The Spellbound Bride (6 page)

"Is it aching you?"

He cocked his head to the side. "When doesn’t it?"

His words comforted her. He was tough enough to fulfill his destiny. He had to be. She lifted a finger.

"Power eases even the worst pain. Soon enough you’ll have what you need, but for now drink a little of this while I finish my work."

She pulled a small leather flask from beneath her cloak and handed it to him.

"Is it a herbal?"

Despite his ruined body, his mind had become sharper than most. Henna smiled.

"Nay, just good strong drink, Duncan."

Golden light glinted in his eyes. He grasped the flask and tipped it back, gulping down the contents and laying the empty flask on the table.

"Are you nearly done with it? I’ve still got to return to the main keep to be there when the other Campbells arrive."

"Aye. Nearly done." She lifted a spoonful of the liquid and sniffed. A little at a time, she filled a smaller black leather flagon with the liquid, then handed it to Duncan.

"See that the groom gets this only after he’s eaten. That way it will sit in his stomach long enough to do its work and earn us the coin and favors we’ll need to place you where you deserve to be."

He nodded his blond head and raised the flagon. "To victory—and a short life."

Henna smiled. "My sentiments exactly."

Chapter Four

That night, the flickering firelight of the torches licked along the walls of the small stone chapel, leaving shifting shadows and shapes in their wake The dusty scent of neglect clung to the stones, augmented by the acrid smoke of the burning torches and the heat of too many bodies in the small space.

Sorcha’s blood pumped hard in her veins as she left her uncle’s arm. She stepped forward toward the mercenary and her elder kinsman, who was to perform the specially arranged ceremony.

About a dozen of the MacIvers, half as many Campbells, and the Earl of Argyll stood crowded together. As intertwined as varied colors in a plaid, the MacIvers were more Campbell than not.

They owed the large clan their allegiance, even if they had been freed from paying out the calp to the Campbell Chief. But ever since the MacIvers had taken in the young seventh Earl of Argyll at the sixth Earl’s untimely death at the king’s bidding, the Campbells had tried many tactics to integrate the clans completely. The marriage of Sorcha to not one, but two, of their lesser lairds’ sons was to have accomplished that.

Judging by the unfriendly faces of the Campbells, they were not pleased with her uncle’s choice for her most recent groom. And while she didn’t worry for herself, she worried for young Archibald.

The Campbells would stop at nothing to crush her clan in the flit of an eyelash if ill befell the boy because of her own recent misfortunes, and Rorick Campbell’s pledge to see her burned. The male voices in the room stopped rumbling and the room fell silent.

The fresh heather she’d woven in a ring about her head poked through her veil in places. The heat of her skin made the small, purple bell-like flowers release a sweet, fresh, earthy scent, but it did not override the sour smell of fear that suffused the room. She fixed her eyes on the mercenary beside her.

It was hard to see the details of his face through the translucent fabric of her veil. What her eyes could not see, her mind supplied in vivid detail even down to the small cleft in his chin. Now that she stood next to him again, he was much taller than she recalled. While she stood equal in height to most men in her clan, she came only to his shoulder, making her feel decidedly small.

Though her kinsman’s speech was quick and clipped, it slowed in emphasis as he finished his question to her, "—to be your husband, in sickness and health, poverty and wealth, until such time as God should part you
by death
?" Sorcha stiffened and stared unflinching into the old man’s eyes. He raised a bushy brow.

She made her reply firm and assured so none could doubt her commitment.

"Aye."

The old man barely shook his head in disapproval, but she noticed. She suspected everyone else in the gathering had as well. A chill threaded down through her veins, cooling her blood. They expected him to die. Then they would turn and burn her. Her stomach clenched.

Thus far she had done nothing different this time from when she had married Magnus and Harold, and they had both died. Tonight would be different. Tonight she would give him a protective draught such as her mam would have made. She had scoured her mam’s books, searching for anything that might make a difference this night. It may not work, but it was all she could think of and better than doing naught and watching yet another man die.

The kinsman’s voice droned on. She ignored most of it, and wasn’t aware that her kinsman had stopped until, without warning, the mercenary placed his large hand at her back. Her stomach contracted at the branding sensation, her heart pounding harder. He pulled her close, his hot hands leaving an imprint on her skin, even as they left it and skimmed the edge of her veil.

"Well, wife, am I to have a kiss to seal our vows?" To her his voice sounded smooth and dark, making her insides curl. The smell of rosemary and mint soap she’d made herself mingled with the scent of clean male beside her in a heady combination.

Sorcha pulled insistently at his hands.

"A kiss is not necessary to seal the vows, but if you must, could you not kiss me in the courtly fashion?" she asked with an overly honeyed voice.

Challenge flashed in his eyes, making the jet color all the more absorbing. He might be a mercenary, but he certainly did not enjoy taking orders. His callused hand grasped hers; his fingertips brushed in a feather-soft touch of her wrist that she felt all the way to the tip of her slippers. Sorcha watched the pulse of his throat quicken beneath the jagged edges of the scar. He lifted her hand. His breath skimmed her flesh, warming it.

Sorcha suppressed a shiver. The air beneath her veil instantly became too heavy to breathe. A shimmering sensation collected within her, warning her that this man was dangerous. An unnatural flash of heat thrummed just beneath her skin and her usually steady knees weakened like wax held to a flame, even though she locked them.

His firm lips brushed her skin, making her stomach flip and tighten as it had in the woods. The pressure of his mouth increased as he kissed her too warm flesh.

He glanced down at her. The unmistakable mark of determination smoldered in the dark depths of his gaze. A predatory smile curled his lip. His reaction unnerved her and she instinctively stepped away. But he was quicker.

