The Spellbound Bride

By Theresa Meyers

This Scottish historical romance has it all: “Passion, intrigue, a falsely accused witch and a tormented mercenary hero” (Brenda Joyce, New York Times–bestselling author of A Sword Upon the Rose).
 
Twice a widow and now suspected of witchcraft, Sorcha MacIver must find a man who can overcome the curse that haunts her—or burn at the stake at the hands of her own clan. Mercenary Ian Hunter thought marrying Sorcha would be easy money and a way to escape Scotland and his treacherous brother who stole his first bride. But neither counted on Sorcha being a pawn in a deadly play for the throne of Scotland by King James’s cousin. Witch hunts are only the beginning, and a trial judged by the king himself might be their ultimate demise . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Apr 20, 2010
• ISBN: 9780984515103

Theresa Meyers

A writer, first for newspapers, then for national magazines, Theresa Meyers started her first novel in high school. In 2005 she was selected as one of eleven finalists in the nation for the American Title II contest, the American Idol of books. She is married to her high school prom date and their family lives in a Victorian house on a mini farm in the Pacific Northwest. Write to her at: P.O. Box 25, Port Orchard, WA, 98366, or by visiting her website at www.theresameyers.com.

Book preview

Prologue

Year of Our Lord 1593, Castle Ballochyle, Scotland

Naked as the day she was born, Sorcha MacIver shivered and pulled the scarlet coverlet up beneath her chin, praying that by morning she would not end a virgin widow, yet again.

She wriggled deeper into the large marriage bed prepared for her and Magnus Campbell stirring the scent of heather from the fine linen sheets. Her ears filled with the loud shushing sound of her own heartbeat. But even through the sound of her own blood, she could still hear the wedding guests, men from both her clan and his, howl and laugh, banging pots and claymores in a drunken shivaree to keep the newlyweds from sleep on the other side of the thick oak door. She needed no such encouragement. Every sense intensified, balanced on a blade’s edge.

Her bridegroom, Magnus, wasn’t old, nor was he weak, but he would likely die this night, because one simple, cruel fact threaded throughout her existence; everyone who loved her, died.

Most had been quick, and all unexpected, but they had all been different—some by fire, others by accident, and one that appeared to be poison. It perplexed Sorcha, but all her dwelling on how it could be changed had amounted to nothing thus far.

The curse dwelt within in her as surely as the venom in a spider, safe to the spider and deadly to all those around it. So while she knew she should have accepted the strange reality of her fate, her heart kept up the fey hope that an answer could be found, allowing her to challenge death and protect those she loved.

As Magnus turned toward the bed, the fire crackled in the hearth, sending up a shower of glowing red sparks. Sorcha gazed at him a moment, assessing her groom once more, as she twisted the crimson cloth in her hand. He still owned the slenderness of youth, but the flickering firelight revealed a form planed with muscle that one day would prove as powerful as any warrior’s. His hair radiated in a golden halo around his head and his arousal jutted out proudly. Despite all his fine assets, she hoped he lived long enough to take her damnable virginity and outpace the curse that plagued her.

Sorcha squirmed, torn between a virgin bride’s natural uneasiness and the unfamiliar stirrings of hope. She knew Magnus only a little, having met him at clan gatherings over the years, but she could have done far worse in an arranged marriage. There was no doubt that Magnus was braw. The lasses snapped after his heels like well-trained hunters, but appearances could be deceiving. Sorcha stifled a cough from the sudden dry itch at the back of her throat. Yes, he appeared strong, capable and virile, and was among the most important of their clan connections, but was it enough? That was the thing she had yet to ken, wouldn’t ken until she’d let him take her. He pulled back the coverlet, then slid in beside her, his cool thigh brushing hers.

She started at his touch. Surely every virgin, was nervous, but for her it was so much worse. Just the possibility that he battled the curse even now sharpened her attention to his every move, his every breath.

Magnus rolled onto his side facing her, then propped himself up on his elbow. Despite his youth and the charming tilt of his lips, it was her own inexperience she saw reflected in his eyes. He reached a gentle hand forward, stroking her dark hair, curling a black tendril against his finger. Sorcha inhaled, forcing herself to relax and lean into his touch. At least he hadn’t grabbed for her, as many men would have, thinking to take their rights when and how they pleased.

