The Spellbound Bride
Page 24
Suddenly pain shattered through his skull and vibrated down his spine. His vision ebbed, turning black as he dropped to the floor.
He awoke on the cold stone floor of a cell, the moldy, rotted straw beneath his face the most pleasant smell around him. Ian blinked, his head still aching from the blow that had knocked him out. When the blackness didn’t clear, he knew it was not from the blow, but because there was no light. He sat up and slowly stretched.
Worse than the throbbing pain that surrounded the egg-sized lump at the back of his head, was the ache of not knowing if Sorcha had made it out.
He sat brooding in the dark, listening to the thin crunching sounds the rats made as they feasted on who knew what in the fetid straw. It was too dark to see much, but Ian felt along the walls to give him an idea of the cell’s size. A solid locked door and no windows made escape impossible. He sat back against the wall, curling his legs up and laying his aching head on his arms to rest. Escape didn’t matter. His mind and his heart were far away from the walls that held him. As long as Sorcha was safe, he could endure anything.
Chapter Nineteen
"Where are we?" Sorcha mumbled as she woke.
"Somewhere safe."
She remembered the flight from the dungeons and the carriage that had carried them out of the city. She looked up at the rafters of the small cottage, and a feeling of dread came over her.
"Where are we, Archibald?" she said again, this time her impatience clear in her tone.
He sighed.
"If you must know, we are near Urfildon. You’ve been asleep for several days. The escape must have taken a toll on you."
It was more than that. This place had a familiar smell to it that pierced her memory. It was like the cottage that had burned in her childhood. She shoved the thoughts away, concentrating on the moment even though her head still felt light.
"Where is Ian?"
Archibald shook his head and would not meet her eyes.
She grabbed his shirt front and pulled him face to face with her.
"Where is Ian?" she shouted. "You told me he was right behind us! That the horse we left behind was for him!"
Archibald’s face hardened.
"They caught him." He grasped her hands and tugged them from his shirt. "It was either fight or save you." He turned away from her and stalked to the other side of the room.
Regret settled like a stone deep in her stomach. Clearly Archibald had tried his best. She walked up behind him and laid her cheek against his back.
"I’m sorry, Archibald. You risked your life to save me."
He turned, wrapping his arms around her and holding her to his chest. His slenderness and youthful form made her long for Ian’s more powerful build. He would hold her and could easily tuck her head beneath his chin.
"You’re shaking."
It was not cold that racked her, but fear, desperate fear for Ian.
"What will they do to him?"
"Most likely hang him."
A wracking sob tore from her chest and she doubled over from the pain that filled her chest.
"We need help to save him," she said.
Sorcha’s mind whirled. She began kneading fistfuls of her skirt in her hands. Was there any corner to which she could turn to find help? Her uncle would hold no influence with the king, certainly Archibald would have tried, had he thought he could.
"We must contact his brother, Lord Hunterston. He has influence."
Archibald sighed.
"You are overwrought. ‘T’isna’ good for the bairn." He put his arm about her, walked her back to the bed, then sat her down and laid her back against the soft down pillows. He covered her with a warm sheet and blanket.
From his coat he produced a leather flask.
"I have been to see a midwife in the village and had her prepare this to fortify you and the babe." He poured some noxious looking black liquid into the wooden cup on the beside table and handed it to her. "Drink."
"What is in it?"
"A whole host of things, but I do not remember them all. Licorice root, dandelion and the like."
Sorcha sipped at the concoction, but her stomach rebelled.
"You must drink it all."
"I will, but not just now. I am feeling ill."
"As long as you finish it."
"Aye, I will."
Later in the morning, when the sickness had subsided, she drank as much of the liquid as she could stomach, but could not finish more than half of it. She felt tired again, and owing it to the babe, she let herself fall back into the bed and sleep.
The familiar dream enveloped her again. Her dark hair blew in the wind, the yellow blooms of the Scots broom danced out of reach of her chubby hand. The smell of smoke came to her, and she ran, stumbled and fell.
She reached the fairy ring and there sat her mother, carding wool. She looked up, her face smiling and motioned for Sorcha to sit by her in the springy green grass. The smell of smoke was gone. Sunlight danced among the leaves.
"Mam, why are you here?"
"I always am."
"Why aren’t you carding in the cottage?"
"It isn’t safe."
"But what about Anne, Caroline and John?"
"I am here for you." The answer calmed her and dissipated the fear that clung to her dreams.
"May I help?"
Her mother handed her the carding boards and a bit of washed wool to stretch and comb. She looked down to see her hands were no longer chubby and small, but slender and long.
"Where is Ian?" The fact that she knew of him didn’t seem surprising. Mam knew everything.
Sorcha looked into her kind eyes. "He’s in prison. The guards caught him."
"You love him, don’t you?"
"Aye."
"Then that shall be the saving of you both."
"I can’t get him out."
"Aye. You can’t, but what of his brother? Wouldn’t he help save his own kin?"
"I don’t know."
Her mother shook her head.
"You’ll never know unless you ask."
