tips of Hunter’s boots beside her leg and looked upward at his impressive height.

  "If I may break up this tête-à -tête, ladies, we must ride if we are to get there before dark."

  She sighed and rubbed the small of her back. Her thighs and buttocks were sore already. Another few hours would turn them to pulp. Perhaps she could have a soothing herbal bath
that evening to ease the soreness. That one grand possibility made her smile as she began to pack up the remainder of their meal.

  They rode for three more hours through field and then woods before they crossed on to Lord Moray’s lands. As they neared the grand country home in the evening twilight, an uneasiness settled over Ian.

  The stone house was painted white, its windows dark, soulless eyes, its red door a painted, gaping maw. The sharp corners of the house stood in stark relief against the trees that bordered it.

  A chill swept through him. His senses came to full alert. Ian’s sharply honed battle instincts took over.

  He scanned the woods that bordered the house. They were thick with shadows and trees, easily hiding soldiers on foot. There were more than a dozen fine horses in the stable that looked to have been ridden some distance, their backs still bearing the marks of saddles. This hunt was not to be a solitary affair.

  Ian locked his gaze on the Earl of Argyll until the lad acknowledged him, then Ian nodded in the direction of the horses. The young earl signaled an affirmative in return. They had worked out their signal exchanges the evening before to be prepared should the opportunity to speak not be available. Argyll was a quick study. He may not like the unnatural affection lad seem to possess for Sorcha, but he knew the earl would not risk her safety any more than he would.

  He tried to shake off the uncomfortable intuition that plagued him. It was only a stone manor house likely filled with pompous Scottish lords. Merely an empty wood. There would be talk, a hunt and nothing more, he reassured himself, even as his neck prickled.

  "We’ll dismount here," the Earl of Argyll called back to Ian and Sorcha as he stopped his mount near the sweeping granite front steps. Both Sorcha and Ian pulled up behind.

  Ian then assisted Sorcha from her horse, his hands gentle around her waist. He thought he caught a glimpse of warmth in her eyes, but noted also the weariness in her face from the long trip. He placed her hand in the crook of his arm and handed the reins of her mount to a waiting stable lad. Together, the trio climbed the steps toward the large red door opening before them.

  "My lords and lady, welcome to Abercairny," the well-dressed chamberlain stated with a bow of his head. The entrance was opulent, but cold and lifeless, from the shining brass chandelier hung above them to the gray marble floor beneath their feet. It smelled of beeswax and expensive lemon oil, but nothing warm or inviting one would expect in a home.

  "Lord Bothwell and the others are awaiting the gentlemen in the great room. Would you care to see your room and refresh yourself, my lady?"

  Sorcha fell into step behind a waiting maid as they climbed the sweeping marble staircase and disappeared above the stairs. He hoped that a little solitude might ease her weariness. Ian snapped back from his musing to focus on the situation at hand. He needed to observe and listen, and for that he needed all his wits.

  "This way gentlemen," the chamberlain said as he directed them through the doors of the drawing room and introduced them to the group of assembled lords.

  "My Lords, I present you Lord Argyll," the chamberlain said as he glanced at the gathering of other well-dressed men in the room. "May I present to you, Lord Argyll, my Lords Bothwell, Erroll, Sutherland, Crawford, Caithness, and Lord Johnstone. They will be taking part in the hunt."

  Argyll bowed. "My lords, allow me to introduce to you Ian Hunter. He and his bride have come as representatives of my protector, Lord MacIver." Ian bowed, but remained steadfastly silent. The chamberlain retired to a seat at the back of the room, a part of the group because he was to direct the affairs of the Moray estate, but not a lord himself.

  Ian tried to do so as well, but wasn’t as fortunate.

  "So you’re the fellow who married the MacIver lass," a young man said, turning his attention to Ian. He was thick about the middle, dressed in vibrant yellow silk stockings and green, slashed and padded trunk hose with a matching doublet. "I’m Errol. Heard quite a bit about the trouble the Campbells were having with that one. Seems witches are thick as heather lately."

  Ian gave a nod of acknowledgment but remained quiet, hoping the men would continue their earlier conversation. He surveyed the room, looking for the exits and taking measure of each man there. He wanted no surprises. Ian watched with fascination how Argyll easily took up the mantle of his station. While the lad may not yet be competent in battle, he was remarkably astute in politics.

  Satisfied that Argyll was safe for the moment, Ian took his leave of the gathering and went to look for Sorcha. She was stripped to her chemise, washing her face, when he entered their chamber.

  Sorcha heard his lithe movements before she saw him. Ian had closed the door and was leaning against the frame watching her, damn him. Sorcha splashed the tepid water over her face once more. His very presence charged the air, making the fine hairs on her arms and neck arch in response.

