Seducing a Scottish Bride (18 page)

Her father mumbled, cursing under his breath at no one in particular.

Valdar rubbed his hands together, beaming still. “A spirited gell, did I no’ say so already?”

Ignoring him, Gelis gripped her father’s arm. “Now who is being a
blethering old fool
?”

She leaned close, her voice low. “Or would you claim it isn’t custom for men of these hills to go bare-bottomed beneath their
plaids? Especially when within their own good walls and heading to their own bedchamber.”

The Black Stag looked down at her, his mouth clamped tightly shut.

“And” — she lifted on her toes, speaking into his ear — “he had every right to enter that bedchamber — as well you know!”

“I’d know what riled you so greatly, you’d come hallooing down here with your hair undone and no shoes on your feet.” He jammed
his hands on his hips, took in her dishevelment. “If he —”

“He had naught to do with my appearance this morn — you did.” Gelis tossed her head, flipping her hair over one shoulder.
“I heard our clan battle cry and thought you were leaving —”

“Havers, lass.” He grabbed her, pulling her against him for a swift embrace. “You should ken I’d ne’er have left without seeing
you. I knew you’d be down —”

“But the war cry — I heard it.”

“To be sure, you did.” He released her, his expression lighter.

Almost as if he was going to laugh.

But he caught himself, lowering his voice instead, “I only bellowed the war cry to put the fear o’ God in this pack of cloven-footed
MacRuaris!”

Gelis stared at him, not knowing whether she should laugh or scold him.

“You never change, do you?” She spoke the words lightly, knowing her love for him shone in her eyes.

“My girl.” His voice was rough, deep, and only for her. “Have a care with yourself, you hear?”

She nodded.

He said nothing else.

A muscle jerked beneath his left eye and she touched the place with her fingers, pressing gently until it stilled. A common
trait shared by many MacKenzie males, the twitch made her breath seize, the sight of it reminding her of kith and kin she
might not see again for many days.

Her beloved Loch Duich and the great hills guarding its shores; a land dressed in clouds, mist, and heather.

But Dare was her home now, so she swallowed against the lump in her throat, squared her shoulders, and prepared to bend the
truth one more time.

“My night was good,” she lied, lifting her voice so everyone present could not fail to hear her. “There is no reason for you
to leave in anger or in doubt of my happiness.”

“She speaks true, Kintail.” The Raven appeared beside her. “Her night was a peaceful one.”

No longer mounted, he looked between her father and his druid. That one, too, had dismounted and now hovered at the Raven’s
elbow. The ancient’s long flowing mane glowed white in the bailey’s torchlight, and he clutched his tall walking stick in
a gnarled fist.

Her father glowered at them. “Then see you that all her nights are that, just!”

“I shall.” The Raven took her father’s hand in both of his, the gesture seeming to startle the older man. “I desire naught
more than to know her well.”

“Harrumph!” Valdar whacked his thigh again. “ ’Tis more to desire than —”

“And I suggest we be on our way,” a deep voice interrupted him.

Sir Marmaduke again.

Mindful of her father as always, he’d surely recognized the telltale brightness beginning to show in the Black Stag’s eyes,
and no doubt, too, the way he’d started blinking more than was usual. For all his scowls and bluster, no one was worse at
suffering farewells.

Proving it, he arched a contrary brow. “We’ll leave when I am ready.”

“ ’Tis best to be away anon.” The Raven lost no time in siding with her uncle. “The mist through the glen will be at its lightest
if we ride now,” he said, casting a glance at the hovering druid. “If we dally —”

“Since when did a bit o’ mist hinder a Heilander?” The Black Stag drew himself up, adjusting his plaid with a great flourish.
“But I’ll no’ stand about saying soppy good-byes like a woman!”

The words spoken, he reached for Gelis, crushing her so hard against him she feared he’d cracked her ribs. But he released
her as quickly, his misty eyes explaining the lack of a verbal farewell. Then he whipped around, vaulting up into his saddle
before she could even catch her breath.

“We’re off!” he shouted, already kicking his heels into his mount’s sides, sending the beast racing for the yawning gatehouse
pend. “
Cuidich N’ Righ!
”

Gelis pressed a hand to her mouth, her throat too thick to call out to him.

Not that he would have heard her.

