The Spellbound Bride (15 page)

He watched her, the angry fire in his eyes turning to slow smolder. "Do not deceive yourself, good wife. We all die. It is how we live that we are measured. And I, for one, will live boldly with every breath this body has, not cower from what is sure to come."

He strode from the room, the anger pulsating in the air around him as he left, and she couldn’t help but think that things between them were only going to get worse.

Chapter Nine

Sleeping on the bare ground would have been easier. Instead Ian woke with a crick in his neck and stiffness in his knees from sleeping in the chair in the library downstairs that reminded him he wasn’t as young as he once was.

The early gray of dawn filtered in through the windows, causing Ian to blink, then stretch. The memory of his harsh tone with Sorcha ached more than his body. When he’d left her, he’d been both angry with himself for being blunt with her and angry with her for allowing the silly nonsense of tainted blood to become an unbreakable wedge between them.

But in the morning’s muted light things seemed not as dark as they had after he’d realized his wife may not be his much longer if Bothwell and his followers had their way.

He padded upstairs in his stocking feet and quietly slipped into their room to gather his clothes. Even though he dressed quickly with his back to her, he couldn’t help stealing a glance of her. She lay alone in the big bed, her raven hair spread over the pillows like spilled ink.

The temptation to touch the black silk was too much. Winding a dark curl around his finger, he rubbed it, inhaling the faint scent of heather that clung to her.

She was even more beautiful in sleep, the hold of tension and wariness about her gone for the moment. He leaned down and brushed her lips with a light kiss. She stirred, but didn’t wake.

He pulled back, gazing at her in the growing half-light. A distinct ache built in his chest. It was becoming familiar now. He didn’t just want to leave for France to start a life. He wanted to start it with her. His darkling wife.

This nonsense had to stop. He should reveal the truth of Bothwell’s plans to her, but if he did, could he then make her see that her suspicions were only fear and wild notions? Once she understood that, could he convince her to come with him or would she become further entrenched in Scotland when she learned about her lineage?

He frowned. He would do what he could to protect her, but he could not decide her future, nor that of a country.

Outside, the crisp snap of the air nipped at him, making him feel alive and giving a rush to his blood. He waited with the others in the graveled drive outside the stables to begin the hunt. The horses looked like great steaming beasts, their warm breath making white, misted clouds. He could smell the eagerness among them, musky, heavy and heated.

They left the yard in a thunder of hooves, following the yapping pack of hunting dogs as they made their way through the low hanging mist to the dense line of fir trees. Their mounts slowed and Ian could hear the chirp and twitter of early-morning birdsong still as they approached. No one spoke, but the eagerness of every hunter in the party sparked in the air. They walked the path, letting the dogs huff and snuffle along the ground, darting through the undergrowth of the forest.

A sharp crack echoed and everyone stopped. About a hundred yards away, at the edge of a glen glowing with morning light, a six-pointed stag stood perfectly still. The quiet became a palpable entity as everything froze and the seconds stretched until it all seemed like merely tapestry, not a real place at all.

Then, in an instant, it all changed.

In a flash of movement the stag sprang to life, his haunches bunching, coiling, releasing. He leaped through the brush. The hounds thundered after him, their baying echoing in the trees. Ian joined the sudden rush of the hunters and their mounts as they raced after the pack, the forest becoming a blur as they stayed intent on their quarry.

The stag led them on a merry chase, but tired, giving the hounds an opportunity to surround him. As the hunting party slowed their mounts, Ian kept his eyes on the deer. The stag kept his head down, the pale smooth spikes bared and prepared for attack. But the hounds held back. The dogs were well-trained. They knew their mission was only to confine the animal so the hunters could go in for the kill. Ian felt a flicker of compassion. The stag had fought well, but it was not enough to save his hide.

He flicked his gaze to the men in the hunting party. How much was Sorcha to be like the stag? Confined, trapped, waiting only a hairsbreadth from life or death depending on their whim. His gut pinched and twisted at the thought.

Argyll was the first to reach the trapped animal. He dispatched it quickly with a sharply aimed bow, then dismounted.

"Well done, Argyll," shouted Lord Sutherland from his mount further back.

Ian dismounted, then strode to Argyll’s side, a strange prickle crawling up his nape. The shot was perfect, having pierced the stag’s heart. At least the stag had not suffered long by bleeding slowly. He clapped Argyll on the back.

"Aye, my lord. A splendid shot. You are even more skilled with a bow than your sword." Argyll smiled, a predatory gleam lighting his eyes.

The prickle intensified. His student had never mentioned his ability with the bow, apparently because he needed no help with it. For a moment, Ian wondered what other secrets his pupil might possess.

The men’s thirst for bloodshed not yet quenched, they trussed the stag to hang as they searched out yet more prey. The forest wrapped them in the wicked fresh green of late spring. The troupe moved along the deer trail that wove through the underbrush, accompanied only by the occasional cursing of magpies and the scuttle of the hunting hounds.

They beat their way through the underbrush and worked to flush out some prey. Even in the cover of the forest, Ian now felt exposed. His blood pumped a steady, quick rhythm in his ears, sensing that danger stalked them.

Ian urged Merlin forward to keep in close to the Earl of Argyll. He noticed the earl was focused, intent on the hunt and unaware of his presence.

A baying hound alerted them to a boar. The dark, shaggy animal shifted, trapped against a tree, the growling hounds holding him at bay from all sides. The stiff hairs of his back were peaked in a firm ridge. He let out a loud grunting squeal of piggish indignation and charged at the dogs, his gleaming tusks bared.

