The Spellbound Bride

by Theresa Meyers

Sorcha was held fast with her hands behind her as her clothes were pulled from her, leaving her naked in the middle of the small room before the four men.

  A lascivious gleam lit the pricker’s eyes.

  "Open your mouth."

  Sorcha did as she was bidden. The pricker thrust his dirty fingers in her mouth, shoving aside her tongue and pulling at her cheeks as he looked within. She could taste the metallic bite of the blood that smeared his pricked finger.

  His rough hands skimmed her flesh from her head to the soles of her feet, taking delight in lingering where no man but Ian had touched her. Sorcha tried to block out the feeling of his hands. After nearly two hours, the man edged forward to the trio sitting patiently and silently on the bench.

  "There be a mark upon her left shoulder, and the soles of her feet."

  "Nay! Those are but scars!" she screamed in defense.

  The pricker wheeled about and pointed a finger at her.

  "Aye, scars caused by a fire set to rid your kirk of your witch mother!"

  "Nay! ‘Twas an accident. I was only a child!"

  He grinned, his smile riddled with holes and blackened teeth.

  "It was not you who set the fire." He puffed up his chest and lifted his chin. "Twas I, by order of the kirk, which did it. All the more reason you be a witch. Blood of the blood, it is." He turned away from Sorcha and strode to the table that held his implements. Kincaid ran his fingers over the brass pins, selecting one nearly eight inches long.

  Sorcha strained against the man who held her, and fell to her knees before the clerics.

  "I beseech you, do not do this thing. I am innocent!"

  One cleric denied to make eye contact with her.

  "If that is so, then it will be proved shortly."

  The large guard hauled her up from the floor and held her wrists in a tight grip at her belly, exposing her back and shoulders to the pricker’s pin.

  He pinched her flesh between his fingers and pushed the pin in. A sharp pain stabbed her and Sorcha watched in horror as the long needle disappeared beneath her skin, inch by inch. He withdrew it slowly and when it was out, turned her so the clergymen could see the spot.

  "You see, no blood. It proves she is a witch." Indeed the spot did not bleed. The witch pricker let go his bruising grip on her and let loose a gleaming, triumphant smile. Sorcha tried to cover her naked breasts as best she could by crossing her arms over her chest.

  The three judges exchanged harsh and furious whispers. One of the judges leaned forward, his face hard and determined.

  "We cannot find fault with your results. This, paired with the testimony we heard last eve from her own clansmen, is enough to warrant trial to decide how best to deal with this witch. She will be taken for trial in North Berwick with the others of Bothwell’s brood." He looked at the guard by the door and nodded his head. Sorcha was given back her clothes and dressed hastily, aware of the many pairs of eyes staring at her as she was escorted from the room.

  They took her back to the cell and locked her in. Sorcha sank down to the prickly straw pallet, shut her eyes, and thought of Ian.

  She imagined him standing at the edge of the water, the breeze pushing through his hair. He reached out and grasped a feminine hand, her hand. Before them, the sails of the ship fluttered like great white wings.

  As Ian hugged her, she realized her belly was large with child. His child. Suddenly she was being pulled backward, away from him. The scene faded as if she were being taken down a tunnel. The sorrow within her grew and settled deeper.

  She could not tell if it was day or night when she awoke in the dark, only that time had passed and she grew hungry. The filter of light from a rush and the sounds of feet approaching brought her fully awake. Her uncle was ushered into the cell, bearing fresh water and some bread and cheese. She was overjoyed to see him and wrapped her arms about him. His shoulders were rigid.

  "They say you are to go to North Berwick for trial, lass."

  "Aye, Uncle Charles."

  He cleared his throat. "Are you scared?"

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, then fell against his shoulder sobbing.

  For a long moment he let her cling, then awkwardly patted her on back in a gesture of comfort.

  "I’m planning to send Hunter with you on the journey. They cannot fault him as your husband."

  She pulled away from him to look at his familiar face for reassurance.

