The Spellbound Bride (22 page)

"My wife." He answered simply, through gritted teeth.

Sorcha looked at him and scowled, her dark brows pinched together. She extended her delicate, pale hand to his brother.

"I am Sorcha. ‘Tis a pleasure to meet you both."

Pleasure? Bah! Torture was more appropriate, Ian fumed silently. He had never wanted to see this man again, alive anyway. Now he had to play out the pantomime to avoid drawing undue attention.

Court affairs were not appropriate functions at which to air family grievances. If one did, it was sure to attract the notice of King James, who adored playing the mediator in torrid matters. He would then use it as grist for entertaining the court with humorous anecdotes and tales. Besides, he did not want to draw King James’ attention to Sorcha in any fashion. She was a pawn waiting to be sacrificed in the political game the Scottish lords played.

"Perhaps Ian can bring you to visit us at Hunterston Castle, in Ayrshire, where he grew up," Malcolm offered.

"I’ll be damned if I’ll ever set foot there again," Ian snarled low enough not to be heard by the other people that milled about them.

"You are obviously still angry with us, brother."

"Don’t call me brother, you traitor. Take your whore and leave me alone." He yanked at Sorcha’s arm and pulled her along with him as he stalked out of the great hall, his footsteps loud on the smooth marble floors.

"Ian!" She almost ran to match his powerful strides toward the gardens.

"Not a word, Sorcha."

"But that was your brother..." she panted. Beneath her feet their feet the gravel crunched as they entered the cooler tranquil darkness of the moonlit garden.

Ian stopped cold and looked her in the face. There was nothing tranquil about him. The very air about him seemed to seethe with heat and anger.

"That man," he spat, "ceased to be my brother the day he betrayed me."

Sorcha stared at him, her eyes dark with understanding and remorse at his pain. She reached up and placed a cool hand on his blazing cheek. It was an innocent touch, a kind touch.

"He is still your brother. Were mine alive this day I could not turn him away as easily."

A breeze ripe with the warmth and lush greeness of a full summer night ruffled the leaves, rustling them, churning them. Ian felt the breeze within himself. For too long he had harbored only resentment and hate within for Malcolm and Mary. Ian stared at her, the moonlight casting her face in stark contrasts of shadow and light.

Unlike Mary who was merely all bravado and brazen fire, Sorcha was all contradiction: dark hair, white skin; cool eyes and a fiery mouth; tall yet slight and delicate against him; a woman of passion cloaked in reserve; a woman of loving temperament who would not be loved.

She made him yearn for something different. A change in the world he had known to be so bitter and ugly.

"I don’t expect you to understand, Sorcha. But there can never be good between Malcolm and me. Mary stands between us."

Sorcha’s gaze intensified. She placed a hand on his sleeve.

"Do you care for her still?"

Ian rubbed his neck, the scar along his jaw tight, and itching from the lace-edged ruff. Did he? Quite suddenly he realized that since Sorcha had come into his life, she had vanquished Mary’s hold on him.

"No."

"Then why do you let it torment you so?"

"He could have had any woman he wanted. Why did he have to have her?"

Sorcha looked away, letting the breeze tease a few raven locks from her upswept hair. The subtle scent of heather and woman, so fresh, so simple and pure, swirled about him, causing a fist to reach into his very chest and clench hard around his heart.

"Perhaps he saw what you did—a prize to be won."

"She is nothing compared to you."

She whipped around to face him, her eyes luminous, like the clouds shot with moonbeams.

He was a fool to think he could have her. How could he win what he had no hope of figuring out? She was not merely a woman, she was a fey creature who had given him freedom from Mary’s lingering grasp on his soul. Ian crushed her to him. Her breath was warm and sweet against his face, the nearness of his mouth to hers making him pound with need.

"Truly?" she whispered against his ear.

It was his undoing. Ian didn’t, couldn’t, think to answer. Instead he captured her lips in a kiss exposing the depth of his revelation to her. Sorcha clung to him in return, accepting him as none had ever before, opening to him a world he though never to trespass upon.

Ian pulled away long enough to capture his breath.

"Mayhap we should return to our chambers, my lady, before I am tempted to make these fine flowers into our bed."

She quirked a brow.

"Would that be so bad, husband?" She slid a hand over his shoulder and around his neck, twisting her fingers into the hair at his nape.

Ian looked deeply into her eyes, the pad of his thumb tracing the soft swells of her breast, making them tighten and ache.

"Nay, but you are bewitching and I would share you with none, not even the moon and stars."

"Very well, husband mine. But shall we make haste?"

He grinned. "By all means."

Their room was warm after the cool night air. Ian closed the door and bolted it. He turned to face her, his hunger evident in the intensity of his gaze and the sensual tilt of his mouth. His desire made her bold, his need for her a match to her own.

"Ian, you have the look of a hungry cat."

He moved closer and let out a low growl meant only for her.

"Then lead me to the cream, lass."

Sorcha reached up and took the wooden pins and gilded ornaments from her hair, letting it fall wantonly about her shoulders and hips. Moonlight caressed his face, painting him with beguiling shadows and accenting the firmness of his jaw and the subtle cleft in his chin.

