by Jenny Brown
But it disturbed her to remember the joy with which her dream self had agreed to wed the Dark Lord’s heir. The virgins’ sickness must have penetrated even into her dreams. At least she hoped it was the virgin’s sickness, for if it wasn’t, her wound must have got much worse, and the inflammation from it reached her brain.
She wished she could ask Lord Ramsay about it, in his capacity as her physician, but how could she tell him what she’d dreamed? She could just imagine his reaction if he found out that the daughter of the woman he called the harlot was dreaming of trapping him into marriage.
But when she finally found the courage to open her eyes, the first sight that met them was that of Lord Ramsay himself, sprawled out asleep in an uncomfortable wooden chair beside her bed. His head was tipped back, his mouth open, his long legs thrust out before him.
Fear stabbed through her gut. She must have become feverish if he’d watched by her bedside all night, and if so, it must be delirium that explained her troubling dream. Her earlier sense of having been reprieved vanished. Her wound must have gone bad. Perhaps the lack of pain in her leg didn’t signify that it was better. Perhaps it had stopped hurting because the nerves were dead.
“Lord Ramsay—” She spoke quietly, hoping not to awaken him too suddenly, but even so, at her words he jerked awake in the chair. “Was I so ill during the night?”
“Ill? No. Why do you ask?”
She felt herself redden, but couldn’t bring herself to mention her dream. “Why else would you have spent the night watching by my bedside unless you still feared for my life?”
An odd look filled his handsome features, but all he said was “Your wound is healing well. Well enough, that if you’re up to it, we could resume our journey after you’ve broken your fast.”
So perhaps she really was better, for he certainly had relapsed into his usual taciturn manner, and had ceased lavishing on her those caring looks that had so disturbed her the previous day. Indeed, no sooner had he informed her of his plans than he had stood and stalked out of her chamber, leaving her alone.
She was glad she’d said nothing about her wild dream of marrying him. Given his mood this morning it would have been a serious mistake.
But she received another shock when she limped down the stairway to the taproom. For the first person she saw as she entered it was none other than MacMinn, who was seated at the bar, smoking a long clay pipe and looking so real that she couldn’t dismiss his appearance as the figment of a dream.
Seeing her enter, MacMinn hailed her, “Guid mornin’, Lady Ramsay!”
Had the events of the past evening been real? She made her way over to him, hardly knowing what to think.
“Aye, Mistress Zoe, to think ye’ve become a lady. I’m right proud of ye, I am, and to think that I knew ye when you were but a little thing, no taller than that.” He held his hand out to demonstrate. Then, perhaps in response to the look of consternation that must be apparent on her face, he demanded, “He didna treat you roughly, did he?”
She shook her head, not sure what her old friend might be alluding to.
“No, he’s not that kind.” MacMinn sounded relieved, “He’s a gentleman for all his mystic airs—not like the auld laird at all. He’ll keep you safe.”
But before she could ask him to explain, he pushed away from the bar and stood up, giving her one last look. “That’s a load off my mind, I’ll tell ye. But all’s well that ends well, as they say. So I’ll be off, now. Mind ye”—he raised one finger to his lips—“dinnae let on a word to yer fine new husband that you saw me. Mum’s the word. Give him some time to get used to his sweet new wife. Do ye ken me, lassie? Not a word about meeting me here. It’s important.”
She nodded dumbly, her sleepy mind still trying to puzzle out how her old friend could be standing before her bathed in the misty sunlight of a Scottish morning. But before she could ask him anything else, he tipped his battered hat and was off, leaving her alone in the empty taproom.
It got worse. She could no longer cling to the idea that she was in the clutches of a walking delirium when the maid who’d come to clean her chamber giggled and asked her if her new husband was as virile as he was comely, only to answer her own question by saying, “I daresay it will all come out in the wash.” The girl curtseyed, still giggling, and made a hasty exit.
She must have really married him. Everyone seemed to believe it.
Zoe tore the sheet off the bed, wondering what else might have happened while she’d been lost in what she had supposed to be a dream, but to her relief the sheet was as spotless as sheets in an inn could ever be. She wondered what the maid would make of that.
With growing dismay, she packed the few things she’d brought in with her and made her way out to the courtyard. Could Lord Ramsay really have married her?
She recalled how, when she’d confronted him the previous night and demanded to know if the bizarre events she’d sleepwalked through were real, he’d avoided her question. All she could remember him saying was “It will be all right.”
Fury surged up within her. Things would never be all right, not if he’d tricked her into marrying him while she was under his spell. But it made no sense. Why would he go to such lengths to wed himself to the daughter of the woman who had killed his sister? And even if her mother had not played such a fatal role in his life, why would a man like him want to marry her? He was a titled lord. In his veins ran the noble blood of his august ancestors. She was only the by-blow of a woman of the town. She might pride herself that her veins, too, ran with the noble blood of her father, the duke. But no one except herself had ever been impressed by that.
So why would Lord Ramsay have bound himself to her in marriage—a sacred union that would be indissoluble once it was consummated? A crazy voice within her whispered he’d done it for love. She ignored it. That was virgin’s sickness talking. And though it told her what she wanted to hear, she knew better than to believe it.
