The Spellbound Bride

by Theresa Meyers

"But there are too many, Hunter. We couldn’t match them with strength."

  He grasped her hand to comfort her.

  "We have no way of knowing what we are up against until we find out."

  "What do you think they want with him?"

  Ian shrugged. "I don’t know. Perhaps they were seeking food or gold and didn’t have their plan as well laid as they thought. Or mayhap they have other plans for Argyll and plan a ransom."

  "You mean they didn’t expect you to fight back."

  "Aye."

  "Then perhaps we have yet another advantage if they think we have returned with reinforcements."

  "‘Tis possible. If we can convince the reivers, we may be able to brazen it out or..."

  "Or what?"

  "Do you ken how to make a sleeping draft with your herbs?"

  "Aye, a simple one, but effective."

  "How long would it take you to brew it?"

  "A few hours, maybe a little longer."

  He smiled, his chest relaxing and the tension in his shoulders easing. "Good. Then you best tell me what you’ll need so we can get started."

  Ian didn’t admit his suspicions to her. As long as he could keep her out of sight and harm’s way, it could possibly work. At the moment he was far more concerned about his wife’s condition, than Argyll’s safety.

  "Are you well enough to sit on your horse?"

  "Aye. The horse merely knocked the wind from me and bruised me a bit."

  He nodded in agreement, then went to fetch the little mare, who stood hiding in the trees. Despite Sorcha’s brave words, he handed his wife up atop her horse with gentleness anyway.

  "We’re going to find a spot to make camp. There’s no point in trying to track them in the dark. We’ll only get lost ourselves and possibly run into something worse. We’ll start at first light, and find what you need as we follow their trail."

  Sorcha’s eyes said what she did not. In her fear for the young earl, she counted her own suffering as inconsequential to his recovery. As much as he thought her loyalty misplaced, Ian would not gainsay her in this. A woman’s heart was something he had yet to fathom and he did not wish to cause her any further distress. They started into the woods, looking for a tree large enough to provide shelter and a space large enough to fit the horses.

  Ian dug a small pit in the earth and filled it with sticks and twigs, then tucked dry grasses and pinecones underneath. From his pockets he dug out a flint and struck the gray stones until they flicked orange sparks into the dry tinder. Flames burst to life, licking and feeding on the twigs and brush until a cheery glow lent warmth to their small circle.

  Sorcha settled back against the round of the log Ian had pulled near the fire. As Ian fed slender twigs to the hungry flames, she watched the flicker of firelight on his chiseled features.

  He glanced at her.

  "Warm yourself."

  She stretched out her hands to the flames, absorbing the heat. The night air was clear and crisp and a light coat of white frost clung to everything, making their surroundings sparkle in the moonlight.

  Sorcha began to unplait her hair, letting it unwind into a glossy black river spilling down her back.

  "The moonlight seems to change everything, does it not?"

  "Hmmm..." He watched her hair glisten in the firelight and wondered if it would feel like the black silk it resembled.

  "The firelight, the glittering woods. Almost like the tales my mam would tell us when I was wee."

  Ian tried to focus his thoughts away from the physical urges building in his blood.

  "What was your mam like?"

  "A fanciful sort. Always more interested in nature than people, I’m afraid."

  "You lost her when you were young."

  "Aye. I had just passed my fourth winter." Her pale fingers slipped through the strands of her hair, combing them.

  "‘Tis not right for a bairn to be without a mother—or a father..."

  Her gaze sharpened. "Do you want children?"

  "Aye, someday—when I’ve a place to keep them safe."

  Sorcha sighed, shaking her head. She took a length of hair and parted it. With deft, quick movements she began weaving her hair into another plait.

  "What’s wrong with that?" he asked, his tone defensive.

  "No place is safe. ‘Tis the reason I fear for you, and Archibald." The strands twisted in her fingers, the weave becoming tighter.

  "Do you ever long for your childhood home?" she asked quietly.