  His voice was dark silk, fine and smooth. "I’d wager you’d prefer a hot tub of water, wouldn’t you lass?"

  A scene flashed in her mind. He strode out of Loch Aber under the ripe fullness of the moon, the water sparkling in diamond drops as it clung to his bare skin, and she walked to join him, the wind making her skin shiver. She shook her head, vexed with herself for letting her thoughts take such a turn.

  "Nay."

  "Are you sore from the journey?"

  She turned to him, toweling the moisture from her face. The intense throbbing she felt wasn’t from the ride; it was a nameless, unfamiliar need he kindled within her.

  "Aye, who wouldn’t be after traveling all day on that brute of a gelding. But I’ve fared worse."

  He chuckled, and strode up behind her, placing his broad hands on her shoulders. She turned, loosening his hold on her. The heat of him and comforting hint of rosemary that clung to his shirt made her want to fall against him. She desired to have him kiss her, but didn’t dare acknowledge it.

  "You’re not what you seem, Sorcha."

  She tilted her chin up, damp, dark curls brushing her cheeks. Could he see through her so easily? None had ever understood her deeply hidden emotions before. What power had he over her?

  "And what do I seem to you?"

  Ian’s gaze raked her, washing her over with a wave of fiery need. In that instant she knew he wanted to kiss her, to take her to him. All she needed to do was make the step toward him and he would give way. It was the very thing she must not do. Sorcha held herself in check.

  He dropped his hands and turned away, stepping over to the bed and pulling a blanket from it. Without looking at her, he handed it to her.

  "You must be getting cold."

  Sorcha shivered inside, but not from cold. His gaze made her more intimately aware of herself and gave vent to the temptation to let him touch her in ways that would bind her to him forever, not just one night. She wrapped the blanket about her and sat on the edge of the bed.

  He glanced back as he made to open the door.

  "The men will be going out to the hunt in the morning. Will you be all right here?"

  She nodded and gave him a reassuring smile.

  "I’ve less to fear here than in my own village, Ian. At least no one here would demand I prove myself free of the Devil’s mark."

  His brows creased in concern.

  "Should anyone ask you such things, you would tell me wouldn’t you?"

  "Aye. Not that I unable tell them to go to the Devil myself."

  He chuckled. "Will you be dining with us tonight?"

  "Aye. Allow me to don a fresh gown."

  His grin widened.

  "Only if I may help…"

  Sorcha knew he teased her.

  "Out with you!"

  He skillfully dodged the pillow she threw at him and stole out of the door.

  She met him at the top of the stairs and together they walked down to join the others for the evening meal. As they entered the large room, her breath caught in her throat. A quick glance over the room revealed that she was the only woman presen
t at dinner.

  While the company of so many men didn’t frighten her, it made her distinctly uncomfortable. She leaned into Ian as he walked her to her chair, then sat down beside her.

  Archibald, who sat on her other side, took her hand.

  "My lady, allow me to introduce you to my Lords Bothwell Errol, Sutherland, Crawford, Caithness, and Johnstone." The Earl of Errol gave her a particularly lurid grin, Sutherland, Caithness and Johnstone merely nodded, Crawford, who was a fat hog of a man, nearly choked, and the eldest of them, the Earl of Bothwell, smiled with genuine kindness.

  "It’s a pleasure to meet you, my dear," said Lord Bothwell.

  "Thank you, my lord."

  "It seems as though married life agrees with you."

  "Aye, it always agrees with me. It’s my husbands who seem to shun it."

  Bothwell laughed and a second later the others followed suit.

  "Is your aim always so straight to the heart of things, lass?"

  Sorcha tilted her chin up.

  "I’m afraid so, my lord. One learns to be direct with death as a companion."

  He nodded in agreement. "Good, a lass after my own heart. What think you of King James? Is he Scots, French or English?"

  Sorcha glanced over to Archibald. His brows were pulled closely together and his eyes fierce. He was warning her to watch her step. He had told her that the deepest political battles began with the simplest of questions.

  Sorcha flicked her gaze back to Lord Bothwell’s bearded face.

  "To tell the truth of it my lord, aren’t all men basically the same under their breeches no matter from whence they hail?"

  Lord Errol leaned into the conversation from across the table.

  "Well lass, that is a matter of opinion. Some say the French aren’t even enough man for each other." The men at the table laughed loudly at the bawdy remark.

  Sorcha shifted in her seat. She’d heard a rumor from her uncle how the King had picked up an affection for young men from his French cousin, but she dared not believe it. Conversation drifted to matters of state and more importantly to the gathering of the court.