The Spellbound Bride

by Theresa Meyers

  "I always knew you had the best of care. I did not abandon you in the woods like a deformed thing should have been."

  He lunged at the bars, spittle flying as he shrieked at her.

  "You are the reason for this!" He punched his twisted leg. "This life of hell I have endured for your selfish whims! Well you can rot or die, I care not which."

  Henna’s jaw went slack at the vehemence of his words. Dear God, he blamed her for his deformity. True she had not mothered him, but she had fostered him as best she could among her kin. She had not asked anything of him until he was older. It was a mother’s due. But this anger was unanticipated.

  He stepped back, his eyes venomous and dripping with hatred.

  "Goodbye, mother." He turned and began to limp away.

  "Duncan! Duncan! You can’t leave me here! I gave birth to you."

  He glanced back over his shoulder, a thin smile touching his lips.

  "Oh, I can, leave you in their care mother, just as you left me in the odious care of people who treated me as a vile servant. And I will."

  * * *

  Ian heard the screams coming from the nearby dungeon and tried not to think about what was happening to cause such a soul-wrenching sound.

  The door to his cell row opened and behind the guard appeared the last face he ever though to be glad to see—his brother.

  The hint of joy in Lord Hunterston’s face faded quickly as Ian watched him approach the cell. They stood silently, looking at each other through the bars as they waited for the guard to open the cell door.

  His brother was agitated. To anyone else he may have looked calm and collected, but the set of his shoulders and the hardened determination in his eyes were a dead giveaway to Ian. This was more than a familial visitation. Malcolm slipped the guard several coins.

  Ian stood up, his hands holding the bars that had caged him for the past few days.

  The guard swung the door open for Malcolm to enter the cell, but his brother stopped at the threshold.

  "I trust I am welcome?" Malcolm asked. His mouth tilted into a grin.

  Ian remained sober and solemn.

  "What are you doing here?"

  Malcolm’s grin faltered and crumbled into a grim line.

  "I’m here to save your hide. Do you mind?" He nodded to the guard and the man shuffled away, as Malcolm stepped into the cell.

  Ian stopped his brother short with a firm hand on his chest.

  "It depends. Do you plan to use it against me?"

  Malcolm shook his head, shoving Ian’s hand away.

  "You still don’t understand, do you?"

  Ian stepped forward, blocking Malcolm’s path, his feet spread wide apart.

  "I understand that you take every advantage and that you took Sorcha away from me as well the day you called the kirk to fetch her."

  "Back away, Ian." Malcolm pushed against Ian.

  Ian didn’t budge.

  "You were always the rash one," Malcolm jeered, thumping him on the chest with a pointed finger. "Someone has to temper things for you."

  Ian grabbed his brother’s hand and gave it vicious twist.

  "Which only proves you didn’t know me at all. Admit it, you did it to humiliate me because I had something you wanted."

  Malcolm jerked his hand away, his eyes blazing.

  "Enough! I have borne your resentment and insults too long. You need some manners, little brother." His fist connected with a solid thunk on Ian’s jaw.

  Ian’s head snapped back. He grunted, then launched himself at his brother’s midsection, knocking the breath from Malcolm and sending them both sprawling to the floor. Malcolm flipped to his stomach and lifted to his knees. Ian quickly wrapped his arms beneath Malcolm’s, pinning his brother’s shoulders back, his hands pushing against the back of Malcolm’s head.

  "Eternity is not too long to wait for what you’ve done to me," he hissed in Malcolm’s ear.

  Malcolm pulled forcefully down and threw his weight back against Ian, his arms and shoulders sliding free of Ian’s hold as he crushed his brother to the floor. He threw back his elbow into Ian’s stomach, causing Ian to huff. Malcolm got to his feet.

  "What I did? You mean protect you yet again?" Malcolm quickly turned, forcing his knee down onto Ian’s chest. "I only called the kirk because I was told she was trying to poison you."

  "You were her death sentence!"

  "I never meant to be!"

  "And what of Mary? Couldn’t stand me to have her either?"

  "I took Mary because of what you did to her," he said as his fist connected again with Ian’s jaw.

