The Spellbound Bride (11 page)

Her skin flushed with angry color. "Well I know, but— "

He looked up at her, trying to gauge just how much his mind was conjuring on its own out of spiteful memories.

"Do you now? And what else have you noted about him? Do you wish it was he and not I you married, despite his youth? Would his services have suited you better? Does his title appeal to you?"

Her eyes turned into hard, glittering sapphire orbs.

"Would it matter to you?"

She had evaded his direct questions, which infuriated him all the more. The thought of being married to a woman who craved another made his skin crawl with revulsion. He dropped his shield and sword to the dirt and took a step toward her. This was a matter he needed settled before he would ever touch her the way a husband should.

"Do you or do you not care for him?"

She pursed her mouth, as if he were an idiot for having asked the question, and crossed her arms.

"I care for Archibald as a foster mother and friend, but not with any romantic notions. I am responsible for his health and your training seems to jeopardize that."

So she wasn’t attracted to Argyll. He released the air in his lungs that he didn’t realize he’d held.

"The rigors of training are good for him."

"Rigors? Is that what you call beating a lad to his knees time and again?"

Ian bristled. What did she think him, a barbaric animal? She was going to have to learn that he knew best when it came to matters of battle and safety.

"A little hardship isna’ going to hurt the lad. He’s too soft by a half, but his mind is quick enough to make up for it, if he works hard." He stamped forward, planting his full height before her. "Are you questioning my training or my intentions?"

The blue in her eyes softened, the veil of her emotions clouding the clear brightness of a moment before. The soft heathered fragrance of her skin drifted up to him, making him intimately aware of how close she was, which sent his pulse beating as fast as it had while he was at swords.

"I am merely concerned for my ward’s health, Hunter, no more, no less."

"And I am concerned with my wife’s devotion." He grasped her to him, cupping the back of her head with one hand and claiming her mouth in a searing kiss. He wanted to brand himself upon her; to know that even though she had not given herself freely to him, she was in a measure still his and always would be, until her last breath.

Under the intensity of his touch he felt her soften, melding into him. He pulled her away from him, knowing that his arousal would be all too evident against the breeches he wore, and she might believe him even more animalistic because of it.

"Did you say a bath was waiting?" he asked, hoping to dispel the tension in the air between them.

She nodded, her soft, pink tongue brushing over her slightly swollen lips. Ian stifled a groan.

"Aye," she said.

"Then take me to it, wife."

Sorcha gulped. She knew he would ask her to assist him as a chatelaine’s duty. But could she? At a loss for words, she nodded mutely and walked ahead of him through the bailey.

Only a moment before, she had been so angry with him she wanted not to give him a bath so much as pour a bucket of dirty wash water over his head for his treatment of Archibald.

She touched her fingertips to her lips as she walked toward their shared chamber. How was it with one kiss he had washed her fury away so that all she felt now was the need to possess him? He had a power over her that was dangerous. It would make her forget her vow to protect him. In her mind she put her armor firmly back in place, taking up her role as shrewish wife with new fervor to combat the alarming feelings he ignited in her.

Taking in a deep breath, she paused before the door, then pushed it open.

"Here is your bath."

He stepped past her then grasped her hand and pulled him into the room with him.

"Will you not assist me?"

"Nay." She turned to leave him.

"And why not, wife?" His voice became smooth, coaxing.

She shivered with longing, the contemplation of his touch taunting her. Oh, he was the very devil to tempt her so. She must not let him know how he affected her. She crossed her arm and pinched herself to snap her back into her role of wifely shrew. Tilting her chin, she locked her gaze on his dark eyes.

"Precisely that. I am no wife to you."

With practiced ease he began to undress, removing his boots and peeling the shirt from his skin to reveal a broad chest, dusted with dark hair and a chest and arms beneath thick with corded muscle. Sorcha turned away, but the quick glance had been enough.