She clung to the memory of the white expanse of sheet that had covered the inn room bed. Whatever the explanation, it wasn’t too late to undo what Lord Ramsay’s madness had led him to do the previous night. And she’d make sure he undid it, no matter how great a magician he might prove to be.
She waited until they were jouncing down the rutted track that passed for a road in this part of Scotland before confronting him, though it had been difficult to restrain herself when she’d first encountered him in the inn’s common room. The way he’d avoided her eyes when she’d hobbled into the room made his guilt plain, as did the way she caught him peering at her face intently when he thought she couldn’t see him.
But when, after what felt like centuries, they were alone in the chaise, she let fly. “It wasn’t a dream, then, was it?”
“No.” At least he had the decency to look abashed.
“Then one of us must be insane, and I wager it isn’t me. I should have believed you when you told me your family was mad.”
“Not mad,” he corrected her. “Accursed.”
“Accursed indeed. At the inn they seemed to believe you had married me.”
“I did.”
“But that’s infamous! Surely I didn’t agree to such a thing?”
His eyelashes dropped as he looked down in expression of penitence. But all he said was “You did agree. How else could we have been wed? The law requires it.”
“Then I am mad too, and we are well suited. But why should you have wed me, the daughter of the woman you have reason to hate more than anyone else in the world? Surely you don’t wish me to believe that upon arriving at the Scottish border you were overwhelmed with the desire to unite yourself to me?”
He shook his head, his expression still penitent.
“Did you discover I was an heiress?” she said sarcastically. “Did my father, the duke, die, and leave me all his fortune? It seems unlikely as he’s never before taken any notice of me, but I’m at a loss to think why else you would have taken me to Scotland and forced me i
nto marriage.”
“You aren’t an heiress.”
“Then why did you marry me? Why?”
“It was the Dark Lord’s last wish that I do so. He’s dead. He died a few days before we left London, but before he died he sent a messenger to tell me I must take you to wife.”
So that was why. She was unprepared for how disappointed she felt. His marrying her had nothing to do with who she was at all. He’d only done it because it was the last wish of his beloved teacher—though if that was his final charge to his disciple, the man must have been raving. There was no other explanation for it.
A wave of sadness washed over her. It told her, too late, of the foolish hope she’d been cherishing in some hidden corner of her heart that Ramsay had been motivated by something akin to the shameful passion she couldn’t stop feeling for him. But now that her hope had been exposed to the light, she saw how very foolish it had been. The power of the virgin’s sickness must be even greater than she’d feared if it had made her dream, for even a moment, that Lord Ramsay could have married her for love.
She ran her fingers nervously over the cracked leather that padded the wall of the hired chaise. “Why did the Dark Lord wish us wed? What reason did he give you?”
He bit his upper lip uneasily. “I only know what his messenger told me—that I must wed you if I wished to inherit the Dark Lord’s powers.”
She forced herself to let no hint of her disappointment show. “Was that why he commanded you to bring me to the island and insisted that I be a virgin?”
“So it would seem.” He spoke as if he were miles away. As if the thing he’d done to her was of no importance.
How had he done it? Had he drugged her? It seemed unlikely. He’d insisted he’d brought no drugs with him, and even if he’d lied, she’d swallowed no potion. How, then, could he have so bent her to his will?
It must have been the spell—the spell that had allowed him to cut into her living flesh without her knowledge. She struggled to remember what had happened in the inn bedroom after she had fallen into that enchanted sleep, but all that came to her was the sight of his handsome face with its long, sultry lashes, framed by the waves of russet hair that made him look so much like the saint he wished to be, turned up toward hers, filled with pleading.
Her hands balled into fists and she rounded on him. “You used the spell to make me accept you, didn’t you?”
He nodded, looking shockingly vulnerable, as if her anger had smashed through the mask of control he fought so hard to maintain. But he made no attempt to defend himself, but just sat, shoulders slumped, allowing her to rage, looking as if he’d just sit and absorb it until at last she ran out of words.
Scolding him would be futile. She bit her lower lip to keep herself from speaking and matched his silence with her own, giving no sign of her agitation except for the way that her hand couldn’t stop twisting the folds of her skirt.
When he finally spoke, his musical voice was unnaturally calm. “I had no choice. If I didn’t wed you, the power of the Dark Lord would have seeped back into the earth. How could I stand by and allow all those centuries of wisdom to vanish? I had to use the spell to make you wed me. You wouldn’t have done it, otherwise, would you?”
Deep within her the virgin’s sickness shrieked its answer: Yes! But she was strong enough to ignore it. If he had asked her to wed him, she wouldn’t have let herself be swayed by that raucous voice. She knew better than to bind herself to a loveless marriage, and that was all she could expect with Ramsay—no matter what his teacher had mumbled as he died. It must have been his spell that made her accept him. There was no other explanation.
She’d never again doubt that his powers were real—but, oh, what a price they both would pay for his use of them. She let her tone convey her bitterness. “You gave no thought, as you worked your magic, how selfish it was to wed me just to please this Dark Lord of yours. Did it mean nothing to you that I must be bound to you forever?”