Husband, she said, smiling, her throat and shoulders relaxing a little more with each passing moment.

He grinned in response. I won’t mind at all making you mine tonight. His uncertain voice broke on the last word.

Sorcha couldn’t resist letting her smile widen as the daring urge to tease him just a little came over her.

Aye. We should be making fine use of your sword.

The humorous light in his eyes faded.

Her stomach dropped. What had she said? Had her teasing offended him?

He gasped, then gagged. His face suddenly twisted in pain and he wrenched around on the bed to empty his stomach over its edge.

Sorcha bolted upright in panic.

What is it? Her own throat tightened making it hard to breathe as she leaned over his back.

His body spasmed as again he retched. She recoiled, the sour scent of fear from her own skin mixing with the stench of vomit.

It was happening again! Kicking, shoving, she fought free of the bedclothes and leaped from the bed screaming. Heedless of her nakedness she raced to the bedchamber door and threw it open.

A dozen wedding guests stood before the opening, their mouths gaping as they ceased to sing and began to stare at her. Behind her Magnus heaved. Sorcha glanced over her shoulder at him, then screamed helplessly as she saw Magnus tumble off the bed into a heap. He thrashed weakly on the floor, his arms and legs moving as if he were trying to call for assistance.

Dear God in heaven.

Sorcha whirled. Help me! she shrieked. Help him!

Her plea slaughtered the gaiety. Every man and woman turned. Again Magnus retched, a terrible, gagging, rending sound, the sound of a man dying. Rorick Campbell, Magnus’ sire, exploded through the crowd, his belted plaid swinging in tune to his drunken stagger, his fair face flushed with drink.

With a frightened bellow he shoved his way into the nuptial chamber. He collapsed to the ground beside his son, pulling the still vomiting youth into his arms.

Magnus! The red of Rorick’s face grew deeper and he trembled as he held his son.

Sorcha’s uncle, Charles MacIver, the laird of their clan, pushed past her. His thick beard, heavily salted with silver, did little to hide his gaping mouth. Large, dark brows beetled together and his barrel chest heaved with short breaths.

He stopped halfway between the door and the dying bridegroom.

What is it? What’s happened? His skin waxed white rather than flushing with the angry red she expected. Although his voice rose to a shout, it didn’t hide the quiver of fear that filled it.

Peering past him, Sorcha stared in terror at Magnus, her skin tightening all at once before numbness slithered across, making everything seem suddenly farther away as if her head, her arms, her very body were wrapped in a thick wadding of wool. She swore she could see the light of life rising out of Magnus as his form stiffened in a convulsion and his eyes bulged. In vain she reached out, as her new husband, the man who might have sired her children and help her escape the curse’s hold upon her, slackened in his sobbing father’s arms.

Sorcha fell back against the doorframe, her legs too weak to hold her. The wood rasped against her skin as she slid to sit on the floor, but it barely registered as her arms wrapped around her knees. Only the tears, hot and desperate, that pricked her eyes and trickled in rivulets down the clammy skin of her cheek, seemed real to her.

Magnus was dead.

There could be no denying the evidence when his corpse lay near enough she could reach out and touch it. The suffocating blackness of the moment pressed in upon her chest, making it difficult to breathe. Magnus had died before her eyes just as Harold, her first husband, had not a year ago. And she was powerless to stop it.

Archibald Campbell, the lad who was still too young to rule as the seventh Earl of Argyll without her uncle’s wardship, dropped to one knee beside her. The wedding guests crowded behind him, gawking, muttering, a few howling now in mourning rather than in celebration.

What’s happened? Reaching out, Archibald laid his hand on her bare skin, his fingers lightly brushing her. It seemed odd to find him offering solace, especially when she was the older one by six years. Since they’d grown up together in her uncle’s household, Archibald was as close as any brother to her, and had become her only ally, her only true friend. Sorcha’s mouth quivered in pain and fear and she pulled away from his touch, terrified he may be the next to suffer from her affliction.

She tipped her chin toward her lately departed husband. Magnus is dead, she whispered, barely capable of speaking the words.

His hazel eyes opened in the same disbelief that held fast to her. His brows narrowed, but his enduring faith in her still showed clearly in his level gaze. Unlike the others, he would not hold her responsible for this death. He grabbed the folded plaid Magnus had left on the chair by the door and gently wrapped her with it to shield her naked state from the onlookers.

