Seducing a Scottish Bride (27 page)

“Such beasts always turn away from silver.” She could hardly hear her own voice above the thundering of her heart. “Be it
a silver-barbed arrow, a silvered dagger, or even just a simple coin.”

She flicked a glance at her
sgian dubh
, still thrust beneath his sword-belt.

“See there” — she indicated the hilt — “silver inlays. That’s why I threw it even though I knew I could never pierce a bull’s
hide, no matter how good my aim.”

“But if you struck him or —”

“Or,” she cut him off, “if my blade fell before him, I knew he’d turn and run. He would never have been able to cross it,
not such a creature.”

“Perhaps you should have tossed the blade in my path.” He let go of her curl, stepping back as if it’d turned into a snake
and bitten him. “You might have been better served.”

Ronan regretted the words as soon as they leaped off his tongue. But his ribs were flaming again, the pain worse than ever.
And he was quite certain the toes of his left foot had swollen to such a degree that he might never get his boot off.

“Forgive me, lass,” he began, “ but —” he broke off, a glitter of green atop a strongbox catching his eye.

The siren bauble.

At once, all knightly restraint left him.

He sucked in a great breath, more aware of the ache in his loins than any other. In three great strides, he crossed to the
strongbox and snatched up the golden chain, waving it so that its sparkling gemstone swung before him.

“I am no eunuch, see you!” He dropped the thing betwixt her still-parted thighs. “I’ve only meant to protect you. Save you
from the curse that plagues me. The blackness that claims any and everyone I’ve e’er cared for! But you . . .”

He thrust both hands in his hair and shut his eyes.

When he opened them, she stood before him, her siren’s chain dangling from her hand. “You err, my lord,” she said, so close
her breasts brushed his chest. “I do not need saving. I am the woman meant to save you.”

“Humph.” He started to back away, but she leaned into him, the hot thrust of her nipples almost taking his breath. “By the
Rood, lass, you dinna know what you’re —”

“Och, but I do!”

Lifting up on her toes, she slung her chain around his neck, using the golden links to pull his head down to hers. Then her
lips touched his and his heart stopped beating.

The world split, spinning away until nothing remained but her lushness against him, the silky-hot sweetness of her lips, and
a heady, thought-numbing whirl of rose perfume.

“Ach, saints!” He whipped an arm around her, dragging her even closer. “I am lost . . .”

He thrust his free hand into her hair, twining his fingers in the cool, glossy curls. “Lost, I say you,” he breathed against
her lips, and then he could speak no more.

His heart thundering, he slanted his mouth over hers, kissing her fast, hard, and deep. Plundering and ravishing, he claimed
her lips, at last giving in to the fire inside him. She clung to him, returning his kisses with equal heat, her tongue swirling
around his, slipping and sliding, their breaths mingling, warm and honey-sweet.

He swept his hand down her back and around to her breasts, cupping and kneading them. His fingers circled and toyed with her
nipples, each sweet tug and pinch making them draw ever tighter until his own
tightness
threatened to spill.

His need almost desperate, he broke the kiss.

“Nae, don’t stop.” She clutched at him, smothering his face with tiny kisses, licks, and nips, murmuring words that should
have made him blush.

Instead, they hardened him even more.

“Ach, God!” He grasped her by the shoulders, setting her from him, some still-coherent part of him pleased to see that her
own breath was coming as fast and shallow as his. Pleased, too, to see the telltale flush of arousal staining her magnificent
breasts.

His heart knocking wildly, he plucked her dagger from his belt and threw it aside. Not taking his eyes off her, he reached
to undo the heavy clasp of his sword-belt.

He needed, wanted, to be naked with her.

He had to make her his. Dare, Maldred, and all the world’s curses be damned.

It was time.

The knocking in his chest grew louder, a thunderous hammering in his blood, his ears.

“Sweet lass, I —”

“I heard tell the lass had been injured.” A ringing female voice came from the doorway.

Auld Meg, Dare’s hen wife.

