The Spellbound Bride (30 page)

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.

"The only reason I spared your life today is because she’s still alive. I owed you for finding a way to get her out of the dungeons when I could not, but that debt is now repaid."

The lad locked gazes with him, an insane brightness lingering there.

"Do not attempt to contact her or reach her. You will leave her and I at peace until we depart or I will hunt you down and reveal to the king who really placed Henna in that cell."

Argyll nodded, but had the brains not to say a word.

When Ian returned to Malcolm’s house, the kirk’s men were searching door to door in Edinburgh, looking for Sorcha. It seems that once they discovered an old woman in her place at the dungeon, the king had issued commands to have her found. No one denied them entrance, at the cost of offending the king. When they arrived at Malcolm’s home, he invited them in, but inside he was boiling mad.

"Who informed the kirk she was missing?" he asked more casually than he felt.

The leader of the search snapped his attention to Lord Hunterston for a moment.

"The Earl of Argyll’s man. She’s wanted for witchcraft. Was supposed to burn with the others, but pleaded her belly in court, then left an old woman in her place."

Malcolm affected the air of an aristocrat.

"How long will this take? I’m to have a jacket fitted shortly."

"Not long, sir."

Inside the hidden cupboard in the wall, Ian and Sorcha were pressed together, chest to chest, both of them straining to hear the movements outside.

Ian reached out and cupped Sorcha’s cheek in his hand, lightly tracing his thumb against her skin.

In the room on the other side of the fake panel, the door opened and booted feet scuffed across the floor. She could hear them moving closer. Sorcha reached out and grasped Ian’s hand. He gave her a light squeeze of reassurance.

Then she heard Mary’s voice. The small hairs on her skin prickled.

"Aye, I’ve seen them," Mary said.

Sorcha sucked in a breath, and Ian clapped his hand over her mouth to keep her gasp from being heard.

"They were at a inn down on Crows Wynd."

Sorcha sank against Ian in relief. He removed his hand from her mouth to cup her face and brought it close to his.

"Thank you, Madame," bade a man’s voice.

As the heavy footfalls left the room, Ian came closer. He brushed her lips with a kiss. Sorcha responded, wrapping her arms around his neck.

A minute later the panel slid open and the light was nearly blinding after sitting in the dark. They broke apart.

Malcolm chuckled.

"Never did have a proper sense of timing, did you?" he jested.

Ian grinned.

"There’s a ship leaving at dawn from Leith. You’ve been booked passage upon it."

Sorcha leaned forward and gave Malcolm a peck on the cheek.

"Thank you, Malcolm."

He cleared his throat. "You best pack your things."

Ian grasped her hand.

"Why don’t you go start and I’ll be up in a bit. I’ve some unfinished business to settle with Malcolm."

Sorcha nodded. She walked to their room, a sense of uneasiness overtaking her. Tonight would be her last on Scottish soil. Inside a mixture of sadness and excitement wrapped around her heart.

Would she ever see her uncle again? What would become of Archibald? She took Ian’s fine linen shirt out of the drawer and hugged it close. It smelled of the heather laid in the drawer. She would miss home.

The door creaked open behind her and a swish of skirts accompanied by a waft of attar of rose alerted her to Mary’s presence.

"Feeling sentimental, m’dear?"

She was unsure how to feel about Mary. On the one hand, she was Malcolm’s wife and therefore her sister-in-law, and had been gracious during their stay here. On the other, Ian turned cold each time she came around, and she knew his instincts were good.

She turned to face the flame-haired beauty.

"Aye."

Mary gave her a cat-like smile.

"My advice is to make friends quickly." She paused for effect, drawing her finger down the polished wood of the bedpost. "That way when Ian tires of you, it’ll be less painful."

Sorcha tucked the shirt into their traveling trunk, then turned to the dresser as if Mary’s words had been nothing.

"Didn’t you hear me?" Mary asked, an impatient, rough edge to her voice.

"Aye." Sorcha picked up another of Ian’s shirts.

"Don’t forget, I know him well."

"As do I."

"And did you ken that he and I met while you were in prison, for a last liaison?"

Sorcha swallowed past the lump in her throat.

"He was so distraught that I knew I was the only one who could comfort him—. We talked about going to France together." She sighed, then gave Sorcha a pointed look.

"Never forget that your husband only married you for the money, lass."

Mary’s barbed words hurt, but Sorcha dug deeper, drawing strength from the memory of the fierceness of his eyes when he had claimed her to be his very soul; the touch of his hand soft against her skin in the dark of the night when he made love to her; the strength of his claim on her in a court when all wanted her dead. She didn’t need to be second best to this woman, or anyone else ever again.

Ian believed in her, and more importantly, she believed in herself.

She turned and faced Mary, stepping close enough so the woman could not mistake her words.

"Do you always act so foolishly when you know you’ve lost?"

Mary sputtered, but Sorcha wasn’t through yet.

"The fact is,
lass
, that you’ve never claimed more than a man’s staff in your life. You didn’t claim his heart and ye never will. It belongs to me, and me alone." She turned her back on Mary. "Now off with ye. I’ve to see to packing
my
husband’s things."

Mary whirled around and stormed to the door, bumping into Ian as he entered the bedchamber.

"Good day, Mary."

She huffed and stalked from the room. Ian stared after her retreating form.

"What is nipping at her heels?"

"The truth." Sorcha flashed him a grin. "It stings sometimes."

He opened his arms wide, and Sorcha willingly went to him. His hand sifted through her hair as her cheek lay against his chest.

"Did you ever think me a witch, Ian?"

He chuckled.

"Nay, not a witch. A sorceress of the heart perhaps, but never a witch."

She raised her head up and looked into his eyes.

"So you think there is such a thing as magic?"

He cupped her cheek in his hand. "Ahh, lass," he smiled in a way that made her weak, "never doubt love itself is magic."