The Black Stag was already gone, the echoing thunder of his horse’s hooves all that was left of him.

“He’ll be fine.” Her uncle slung an arm around her, pulling her close. “See that you are. It would break your father if aught
happened to you.”

“Nothing will.”

Nothing except happiness, she added in silence, willing it so.

He gave her a quick nod. Something in his eyes made her think he’d heard the unspoken words. But before she could decide,
he, too, was striding away.

Swinging up on his horse with no less style than her father, he whipped out his sword, raising it high. “
Cuidich N’ Righ!
” he yelled, charging after her father, his cry loud in the mist-hung morning.

“Save the king,” Gelis returned, her voice catching.

She blinked hard and swiped a hand beneath her eyes, somehow unable to see her uncle’s receding back as he rode away. Drifting
wet mist dampened her cheeks, stinging her eyes and spoiling her view.

“They are good men. My sorrow, lady, that the parting is difficult for you.”

Gelis started, whirled around.

He
was at her side again.

Magnificent in his black cloak, he towered over her, his midnight gaze much too intense and his proximity more than disturbing.

Gelis swallowed, any words she might have said lodging firmly in her throat.

So greatly did he affect her.

Something flickered in his eyes then, and he lifted a hand, bringing it almost to her cheek as if to dash away the dampness
she was trying to so hard to ignore.

But before his fingers touched her, he lowered his hand, turning away so swiftly she wondered if he’d even reached for her
at all.

Indeed, she blinked and found herself alone.

From somewhere, she heard the hollow clatter of hooves on cobbles, the sound moving away from her and into the mist and dark
beyond Dare’s walls.

Even Valdar was nowhere to be seen, though she couldn’t blame him for seeking the comforts of his hall on such a chill, damp
morn.

Not now that all the excitement was over.

But then, as she turned to make her own way back into the keep, she did spy another soul remaining.

Buckie.

And the sight of him caused her heart to wrench.

The dog sat in the lee of the gatehouse wall, staring fixedly into the shadows of the tunnel-like pend. His head was lowered,
his ears hanging, and his great plumed tail flat and unmoving against the wet cobbles.

“Buckie!” Gelis called to him, but his only response was a single twitch of one tatty-looking ear.

“Come, old boy,” she tried again, crossing over to him. She stroked his head, laid on her most coaxing tone. “I’ll give you
a fine meat-bone to chew beside the fire.”

He looked up at her then, his milky eyes sad.

“Och, Buckie, please . . .”

But the dog refused to budge. With a pitiful groan, he returned his attention to the empty gatehouse pend, once more ignoring
her.

“You love him that much, eh, Buckie?” Gelis bit her lip, shoved a mist-dampened curl off her brow.

She also blinked hard, fighting another ridiculous attack of the stinging heat that seemed wont to jab at the backs of her
eyes this morn.

“As you will then, laddie, I’ll leave you be.” She gave the dog one last head-and-ears fondle, then turned and strode resolutely
across the bailey.

Gathering up her skirts and lifting her chin — just in case anyone was watching her — she mounted the keep stairs, ascending
them with a studied grace that would surely have impressed her sister.

She spared a glance at Maldred’s heraldic shield as she neared the landing, but in the gray morning light, the stone’s ancient
engravings appeared even more worn and age-smoothed than before.

Squinting up at the thing, she could barely make out the lines of the raven’s sculpted wings.

No matter.

She reached for the hall door’s heavy iron latch, letting herself into the warmth and firelit coziness of the great hall.
The day was young, and it was time to see to the first stages of her seduction plan.

But first she needed to find her shoes, do something with her hair, and then make a quick visit to the kitchens.

If the fates were on her side, Ronan MacRuari would learn the mettle of a MacKenzie woman.

And that she — Gelis MacKenzie — wasn’t one to accept defeat quietly.

As Gaelic winds blow, strong and fey, about the time Gelis hurried up Castle Dare’s winding turnpike stair, her mind busy
with her
plan
, another soul bustled about a tiny, thick-walled cottage on the Hebridean isle of Doon.

That sweet isle, little more than a deep-blue smudge against silver-misted skies, was a different world. A nigh-mythical place
that — to most — proved difficult to reach due to the isle’s high black cliffs and the treacheries of its surrounding waters.

