Seducing a Scottish Bride (11 page)

There was only a slight hesitation. “They are men, aye.”

Ronan nodded, satisfied.

“Then they will ne’er leave this glen alive.” He tightened his grip on his sword hilt, the smooth leather banding warm beneath
his fingers. “Every last one of them can join Maldred in yon tainted ground. Let them battle each other as they should have
done centuries ago.”

“Think you it will be so simple?” Torcaill’s deep voice echoed in the stillness. “There is your bride to consider. She changes
all.”

“She changes naught.” Ronan firmly disagreed. “She returns to Eilean Creag on the morrow. Her father wishes to leave at first
light. Lady Gelis shall accompany him.”

Torcaill lifted a brow. “That is how you mean to safeguard her?”

“Sending her away is the only way to ensure her safety.”

“Letting her ride out with her father would invite the destruction of the entire party.” The druid looked at him, his expression
earnest. “Can you live with such a tragedy, should it come to pass?”

“The Black Stag is a mighty warrior. His scar-faced friend, the Sassunach, is equally capable. They can see her safe and swiftly
from this blighted glen.” Ronan paused, reasoning. “I will ride with them. Take along a score of Dare’s best men. Not that
Kintail would require us. He is feared in all the land. Beyond our borders as well, if you’d believe the songs sung of him.”

Torcaill remained unimpressed. “Such lays are not sung by those who melt steel.”

“The Holders will not yet have noticed her.” Ronan drew a breath, willing it so. “She can be gone before they know she was
even here.”

“They knew she was here the moment her retinue crossed into MacRuari territory.”

“We can still get her away. By stealth, if need be.”

Torcaill shook his head. “They would see you.”

Ronan snorted. “Let them. Think you I fear the miscreants?” He glared at the older man, willing him to see his strength. “I
have cleaved grown men in twain, fought off a score of axe-wielding half-Celt, half-Norse Islesmen and sent them running back
to their Hebrides before they could cry Thor or Cuchulainn. A MacRuari ne’er runs—”

“Bah!” The druid waved a hand. “You have never faced such as these,” he warned, his eyes gleaming in the darkness. “Their
power is so great they could charm your beasts into throwing the lot of you, even make them trample you with their flailing
hooves.”

“The devil roaring!” Ronan blew out a breath, not at all liking his options.

“There is a way.”

“And you will be knowing it, for a wager!”

Torcaill flicked at his robes. “I but offer counsel, as I have ever done.”

Ronan waited. “Well?”

“It would be well if you were to keep a cool head and sharp wits.”

“Be that your advice?” Heat flashed through Ronan. “Have you e’er known a MacRuari whose wits weren’t sharp? My own are honed
enough, I say you — as is my sword.”

“None doubt it. But you will be distracted.” Torcaill glanced at the enclosing wall of great Caledonian pines, his brow knitting
when several mist tendrils slithered into view.

Turning toward them, he raised his hand, but the mist snakes shimmied and quivered, quickly receding into a thicket of whin
and broom before he could point his finger at them.

Ronan cleared his throat.

The druid smoothed a fold of his cloak.

“Whether you would hear it or nae,” he said, “Lady Gelis poses problems you must —”

“I know what I must do about her,” Ronan snapped, wishing he did.

That annoying tinge of pity on his face again, the druid sighed. “Any man’s head would be turned by Lady Gelis. His blood
stirred and heated. You must not let her cloud your thinking.”

“She will no’ be here long enough to do the like.” Ronan remained firm. “After what you’ve told me this e’en, I am determined
to see her gone. Safely so, and no matter what it costs me.”

Torcaill’s expression turned to one of disappointment. “Have you not heard a word I’ve said?”

“Och, to be sure and I have.” Ronan blew out a breath. He’d heard every word as clearly as if the wizard had branded them
into his flesh.

He just didn’t like them.

“Then heed me well” — Torcaill strode after him when he started to pace — “you must keep the lass safe within Dare’s walls.”

Ronan whirled on him. “Within the walls, you say? What makes you think the Holders won’t breach them? If they are so all-powerful,
they might just blow down our gates with a puff of their sulfuric breath!”

“You ought not jest —”

“I would rather jest than believe the like.” Ronan put a hand to the back of his neck, certain it would soon catch fire. “I
told you, I have ne’er fully believed the tales about Maldred and his foes and am no’ sure I wish to now.”

He started pacing again, then spun back around as quickly. “No, I
know
I do not want to believe in them.”

Even if he had seen a strange red-eyed figure lurking at the wood’s edge.

Odd souls were known to roam the Highlands at times.

He’d just happened to catch sight of one.

As for the melted shutter hinges, he was sure there was a good explanation.

“Whether you believe or not matters little,” the druid declared, further fouling his mood. “You have the choice of keeping
your bride safe behind Dare’s walls or sending her to her doom.”

Ronan frowned at him. “Keeping her from
doom
is and has been my greatest concern.”

Torcaill looked pleased.

With more than a little style and dash, he raised his staff, thrusting it into a thin shaft of moonlight.

“I might be the last druid to wear the badge of the Raven,” he announced, “but I still have enough power to serve you and
your lady.”

She is not and ne’er shall be my lady, Ronan almost roared. But the old man’s eyes were shining and his sometimes bowed shoulders
had gone remarkably straight.

When the entire length of his
slachdan druidheachd
suddenly made a loud popping sound, then crackled and shone with a bright silvery-blue light and he began chanting a warding
spell, his voice rising with pride on every word, Ronan knew who’d won this particular battle.

Even if it pained him to hear an incantation meant to protect his marriage bed.

He had no intention of sharing his bedchamber with Lady Gelis.

Pallet materials for a cozy night’s bedding already awaited him in a quiet niche off the great hall.

He’d taken due precautions.

