The Spellbound Bride (21 page)

"Aye. That’s better," the man muttered, but still didn’t let her go.

Ian moved a step forward. He was going to break the brigand’s arm if he didn’t get it off Sorcha. And then his neck. He tensed, waiting for the right moment.

"Let us go. We’ve coin to pay you," Sorcha rasped.

"Coin is it? Well, that’s a might more appealing." The bandit cocked his arm to drive the blade home into Sorcha’s throat as a threat. "What’s it to be, yer money or yer lives?"

Ian dug beneath his coat and pulled out a leather pouch heavy with the coin MacIver had given him as well as most of what he had saved over the past several years.

"A reasonable enough bargain. The money is yours, providing you let the lass and the lad go before I hand it to you."

"Hoy, who’s holding the blade here? I’m the one to make the bargains. Not you. Och, what a right bugger you are." He nodded to his comrades to loosen their hold on Argyll. "We’ll let the lad go, but not the lassie. I’ve taken a fancy to her. Unless, that is, you’ve extra to pay for her?"

Inside him, everything exploded in a fireball of rage. Ian pounced, driving his fist into the brigand’s face with one hand and pulling the deadly blade away from Sorcha at the same moment with the other. Hot blood spattered over Ian as he shoved Sorcha toward the horses. The rest was a blur as he snatched up his sword and began sweeping strokes at anything that moved.

A bite of fire tore through him as a blade sliced his back. He spared a glance toward the horses to make sure Argyll and Sorcha had made it.

"Ride!" he yelled as the last two men came at him. Ian circled the blade in a wide arc hitting one and swung back diving his blade into the other man. He could hear the hooves of the horses pounding off.

He dashed for Merlin and kicked back a man as he mounted into the saddle. The shouts from the camp were drowned out by the thunder of Merlin’s hooves as he pushed his horse through the thick of the forest following after Sorcha and Argyll.

They met up at the stream. Sorcha dismounted and came running to meet him.

"You’re alive!"

Ian swept down out of the saddle and grasped her to him, lifting her up from the ground. She was trembling.

"I thought— " her voice broke with a sob as she pulled close to him.

The experience had rattled them all and for the moment and he dared not put her on her horse. Ian placed her up into his saddle then mounted behind her, lifting her onto his lap as he slid forward into the smooth leather seat.

"You’ll ride with me until we can make camp."

For once, Sorcha did not argue.

They rode along the road, Argyll pulling Sorcha’s mount behind his own. The uneasy feeling that had plagued him throughout their encounter with the reivers did not abate as they left the stream’s edge. Pain seared along his back where he had taken a blow, but he remained tense.

Whether from exhaustion or comfort, Sorcha fell asleep in the saddle leaning against him. Her warmth soothed him, like a warm liniment on aching muscles after a battle. She was healing to him in body and soul. He would have been content to finish their journey to the road in silence, but Argyll spoke first.

"My thanks seem paltry, Hunter."

"‘Tis no matter. Sorcha is safe and so are you. That is what we came for."

"Was that all your coin to emigrate from Scotland?"

"Aye. But I was in no position to retrieve it."

"‘Tis a shame."

"‘Tis more than that, Argyll. It is a curse." They rode in silence for a time before Argyll spoke again.

"Why did you come back for me instead of making way to Abercairny?"

"Sorcha and I had no way of knowing how long they would keep you alive without good cause. Abercairny would have been too dangerous. It seems you fared well enough. How is that, Argyll?"

"I promised them they would be rich if they kept me unharmed and ransomed me. Once they knew I was heir to clan Campbell they knew that I was worth much more alive than if they killed me for my clothes alone."

Even though his story made sense, Ian’s instincts told him there was more that Argyll had left unsaid.

After about an hour, they reached the road. They kept on for another two hours before his guard relaxed enough to think them safe.

"We’ll make camp here," Ian announced. "Take the roll from behind Sorcha’s horse and spread out a place for her to sleep, then set to work on the fire." Argyll nodded and did as he was told.

Ian tried to disturb Sorcha as little as possible as he dismounted, then lifted her to a pallet Argyll had arranged near the mossy base of an enormous oak.

