The Spellbound Bride (17 page)

"Aye! And it peeves me to think you should attack his character so! He is yet a youth, Hunter. Not some scheming, lecherous, gouty, elderly lord with an agenda!"

"Youth is not a shield against the vices of politics, avarice and greed, Sorcha. I know how a bow is shot, and I know what I saw. One moment he hit the heart of a stag and the next he overshot enough to hit Bothwell. There are things afoot that you cannot possible ken."

She spun away, unable to listen to such heinous suggestions. Archibald was more loyal to her above any of the MacIvers. While she had noticed him change over the years and become strange at times, she attributed it to the difficult demands of his station at such a young age. He was family among them and would never stoop to such tactics. He had no cause to upend the political balance. She had protected him thus far and could do no less now.

Ian bit back anything more he would say to her. He guided her mount over to her, then offered his hand.

Sorcha swatted it away, anger staining her fair skin with a pink flush.

He had anticipated her reaction and was precisely why he hesitated in revealing his suspicions.

Argyll trotted up to them, panting.

"I’m ready."

Ian glared at him. "Your horse isn’t. We’re leaving." The youth was a schemer and smitten with Sorcha, and God only knew how far deep in the political schemes of Bothwell and his brood.

Argyll might fool Sorcha into believing in his innocence, but he had overplayed his hand. The young earl shook his head and pushed past the horses to make his mount ready to travel.

Ian tried to speak sense to his bride.

"Sorcha—"

She pulled the reins guiding her horse so that her back faced him.

Ian seethed. He was trying to protect her from someone she had no business trusting. Didn’t she know that vipers could nest even in the bosom of one’s family? He’d learned that lesson clearly enough never to forget it. He would keep his relationship with the young earl intact as a means of preserving her, but he would be more diligent in his observations of the Argyll from then on. Argyll wanted something more than merely to see Sorcha sit upon the throne. The lad was ambitious and craved power and recognition, perhaps even the throne itself.

They left at twilight, the dying rays of the sun throwing the trees in black relief against the darkening sky. The sound of birdsong lingered as they settled in for the night, then faded away with the daylight.

Sorcha, Ian and Argyll rode in silence for over an hour, with only the noise of plodding hooves and creaking leather to accompany them.

Sorcha still refused to acknowledge him, and he had not encouraged any conversation with Argyll. His accusations of the young lord must have stung her deeply.

In his opinion, the boy did not deserve her loyalty, but Ian knew he must strive to understand her devotion if he was to win her trust. In the past he’d had such devotion to family, but no more. Perhaps she had yet to learn that one could not trust even those bound by family ties.

Ian felt his limbs growing heavier as lack of sleep began to carve away the edge of his concentration.

The voice of the earl sounded unnaturally loud after the long silence they had maintained.

"Why was it imperative that we leave tonight?"

The lad sought to stir up trouble. "I think you know," Ian muttered, his lack of patience clear in his tone. It was simply enough that his wife didn’t know the circumstances of her own birth and was a political pawn, which made witchcraft only a cunning excuse for her enemies to excise her. But it was even more imperative now that he was uncertain of Argyll’s agenda.

"I would suspect it is because you goaded Lord Crawford," Argyll said.

He tightened his fingers around the reins, instead of following his instinct to tighten they about the earl’s neck for his insolence.

Sorcha huffed. "Lord Crawford is a fat idiot. No one had to goad him."

"Fat idiot or not. All he had to do was run to the kirk and they would have began stacking kindling for a burning," Ian grumbled.

"They would not burned her without— "

Ian glared at Argyll cutting him short.

"You really think they would have given her a trial, Argyll?"

The lad shrugged. "Of course. They’re searching for witches. Sorcha is no witch."

Ian looked back to the path they followed. The boy knew he had meant the political game being played beneath it all and had deliberately chosen not to say anything in front of Sorcha. Until he understood every aspect of this battle, he dare not endanger her further with his own missteps, so he would play Argyll’s game and not mention it either.

"Wouldn’t matter, would it? Superstitions, lore and curses only have power because people choose to believe in them," Ian said.

"Do you include witchcraft in that too, Hunter?"