The black skerries with teeth sharp as a razor’s edge and rip tides capable of claiming the most stout, well-manned sailing
vessel.

Truth be told, those who were granted access to Doon’s golden-sanded shores had only the good graces of Devorgilla to thank.

Bent, grizzled, and slow of gait, but with twinkling blue eyes that defied her age, the far- famed wise woman of Doon was
selective in whom she called friend.

Likewise, she made a formidable foe.

And she it was, Devorgilla of Doon, who unwittingly or otherwise, now mirrored Gelis’s circular ascent up Dare’s winding stair
tower.

Even if the crone’s circuitous path only took her round and round the tidy, peat-smoke-smelling confines of her cozy, low-
ceilinged home.

As a good, nae, as the most revered
cailleach
in all the Highlands and the Isles, she wasn’t just hobbling round her central hearth fire.

O-o-oh, nae.

She was scuttling along
deiseil
, circling her fine smoldering peat fire in a sunwise direction. She chuckled to herself as she went, taking care to croon
to the little red dog fox trotting along in her wake.

The wee fox, Somerled by name, knew better than any that the crone’s mind was just as busy that morn as was Lady Gelis’s in
distant Glen Dare.

Devorgilla pressed a hand against her hip and glanced at him as she passed her cottage’s two deep-set windows, her wizened
face wreathing in a smile when the sharp-eyed fox swished his thick, white-tipped tail.

Her faithful companion and helpmate for some years now, he understood her well.

She winked at him, pleased when he flicked his tail once more.

“Ach, laddie, we have much to celebrate this morn, eh?”

Without halting her shuffling black-booted feet, she snatched a twist of dried meat from a small wooden bowl on her table
and tossed the tidbit to the little fox.

She cackled with glee when he leaped in the air, catching the treat before it fell to the flag stoned floor.

“
Guid,
” she gushed, watching him fall into place behind her again, prancing along as if he hadn’t just performed such a bold and
dashing maneuver.

She, too, felt nimble just now.

Power sizzled through her bones and lightened her heart. And though she wouldn’t own it — the Old Ones frowned on those who
boasted — she was almost sure even her finger- and toenails tingled with magic.

So she continued on her way, mumbling blessings and indulging in a wee bit of humble if well-deserved self-praise.

’Twas well enough earned.

If she dared say so herself.

Her third rounding of the cottage’s central hearth fire completed, she paused. She raised her hands, palms upward, her gaze
following her black-sleeved arms but seeing much more than her ceiling’s blackened, herb-hung rafters.

Then, when her palms began to warm and pulse with the Old Ones’ benevolence, she lowered her arms. Well satisfied, she turned
her attention to the steaming cauldron hanging on its great iron hook above the pungent, earthy-sweet smolder of the peats.

Unable to help herself, another gleeful cackle — or two — rose in her throat.

She didn’t even attempt to stifle them.

Even though her excitement and bustling was clearly a great botheration to Mab, the tricolored cat curled in the exact middle
of Devorgilla’s sleeping pallet and pretending disdainfully that it was just another ordinary Doon morn.

Not that any day on that cliff-girt, sea-bound isle could be called the like.

Devorgilla wagged a finger as if to emphasize the point.

Her wee fox lifted a paw in absolute agreement.

“We showed those
mist wraiths
, eh, Somerled?”

The fox’s golden eyes glittered.

“Banished them with a mere wriggle of my fingers, we did!”

Chortling still, the crone demonstrated. Her bright eyes full of merriment, she thrust her hand into the cauldron’s steam
and twitched her fingers, causing the drifts of steam to shift and waver.

“Mist wraiths — fie!” She withdrew her hand. “Let them try to rise again. Perhaps next time I shall tie them all in knots!”

She nodded to herself, very much liking the idea, but set the possibility aside for the moment.

Other chores and duties beckoned.

Stooping to the side, she plunged her hands into a large wicker creel, retrieving a handful of plump, waiting-to-be-smoked
herring.

A gift from Sir Marmaduke Strongbow and his lady wife, Caterine, but originally from Glenelg’s joy woman, Gunna of the Glen,
the prized fish needed to be hung one by one to a taut-stretched drying rope she’d affixed across the modest breadth of her
cottage.