"So, you’ve never met the king?" Bothwell’s eyes were fixed firmly on her. Sorcha felt she was being inspected.
"Nay, my lord."
He stroked his fingers down through his beard.
"Interesting. I thought your uncle would have taken you to court."
"He rarely allowed me to leave Ballochyle, my lord."
"I don’t suppose you’d entertain the thought of attending court," Lord Johnstone said, eyeing Lord Bothwell between bites of pheasant.
Bothwell shook his head, but smiled.
"Nay. I’ve thought of it, but I’ve no wish to see James’s eyes bulge any further than they do already."
Sorcha pushed her food about on her plate, unwilling to eat. A lull in the conversation caused her to look at Lord Bothwell. He grinned.
"Doesn’t your royal lineage compel you to go?" Sorcha asked.
"Aye, but no more than it apparently compels others in the similar stations. Family ties are strained at best, which more forcibly compels me to stay away," he answered kindly. "James did not appreciate our difference of opinion some years ago and believes I mean to take the throne from him."
"And do you, my lord?" Sorcha asked, enjoying the conversation.
The conversation at the table lulled, as if she had asked something of great import. Archibald’s hand grasped her knee and gave it a tight squeeze beneath the table, warning her of treading in dangerous waters.
Bothwell winked at her. "Aye, lass."
Sorcha nodded, but kept her thoughts to herself, instead listening as the men carried on their conversation. They spoke of treason pure and simple, no matter how jovial they seemed, and the thought shocked her.
Lord Sutherland chuckled, then took a sip of the ruby-colored wine. "And why shouldn’t he after we took his beard at Holyrood? I think we made it plain enough to him that his power on the throne is tenuous at best."
The Earl of Bothwell steepled his hands together. "Aye. But he was younger then. Now James doesn’t seek revenge alone. He wants to win both the crowns of Scotland and England. He’ll use whatever means necessary to bring our cause to an end. And thus, so must we."
Crawford leaned forward, a difficult task considering his bulk, and pointed to Bothwell with his fork. "You know the latest gossip says he’s stooped to placing a ransom on your head for witchcraft."
Conversation and the clinging of silverware abruptly halted around the table. The word alone made Sorcha shudder. All eyes turned to Bothwell. He wiped at his mouth with his napkin, then settled back in his chair.
"Aye. ‘Tis no rumor. I was brought a copy of the proclamation by messenger. ‘Tis yet another reason why venturing to court to visit my cousin would be ill-advised. It seems royal blood offers very little protection these days. Dear cousin James may be after following in Elizabeth’s footsteps in more ways than one. If she were willing to behead Mary Queen of Scots, why wouldn’t he consider it perfectly acceptable to slay his own kin as well?"
"You mean that short, bow-legged little bastard intends to kill you through the church if he can’t unseat you politically?" Errol growled.
"Exactly. ‘Tis not important now. He will have to amass evidence against us to proceed with any trial, then capture us. Both are highly unlikely as long as I don’t go near Edinburgh."
Sorcha’s ears stung. The king must have truly gone mad to claim his own blood to be associated with witchcraft. The fear among the people was real enough. Did he seek to incite them to riots in their religious fervor?
"A fine way to treat one’s kin," Sutherland muttered.
"And why should any familial loyalty be expected from a man who never met his father and was abandoned by his mother before he could toddle, to be raised by priests and politicians?" Bothwell said then shrugged. "James is king, for the moment, but let us not forget he is also merely a man as any other."
"Aye, well the order does put a knot in the plans though, doesn’t it." Lord Crawford said, stuffing another helping of pork slathered in gravy into his mouth. "What of you, Argyll?" he mumbled, the food rolling about in his mouth. "Do you intend to appear at court or send a representative in your place?"
Archibald set down his wine glass and settled a firm stare on Crawford.
"Aye. I intend to be there."