The dogs pulled back, then circled tighter. In the mêlée, Ian had taken his eyes off Argyll and found him on the opposite side of the circle of mounted hunters, the boar and dogs between them. Beside him sat the Earl of Bothwell, his eyes bright with keen pleasure.

The frenzied boar prepared to bolt. Ian’s gaze flicked back to Argyll, anticipating that the pig would lunge in the lad’s direction. He watched the Earl of Argyll pull an arrow from his quiver and notch it into his bow. From where he sat, Ian could tell the arrow would not find home in the angered animal. It would overshoot the pig.

Stop!
his brain roared, but the word was a mere gurgle in his throat as the arrow flew from the bow with the tense
thwap
of the string. Bothwell’s horse lurched forward at the sound and there was a sickening
thunk
as the arrow burrowed into the earl’s flesh.

Bothwell screamed.

The boar bolted.

The flurry of arrows, a split second too late, missed the boar. Bothwell’s horse reared again in response to the fleeing wild thing beneath its hooves.

"Bothwell’s been struck!" Lord Crawford shouted.

A mad scramble ensued as they lurched from their horses and made way through the underbrush to his side. A dark, wet crimson stain was spreading rapidly around the hilt of the arrow, soaking the sleeve of his tunic.

Shock clouded the faces of the men, making their movements sluggish to respond to Bothwell’s plight. The sight of blood had the opposite effect on Ian, sobering him and calling his battle skills into play. He leaped forward, grasping the protruding shaft of the arrow, and broke it off closer to the earl’s body so it would not shift or pull as they moved him.

"Get him back to the house," he ordered. "You, take his feet. Hold his head up." He grabbed the reins of the shying horse and twitched its nose with a firm, efficient twist of a fistful of skin. "Get him up on the horse."

"You," he nodded at Lord Errol, "make way back to the house and see that they prepare bandages." Amidst the turmoil, a pang of cold suspicion gripped Ian’s gut. Things were not as they appeared. Perhaps the Earl of Argyll’s shot had been clumsy, but perhaps not.

They approached Abercairny, the Earl of Bothwell slumping from loss of blood in the saddle and held in place by pairs of hands on either side.

Sorcha stood waiting for them with the staff on the front steps as they carried the injured earl past her to a bedroom on the second floor. Preparations had been hasty. A bed had been stripped of its blankets and made ready to receive him, linen bandages were torn into strips and waiting, and a poker lay heating in the fire to sear the wound after they removed the arrow.

The amount of blood was far greater than she had anticipated. The lords moved aside and let the heavyset groom and steward move Bothwell on to the bed. One of the younger maids, who stood by with bandages, swooned at the sight of the blood.

"Get her up," Ian snapped at Lord Sutherland. He moved quickly, lifting the girl up from the floor and carrying her out of the room.

Sorcha fixed her concentration on Bothwell, but spoke only to Ian. "He will die if we cannot get it out and cleanse the wound before it is sealed."

"Aye. ‘Tis what I surmised as well. Fortunately it pierced nearly all the way through. With a bit of a push, we should be able to pull it clear from the other side."

"But won’t that risk more blood?"

"It’s either that or let him die like a stuck pig. He’s already bleeding too much to sear it properly."

Sorcha bit her lip, weighing if she dare risk saving Bothwell’s life for a moment. She reached out and grasped Ian’s sleeve.

"I think I can help slow the bleeding enough for you to seal it."

Ian’s gaze pierced her, saying what he could not in the present company. He gave her a curt nod, bidding her to do what she must, then swung around to Lord Caithness nearby.

"Fetch a leather strap. He’ll need it so he doesn’t bite through his lip."

Caithness nodded. A minute later, he wedged the strap in Bothwell’s mouth. Ian pushed the wounded earl to his side, then tore away the shirtsleeve as best as he could from the bloody area.

Ian nodded at four of the men standing about, and they moved forward quickly to grab hold of Bothwell. Ian grasped the broken arrow.

"Hold him lads." He took a steadying breath, then shoved hard. Bothwell bucked and screamed as the arrow rent his flesh. Ian waited for the men to hold him still. Grabbing just below the arrow’s tip, he pulled the length of the arrow through Bothwell’s upper arm. A spurt of hot wet blood splattered across his face and chest. The Earl of Bothwell went limp.

While the men worked to remove the arrow, Sorcha had dispatched the manor staff, save for the steward and groom, to gather all the cobwebs they could find within the house.

When they returned, she set the gray, thready mass in her lap as she cleansed the wound with a wet cloth. With the blood wiped away she could more clearly see the entry point of the arrow. She quickly sprinkled in a powder of comfrey, pulled a wad of the webs, then began to stuff them gently into the wound.

"My God, woman, what are you doing?" Lord Crawford bellowed.

"It’s webs, my lord," she said, the asperity in her tone clear.

"Aye. I can see that much with my own eyes, but what do you think to do?"

"’Tis a natural bandage, better than linen. They’ll stop the bleeding, my lord, so we can seal it."

"It’s more likely he’ll be poisoned by the damn things!" He moved to grab her, but Ian was quicker and had drawn his sword.

"Back away, Crawford."

Lord Crawford’s eyes bulged, and his face grew flush. "But she seeks to kill him!"

"I said, back away." The point of his sword rested but a few inches from Crawford’s thick middle. He did as Ian bade him, but his bulbous face reddened still further until it looked like a radish.

"She has healing skills, my lord. Allow her to work on the earl, and I can assure you he will be the better for it."

"But what good can come of spiders?" he sputtered.

"I’ve done this many times and it helps the bleeding to cease," Sorcha snapped. Her form was tense with concentration as she worked. The room held its collective breath as she repeated her efforts on the other side of Bothwell’s wound rubbing the powdered comfrey into the injury and staunching the flow with a patch of webs.