The Spellbound Bride (3 page)

"Who comes?"

"Your betrothed."

A bubble of hysterical laughter welled up in her chest. "Surely you jest. I will not believe Uncle Charles as daft as that. No man with a rattle in his brainbox would marry me."

Archibald stood erect, his slender shoulders pressed back, and crossed his arms.

"A man would if he was being paid enough."

Her knees gave way and she sagged down to the bottom step. How could her uncle willingly send yet another man to his death? It would merely be the weight of another soul heaped upon her shoulders. Perhaps in his mind it was worth the coin, and the man’s life, to be rid of her.

"No dowry is worth a man’s life." She sighed and scrubbed her face with her hands. She shifted her gaze back to Archibald, hoping for some sign that he knew more. "You must have some idea of who it is."

Archibald shrugged. "I ken only that the MacIver plans to marry you off yet. He asked the use of my signet ring to seal the dispensation."

"So, ‘tis my own wedding he’s had me prepare for." Angry heat crept into her cheeks followed by a cold splash of icy dread that sluiced down her spine. She could not defy her uncle’s order to marry. She could not change the minds of her clan if she lost another husband. But she could prevent another death—if there were no groom.

Chapter Two

The distinct heavy gait of a shod horse moving through the woods stopped Sorcha mid-step. Her pulse grew louder, echoing the thud of the horse’s hooves. Sorcha curled her gloved fingers around the dirk strapped to her belt.

The worn knife was more suited to her task of cutting plants than protection, but she could use it in defense if needed. That, and a handful of the stinging nettle leaves slapped in the face of an attacker, would give her a chance to escape. Surprise would still be her best ally.

Flipping the hood of her dark green woolen cloak over her head, she tried to disguise herself in the thick foliage surrounding her. She crouched low near the forest floor and waited until she could see the stranger clearly.

After so many days of returning to the wood to lay in wait, she’d begun to despair in her plans to intercept her unlucky groom. If the stranger riding toward her now proved to be him, she’d do her best to persuade him to forget his bride. Until she could unravel the strangeness of the situation that surrounded her, she dared not risk another’s life.

Her fingers and toes began to throb as her heartbeat pounded faster. The stranger came closer to her hiding place. His dark chestnut hair lay close to his head, never touching his broad shoulders, and his massive steed was blacker than sin. He was obviously lost. No one familiar with these woods would veer away from the road through the tangle of brambles and fallen trees brought on by the fierce winter storms. That boded well.

She needed to get rid of the man as quickly as possible.

The hidden glens and hollowed trees of this forest served as her playground as a child. Hiding had been a game then, but that was before the fire—

Sorcha tugged her worn satchel over her shoulder, then followed him at a distance.

The stranger guided his mount around a fallen log, gazing at the narrowing deer path before him. His dark head bobbed with the gait of his horse and his shoulders sagged with weariness. Sorcha kept low in the undergrowth beneath the outstretched canopy of ash and oak.

Absorbed in watching him, she neglected the placement of her steps. The sharp crack of a brittle twig startled both her and the rider. His horse lurched forward.

She held her breath, her heart beating hard and fast in her throat.

The man pulled the reins tight. "Steady, Merlin," he coaxed in a deep voice, as the dark stallion pawed at the damp mix of leaves and earth. The rider whipped his head around, his eyes narrowing as he searched for the source of the sound. He reached for the broadsword strapped to his mount. It slid with a metallic hiss from the scabbard.

She ducked her head, praying the green of her cloak was enough cover in the undergrowth to hide her. She wasn’t ready for her presence to be revealed.

A doe, too unsettled by their presence to remain, bounded past her and out into the clearing. Sorcha remained tense until she heard the creak of leather as the stranger shifted in his saddle. But the soft thud of his feet on the forest floor tightened every muscle, preparing her to run. His footsteps moved closer.

Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she feared he could hear it.

Instantly a manacle-like grip captured her wrist and wrenched her upward.

Sorcha let out a squeal as her feet slid on the slick leaves landing her flat up against his hard, very male body. Her skin stung at the intimate contact, so unlike anything she had encountered before.

"Are you shadow or substance?" He scowled at her, his eyes a soulless brown so dark, they were nearly black. The firm line of his mouth, deep cleft in his chin and a thick shadow of beard on his face only added to his fierce appearance. A thin white line cut a jagged path into the dark hair from beneath one ear across this throat.

Awareness, heat and a throbbing ache centered itself at her core. Sorcha forced the words out past the choking beat of her heart. "Since you’re holding my arm fit to crush it, I’d say I’m real enough."

He gritted his teeth and loosened his grip enough for her to step away from their shoulder to toe contact, but not enough to let her escape him completely.

Ian cursed himself for letting his reactions falter. The long hours on the road to Ballochyle had made his bones weary and his muscles stiff, but he hadn’t stopped.

If he stopped, he would sleep. If he slept, he would dream. And if he dreamed, he would see his faithless bride Mary there—naked in his brother’s arms, her red hair a cascade of fire that burned his very soul.

Ian raked his eyes over the woman in his grasp to get a better look at the little spy. She twisted her arm, her fingers digging at his hand, trying desperately to free herself. His hold tightened.

"Why are you following me?"

She locked her gaze on him. The icy fire in her blue eyes struck him bone deep. They were like Mary’s—clear and blue like the frozen waters of a loch in the midst of winter. Despite the disquieting similarity, he found himself unable to look away.

Smooth, dark brows hinted at hair the color of a raven’s wing hidden beneath the protective cover of her hood. Her features were delicately carved of ivory, and a pair of full dusky lips held promise, but revealed nothing. The subtle sweetness of wildflowers and the greeness of the wood swirled about her. She remained aloof and distant, the rapid pulse in her wrist the only sign he had affected her.