  "Is Ian faring better then?"

  "Aye. He’s recovering, though I daresay that it might be held against you."

  Sorcha shuddered with a sigh and wiped away the tears with a quick swipe of her hand. Her voice was small and shaken. "What was it they held against my mam?"

  Pain clouded her uncle’s eyes. "Henna’s jealousy and spite damned her."

  "What do you mean?"

  Her uncle leaned against the wall.

  "Henna and your father, were to be married. They had been betrothed since they were children. But then Morgana came to be fostered with our family. She was lovely beyond compare."

  He looked up at her, his eyes wet and shining.

  "You are a mirror of her in so many ways." He sniffed, and blinked back the moisture gathering at the edges of his eyes. "No sooner did my brother see her than he would have her and no other."

  "But what of Henna?"

  "She seemed calm and accepting, as if it meant little to her—considering she carried my brother’s babe." He snorted.

  "He sired a child by that crone?"

  "Nay. She lost the babe after he told her he would wed Morgana."

  Sorcha swallowed. "Did she do it a’purpose?"

  "Aye, that’s what I think, though she’d never admit to such a thing."

  "But what of mam?"

  "For years she never knew any of it." He hung his head low. "I suppose I should have warned her, yet both your father and I thought we could protect her. But obsession does strange things to a person. Henna never raised a word against Morgana, but the bitterness was palpable."

  "But why did she suffer Henna’s presence? Why not send her back to the Campbells?"

  "There’s nothing wrong with being a mistress, lass. But being a disgrace sent home with a babe in your belly is another matter entirely. We couldn’t afford to offend the Campbells … especially when Henna held a secret over your mam."

  "What secret?"

  He blew out a long breath. He looked behind them and leaned closer, so that none but her could hear him.

  "I’ve kept it from you as long as I could, hoping your mother’s folly would die with those who knew it. My brother, John, was not your father. One night, when things were rough between your parents, Henna revealed the truth to Morgana. In a fit of temper and passion over what your father had done, your mother let herself be lured into another man’s bed."

  "And my father couldn’t ask for satisfaction?"

  Her uncle shook his head. "No one gainsays their sovereign, lass, even if it is your wife he’s bedded."

  Her mouth refused to work as her brain tried to absorb the information. If she carried royal blood, then Bothwell’s interest in her suddenly made sense to her. She was a pawn he planned to use somehow in the turbulent power struggles between the protestant and catholic lords of Scotland. She was a means to topple King James’ power in Scotland.

  "So Henna stayed as midwife as part of the bargain to hold her tongue."

  "Aye."

  Sorcha’s mind began to fit the pieces together.

  "Henna was the one to call the kirk to come for mam, wasn’t she?"

  "Aye, but the kirk arrived the day after the fire. Whoever the butchers were, they never laid claim to their work, but I know it ‘tis those who know the truth that have suffered most."

  "Or those who would speak it easily." Sorcha leaned against the gritty wall.

  "Did my father really leap to his death from grief?"

  Her uncle shifted his stance. "I never did believe that. But ‘tis what the kirk cla
imed."

  "You think his death was part of this?"

  "Aye, as was Harold and Magnus."

  "We’re all in danger, aren’t we, Uncle Charles?"

  He stared blankly at the floor. "Och, lass, that is only to say it mildly."

  "What are we to do? Isn’t young Archibald at stake in this as well?"

  Her uncle raked his thick fingers through his hair. "Now he does. I warned him not to go to see Lord Bothwell but he insisted he must take you. Now he knows too much, and there will be little he or I can do to help you."

  "But what of the trial? If the king knows he is my sire, how can he condemn me?"

  "He may know of your birth, but he doesn’t claim ye, lass. That is all it requires for him to do as he likes. Besides, he’s already laid a charge of witchcraft on his own cousin to remove him as a threat to his rule. Right now he thinks you in league with Bothwell, so why wouldn’t he dispose of you as well?"

