The Spellbound Bride (27 page)

"Aye, your Highness. It is my seed she carries."

The king stroked his bearded jaw. "Your wife is a witch."

Ian’s face did not betray a flicker of emotion. The king could just have easily said that Ian owned a horse and gained as much reaction. Had he already put her memory away so easily as that? Did he see this as an inconvenience to return because of the child or was he in truth angry with the lies Campbell and the others had told? Her stomach twisted uneasily and for a moment she feared she would be sick.

"Aye, your Highness. But the child is innocent before God, and I deserve to keep my heir."

King James nodded in agreement.

He stood and addressed the courtroom. "I hereby revise Sorcha Hunter’s sentence. She is to be burned at the stake two days after the birth of the child she now carries."

Ian bowed again, but did not look at her as he strode out of the courtroom.

"Thank you, your Highness."

Sorcha’s knees threatened to crumple. This time the guard took her by the arm, but she was weak enough she needed the support. If this was the last she saw of Ian, it would go with her to her death, his cold indifference seared into her heart. Sorcha was so steeped in her thoughts she didn’t realize that instead of going to the dungeon, the guard instead took her again to the small room where she had spoken with Archibald.

She sat near the table, her legs unsteady and emotions stripped raw because of the ordeal she had just endured. The door opened, and in walked Ian.

He held still a moment, just staring at her before he rushed to her, gathering her in his strong arms and holding her tightly against his chest. This time she was too anguished and relieved to hold anything back and sobbed uncontrollably into his shirt. She had believed she would never see him again, and now the rush of grief and longing was too much.

When she had run out of tears, Ian lifted her face in his large hand.

"I’m sorry if I made you doubt me," he whispered, gently brushing her hair. "Is there truly to be a child?"

Sorcha nodded, her throat feeling to tight to speak, but she forced the dry words out. "You are not angry with me?"

He held her face with his hands, a simple gesture that comforted her soul.

"Nay, lass. I could not be angry with you. I only am vexed by my own limitations to save you as well as the babe."

She nodded, her heart swelling with love for him.

"What shall we do?" he asked.

Sorcha heaved a great sigh and turned away from him.

"Unfortunately this makes little difference to my fate. Leave me. Go to France and claim your inheritance. You can return before the bairn is born."

He grasped her about the shoulders and brought her backside up against him.

"I can’t leave you here alone."

"You can’t stay with me in a cell. I will be alone even if you do stay in Scotland."

He laid his cheek against the top of her head.

"But what if there is some chance to save you both?"

She pulled away and faced him, focusing on his eyes.

"Dreams, my love. I will die. Go while you can and make a place for our child. That is the only future."

He hung his head, his eyes clouding with an emotion she could only identify as deepest regret, and she felt his body shake beneath her fingers

"It’s not good for a wee one to be without his mother."

He reached over and cradled her cheek in his palm. His eyes glistened with unshed tears as he looked deeply into her face.

"My God, woman, you are my very soul."

Her heart tightened at the words, knowing that this is all she had truly ever wanted. Her lip trembled.

"I love you too."

A spring of tears slipped from her eyes and trailed hotly down her cheeks, into his palm. He grabbed her tightly, the strength of his arms almost painful in their hold on her, but desperately needed.

Sorcha gripped him about the neck, as if their embrace would hold them together despite the situation.

"Promise me you will leave for France, my love."

"I promise."

He kissed her then. It was a kiss of sheer desperation—powerful, needy and full of their unfulfilled, unspoken desires.

Sorcha absorbed all she could of him. She buried her head into his chest inhaling the familiar scent of him, letting his strong arms give her support for her crumbling emotions. She had always been strong for everyone else, but now she was in need of his strength.

If he kept his promise, it would be the last time she would hold him thus, his full body against hers, without a large belly full of child between them. Her throat constricted and chest ached at the thought of what she was to lose. Child, husband, home, her very life. A great sob racked her body.

The door opened, and the guard stepped in.

"Time to leave, sir."

He pulled away enough to press his cheek against her hair.

"I will not fail you, my lady of the wood."

The endearment shot another bolt of searing pain through her. She loved him. Despite the deaths that had plagued her, despite there being no future with him, body and heart and soul, she loved him—and in that moment she knew without a doubt he loved her too. Sorcha took his hand and slowly turned it palm up, then bent and placed a single kiss in his palm. She felt him tense. Then looked up to see a single tear fall down his cheek.

He roughly whisked it away with the back of his other hand, then turned to face the guard.

The only sound when he left was the echo of his footsteps and that of her heart breaking.

Chapter Eighteen

Ian headed for the nearest dark tavern where he could get good and drunk. His hand was still clutched about the kiss she had given him. He needed something for the pain that burned bone-deep within him.