She stirred for a moment as he laid her down, but quickly fell fast asleep. He covered her with the blanket, then kissed her temple. His chest tightened as he realized how close he’d come to losing her.

Behind him the fire crackled as it came to life, and the light from it threw his shadow in silhouette over Sorcha. He fisted his sword hand and released it. He should have done better to protect her.

He turned to Argyll, who crouched near the fire.

"You’d best get some rest."

"Aye," the lad responded, flinging a small stick into the leaping flames.

There was a long pause as both men stared into the dancing light.

"Would you have come for me if it hadn’t been for her?"

"Aye." He paused, wondering if he should say more. "I’m a man of my word and I offered to keep watch of your back on this trip."

Argyll nodded. "I’m glad of it."

He looked up, locking his gaze with Ian’s.

"Will you come with me to Edinburgh? Bothwell’s wounding is bound to stir up divisions at court."

"I can’t." Ian said no more. The suspicions about the lad were still rolling around in his head. "I’ve a very short time to earn back the money I need."

"You’re shortly to leave for France, then?"

"Aye."

"When do you leave?"

"As soon as I can. I must be there before autumn."

Argyll nodded in understanding.

"How much did you give the reivers?"

"About eight hundred pounds."

Argyll’s brow furrowed, and he tapped his lip. "I can raise the funds you need, but it will take me some time."

Ian looked up at Argyll. He was on the cusp of manhood, a young face touched, especially in the eyes, with a serious, much older expression.

"Can you do that?"

"I think I can, but I will need you to go to court with me in Edinburgh."

Ian looked back into the flames. A gnawing ate at his gut, but competed with the glimmer of hope in his heart. If he went to Edinburgh there was always a chance that Lord Hunterston might be at court as well. Just the thought of a meeting brought bitter bile to his throat. But the risk was worth it, especially if Lord Argyll could refund the monies he’d lost.

He looked back at Argyll.

"When do we leave, my lord?"

Chapter Twelve

They made it back to Ballochyle by the next evening. Sorcha was bruised and sore, but fared better than Ian who needed stitches mended.

As she worked, he moved little, his skin flinching only when she pulled the thread through. "It will heal cleanly."

He grunted.

"It shouldn’t scar too badly."

He turned his head and looked up into her face. "Would it make a difference? There’s enough of them. What’s one more?" He turned away.

She bit her lip at the comment, hoping she hadn’t offended him.

"You really shouldn’t be riding until this heals for a few days."

"Aye. But if we’re to go to court with Argyll, we’ll have to leave on the morrow."

She pulled the thread through its last stitch and neatly tied a knot. "Must we go?"

"Aye." Ian shrugged into his shirt, grunting at the pull of the stitches.

Archibald entered the kitchen as Sorcha packed away her thread and dropped her needle into a cup to pour boiling water over it.

"How fares the patient?" he asked Sorcha.

"I fare fine," Ian ground out.

"Are you able to travel to Edinburgh, then?"

Ian and Sorcha’s voices chimed in discordant harmony as he answered aye and she nay.

From the doorway, a serving girl came in accompanied by Henna.

"Wash the roots well and cook them up for her." The girl bustled past them, headed for the pans that hung on great hooks.

Ian stood. "I’ve to look at Merlin and make sure he’ll be ready to go on the morrow."

Sorcha pulled her satchel of supplies up from the table, and huffed.

"If we’re going I’ll need dressings for that injury until it heals."

"May I have a word with ye, my lord?" Henna implored, her head bowed.

Archibald lifted his chin. "Certainly, Mistress Henna."

Together they exited the large kitchen of the castle to a small storeroom where they would not be seen or overheard.

"Did Duncan serve you well, my lord?"

"Aye, he was fine, but the plan didn’t go well. There were unexpected difficulties I hadn’t planned on."

Henna watched his every movement to discern if it had been Duncan’s doing or Sorcha’s latest husband that had caused the plan to go awry. If she could just get Duncan to go with him to court, she was sure to take care of James’ bastard, just as the king had asked her to.

