by Jenny Brown
To be certain that she had understood him, despite the enchanted state into which she’d sunk, he asked her gently, “What will you feel when next you see my watch?”
Her lips parted, and in a whisper she responded, “The desire to be your bride.”
Something twisted inside him as she spoke. “And you will feel happiness,” he said urgently. “Great happiness.”
Her lips bowed in the faintest of smiles, and she took a deep breath as if drawing in strength. He, too, took courage from it, and went on. “A man will soon ask if you freely consent to be my bride. Look at my hand.” Her eyes flickered open with a glazed look that showed how deeply she remained under the enchantment. “When you see me raise it like this”—he held it out palm up in a gesture of supplication—“you will say yes.”
He stopped, overwhelmed with the wrongness of what he was doing. It would not be of her own free will that she took him, not when he employed this ancient spell to compel her assent. But he’d gone too far to stop. He must go on.
“Tell me once more. What will you do when you see me bring out my gold watch?”
“I will feel happiness.” He could barely hear her whisper. “And I will yearn to be your bride.”
He stretched out his hand, palm upward, in supplication. “And what will you say when you’re asked for your consent?”
Her eyelids gave the minutest flutter, but she said nothing. Had he gone too far? It didn’t matter, for he’d also gone too far to do anything else but continue.
“When you’re asked if you would wed me, Zoe, you will say yes. Say it.” His voice had become gruff with his urgency to get this over with. But she said nothing. A troubled look washed over her features.
He dropped to his knee, kneeling before the bed where she lay stretched out in the trance. Gently, he took her hand, feeling the pulse beating strongly there. He couldn’t make it right—no, not with the way that he’d invaded her very spirit and bent it to his will. But he could make them more equal in what he’d done to her. He could bind himself to her the way he’d bound her to him.
“Zoe,” he whispered, “in return for what I ask of you, I make you this vow: If you accept me, I will give you happiness. I will protect you with my life. I swear this to you on the blood that flows in my veins and by the power of the Ancient Ones who hear all and forget nothing.”
The girl stirred faintly.
“Do you hear me? Zoe? Do you understand?”
“You vow yourself to me.” Her voice was faint. “You will protect me.”
“Will you accept my vow?”
There was a long pause. Her eyes flickered. He raised his hand once more, palm up in the gesture that should make her assent. But she stayed silent. Expressions flickered over her face, as if some struggle was going on deep in the netherworld where he had led her. Then finally her lips parted and she whispered, “Yes.”
It had worked.
He uttered a silent prayer that he hadn’t just damned them both. Then he gradually brought her out of the trance very slowly, so as not to disturb the process he had started.
When he was done Zoe shook her head. “That was so strange, I feel like I’ve been dreaming, and yet my leg feels so much better. What a gift you have! Much though it goes against my inclination, I vow you will make me a believer in magic.” She smiled. “You give me no choice. You make it impossible for me to deny your power.”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak to her now, when he knew so much better than she did the truth of her last words.
He stood. “I’ll be back shortly with some refreshment. Until then, you must rest.”
She sank back against the cushions, her eyes already half closed. The comfort he’d given her with his spell made her look for a moment like a puppy. He’d never before seen her so relaxed, so unselfconscious, or so happy.
He tiptoed out the door, leaving her to the enjoyment of what might be her last minutes of contentment.
“Have you found the anvil priest?” Adam asked MacMinn when he found him awaiting him in the taproom.
“Aye, that be him.” MacMinn gestured toward the burly man with arms as thick as fence posts who sat at a table in the corner nursing a tankard.
“Then fetch him and we’ll conclude this business. Will you be the other witness?”
“Of course, and just in case, I’ve found a third man, too.” MacMinn pointed toward a short man standing a few feet away dressed in a farmer’s smock. Seizing the man by the elbow, he pushed him toward the stairs, motioning for Adam and the anvil priest to follow.
As the ill-assorted collection of wedding guests clattered their heavy way up the stairs, Adam couldn’t help but wonder what madness had led him to this point. He paused at the foot of the staircase. It wasn’t too late to stop matters before they went any further.
“Feeling those bridegroom nerves, are ye?” MacMinn asked knowingly. “It will pass. She’s a lovely girl, and ye’ll have no regrets for this night’s work, I warrant you.”
He made no reply. How could the Dark Lord’s messenger know that? But even so, he followed him up the stairs.
When they all had reached the landing, Adam rapped on the door to Zoe’s chamber, and after a long pause she bade him enter. He pushed it open to find her sitting up in the narrow bed, her hair loose. She’d wrapped herself in her ivory satin dressing gown—the one she’d worn that night when she’d come to his bed. At the memory, his groin tightened, and he fought his newly surging desire—only to remember, once more, that he was allowed to want her now. She was his bride.
Her eyes widened as she took in the motley collection of rustics who had entered in his wake, and when her eyes lighted on the travel-worn MacMinn, they stopped for a moment and a look of confusion swept over her face. It was understandable, the man looked like a beggar—hardly the sort of person one would introduce into a young woman’s sleeping chamber. They must hasten to the matter at hand, before she had time to question why they were there.