Warmth, like heated honey, drizzled and flowed, pooling low in her. Heaven help her, the breeches, tight as they were, left little to imagine. She took a breath to steady herself and turned back to him. He had the beauty of a wild animal: strong, rare and lethal.

"Surely, you’ll not play the distressed maiden with me."

He was so compelling, his magnetism rooted her to the spot. Sorcha put her hands behind her back, squeezing them in an effort to regain her composure.

"In case you’ve forgotten, Hunter, I still am a maid." Her protest sounded weak even to her own ears.

His breeches and undergarments fell to the floor. Her heartbeat thrummed loudly in her head, and her stomach lodged itself in her throat. He sauntered toward her, his movements leonine and fluid, his skin a thin covering over the hardened muscles that rolled beneath.

"All the better reason you should assist me," he growled low.

Her breasts felt heavy and tender, sensitive to the corset fabric that bound them. He pulled her slowly to him, his kisses light and enticing along her neck. His breath warmed her hair and sent sparks shooting through her blood.

"How convincing can you be as a married woman if you haven’t even bathed your husband?" His husky voice slid hot and soft against the curve of her ear.

His fiery fingers touched her lips then trailed down her neck, pulling back her dress to bare her shoulder and loosen the laces on the front of her corset. The heat of his palm burned as he reached beneath the corset and cupped her breast. She gasped, unable to control the response to his touch. His thumb gently traced the swell of her, then reached to rasp against her aching nipple, making white-hot bolts of pure sensation shoot down to her toes.

He teased her. Driving her insane with want.

"Have a care, Hunter," she whispered.

His hands reached down, testing the softness of her bottom, kneading it as he pulled her against his hardness.

"Ah, Sorcha, you’ve already bewitched me," he breathed against her. "There is nothing you can do to cause me pain, save deny me."

She could feel him moving closer, the air becoming saturated with his heat, and the musky sweetness of his scent. Only but mere moments before his lips touched her, she began to feel the heat of his mouth.

His kiss was fire, demanding ever more fuel from her, raging through her, burning away her common sense. She melted inside, a throbbing pulse building deep within her that she’d not felt before.

‘Twas only to be this between them. Nothing more. She would not let the powers that bound her take him, yet she could not resist the temptation he offered. The heat between them intensified.

A flash of memory, vivid and burning assailed her. The flames were soaring above the rooftop of the small hut in the woods. Even now, she could feel the scorching waves singeing her eyelashes and blistering her cheeks. She held up her hands against the flames.

Sorcha shoved against him, pushing away, shaking her head. He caught her in his embrace and held her gently against him.

"No. No more. Please— " she sobbed.

He tensed. "What’s wrong? Have I hurt you?"

Sorcha opened her eyes and crumpled against him, weeping.

"They’re gone," she sobbed. "My fault, they’re gone."

She remembered so little of her mother and siblings that at times they seemed more dreams than reality from her past. And when she did remember things, they were odd bits and pieces, some bright and others frightening. She would see her mother laughing in one instant, calling to her, then hear her mother screaming her name in the living flames the next.

He wrapped his strong arms around her, cradling her against his hard chest.

"What happened?"

"They burned because of me—a fire in the cottage in the woods—all of them." She was mumbling between rattling sobs, then went suddenly still.

"You’ll be next," she breathed against his chest, letting his hair brush softly against her damp cheek.

Ian cradled her head in his large hand, forcing her to look up into his eyes.

"‘Tis not so, Sorcha. Nothing can keep me from you. Only you have the power to do that."

She curled tighter against him, fighting the wave of guilt that always accompanied the memories and willing them back into the black abyss from which they came.

The hardness of his chest was at odds with his gentle demeanor of the moment, causing her heart to contract again at the loss of him, even though he was not yet gone. At once, she was aware of his touch. A touch too tender, too caring and too close. She pulled herself away, withdrawing from the comfort he offered. Only the loose circle of his arms kept her near him.

"We can talk of this another time," he murmured, his words hot against her hair as he released his hold on her. "Go and rest, now. You’ll need it to prepare for our travels."