  Ian growled, his tongue licking at the coppery trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth,

  "What I did? I did nothing!" He threw a heavy punch that snapped Malcolm’s head to the side, then sat forward and shoved hard, throwing Malcolm backward in one fluid motion. Malcolm’s head cracked against the stone floor.

  Malcolm shook his head, rubbing the back of his skull. Ian sprang forward as Malcolm moved to sit up, pinning his shoulders to the floor.

  "Don’t you think I know what kind of harlot she is now?" Malcolm blurted out. "She came to me crying about how you had ruined her and her prospects for a respectable marriage. That you had taken what you wanted and possibly left her with child. I believed I was cleaning up your infidelities, protecting you and our family."

  Ian snorted, releasing Malcolm, and pushing away from him.

  "You lie. You wanted her for yourself." A flicker of movement caught Ian’s eye. He blocked Malcolm’s fist with his left hand and hooked a right into his brother’s stomach. His brother doubled. Ian moved quickly behind him and wrapped his arm around his brother’s throat.

  Malcolm struggled in the crook of his arm, his fingers tearing at Ian’s skin.

  "At first," he rasped. "What man with red blood in his veins wouldn’t? But it didn’t take long to see beneath the beautiful veneer." Ian shifted his weight, and let Malcolm to fall to the floor. He stood up, offering his hand to Malcolm.

  Malcolm stared at the hand for a moment, swatted at it, then staggered to his feet. Both of them were panting.

  "You married her, you could have just sent her away," Ian stated plainly, between wheezing breaths.

  Malcolm bent over, resting his hands on his knees, his sides heaving like a bellows. He shook his head, wiping the blood away from the cut on his cheek, and looked up at Ian, locking his gaze on his eyes.

  "You vanished. I could only assume she was being truthful."

  Ian brushed the rushes from his clothing.

  "But I saw you in bed with her before we were to be wed."

  Malcolm coughed. "Aye. An indiscretion. She came to me. I was too blinded by her beauty to deny her. I’m human, brother, not a damned saint."

  Ian couldn’t help grinning.

  "Aye. True enough, but your well-meant intentions were something I couldn’t accept." He sobered, looking Malcolm in the eye. "You were wrong to take her from me, Malcolm."

  Malcolm nodded.

  "Aye. I see that, now. But what’s done is done. I cannot change it, Ian. Wish to God that I could, but I can’t."

  "As glad as I am you’ve come to make peace with me, things have changed. I’ve changed. I don’t need you to save me anymore, Malcolm. I can take care of myself."

  Malcolm stood, rotating his arm. "Fine. No more saving. Can we now get back to the business at hand?"

  Ian stiffened.

  "What business? Isn’t this an obligatory family visit to the condemned?"

  Malcolm shoved him in the chest.

  "You ass. Of course not. I’m come to get you out of here, unless, of course, you prefer the accommodations."

  A dense cloud of confusion muddled Ian’s brain.

  "I’m getting out?"

  Malcolm swiped again at the persistent trickle of blood.

  "Aye. And it cost me a fortune and more than a few favors." Ian leaned his back against the stone wall and crossed his arms. "Who sent
you?"

  "No one, you dolt. I came because you’re my brother. And the sooner you get your sorry self out of here, the sooner we can attend to your wife. I found out where the Earl of Argyll has taken her."

  Ian strode past his brother.

  "Well, ye gads, man, what are you waiting for? Let’s go."

  Ian pushed his horse as fast as he dared. Knowing Argyll’s obsession with Sorcha and his determination to have her, he had a sickening feeling in his gut that he would hurt her if she didn’t acquiesce to his demands. Just how far the he would go, he didn’t know. And that was what scared him.

  Malcolm veered off the main road toward the shire of Urfildon and Ian followed. Ian glanced into the sky to see a billowing plume of black smoke. It was too much smoke to be a mere hearth fire. His heart lurched.

  Dear God.

  Argyll couldn’t be that cruel.