Adam reached into his pocket and withdrew his watch, casually, as if to consult the time. A blush flowed across her cheek. The spell was working. The sight of the watch had made her feel the desire he’d implanted in her. Next, he fixed her with what he hoped was a loving look. It didn’t come easily. He’d schooled himself for so long not to show any tender emotions. But as artificial as the maneuver felt, once he got past his self-consciousness it was easy. He need only relax his iron control enough to let the warmth that he felt for her flow into his features.
“It’s time for us to wed,” he said quietly. “These gentlemen here will witness the ceremony.”
“You really wish to wed me?” Surprise made her voice rise unevenly.
“I do.”
Surprise, confusion, and something that might be joy flitted across her face. Would the spell be enough to bind her?
Her eyes darted toward the witnesses who stood huddled against one wall, but when they lighted on MacMinn, Adam’s ally just fixed her with a fierce look—one oddly like that of his master, the Dark Lord—and made a sign with his hand—probably some magical gesture his master had told him would ensure her compliance.
She nodded her head almost imperceptibly and turned back to Adam.
The blacksmith then motioned her to rise. She stood carefully, avoiding putting weight on her injured leg. As she pulled herself upright, her ivory satin gown draped itself into heavy folds around her, like the bridal gown that it was. Her rich, nut-brown hair, which had come half unbound in sleep, tumbled down her back in luxurious waves, forming a veil. When her eyes met his they were soft with desire. Even knowing it was only the desire he’d created with his spell, it still moved him. No woman had ever before looked at him with desire like this, of her body, of her heart, and of her soul.
She glanced over to him for reassurance. He clutched his watch like a talisman as the blacksmith joined their hands together and began to intone the words of the ceremony.
“Do you, Zoe Gervais, take this man, A
dam Selkirk, Lord Ramsay, to be your lawful wedded husband?”
The words were so familiar. Adam had heard them repeated at many another man’s wedding. But this time it was his. His throat suddenly felt very dry and he wondered if he’d be able to get the words out when it was his turn to reply.
But it was not his turn to reply. It was Zoe’s. And she stood mute.
He must raise his palm in the prearranged signal, to make her give her assent, but before he could, the blacksmith repeated his question, more urgently now. “Do you take this man to be your wedded husband?”
Zoe’s eyes darted around the room until they caught those of MacMinn, who nodded at her with a warm smile, as if urging her on. Then she turned back to Adam, her eyes filled with uncertainty. He wanted to reach out and embrace her, to reassure her that as strange as the situation was, she would be all right, but he couldn’t. He felt frozen, as if he, too, were under a spell. He couldn’t raise his hand. He couldn’t compel her. All he could do was meet her eyes and marvel as he did so how luminous and deep they were.
If only he could tell her how truly beautiful she was. She looked to him now like a Madonna painted by a medieval Italian master, with her graceful long neck and those bright eyes, so filled with the powerful emotions she could barely withstand. But she must not withstand them. She must become his bride. The Ancient Ones had commanded it, and his soul cried out that it was right that they had done so. He wanted her so much. If he didn’t ensure her compliance now, he’d spend the rest of his life consumed with regret.
But before he could force his reluctant palm to rise, the blacksmith barked, “I haven’t got all day, lassie. Do ye wish to wed or no?”
At that, as if the Ancient Ones had slashed through the bonds that held him, Adam raised his palm upward in the prearranged signal where Zoe must see it. He saw her mouth quiver but, even now, she remained silent.
Her strength was equal to that of any magic. She would elude him. He couldn’t bear it.
She must marry him. And not just for the powers the wedding would bring him. The very strength with which her soul resisted his magic made him want her more. He leaned toward her and whispered in her ear in a tone so low so only she could hear him. “Remember what I pledged to you. I’ll give you happiness. I’ll keep you safe.”
Her deep brown eyes met his, pure windows into her exquisite soul. Something flickered within them, though what it was, he couldn’t say. Then with a tiny shudder she turned to the anvil priest.
“Yes.” Her voice rang through the tiny chamber.
Satisfied, the priest nodded and turned to Adam. “Do you, Lord Ramsay, take this woman to be your wedded wife?”
“I do.”
It was over.
MacMinn was regarding him now with a look of beaming happiness. He must be relieved to know that his master’s power would be transmitted to another generation. Then the anvil priest produced a piece of parchment and passed it to each of the witnesses to sign. When they were done, he handed it to Adam, saying, “This will serve as your marriage lines.”
Adam handed him a golden sovereign and tossed the other witness a silver half crown. The men thanked him and quit the chamber. Only MacMinn lingered. “Ye’ve done all ye need do, laddie,” he said in a low tone. “Ye may leave the rest of it until she’s a bit stronger. It was the binding the auld laird called for, before the sun should rise, and ye are bound.”
And then he, too, vanished, leaving Adam alone with his new bride.
He steeled himself for what would come next. Now that the ceremony was concluded, Adam had no idea how much power the Dark Lord’s spell would maintain over his new bride. He was still holding the watch that he’d used to invoke the spell and Zoe’s eyes were still fixed on it. He shoved it back into its pocket.
