Читать книгу His Immortal Embrace - Lynsay Sands - Страница 11

It was going to be a long night, Alpin mused as he sprawled indolently in his chair. He surveyed all the people seated at his table and decided it was going to be a very long night indeed. Except for Eric, who sat on his right and looked too cursed amused for Alpin’s liking, everyone else did not appear to be feeling the least bit congenial. Since he had long ago lost the art of pleasant conversation, if he had ever even possessed such a skill, silence reigned.

Alpin looked at Sophie as he sipped his wine and inwardly winced. She had returned from the village to find him greeting his newly arrived guests. One look at her face told him she knew exactly who these people were. He was not accustomed to the look she had given him. People usually eyed him with wary respect or fear. She had looked at him as if he were no more than some impertinent spatter of mud that had soiled her ladyship’s best dancing slippers. He had wanted some distance between them and now he had it. Alpin was not sure why he felt both guilty and desolate. He suspected she would leave now, just as he had been wanting her to, yet he was fighting the urge to hold her at Nochdaidh even if he had to use chains.

He looked at his bride next and watched her tremble so badly the food she had been about to eat fell from her plump white hand. Lady Margaret MacLane was pretty enough with her brown hair and gray eyes, her body rounded with all the appropriate curves most men craved. At the moment, she was ghostly pale, her eyes so wide with fright they had to sting, and her body shook almost continuously. She had already fainted once, and Alpin dared not speak to her for fear she would do so again.

And then there were his bride’s kinsmen, he thought with a sigh. Most of them seemed oblivious to the tense quiet, their sole interest being in consuming as much food and drink as possible. The only time any of them was diverted was when he felt a need to cast a lecherous glance Sophie’s way. Margaret’s father also kept looking at Sophie, although curiosity was mixed with the desire in his gaze. A strong urge to do violence to the MacLanes was stirring to life within Alpin, but he struggled to control it. Slaughtering many of his bride’s kinsmen was not an acceptable way to celebrate a wedding, he mused.

Unable to resist, he looked at Sophie again and tensed. She smiled at him, then smiled at Sir Peter MacLane, Margaret’s father. Although Alpin had hated her silence, felt wretched over the hurt he knew he had inflicted upon her, he felt her sudden cheer was an ominous sign. She was planning some mischief. He was certain of it.

“There was a murder in the village today,” Sophie announced. “Donald, the butcher’s eldest son.”

He was going to beat her, Alpin thought, and took a deep drink of wine.

“Are ye certain ’twas murder, m’lady?” asked Eric.

“Och, aye. His throat was cut. Ear to ear.” Sophie ignored Margaret’s gasp of horror and blithely continued. “His belly was cut open, too.” Margaret groaned and her eyes rolled back in their sockets. “Oh, and his poor face was beaten so badly ’twas difficult to recognize him.” Sophie calmly watched Margaret slide out of her seat to sprawl unconscious upon the floor. “If she is to make a habit of that, Sir Alpin, mayhap ye ought to scatter a few cushions about her chair.” She smiled sweetly at Alpin.

Perhaps he would strangle her, Alpin thought. Slowly.

“Why was the laird nay called to make a judgment?” asked Sir Peter.

“Weel, most of the villagers thought he had already come and gone, that ’twas his work,” Sophie replied, then looked at Alpin again. “Of course, I convinced them that ye didnae do it, at least those of them who would heed sense.”

“How verra kind of ye,” Alpin drawled.

“Aye, it was. I pointed out that all his blood had soaked into the ground and that, if ye were what they thought ye were, ye wouldnae have let it go to waste like that.”

“Nay, I would have supped upon it.”

“Exactly. And I pointed out that all his innards were still there, plus the wounds were done with a knife, nay with teeth or hands. He was also killed as he slept and I was fair sure ye wouldnae do that, either. Aye, I made it verra clear that ye were a noble warrior, too honorable, too forthright, too—”

“I believe I understand, Sophie,” he snapped, feeling the sting of her reprimand even though he knew it was well deserved.

“How nice.” Sophie stood up and smiled at everyone. “And, now, if ye gentlemen and the laird will excuse me, I believe I will seek my rest. It has been a most exhausting day, full of blood, tears, and treachery.” As Sophie passed behind Alpin’s chair, she reached over his shoulder and dropped the amulet she had made for him on the table in front of him. “For ye, m’laird.”

“What is it?” he asked, fighting to ignore the hurt and anger he could sense in her.

“An amulet for protection. Ye can wear it or ye can keep it in your pocket. ‘Tis why I was in the village today, to gather what I needed. I heard ye are planning to ride off to battle in three days’ time. I wanted to be sure ye returned.”

“And ye still give it to me after what has occurred today?” he asked softly.

“Why not? And who can say? Mayhap it will prove a charm as weel. Mayhap it will make your bride see ye as a charming, noble knight.” When he looked at her over his shoulder, she met his angry gaze calmly.

“I should beat you.”

“I shouldnae try it.”

“How can I be sure this thing carries no curse?”