She nodded mutely, her arms curled tightly about herself.

She shuffled from the room, the door falling shut behind her. He glanced at his cooling bath water. Ian raked his hands through his stiff, sweat-plastered hair and blew out a frustrated breath. All the better. Cold water is what he needed most. That, and a tub full of ale.

* * *

Henna’s sharp ears heard Sorcha leave the room. She smiled. She had yet a hold on the girl’s memories. That would be to her advantage. She held Duncan back in the shadows until they reached the Earl of Argyll’s rooms, then knocked thrice upon the door.

"Enter."

Aye, he was young and full of himself, but that would serve her well.

"Good eve, my lord. I’ve brought the manservant I’ve told you about."

Archibald stroked his bare chin. "Step out of the light where I can see you." Duncan limped forward, disguising as best he could the twisted foot that hampered him.

The young earl’s face puckered in anger.

"You suggest this
thing
?"

Duncan straightened his shoulders. Henna could feel the warm rage pulsating off him, but he was good at hiding it well and kept it in check.

"I am far more fit in mind than body, my lord." He bowed.

Henna edged closer to the young lord and spoke softly in his ear. "You need a man loyal to you. With so much unrest among the lords, another pair of keen eyes and ears can be of great service, especially since none would suspect him because of his deformities. His name is Duncan."

"You have a point. Here now, come closer so I can get a good look at you, Duncan, was it?"

"Aye, my lord." He shifted closer. Henna noted the quick spasm of pain that flitted across his features before disappearing under the smooth smile and golden blond locks.

"You’d be catching a few ladies, I daresay, if it weren’t for you being lame."

Duncan bowed his head. "You are too kind, my lord."

"Can you ride?"

"Aye."

Archibald turned to Henna. "You say I can trust him. Are you willing to stake your life on that?"

"Aye, my lord. He is absolutely loyal to you."

"Good. Duncan, I want you to go to Abercairny ahead of me. You’ll leave tonight."

Chapter Seven

His bride was clearly terrified.

Ian sought Sorcha out that evening, determined to have her tell him everything. She’d hidden herself after she’d broken away from him, running out of the room and not coming down to dine in the hall that evening. Being unfamiliar enough with the design of Ballochyle to know where to search for her, the best he could do was corner her when they climbed into bed.

The candle guttered low, suffocating in melted tallow as he waited for her. Tension sharpened his senses enough to feel her presence when she returned to the room long after he’d gone to bed.

She lifted the blankets of the bed he insisted they share. The chill of the evening air swept around his bare skin, making it prick with gooseflesh. He pushed his leg back to feel the silken warmth of her skin and instead felt the soft weave of wool.

Ian bolted upright.

"You will not wear that to bed again."

He’d planned to entice the passionate nature from her, to gain her trust so he could find out the entire truth of what vexed her. But that would be next to impossible if she insisted they not touch.

She lay with her back toward him, her hip a rounded curve beneath the blanket in the wavering light.

"And why not?"

It was the second night with his wife. The first had been bad enough. He wasn’t going to let it set a precedent, and he wasn’t about to let her past stand between them.

"Because, wife, should anyone ever see you like this, they would only assume you couldn’t bear to sleep as God intended next to your husband."

She rolled over.

"And you’ve assured me none will come looking for proof of my virginity, so what is your purpose in badgering me? I’m only your wife in name, Hunter. Let us keep it that way and pray you live."

He whipped the blankets off her. She grabbed at the handful of blankets he held, trying to wrestle them away. Ian used the moment to his advantage and gave the blankets a yank, pulling her fully up against him.

"You are still my wife and while you are, you’ll lie naked in this bed."

Sorcha was pressed against his bare chest. He could feel her heart beating and the soft swell of her breasts pressing against him even with her infernal clothing between them. A rush of heat seared his blood. He wanted to feel her, touch her, taste her.