  Ian stomach was as knotted as her long plait twisted and interlocked. He could hardly separate the pain of memory from the pang of want for a place of his own where his brother’s touch could not reach.

  "Nay. There are too many wounds there."

  "Why are you so eager to leave?"

  His eyes narrowed, staring deeper into the flames, but not turning to acknowledge her.

  "I have very little time."

  Sorcha nibbled at her lip. Her heart sank within her chest, certain she knew of the reason for his haste.

  "You have someone waiting then."

  His gaze locked with hers, his eyes darkening to match the black midnight that lay waiting outside the edges of their fire’s light.

  "Nay. I never said such."

  She looked away from him, unable to bear the directness of his stare. It stole her breath, made her pine for his touch. He might say what he wished, but she had seen that look before between her mother and father. It was the look they got when they had eyes only for each other.

  She focused on the living flames, curling and leaping around the blackened husks of the logs and their glowing hearts.

  "You didn’t have to. The intensity in your eyes betrays the love you have."

  He grinned. It was predatory, lethal, and deadly to her senses.

  He moved closer to her.

  "‘Tis not a woman, if that’s what worries you."

  Sorcha’s breath caught in her chest. How could he have known her thoughts?

  "What then?"

  His fingers brushed her cheek and threaded up in the hair at the nape of her neck, rubbing gently, relaxing her against the palm of his hand. He pulled her to lean against him.

  "A home. Chaumiere de Heureux."

  Sorcha could almost inhale the scent of longing that clung to his words.

  "‘Tis it beautiful?"

  His hands caressed her hair, soothing her.

  "Aye."

  Sorcha burrowed closer against the warmth of his side, the smell of wood and leather, and mint soap clung to him, solid and reassuring to her.

  "Tell me of Chaumiere de Heureux."

  Ian’s arm dropped around her, cradling her against him.

  "Sometimes I can’t recall it for myself." As he spoke, Sorcha watched the flames, as if, like the crystal ball of the traveling Romany, she could see the future and the past in the orange and yellow dancing light.

  "‘Tis long ago that I saw what she could be. My mother took us there as boys to visit her family. ‘Twas her girlhood home. ‘Tis the greenness I remember most and the smell of fertile warm earth and ripening grapes."

  Sorcha looked up at his face. In the night the firelight left deep shadows. He was far away from this place, his eyes misted in memory.

  "Chaumiere de Heureux must be beautiful to win such devotion from a man. So ‘tis the beauty that pulls you back?"

  "Nay. ‘Twas little more than a ruin when last I wrote to the steward. The serfs on the land are hungry for bread. But I ken of what she was...of what she can be…"

  "And the haste is because of them?"

  "Partly. I’ve only four months left to pay the taxes on her."

  "And if you don’t?"

  Sorcha felt his entire frame stiffen beside her. A scowl had replaced the rapturous gleam in his eyes.

  "She reverts to Lord Hunterston."

  "Your brother?"

  His gaze flicked down to her. His eyes hardened into jet. He needed no words to convey his feelings.


  "What has he done to make such an enemy of you?"

  "Enough."

  Malcolm had stolen not only his bride, but everything he hoped to be in this land. His pride, his future, his dreams. This job was to be the end of it. His eyes narrowed. The end of his misery, the endless travel and restlessness. The end of any ties to this wretched land and his equally wretched brother. The long hours on the road had made his bones weary and his muscles stiff, but Ian fought it off, even as the flames lulled him.

  He looked down at woman against him. He had seen her eyes light up when he had described Chaumiere de Heureux. The warmth of her made sleep a temptation, but one that was impossible. He must keep his wits about him to protect them both until daylight. Besides, sleep was still more of an enemy than a comfort. The campfire popped, sending up a shower of glowing sparks into the black night.

  "What will you do for a mistress for Chaumiere de Heureux?"

  Sorcha’s innocent words jarred his thoughts, shaking the unpleasant memories back to the blackness where they waiting to taunt him as the deadline for Chaumiere de Heureux loomed closer.