Across the room, Rorick staggered to his feet, clutching the lifeless body of his eldest son, and heir, to his chest. Grief, drink and rage contorted his face until he looked nearly inhuman.

Witch! he roared, thrusting a finger in her direction. A rumbling murmur began among the guests.

Nay! the MacIver trumpeted, the word carrying the keening edge of his own rising fear for his ward, and his own reputation and fortunes by association. He stumbled back, putting himself between his niece and the powerful Campbell warrior, who until this moment had been his greatest ally.

‘Tis not true. She’s no witch I tell you.

Sorcha lifted her head, a sudden coldness seeping deep into her very bones. Her uncle may have clothed and fed her, kept her from the wet and allowed her to learn to read, but he’d never shown her love. She had always known she was his duty, but nothing more to him, and that her miserable past made him all the more eager to marry her off. He defended himself more than for her. He must believe he would be stuck with her for good if Rorick’s claim tainted her.

The muttering of the guests crowded near the doorway grew louder. Sorcha’s heart dropped into the pit of her stomach. They had heard the same uncertainty in her uncle’s protest.

She could feel the weight of their stares on her, making her want to shrink within herself. Too many times had withering glares been cast her way. The thin veil of mistrust grew stronger despite her efforts to win the clan over.

Dropping her head to her knees, her black hair snaked around her body in thick coils, and Sorcha shivered. Only then did she spy a small slip of folded foolscap on the floor within her grasp.

She reached for it, her hand trembling, knowing instinctively from the uncomfortable cramp in her gut that it was something she did not want to see. She unfolded the stiff scrap.

Scrawled in the unmistakable brownish tint of dried blood were three words that hit harder than a slap in the face.

I told you.

She threw it down as though it had burst into flame. Deep within, a sick certainty welled up. She was cursed by some dark deadly poison that dwelt insider her, as surely as a viper or a deadly spider. Until she discovered the source of this evil that took anything she dared to love, she could not bear the responsibility for such death indirectly at her hands again. Until now, only Archibald had been spared. But how long could that last when death followed in her wake? Surely there had to been some way to stop this, if only she could find out how.

Rorick pivoted toward Charles MacIver. He still held Magnus in his arms. His lips drew back from his teeth into a fearsome snarl.

No witch, is it? Then how is it come that two men have died in her wedding bed, leaving her twice married yet virgin still? He turned his blistering gaze back on her.

She swallowed the thick lump lodged at the base of her throat, unable to speak, let alone offer any explanation. Archibald’s hand tightened on her knee as if he, a boy of just fourteen, could prevent the powerful Campbell warrior and his kin from killing her. How like him to defend her, even with such great odds. Her fractured heart twisted with regret and longing, then shriveling into a tiny charred crisp as hatred twisted Lord Rorick Campbell’s face into a hideous mask she would never forget.

Devil’s Maiden, he pronounced, damning her before all who heard him. You’ve done your evil master’s foul work for the last time. I swear on my son’s soul, I’ll see you burned for this.

Chapter One

Ian Hunter hated court.

He hated the way the ornate Flemish tapestries that lined the thick, stone walls of Edinburgh Castle only managed to keep back the worst damp of a Scottish spring. He hated the cloying sweetness of the burning beeswax candles and the way their expensive scent mingled with the stench of too many people, some barely washed, that crowded into this waiting chamber.

Most of all he hated the peacock lords, men like his brother, who surrounded King James the Sixth, all dressed in their lace ruffs and garish silks. Indeed, he hated them so much he refused to come to court dressed anything like them, wearing instead an expensively tooled leather jerkin, green trunk hose, his silver-encrusted black leather scabbard and a hardness about him that warned people to stay out of his way.

The tight pull of the scar across his neck, eased as he relaxed and prowled through the chamber. Looking lethal had its advantage. He might be a second son, and an outcast, but there wasn’t a man in the room who didn’t acknowledge his battle skills as a mercenary. If his appearance kept away the men, all of them fearing they might be cut down for one wrong word, it attracted the sidelong glances and breathy whispers of the court ladies, all dressed in velvets and glittering gold-shot samite gowns.