Sorcha’s stomach flipped. It was preposterous. She could not let him go into such a dangerous situation. If any whiff of his connection to her reached the king’s ears, there was a chance that he might jump to the conclusion that Archibald was bewitched simply because he looked kindly on her.
"Won’t some take that as a sign of support among the Campbells for the crown?" Errol grumbled.
"Perhaps, but to not show myself would be perceived as weakness in clan leadership," Archibald replied firmly.
"Aye, that it would, you being so young and all," retorted Sutherland. "No offense meant, Argyll."
"None taken, my lord." Archibald leaned close to her and whispered in her ear. "Sorcha, say nothing about loyalties. We’ve no idea whom we can trust."
"Hunter, it seems Argyll is quite taken with your bride," Errol said.
Sorcha glanced at Ian and saw the thrumming pulse in his neck grow stronger.
"She’s acted as mother to Lord Argyll while Lord MacIver acts his protector. ‘Tis only natural," he replied smoothly, his voice betraying none of the agitation she saw in his tightly held shoulders and the rigid line of his neck.
Beside her, Archibald grasped her hand and gave it a squeeze. She squeezed back, their signal to each other since Archibald had been very young that everything was all right.
Her uncle had never allowed them to speak while being spoken to, even to each other. At first she had devised it to save Archibald from the beatings he’d earn for speaking out of turn. Later it became a natural habit and a comfort between the two of them. Archibald now used the signal to give her comfort, ever since her uncle had slapped her for an affront when Uncle Charles realized he could no longer vent his anger at the ten-year-old earl who was nearing the age to take the duties of his title.
But the conversation had taken an uncomfortable turn. While she understood the critical importance of the clans aligning themselves to protect their faith, she hated the mindless battle and loss of life such politics caused, and wanted no part of it. Sorcha stood quickly from the table, her stomach twisting uncomfortably at all she’d heard. "I beg pardon, my lords, but I’m wearied from our journey. I’ll excuse myself to retire now."
"Aye, lass. A long day of it is always best in making a body slumber," Bothwell said with a cordial smile.
Her gaze flicked to Ian. He nodded his head and winked at her.
She bent close to his ear, sliding one hand along his collar, inhaling the now familiar scent of rosemary and mint that clung to him. "Kindly do not keep me waiting too long, husband," she said, her voice silky and teasing. She glanced up to make sure the others had heard the gist of her comment as she slid her hand slowly off his shoulder. "Good evening to you all," she added and dipped a small curtsy.
Even as she left the room, the heat of her touch still seared his shoulder. For an instant she had transformed from a woman unsure of her worth to a siren, all for the benefit of the audience. The recognition left him stunned. If she played so with the present company, how much more would she toy with him were he addled enough to fall under her enchanting spell?
"By God, Hunter, she’s braw and spirited," Errol’s voice invaded his thoughts, drawing him back to the present company. "No wonder you couldn’t resist the temptation of her father’s gold. Too bad I wasn’t without an heir or I would have been tempted to try disproving her a devil’s maiden myself."
Ian almost rose to the bait.
"My Lords, if we are done with sport, may we return to the issue at hand?" Argyll said, his tone laced with irritation.
"Aye," said Sutherland. "We’ve but a week until court and there are sure to be judgments meted out against those who do not attend."
Ian let them
talk for the next hour or so, each minute crawling past as he thought about Sorcha’s comment. She’d most likely be asleep when he came to bed and, like as not, wearing all her clothes like a maiden aunt.
He only half listened to the conversation, but it was clear enough the political turmoil brewing would erupt soon.
"So what are we to do with the lass?"
Ian’s attention riveted to Lord Errol.
Bothwell leaned forward. "I ken she hasn’t been told. It would be wise of us to consider how best to use this when dealing with James."
"My lords, are you discussing my wife?"
Bothwell settled back in his chair. "Aye, Hunter. You have quite a prize. One that would make a most interesting introduction at court."
"And why is that, my lord?"
