The Spellbound Bride (8 page)

"Are you a witch?" It was barely a whisper, but shook her to the core.

"Nay." Her heart pounded harder in her chest and her desire-muddled brain cleared for an instant. Was he a witch pricker under another guise? Did he plan to take her at her most vulnerable, now no one could gainsay him and condemn her for coins from the kirk? As her mind spun in a panic, his next words brought those thoughts to a screeching halt.

"Then how do you explain the spell you’ve cast over me?"

She was momentarily stunned. He was daft, that was the only explanation for it. He thought himself under a spell?

"The powder I gave you was a protective, nothing more."

His lips tilted upward in a teasing grin and his fingers undid the leather strip that bound her plaited hair.

"I know. The earl indicated I should trust you. I drank it and am no worse for it."

"But you protested at dinner."

"Aye." His fingers sunk into her hair, and unwound the plait, sending shivers of a different sort coursing through her.

"Doesn’t it bother you that I’ve not a husband who’s survived the wedding night?"

"Nay," he murmured as he threaded one hand into her loose hair, then pulled her into the powerful embrace of his arms with the other. "For one, I’m not like your other husbands. For another, you’ll not kill me."

A burning jolt flashed through her and she pushed back from him.

"‘Tis not I that will be your undoing, but something far stronger." His touch scorched her skin.

He straightened, his voice laced with a deadly calm. His eyes narrowed.

"You think me weak? Is this why you’d claim such a thing? Do you not wish to share your bed? Is there someone else you would have rather married?"

His grasp on her arms dug deep enough to hurt. She gasped, and felt the blood leave her face. Her stomach flipped with dread. Dear St. Bridget, she had offended him.

"Nay! There is no one."

She screwed together all her courage and with shoulders held back and chin high, stepped back toward him.

"My uncle paid you to take me to wife. I can remove the claims of being a devil’s maiden no other way. If you’ll not, then return the coins to him and leave me. He only hired you because he heard told that you were afraid of nothing."

His face lost all emotion, but his eyes were too bright. He yanked his shirt off, tossed it to the floor and stepped toward her, close enough that she could sense the frisson of heat between them.

"If this is merely a transaction, then toss your skirts up, and let’s be done with it." His flippant tone made her eyes widen.

Sorcha licked her dry lips with a quick flick of her tongue, her gaze darting away from him for a moment so she could regain her internal balance. He did not intend to hold back on his husband’s duty as she had anticipated, but any chance she had hoped for a gentle deflowering had vanished. Her insides twisted.

"Do you not think we might talk a bit first or at least kiss, again?"

He stroked his chin and walked over to the bed, then settled his gaze on her. It smoldered with a heat she could feel across the room.

"I was under the impression you only wanted the services rendered expediently and to be done. Did you want a lover then?"

She shook her head.

"Nay, I don’t want a lover, but neither do I feel right about this." She pressed a hand to her head. How could she explain she wanted him to be gentle?

Ian shrugged and leaned back against the bedpost, resting his spine against the wood, completely indifferent to her turmoil.

"It makes no difference to me, wife. I can just as easily do without."

She threw up her hands in frustration and strode over as close to him as she dared.

"But I can’t. You have to do this, but you could at least make it pleasant." There. She had not begged him, but at least she had said something.

His gaze lifted to meet hers. He deliberately glanced at the bed, then slowly raked her with a searing gaze that made a liquid heat pool low in her belly.

"Oh, I could easily make it pleasant enough for both of us."

He pushed away from the bedpost, took her by the shoulders and lifted her aside, then stamped past.

"But I’ll lie with you only if I please. And you haven’t pleased me yet."

The warmth that had overtaken her senses instantly evaporated. Her mouth gaped like a beached fish.
Of all the pompous, asinine men.

"But they’ll, they’ll look!" she stammered. She had to make him understand the seriousness of what she faced. "The village midwife will check to see on the morrow if I still hold my maidenhead. If I do, then Rorick and his men may as well truss me up and start gathering firewood."