As Ian neared the opulent gilded doors of the king’s audience chamber, a stout, older man stepped into his path. Ian shifted right. The bearded man, garbed in severe black from head to toe and relieved only by the silver laird’s badge fastened on his barrel chest, shifted with him, still blocking his path.

What is this? Ian growled, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword. Move out of my path or I shall be forced to move you myself.

The man swallowed.

I’ve a proposition for you.

Ian kept his hand at his sword and said nothing. He still needed another five hundred pounds to complete his plans. If things didn’t go well during his audience with King James, he might require even more. A paying employer was better than no coin at all.

I’m Lord Charles MacIver, Chamberlain of Argyll for Clan Campbell and the ward of the Earl of Argyll.

Ian shifted his stance to the other foot.

MacIver glanced at the people moving around them. His voice lowered. I’ve heard what your brother has done to you. I know you need money to reach France and I can pay you five hundred pounds.

Three words rung in Ian’s head. Brother. Money. France. His heart thudded thickly in his chest and his hands itched. This could be a boon or a trap. His eyes narrowed. Interesting that MacIver should appear at this moment to offer him exactly what he needed to free his property from the tax collector’s hold. Either it was another of his brother’s ploys to steal what did not belong to him, or it was a gift from God. Not certain which, Ian let his hand loosen on his sword’s hilt as he waited for the old man to continue.

Whose blood would you have me spill?

MacIver’s bushy brows furrowed.

Marry my niece, no questions asked. His eyes were glazed with uncertainty.

What nonsense is this? Surely the man was jesting. One didn’t offer that kind of money simply to marry a lass, unless she was already with child or he truly wanted to be rid of the woman.

MacIver leaned toward him, the wave of his hand warning Ian to speak more quietly. The old man’s gaze softened into something akin to pleading.

Hear me out. I’m not looking for a husband for her, only a man who’ll trade vows with her, bed her and rise the next morning to swear to her deflowering. You are just that sort of man.

Ian’s eyes narrowed again. If this wasn’t one of his brother’s machinations, then God help MacIver’s ward. What kind of a man paid a mercenary to take his niece’s virginity? MacIver didn’t look like the sort of man to treat his ward poorly. The anguish he suffered lined his face. Perhaps there were other reasons he chose this for her. Poor lass! She must be ugly beyond bearing. Perhaps this was the only way she’d ever marry.

MacIver’s eyes darted around the room again, then froze. Ian followed his gaze. An enraged Lord Rorick Campbell shoved through the crowd in the chamber. His fair hair and beard were wild, his attire spattered with mud.

Where is the chamberlain? he bellowed. I demand to see the king!

The chamberlain stepped forward. He sniffed in dismissal, looking down his thin pointed nose at the minor nobleman.

Go home, my lord, and change your clothing. You’re not fit to be in his majesty’s presence.

Campbell yelled, his face beetroot red, and grabbed the chamberlain by the throat.

My son is dead, killed by a witch, and you dare to refuse me access to my king!

Women screamed, the peacock lords scattered as if Campbell carried a deadly disease. Only the servants were left to leap upon Campbell’s back as they tried to free their master.

MacIver grabbed Ian’s arm, drawing his attention. Desperation flashed across the shorter man’s face.

Tell me you’ll do it, he begged. I need to know now!

Ian glanced between the men once more, his skin prickling. What did the death of Campbell’s son have to do with MacIver’s niece? Within him grew the certainty that his brother had nothing to do with this offer. He’d learned long ago to trust his instincts.

I want half the coins before the vows are said, Ian answered, mostly to gauge just how desperate the MacIver was.

The smaller man nodded as he sidled around Ian, out of Campbell’s view, as the hostile man pushed toward the head of the room.

MacIver cringed. Aye, he said, then his gaze sharpened, but I’ll have your sworn word of honor that you’ll not betray our agreement. She must be married and deflowered within the fortnight. And you won’t get the first portion until you arrive at my home, Castle Ballochyle, in county Argyll, for the ceremony.

Ian hesitated. He had never in his life broken his word once he’d given it. The certainty that this was a choice opportunity grew within in him. Nearby the servants had wrestled Campbell to the floor.

The MacIver thrust out his hand.

Will you do it? he again pleaded.

