The Spellbound Bride (16 page)

"‘Tis witchcraft if I ever saw it..." Crawford muttered softly to Lord Sutherland.

Ian crossed the room in three swift steps and grasped Lord Crawford by the throat. "I wouldn’t say that so lightly if I were you. Nor would it be wise for you to say such about my wife again." Crawford nodded feebly, his face now more purple than red, and Ian released him, letting him slouch against the wall.

"Ian, the poker."

He stalked back to the fireplace and pulled out the glowing poker. Sorcha pulled the bloody webs away, leaving the raw flesh exposed, then turned away. The sizzle and smell of burning flesh as Ian applied the heated red iron caused her to nearly cast up the contents of her stomach as memories flooded her mind.

Fear pricked her skin as though it were yesterday. She rushed back to the cottage where her mother, brother and sisters were dyeing wool. She stumbled on the outstretched roots of a tree. Her skinned knees were bleeding. Tears stung her eyes. She called for her mam and it was between her own sobs that she heard their blood-chilling screams.

The air carried the heavy thickness of acrid wood smoke and the stench of burning hair and flesh. Sorcha ran closer to the cottage, but before she could reach it, the heat pushed her back. There, beyond the fairy ring of trees where they
had once
played blind man’s bluff, the rough wood and stone cottage was aglow in orange light. Flames shot up, licking and eating hungrily at the dry straw thatch of the roof. The heat singed the trees nearby as the wind tilted the flames in their direction.

Sorcha braved the scorching heat, her cheeks beginning to blister. She could not get close enough to move the plank that had fallen across it. In horror, she stared mutely as she heard her mother banging against the walls and screaming.

Her ears still rang from the scream Bothwell had let out as the second opening was seared shut.

"‘Tis done."

She turned back and grabbed her small clay jar of salve for the wound. Sorcha applied a thick coating of the mixture with her fingers then wrapped the arm in fresh linen bandages. She carefully laid Bothwell’s arm by his side and pulled a clean blanket over him.

The room emptied slowly, the men and servants shuffling out as they cast agitated glances back over their shoulders at the wounded Earl of Bothwell.

He groaned softly and Sorcha crouched closely to listen to his whispers. She crooned to him, wiping the beads of sweat from his brow with a damp cloth.

"He’s feverish and talks nonsense," Sorcha said to no one in particular.

"What does he say?"

She started at Ian’s voice, then glanced back at him.

"He says there is danger here. The heir must leave."

"The heir? Are you sure?"

"Aye. I do not ken what he means by it, but ‘tis his words."

Ian caught a brief flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and turned quickly enough to see the embroidered edge of a black tunic disappear from the door. It was the same make as that of the Earl of Argyll, and Ian knew in his gut, the lad had been eavesdropping.

"Sorcha, we cannot stay here."

"Well, we bloody well cannot leave! The Earl of Bothwell needs care and ‘tis clear that he’ll get nothing from the likes of those here. I’m content to stay until he is well enough to travel."

"That’s for the household staff to contend with. We must leave. Some of the lords are talking of witchcraft."

Her chin lifted, and her gaze sharpened.

"Already, then?"

"Aye."

"How can they think this my doing? The curse has never worked in this way before. Bothwell was not connected to me by blood or marriage."

Ian shifted, his gut twisting. If he told her of her blood relation to Bothwell now, he’d never be able to convince her the curse was merely nothing but political wiles.

"Why is it they seek to destroy that which they do not understand?" she said, the deep-seated pain evident in her tone.

"They cannot understand what they do not see." Just as she could not see the political web being woven about her to ensnare her. There was no time to explain things now. Now was a time for action.

"I’m only using simple logic and sense. What works, works. I do not ken why, but I’ll use it just the same as my mother did before me. They can see that."

He grasped her about the arms and lifted her from beside the earl’s bed. He looked deeply into her eyes to convey his meaning.

"No they can’t. ‘Tis not safe to stay if even one calls the kirk. Get your things. We must leave. Now."

"But ‘tis nearly dark, Hunter. You cannot think to go traipsing about in the dark."

"Better that than facing the kirk on a witch hunt for my wife. I can fight off whatever may wait for us in the wood. I can do nothing to stop the church."

Fear, acidic and sour, slicked the back of her throat. The kirk, if zealous enough in this area, would not hesitate to burn her without a trial if they were convinced by any of the lords that the good she did was sinister. She quickly left the room and mounted the stone stairs to their room.

As she reached for the door, she felt a light touch on her shoulder. She jumped, then heaved a great sigh of relief when she realized it was Archibald. She cupped his cheek with her hand.

"Where have you been?"

"Making peace with the lords."

Her hand dropped to her side.

"What do you mean?"

"Hunter rattled Lord Crawford mightily. In his anger he has decided to call you witch to any who will hear."

She stiffened. "And were you listening?"

He brushed his hand against her cheek.

"Nay. How could I ever listen to such lies about my Sorcha?"