Ronan spun around, his unbuckled sword-belt flying from his hands.

Behind him, Gelis gasped and an overloud metallic
clink-clinkety-clink
revealed that she’d dropped her bauble-chain as well.

Auld Meg’s gaze snapped to both, lingering especially on the glittering golden links.

The great green gemstone, winking wickedly from the innocent floor rushes.

“It would seem I was misinformed.” She shifted the basket of healing goods clutched against her hip.

“It would seem you have forgotten to knock!” Ronan jammed his hands on his hips and glared at her.

“And I say you have bog cotton in your ears.” Auld Meg huffed, all bristling indignation. “I’ve been pounding my knuckles
raw a-waiting for your by-leave, thinking your lady in peril all the while.”

“I erred.”

“So I see.” She glowered back at him.

Still standing in the open threshold, her stout frame silhouetted against the light from a wall torch, she looked nearly as
broad as she was tall, especially when she mimicked him by bracing a pudgy hand against her own more than generous hips.

“Be that as it may,” she began, eyeing him shrewdly, “if the lady has no need of my sphagnum moss dressings, mayhap
you
can make use of my special goldenrod ointment!”

“Me?” Ronan lifted a brow, not at all surprised when she marched into the room and plunked her healing basket onto the table.

“Aye, you,” she announced, clucking as she plucked a fat earthen jar from the basket and thrust it into Gelis’s hands. “And
what I’ve brought is far better than Hugh MacHugh’s selfheal ointment. ’Tis my own fine unguent of Saint-John’ s-wort, germander,
speedwell, and goldenrod that you’ll be needing, I’m thinking. Blended with butter and grease, it will soothe your cracked
ribs before the next sun rises.”

Ronan’s brow furrowed. “My cracked ribs?”

Auld Meg waved a hand. “Dinna do me the insult o’ doubting my own good eye. I can see what ails you, right enough! It’s there
in every step you take.” Coming closer, she wagged a finger in his face. “The unguent will soothe your smashed toes as well.”

Ronan humphed.

His lady spoke up at last. “I’ll see to it,” she said, clutching the little jar of ointment. “And I . . . thank you.”

This time Auld Meg grunted.

But her eyes brightened, some of the sternness slipping from her face.

“You do that, lassie.” She looked Gelis up and down, her voice taking on a confidential tone. “ ’Tis long past time the lad
has a maid what kens how to handle him!”

“Dinna even think it,” Ronan protested the moment the grizzle-headed old bat swept from the room, closing the door soundly
behind her.

He snatched the fat little jar from his lady’s hands and set it on the table.

Experience had taught him that the unguent’s noxious smell clung to one’s skin for days.

Sometimes even a whole fortnight.

Gelis frowned, her gaze on the jar. “But she did seem to know —”

Ronan snorted. “There is naught wrong with my ribs and, with surety, no’ with my toes!”

“You are sure?”

“I am certain.”

“Then prove it by kissing me again.”

“Lass, I will kiss you until the hills blush.” He yanked his tunic over his head, reaching for her before it hit the rushes.
“Now, this night, the morrow’s morn, and all the days thereafter.”

The words spoken, he caught her to him, pulling her close against his naked chest. He captured her lips, kissing her deeply.
He swept his tongue against hers, claiming and demanding, needing her all.

She leaned into him, their hot breath and the wild tangle of their tongues seeming to spur her on. His own desire breaking,
he ran his hands down her back and over her hips, finally clutching and squeezing her buttocks, drawing her flush against
him.

She sighed, her mouth opening wider beneath his. “Yes,” she breathed, slinging her arms tightly around him, her hips beginning
to rock and press against his.

Her full, heavy breasts were crushed to him, the shifting of her thighs against his a sweet torture beyond bearing. A great
shudder raced through him and he tightened his arms around her, digging his fingers into the lush curves of her hips, the
sweet, plump rounds of her luscious bottom.

Ne’er had he burned with a greater passion.