The black haze seeping into him blocked out the busy street. He entered the
Triple Crown
inn and found a scarred table in the darkest corner where he could put his back to the wall. He pulled the second chair away and shoved it to a nearby table, making it clear he wished to drink alone.

A buxom barmaid, her skirt hiked up to show leg up to just above her well-shaped knee, sauntered over. She was smart enough to sense he was in the mood to drink, not wench, and took his order. He grasped her wrist before she left the table and with the other hand plunked down a handful of the gold coins Argyll had paid him.

"Keep the drinks coming until there’s nothing left, or I pass out, whichever happens first."

She smiled brightly, snatched up the coins and brought back his drink promptly. But even as he gulped down his first pint of ale, he knew that nothing liquid would touch the pain.

Despite his promise to Sorcha, the thought of leaving for France while she grew large with his child in prison made him want to vomit up his guts. It was the secure and sensible thing to do, but his heart protested.

She needed his protection now more than ever, and no matter what she said, he knew he had failed her. Even if he could come up with a plan to break her from the prison, he could not do both that and make it to France in time.

If he left for France and returned, she would be too heavy with child to be able to escape, and he couldn’t risk her and the child. If he could come up with a way to save her, the time and expense would keep him from reaching France in time to pay the taxes. Either way he lost, which was why drink made the most sense at the moment.

His eyes were bleary, as he stared down into his ale, but he could make out the emerald swirl of a lady’s skirt at the base of his table and smell the unmistakable heavy scent of roses.

Ian looked up to find Mary staring back at him. He blinked, sure the drink was addling his brain.

"What are you doing here?" he growled.

She glanced about the place and wrinkled her pert nose in disgust.

"Really, Ian, you should choose your drinking establishments with a little more care."

"What do you want?"

Mary flipped back the edges of her velvet mantle, exposing the swell of her bosom above the tight golden bodice, fitted with green velvet sleeves.

"I came because Malcolm told me of your wife. Pity she’s not what you thought. I thought you might like a little comfort, and I’ve come to give you news. But if you’re not interested..."

"I’m not interested." He lifted his mug and took a long draught of ale and stared blankly across the room.

Her mouth formed a piqued moue and she moved into his line of vision.

"‘Tis a pity. I thought you would have had more interest in
Chaumiere de Heureux
."

Ian set the mug down with a thump on the table and leaned forward, glaring at her.

"What about it?"

Mary arched a brow and lifted her chin.

"I thought you weren’t— "

Ian grabbed her hard about the arm and yanked her forward.

"Do not play your games with me, Mary. Tell me."

She smiled, even as her slender fingers pried at his iron hold.

"I’ll tell you for a kiss. That’s all I want in return, a kiss. Then we’ll see if you can tell me you still don’t want me."

Inside Ian fumed. Anger made him want to fling her away from him and stalk out, but his need to know kept him in his seat. He pulled an empty chair from the next table over and pushed her into the seat.

"Tell me first." He released her.

Mary picked at her sleeve. "You’ve ruined my gown. Look, the velvet is crushed."

Ian’s jaw ached as he gnashed his teeth.

"I’ll crush more than your dress, if you don’t tell me."

She swallowed, straightening in the chair, then, looked at him with wide, innocent eyes.

"Malcolm has paid the taxes on
Chaumiere de Heureux
. The French magistrate turned the deed over to him two weeks ago."

"Damn!" Ian bellowed, his arm sweeping the table clean, sending the mug to clatter across the stone floor. All of his time working, saving, planning. All for nothing.

Mary tipped her head and lowered her lashes.

"I’ve brought it with me. I’ve a proposition for you."

Ian froze and his eyes narrowed.

"You have the deed with you?"

She nodded.

"Let me see it."

She slipped her fingers between her creamy breasts into her bodice, then pulled out the folded parchment and opened it, still not handing it to him.

"See. I have it. We can go, Ian. Just you and me. With this deed and me beside you, no one will question that you are not the owner once Malcolm is gone. You can take his place and
Chaumiere de Heureux
, all Malcolm owns will be yours—and mine. What say you?"

He glanced up at her face, seeing through the pretty exterior to the ugly, manipulative soul beneath. For the first time, he realized his pain and suffering for Mary had been a waste.

How could he have ever desired her so intensely? She was all smoke and mirrors. A pretty, expensive illusion, covering a worthless package. For a moment, he felt a twinge of remorse for his brother, but it was quickly replaced by his longing for Sorcha. His bonnie, darkling wife.

"Well, am I to get my kiss?" She leaned forward, tossing her flame colored curls, her hand slithering up his chest. "Haven’t I brought you what you’ve always desired?"

He pulled her close, cupping her head with his hand, his lips mere inches away. Mary slid her hands around his neck, her lips parted, in anticipation.