He released the laces and points that held her gown and farthingale in place, then slipped the garments away from her, leaving her clad in only her chemise and the raven curtain of her hair. His hands were hungry against her skin, teasing, kneading, demanding.

The need to feel him grew intense, and each caress and kiss only heightened the pulsing sensation, causing a heavy warmth to invade her most private places. His fingers brushed the chemise against her breasts, causing them to tighten and ache.

Sorcha pressed herself against him, wanting to extract from him some nameless satisfaction that had no respite.

His breath was warm and heavy as his mouth brushed her lips with a gentle caress.

She could bear it no longer and melded with him for a kiss. Like fine Madeira it was sweet and intoxicating, sapping her strength and replacing it with a wanton fire that burned in her belly.

He responded to her eager assault, his answering demand pulling from her any vestige of doubt that remained. While he still kissed her, she felt her feet leave the solid floor as his arms tightened across her lower back and behind her knees. He lifted her and glided across the room to the bed.

The fine linen sheets felt cool against her flushed skin and gave greater contrast to the heat he posed above her. Sorcha felt the heat rise from within to slick her skin with moisture. He bent to kiss her nape, the warm male scent of him subtle, yet powerful and lethal. He drew his mouth along her throat to her breasts.

Sorcha arched in response, craving the rough, wet touch of his mouth against her soft flesh. She buried her fingers in his dark hair, the ache within her intensifying, causing her to lift her hips against him.

"Tell me what you want, Sorcha," he whispered huskily against her mouth.

"Please, Ian... I need to feel you."

He touched her then, intimately, his fingers sliding against the melted warmth of her core. It wasn’t enough and only increased the need she felt.

"No, you, I need you..." she cried out bucking against his hand.

He groaned and matched her movement bringing the hard planes and heat of him to rest between her legs. His hand skimmed along her thighs, belly and breasts, shooting sparks along her spine and limbs as he gently lifted the chemise from her body. His form felt flame-like, drawing her with a touch that seared itself into her mind, and branded her skin with the feeling of his intimate touch.

The pressure of him was welcome, making her acutely aware of how empty and small she was and how hot and silken he felt filling her. But it was the slowly increasing rhythm of him within that drove her further. He tensed and the sweet ache burst her into flame, making her world explode into a shower of sparks, red and brilliant against a midnight sky.

The flames died back, leaving her melted and weak, but sated. He curled her against him, wrapping her snugly in his arms. Ian kissed her hair, his fingers gently tracing her spine.

They slept for a time in each other’s arms. Then, in the cloak of night, she felt the heat building again, the gliding touch of his hands on her skin and the smooth heat of him against her backside. He kissed her along her shoulder and Sorcha turned, eager to feel him again.

"Nay, lass. This time you shall ride to glory."

Sorcha was surprised as he guided her to sit upon him. With her knees straight, she pressed only a little of herself at a time against him, eliciting a groan each time she pulled away or circled him lightly with her hips.

The teasing quickly passed as the throbbing grew, and once again they pushed each other to satisfied exhaustion. They lay for a time, their bodies damp from their pleasant efforts, their legs intertwined.

Ian cupped her face, looking deeply into her eyes.

At that moment she felt worshipped. He kissed her not with passion, but with an infinite tenderness that nearly broke her heart.

When he spoke, his voice was husky with emotion. "Ah, lass, you’ve given me something I though never to find," he breathed against her ear. "‘Tis true that now I have your love."

Love
. The word stole her breath like a blast of icy wind. Dear God, what had she nearly done? She might as well have slain him where he rested. In her own thoughtlessness, she had almost given death dominion over him. If he believed her in love with him, would he not then feel it in return?

She pushed up, her hand resting on the heated bare skin of his chest, her dark hair a tangled web about them.

"Nay, Hunter." She felt the flex of his muscles draw taunt at the words. "‘Tis true I gave you my virgin’s blood, but I’ll not give any man my heart."

He sat up, grasping both her arms tightly.

"You were to give your maidenhead only to the man you loved, Sorcha. And you say it is not me?"

"I am pleasured by you, but I love none, Hunter. Nor will I ever." She shook at the words, knowing they cut him to the quick and hating the pain she saw glazing over his eyes. But she knew no other way to push him onward to his goal of leaving for France.

He looked away from her, his eyes focusing on a spot in the ceiling. His hands withdrew from her to fold together above his head.

"I see. So our marriage contract is complete, then."

She bit her lip, hating the awkwardness of the moment, hating what she was doing to him, but knowing she did it because it was what was best for him.

"Aye."

His mouth pressed into a firm line.

"Ian, ‘twas not intended to last..." The excuse sounded feeble following the blow she had just dealt him.

He nodded.

She knew better than to point to the curse as her reason for pushing him onward toward his destination across the sea. She still did not know who threatened her family and could not ask him to sacrifice his future for her past.

He propped up on his elbow and looked her plainly in the face.

"You’ll not consider coming with me?"

She dropped her head, finding his gaze unbearable.

"I’ve already told you the answer."

His heavy sigh wrenched at her soul.

"Then there is truly no reason for me to stay. I’ll leave once I’ve returned you safely to Ballochyle."