The Spellbound Bride (13 page)

Argyll bowed. "My lords, allow me to introduce to you Ian Hunter. He and his bride have come as representatives of my protector, Lord MacIver." Ian bowed, but remained steadfastly silent. The chamberlain retired to a seat at the back of the room, a part of the group because he was to direct the affairs of the Moray estate, but not a lord himself.

Ian tried to do so as well, but wasn’t as fortunate.

"So you’re the fellow who married the MacIver lass," a young man said, turning his attention to Ian. He was thick about the middle, dressed in vibrant yellow silk stockings and green, slashed and padded trunk hose with a matching doublet. "I’m Errol. Heard quite a bit about the trouble the Campbells were having with that one. Seems witches are thick as heather lately."

Ian gave a nod of acknowledgment but remained quiet, hoping the men would continue their earlier conversation. He surveyed the room, looking for the exits and taking measure of each man there. He wanted no surprises. Ian watched with fascination how Argyll easily took up the mantle of his station. While the lad may not yet be competent in battle, he was remarkably astute in politics.

Satisfied that Argyll was safe for the moment, Ian took his leave of the gathering and went to look for Sorcha. She was stripped to her chemise, washing her face, when he entered their chamber.

Sorcha heard his lithe movements before she saw him. Ian had closed the door and was leaning against the frame watching her, damn him. Sorcha splashed the tepid water over her face once more. His very presence charged the air, making the fine hairs on her arms and neck arch in response.

His voice was dark silk, fine and smooth. "I’d wager you’d prefer a hot tub of water, wouldn’t you lass?"

A scene flashed in her mind. He strode out of Loch Aber under the ripe fullness of the moon, the water sparkling in diamond drops as it clung to his bare skin, and she walked to join him, the wind making her skin shiver. She shook her head, vexed with herself for letting her thoughts take such a turn.

"Nay."

"Are you sore from the journey?"

She turned to him, toweling the moisture from her face. The intense throbbing she felt wasn’t from the ride; it was a nameless, unfamiliar need he kindled within her.

"Aye, who wouldn’t be after traveling all day on that brute of a gelding. But I’ve fared worse."

He chuckled, and strode up behind her, placing his broad hands on her shoulders. She turned, loosening his hold on her. The heat of him and comforting hint of rosemary that clung to his shirt made her want to fall against him. She desired to have him kiss her, but didn’t dare acknowledge it.

"You’re not what you seem, Sorcha."

She tilted her chin up, damp, dark curls brushing her cheeks. Could he see through her so easily? None had ever understood her deeply hidden emotions before. What power had he over her?

"And what do I seem to you?"

Ian’s gaze raked her, washing her over with a wave of fiery need. In that instant she knew he wanted to kiss her, to take her to him. All she needed to do was make the step toward him and he would give way. It was the very thing she must not do. Sorcha held herself in check.

He dropped his hands and turned away, stepping over to the bed and pulling a blanket from it. Without looking at her, he handed it to her.

"You must be getting cold."

Sorcha shivered inside, but not from cold. His gaze made her more intimately aware of herself and gave vent to the temptation to let him touch her in ways that would bind her to him forever, not just one night. She wrapped the blanket about her and sat on the edge of the bed.

He glanced back as he made to open the door.

"The men will be going out to the hunt in the morning. Will you be all right here?"

She nodded and gave him a reassuring smile.

"I’ve less to fear here than in my own village, Ian. At least no one here would demand I prove myself free of the Devil’s mark."

His brows creased in concern.

"Should anyone ask you such things, you would tell me wouldn’t you?"

"Aye. Not that I unable tell them to go to the Devil myself."

He chuckled. "Will you be dining with us tonight?"

"Aye. Allow me to don a fresh gown."

His grin widened.

"Only if I may help…"

Sorcha knew he teased her.

"Out with you!"

He skillfully dodged the pillow she threw at him and stole out of the door.

She met him at the top of the stairs and together they walked down to join the others for the evening meal. As they entered the large room, her breath caught in her throat. A quick glance over the room revealed that she was the only woman present at dinner.

While the company of so many men didn’t frighten her, it made her distinctly uncomfortable. She leaned into Ian as he walked her to her chair, then sat down beside her.

Archibald, who sat on her other side, took her hand.

"My lady, allow me to introduce you to my Lords Bothwell Errol, Sutherland, Crawford, Caithness, and Johnstone." The Earl of Errol gave her a particularly lurid grin, Sutherland, Caithness and Johnstone merely nodded, Crawford, who was a fat hog of a man, nearly choked, and the eldest of them, the Earl of Bothwell, smiled with genuine kindness.

"It’s a pleasure to meet you, my dear," said Lord Bothwell.

"Thank you, my lord."

"It seems as though married life agrees with you."

"Aye, it always agrees with me. It’s my husbands who seem to shun it."

Bothwell laughed and a second later the others followed suit.

"Is your aim always so straight to the heart of things, lass?"

Sorcha tilted her chin up.

"I’m afraid so, my lord. One learns to be direct with death as a companion."

He nodded in agreement. "Good, a lass after my own heart. What think you of King James? Is he Scots, French or English?"

Sorcha glanced over to Archibald. His brows were pulled closely together and his eyes fierce. He was warning her to watch her step. He had told her that the deepest political battles began with the simplest of questions.

Sorcha flicked her gaze back to Lord Bothwell’s bearded face.