  He had not bargained on getting a wife during his quest to earn enough money to finish paying the taxes on his inheritance, but perhaps this was a boon of sorts. She had knowledge of running a castle and her new people would have none of her history to hold against her. But she had rejected every mention of it.

  "‘Tis an odd question, wife." He looked down at her and lifted her chin with the crook of his finger. "I planned to take you with me."

  She stiffened in his arms and pulled away, her expression darkened with unreadable emotion.

  "Nay, Hunter. I never said I would. My uncle should have made it clear to you that I would not leave Ballochyle."

  Her reaction puzzled him. The rebuff stung, but not as much as the knowledge that she would willingly place herself in the path of death rather than come with him. She was suddenly too close and he needed to put some distance between them so he could think. He stood and paced to the opposite side of the fire before turning back to her. She had curled her arms about her knees and was hugging them to her chest as she sat staring into the flames.

  "I don’t understand you. Have you a death wish?"

  She shook her head. "Nay. A life wish."

  "Surely you can see that staying in Scotland will only keep you near the hands of death. These simple folk will not stop in persisting their charges of witchcraft. Each breath you take will be measured until the day you die. Each move you make considered a trial. If you live more than three years under such scrutiny, you will be lucky."

  Her head sank down to rest upon her knees.

  "‘Tis not my life I value so much as those of my family."

  Ian felt the cool rise of fury building in his gut. He had been duped again, intentionally.

  "I knew there was more to this than your uncle told to me. Damn him for his trickery."

  Sorcha’s head shot up, her gaze pinning him with an intense look.

  "He knows nothing of it."

  Her words stopped him.

  "Tell me."

  Sorcha’s gazed focused out into the darkness and the silence stretched uncomfortably between them.

  "Someone watches me. Should I move from Ballochyle to live elsewhere, they have said they will kill those left to me, which means Archibald and my uncle."

  "Can you not see this proves it is not a curse, but men behind the deaths laid at your feet."

  Sorcha cocked her head to the side. "That is possible, but you cannot rule out that they have supernatural means with which to kill."

  "Now you are telling me they may be the witches?"

  Her mouth flattened into a firm line and she refused to answer him.

  "You cannot take their threats seriously when they have not yet revealed themselves to you. What proof have they offered?"

  "‘Tis no matter to you. Just allow me to stay when you return to your inheritance and I will protect myself."

  Ian sighed and shook his head, then walked over to sit beside her. He closed his hands around her arms and looked her in the eye where the firelight reflected.

  "You speak of the curse again, don’t you?" He grasped her tightly lifting her toward him. "You silly fool, how many times must I tell you it doesn’t exist?"

  "Then how do you explain the other deaths, those of my parents and siblings? Those were not political." she responded with cool detachment.

  "They are the contrivance of your enemy, not some evil bound into your blood. There is more to this than you are aware."

  He spoke as if he knew something she didn’t. But how could he? He had not looked the specter of death in the face and known he was the cause, the reason why this person’s time had come. She looked past him into the fire.

  "Tis no matter if it be a curse by the hand of men or by the hand of God. I still feel the guilt and responsibility for every death. There is a reason for it and I’ll not leave Scottish soil until I know what truly happened to my parents, siblings and husbands."

  "Is that all, lass?"

  "Nay."

  "What then?"

  Her unflinching gaze connected with his.

  "If what you say is true, I’m not leaving until they pay."

  Ian blew out in frustration.

  "And what if we can’t uncover this in time. There isn’t anything I can do to convince you to go with me otherwise, is there?"

  "Nay. How can I, when I truly do not know what enemy I face?"

  "‘Tis a waste in my opinion, but I can’t protect you if you stay. If in the time before I leave we could discover this enemy, would you then come with me?"

  Sorcha didn’t respond. She startled as he grazed his finger across her smooth cheek.

  "You are a beauty, woman of the wood."