"Aye. There is no such thing. Witches most often are folk who understand the ways of nature and such, and are condemned for other reasons, reasons that can change the balance of power and control."

"Is it worth dying for?" Argyll let his words trail off in the stillness of the night.

Ian was done with the conversation. "I suppose you’d have to ask the witch."

"Archibald, please tell my husband that his callousness offends me."

Argyll grinned. "She said your callousness— "

Ian ignored the lad, speaking instead to his wife, the pressure behind his eyes pulsing. She had no idea how dangerous the game had become nor that she was not merely a pawn, but a piece that could change the entire outcome.

"And would it offend you less if I just let them take you?"

"He wants to know if it would— "

"Tell him that has nothing to do with it. The curse I bear is real enough to the dead and to me."

"She said the curse is real enough, even if you do not believe her. Don’t you believe her?"

He glared at Argyll. "Neither do you. You told me as much."

"I never said that I didn’t believe her."

Ian tried again, his gut twisting with a mixture of anger and uncertainty. He should tell her the whole truth, but it was highly likely to make matters worse.

"Sorcha, if you would let go of your belief that a power greater than your own holds you, perhaps it would let go of you. Perhaps the power holding you is far more earthly than you imagine."

She held her head forward, her chin up.

"I’m stopping. No one will come after us at this hour even if Lord Crawford did call the kirk."

"We aren’t stopping." Ian said between clenched teeth, not trusting himself to say more.

"Tell my husband, that he can rot for all I care."

"She says you can rot for— "

"I heard her damn it!" Merlin tensed beneath his legs, and skittered in his steps. Ian knew it the horse sensed his own inner discord. He pulled Merlin back and brought his own warring thoughts back in line as well. Argyll shrugged, unfazed by the sparks of friction between husband and wife, but Ian knew better. Argyll was playing Sorcha and it galled him.

"We’ll stop only when we have at least four hours distance between us and Abercairny. The moon is full, we’ve no reason to stop as yet."

"He says we’ll stop in another hour."

She threw him a withering stare across the gap between them, then faced forward.

"Tell him I’ll stop now or else fall off my horse."

The young earl turned to face him. "She says she’ll— "

"Shut up, Argyll."

Argyll’s mouth clamped shut. They rode through the interrupted patches of shadow in the silent moonlight. Merlin’s ears flicked back, the horse tensing beneath him. The skin on Ian’s neck pricked with awareness, his ears straining to hear.

The snap of branches and sudden thunder of hooves made Merlin whicker. Ian whipped his head around, Merlin following his lead. He barely had a moment’s glance at the dark direction of the sound when four men on horseback came rushing at them, their faces hooded and weapons drawn.

Chapter Ten

Ian slid his sword from its scabbard and readied his arm to hit the closest man. The horses reacted in fear at the sudden attack, twisting at their reins. He had Merlin under control with his legs, but Sorcha’s new mare had wide eyes, the white a flashing gleam in the moonlight, and was preparing to rear.

His gut tightened. He wasn’t close enough to grasp the mare’s reins, nor could he afford to turn his back on the riders bearing down on them. Sorcha opened her mouth in a silent scream, her upper body rigid and her eyes round with panic. An invisible hand squeezed the breath from his chest. There was not time to reassure his frightened wife. He had only seconds to grasp all this and react with a warrior’s skills.

"Argyll! Grab her horse."

The boy sat mute upon his horse, a look of stricken surprise and confusion on his face. Ian pushed Merlin forward to put himself between the bandits and his wife, but the little mare spun away at Merlin’s sudden proximity, breaking from Sorcha’s control and running down the road. Argyll took after her.

A swift arc of steel came at Ian and he had no time to go after her as he matched the blow from the burly rider. Ian moved away, preparing himself for another blow, even as he tried to block the road as much as he could from the three other riders. The two smaller riders swerved around him, their faces masked in black cloth, as they pursued Sorcha and Argyll.

Ian swung hard, driving the man attacking from his horse with a slashing blow to his side. He twisted taking the second rider, who danced just out of reach. Ian tried to engaged him, but the man maneuvered his horse out of the way. Glancing in the direction Sorcha and Argyll had fled, Ian realized the bandit had no intention of engaging him, just keeping his attention, as he saw one of the riders close in, following Sorcha, and lifting her off her frightened mount.