Released from its power, she brushed a hand over her eyes and sank down onto the edge of the bed.” I must be delirious,” she said at length. “Your surgery has failed and I have become feverish.”
He shook his head no, not trusting himself to speak.
“Yet I don’t feel hot,” she said, still in the same tone of wonder. “It feels more as if I am caught up in a dream. How strange it is, to be dreaming and yet to know it is a dream.” Her brow furrowed. “It seems so real. Who were those men, and why did it seem like one of them said the words of the marriage ceremony over us? Am I delirious?”
He put a gentle hand around her thin shoulders. She didn’t resist it, though he could feel a quiver run through her slim frame. “You’re not asleep. Nor are you out of your senses. The men were here.”
Her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “But surely I must have misunderstood the words that big man said.”
“You understood all correctly.”
“Then I have married you?”
He nodded, prepared to defend himself should she lash out against him, but to his surprise, she merely sank back against her pillow. “This is a dream. How very odd. For a moment there I was sure I had awakened.”
He didn’t contradict her. She would need time to come to terms with what he’d done. For now, he must find words that would calm her and let her rest. She would need rest to complete her healing and recover the strength that would help her resign herself to what he’d done to her.
But there was little chance she would find rest this night. Just outside their doorway, people thundered up the stairs and milled about on the landing. There were a few drunken shouts, then a piper began to play an old lowland Scots wedding tune.
Word of the wedding must have spread downstairs, and the inn’s denizens had decided to celebrate their union in the traditional raucous fashion. Drunken voices called out their congratulations from the hallway.
“Give it to her good, lad!”
“A son in nine months—”
“—Or in six!”
The crowd burst into a gale of raucous laughter.
“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “I’m here. I’ll protect you.” He stroked her cheek with his hand. “It will be all right.”
“I will awaken, won’t I?” she asked anxiously. “And your spell will wear off, like laudanum?”
“It will be all right,” he repeated, avoiding her question. “I’ll stay here with you all night to ensure that all is well.”
He seated himself again on the chair beside her bed, as a piper wailed out the first few notes of a bawdy song about a milkmaid and her lover.
The sound reminded him of the weddings he’d attended in his youth down in the village at Strathrimmon. The same piping had accompanied the unions of the blushing girls and their hearty mates. How he had envied them their simple lives. If only he’d been born into a life like that, instead of into the complexities of his own—complexities into which he’d now drawn Zoe, irrevocably.
All too soon he’d have to tell her the truth. About why he’d wed her—and about the curse he bore, as all the men of his line had, for generations. Now that she was his wife, he couldn’t keep it from her, much as he would have wished to. At least, now that they were wed, there was hope that when he assumed the Dark Lord’s powers, he’d have, at last, the tools he needed to save them from the curse’s blight.
But for now, all he could do was to send her back to sleep, using the words he’d implanted in her mind with the Dark Lord’s spell. She needed sleep. She needed healing. There would be time enough to explain to her what he had done and why, later, when she was stronger.
He invoked the Word of Power to make her slumber, hoping it would be the last time he’d ever have to use it. It worked, as it always had. She was asleep in moments. But watching beside her, slumped in his uncomfortable chair, he had far less success in getting to sleep himself. If only there were someone to work a spell on him.
It was only long after the merrymakers were gone, in the deep silence of that hour that came before the break of dawn, that he finally remembered what else the Dark Lord had told him about the spell, so long ago in France. As pow
erful as it could be, his teacher had said, it couldn’t be used to compel subjects to perform acts they believed would cause harm to themselves.
Adam cast his mind back to the long pause as the anvil priest had waited for Zoe’s answer. He’d given her the sign that should have made her speak, but she’d stayed silent, resisting his magic, as the long minutes had ticked by. When, at last, she’d finally given in, was it because she’d been overcome by his spell—or had she made a choice?
She’d given her assent only after he’d repeated his vow. Would she have done so if she truly hated him? Had she wed him against her will, compelled by his magic? Or was the Dark Lord’s teaching true? Had it been her choice?
Chapter 9
How strange it was that the dreams induced by Lord Ramsay’s spell were so much sharper than those caused by laudanum. Zoe flexed her leg, pleased to find that the gash on her thigh was less painful than it had been the previous day. If only that meant the poison had receded from her blood and that her leg was saved. She lay unmoving for a long time, unable to get up the courage to examine her wound to see if the red streaks were fading.
But as she lay with her eyes closed, avoiding the start of the new day, the past night’s dream flooded back into her mind. It was so lifelike, and each detail was so vivid. Nonetheless, it had been a dream for all of its startling clarity—a dream with the impossible logic of dreams. For only in a dream would the aloof Lord Ramsay have begged her to marry him.
She let her mind drift over the strange happenings her feverish mind had imagined: the way the chaste lord had beseeched her to accept him, and how no sooner had she given her consent than that huge man who had behaved as if he were a parson had appeared, as if by magic. And then that last detail, so clear and yet so improbable, that told her it had been a dream—the way MacMinn, of all people, had been standing there as one of the witnesses. MacMinn, who had been her mother’s coachman back in the days when her mother could afford such a luxury and who’d always been so kind to her.