"She’s got royal blood, Hunter. And she doesn’t ken it."
"And what has that to do with your efforts to unseat James?"
"Who better to replace a king who plans to live in England, than with his own blood?"
They were mad. All of them.
"You can’t possibly think she would agree to any such thing."
"That is why we need you. We need you to protect her until we can find a way to bring events about, where we might use her to gain the throne."
"She’s my wife!" Ian growled as he glared around at gathering of men.
Lord Sutherland stood up. "Aye. That may be true, but she may also be a candidate for the throne. You cannot stand in the way of that."
"She can’t be legitimate. How would you come to terms with that and the kirk?"
Bothwell spoke in even, measured tones. "That’s what we’re seeking to remedy. The Catholic Church wants a royal firmly committed to the church as Queen Mary was. James is too unstable in his efforts to please Elizabeth. Too much like Elizabeth, and ever since the defeat of the Spanish, they would do anything to see a catholic monarch in control again."
Lord Sutherland steepled his fingers. "We need you to take her to Edinburgh where we can reveal her to the heads of the church."
Ian held himself in check rather than telling them all to go to the Devil.
"You’ll only do this thing with her consent?"
The men glanced at each other, then looked toward Bothwell, who gave the final nod.
As they all left the table Argyll tilted his head, indicating Ian should follow. They walked up the grand staircase, Ian matching the lad’s slow pace up the stone steps.
"I know that came as a surprise, but you mustn’t tell Sorcha," Argyll said, as he wiped the blade of his dirk clean from dinner and replaced it in the scabbard at his belt.
"Why keep secrets from her, especially you of all people, whom she trusts?"
"It is a heavier burden to know, than be blissfully unaware."
The lad had a point. If he could spare her the burden by laying it on his shoulders, he would.
"Do you believe this connected to the deaths of her husbands and family?"
"Aye. And anyone connected to her that might know the truth. You’ll be journeying with me to Edinburgh won’t you?" Argyll asked.
"Aye. It looks as though I haven’t a choice."
Argyll smiled. "That’s good of you, Hunter. It’ll make things so much easier."
They parted in easy company and bid each other good evening.
As he approached the door of his chamber, Ian paused, his heart thumping faster than it should in his chest. His bride of royal blood, set him thinking in directions he had no right to. She had made him long for hearth and home, for a warm fire at night and the curl of her dark tresses against his chest as she lay her head against him, for dark-haired children to ride upon his back and squeal with delight. If the men below stairs had their way, she would never truly be his.
He shook his head. Scotland was no place for him. He would see his duty done and leave for France. He pushed the door open gently, trying to keep the sound from waking her. In the dim light he could make out her form, snuggled into the chair by the low-burning fire.
A wrenching ache in his gut made him want to lift her up into his arms and hold her steady against his pounding heart. Ian stuffed the feeling down, swallowing away the bitterness of the truth. She didn’t want him and had rejected his advances. She had a different future awaiting her that didn’t involve him.
She shifted, lifting her head and turning to see him when he shut the door.
"A late evening, Ian?" God help him, he even liked the sound of his name upon her lips.
"Aye. They were intent on talking politics."
Sorcha twisted in the chair to face him, the sleeve of her shift slipping off one shoulder. Ian tightened in response. Despite every level-headed thought in his mind warning against his rashness, he wanted her. The creamy slope of skin licked by firelight intensified his resolve to claim her as his own in body and soul.
"Would you like to warm by the fire before going a’bed?"
His blood was already hotter than the stones around a campfire, sizzling in his veins.
"Nay. I’m warm enough."
She stood from the chair, unwittingly placing herself in silhouette against the fire’s light. His pain doubled, pooling hot in his groin.
"I see you didn’t leave your clothes on for bed."
"What would have been the purpose, husband, when you would insist I take them off?" Her soft, seductive smile undid him. He reached out to her.
