The Spellbound Bride (9 page)

Ian stirred. Sorcha dropped to her knees and rolled him toward her. Lifting his head, she pushed the edge of the tankard to his lips.

"Drink!"

His lips touched the brew, drawing it into his mouth. He yanked back, spewing it. "God’s teeth, what foul mixture is this?"

"‘Tis the same as before, only in water. Finish it!"

"If I do, it’ll only find its way back out again!"

She held his nose and brought the tankard back to his mouth.

"Try it now."

He gulped at the liquid, then pulled away from the rim, breathing heavily. Distrust lingered in his gaze.

"Remind me never to take you into battle as a caregiver," he sputtered.

"You must get to the bed. Can you walk?"

"Leave me be. I’d rather not move."

"As you wish," she said as she brushed the sweat-dampened hair from his forehead.

"Sorcha?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

Her heart constricted with his words, and she swallowed hard. She set the empty tankard aside and held his head in her lap as he lay on the floor. Once his eyes became heavy and his chest began to rise and fall with a steady rhythm, the tightness about her lungs eased as did the stiffness in her neck and shoulders.

He hadn’t died.

She leaned over, careful not to disturb him, and pulled a blanket from the bed. She bundled it beneath his head and tucked the rest about him. Sorcha crawled back into the bed, exhausted by the incident, her heart still pounding. She prayed he would live until morning. As her heart slowed, deep sleep claimed her, and for a moment there was peace.

She startled out of her sleep for a second time that night when a hand clamped over her mouth.

"Take off your clothes," the male voice hissed in her ear. Sorcha strained to see who directed her and tensed further when she saw Ian’s shadowed outline in the half-light of early morning. She must have slept for several hours.

She dug her fingers into his hand, peeling it away from her mouth.

"I’ll do no such thing!" For a man near death, he seemed alive enough now.

"If you want to live, you will. There’s no time to argue. Footsteps are coming. Do you want me to protect you or not?"

Hastily she slipped her shift over her head, tossed it in a heap on the floor, then settled back into the warmth of the covers. Only then did she recognize the sensation of his bare skin, all of it, next to her own.

Startled, she jerked up, determined to launch out of bed. Ian wrapped a thick arm around her, pulling her swiftly back down to the mattress and against him.

A knock sounded at the door. Before either could bid entrance, it creaked open and in shuffled her uncle with Henna close on his heels.

The woman pushed past Lord MacIver, nearing the bed.

"You see, Henna. The man’s not only alive, but in fine spirits," her uncle said, pulling Henna back towards the open door.

"‘Tis not what removes the mark of the Devil, my laird." The crone moved toward the bed once more, her candle held high. "I’ve to see for myself if Lucifer still holds her a maiden."

"See here!" Ian bellowed, the covers pooling to his bare waist as he sat up.

Sorcha grabbed what she could of the blankets, burrowing deeper into them and the shadows, her skin suddenly a cold shroud and poor protection against the midwife’s narrowed eyes.

"I’ll not be bundled out of bed at this hour. Be off with you. You can come later and examine the sheets if you like, but I’ll not have you disturbin’ me and my wife."

The midwife snorted. "As you like. But I’ll get a look at her all the same." The thought made Sorcha’s chest squeeze the breath from her lungs, making it hard to breath.

"Out!" Ian growled.

The woman stalked from the room, throwing them both a withering glance as she left. Her uncle shrugged his shoulders by way of an apology and shut the door swiftly.

"Didn’t I tell you she was a pushy wee thing?" Sorcha mumbled from beneath the covers as she reached for her clothing.

"Getting dressed so soon?" The lazy sensuality that laced his voice sent warning sparked arcing over her nerves.

Sorcha twisted around and found herself staring at his bare chest. Her breath caught in her throat. White scars marred his dark skin. Underneath was muscle, sculpted into hard planes from battle.

Her heartbeat grew louder, filling her ears with its rhythm.

"Aye, I shouldn’t be abed like this with you." She grasped the covers about her bareness and brushed the sleep-raveled hair from her face.

The covers were settled indecently low about his hips. She bit her lip, wishing to see more in one instant and chastising herself the next. Closing her eyes, she turned away from him.

"Pray tell, where do you get the notion that husbands and wives sleep in their clothes?"

Sorcha stiffened. "‘Tis common knowledge enough." A shiver raced along her entire body as his legs shifted and his skin slid against hers beneath the blankets. She had never felt a man’s body so completely next to her own without clothing before. Oh, Magnus had been naked, as had Harold, but both of them were too in the throes of death to be concerned about if she were there or not. She’d not had time to think, to feel. She tucked her hair behind her ear with a shaking hand. Were she honest, she found the situation most intriguing.

A twinge of guilt constricted her chest. She was allowing herself to want more of him, to think of things that could not be. She could not let herself become attached to him. It had to stop. If that meant pretending the shrew and feigning disgust with him, so be it. He would leave to France without her.

He reached forward, gliding a finger along her jaw.

"‘Tis the husband who decides such things, wife. And I prefer you be abed as God created you."

She jerked away, but the searing trail his finger had branded upon her skin remained.