He turned, just enough to bring them face to face. The sheer power he radiated made her skin feel too tight. He tilted her chin upward with a stroke of his finger that left her breathless, then bent slowly down until there remained a fraction of space between their lips. She could feel his warm breath, still sweet with ale, against her mouth, causing her to recall his very real, very potent kiss.

"We’re wedded. That changes everything." He brushed her lips with his, neither kissing her, nor denying her the pleasure of his touch. "I can solve your dilemma, my sweet, and neither of us need bother with anything more."

Sorcha closed her eyes expecting his kiss, expecting that he would give in and do his husbandly duty, but instead, she felt cool air brush her cheek as he stalked away from her to the bed and shoved aside the coverlet.

"They’ll not check as long as there’s evidence on the sheets and we both claim it is yours." Taking out his dirk, he ran the sharp blade along the edge of his finger. A crimson line swelled and darkened. Ian reached into the bed and smeared his blood on the sheets.

"There. No one will dare to check now."

He might be braw, but obviously the muscle between his ears was underworked.

"And you believe it so easy?" she muttered, fisting her hands upon her hips.

He braced his legs apart and crossed his arms over his bare chest, his male confidence completely ludicrous to her.

"Aye."

"And what of when Henna wishes me to spread my legs?"

"She’ll do no such thing."

She spun away from him and began pacing.

"But she will!" she insisted, her voice thinning as the strain of explaining the situation yet again to this thick-headed lout of a husband wore on her. "She’s done so each time."

He smiled, radiating confidence. "The most critical skill one needs in battle is to understand your enemy. If there is evidence on the sheets of your maiden’s blood, the midwife would show herself a fool to check you."

She huffed.

"This is not a battle! I don’t need strategy— "

He grasped her as she passed him, holding her still long enough to force her gaze to meet his.

"Then why hire a mercenary?"

She knew he baited her, but her frustration could not be controlled. She sighed.

"It had to be someone not from the clan. Someone who will go away when the job is done."

The wrong part of him hardened at her response. Instead of prolonging the enjoyment of their banter, her innocent words pointed to the ugly truth that calcified his heart. He was once again merely being used for his skills, then discarded.

Of course he wanted her and could enjoy the mating, but that wasn’t enough anymore. Not since Mary had made him feel like a rutting animal when he’d touched her, then tossed him aside for money.

Sorcha’s hands spread over his chest, making fire explode across his skin.

"Ian."

Her use of his given name melted away the bitterness with the greater heat of desire.

She moved her hands across him, fanning the flame.

"I ask you be a husband to me this one night only to save my life. They will burn me if I can’t prove I’m not a devil’s maiden."

How could he resist the temptation she so willingly offered? He pulled her against him, letting the want of her overrule his self-loathing at his own needs.

The soft swell of her breasts and short, quick breaths only fed his hunger. Loving her would be sweet. He’d desired her the moment he’d touched her in the wood. He had every intention of bedding his new wife eventually, but she would know he did it not because of weakness, nor for coin. It would be because she
wanted
him to.

Ian held her gently, his fingers threading into the warm black silk of her hair and cupping the back of her head as he tried desperately to ignore the warm feminine scent of her.

"What am I to do with you, lady of the wood?"

Sorcha locked her piercing eyes on him, a serious calm stilling her features, but a playful smile making her full lips even more inviting to his kiss.

"Just about anything you like, so long as it involves divesting me of my virginity."

Her long fingers mimicked his own earlier actions at the ceremony, tracing his cheek and skimming along his jaw. The feather-light caress brought a blinding rhythm to his blood, the rhythm growing faster and harder as her touch lingered.

Ian blew out a slow, deliberate breath. His baser animal rose to the surface, overcoming his logic. The thinness of his voice betrayed his dwindling control.

"Aye."