He felt her body tighten like the drawstring of a crossbow. In a swift movement, she darted up from the bed.

"I’ll not lie naked in this bed with you in it. ‘Tis dangerous for us both."

"Take it off." His tone was low, determined and lethal. He inched across the bed toward her.

"Nay, I’ll not." She turned away from him.

"You will, wife," he stalked towards her, "or I’ll do it for you."

Sorcha dashed away, her eyes narrowed. She lifted her chin in a show of defiance against him.

"You wouldn’t."

He couldn’t help himself when she had baited the trap so well. His steps were slow and measured like a cat closing on its prey, but his blood roared in his veins, hot and furious. Not caring that she could see his aroused state, Ian placed a hand on either side of her, trapping her against the cold, rough stone of the wall.

"Aye—I would."

She swallowed. He watched the movement in her throat, fascinated by the suppleness of her skin and stroked a finger down her the silky slope of her neck. She trembled in response, her eyes growing dark with desire.

A growl came from deep in this throat. He moved in closer, following the trail of his finger with feather-light kisses. He felt her breath catch.

He pressed a kiss just behind her ear and whispered hotly against her. "Just like this."

She relaxed into the sensation. Still kissing her, he slipped his fingers through the laces that held her gown in place and loosened them with a slight tug, then swiftly slipped the dress over her head. The garment fell to the floor leaving her clad in only her undergarments and that seductive feminine fragrance that was uniquely her own.

Her eyes opened, but before she could open her tempting lips to defy him, he silenced her with a kiss, using his deft fingers to untie the laces that held her chemise closed. He spread it wide enough to slide down the length of her, just as he wanted her to slide down the length of him.

She was more beautiful than he had anticipated, her skin softer than pink rose petals, and flushed from their argument. Her intoxicating floral fragrance ignited a fire in his blood. He wanted to touch her, to feel her against him, around him.

In the coolness of the room, she shivered. Ian pulled her close, her bare skin consuming his reason with the intensity of sensation. He lifted her up and carried her to the bed where he lay down beside her. He kissed her again, tasting her. She softened, relaxing into the kiss.

"It’s not so bad, now is it?"

"Nay, not yet." In one swift move, she rolled and cocooned herself in the blankets, leaving him nothing on the bed to cover with.

For a moment he was shocked, then amused. She had not figured him out as easily as that. He lay down beside her, casually lifting his arms and settling his hands behind his head. He intended to act as if it were a balmy summer evening rather than a chill spring night.

Sorcha peeked from beneath the covers at him.

"You’re going to catch your death of cold, as will I, if you persist in this nonsense about sleeping without proper clothing on."

He stretched with luxurious ease like a contented cat.

"This is actually quite comfortable. I’ve slept in much colder places than this."

She tugged the blanket back over her head and huffed.

Let her keep her small victory, he thought. He was not interested in winning the battle, but the war of wills between them.

* * *

The next few nights were no better. She tired of their stalemate, but was determined not to give in. She came to bed without a stitch of clothing, as he had demanded, only to wrap herself in blankets so tightly that he could not see even an inch of her skin. By the fourth night he seemed well and truly tired of the farce and irritable from lack of sleep. The less contact she allowed him to have of her, perhaps the more he would be convinced to leave her behind.

She evaded him until he sought her out the morning before they were supposed to leave for Abercairny. The air charged with his presence the moment he stepped into the doorway of the little room off the larder, where she kept her herbs. The deep sound of his voice made her skin tingle.

"We’ve to pack today for the trip."

She turned to look at him. His dark eyes bored into her, making her feel as thought he could see into her very heart. She fisted her hands to gain control, but it did nothing for the quick upbeat of her pulse. She took a deep breath, then pointed to the leather satchels on the worn wooden table.

"Aye. I’ve already started."

He leaned against the door for a moment, his form radiating power she could sense from across the room.

"We’re only taking one horse each. You won’t be able to carry much."

