The Spellbound Bride (2 page)

Chapter One

Ian Hunter hated court.

He hated the way the ornate Flemish tapestries that lined the thick, stone walls of Edinburgh Castle only managed to keep back the worst damp of a Scottish spring. He hated the cloying sweetness of the burning beeswax candles and the way their expensive scent mingled with the stench of too many people, some barely washed, that crowded into this waiting chamber.

Most of all he hated the peacock lords, men like his brother, who surrounded King James the Sixth, all dressed in their lace ruffs and garish silks. Indeed, he hated them so much he refused to come to court dressed anything like them, wearing instead an expensively tooled leather jerkin, green trunk hose, his silver-encrusted black leather scabbard and a hardness about him that warned people to stay out of his way.

The tight pull of the scar across his neck, eased as he relaxed and prowled through the chamber. Looking lethal had its advantage. He might be a second son, and an outcast, but there wasn’t a man in the room who didn’t acknowledge his battle skills as a mercenary. If his appearance kept away the men, all of them fearing they might be cut down for one wrong word, it attracted the sidelong glances and breathy whispers of the court ladies, all dressed in velvets and glittering gold-shot samite gowns.

As Ian neared the opulent gilded doors of the king’s audience chamber, a stout, older man stepped into his path. Ian shifted right. The bearded man, garbed in severe black from head to toe and relieved only by the silver laird’s badge fastened on his barrel chest, shifted with him, still blocking his path.

"What is this?" Ian growled, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword. "Move out of my path or I shall be forced to move you myself."

The man swallowed.

"I’ve a proposition for you."

Ian kept his hand at his sword and said nothing. He still needed another five hundred pounds to complete his plans. If things didn’t go well during his audience with King James, he might require even more. A paying employer was better than no coin at all.

"I’m Lord Charles MacIver, Chamberlain of Argyll for Clan Campbell and the ward of the Earl of Argyll."

Ian shifted his stance to the other foot.

MacIver glanced at the people moving around them. His voice lowered. "I’ve heard what your brother has done to you. I know you need money to reach France and I can pay you five hundred pounds."

Three words rung in Ian’s head.
Brother. Money. France.
His heart thudded thickly in his chest and his hands itched. This could be a boon or a trap. His eyes narrowed. Interesting that MacIver should appear at this moment to offer him exactly what he needed to free his property from the tax collector’s hold. Either it was another of his brother’s ploys to steal what did not belong to him, or it was a gift from God. Not certain which, Ian let his hand loosen on his sword’s hilt as he waited for the old man to continue.

"Whose blood would you have me spill?"

MacIver’s bushy brows furrowed.

"Marry my niece, no questions asked." His eyes were glazed with uncertainty.

"What nonsense is this?" Surely the man was jesting. One didn’t offer that kind of money simply to marry a lass, unless she was already with child or he truly wanted to be rid of the woman.

MacIver leaned toward him, the wave of his hand warning Ian to speak more quietly. The old man’s gaze softened into something akin to pleading.

"Hear me out. I’m not looking for a husband for her, only a man who’ll trade vows with her, bed her and rise the next morning to swear to her deflowering. You are just that sort of man."

Ian’s eyes narrowed again. If this wasn’t one of his brother’s machinations, then God help MacIver’s ward. What kind of a man paid a mercenary to take his niece’s virginity? MacIver didn’t look like the sort of man to treat his ward poorly. The anguish he suffered lined his face. Perhaps there were other reasons he chose this for her. Poor lass! She must be ugly beyond bearing. Perhaps this was the only way she’d ever marry.

MacIver’s eyes darted around the room again, then froze. Ian followed his gaze. An enraged Lord Rorick Campbell shoved through the crowd in the chamber. His fair hair and beard were wild, his attire spattered with mud.

"Where is the chamberlain?" he bellowed. "I demand to see the king!"

The chamberlain stepped forward. He sniffed in dismissal, looking down his thin pointed nose at the minor nobleman.

"Go home, my lord, and change your clothing. You’re not fit to be in his majesty’s presence."

Campbell yelled, his face beetroot red, and grabbed the chamberlain by the throat.

"My son is dead, killed by a witch, and you dare to refuse me access to my king!"

Women screamed, the peacock lords scattered as if Campbell carried a deadly disease. Only the servants were left to leap upon Campbell’s back as they tried to free their master.

MacIver grabbed Ian’s arm, drawing his attention. Desperation flashed across the shorter man’s face.

"Tell me you’ll do it," he begged. "I need to know now!"

Ian glanced between the men once more, his skin prickling. What did the death of Campbell’s son have to do with MacIver’s niece? Within him grew the certainty that his brother had nothing to do with this offer. He’d learned long ago to trust his instincts.

"I want half the coins before the vows are said," Ian answered, mostly to gauge just how desperate the MacIver was.

The smaller man nodded as he sidled around Ian, out of Campbell’s view, as the hostile man pushed toward the head of the room.

MacIver cringed. "Aye," he said, then his gaze sharpened, "but I’ll have your sworn word of honor that you’ll not betray our agreement. She must be married and deflowered within the fortnight. And you won’t get the first portion until you arrive at my home, Castle Ballochyle, in county Argyll, for the ceremony."

Ian hesitated. He had never in his life broken his word once he’d given it. The certainty that this was a choice opportunity grew within in him. Nearby the servants had wrestled Campbell to the floor.

