The Spellbound Bride (18 page)

"
Chaumiere de Heureux
must be beautiful to win such devotion from a man. So ‘tis the beauty that pulls you back?"

"Nay. ‘Twas little more than a ruin when last I wrote to the steward. The serfs on the land are hungry for bread. But I ken of what she was...of what she can be…"

"And the haste is because of them?"

"Partly. I’ve only four months left to pay the taxes on her."

"And if you don’t?"

Sorcha felt his entire frame stiffen beside her. A scowl had replaced the rapturous gleam in his eyes.

"She reverts to Lord Hunterston."

"Your brother?"

His gaze flicked down to her. His eyes hardened into jet. He needed no words to convey his feelings.

"What has he done to make such an enemy of you?"

"Enough."

Malcolm had stolen not only his bride, but everything he hoped to be in this land. His pride, his future, his dreams. This job was to be the end of it. His eyes narrowed. The end of his misery, the endless travel and restlessness. The end of any ties to this wretched land and his equally wretched brother. The long hours on the road had made his bones weary and his muscles stiff, but Ian fought it off, even as the flames lulled him.

He looked down at woman against him. He had seen her eyes light up when he had described
Chaumiere de Heureux
. The warmth of her made sleep a temptation, but one that was impossible. He must keep his wits about him to protect them both until daylight. Besides, sleep was still more of an enemy than a comfort. The campfire popped, sending up a shower of glowing sparks into the black night.

"What will you do for a mistress for
Chaumiere de Heureux
?"

Sorcha’s innocent words jarred his thoughts, shaking the unpleasant memories back to the blackness where they waiting to taunt him as the deadline for
Chaumiere de Heureux
loomed closer.

He had not bargained on getting a wife during his quest to earn enough money to finish paying the taxes on his inheritance, but perhaps this was a boon of sorts. She had knowledge of running a castle and her new people would have none of her history to hold against her. But she had rejected every mention of it.

"‘Tis an odd question, wife." He looked down at her and lifted her chin with the crook of his finger. "I planned to take you with me."

She stiffened in his arms and pulled away, her expression darkened with unreadable emotion.

"Nay, Hunter. I never said I would. My uncle should have made it clear to you that I would not leave Ballochyle."

Her reaction puzzled him. The rebuff stung, but not as much as the knowledge that she would willingly place herself in the path of death rather than come with him. She was suddenly too close and he needed to put some distance between them so he could think. He stood and paced to the opposite side of the fire before turning back to her. She had curled her arms about her knees and was hugging them to her chest as she sat staring into the flames.

"I don’t understand you. Have you a death wish?"

She shook her head. "Nay. A life wish."

"Surely you can see that staying in Scotland will only keep you near the hands of death. These simple folk will not stop in persisting their charges of witchcraft. Each breath you take will be measured until the day you die. Each move you make considered a trial. If you live more than three years under such scrutiny, you will be lucky."

Her head sank down to rest upon her knees.

"‘Tis not my life I value so much as those of my family."

Ian felt the cool rise of fury building in his gut. He had been duped again, intentionally.

"I knew there was more to this than your uncle told to me. Damn him for his trickery."

Sorcha’s head shot up, her gaze pinning him with an intense look.

"He knows nothing of it."

Her words stopped him.

"Tell me."

Sorcha’s gazed focused out into the darkness and the silence stretched uncomfortably between them.

"Someone watches me. Should I move from Ballochyle to live elsewhere, they have said they will kill those left to me, which means Archibald and my uncle."

"Can you not see this proves it is not a curse, but men behind the deaths laid at your feet."

Sorcha cocked her head to the side. "That is possible, but you cannot rule out that they have supernatural means with which to kill."

"Now you are telling me they may be the witches?"

Her mouth flattened into a firm line and she refused to answer him.

"You cannot take their threats seriously when they have not yet revealed themselves to you. What proof have they offered?"

"‘Tis no matter to you. Just allow me to stay when you return to your inheritance and I will protect myself."

Ian sighed and shook his head, then walked over to sit beside her. He closed his hands around her arms and looked her in the eye where the firelight reflected.

"You speak of the curse again, don’t you?" He grasped her tightly lifting her toward him. "You silly fool, how many times must I tell you it doesn’t exist?"

"Then how do you explain the other deaths, those of my parents and siblings? Those were not political." she responded with cool detachment.

"They are the contrivance of your enemy, not some evil bound into your blood. There is more to this than you are aware."

He spoke as if he knew something she didn’t. But how could he? He had not looked the specter of death in the face and known he was the cause, the reason why this person’s time had come. She looked past him into the fire.

"Tis no matter if it be a curse by the hand of men or by the hand of God. I still feel the guilt and responsibility for every death. There is a reason for it and I’ll not leave Scottish soil until I know what truly happened to my parents, siblings and husbands."

"Is that all, lass?"

"Nay."

"What then?"

Her unflinching gaze connected with his.

"If what you say is true, I’m not leaving until they pay."