She stepped into his arms, and he closed himself gently about her soft, warm body.
"Is it as bad as that?" he cajoled, setting his chin to rest lightly upon her head.
"Nay, I’m getting used to your demanding ways." She snuggled into his chest. He could feel her hands curled between them and longed to take one and begin a lengthy exploration of her, starting with her fingertips and working his way along every sweet dip and hollow of her form. He leaned his head lower, kissing her bared shoulder. She shivered against him, a soft sigh of delight escaping her.
He moved his kisses slowly along the slope of her neck, indulging in the soft, sweet fragrance that lingered in her hair as his hands slid with a gentle caress along her back, along the indention of her waist and the swell of her hips. He let out a warm breath against her ear, and she trembled against him.
"Are you cold?" he teased, knowing better.
Sorcha pulled back enough to look at his smiling mouth. His touch set her afire, singeing her skin with heat and melting her from within.
Her fingers quickly worked the laces of his doublet and shirt, loosening them and baring his skin to her touch. His heart beat hard and fast beneath her fingers, matching the rhythm she felt building in her own body.
She strained against him, pulling him closer, needing to feel him inside her skin, needing to taste him. Through the thin fabric of her nightgown, she could detect the hard length of him pulsing against her and the sensation increased the pulsing need growing within her.
When he parted her lips with his tongue, the kiss grew both more intimate and more alarming, the slick solidness mimicking an unnamed desire she’d not had before.
His caress trailed down her back and across her ribs, causing her skin to shimmer and ache with longing. She grew greedy for his touch and bold in her own way. Reaching down, she traced the length of him. It flexed beneath her fingers, and a low growl, hungry and powerful rumbled in his chest.
He pulled back, breathing hard, and rested his forehead against hers.
"Sorcha, I want to take you to wife, but I must tell you, should there be a child from our joining, you are to tell me. I will not have him left without a father."
She pushed back from him, her heated need dissipating.
"Nay, I’ll not."
With a fierceness that stunned her, he yanked her back against him.
"Aye, you would."
She tilted her head up and looked him in the face.
"You do not want to be in Scotland. You said as much yourself. And I cannot leave this place. Archibald needs me."
"And thus you would deny your child a father?"
"What good is a father who is dead?" she cried out, pulling away from him.
Ian muttered in Gaelic, then turned on her, his eyes hard and darkly dangerous.
"You’re not to speak of that damnable curse to me again. I do not believe in it. Do you hear? I lived the wedding night— "
"You lived because you didn’t bed me!" she shot back, striding back to the fire.
"I lived because it doesn’t exist! The others didn’t bed you either!"
She whirled to face him and held her head high, daring him to gainsay her.
"Tell that to the others who lay cold in their graves this night. Tell them how it was nothing to fear. It’s unfortunate that they were not as strong as you, but even you aren’t strong enough to escape death."
"I am willing to brave the risk. At least I know what it is," he snapped.
"I am not." She turned away, staring into the flames.
The room seemed too small at the moment, nearly suffocating.
"Then we are at an impasse?" he asked with an edge to his voice that was filled with both unsympathetic cold and hot anger.
"Aye. For you are too pigheaded to see that death lies in wait for you."
"It lies in wait for us all!" he roared. "Even you."
She looked at him, controlling the roiling emotions and the sting his words conjured. Could he not see how this twist of fate confused her as well? That in her heart she knew there must be something more happening, but she didn’t ken what it was. She had searched for explanations, but none were to be found. Only one fact was plain and simple and easy to understand for her—people around her died, and she hated it.
He watched her, the angry fire in his eyes turning to slow smolder. "Do not deceive yourself, good wife. We all die. It is how we live that we are measured. And I, for one, will live boldly with every breath this body has, not cower from what is sure to come."
He strode from the room, the anger pulsating in the air around him as he left, and she couldn’t help but think that things between them were only going to get worse.
The Spellbound Bride Page 12