"I don’t want you anymore," he whispered softly, then pulled her arms from around his neck. Ian sat back in his chair.

She gaped for a moment, an expression he had never seen on her face before.

"You bastard!" she hissed, balling her delicate hands into hard, white knots. "You’ll regret this."

Ian cracked a satisfied grin.

"Not as much as my brother will, I’m sure."

She stood up, yanking her mantle back in place, snatched up the parchment and stalked out of the tavern.

For a moment, Ian felt the glow of triumph warm him, but it was short-lived. In the next instant, his longing for Sorcha grew so acute that it became physical pain. Not only had he failed her, he’d lost
Chaumiere de Heureux
for their child. He was a failure, plain and simple, and even besting Mary had not erased that taint from him.

With no reason to set off for France, he flagged down the barmaid for another ale, then settled into drinking in earnest. He passed out sometime during the night and woke the next morning with an ache in his head and a fur pelt lining his mouth. A barmaid glanced over when she saw him stir and made her way to the table.

"Do you need something for the headache, love?"

"Aye. More ale."

She shrugged and fetched him another pint. The liquid hit his blood with a rush, leaving him pleasantly numb.

Within an hour he was into his fifth pint when Argyll pulled up the discarded chair and sat down beside him. At first, Ian thought to chase him off. He was not yet drunk enough to soak out the misery.

"Go back home, my lord. There’s nothing more we can do for her," he slurred.

Argyll gripped his arm, stopping the mug from reaching his mouth.

"I have a plan to break her out of prison."

His words jolted Ian to sobriety.

"You what?"

Argyll kept his voice low, making sure no one else could hear them.

"We can do it. There is a little known entrance to the dungeons through a set of hidden stairs in the tower. It was placed there to provide access to the outside during siege."

Ian snorted.

"And if you know of it, how many others do too?"

"Not as many as you think. My father often brought me along as a child when he visited court. I was left to my own devices and explored. This tunnel won me a lot of bets with the older boys who didn’t believe I could make it out of the tower before them. It’s too small to be used as easy access for supplies and the like, and mostly forgotten. We would need to wait for the right opportunity. We can’t wait. She’ll grow too large with child and we won’t be able to move her. ‘Tis best if we do it while she remains in the cell while the others are being burned. They will serve as the best distraction we could hope for."

Ian nodded in agreement.

"But what of the guards? Will they not see us in daylight?"

"Aye. That ‘tis why we must enter under the cover of night and then wait for our opportunity within the castle."

"When?"

"As soon as you can walk straight enough to follow me."

* * *

That night clouds scudded over the crescent moon, their dark mass hiding the delicate white sliver now and then. Ian stepped into the carriage and nearly sat on the slumped person laid out over the seat opposite Argyll.

"Who the hell is this?" The carriage lurched into motion.

"‘Tis not important. What is important is that we now have a decoy for Sorcha."

Ian settled uncomfortably on the seat next to Argyll.

"I don’t like it."

"Would you like it any better if I told you that this is the woman responsible for Sorcha’s conviction?"

"Henna?"

Archibald nodded.

Ian clenched his jaw. Had it been a man, he wouldn’t have flinched. But a woman. This wasn’t right.

"What did you do to her?"

"Sleeping draft. Bought it off a local midwife who assured me she won’t wake until about noon tomorrow. Having a limp body in the cell will stem their suspicions that Sorcha is gone until we have her safely away. If you have a better plan, say so."

"There’s no way we’ll be able to get her into the castle."

He ground his teeth and bit back a retort. He did not trust Argyll, but he had to take this chance to get Sorcha and his child out, and he needed Argyll’s knowledge of the castle’s hidden entrance to do so.

The carriage came to a slow stop at the edge of the city where the dark jutting rock hillside was capped with the imposing castle. They left the carriage and headed straight for the shadows thrown by the wall of rock and small buildings that perched on the edge of the castle grounds. Ian carried the old woman in his arms, his sword strapped to his hip. He waited for Argyll’s signal before moving from the cover of the building.

The lad’s hand flicked forward. They moved in stealth along the shadows of the buildings, using vegetation whenever they could when the moon would reappear.

"If for any reason we are discovered, I’ll take Sorcha out of here while you use your sword to protect our escape," Argyll whispered as they rested behind a large clump of bushes close to the outer walls of the castle.

"Aye. But if we are separated, where will we meet?"

"I’ll bring her to the
Triple Crown
in disguise two days from now." Argyll glanced up at the guards flanking the wall. "We must head for that small outcropping of rocks," he said, pointing to a spot about two hundred feet away where the rocks pushed through a grassy knoll in full view of the castle.

As the clouds again passed over the moon, they made haste. Archibald felt along the stones and bracken, searching for the hidden opening.

"I’ve found it," he hissed.