Ian blew out in frustration.

"And what if we can’t uncover this in time. There isn’t anything I can do to convince you to go with me otherwise, is there?"

"Nay. How can I, when I truly do not know what enemy I face?"

"‘Tis a waste in my opinion, but I can’t protect you if you stay. If in the time before I leave we could discover this enemy, would you then come with me?"

Sorcha didn’t respond. She startled as he grazed his finger across her smooth cheek.

"You are a beauty, woman of the wood."

She pulled away from his touch.

"Don’t touch me."

"As you wish."

In the next moment his breath blew against her throat. Fire exploded across her skin, heating it, singeing away her control. He was near enough she could feel the essence of him alive and potent next to her, though they still did not touch. A tendril of rosemary, green and vibrant, and desire, musky and sweet, teased her.

He came closer still, till barely an eyelash’s space was between them. His lips enticed, brushing lightly against her cheek and coming close enough to kiss, making every nerve ending alive with him.

She ached to kiss him. One kiss could not be the sealing of his fate. She had kissed him thus far, and he had lived. It would be just a kiss—enough to satisfy.

She had only to breathe, to move a fraction closer to feel him connect deeply with her. Sorcha held her breath, afraid of what it meant. Her blood rushed, drowning out her intellect’s sharp voice with the intensity that possessed her. Her body betrayed her beliefs with every breath it took.

Her heart beat, and with it, they joined in a soul searing kiss. The night air shimmered around them. Sorcha pushed into him, knocking him back to the ground with her intense response.

Ian did nothing to deny her, letting her take what she would of him, and still not yet touching her with his hands. The hard planes of his body were taunt and warm beneath her. His closeness, the very maleness of him was bracing. It made her sensitive to his scent in ways that made her desire grow. Made her crave more of him.

When she broke away from their kiss, it was only to ardently rasp two words. "Touch me."

"Like this?"

His fingers skimmed her exposed flesh with the delicate strokes of hundreds of butterfly wings, invisible in the cloak of night, and served only to build the ache at her core rather than slake it.

"Or like this?"

His kisses, hot, soft and slow, traced from the base of her ear, down her neck to her collarbone. She felt the leashed power of him beside her, holding back, waiting for her.

"Touch me." The plea now became a demand.

He pulled back and looked at her, the firelight throwing his face into stark relief and shadowing his chiseled lips and strong jaw. His eyes were dark with passion. He quickly pulled the shirt from his powerful torso. The air crackled with the sparks between them.

"You mean like this."

His hands grew firm and possessive, pulling aside her clothes and kneading her calves and thighs. His eyes were locked on hers, observing how his caress affected her.

Each pulse made her skin tighter, as if she might explode. He smiled. The curve of his mouth was powerful, dangerous and intoxicating. Her heart leaped.

He bent his head. Sorcha tensed as the heat of his mouth skimmed along her breast, until it found the tip. The hot, slick touch of his tongue shot sparks through her.

Sorcha grasped his bare shoulders, arching toward him. His fingers roamed along the seams of her undergarments, then slid slowly underneath them along her belly, causing it to tighten as small shivers danced along her skin.

His heat radiated against her. He kissed her hip, his teeth grazing the skin that covered the bone. She heard a moan and realized it was her own.

Not content merely to feel his touch, she returned it. Her fingers curled into the thick hair, then moved down, kneading his neck and broad shoulders. Her hands slid down the hot skin of his back as he moved above her.

His kiss was still soft and warm, but more demanding. His tongue moved along the seam of her lips. She opened to him and felt the tip gently tease her own. Sorcha responded, taunting him in return. His kisses trailed down her neck.

His hands circled around her bottom, tracing the curve between her thighs to where she ached most. Sorcha gasped when she felt his gliding touch within her. She tensed around his fingers as they moved.

A sizzling flame built in her core and spread along her veins. The pulsing need increased. She arched, digging her fingers into his back for support.

He slid deeper, the movement of his touch becoming faster, his thumb pressing and rubbing against her small bud. She exploded from the heat and cried out.

He captured her cry with his mouth, then broke their kiss to nuzzle her ear. He began to touch her with his hand. The need built again.

"I want you." His voice was husky, warm and edged with potent desire.

"We can’t. It could mean your death," she said even as she moved willingly against his hand.

"Then let me die happy."

Sorcha nodded and grasped his hips, not trusting herself to speak. Knowing full well that she could not control his fate, and bewitched by his touch, he pulled loose his breeches and laid himself over her.

The gentle pressure and slide of his heated silk against her made the ache grow unbearable. He slid inward, filling her completely. For a moment everything was too tight, the stretch too much, but she softened around him. The sensation changed, driving her to grind her hips against his. He cupped her bottom in his hands and began a rhythmic movement that matched her need.

She bucked against him, then pulled back, needing to feel the slide of him against her core. The movement made the tingle in her limbs build, focusing it to a bright point of light, then shattering it into a thousand stars. Ian’s entire body went rigid, and he groaned, releasing himself in her.