The Spellbound Bride (7 page)

"I’ll bargain with you, witch," she cringed at the word, which soothed his irritation in some small measure. "You drink first, and I’ll drink second."

She shuddered.

"Very well. If ‘tis the only way to convince you I mean no harm." With one hand she lifted the edge of her veil enough to place her lips on the cup. They were full and soft, just as the skin of her throat and delicate chin were creamy and smooth.

A bolt of surprise ignited his senses. Ian shifted against the discomfort he felt in his groin. Even though her looks were seared upon his mind as the woman of the wood, she’d projected a different image from beneath the veil. Was she sorceress or seductress?

She was bonnie, he’d not lied in that, but the beauty changed and had seemed heightened when they were alone in the woods. Surely she would allow him to see her again before the bedding. And why had she not revealed herself and tried to persuade him not to marry her? He swallowed the building uncertainty tightening in his throat.

She handed the goblet to him, and Ian’s fingers brushed against hers. He saw her stiffen, aware the brief contact had somehow alarmed her.

The knowledge that he affected her pleased him enormously. He at least still held the upper hand.

He grinned, lifting the goblet to his own lips. The rim was still warm from the touch of her mouth. The liquid tasted sweet, not unlike mead, but the flavor was different, as if flowers or something from the forest had been used to sweeten the drink

He watched the faces about the room as he drank deeply. Some seemed to observe him as though they though he might fall dead at any time, while others shuttered their visages with a doubtful knowing, as if his fate were sealed. Only Argyll and Lord MacIver smiled with approval.

He would show them he had no fear. Ian tilted his head back, draining the goblet quickly. For a moment an eerie silence claimed the crowd, then a roar of approval shook the hall.

"Another toast to the couple," a man shouted.

"Aye!" other voices chimed in.

As the goblet was whisked away and replaced with a tankard of ale, Ian’s limbs began to tingle. He concentrated on the sensation and realized his foot had gone to sleep because he’d been sitting too long. His throat tightened. He swallowed. It eased. He glanced at his bride.

Sorcha looked unaffected by the poison. Beneath her veil, her pale skin appeared clear and unmottled. Ian realized his imagination had run amok and dismissed the churning in his stomach as his discomfort at being the center of attention. His brother had always been the one to receive the accolades and admiration. He had grown accustomed to standing on the side and worked best behind the scenes. He grasped the large cup in his hand.

Another MacIver kinsman lifted his cup. "To the bride and groom, happy days, many children and…" He hesitated, looking about the room with uncertainty. "Long life!" A cheer rose up and a smile broke over the man’s face.

Inwardly Ian scoffed at their superstition and his own temerity. He knew in his gut that his bride was no witch. One look had told him that.

Had she been, she would’ve had no reason to approach him in the woods. If, as the young earl had suggested, she were an unwitting part in the political ambitions of another, it was certainly someone astute in the appearance of witchcraft that had crafted her predicament.

Ian glanced at Sorcha. The name whirled in his mind. A sorceress of the heart perhaps, but nothing more. Her head was tipped down, and she picked at the food before her.

He leaned close and spoke low. "Fear not, I promise to live through the night."

"I know."

"Then why are you so glum?"

She shook her head, refusing to answer him.

"I’ve given a bride gift without question and now ask a favor in return."

She responded with an upward tilt of her gaze. He could see the dark fringe of her lashes brush against the fabric of her veil.

"Aye. It is only right. What would you have of me?"

"Trust me—I’ll not hurt you."

Under the table, he felt her small hand land lightly upon his thigh. The innocent gesture shot sparks to his groin. Ian shifted in his seat and feigned interest in his meal. He did not like that she affected him so intensely.

The last woman ever to do so had been Mary. And that had been a monumental disaster.

"Another toast!" The clansmen were becoming more relaxed and happier as they sunk deeper into their drunken state.

"To the prettiest bride a MacIver ever made," one of the men at a nearby table slurred slightly.

"Aye!" the roomful of revelers replied.

Lord MacIver leaned toward him.

"You’ll need to go a-thigging from door to door on the morrow with the lass."

Ian coughed, choking on a piece of roast lamb. He hadn’t bargained for this, either. What business did the laird have in asking for them to complete tradition when the rest of this was so untraditional?

Ian lowered his voice, ensuring those at the lower tables could not overhear them. "Is there a reason? I thought you made it clear we were to live here while the contract was carried out. We need nothing to start a home of our own here."

His bride touched his shoulder, and he turned to look at her.

"Aye, ‘tis so. But all the same, the people will be more accepting of it as a marriage good and true if you survive the night and go a-thigging on the morrow. You need not collect much from the folk, just enough to make them feel it’s been proper."

Ian leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. The idea of going from door to door, begging for items to start a home with a wife who no intention of staying with him, was preposterous. Worse than that, it stung his pride.

He’d rarely stooped to begging in his life. He’d gone hungry, been wounded, slept in ditches and in fields, but hadn’t begged. The churning sensation in his middle grew.

"I didn’t agree to that," he said tersely.

Her shoulders stiffened.

"Nay. You didn’t agree in words, but ‘tis part of the marriage all the same."

The MacIver coughed. "Will you not do it for your bride’s sake then? I ask only to protect her. Nothing more."