Oh, she had delivered the royal mistake Morgana had made and kept her tongue. But as a result, her own bastard son by MacIver had never been acknowledged. It was the pledge Morgana had forced from MacIver for his own infidelity. Now Bothwell sought to use the chit as a card against the king in his bid for the throne. Well, it wouldn’t happen. Not if she could use the Earl of Argyll to help her without his knowing.

"I understand you plan to travel to court, my lord. May I suggest that Duncan could again be an asset to you at court? An extras set of eyes and ears never hurt, especially when there’s plenty to be gleaned."

The young earl brushed his hand through his hair.

"I’ll give him another opportunity to prove himself useful. When he returns, tell him to ready to travel by sunrise."

"Aye, my lord." She inclined her head and watched the cocky little brat walk away.

"Soon enough my lord, you’ll be begging Duncan for favors instead of letting him grovel at your feet, mark my words," she muttered.

* * *

The next morning they gathered in the bailey to ride out with the first rays of the sun. Sorcha wondered why there were five horses instead of four. At that moment she heard a shuffling step behind her. She turned to see a blond man, dragging a lame foot, loaded with packs.

"Let me help you with those."

He threw a withering glare at her. "I’ll do it myself."

"Did Lord Argyll bid you to bring them?"

"Aye. I’m his new manservant, Duncan."

She smiled in an effort to lighten his dour mood. "It’s nice to meet you, Duncan."

He glanced at her, his features bewildered. "Surely you can see I am deformed, my lady."

"Aye. And what of it?"

"You didn’t have to hide your disgust from me. I have come to expect it."

Sorcha lifted her chin. "I have no such opinion of you. Kindly do not attribute it to me."

His face softened slightly around the edges before he inclined his head. "Beg your pardon, my lady."

"What’s he done now?" Archibald’s voice asked from behind her.

"Good morrow to you." She gave him a sisterly hug. "Duncan’s done nothing save assume my opinions. Why didn’t you introduce us sooner? I had no idea you needed a manservant."

"I can’t very well attend court without one, and he’s been sent over from the clan as reliable. He may be a cripple, but he has a charm about him, does he not?"

Sorcha gave Archibald a smile.

Ian came stamping across the bailey, his breath forming white clouds in the frosty morning air.

"Who’s this?" he growled.

"This is Duncan, Archibald’s new manservant."

Ian’s eyes narrowed as he looked the man over, then turned to fastening his packs to his horse and Sorcha’s to the mare.

"I suppose he’s fine. But if he slows us down, we’ll not reach Edinburgh in good time."

"I ride well enough," Duncan retorted.

"Good. Then mount up," Ian returned.

Duncan slid himself to the left side of the horse and placed his good foot in the stirrup hoisting his twisted leg up and over the horse as he mounted into the saddle. He gave a triumphant smile at them all.

"My apologies. You seem to know your way around a horse," Ian said.

"No need, sir. Everyone underestimates my capabilities."

They rode out of the bailey and on to Edinburgh.

* * *

Court gatherings were a function unlike any other in Scotland. While the country lived in simple dress, worked the land and ate meagerly, the court was lavish in every detail. Ian hated his ruff and black embroidered velvet doublet, but he wore it to please Sorcha. It was far grander than anything he had worn in such a long time, and he despised the way it made him feel, like he had betrayed his own self to the same set as his brother in coming with Argyll.

The only saving grace was his bonnie wife. He noted with pride that Sorcha fairly glowed in the tawny hued samite gown as she stood beside him. The upswept ebony of her hair twinkled with small pearls and topazes linked in a delicate gold web that covered her coiffure.

Her stiff gold lace collar accented her face and the smooth column of her neck where a topaz and pearl choker glinted in the candlelight as it moved from her pulse. A triangle of brilliant gold lace drew his eye to her narrow waist.

Surely there was no one here who could match her beauty. This would be the last court affair he would ever attend. He would leave soon and he’d yet to discover who plotted against her to gain her trust and take her with him.

He offered her his arm.

"Shall we?"

She smiled at him. It was not a girlish grin, nor a sweet smile, but one of fire and promise. In that instant his hunger for her trebled.