Brother. Money. France. The thought that he would finally have the chance to avenge himself on his brother made Ian extend his hand.

Agreed, he said with a grim smile.

MacIver breathed out in relief, and shook Ian’s hand, sealing their bargain.

Castle Ballochyle, as soon as you can arrive, he said with a curt nod, then as swiftly as he appeared, he wove his way toward the large doors of the king’s audience chamber in such a way to keep Campbell from seeing him. Not that Campbell could see much at the moment. The man lay pinned on the ornate marble floor.

Are you mad? The chamberlain wheezed, his voice hoarse as he massaged his throat. Attack me and you attack the king himself!

She bewitched him, Campbell moaned, his body growing slack beneath those who held him.

The chamberlain huffed in dismissal and stalked back to his post beside the large golden doors.

Ian was ready to leave. He’d got more than he’d come for. Now not only did he have a means to get to France, he’d have a wife too. He shook his head. God spare him from such fools as Campbell. Witches. What superstitious rot.

Ian edged his way to the side of the room to get through the crowd more easily, but curiosity got the better of him. He eased toward the nearest group of men.

What’s happened?

The man glanced at him, then shrugged. Lord Campbell wants Sorcha MacIver brought to trial as a witch for his son’s death.

That explained MacIver’s hurry. The large doors at the other end of the chamber opened, admitting the next plaintiff into the king’s presence.

Has any called the kirk or the witch pricker to verify it?

Nay. Charles MacIver and the Earl of Argyll would not allow it, even though Campbell’s heir was the second to die in the widow’s marriage bed. The man jerked his head at the entry to the king’s audience chambers. MacIver is probably in there arguing that he has an offer of marriage for his niece and that she must be allowed to marry and prove Campbell’s accusations false.

For an instant Ian’s heart stopped, then resumed its strong beat again. He should have been angry with Lord MacIver at the deception, but instead felt only a buzz of interest in his veins.

His betrothed was considered a witch by her own clan. It was unexpected, but good to know the odds. Not that it mattered. He’d never been a superstitious man, and at this point, he’d marry the very Devil himself if it would get him out of the hell his life had become.

Two days later, pounding hooves on the hard-packed earth of the bailey, left no doubt her uncle had returned from Edinburgh. He’d left determined to stand up for her at court, despite Rorick’s accusations.

Sorcha flew down the stone steps and through the great hall. She ran at him and flung her arms around his neck when he entered. Never had she been so glad to see her uncle in all her life.

He pulled her arms from around his neck, and set her away from him. Sorcha felt the hope within her chest shrivel.

What happened? Where’s Rorick? What did—

Her kinsman raised a hand and cut her off mid-question.

We have an honored guest coming to stay with us. You must make ready the castle for his arrival, and make sure a feast is prepared.

His answer was no answer at all, damn his eyes. Am I safe? What’s happened?

He refused to meet her gaze, but laid his hand on her shoulder and gave it an awkward pat. A bargain had been struck, but not one she would approve of.

Am I safe? Her voice cracked this time.

He sniffed, then clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing.

As safe as I can make you, lass.

She reached a hand out to stop him so he would look her in the eye. Och, Uncle Charles, what have you done?

He stopped and stared at her, his face turning that particular shade of red she’d come to recognize when she displeased him.

I’ve more than done my duty by you, you ungrateful chit. God only knows why I extend my patience with you so. If it weren’t for my brother and his wretched wife. He shook his head and stalked away from her.

Sorcha expected no less. He would give no sign of affection, and if she ever did dare question him, the conversation abruptly ended at the mention of her mam, Morgana MacIver.

Sorcha wrapped her arms around herself. Her future was uncertain. She’d pray in the meantime that it was salvation, rather than damnation, that came to visit their hall.

During the next week she supervised cleaning the castle and preparing for the feast, but with each passing effort, the prickling sensation that tingled at the nape of her neck grew more intense.

Their guests could come at any time. Sorcha measured out the spices to be used in seasoning the best dishes of their feast, determined that everything should be ready at a moment’s notice. She was surprised that her uncle allowed her access to the spices. He’d always been thrifty and only allowed spicing on great occasions.

A chill, that had nothing to do with the cool air in the larder, lifted the downy hair on her arms. She sensed Archibald’s presence behind her before he spoke. It