Sorcha lifted his hand to her mouth, her skin many shades lighter than his own weathered hide. Her lips parted, the whispered warmth of her words seared his senses. She pressed a kiss to the center of his palm, just as he had to her in the wood. Her lips were moist, soft and hot, which made him immediately think of what else might be.

Ian tore his hand from her grasp and swiftly pulled her to him. He kissed her, harder and with more intent, than he had at the ceremony. She tasted of honey mead and temptation. He pulled back, aware his aggressiveness might frighten her.

The soft subtleness of passion had brought a rosy stain to her cheeks. He inhaled the floral fragrance lingering in her hair and the gossamer womanly scent that cloaked her skin.

A seductive smile blossomed, making her seem all the more enchanting. Rather than frightening her, his aggressive kiss made her bolder. She lifted up on her toes and kissed him with passion enough to make the pulsing in his body spread from head to toe.

For an instant, suspicion tempered his need. He swallowed hard. Was she an accomplished liar? Did she feign her interest? A chill brushed his heated skin. Had the others, who had died in this room, been political pawns or sacrifices to a blacker side of her soul? Damn him, but he didn’t much care. He wanted her. All of her. Now.

Ian felt the swell of her hips grind against his rigid shaft. Need surpassed suspicion. He groaned, claiming her mouth.

Sorcha pressed herself against him, matching his own intensity. Ian slid his hands down the length of her back and across her bottom, exploring her shape as he continued to kiss her.

His experienced hands eased the fabric away from her shoulder, allowing it to drop down far enough to reveal the ripe curve of her breast to his roaming touch. He grazed the soft white silk of it with his finger, eliciting a soft whimper from her. This was more like he expected.

The door burst open.

Sorcha thrust away from him, shielding herself with her arms crossed over her bared chest.

Ian lunged for his sword.

Chapter Five

Lord MacIver walked in with his drunken kinsmen in tow.

"Hie! It seems they’ve begun without us!" A roar of drunken laugher followed.

Ian lowered his sword and reached for the coverlet, tossing it back over the bed to cover the blood-smeared sheets, then grasped his bride about the waist pulling her close. She had yanked her clothing back into place, but her hair remained loose, begging for his touch.

Out of instinct Ian moved his arm protectively about her shoulders.

"There was no need for you to see to us," Ian said.

"Aye," Lord MacIver shook his head, placing a weathered hand on his shoulder. "But tradition bids it so for a proper marriage."

Deep down it galled him that MacIver was trying so hard to make this appear to be a proper marriage, rather than a paid contract. To him it was permanent and binding, but not a love match. His bride may not know that she was bound for France, but it mattered not. They were married and she was his. He certainly did not wish to climb into bed surrounded by her suspicious kinsmen.

Sorcha leaned into his side, laying her hand over his heart. The touch went far deeper than his skin, vibrating through him.

"He’s only doing it to assure our safety."

Despite the kindness of her touch, her words slapped him. Ian pulled her away from his chest, holding her arms and looked her in the eye.

"Does he not trust me to keep you safe?"

A wet sheen brightened the unending blue of her eyes.

"Nay." Ian heard the distinct tremor of sadness in her voice. "He does not trust me to keep
you
safe."

The insult struck home, a precise arrow piercing his pride. He stiffened, his hand running back over the nape of his neck, his fingers running over the familiar scars, each one a painful lesson. Did he not ply trade as a mercenary? Was he not able to defend himself well enough in battle? Did his bride really think so little of his abilities? He would let her know the kind of man he was.

He stepped forward, taking his best commander’s stance against the onslaught of her kinsmen filling the chamber. "I’ve spent plenty of years getting into a bed. I believe I can manage it fine without the lot of you looking on."

"Well get aboot it then," shouted someone from the back of the crowd.

"Aye!" chimed in a few more male voices.

"Get out!" Ian roared pointing at the open door.

An uncomfortable quiet stilled the revelers, followed by a noticeable souring of their faces and sulk to their shoulders as they shuffled out of the door. He’d made no friends with his insistence. She was his now.