He guided her down the stairs into the swarming mass of people that swarmed like bees awaiting their royal. He moved through the crowds to the far edge of the room where he could easily survey the crowd and keep the wall at his back.

He kept a particular eye on Argyll, watching for anyone suspicious who might venture too close. He scanned the room, his gaze flitting quickly over the crowd, making note of those in attendance, including the ever-present company of the earl’s manservant, Duncan, who lingered in the shadows.

A tight knot of people had formed close by, drawing his attention. As he peered closer to see the object of their fixation, his heart stopped.

Ian’s muscles turned harder than the granite that made the walls of the castle around him. No one in the room could take their eyes off the tempting redhead adorned in ornate, green finery.

Not even he.

Mary chatted gaily with Lord Mar and Lord Huntley as Malcolm stood proudly by her side. Her flirtation with the handsome lords was obvious, but she took pains to cling to her husband’s arm in a show of devotion.

A sneer curled Ian’s lip. No matter how besotted she seemed with his brother, he wagered she’d find her way into both Mar and Huntley’s beds before the week was out. Lord Hunterston deserved as much. The firm grip of Sorcha’s hand on his forearm brought his awareness back to her.

"Who is that?" She cast her gaze over in the direction of Malcolm and Mary.

"No one of consequence." He steered her to the opposite side of the room and prayed that they had not been noticed. His hopes were dashed a few minutes later when he heard an all too familiar voice and felt the flutter of fingers trailing along his nape and down to his shoulder.

"Ian? Ian, is that you?"

He forced himself to keep from uttering a Gaelic oath, then pasted a civil expression on his face and looked behind him.

Even now Mary was exquisite in every detail. Her skin was flawless alabaster, stained with the delicate pink blush found only inside a seashell or a new pink rosebud. Her dress fit to perfection, the bodice revealing a body he wished he had no knowledge of and emphasizing a bosom too supple and tempting to be decent. He merely nodded in acknowledgment.

"I’ve missed you, Ian," she pouted, her full lips well-reddened, glistening and barely parted. "We haven’t seen you since before the wedding." She pressed against him, purposely brushing her breast against his arm, the attar of roses she favored overpowering and sickeningly sweet to him now. He wanted to cringe, but was damned if he’d let her see she affected him.

Sorcha coughed. Ian pulled her forward, wedging her between Mary and himself.

"My lady, may I introduce my
bride
to you. This is Sorcha."

The momentary shock and hurt on Mary’s face was quickly supplanted by her familiar façade.

"What a surprise. M’dear, how nice to meet you."

Ian felt an odd pleasure at seeing her deflated by his news. Had she hoped he would pine after her until his dying day? Most likely.

"Sorcha, this is Lord Hunterston’s wife, Lady Mary." Ian refused to refer to that bastard as his brother.

Mary reached forward and slapped Ian playfully with her fan. He wanted to yank it out of her hand and break the delicate ivory spokes and feathers across his knee.

"How naughty of you, Ian, not to tell us you had married. I shall have to find Malcolm and tell him immediately. You will, of course, have to bring her to dine with us while you are in Edinburgh."

He found his voice long enough to be polite, but kept a cutting edge to it. "I’m afraid we are here for but a short time. We leave tomorrow."

The familiar moue plumped her lips.

"Oh dear, Malcolm will be so disappointed."

"Disappointed at what, my pet?" A man, with a clear resemblance to Ian save for the fashionable beard, had joined the group, placing a possessive hand on Mary’s hip.

For a moment, Ian stared at his brother. The urge to kill him was unbearable.

"Look who I’ve found, my lord. The prodigal son."

"Ian. ‘Tis good to see you well." Malcolm reached his hand forward.

Ian let Lord Hunterston’s hand hang empty in mid air. Though they looked alike and were separated by several years, and the time had passed unkindly upon his brother, leaving him looking much older than he was.

"For some."

"And may I have the pleasure of an introduction to your fair companion?" His brother’s eyes lit up slightly.

Ian wanted to grip him by the throat. Did he think to make designs on Sorcha?