  They splashed through a creek, following the black pillar in the sky until they could hear the crackling of the fire and feel the breeze created by it. Behind a copse of trees, the leaping orange and yellow flames ate at the cottage, only the stone walls unaffected by the onslaught. The blackened roof popped and fizzled as bits of the burning straw floated up into the air on the heat of the blaze.

  The smoke stung and burned, making Ian’s eyes water. He dismounted, intending to rush into the house.

  A firm grip held him fast.

  "Hold, brother."

  He nearly turned to punch Malcolm in the face. Then he felt the slap of wet wool over him.

  "Now you can go near it."

  He stopped only long enough to grab an axe from beside the woodpile.

  * * *

  She couldn’t breathe. Sorcha opened her eyes enough to see the thick gray haze hanging in the air above her. The smoke was overpowering, making her lungs ache and burn. Overhead orange flames licked and ate away at the roof thatch. Dear God, he was going to burn her alive!

  Panic seized her. The screams of her mother, sisters and brother echoed in her head. Sorcha pushed them away, forcing herself to think of the here and now. With a pop and sizzle, sparks showered down in a hellish rain. She tore her sleeve off her gown and wrapped the cloth about her mouth and nose. The heat increased as the fire overtook the roof on the outside and worked its way in.

  Sorcha scrambled on her knees to the door, her mind a crazed mix of hope and fear. She pulled at it. He’d blocked it from the outside. The points of fresh nails pierced the wooden door at regular intervals. A violent coughing fit overtook her. She whirled about, searching for an exit. The windows were shuttered tightly and probably nailed as well. Her eyes stung and watered as much from the smoke as from sheer panic. Her hair was singeing in the heat, and the putrid smell of it assailed her.

  An earsplitting crack ricocheted in the cottage as the beams above began to weaken under the fire’s hungry onslaught. She spied the water bucket. In her frenzied state she thought first to throw it at the raging inferno around her. Enough of her self preservation instinct kicked in to convince her otherwise. She would not die here. She would not die without Ian.

  "Damn the curse! Damn you Archibald! I’m not dying in here!" She dunked her plaid in the water, soaking the cloth a bit at a time, then wrapped herself in it. Sorcha crawled under the cottage’s stout table and prayed for a miracle.

  Whack. Chop. Whack. Chop.

  The door splintered into pieces as it was hewn away from the outside and kicked in. A man covered in soaked plaid, his face shielded, darted through the ragged opening. Though she couldn’t see his face, she knew the broad span of shoulders in a heartbeat. Ian! Ian had come for her!

  Without a word, he quickly pulled her from beneath the table and carried her outside. She clung to him, sobbing. He held her gently as he carried her out of the blistering heat.

  "Are you hurt?" he demanded.

  Sorcha shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

  The plaid felt too heavy and hot now. He unwrapped it from her and placed a warm dry blanket about her. He cupped her face with a delicate touch and turned it to examine where Archibald had struck her, rage flashing in his eyes as he looked at the dark marks.

  "Are you injured elsewhere?" She shook her head, her sobs of relief punctuated by a hiccup. His voice was muffled by the cloth over his face. Only his eyes and forehead showed.

  "Hold me," she croaked, her throat parched and voice marred by the smoke. He crushed her to him, stroking his fingers through her singed hair.

  Sorcha sobbed, and he slackened his hold.

  "Have I hurt you?" he asked.

  "Nay, I’m only happy to see you. How did you know where to find me?

  A dark shadow blocked out the sun, and Sorcha looked up to see Ian’s face.

  "Malcolm came to get me at the prison. He is the one who deciphered Archibald’s plans from his the gossip at court. Seems Archibald was a little too cocky."

  "My thanks to you, Lord Hunterston."

  Malcolm kneeled beside them.

  "I would take it as greater thanks if you called me, Malcolm."

  "Aye, Malcolm."

  The lingering glance Ian gave his brother revealed the breach between them had somehow mended.

  "But how did you know I was inside?"

  "I heard you screaming curses."

  She dropped her head.

  "My uncle would say ‘tis not right to hear such words from a bonnie face. But I suppose it isn’t all that bonnie now..." she said as she gingerly touched the bruise and fingered the matted singed end of her hair.