Ian gritted his teeth. Until now, he had acted the willing participant. No more. He’d have his wife, without interference from her kin.

Her small hand touched his back.

Ian whipped around.

"What?" It came out harsh and abrupt.

Shocked surprised registered on her face. She creased her brows, her lips tightening into a firm line.

"I was going to give you my thanks—," she muttered, spurning him with a swift turn of her shoulders.

Ian relaxed. He had not meant to snap at her. Whatever intimacy they had enjoyed for a brief moment had evaporated, leaving the room cold between them.

He felt the fool. For whatever reason, here was a woman who could make him forget his purpose, his hard-earned lessons, his rule: never trust a woman.

As the door scraped shut, Ian went to her. He moved to place a hand on her shoulder and thought better of it, letting it sink to his side. The less he touched her, the less he would think of climbing into the bed beside her, of her silken skin and of how her hollows would taste under the cloak of night.

God help him. He was already becoming hard at the thought. He shook his head. He’d made his decision and wasn’t a person to change his mind easily. He wanted her to come to him out of her own desires, not because she needed the deed done. He would not let himself become subject to his need for a woman and be called an animal again as he had by Mary. There was no need so great he could not master it.

"It has been a long day. Go to bed, and I’ll keep watch."

She looked up at him. "I’ll die you know. They’ll think me a witch for certain on the ‘morrow and Rorick will see me burned."

Ian gently took her hand, then stepped to the bed and flipped back the coverlet.

"I tell you, she’ll not check with evidence on the winding sheet to suggest you’ve been bedded." He sat her gently on the edge of the bed.

Her head hung low and her foot brushed back and forth, moving the rushes and dried herbs on the floor with a hushed rasping.

Ian lifted her chin with his finger, the softness of her skin and the faint fragrance of heather that clung to her tantalizing him. He managed to tilt his lips into what he hoped would pass for a smile.

"I’d rather you give your maidenhood to a man you love. Consider it my bride’s gift to you."

Her gaze darted away from his and she began to tremble, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth in a way that made him think how it might feel if his lips were to take their place.

Damn him for his own honor. He’d pay a price for it with an aching groin. He took a deep breath and shifted his weight to relieve the unwanted pressure he felt. She had no idea how dearly the gift cost him.

When she finally did look at him, there was an aching softness about her face, her eyes pleading. "You will not make me your wife?"

He almost gave in. He tenderly brushed back a wisp of her raven tresses, fighting for control of his own needs.

"Not this night."

A wicked gleam sparked in the blue depths of her eyes. "But surely, as a man, you need not love to act. There’s evidence enough of it." She boldly grazed her fingers along the hardened length of him.

An electric bolt pierced straight through him. Ian sucked in a harsh breath and blew it out slowly. His voice tightened with strain.

"An animal ruts. A man controls himself. I won’t take your maidenhood from you merely because I can. There is evidence on the sheets. That is all you need to be safe from the midwife."

And that was when his wife turned on him.

"Aye. Perhaps for now, but what of the man who takes my virginity once you’ve left for France without me? He’s bound to notice."

Ian’s blood thickened, his hands curling into fists. He hadn’t realized how possessive the simple ceremony had made him. It was best to once and for all rid her of the notion that she could stay in Scotland without him.

"I’ll not leave without you."

She looked up at him, her skin turning sallow as she lost the color in her cheeks. "And what if I want you to?"

"This isn’t a love match. This is a contract. In the bargain you are to gain protection of your life. I am to gain a wife. You will accompany me to France."

She shot up from the bed.

"Nay! We have no bargain until you lie with me."

He gave her a lethal smile. "Oh, I have every intention of doing just that, but not until I’m certain it is me you want and not just the post I can offer you."

Ian firmly grasped her shoulders and sat her down again on the bed, this time not as gently.

"It’ll not be this night, lass. We will complete our contract soon enough when you agree to go with me as a proper wife should and leave this Godforsaken land for a better life."

Sorcha sputtered. "You can’t mean it! You have to do this thing, tonight!"