Sorcha pulled the carding combs apart and misjudged the pull. One scraped across her stomach, the tines digging in through her dress to rip her skin. Sorcha buckled at the pain.
She awoke with her arms wrapped around her stomach and spasms of pain racking her. It came in waves and, after the next crested and left, she sat up breathing in a gulp of air. Sorcha flipped back the covers. Blood, bright and red, smeared her thighs.
The pain returned, doubling, clenching, tight. She laid back trying to breathe. Where was Archibald? She called for him, but he didn’t come. She fought against the pain.
* * *
"Get up!" A booted foot slammed into Ian’s stomach. "You have a visitor." Ian gasped, then struggled to his feet. He blinked against the light of the rush that seemed intensely bright after his week or more in the darkness. He was bound at the wrists, then pushed along the dungeon corridor and up a flight of stairs to the interrogation room.
At the table sat Argyll. His court dress reflected his station.
"You may leave us."
"My lord, I can’t leave the prisoner— "
"I said leave us."
"Aye, my lord." The guards nodded and bowed before shutting the door behind them.
Ian leaned forward.
"Where is Sorcha? Is she safe?"
"She fares well enough considering she has lost the bairn."
He felt the blood leave his face and his heart sink.
"Lost him? When?"
"Aye, four days ago. I think the strain of the escape was too much for her, but she is resting now."
Ian scrubbed his face with his hands. This was all his fault. He should have taken her to Chaumiere de Heureux when he’d had the chance.
He looked up at Argyll and saw the familiar flash in the lad’s eyes and the cockiness of his demeanor. The oddness that had bubbled beneath the surface, was in full force now and Ian recognized it—Argyll was i
n love with his wife in a way that had nothing to do with kin or friendship and everything to do with full-grown desire.
The only thing he was sure of was that Sorcha did not return the lad’s affections in the same manner.
"Where is my wife?"
"It certainly took enough effort to get her away from you so I can convince her we should be together."
Ian narrowed his eyes, his mind not fully believing what the lad had just said.
"What?"
Argyll stood from his chair. He gave a brittle laugh.
"Surely you’ve noticed. She and I have cuckolded you right beneath your very nose."
Ian stood so suddenly, his chair toppled to the floor.
"You lie."
Argyll shrugged.
"It is only a matter of time before she sees the truth of it. If you had just let her remain at Moray’s estate as Bothwell had suggested, all of this would have been simplified and you could already be on your way to France."
He glanced around the room, then smoothed his hair back and looked down his patrician nose at Ian.
"You could have easily cried off when Bothwell’s men abducted her in the woods. The odds were uneven enough for the bravest man, no one would have been the wiser and I would have finally had her to myself."
Ian snorted, stalking toward the lad.
"And you think they would have let you?"
Archibald squared his shoulders in response.
"Aye. They promised her to me."
Ian’s brain burned with fury. He wanted to plant a fist into the young lord’s face.
"You bartered your services to Bothwell and she was payment? Of all the pompous, cowardly—Have you ever seen what troops can do to a woman? Do you even ken the danger you put her in, you little bastard? You play at this as if it were a game of wooden soldiers. These are men with political ambitions that could reduce you to nothing, my lord, not dolls for your amusement."
Argyll’s face turned ashen. Ian knew he had struck a chord in the lad. It was clear he had not considered the danger to Sorcha and cared for her deeply. Perhaps too deeply. If the earl’s desire for her crossed over into obsession, what else might he do to her?
Ian forced himself to be level-headed despite the anger that pumped through his veins. The lad was lucky he was bound.
"Where is she now?"
"Safe."
"From whom?"
"Anyone who would kill her for naught."
"Aye, but you yourself nearly did that. So how safe is she, Archibald? And how long will it last? Until your boyish attentions begin to annoy, rather than endear her to you?"
Archibald lashed out, striking Ian across the face.
"Enough!" he roared. "I will have her as my own and she will see the right of it, and damn the cost!"
"Spoken like a true child."
"Guard!"
The two guards burst in and clamped down on Ian before he even had a chance to turn around and prepare himself for the onslaught.
"The prisoner is being most uncooperative. Take him back to his cell."
"She will not have you, Argyll."
Lord Argyll’s face transformed into a mask of utter rage.
"She’ll have me, Hunter. And if she won’t, then no man shall."
* * *
The bleeding had stopped by the time Archibald had returned two days later. Sorcha had washed herself and put on a clean gown and was resting when the door of the cottage opened.
"Archibald! I’m so glad to see you. Where have you been?"
"I had to check on Hunter for you."
She sat up. "How is he?"
He settled on the bed beside her, then gently tucked her hair behind her ear.
"More importantly, how are you?"
"I’ve been terribly ill while you were away. There was a lot of blood, but I think I’m all right now. The pain has stopped."
"My poor love." He leaned forward, cupped the back of her head with his hand and kissed her full on the mouth. His lips were insistent and firm, his tongue reaching to thrust into her mouth.
Sorcha pulled back, startled, and gasped.