"To tell the truth of it my lord, aren’t all men basically the same under their breeches no matter from whence they hail?"

Lord Errol leaned into the conversation from across the table.

"Well lass, that is a matter of opinion. Some say the French aren’t even enough man for each other." The men at the table laughed loudly at the bawdy remark.

Sorcha shifted in her seat. She’d heard a rumor from her uncle how the King had picked up an affection for young men from his French cousin, but she dared not believe it. Conversation drifted to matters of state and more importantly to the gathering of the court.

"So, you’ve never met the king?" Bothwell’s eyes were fixed firmly on her. Sorcha felt she was being inspected.

"Nay, my lord."

He stroked his fingers down through his beard.

"Interesting. I thought your uncle would have taken you to court."

"He rarely allowed me to leave Ballochyle, my lord."

"I don’t suppose you’d entertain the thought of attending court," Lord Johnstone said, eyeing Lord Bothwell between bites of pheasant.

Bothwell shook his head, but smiled.

"Nay. I’ve thought of it, but I’ve no wish to see James’s eyes bulge any further than they do already."

Sorcha pushed her food about on her plate, unwilling to eat. A lull in the conversation caused her to look at Lord Bothwell. He grinned.

"Doesn’t your royal lineage compel you to go?" Sorcha asked.

"Aye, but no more than it apparently compels others in the similar stations. Family ties are strained at best, which more forcibly compels me to stay away," he answered kindly. "James did not appreciate our difference of opinion some years ago and believes I mean to take the throne from him."

"And do you, my lord?" Sorcha asked, enjoying the conversation.

The conversation at the table lulled, as if she had asked something of great import. Archibald’s hand grasped her knee and gave it a tight squeeze beneath the table, warning her of treading in dangerous waters.

Bothwell winked at her. "Aye, lass."

Sorcha nodded, but kept her thoughts to herself, instead listening as the men carried on their conversation. They spoke of treason pure and simple, no matter how jovial they seemed, and the thought shocked her.

Lord Sutherland chuckled, then took a sip of the ruby-colored wine. "And why shouldn’t he after we took his beard at Holyrood? I think we made it plain enough to him that his power on the throne is tenuous at best."

The Earl of Bothwell steepled his hands together. "Aye. But he was younger then. Now James doesn’t seek revenge alone. He wants to win both the crowns of Scotland and England. He’ll use whatever means necessary to bring our cause to an end. And thus, so must we."

Crawford leaned forward, a difficult task considering his bulk, and pointed to Bothwell with his fork. "You know the latest gossip says he’s stooped to placing a ransom on your head for witchcraft."

Conversation and the clinging of silverware abruptly halted around the table. The word alone made Sorcha shudder. All eyes turned to Bothwell. He wiped at his mouth with his napkin, then settled back in his chair.

"Aye. ‘Tis no rumor. I was brought a copy of the proclamation by messenger. ‘Tis yet another reason why venturing to court to visit my cousin would be ill-advised. It seems royal blood offers very little protection these days. Dear cousin James may be after following in Elizabeth’s footsteps in more ways than one. If she were willing to behead Mary Queen of Scots, why wouldn’t he consider it perfectly acceptable to slay his own kin as well?"

"You mean that short, bow-legged little bastard intends to kill you through the church if he can’t unseat you politically?" Errol growled.

"Exactly. ‘Tis not important now. He will have to amass evidence against us to proceed with any trial, then capture us. Both are highly unlikely as long as I don’t go near Edinburgh."

Sorcha’s ears stung. The king must have truly gone mad to claim his own blood to be associated with witchcraft. The fear among the people was real enough. Did he seek to incite them to riots in their religious fervor?

"A fine way to treat one’s kin," Sutherland muttered.

"And why should any familial loyalty be expected from a man who never met his father and was abandoned by his mother before he could toddle, to be raised by priests and politicians?" Bothwell said then shrugged. "James is king, for the moment, but let us not forget he is also merely a man as any other."

"Aye, well the order does put a knot in the plans though, doesn’t it." Lord Crawford said, stuffing another helping of pork slathered in gravy into his mouth. "What of you, Argyll?" he mumbled, the food rolling about in his mouth. "Do you intend to appear at court or send a representative in your place?"

Archibald set down his wine glass and settled a firm stare on Crawford.

"Aye. I intend to be there."

Sorcha’s stomach flipped. It was preposterous. She could not let him go into such a dangerous situation. If any whiff of his connection to her reached the king’s ears, there was a chance that he might jump to the conclusion that Archibald was bewitched simply because he looked kindly on her.

"Won’t some take that as a sign of support among the Campbells for the crown?" Errol grumbled.

"Perhaps, but to not show myself would be perceived as weakness in clan leadership," Archibald replied firmly.

"Aye, that it would, you being so young and all," retorted Sutherland. "No offense meant, Argyll."

"None taken, my lord." Archibald leaned close to her and whispered in her ear. "Sorcha, say nothing about loyalties. We’ve no idea whom we can trust."

"Hunter, it seems Argyll is quite taken with your bride," Errol said.

Sorcha glanced at Ian and saw the thrumming pulse in his neck grow stronger.

"She’s acted as mother to Lord Argyll while Lord MacIver acts his protector. ‘Tis only natural," he replied smoothly, his voice betraying none of the agitation she saw in his tightly held shoulders and the rigid line of his neck.