"Did you seek to squelch them then?"

"Haven’t I always stood by you, no matter the odds?"

The tension in her shoulders eased at bit. "Aye, you have, and I thank you for it. You’ve been a true friend to me as no one else has."

"‘Tis only natural to protect those we love. You were the only person who cared for me from the time I came to Ballochyle."

Sorcha recalled the small four-year-old that had been brought to her. She had sneaked into the library to bring stories to read to him and when the books had been discovered missing, Archibald had lied and swore he had taken them to spare her a beating. Their devotion to each other had never wavered.

"Are you going to stay the night with Bothwell?"

She looked behind her and down the hall behind him, then motioned for him to follow her into the room and closed the door. She lowered her voice so only he could hear. "Nay. You must prepare to leave at once. Ian says we cannot stay."

He straightened himself, adding to his height.

"I say we are to stay."

"Archibald, understand that if Lord Crawford makes good on his anger, there could be danger for us here."

"He’ll not make good on it. Besides, if you leave and Bothwell ails, then they’ll certainly think worse of you and might even be inclined to believe Lord Crawford. I can’t let you place yourself in that kind of danger."

Sorcha bit her lip. Either choice did not look appealing.

"I too think we should stay, but Ian says— "

Archibald grimaced.

"He understands nothing of politics. I cannot leave now. They would count it as a mark against me, and I might lose favor among them." He placed an arm around her. "‘Tis very important that I stay. I need you to be with me. Can’t you see that, Sorcha?"

Inside she felt torn. She dared not bring danger or disfavor on Archibald’s head, but she knew her own life was forfeit if any of the lords called the kirk. But the pleading in his hazel eyes swayed her, as it had always done since he was barely as tall at her waist. "Aye. But it’ll be no easy feat to convince Hunter."

The door opened.

"Convince me of what, wife?"

She looked up at to see the hard flash in his eyes and the tight line of his mouth. What she would say would only make him more out of sorts, but there was nothing she could do. She lifted her chin.

"We must stay for Archibald’s sake."

His dark eyes turned to inky blackness.

"I say we are to go, and go quickly."

"You do not understand the way of things, Hunter," Archibald said as he stepped forward, placing himself between Ian and Sorcha. "If we leave it could put us, particularly Sorcha, in even greater danger."

The hairs on her arms stood up as the air charged with unspoken animosity. "You may stay if you wish, my lord, but I am taking
my
wife back to Ballochyle." He pushed Argyll aside and grasped Sorcha to him, propelling her toward the door.

"Ian, we can’t leave him here. He needs our protection."

"Then he can come."

Archibald’s voice shimmered with dislike and false bravado.

"Nay. I’ll not."

Ian turned to face Archibald for only a moment, "Then stay." He brushed past her into the corridor.

The young earl rushed forward, grasping her gown like a child.

"Please do not leave me here. You can’t let him take you from me."

Sorcha’s heart hurt. The mother within her felt fury at Ian’s abandonment of her charge. She took hold of the lad’s hand, tucking it within her own.

"Then come with us, Archibald. He’ll not stay, surely you can see that."

Archibald’s head drooped in defeat. "Aye."

"I’ll help pack your things."

Ian turned back a step, blocking the door.

"You’ll do nothing of the sort. If he comes, he can pack it himself and be quick about it." He sent a meaningful glare to Argyll and pulled her from the room. Before she could make any protest, he had bundled her down the stairs and out to the stables.

"Must you be in such a foul mood?" Sorcha asked as she tied her pack to the mare, her own blood boiling at the turn of events.

"‘Tis not my mood that is foul in this place." His tone was bitter and caustic.

Something had transpired on the hunt. She could feel it deep in the marrow of her bones.

"What troubles you?"

"‘Tis nothing you’d want to hear."

His answer only deepened her concern. She stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Ian— "

He paused, looking down at her. His brow furrowed, his shoulder tense beneath her fingers.

"I do not think Bothwell’s injury was an accident."

A flash of fear chilled her as she thought of what he implied.

"You don’t think the arrow was meant for Archibald, do you?"

"Hardly."

She released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, but curiosity nagged at her, pushing her to discover what had really happened that afternoon.

"Then who?"

"It met its target as intended."

"Who shot the arrow, Ian?"

"We’ll not talk of this further." He turned away, terminating the conversation.

His dismissal ached like a slap. He hid something from her, and she would not be ignored. Her words were slow and deliberate.

"Who made the shot?"

"The Earl of Argyll."

Her heart stopped, missing a beat or two before the blood came in a violent rush back into her chest.

"What are you saying? You think Archibald intended to kill the Earl of Bothwell?"

"It’s likely."

"Likely! What earthly reason would he have for such an action? He is at times troubled perhaps, but he wouldn’t do such a thing. It would capsize the balance among the Scottish lords. He would be declaring his loyalty to King James with such an action. It’s unthinkable!"

"Is it?"