“As I told ye, a curse comes back upon the sender threefold. I believe I have enough trouble to deal with already. And I also told ye that I am no witch. Ye should be verra glad of that, m’laird, for, if I were and I were the vengeful sort, I would be weaving one for ye that would make Rona’s look like child’s play.” Knowing her anger was escaping her control, Sophie strode away.

Alpin watched her leave, Nella quickly following her. He picked up the tiny leather bag strung on a black cord and sighed. As he held it, he could feel her hope, her prayers for his safety. Despite her anger and her hurt over what she saw as a gross betrayal, Sophie still wanted to save him, still wanted to help and protect him. He ached to grasp at that support with both hands and hold tight, but was determined to resist that temptation. Sophie deserved better than he had to offer.

Looking at his bride as she pulled herself back up into her seat, he supposed she deserved better as well, but he would not stop the marriage. Margaret had no care for him. She feared him and would undoubtedly be terrified by the changes that would come, but she would not be saddened by them. Margaret would not be hurt when he did not give her a child or come to her bed. There was a chance he might even escape truly consummating the marriage, and that weighed heavily in her favor. It was a dismal future laid out before him, but he had never held any hope for another, better fate, and he would not condemn a sweet sprite like Sophie to share it with him.

Recalling her parting words, he almost smiled. Mayhap not so sweet. She had strength, spirit, and a temper. Even when she was threatening to curse him, he knew she was perfect for him. Alpin considered the fact that he could not hold tight to her, the hardest part of the curse to endure, and the cruelest.

“Who is that lass?” demanded Sir Peter.

The first words that came to mind were my love and Alpin was stunned, so stunned it took him a moment to compose himself before he could reply with any calm. “She is who she said she is—Lady Sophie Hay.”

“Nay, I mean what is she to ye?”

“Ah. Just another in a verra long line of people trying their hand at curing me of my affliction.”

“So she is a witch.”

“Nay, a healer.”

“Then what is that she just gave ye?”

Alpin slowly placed the amulet around his neck. “Something she made to bring me luck in the coming battle.”

“Then she is a witch.”

“Many people, e’en the most Godly, believe in charms for luck, sir. Lady Sophie is a healer, nay more.”

Before the man could further argue the matter, Alpin drew him into a discussion concerning the upcoming battle. In some ways Sophie did practice what many would consider witchcraft, and those who feared such things were usually incapable of discerning the difference between good and bad sorcery. Alpin had the strong feeling she had other skills many would decry as sorcery, such as the sight, or some trick of knowing exactly what a person felt. One thing he was determined to do for her was shield her from the dangerous, superstitious fears of those like Sir Peter. It might even, in some small way, assuage the hurt he had inflicted. Or, he mused, he could allow himself to fall in the coming battle, ending her pain as well as his own. He sighed and forced himself to concentrate on the conversation. Fate would never allow him to escape his dark destiny so easily.

“That Lady Margaret is a worse coward than I, and that be saying a lot,” muttered Nella as she sat before the fire in their bedchamber sewing a torn hem upon one of Sophie’s gowns. “I wonder she hasnae washed her eyeballs right out of their holes with all the weeping she does.”

Sophie lightly grunted in agreement, never moving from the window she looked out of, or taking her gaze from the activity in the bailey. For the three days Lady Margaret had been at Nochdaidh, the girl had done little more than cry, swoon, or cower. Not one thing Sophie had said or tried had calmed the girl. At times, Sophie had wondered what possessed her to try to help a woman who would soon lay claim to the man Sophie herself wanted so badly. She just could not abide being around all that self-pity and abject fear. There were enough dark, somber feelings thickening the air at Nochdaidh without Lady Margaret adding more by the bucketful. That very morning Sophie had finally given up on trying to help the girl.

“I tried to give the lass one of my amulets,” said Nella, “but she just sobbed and crossed herself.”

“Ah, aye. Despite the denials of everyone at Nochdaidh, as weel as our own, Lady Margaret is certain we are witches.”

“Such a fool.” Nella frowned at Sophie, set her mending down, and moved to stand beside her. “What is going on?”

“The laird prepares to ride away to battle. He must fight the men who have been pillaging Sir Peter’s lands. A wedding gift, I suppose.”

“I am sorry about that, m’lady,” Nella said quietly.

“So am I, Nella.” Sophie sighed. “My anger has faded, but my unhappiness lingers. I have come to understand that Alpin believes he is doing what is best for me by pushing me away.”

“ ’Tis best for ye to have your heart broken?”

“So Alpin believes. He thinks ’tis easier for me now than if I stay at his side whilst the curse devours his soul.”

“Mayhap he is right,” Nella whispered.

“Nay. I believe I have finally figured out how to break this curse. ’Tisnae amulets, rowan branches, or potions that will save him. At best they but slow the change from mon to beast.”

“Then what can save him, m’lady?”

“Me.” She smiled briefly at an astonished Nella. “Aye, ’tis me. I am the key to unlock the prison of pain Rona built.”