Ian rubbed the base of his neck, then the side of his face, the scar itching and pulling tighter at his agitation. He hated begging. He’d do it for no one. His brother had made him beg for Mary. It was the only time he lowered himself to that level, and he vowed to never repeat it.

"Aye. I’ll protect her, as we agreed. I’ll even stand beside her to go a-thigging, but I’ll do none of it myself. Agreed?"

The laird nodded. "‘Tis enough."

For the rest of the meal Ian sat in stony silence, observing the people in the room and searching for clues to the subterfuge Argyll alluded to. Among the revelers only himself, the earl, the laird and his bride seemed near sober.

Too bad it wasn’t otherwise. If he could drink himself into oblivion, then perhaps he could wash the tart taste of dislike from his mouth. But his duties this night demanded he keep his senses alert in order to survive.

"Another toast!" came a shout from across the hall. His tankard held only dregs, but even as he reached for it, a quick hand snatched it away.

"Pardon, sir." The blond manservant mumbled as he shoved a full pewter tankard in the low one’s place and limped away.

Ian took the cup and lifted it to his lips for the toast. It was only after he began to drink that he looked over the rim at his bride. Her unblinking profile could have been made of stone, she sat so still. Instinct caused him to stop drinking and set the pewter tankard aside.

He leaned closer and whispered, "Are you ailing, wife?"

She snapped to face him, placing them mere inches apart, her veil and a breathing space the only thing separating them from another kiss. The thought fired his blood.

"I don’t think…nay, I’m fine."

"Then let us retire to our chambers."

Her eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing and dutifully rose.

A silence crept over the hall, dulling the revelry as they realized the bride and groom intended to leave the head table. From the expressions around the room it was though they were watching a man go to the gallows. The palpable tension put Ian on edge, but his gut instinct urged him forward.

He left the hall to follow his bride up the stairs to their private chamber. A heavy oak door swung open on well-oiled hinges to reveal a dimly lit chamber dominated by a bedspread with a blood red coverlet. The candles sputtered making the flames throw odd shapes about the room. A roaring fire made the room hotter than expected. Oddly it seemed more like entering the audience chamber to hell, than a nuptial suite.

She stopped short. He was close enough to sense a shiver running the length of her, causing the veil to flutter ever so slightly.

"Does the night ahead trouble you so?" he asked, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. For as tall as she was, her bones were delicate underneath his touch.

"I suppose the unknown is always troublesome." The slight tremor in her voice betrayed her discomfort.

He turned away, shutting the door behind them, thinking of how he could distract her from worrisome thoughts.

"Is this where the others died?" He knew the moment he’d uttered the words that they’d been a mistake.

She stamped over to the bed, whipped the coverlet back, then lifted her head a notch higher as she glared defiantly at him.

"Aye. Care to inspect the bed for weapons?"

He laughed. She’d been offended by his question, not hurt, and the boldness of her reply pleased him.

"Nay. I only asked of curiosity. I shouldn’t like to be surprised by a ghost in the midst of my first night with my bride." He moved closer, and reached out, offering her a hand, as he would to a skittish mare. "Don’t fear lass. I’ll live this night."

She looked at his hand, but did not take it. Her tone was cold and raw even as heat radiated off of her skin. "How can you be so sure?"

His skin prickled. Ian shook off the sensation. If she would not take his hand, then he would make sure she did not mistake his intent.

Her spine lost all the stiffness she had mustered as he moved toward her, blocking out the rest of the room. The sharp green scent of rosemary filled her nose.

"I’m sure because, my bonnie bride, I’ve no plans to sleep," he teased, reaching to lift the veil from her face.

Her hands came down lightly upon his and she noticed the muscles in his jaw flex, then relax. How much further she could press him was uncertain.

"Do you expect us to continue the night with you in a veil?"

"Nay. Only allow me to lift it."

Ian dropped his hands.

Henna had done little to prepare the girls in her clan for their marriage bed, save tell them how a man would mount them like an animal and to be silent until they were done. To this point, Ian had given her no reason to doubt that he would be kind rather than harsh, but as she had no way of kenning what might happen, she was nervous all the same. Compounding her worry was the knowledge that the protective she’d poured into his drink had been merely a last desperate attempt. She had no idea if it would really save him or not. This could very well be their last conversation, as it had been with Harold and Magnus.

She shivered at the thought, and closed her eyes to steady herself. Now was not the time to keep him at bay. He needed to take her virginity, and she assumed, the quicker the better. She tugged away the veil.

A sensual smile curled his firm lips and sent a warm heat rushing through her. His eyes were bright in a way that had nothing to do with drink, and everything to do with pleasure.

Out in the hall the cacophony of clanging claymores and banging pans echoed as the revelers began their efforts to keep the newly wed couple on edge.

"Will they be up to see us to bed?" he asked, as he gently cupped her face in his hand and traced along her cheek with his the pad of his thumb. His touch was possessive, but soft.

"I think not. As much as tradition bids it, I think they believe the witch would curse them should they do it."

Ian shifted his touch and lifted her chin with his palm. The way he looked into her eyes made her believe in that precise moment he could divine the very nature of her soul.