“You forget,” he said quietly. “I am bound to you forever, too.”
She met his eyes for the first time, those eyes as gray as thunderheads yet soft with a gentleness so at odds with the terrible thing he’d done. But what he said was true. He, too, must live his life now without any hope of love bound to a woman he loathed. Such was the final price this Dark Lord of his had exacted of him, and he had chosen to pay it.
Despite herself, she felt a surge of compassion for him. He was a titled lord. A man of wealth. He might have wed any woman who caught his fancy had that been his pleasure. And even if he’d only been a nobody like herself, with his good looks and powerful frame, he need not have settled for a woman with her ravaged features. What woman, no matter how beautiful, would have been able to resist those gold-flecked eyes of his, had they been turned on her filled with love?
And yet he had wed himself to her, with her ruined face and her charmless disposition. What could have possibly made him willing to sacrifice so much for whatever it was his dead teacher had offered him? But she made herself stop thinking like that. Why should she feel pity for him? Whatever his reasons for marrying her had been, he’d had a choice, while she’d been given none.
“You did a fearful thing,” she said. And it was true, for he’d made her wed him when he knew he didn’t love her. But she couldn’t bring herself to say those last words out loud.
“I did,” he agreed, “and I won’t deny it. But I wasn’t entirely selfish. I gave you something in return. Don’t you remember? When I used the spell to make you want to wed me, I also pledged that I’d give my life to protect you and that I’d do all that I could to give you happiness. I’m a man who keeps his vows, Zoe, as you have good reason to know.”
Did she remember? Vague rustlings in her mind, like mice in the wainscoting. In her mind’s eye rose the image of his face lifted to hers in supplication. Was that what he’d told her, that he would give his life to protect her? Was that what had made her yield?
It was. She fought back tears as the full memory of what had happened came flooding back to her. He had sworn he would protect her. She remembered his voice, now, low and resonant, pleading with her to have him. She remembered the joy that had filled her as he’d vowed he would give his life to keep her safe. Oh yes. That was the magic he had worked on her—to find her weakest point and offer her what she’d never had before. Protection. Care.
The thought was too painful to be borne.
She didn’t need protection. She’d done just fine with no one’s care. She’d taken good care of herself until now and she’d go on doing it. She needed no one—not her careless mother or her father, the duke, who had refused to visit the daughter he’d abandoned, even once.
She twisted away from Ramsay, pulling her body as far from his as was possible within the confines of the cramped post chaise. She grabbed her undamaged thigh, clinging to herself for comfort, feeling the flesh sting as she compressed it through the rough fabric of her gown.
Ramsay drew a sharp breath. Then, oh so gently, he covered her hand with his much larger one and stroked it tenderly, as if trying to enchant away its rigidity. A current began to flow between them as he touched her. Much as she wanted to tear her hand from his, she could not. He’d made her his. He’d made her want to be his. His magic was too strong. It was too late.
Finally, he spoke. “Give me a chance. If you truly can’t bear to stay wed to me, in a year and a day I’ll send you away with whatever reward you will accept from me. I won’t keep you with me against your will.”
She couldn’t reply. All her attention was still concentrated on the waves of longing that rose from where his fingertips had touched her. She forced herself to shake her head no. She must not give in.
The look of sadness that swept over his features at her rejection made it even harder to remember why she must not stay with him. He sighed, and his eyelids dropped. Then he said, “If you really can’t bear it, our marriage can still be undone. It wasn’t consummated. Whatever
my sins might be, I didn’t force myself on you.”
She thought of the unspotted sheet. He told the truth. But she couldn’t praise him for that, not when he made it so difficult for her to resist his haunted eyes.
“You cut into my body without my knowledge,” she said harshly. “Why didn’t you take me in the same way and make it impossible for me to leave you? Or did you secretly hope that I would leave when I learned what you had done, so that you could have the credit of fulfilling the Dark Lord’s wish without the burden of a life spent married to Isabelle’s daughter. Yes. That must be it. Had you really wished to marry me, you would have consummated our union while still I was under your spell.”
His long, strong fingers tightened against hers. “I don’t want our marriage to be undone, and not just because of the Dark Lord’s wish. I felt no regret when I bound myself to you. Far from it. I wed you gladly. Whoever bore you, you are nobody but yourself. Your honesty and courage make you the equal of any woman in the realm. But surely you know me well enough by now to know that I wouldn’t take your maidenhead by force, even if it meant losing you. I pledged to make you happy and I will keep that pledge.”
He turned away and stared morosely out of the dust-streaked window of the chaise for a moment, thinking. Then, after taking a deep breath, he said, “If you can’t be happy as my wife, I’ll set you free, no matter what it might cost me. Is that what you want?”
Now it was his turn to wait expectantly for her answer. And now it was she who couldn’t speak. Surely there was but one course open to her now—to take the freedom he’d just offered her and ask him to annul their marriage. Then she could return to London. She need never see him again, never fear that his probing glances would uncover the shameful longings she felt for him.
But her treacherous memory repeated the words he’d just told her. He’d felt no regret in binding himself to her. He’d wed her gladly. How she wanted to believe these were words of love. How deluded she would be were she to do so.