She ignored him as she continued to fill yet another satchel, but it was impossible. The man didn’t merely enter a room, he filled it, consumed it with his formidable presence. He moved beside her the heat from him touching her, although he did not. Ian lifted the flap of the nearest pack, making the earthen jars within clunk dully against each other.

"Do you always pack so heavily? We are not on a caravan to the Holy Lands." He began picking through the satchel, taking out a small pot and a heavy jar of oil.

She glared at him. "Put them back."

He lifted the lid of one and took a whiff of the contents. His nose wrinkled, then shook his head at the noxious smell and quickly set the jar further aside.

"Why? You’ve no reason for them."

She lifted her chin in challenge.

"You’re wrong."

He returned her glare and reached in the pack further.

"I think of the two of us, I’ve traveled enough to know what you will and will not need. This— " he said plucking a wooden spoon out of her bags, "is nothing you’ll need."

Sorcha crossed her arms and tried to think of a tactful way to tell him that he trespassed upon her most personal possessions. Challenging him was not the answer. He rose to challenge. But he was intelligent.

"Perhaps if you knew what these were for, it would make it easier to understand."

He shook his head.

"Nay. I know what I know. You don’t need it all. Women always pack far too much."

Sorcha bit back the comment that ached to come from her lips.
Men. Pig-headed, short-sighted, irritating bunches of sinew and brawn without the common sense God gave a stone.
Sorcha tamped down the frustration simmering beneath her skin. Ignorance was no friend. She tried again.

"I need them in case I haven’t the right mixtures packed with me for healing."

He sighed in response. "Is that what this is about, then? Can you not make some of them in advance?"

"Yes, but we chance that they might spoil or become ineffective. Then carrying them would be for naught."

He glared at the jars and spoon for a moment, then nodded and placed the spoon back into the leather pack.

"What else do you need, then?"

Sorcha felt a sigh of relief escape her. Her shoulders eased. At least he seemed willing to consider she might have knowledge he did not. That in itself was an unusual trait in a man.

"I’ve to gather some plants we’ll need to take with us."

"I’ll go with you."

The thought of him tramping along behind her like a great bear made her cringe. Perhaps he didn’t trust her, merely planned to supervise her efforts, getting in the way, more than he helped.

"There’s no need."

His face hardened. She’d seen the look enough on him to know it would brook no argument on the matter.

"Aye. There is. I will not have you out in the woods alone."

Considering the past few months, Sorcha saw the wisdom of this, even if he still seemed overly protective, and she nodded in agreement.

"It wouldn’t hurt you to learn a little of this," she murmured. "It is always helpful."

His kindness to her changed nothing between them, she thought. He may still believe she would accompany him to France after their trip to Abercariny, but she had no intention to do so. Too much lay at stake including Archibald’s life.

And since her husband had lived nearly a sennight, she felt confident he would leave soon enough. He had his coin, and she had made it plain enough that he could find some other woman to give him children. No one in France would need to know his children were illegitimate.

In truth, she believed the only reason he had been spared to this point was because she had retained her virginity. And lying with him in a bed, even with a blanket between them, did not keep her mind from temptation. No, no matter how tempting, she would be far better off when he was gone.

He cleared the sudden thickness in his throat with a muffled cough as she donned her dark green cloak. Sooner or later he would have to reveal his plans for her to accompany him to France regardless of her opinion on the matter. He needed heirs and was determined that she was going to be there to provide them, willingly.

Dear Saint Ninian, what would she be packing on a voyage that long? He might need to hire an extra horse to carry her things. He stared around at the corner of the kitchen she used for her healing arts and considered the weight of the iron cauldron in the fireplace and the myriad of jars and pots lined in neat rows along the walls over the table. Perhaps he’d even need a cart.

He saw her stuff a small, white-handled knife into an empty brown leather satchel along a hunk of bread and cheese wrapped in cloth and some twine. She slung the worn pack over her shoulder, and glanced back at him.

"Are you ready then?"

"Aye." At least as ready as he could be under the circumstances.