He stood up and leveled his gaze at her.

"Actually, as long as everyone believes you to be without your maidenhead, you are safe and I have done my job. Only you and I know different. To oust me would be to place yourself in jeopardy again." He leaned against the wall and crossed his long legs. "So, your choice is this. Agree to go to France, or remain a virgin wife."

She balled her fists, her shoulders shaking.

"Why do this?"

"I need legitimate heirs, not a wife an ocean away. All the money in the world can’t give me what you can."

Sorcha fell back against the mattress and laid her arm across her eyes. "If I were able I would go with you, I would. But I can’t do it. There are things here you can’t see and do not know that bind me here."

"We shall see."

She dragged the covers over herself and turned her back to him. "Your decision will only end with me in an early grave."

"Not if I have anything to do with it." He crossed to the opposite side of the room, as far from her as he could get, before settling against the cold stone of the floor with the wall at his back. She pulled the coverlet over herself and Ian leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

He would think of battle, of claymores screaming and the sting of swords. He willed himself to see the hills scattered with heather and the silent bodies of the dead, of blood, red and flowing—not the flow of the red coverlet that draped and pooled intriguingly around the soft curves of her body. He rubbed the cut on his finger lightly to focus himself. His plan to fool the midwife would work. He would be sure of that.

He watched her curl the covers around her slender shoulders. Her dark head lay in stark contrast on the pale sheets, black on white. She turned to look at him, focusing her glistening eyes intently on him.

A small sigh escaped her lips. "If I don’t see you in the morn, know I thought well of you."

He turned away and shut his eyes to block out the sight of her alone and inviting in the big bed.

"Go to sleep," he murmured in reply.

She turned over in the vast bed, tucking her head against the pillow, but was keenly aware of his presence in the room as she drifted to sleep.

Hours later, in the darkness of the night, she gasped. Sorcha couldn’t breathe. Her lungs were beginning to burn. The smoke choked the life from her. Fire singed her clothes and ate at her hair, the smell of it filling her nose. She heard groans of other women in the flames. No, it wasn’t right—it was the groans of a man she heard.

She bolted upright from her nightmare, her skin clammy with premonition and sweat. In the dark she could see Ian still sat tucked against the wall. She held her breath waiting to hear him. He uttered another groan and shuddered, his arm clutching his stomach as he writhed.

Sorcha moved quickly to his side, feeling his forehead and cheeks for heat. He was warm to the touch, but not fiery as Magnus and Harold had been.

"Where does it hurt?"

"My gut— " He swore, gritting his teeth. "I thought that brew you gave me was to prevent this."

"Well, you haven’t died, have you?"

"Nay. But to be honest, it doesn’t feel much better than bleedin’ to death." He curled forward, tucking his knees to his chest and groaned.

She had to act quickly. Before she’d been afraid she’d given him too big a dose of the protective powders, as it was only a desperate gesture, a superstitious effort laced in hope, but perhaps she’d misjudged his size.

"I’ll be back soon."

He grunted in reply.

"Try to keep quiet. If any of the others hear you, they’ll come looking." She quickly slipped from the room and padded down the stone stairway.

Grabbing a tankard in the kitchen, she quickly ladled water into it and searched her pockets for the pouch of powder. In the moon’s light, she watched about a quarter of the white granules slip into the surface of the liquid. She bit her lip. What if it still weren’t enough for him? How much had her mam used for her father when he went to battle? She could not remember. She lifted the pouch and tapped it, dumping the remainder into the cup, and said a quick prayer. She stirred it quickly with her finger, then hastened back to the chamber, her heart pumping hard and fast.

Ian lay on the floor, curled into the shape of a new baby, the curve of his back facing her.

Fear choked her. She blinked, narrowing her eyes for a sign of movement in the darkness. Was he dead already? Her chest tightened with fear, and she inhaled to relieve it. The air remained scented with the dry smells of heather and rushes, the mustiness of old wood and stone. Death did not linger yet.