He grabbed her arms and yanked her forward, kissing her again, more brutally this time, his mouth hard and demanding.
Sorcha pushed away from him, slapping him in the face.
"Stop! Archibald what are you doing!"
"You can give your kisses to all of them, but not to me. Is that it?" He grabbed her chin in his hand. "I just saved your life, yet again. I’ve done everything for you. Don’t you love me as I love you?"
Sorcha shook her head in confusion.
"I cared for you as a mother or sister might. There was never anything more."
He released her and stood up from the edge of the bed. He kept talking as though she’d said nothing.
"I gave you the draught to make you drop the brat. Why would I want you carrying his seed? You are mine and always will be. Our children will be royal by blood, and perhaps one day will claim the throne."
"Wh-, what are you saying?" His words were confusing her. She couldn’t believe he harbored these illusions. "Why would you want me to lose Ian’s bairn?"
"I will not share you. Not again, not ever. You are mine!"
A chill threaded through her veins. This was a side of him she had never seen before. Oh she had known him to be passionate, even reckless, when it came to the things he believed in. Even as a young child, he would defend her to her uncle. But this was different, as if his sense of right and wrong had somehow gotten scrambled with desire. Her skin prickled as each hair stood on end.
"You’re not making sense."
"Rob, Harold, Magnus, Hunter. They all wanted what by rights was mine. They tried to take you from me."
She sucked in a breath, fear slicing cleanly through her. A sick certainty threaded through her veins.
"The notes." He stalked slowly toward her. "All of them." He placed a hand on either side of her on the bed, trapping her between his arms. "I had no other way to convince you to stay."
Her heart was beating in her throat. Panic seized her.
"B-but they claimed you were in danger if I left."
He leaned forward his breath fanning her face.
"What better way to test your true love for me?"
Sorcha turned her face away, sickened by what he had become.
He nuzzled her ear and spoke with a soft heat.
"Nay. You are meant to be my lover. I have always known so. Haven’t you?" He kissed along her neck, slowly, passionately. Sorcha’s stomach turned with revulsion.
She pushed him away, hard.
"I have done all I can to care for you. But this is where it stops. I am married to Ian. You must understand that I love him, Archibald. I love him."
He look dumbstruck for a moment, but his face quickly changed, contorted by fury.
"Nay! If I can’t have you, then none shall."
Alone with him in this cottage, she could not defend herself. Though he was still a youth, his body bordered on full manhood, and he had enough strength to overpower her. She was still weak from the effects of the draught and could not run far even if she did escape him.
"You must let me go. You can’t hold me against my will forever."
His shoulders relaxed, but the menacing gleam in his eyes remained.
"You’re right." He came closer, his body touching hers. "But I can keep you here long enough to make sure you never forget me."
She had to think. He pulled aside her gown and began kissing down her collar bone. Sorcha could feel the rock hardness of him pressing against her. If she didn’t stop him and convince him otherwise, he would force himself on her.
She threaded her hand into his hair at the base of his neck and kneaded, then sighed as if delighted by his kisses.
"Love," she breathed softly in his ear. "We cannot go too quickly. The draught has ruined me for a time. I am bleeding just now."
He pulled back, his eyes dark with desire.
He began kissing her again. Sorcha fought the urge to vomit on him. Fury pumped in her blood as she thought of how he had made the curse seem so real to her. He had almost kept her from loving Ian because of the foolishness. He would pay for that, and for this wretched humiliation.
He grasped her hand and moved it toward his groin. Archibald thrust his hips forward.
"Touch me."
She grasped his rigid flesh with one hand and his soft baggage with the other. He groaned with pleasure.
In a split instant, she dug in with her nails, pulled and twisted both handfuls of flesh as hard as she could in opposite directions. He screamed and buckled over clutching one hand to his groin and swinging with the other.
"You bitch!" he shrieked.
He was breathing hard, his face pale white and sweating. Sorcha darted the swinging hand to run past him. But she wasn’t fast enough. The back of Archibald’s fist connected against her cheek with a crack. She fell back against the bed and slumped to the floor, pain radiating from her face and back. She scrambled up, determined to run for the door when he grabbed her leg, sending her tumbling forward.
"You’re not leaving me like this."
Chapter Twenty
In the flickering light of the smoking rushes, Henna could just make out the form of her son coming toward her. Relief washed over her, replacing the absolute panic that had gripped her when she had first awakened in the dank cell.
"Duncan..." she rasped, her throat parched from lack of water.
"I am here, mistress Henna."
She reached to grasp him through the bars.
"You must get me out of this place."
He gently picked her hands off his clothing and stepped back beyond her reach.
"There isn’t a thing I can do."
"Tell them who I am. I am not a convict."
"They think you have lost your mind. There is nothing I can do to convince them otherwise."
Henna narrowed her eyes.
"Nothing you can’t, or nothing you won’t do, to save your mother."
"My mother?" Duncan sneered. "Surely you did not think I’d have feelings for you—the woman who ruined my leg when she birthed me then abandoned me until she found me useful."