Rage exploded within Ian’s head, hot and pulsing raw.

A surge of white lightning split through his veins, blinding him to all but Sorcha’s face. Her skin was pale, her features contorted as she screamed and clawed at the man holding her. She was like a frightened kitten, helpless to free herself, but frenzied in the need to be released. She twisted, ripping the cloth at the man’s face, revealing a heavy beard and angry eyes.

A strange calm descended upon Ian even as he wheeled Merlin around in time to see the other men push into the trees, their hands tight on Argyll’s reins. Ian dug in hard. He rushed at the man holding his wife, preparing his sword to strike.

The blade drove deep into the man’s back. The bandit howled, arching forward as the sword tore through his chest. He dropped Sorcha to the ground.

The bandit’s horse side stepped as the rider slipped off, its hooves kicking Sorcha. For the first time that night, a chill of fear whipped through Ian as he saw his wife under the horse’s hooves. He jumped from Merlin, shooing the horse away and lifted her into his arms. He didn’t realize he held his breath until his lungs began to burn. Her eyes fluttered and she lifted a hand to the swelling bruise on her temple. Relief weakened every muscle in him and he began to shake. Ian knew he should go after Argyll and retrieve him, but Sorcha was far too injured for him to leave her alone.

"Sorcha? Can you hear me?" He held her gently, afraid that he might hurt her further if he crushed her to him as he wanted to.

She groaned, then licked her lips.

"What happened?"

"The bandits took Argyll. They nearly took you too. The wretch dropped you when I struck him."

She shook in his arms. "They took him?"

"Aye."

She sat up, grabbing his shirt, her eyes wide with frantic worry.

"We must go after him."

Ian released her and placed his hand around her two smaller ones.

"We will in time, but they likely have more numbers at their camp."

"Then we must return at once to Abercairny."

Ian’s gut clenched at the thought.

"I think that would only increase our problems."

Sorcha bit her lip, then nodded slowly. She winced, placing a hand against the bump on her head. She looked up into his eyes, concern marring the dark trusting line of her brows.

"But it will take too long to return to Ballochyle for help."

"Aye. He may not survive if they are careless with him."

"What do you suggest? We can’t leave him. Clan Campbell will rip the MacIvers to shreds if a hair on him is harmed."

Ian’s jaw tightened.

"Then, we shall go after him ourselves."

"But there are too many, Hunter. We couldn’t match them with strength."

He grasped her hand to comfort her.

"We have no way of knowing what we are up against until we find out."

"What do you think they want with him?"

Ian shrugged. "I don’t know. Perhaps they were seeking food or gold and didn’t have their plan as well laid as they thought. Or mayhap they have other plans for Argyll and plan a ransom."

"You mean they didn’t expect you to fight back."

"Aye."

"Then perhaps we have yet another advantage if they think we have returned with reinforcements."

"‘Tis possible. If we can convince the reivers, we may be able to brazen it out or..."

"Or what?"

"Do you ken how to make a sleeping draft with your herbs?"

"Aye, a simple one, but effective."

"How long would it take you to brew it?"

"A few hours, maybe a little longer."

He smiled, his chest relaxing and the tension in his shoulders easing. "Good. Then you best tell me what you’ll need so we can get started."

Ian didn’t admit his suspicions to her. As long as he could keep her out of sight and harm’s way, it could possibly work. At the moment he was far more concerned about his wife’s condition, than Argyll’s safety.

"Are you well enough to sit on your horse?"

"Aye. The horse merely knocked the wind from me and bruised me a bit."

He nodded in agreement, then went to fetch the little mare, who stood hiding in the trees. Despite Sorcha’s brave words, he handed his wife up atop her horse with gentleness anyway.

"We’re going to find a spot to make camp. There’s no point in trying to track them in the dark. We’ll only get lost ourselves and possibly run into something worse. We’ll start at first light, and find what you need as we follow their trail."

Sorcha’s eyes said what she did not. In her fear for the young earl, she counted her own suffering as inconsequential to his recovery. As much as he thought her loyalty misplaced, Ian would not gainsay her in this. A woman’s heart was something he had yet to fathom and he did not wish to cause her any further distress. They started into the woods, looking for a tree large enough to provide shelter and a space large enough to fit the horses.