He wrapped a firm arm about her waist, trapping her in his embrace. Sparks shot across her skin as if she were a blade and he were flint. "And now, I would like to look upon my bride." He snaked his fingertips to the edge of her veil, lifting it.

Sorcha reared back, pushing against his chest with her hands.

"‘Tis bad luck for you to see me before the marriage bed!" She had intended to bed him under the cover of dark, never revealing herself as the woman he had met in the woods. She hoped that if he never saw his bride, it would be easier for him to leave her behind as she wished.

His grip around her waist tightened, bringing him intimately close, her thighs pressing against his. Every inch of him touching every inch of her was hot and hard, and utterly unyielding. "‘Tis worse luck if I do not," he said, his words edged with menace.

Sorcha tamped down the surge of defiance he raised in her and relented. Even in her fear of his discovery, part of her wanted him to look upon her, wanted to see the reaction he would have when he discovered her duplicity. Would he hate her then? Perhaps that would be the saving of him. A man could not both hate and love the same woman, could he?

She yielded, letting him lift the veil she had worn for days. As he peeled the translucent fabric back from her face, she watched anger pass through him, hardening his shoulders and the line of his neck beneath the dark curls. But it evaporated instantly leaving behind something she feared more--a glow of triumph radiated about him like the mane of a lion.

"So ‘tis my lady of the wood, whom I wed," he growled deeply.

She lifted her chin, giving him no other response.

Like a cat stalking prey, her new husband closed in, lifting a hand, sliding the tips of his fingers along her cheek to cup her jaw with his palm.

A tremor shook her.

"Now I should like to kiss my bride properly."

She sucked in a breath, desperate for air, but unable to move. The sharpness of rosemary, mint and potent male surrounded her. The warmth of his skin nearly undid her resolve as he bent down and traced the edges of her mouth with his own firm lips, but did not yet kiss her.

He smelled too of wood and field, leather and soap. Her senses reeled at the intimacy their proximity produced. His lips came down firm and surprisingly supple. They were warm, inviting and made it too easy to forget herself.

And she wanted to. God above, she wanted to sink into the dark oblivion his kiss offered her.

In that instant she wanted to tangle her fingers in his dark hair and enjoy the sensation of his kiss, wanted to forget all those around them—and that she was not supposed to want this, or him. Her reaction to him was unexpected and unwelcome.

She pulled back, reining in her wayward reactions, and forced herself to stare coolly at him. The fire-like intensity wavered his eyes, then flattened into hard, emotionless obsidian. A stab of hurt pierced her when she saw her own hardness mirrored back to her. He straightened, an invisible coat of armor sealing off his contact with her. The woman within her wanted him to find her appealing, but her soul, the part that feared her unnatural bond with death, could not allow him to be attracted to her. What a wretched muddle she found herself in, wanting what could not, must not, be.

"Shall we go to table, then?" she stated without revealing a flicker of the conflicting emotions she felt within.

He nodded with a curt tilt of his head.

Sorcha found she craved a word from him, something to indicate her response had not been mutual, that she had succeeded in putting him off even as he had made her head swim. But Ian remained neutral, his demeanor staid and unreadable. He was every inch an unfeeling mercenary.

Inside she was a quivering mass. His kiss had done things to her no one had ever done before, and yet she knew if she were to protect him, he must never come to have feelings for her.

She steadied her pulse by holding each breath for a few moments longer until she could speak smoothly.

"I would have preferred you left my veil as it was."

"So would I."

His comment stung like a vexed hornet, sharp, painful and pinprick precise.

"Why? Are you so very disappointed in your bride?"

He looked at her. No, through her.

"Nay. My bride is bonnie, intriguing and dare I say— bewitching."

Sorcha flinched at the word.

"But you are clearly not the woman I met in the wood. She was a more passionate creature."

He turned away and belatedly offered her an arm. Something inside her shriveled with a mixture of triumph and unexpected hurt. She had accomplished what she sought to with her actions, and yet the victory was incredibly hollow. Sorcha yanked the veil back in place and lightly placed her hand along his forearm as he led her to the great hall.

Dinner seemed more of a wake than a celebration, though Lord MacIver obviously gave it his best efforts. Ian sat next to his bride, but focused his attention on her clansmen, noting how each eyed him with a mixture of suspicion and doubt. Perhaps they believed he would not last the night and were even now searching for signs he might have succumbed to his bride’s spell. A servant leaned between them, placing a silver goblet between them. She tilted her head toward Ian.

"Husband."

The title felt foreign, but Ian acknowledged it.

She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a confidential tone. "I would ask of you a gift to your bride."

"Aye. What do you wish?"

"Drink with me from this cup." She wrapped both hands, then deftly tapped a powder into it with a finger that curled over the edge of the rim, making the movement invisible to anyone save himself.

A roar of suspicion coursed through his veins. He’d heard stories from his friend Adair and knew that people could steal themselves against the power of a poison by prolonged exposure in small doses.

"You shall drink first, and I second. But drink deeply. It is a protective I have made for us both. I wish you to live through the night." She handed the cup to him.

"Are you daft?" he asked in a harsh whisper.

The cup came down.

"I swear to you, it is only a protective."

He snorted. "Against what,
you
?"

Her veil puffed outward with a frustrated breath.

"Will you please drink? I do not want the blame for another death laid at my feet. You may believe yourself immortal, but I don’t." Her voice held an edge of agitation.

"I believe no such rubbish. You’ll not have another death, because I’ll not drink."

Her hands turned white as they gripped the cup.

"For a man with experience on the battlefield, you’re cowardly."

Ian bristled. Even though he couldn’t trust anything she said, he was tempted to grab the cup and down it all in one swallow just to fling the comment back in her face. His intellect restrained his instinct.

Instead, he gave her a lethal smile. He kept his voice low and leaned close enough to her to smell the fragrance of heather in her hair.