  Sorcha clenched her eyes shut. The small flutter of hope she had clung to faded. Death was a near certainty whether she was claimed innocent or guilty of witchcraft at the trail in North Berwick. Suddenly life seemed too precious and too short, piercing her with regret and longing.

  "We’re all pawns in this."

  "Aye, lass, and it’s the pawns that are sacrificed first."

  Chapter Fifteen

  The cart rocked and jostled along the road to North Berwick, each pothole jarring her to the bones, increasing the ache in her body. Sorcha glanced for a moment at the other women in the cart with her and saw their misery mirrored her own. Only one thing eased it for her. From the back of the cart guarded by six men she could see Ian following along behind.

  He was near enough for her to see his face clearly, but not close enough to talk to. The combination left her more miserable in her heart than the ride did her body. There were so many things she wished to share with him, but she realized that time had passed. She would probably never be alone with him again. Sorcha bent her head, peering at the rough rope bonds about her hands. Regret for believing the lies of her childhood and sorrow for allowing them to sour her chance with Ian ate at her.

  Aye, she was cursed—by her own pig-headed ways. Only now did she see how her fierce desire to protect those she loved had worked this time against her, rather than Ian.

  Her precious belief in the lies had taken her opportunity to flee, deprived her of a home, ruined her chances to bear a child with Ian and left her subject to her greatest fear—death by fire.

  When she looked up, he was staring at her. He clicked his tongue and gave a subtle kick to Merlin, to move him up alongside the cart. He moved first to the front asking permission of a guard to talk to Sorcha. Once it was given he waited for the cart to stop.

  "Are you thirsty?"

  Until he spoke the question, she didn’t realize that the dust had clogged her throat, parching it.

  "Aye," she rasped.

  Ian nudged Merlin up against the cart, and leaned over to squeeze water into her mouth from his leather flask. Sorcha gulped greedily, aware that they would seldom be allowed to stop before reaching North Berwick.

  They had almost reached the crossroads to Leith. If they had been traveling to leave for France, they would have taken that turn toward the water to board a ship. Suddenly a thought tugged at her brain. While she could not avoid the trial, she could spare him and give him his future.

  Determination steeled her spine. She wiped her mouth against her sleeve, then looked in Ian’s face.

  He was grim, the lines tight around his mouth and his scar showing white with tension.

  She gave him a small smile.

  "Thank you."

  "I only wish I could do more."

  "You can," she sobered, pausing to take a deep breath, before leveling her gaze at him, focusing all her intent on him, hoping he would listen to her. "Leave for France without me."

  His eyes narrowed in response.

  "I cannot leave you."

  "The trial will be no different if you are there. Is being there to hear me condemned worth losing Chaumiere de Heureux? In the end you will lose us both if you do not leave."

  "It is my duty to protect you."

  "And you have done your best. I release you from your duty. The time has come for you to go."

  "Do you not want me?"

  Her lip trembled.

  "Aye, with all my heart." The swell of pain deep in her chest was beyond tears, but she held them in check by sheer force of will. "But I also know that when I am gone you will need something else to hold on to. Go and claim your future."

  "Are you sure this is what you want?"

  "Aye."

  "If I leave, it will be the last we see of each other."

  She squeezed her hands, lifting her chin in a show of strength she pulled up from the very core of her being. "Aye."

  He shifted in his saddle, the leather protesting with a creak. His expression was one of mute wretchedness, his eyes dark with pain. She could tell he weighed his choices and found he had none. Ian sighed heavily.

  "I will stay with you until morning," he said, even though the words were caustic in his mouth, and reason told him that leaving was the only option left. He glanced at the six guards and his fingers itched. Aye, he could slay them all easily enough, but the kirk would only send more to hunt them down. Besides, if he did slay them, the other women would be just as helpless as his wife and he could not take them all with him. There would be no mercy for any of them if he acted as his heart ached to. Ian pulled Merlin away from the cart. It jerked forward, causing Sorcha to grip the side to recapture her balance. An intense sickness and desolation pressed in on him.