“I dinnae understand.”

“Rona’s words were: ‘Thus it shall remain until one steps from the shadows of pride, land, and wealth and does as his heart commands. Until all that should have been finally is.’ Until MacCordy weds Galt, Nella. Until a MacCordy laird chooses love o’er profit.” Sophie shrugged. “That wouldnae have to be me in particular, but I begin to feel that that is how it has come to be. Alpin cares for me, of that I have no doubt. Yet he turns from that and goes to Margaret, who will bring him land and wealth. He may do so for verra noble reasons, but ’tis still the wrong choice. Again. ’Tis Ciar and Rona all over again. I fear that the curse will ne’er be broken if Alpin does marry Margaret.”

“Then ye must tell him. Wheesht, ye have wealth and land aplenty, too, if that is what the mon seeks.”

Sophie shook her head. “He willnae heed me. Alpin denies there is a curse at work here, e’en though, deep in his heart, I think he kens the truth. He willnae allow me to enter what he sees as his private hell, to share in his damnation. And if I tell him of my wealth to make him choose me, will the fact that his heart welcomes that choice end the curse, or will it become just another choice of wealth and land? I dare not risk it, for I truly believe he must choose between wealth and love, turning away from one to embrace the other.”

“It makes sense, yet how can a curse tell the difference? It has no thoughts or feelings.”

“Something keeps it alive, year after year. Something keeps each MacCordy laird alive, keeps them breeding that heir to carry on the curse, and something keeps killing the love in the hearts of the men chosen by each daughter of Rona’s bloodline. I dinnae understand how, just that this curse somehow keeps itself alive and will continue to do so unless Rona’s demand is met.”

“So what can ye do?”

“Weel, I have a wee bit more than a week to make Alpin love me enough to want me to stay.”

“Aye. Unless, of course, he already loves ye and that is why he will make ye leave.”

“That is the dilemma I face, aye. Not an easy knot to untangle.”

Nella stared down into the bailey. “What is that strange cart? Do ye ken, it looks a wee bit like a coffin on wheels.”

Chilled by the image, Sophie wrapped her arms around herself. “ ’Tis what poor Alpin must shelter in if he cannae find and defeat the enemy ere the sun rises. ’Tis made of iron with holes at the bottom to let in the air and some light, yet keep out the sun’s rays. Once beyond the shadows, heavy cloaks arenae enough protection any longer.”

“Odd that none of the lairds simply walked out into the summer sun and let death take them. It would have freed them.”

“I think the curse wouldnae allow it. It needs the heir. So a hint of hope, a sense of self-preservation, and the poor mon survives long enough to fulfill his sad destiny. Rona set her trap weel. Her magic was verra strong indeed.”

“Yours be strong as weel, m’lady, but ’tis a good, kindly magic. Ye must try to have more faith in it.”

“I think ’tis more important that Alpin have some faith in it. His surrender to a dark, sad fate runs deep, Nella, and I truly fear it will condemn us all.”

“She watches ye,” said Eric as Alpin mounted his horse. “I believe her anger has eased.”

Alpin glanced up to see Sophie’s pale face in the window of her bedchamber. “Then I shall have to think of something to fire it again.”

Eric cursed softly. “Alpin, that beautiful lass cares for ye. Why dinnae ye—”

“Nay,” Alpin snapped, glaring at his friend. “Cease shoving temptation beneath my nose. Look ye,” he pointed at the iron cart as it rolled by, “I must carry my coffin about with me. ’Tis the rock I must crawl beneath if the sun rises whilst I am still afield. I go now to kill men because the father of my bride wishes them dead. And we both ken how I will revel in the slaughter,” he added in a low, cold voice. “The scents of blood, fear, and death rouse the beast within me. I breathe them in as if they are the sweetest of flowers. It will take all my will nay to feast upon the enemy like the demon all think me to be.

“I can hear your heart beat, Eric,” he continued. “I can hear the blood move within your veins.” He nodded toward a young man several yards away. “Thomas had a woman recently. Dugald has dressed too warmly and begins to sweat. Henry’s wife has her woman’s time,” he nodded toward a couple embracing by the wall, “but he bedded her anyway.”

“So ye have gained a sharp ear and a keen nose.”

“I have grown closer to the wolf than the mon, Eric. I have resisted marriage longer than any MacCordy laird, but duty beckons. The bargain my father made must be honored. And despite my plan to seed no woman, to breed no child, I am nay longer sure I can defeat my fate so easily. As the wedding draws nigh, I feel something stirring within me that can only be called an urge to mate. ’Tis as if I am descending into a state of rut.”

“Then mate with the woman we both ken ye really want.”

Alpin shook his head. “There is a coward within me who trembles at the thought of Sophie watching me descend into madness, become a beast who needs caging or killing. There is also a strangely noble mon within me who cannae condemn her to watching her child step into monhood and begin the fall into this hell. I will wed Margaret.” He took one last look at Sophie, then kicked his horse into a gallop, fleeing her and the friend who tried so hard to weaken his resolve.