  She pulled away from his touch.

  "Don’t touch me."

  "As you wish."

  In the next moment his breath blew against her throat. Fire exploded across her skin, heating it, singeing away her control. He was near enough she could feel the essence of him alive and potent next to her, though they still did not touch. A tendril of rosemary, green and vibrant, and desire, musky and sweet, teased her.

  He came closer still, till barely an eyelash’s space was between them. His lips enticed, brushing lightly against her cheek and coming close enough to kiss, making every nerve ending alive with him.

  She ached to kiss him. One kiss could not be the sealing of his fate. She had kissed him thus far, and he had lived. It would be just a kiss—enough to satisfy.

  She had only to breathe, to move a fraction closer to feel him connect deeply with her. Sorcha held her breath, afraid of what it meant. Her blood rushed, drowning out her intellect’s sharp voice with the intensity that possessed her. Her body betrayed her beliefs with every breath it took.

  Her heart beat, and with it, they joined in a soul searing kiss. The night air shimmered around them. Sorcha pushed into him, knocking him back to the ground with her intense response.

  Ian did nothing to deny her, letting her take what she would of him, and still not yet touching her with his hands. The hard planes of his body were taunt and warm beneath her. His closeness, the very maleness of him was bracing. It made her sensitive to his scent in ways that made her desire grow. Made her crave more of him.

  When she broke away from their kiss, it was only to ardently rasp two words. "Touch me."

  "Like this?"

  His fingers skimmed her exposed flesh with the delicate strokes of hundreds of butterfly wings, invisible in the cloak of night, and served only to build the ache at her core rather than slake it.

  "Or like this?"

  His kisses, hot, soft and slow, traced from the base of her ear, down her neck to her collarbone. She felt the leashed power of him beside her, holding back, waiting for her.

  "Touch me." The plea now became a demand.

  He pulled back and looked at her, the firelight throwing his face into
stark relief and shadowing his chiseled lips and strong jaw. His eyes were dark with passion. He quickly pulled the shirt from his powerful torso. The air crackled with the sparks between them.

  "You mean like this."

  His hands grew firm and possessive, pulling aside her clothes and kneading her calves and thighs. His eyes were locked on hers, observing how his caress affected her.

  Each pulse made her skin tighter, as if she might explode. He smiled. The curve of his mouth was powerful, dangerous and intoxicating. Her heart leaped.

  He bent his head. Sorcha tensed as the heat of his mouth skimmed along her breast, until it found the tip. The hot, slick touch of his tongue shot sparks through her.

  Sorcha grasped his bare shoulders, arching toward him. His fingers roamed along the seams of her undergarments, then slid slowly underneath them along her belly, causing it to tighten as small shivers danced along her skin.

  His heat radiated against her. He kissed her hip, his teeth grazing the skin that covered the bone. She heard a moan and realized it was her own.

  Not content merely to feel his touch, she returned it. Her fingers curled into the thick hair, then moved down, kneading his neck and broad shoulders. Her hands slid down the hot skin of his back as he moved above her.

  His kiss was still soft and warm, but more demanding. His tongue moved along the seam of her lips. She opened to him and felt the tip gently tease her own. Sorcha responded, taunting him in return. His kisses trailed down her neck.

  His hands circled around her bottom, tracing the curve between her thighs to where she ached most. Sorcha gasped when she felt his gliding touch within her. She tensed around his fingers as they moved.

  A sizzling flame built in her core and spread along her veins. The pulsing need increased. She arched, digging her fingers into his back for support.

  He slid deeper, the movement of his touch becoming faster, his thumb pressing and rubbing against her small bud. She exploded from the heat and cried out.

  He captured her cry with his mouth, then broke their kiss to nuzzle her ear. He began to touch her with his hand. The need built again.

  "I want you." His voice was husky, warm and edged with potent desire.

  "We can’t. It could mean your death," she said even as she moved willingly against his hand.

  "Then let me die happy."