"We’ll catch our death of the cold!" she protested, distancing herself from him and taking part of the covers to shield herself from his assessing gaze.

He lay back, his arm propping him up on the bed.

"Nay," he said as he patted the wrinkled sheet, "not if we share the warmth of the bed together."

She did her best to glare at him. He could not develop an attachment to her. She would not let him. She still needed him to take her virginity, but once that had happened she would need to put distance between them, not daring to tempt whatever evil lurked within her.

She was already feeling too much for him. That alone proved dangerous. Whenever she began to feel too much for someone, they died or left, leaving her with nothing but an aching heart. There was so little left within her that she didn’t dare take the risk on damaging what remained.

"But last night you wouldn’t lie with me. Unless you’ve changed your mind I have no reason to be in bed with you. Have you changed your mind?" she said crisply, trying to make it sound like they were discussing a contract for buying milk.

"Nay lass, only modified it a bit. Your maidenhead belongs only to the man whom you choose to give it to. I ask only that you keep me warm while I share your bed and keep this pretense of ours from being discovered."

Sorcha licked her dry lips. It was a decent enough proposal from a mercenary. It was a completely indecent proposal from her temporary husband. Playing at marriage was much more difficult, and dangerous, than she had anticipated.

The skimming of his bare foot along her leg made her judgment waver, but her resolve to have done with the contract, or have none of him at all, cleared her head.

"It’ll do you no good, Hunter. Even once you bed me, I have no intention of going with you to France."

A flicker of hard coldness transformed the shape of his mouth from a smile into a scowl.

"I’ll not share a bed with a wife who pines after another!" His weight on the bed shifted as he climbed out, stark naked and stood beside the bed.

Sorcha stared. She had never seen such a build. If he’d had any sense he would have slit a vein to spread upon the sheets, because had they consummated their vows, she certainly would have been torn asunder. Daylight was inching across the sky, lighting the room with the morning’s blush.

She gulped and mustered what she could of her senses.

"And I’ll not share it with a pig-headed fool! I said naught about another man." She swallowed hard and tried to choose her words carefully. "I am speaking of something far more elusive. No one can control whims of fate."

He quirked a brow, a sardonic smile spreading on his face.

"Then what is a witch?" he asked smoothly.

She stiffened, like a child sloshed with a pail of icy water, then edged to the opposite side of the bed in a backwards crawl, her body tense, her glare firmly fixed on him.

"You have no wish to save me! You’re probably a witch pricker, aren’t you?"

Ian muttered a Gaelic oath. How a woman could jump to such conclusions over a slip of the tongue confounded him.

"That is why you wouldn’t bed me, Hunter, isn’t it? Are they coming even now to collect me for burning? Did the kirk pay you more than my uncle?"

He gritted his teeth. God save him from another superstitious fool. How could she think so when it had cost him dearly not to bed her, even as she lay bare beside him? How much control had he wasted not touching her satin skin or kissing her? His rock hard arousal was evidence enough of his want of her, and she had seen that as bare as could be.

Her mouth dropped open as he stalked toward her. She squealed, dragging the covers with her as he leaped over the bed.

He caught her easily. In one quick movement, Ian flipped her onto her back, pinning her hands above her head. Her face seemed flawlessly calm, but her eyes betrayed her with a flicker of fear and anger.

His jaw tightened. He did not wish to scare her.

"What will it take before you trust me? Have I not proven the evil you fear powerless against me? Have I not protected you from that midwife who’d condemn you? My God, what do you want?"

She stared at him, her eyes losing their fire and turning still and deep like a bottomless loch. Her lips parted; her breath became short and soft, her voice a quiet rasp laced with unspoken pain.

"What I want, ye cannot give."

Ian thrust away from her, the sting of her words more painful than the cut of a claymore. He raked his fingers through his hair and stalked over to his breeches, still pooled on the floor. His gut instincts had been true. She had no want of him save this one act. The knowledge festered within him.

"Get up," he growled.

He watched from the corner of his eye as she mutely obeyed, taking the coverlet to shield herself from him. He snatched up his breeches and began to yank them on one leg at a time, even as he continued to take pleasure in the creamy slope of her shoulders and curve of her hips. He noticed that she had likewise collected her clothing and begun to dress, her back to him. Her calm in this moment only infuriated him, making him feel like a green swain.

"You’ll not leave my side, today. Is that understood?"

Her head popped through the top of her shift, the hem of it skimming the rounded curves of her thighs.

"Won’t that seem a bit odd?" She pulled her hair from underneath the fabric, letting the black river of it cascade down her back.

Ian swallowed. His reaction to her ran hot and cold. All intensity. For all the times she galled him and goaded his pride, he was still stubbornly attracted to her. It would take all of his discipline, and more, to keep his promise of her bride’s gift and not take it from her.

He lowered his voice, so only she could hear. "Nay, we’ve to go a-thigging. The clan will expect us to be close by one another. But I don’t want you to be by yourself, today. I’ll not give Henna a chance to get you alone, do you ken?"

"Aye."

"Besides, won’t we look besotted with each other?" He looked over his shoulder and gave her a sarcastic smile.

Sorcha raised an eyebrow at him, as if he were mad.

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