  He urged Merlin forward, riding past the road that turned toward Leith. Ian refused to look down that road, and focused on Sorcha. He didn’t see the grime or the rough ropes that bound her, instead what flashed before him were his memories of their time together.

  She was imprinted on his mind forever. The glorious fall of her black hair, the subtle smile that held him captive, the magical way her touch fired him when no other could, so many things made the ache intensify. Her request ate at him. Time to reach Chaumiere de Heureux was ticking away and the weight of his responsibility to the people there grew heavier with each passing day.

  He flicked his gaze back at her. She grew tired, he could see that, and it galled him to know he wasn’t allowed to do more to ease her journey. Lord MacIver had convinced the clergy with some coin to allow him to travel with Sorcha on the way to North Berwick. This was to be their last night together before her trial.

  They stopped shortly before nightfall at a small roadside inn. While the others shared a single room, Ian paid dearly for them to have a room alone. A guard stayed outside their second floor room and the windows were nailed shut as a precaution against escape.

  Ian carried her to their room and the door shut soundly behind them. On the small table sat their dinner, meager but still warm, along with the wash water Ian had requested and paid for.

  Taking the softest cloth he could find, Ian dipped it into the warm water and wrung it out. Using the rosemary soap she’d made him, he gently washed her face and the raw skin around her wrists where the bonds had chafed her.

  She sucked in a sharp breath, the sound of it hissing.

  "Sorry. I know it must hurt."

  "‘Tis not your fault."

  "Aye. It is. All of it. Had I just taken you with me to Chaumiere de Heureux in the beginning as I’d planned to, none of this would be happening right now."

  "Shh..." She placed her warm fingers against his mouth. The tender touch assaulted his senses. She looked deeply into his eyes. "I’ll hear no more of it. Tonight is all we have left. Let’s not waste it on what was or could have been."

  He nodded, then grasped her fingers and with slow tenderness kissed each of her fingertips. Sorcha closed her eyes.

  "Love me, Ian."

  The pounding in his blood increased, but he remained gentle,
painfully aware of where she was injured. He undressed her with infinite care, sliding the clothing from her milky skin. He drew his hand down along the slope of her shoulder and along the swell of her breast, his touch light as he worshipped her skin under the misty moonlight that filtered through the window slats. Their touches grew frantic in the increasing darkness that surrounded them.

  Only when he gathered her up against him did he feel a measure of completeness. Her even breathing assured him that she slept.

  He stared at the cracks in the wattle and daub ceiling and ached bone-deep for the choice he had to make: to leave her in the morning. He knew she asked it of him, but could he do it?

  His dreams that night were a hellish mixture of battle and the gaunt faces and thin hands of those waiting in France reaching out to him. He awoke in a sweat and realized Sorcha still lay beside him.

  He gazed at her. Her dark lashes echoing the dark circles beneath her eyes. Had she not looked at him with such determination when she had asked him to leave, he might have dismissed her request. But he knew her well enough by now to know she would not be swayed. She was right. It was futility for him to stay. He couldn’t alter the course of the trial. But leaving had become far harder than staying. She had to know that.

  He dressed, then sat there staring at her until the sky began to change with the first cold light of dawn. He could not leave her without one last goodbye. Ian placed a kiss on her brow and stroked her cheek. Sorcha’s eyes opened slowly, the blue deep and dark as she awoke. Her hand reached out, the smooth warmth of it against his face reaching in and breaking his heart.

  "Good morrow, lady of the wood."

  "Good morrow to you, husband."

  His chest tightened. "I had to kiss you one last— "

  She leaned forward, her mouth sliding over his. Despite her eagerness, the kiss was short and she would not meet his gaze.

  "Please do not make this harder than it is," she said. "Promise me you will go. It is all I ask of you. Can you not give that to me?"

  Her words made his head felt heavier than it ever had before and caused his chin to sink to his chest. How could he, when it went against everything he been trained to do and believed in. To stand and fight was all he knew.