And ne’er had a mere tapping at the door made him more furious.

He jerked around to glare at the door. “Be gone, old woman! You can continue your meddling on the morrow.”

“ ’Tis me, sir.” Young Hector, his voice hesitant.

“Be gone with you, too, lad.” Ronan ran a hand through his hair, almost panting. “I’ll no’ be disturbed now.”

A pause.

But the kind that pulsed with someone’s presence.

With surety, no light footfalls could be heard padding away from the door.

“ ’Tis your grandfather, my lord,” the boy called. “He wishes to see you in his privy quarters.”

Ronan sighed. “Now?”

“At once, sir,” came the reply.

“Hells bells and damnation.” Ronan strode across the room and yanked open the door. “Whate’er bothers him that he canna sleep
on it?” he demanded, trying his best not to glower at the lad.

Hector swallowed, his cheeks flaming bright as his carroty hair. “He wants to speak to you about the man who was here earlier.
He says —”

Ronan’s eyes widened. “A visitor?”

Hector bobbed his bright head. “A courier, sir,” he embellished, his chest swelling a bit. “From the Black Stag, he was, come
not long before the gloaming and bringing a letter for you.”

“Indeed?”

“So it was, aye,” the boy confirmed. “I saw the man meself, sir.”

“Did you now?” Ronan lifted a brow. “And you’re sure he was a MacKenzie?”

Once more Hector nodded.

“Then run down to my grandfather and tell him I’ll be there forthwith,” Ronan said, reaching to pat Hector’s shoulder.

But when the boy turned and dashed away down the torchlit corridor, he frowned.

By gloaming every MacKenzie in Kintail save his bride would have been huddled round Eilean Creag’s hearth fire gnawing well-roasted
beef ribs and quaffing the finest of ales. Some, perhaps, with a plump, full-breasted laundress warming their laps.

Of that he was certain.

The visitor couldn’t have been a MacKenzie.

Likewise, whoe’er the mysterious courier had been, Ronan was sure he was up to no good.

A
MacKenzie, you say?”

Ronan stood in the middle of his grandfather’s privy quarters, his hands fisted against his hips, and trying very hard to
keep the annoyance out of his voice.

But it wasn’t easy.

Someone — a
Holder
, saints preserve them — had guised himself as a MacKenzie for the sole purpose of confusing an old man. And if he could get
his hands on the dastard, he’d gladly spend his last breath to make certain he ne’er tried the like again.

Ever.

“Aye, I said he was a MacKenzie.” His grandfather remained stubborn. Oblivious to the truth. “Did you no’ hear me the first
time?”

Ronan pulled a hand down over his chin, seeking words that wouldn’t alarm.

“Every last one of the Black Stag’s men departed with him,” he finally reminded the older man. “You saw them go. I rode with
them to the end of our glen.”

“Be that as it may, one of them returned.” Valdar leaned forward in his high-backed oaken chair. “A courier, he was,” he insisted,
his furred bed-robe straining over his girth. “Sure as I’m sitting here.”

A courier from hell
, Ronan almost blurted.

Instead, he choked back a snort, doing his best to disguise it as a cough.

Already the old man’s face was flushed red and glistening, while the light from a spiked candle near his chair clearly showed
tiny beads of perspiration beginning to mist his brow. Most worrisome of all, his eyes glittered dangerously and he couldn’t
seem to keep his left foot from thumping against the floor rushes.

Ronan didn’t want to think about what might happen if his grandfather knew the missive’s contents.

He could scarce stomach them himself.

A warning, Raven . . . meet me at the Tobar Ghorm on the morrow’s noontide to learn who amongst your men would betray you.
Do not be late and come alone . . . your own life and the lives of those you hold dearest hang on a thread. Ignore my summons
at greatest peril.

Dungal Tarnach

Frowning, he rolled up the parchment and thrust it beneath his belt, not bearing its blackness in his hands. He could feel
the inked poison affecting him, drying his throat and making the pain in his ribs throb and burn.