The woman lifted her chin. "I might ask you the same," she countered calmly.

Her composure amazed him. She was either a brave woman or, like Mary, a practiced liar. Ian released her at the thought. The woman pulled her hand into the folds of her protective cloak and backed away beyond his reach.

He quirked a brow. "So, you’ll not give me an answer, then?"

She simply stared at him, her bearing as regal as a queen of the forest and of all the elves and fairies who bided there.

Even though he had touched her, his sleep-deprived mind was addled enough to think her still a vision produced from his own imagination.

"I suppose not," he continued. Ian feared that if he made any quick movements she might run, so instead he shifted to a more relaxed stance and gave Merlin’s neck a long stroke.

"Is the MacIver township close?" he asked more casually than he felt.

She nodded, but remained mute, her eyes luring him in.

"I have business with Lord MacIver."

Still she said nothing.

"I will not believe you’ve lost your powers of speech this quickly," he teased. "I heard you speak but a moment ago."

"You must bring the MacIver news." Her voice sounded sweet, blending in natural harmony with the subtle sounds of the wood surrounding them.

Ian stiffened in surprise at her intuitive words, his senses on edge.

"Aye." He was certainly awake now, every nerve vibrating. His suspicion kicked up a notch. "Why do you ask?"

"I didn’t ask. I merely stated the obvious. You seek out the laird and say you have business with him." Her eyes trailed boldly down his form, before her gaze came back to meet his own.

Ian suppressed a grin at her brazen assessment. Most of the ladies at court would never dare talk with him, let alone show their frank interest.

"You cannot be of clan Campbell, since I’ve never seen you. And I don’t think you much care for things Scottish since you wear the clothes of an Englishman." Her gaze flicked to Merlin. "You have a light pack and saddle, meaning you travel often, and your sword is hardly something a farmer would wield."

"‘Tis a good deduction."

She tilted her head, her gaze sharpening. "How long do you plan to stay?"

Without meaning too, he realized he had already revealed too much to her. But he could not let her go just yet. Perhaps he, too, could gain something from their meeting that would help him. "Long enough to see the job done, and gain my pay."

She cocked her head to the side the way an inquisitive bird might, and pinned him with her vivid blue eyes. "Are you a mercenary?"

"Aye." Suspicion sharpened his senses making him intimately aware of the heat that radiated off her. He had enough enemies that traps were suspected even with prospective employers. And there was no better, or least suspect, bait than a woman. He’d paid dearly for that lesson.

Her gaze intensified. "What are you here for then?"

"I’m to wed the MacIver lass."

She gasped as if he’d slapped her.

"What, think you that I’m unsuitable?"

"Nay, it’s just …"

"Just what?"

He leaned closer, enough to catch a tantalizing taste of the soft fragrance that cloaked her. It was earthy and soft like the spring flowers after a rain. The scent pulled at him, deep within, like a forgotten dream one struggles to return to when awakened too soon. It was pure, and yet elemental, but he was too jaded to believe in either.

The tip of her tongue darted out to wet her lips and she swallowed unevenly. The innocent gesture stirred an unfamiliar rush of desire. She brought thoughts to mind that he hadn’t contemplated since he’d chosen this destructive path of a mercenary life.

Her gaze darted about the wood as if she were afraid of being overheard.

"Don’t marry the widow, sir. You’ll be dead before sunrise."

He cocked a brow and stroked his chin to give the impression that he considered her suggestion, when really he knew he’d do nothing of the sort, despite the temptation that she offered.

"Really? Then I should have asked for more." He shrugged. "Ah well, there’s no hope for it now. I’ve already given my word to the MacIver." He leaned toward her, intentionally bringing them closer. "And I never go back on my word."

Her eyes softened and the barest hint of a blush stained her milky skin. She stepped back a pace. Interesting. Perhaps he had been too quick in his assessment of her earlier brazenness.

"Please reconsider, sir. You should avoid marriage to her at all costs."

"And why is that? You’ve already warned me about dying."

She clasped her hands. "Aye, but her clan is against her. They think her a witch." Her voice thinned with desperation.

"What’s she done to cause such hatred among her own?"

Her eyes widened. "Nothing!"

Ian thought her response too vehement for a mere bystander. "‘Tis easy enough for you to say. You must like her to come to her defense."

She looked down at her feet. "Aye. I like her well enough."

He scratched at the dark stubble along his jaw and nodded as if he understood, trying to draw more information out of her.

"They think her a witch, then?"

His lack of concern at her revelation appeared to catch her off guard. She glanced up and him, her brows lifted.

"Aye, but ‘tis not the truth."

"Why are you so sure?"

"I know her well."

He suspected as much. A familiar itch started in his palms. The same thing he felt when his instincts told him something was out of place and dangerous. Possibly lethal. He flexed his hands, trying to ignore the sensation and sharpen his focus. Maybe he could pry more information from her.

"Do, you?" He leaned against a gnarled old oak, feigning just enough disinterest to keep her from suspecting his motivations. "What is she like?"

"Quick of mind, a healer and kind-hearted."

It was an honest answer, but nothing that would give him what he wanted to know most. He resorted to a charming smile.

"And is she bonnie, like you?"

She shuddered, her face crimping in a most unbecoming fashion.

"She’s quite homely, then." Ian rubbed his finger against his mouth. What would lies taste like on those lips? The same as they had on Mary’s?

She paused, her eyes brightening, as if she sensed a weakness in him. "Aye, sir. Homely as they come, and riddled with pestilence."

Ian let out a loud peal of laughter. She was certainly lying to him and not very convincingly. His attraction to her caused him to relax despite his suspicions, but damn itch in his palms still remained. "As much as I appreciate the warning. It’s come too late. I cannot go back on my vow to wed her."