Ian dug a small pit in the earth and filled it with sticks and twigs, then tucked dry grasses and pinecones underneath. From his pockets he dug out a flint and struck the gray stones until they flicked orange sparks into the dry tinder. Flames burst to life, licking and feeding on the twigs and brush until a cheery glow lent warmth to their small circle.

Sorcha settled back against the round of the log Ian had pulled near the fire. As Ian fed slender twigs to the hungry flames, she watched the flicker of firelight on his chiseled features.

He glanced at her.

"Warm yourself."

She stretched out her hands to the flames, absorbing the heat. The night air was clear and crisp and a light coat of white frost clung to everything, making their surroundings sparkle in the moonlight.

Sorcha began to unplait her hair, letting it unwind into a glossy black river spilling down her back.

"The moonlight seems to change everything, does it not?"

"Hmmm..." He watched her hair glisten in the firelight and wondered if it would feel like the black silk it resembled.

"The firelight, the glittering woods. Almost like the tales my mam would tell us when I was wee."

Ian tried to focus his thoughts away from the physical urges building in his blood.

"What was your mam like?"

"A fanciful sort. Always more interested in nature than people, I’m afraid."

"You lost her when you were young."

"Aye. I had just passed my fourth winter." Her pale fingers slipped through the strands of her hair, combing them.

"‘Tis not right for a bairn to be without a mother—or a father..."

Her gaze sharpened. "Do you want children?"

"Aye, someday—when I’ve a place to keep them safe."

Sorcha sighed, shaking her head. She took a length of hair and parted it. With deft, quick movements she began weaving her hair into another plait.

"What’s wrong with that?" he asked, his tone defensive.

"No place is safe. ‘Tis the reason I fear for you, and Archibald." The strands twisted in her fingers, the weave becoming tighter.

"Do you ever long for your childhood home?" she asked quietly.

Ian stomach was as knotted as her long plait twisted and interlocked. He could hardly separate the pain of memory from the pang of want for a place of his own where his brother’s touch could not reach.

"Nay. There are too many wounds there."

"Why are you so eager to leave?"

His eyes narrowed, staring deeper into the flames, but not turning to acknowledge her.

"I have very little time."

Sorcha nibbled at her lip. Her heart sank within her chest, certain she knew of the reason for his haste.

"You have someone waiting then."

His gaze locked with hers, his eyes darkening to match the black midnight that lay waiting outside the edges of their fire’s light.

"Nay. I never said such."

She looked away from him, unable to bear the directness of his stare. It stole her breath, made her pine for his touch. He might say what he wished, but she had seen that look before between her mother and father. It was the look they got when they had eyes only for each other.

She focused on the living flames, curling and leaping around the blackened husks of the logs and their glowing hearts.

"You didn’t have to. The intensity in your eyes betrays the love you have."

He grinned. It was predatory, lethal, and deadly to her senses.

He moved closer to her.

"‘Tis not a woman, if that’s what worries you."

Sorcha’s breath caught in her chest. How could he have known her thoughts?

"What then?"

His fingers brushed her cheek and threaded up in the hair at the nape of her neck, rubbing gently, relaxing her against the palm of his hand. He pulled her to lean against him.

"A home.
Chaumiere de Heureux
."

Sorcha could almost inhale the scent of longing that clung to his words.

"‘Tis it beautiful?"

His hands caressed her hair, soothing her.

"Aye."

Sorcha burrowed closer against the warmth of his side, the smell of wood and leather, and mint soap clung to him, solid and reassuring to her.

"Tell me of
Chaumiere de Heureux
."

Ian’s arm dropped around her, cradling her against him.

"Sometimes I can’t recall it for myself." As he spoke, Sorcha watched the flames, as if, like the crystal ball of the traveling Romany, she could see the future and the past in the orange and yellow dancing light.

"‘Tis long ago that I saw what she could be. My mother took us there as boys to visit her family. ‘Twas her girlhood home. ‘Tis the greenness I remember most and the smell of fertile warm earth and ripening grapes."

Sorcha looked up at his face. In the night the firelight left deep shadows. He was far away from this place, his eyes misted in memory.