So he folded his arms and watched the druid’s display. He even forced a nod of appreciation. Above all, he refrained from
telling Torcaill that his best efforts would be in vain.

Maldred’s curse and the Holders weren’t the greatest dangers to his bride.

He was.

And no wizard’s spell would protect her from him.

G
elis knew something was amiss.

The surety of it intensified with every step she took up Castle Dare’s winding stair tower — no, the glowering keep’s cold
and dismal stair tower, chill, and with only the feeble light of a few hissing, sputtering rush torches to pierce the gloom.
Not that the murkiness bothered her.

She had plans for remedying Dare’s dreariness.

Indeed, she secretly welcomed the darkness, hoping she’d be rewarded when she dispelled it.

At the very least appreciated.

Unfortunately, the soul she so wished to please hadn’t shown himself since he’d disappeared in the wake of his druid friend,
claiming he’d see the ancient safely to his bed.

Gelis huffed and almost tripped on the hem of her skirts.

It was
her
bed that ought to be on Ronan MacRuari’s mind this night.

Not a graybeard’s.

However gallant the thought.

Hitching up her cumbersome swish-swishing gown, she quickened her steps. She also bit back another snort. Chivalry hadn’t
sent the Raven hastening from the feasting table. He’d removed himself from her presence. And she had a fairly good notion
that he had no intention of redressing the slight.

She tightened her lips. The shame of such a notion pulsed through her from the tops of her burning ears clear down to all
ten of her tingling toes.

That was what plagued her.

Not his keep’s unsavory stair tower.

Nor that the men sitting around the high table had fallen into such a loud and windy discussion about the demands and intricacies
of effective lairding that no one noticed when she pushed to her feet and walked away.

Not to hide and lick her wounds.

O-o-oh, no.

She simply needed time alone to decide her next move.

Thinking about seduction wasn’t easy with a good score of flapping male tongues blethering on about disciplining errant clansmen
or what to do when a trusted friend and ally suddenly lifted a few prize cattle.

Or the virtues of expanding one’s lands by conquest and inheritance, followed by a heated discourse on the fine art of Highland
feuding.

Or whose bard sang the sweetest harp songs.

Gelis straightened her back.

Harp songs, indeed. She had more pressing matters weighing on her.

Meaning to sort them, she tugged on the sleeve of the large-eyed serving lass leading her up the stairs. The girl halted at
once, her slight form jerking as if a two-headed water horse had seized her.

Gelis blinked, certain she’d never seen such a fearful creature.

“Anice,” she began, wishing her own agitation wasn’t pressing her to ask what she burned to know. “Are you certain the Raven
wished me taken to his chamber?”

“His explicit orders, aye.” The girl bobbed her head. “I readied the room myself and Hector carried up an extra basket of
peats for the fire.”

But when Anice led her from the stair tower’s top landing a few moments later, taking her to the Raven’s oak-planked door,
more cold and darkness greeted them.

The bedchamber, though vast and quite imposing, proved decidedly
un
readied.

Of extra peat bricks, naught was to be seen. Nor even a stick of wood, or the merest twig, or even a bundle of dried bracken.
Indeed, the hearthstone appeared swept bare with only a thin scatter of ash indicating a fire had ever burned there at all.

Gelis peered into the dimness, the insult making her face grow hot. The shutters were thrown wide, letting chill damp air
pour inside, while the moon’s luminance shone cold on the room’s terrible disarray.

“Saints o’ mercy!” Anice stood frozen, one hand on the door handle, the other clapped to her throat. “The room was in perfect
order. I swear it.”

Shaking her head, she stared at the clothes strewn across the floor, the mussed and tangled bedding. “We’d even brought up
a bath,” she said, throwing a panicked look at Gelis. “Victuals and wine. Refreshments —”

“Never you mind,” Gelis halted her babble, sweeping into the room before the girl had a chance to swoon. “Someone” — and she
was certain she knew who — “clearly forgot to secure the shutters, and the wind has done the damage.”

“Och, nae, I dinna think so.” The girl looked doubtful. “The wind —”

“Wind is naught but just that.” Gelis glanced at the sideways rain blowing past the windows. “Cold, gusting, and at the moment,
quite wet.”

Anice bit her lip, unconvinced.

“I’ll own it was an unusually discerning wind,” Gelis allowed. She stepped deeper into the room, a dark suspicion making her
cheeks flame even hotter.

Her chest tightened with annoyance, but she held her tongue, not willing to say more until she was certain.

Though, truth be told, she already was.

The
wind
had been more than discriminating.

It’d been revealing.

Her own coffers and travel bags remained untouched. Her carefully selected bridal accoutrements stared at her from across
the room, the lot of her treasures stacked in a quiet and inoffensive pile in a corner.

The chaos was masculine.

An untidy swath of rumpled tunics and plaids, the messy jumble made all the more damning for the bulging money purse and wine
skin peeking up from its midst. A handsome black travel cloak flung haphazardly across a bearskin rug on the floor banished
any lingering doubts, as did the gleaming mail hauberk, sword belt, and brand tossed into a glittery silver heap near the
door.

The Lord Raven had been packing for a journey.

An effort he’d abandoned in great haste.

Like as not, the very moment he’d heard her and Anice ascending the tower stairs.

Gelis almost blurted one of her father’s choice epithets, but caught herself. She did put her hands on her hips. “That table
by the window” — she glanced at Anice — “is that where you placed the repast?”

Looking miserable, the girl nodded.

“Just there, my lady.” Her gaze went to the heavy oaken table. “And a right feast it was. A fine joint of roasted mutton,
spiced salmon pasties, jellied eggs, and even a platter of Cook’s fresh-baked honey cakes. Heaped high, those were, and sprinkled
with ginger.”

“A feast, indeed,” Gelis agreed, unable to deny it.