  "‘Tis no matter. You are alive."

  "Where is Archibald?"

  Malcolm flicked a glance at Ian.

  "There was no one else here when we came. He must have left and returned to town. The good news is if he thinks you’re dead, then we can hide you until we can find a ship to take you both to France."

  Ian stared at his brother and held Sorcha tightly against his chest.

  "I have nothing there."

  Malcolm laid a hand on Ian’s soot-smeared shoulder.

  "Aye, you do, brother. I sent Mary to give the deed to you knowing you would take it from her more easily than from me, but she said you refused it."

  Ian bit his tongue.

  "Aye. Is it a gift, then?"

  Malcolm smiled. "Nay, little brother. It is your right."

  Ian cuffed Malcolm lightly on arm.

  "My thanks, brother."

  "So we are for France then?" Sorcha asked, her voice rasping from the smoke.

  "Aye, but the less people who know of your existence, the safer you and the babe are." Malcolm grinned. "I’ve always wanted a niece or nephew."

  Sorcha’s cheeks grew hot, and she sat up, pulling away from Ian.

  "Oh, there now. I didn’t mean to embarrass you," Malcolm said, his voice soft.

  "It isn’t that."

  Ian lifted her chin with his finger so she would look him in the eye.

  "What then?"

  "I may have lost the babe. Archibald gave me a draught to make me drop it."

  He cursed and his hand gripped the hilt of his sword. "I know you feel protective of Argyll, but if ever I should see him again, I won’t hold back. No one harms those I love without retribution. Was there blood?"

  "Yes."

  He gritted his teeth and nodded. "Then we shall have to see. Are you able to travel?"

  "If I do not have to ride atop a horse."

  "That can be arranged." He scooped her up off the ground.

  "Ian, you cannot carry me all the way to Edinburgh."

  He gave her a bone-melting smile.

  "Perhaps, but I’ll be damned if I ever let go of you again."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ian left his wife in the care of Malcolm while he went hunting for Argyll. He excused the trip as necessary to prepare for their voyage, but he suspected down deep that Sorcha knew the truth of it.

  He wanted to be certain that Argyll never bothered Sorcha again.

  Ian
waited in the great hall outside the king’s audience chamber, disguised enough that no one could pinpoint him as mercenary he’d been before. He’d donned some of Malcolm’s court clothing and grown a short beard at the tip of his chin. The outrageous ruff around his neck chafed, but it was nothing compared to the unsettled need he had to finish things with Argyll.

  Across the room he spied Argyll deep in conversation with several young men. Ian moved slowly and deliberately in the lad’s direction, waiting until the precise moment to slid up behind Argyll.

  He placed a unyielding hand on Argyll’s shoulder.

  Argyll spun on his heel.

  "How dare you—"

  Ian cocked a brow.

  "Lord Argyll, a pleasure to see you."

  The lad’s eyes shifted to his companions, and the color drained from his face, but he merely inclined his head as if it were a casual greeting.

  Ian looked to the others around Argyll and stepped between them and the lad.

  "We have unfinished business to discuss, pray beg your pardon," he said, steering Argyll away from the crowd and out into a deserted gallery that ran outside the great hall.

  "I suppose you want to kill me."

  "The thought had crossed my mind."

  Argyll lifted his chin.

  "You may as well. I’ve lost the only thing I cared about."

  Ian rounded on the lad, grabbing him by the throat.

  "She was never yours to care for. As much as I loathe you, I will be merciful where you could not. I will spare your life this time Argyll, but pray you never meet me in less auspicious circumstances or I will have your head and cut out your heart. Do we understand each other?"

  Argyll gurgled and Ian released his throat. The lad nodded, taking in great gulps of air and massaging the red marks on his neck.

  "I never meant for her to die in the fire. The cripple manservant Henna arranged for me set the cottage ablaze and once it was afire, I could not put it out."

  In the space of a heartbeat, Ian’s tight fist slammed into Argyll’s face.

  "So you left her there to die?"

  Argyll whimpered as he sought to stem the flow of bright red blood gushing from his nose.