The MacIver thrust out his hand.

"Will you do it?" he again pleaded.

Brother. Money. France.
The thought that he would finally have the chance to avenge himself on his brother made Ian extend his hand.

"Agreed," he said with a grim smile.

MacIver breathed out in relief, and shook Ian’s hand, sealing their bargain.

"Castle Ballochyle, as soon as you can arrive," he said with a curt nod, then as swiftly as he appeared, he wove his way toward the large doors of the king’s audience chamber in such a way to keep Campbell from seeing him. Not that Campbell could see much at the moment. The man lay pinned on the ornate marble floor.

"Are you mad?" The chamberlain wheezed, his voice hoarse as he massaged his throat. "Attack me and you attack the king himself!"

"She bewitched him," Campbell moaned, his body growing slack beneath those who held him.

The chamberlain huffed in dismissal and stalked back to his post beside the large golden doors.

Ian was ready to leave. He’d got more than he’d come for. Now not only did he have a means to get to France, he’d have a wife too. He shook his head. God spare him from such fools as Campbell. Witches. What superstitious rot.

Ian edged his way to the side of the room to get through the crowd more easily, but curiosity got the better of him. He eased toward the nearest group of men.

"What’s happened?"

The man glanced at him, then shrugged. "Lord Campbell wants Sorcha MacIver brought to trial as a witch for his son’s death."

That explained MacIver’s hurry. The large doors at the other end of the chamber opened, admitting the next plaintiff into the king’s presence.

"Has any called the kirk or the witch pricker to verify it?"

"Nay. Charles MacIver and the Earl of Argyll would not allow it, even though Campbell’s heir was the second to die in the widow’s marriage bed." The man jerked his head at the entry to the king’s audience chambers. "MacIver is probably in there arguing that he has an offer of marriage for his niece and that she must be allowed to marry and prove Campbell’s accusations false."

For an instant Ian’s heart stopped, then resumed its strong beat again. He should have been angry with Lord MacIver at the deception, but instead felt only a buzz of interest in his veins.

His betrothed was considered a witch by her own clan. It was unexpected, but good to know the odds. Not that it mattered. He’d never been a superstitious man, and at this point, he’d marry the very Devil himself if it would get him out of the hell his life had become.

* * *

Two days later, pounding hooves on the hard-packed earth of the bailey, left no doubt her uncle had returned from Edinburgh. He’d left determined to stand up for her at court, despite Rorick’s accusations.

Sorcha flew down the stone steps and through the great hall. She ran at him and flung her arms around his neck when he entered. Never had she been so glad to see her uncle in all her life.

He pulled her arms from around his neck, and set her away from him. Sorcha felt the hope within her chest shrivel.

"What happened? Where’s Rorick? What did— "

Her kinsman raised a hand and cut her off mid-question.

"We have an honored guest coming to stay with us. You must make ready the castle for his arrival, and make sure a feast is prepared."

His answer was no answer at all, damn his eyes. "Am I safe? What’s happened?"

He refused to meet her gaze, but laid his hand on her shoulder and gave it an awkward pat. A bargain had been struck, but not one she would approve of.

"Am I safe?" Her voice cracked this time.

He sniffed, then clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing.

"As safe as I can make you, lass."

She reached a hand out to stop him so he would look her in the eye. "Och, Uncle Charles, what have you done?"

He stopped and stared at her, his face turning that particular shade of red she’d come to recognize when she displeased him.

"I’ve more than done my duty by you, you ungrateful chit. God only knows why I extend my patience with you so. If it weren’t for my brother and his wretched wife." He shook his head and stalked away from her.

Sorcha expected no less. He would give no sign of affection, and if she ever did dare question him, the conversation abruptly ended at the mention of her mam, Morgana MacIver.

Sorcha wrapped her arms around herself. Her future was uncertain. She’d pray in the meantime that it was salvation, rather than damnation, that came to visit their hall.

During the next week she supervised cleaning the castle and preparing for the feast, but with each passing effort, the prickling sensation that tingled at the nape of her neck grew more intense.

Their guests could come at any time. Sorcha measured out the spices to be used in seasoning the best dishes of their feast, determined that everything should be ready at a moment’s notice. She was surprised that her uncle allowed her access to the spices. He’d always been thrifty and only allowed spicing on great occasions.

A chill, that had nothing to do with the cool air in the larder, lifted the downy hair on her arms. She sensed Archibald’s presence behind her before he spoke. It was always like that with him.

He stood at the top of the small set of steps that led out of the storeroom. She turned to face him.

"What brings you here? Surely you’ve not gained an interest in women’s work?" Sorcha gave the lordling a teasing grin.

He lifted a brow and leaned against the doorframe.

"Nay, but if you persist in vexing me, I will not tell you about our visitor."

Her hands went numb, and the chest of expensive cinnamon she held nearly slipped from her fingers.

"You know who ‘tis?" She set the chest aside, her hands unsteady.

"Well, not exactly who, but I know
what
he is."

A knot swelled in her belly, twisting and curling. She rubbed her dampened palms on the overskirt of her gown. Oh God above, let it not be a witch pricker, or worse yet, King John himself. His hatred of witchcraft was acute enough he’d likely as not finish his fine meal and then have her marched off to be burned. She swallowed the thickness building in her throat.