Seducing a Scottish Bride (3 page)

Gelis shivered, her entire body trembling, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. Mother of mercy, the raven’s wings were
squeezing her, his fierce grip and the pressing darkness cutting off her air, making her dizzy.

But then his grasp loosened, his great wings releasing her so swiftly she nearly choked on the first icy gulp of air to rush
back into her lungs. She tried to push to her feet, but her legs shook too badly and her chill-numbed fingers slid helplessly
across the slick, seaweed-draped stones.

Worse, she still couldn’t see!

Impenetrable blackness surrounded her.

That, and the unnatural stillness she’d noted earlier in the bailey.

It crept over her now, icing her skin and raising gooseflesh, silencing everything but the thunder of her own blood in her
ears, the wild hammering of her heart.

Her well-loved hills were vanished, Loch Duich but a distant memory, the hard, wet coldness of its narrow shore barely discernible
against the all-consuming darkness. The raven was gone, too, though his breath-stealing magnificence still gripped her.

She hadn’t even seen him speed away.

Couldn’t see . . . anything.

Terror pounding through her, she bit her lip, biting down until the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. Then, her legs
still too wobbly to sustain the effort, she tried to rise again.

“
Please
,” she begged, the nightmare of blindness a white-hot clamp around her heart. “I don’t want —”

She broke off, losing her balance as she lurched to her feet, her gaze latching on to a dim lightening of the shadows, a slim
band of shimmering silver opening ever so slowly to reveal the towering silhouette of a plaid-draped, sword-hung man, his
sleek, blue-black hair just brushing his shoulders, a golden, runic-carved torque about his neck. A powerfully built stranger
with a striking air of familiarity, for even without seeing him clearly, Gelis knew he was watching her with the same intensity
as the raven.

An unblinking, penetrating stare that went right through her, lancing all resistance.

Claiming her soul.

“You!” she gasped, her voice a hoarse rasp. Someone else’s, not hers. She pressed her hands to her breasts, staring back at
him, her eyes widening as she sank once more to the ground. “You are the raven.”

The bright silver edging him flared in affirmation, and he stepped closer, the gap in the darkness opening just enough to
show her his glory. And he
was
glorious, a man of mythic beauty, looking as if he could stride through any number of the legends of the Gael. Dark, pure
Celt, and irresistibly seductive, it almost hurt to gaze on him, so great was his effect on her. He was a Highland warrior
ripped straight from her dreams, and Gelis knew he’d be terrifying in the rage of battle and insatiable in the heat of his
passion.

She also knew he wanted her.

Or, better said,
needed
her.

And in ways that went far beyond the deep sensual burning she could sense rippling all through his powerful body. His eyes
made him vulnerable. Dark as the raven’s and just as compelling, they’d locked fast with hers, something inside them beseeching
her, imploring her to help him.

Letting her see the shadows blackening his soul.

Then, just as he drew so near that Gelis thrust out a shaking hand to touch him, he vanished, disappearing as if he’d never
been.

Leaving her alone on the surf-washed little strand, the high peaks of Kintail and the shining waters of Loch Duich the only
witnesses to all that had transpired.

“ Oh- dear-saints,” Gelis breathed, lowering herself onto a damp-chilled boulder. Scarce aware of what she was doing, she
dashed her tangled hair from her brow and turned her face into the stinging blast of the wind, letting its chill cool her
burning cheeks, the hot tears now spilling free.

Tears she wasn’t about to check, regardless of her proud name.

The blood-and-iron strength of her indomitable lineage. A heritage that apparently held much more than she’d ever suspected.

More than she or anyone in her family would ever have guessed.

Still trembling, she tipped back her head to stare up at the brilliance of the blue autumn sky. To be sure, the raven was
nowhere to be seen, and the day, nearing noontide now, stretched all around her as lovely as every other late October day
in the heart of Kintail.

But this day had turned into a day like no other.

And she now knew two things she hadn’t known upon rising.

Her heart full of wonder, she accepted the truth. She was a
taibhsear
like her mother, inheriting more than Linnet MacKenzie’s flame-colored tresses, but also her
taibhsearachd
.

The gift of second sight.

A talent that had slumbered until this startling morn, only to swoop down upon her with a vengeance, making itself known and
revealing the face of her beloved.

Her future husband and one true love.

There could be no doubt, she decided, getting slowly to her feet and shaking out her skirts, adjusting her cloak against the
still-racing wind.

“I was wrong,” she whispered, thinking of the scrying bowl as she turned back toward Eilean Creag and the postern gate. The
magic hadn’t disappeared.

It’d only gone silent.

Waiting to return in a most wondrous manner.

A totally unexpected manner, she owned, slipping back into the now-bustling bailey. She possessed her mother’s gift, and knowing
how accurate such magic was, she need only bide her time until her raven came to claim her.

Then true bliss would be hers.

Of that she was certain.

About the same time, but in one of Eilean Creag Castle’s uppermost tower chambers, Duncan MacKenzie, the redoubtable Black
Stag of Kintail, stood at an unshuttered window, hands fisted at his sides, the twitch at his left eye threatening to madden
him. Scowling as only he could, he clenched his jaw so tightly he wondered he didn’t crack his teeth.

He did feel the weight of his years. They bore down on him as ne’er before.

Their burden and his outrage.

His scowl deepened and he glared at the sparkling waters of Loch Duich, the fair hills of his cherished Kintail, and the eye-gouging
clarity of the cloudless autumn sky. The lofty cliffs and headlands on the far side of the loch earned his especial disfavor.
Too impassive was their stare, too uncaring, the soaring rock that should have been weeping.

He wouldn’t weep either. As one of the Highlands’ fiercest and most powerful chieftains, such a weakness fell beneath his
dignity.

But he was mightily grieved.

“Saints, Maria, and Joseph,” he swore, curling his fingers around his sword hilt, then releasing it as quickly. His trusty
brand wouldn’t help him in this pass. Truth be told, he dare not even consider the like. He did allow himself another glower
at the wild mountain territory he called his own, great and boundless hills that had the gall to appear at such peace, so
calm and untroubled.

He could scarce breathe for vexation.

Never in all his days had he felt so cornered, so well and truly trapped.

He blew out an angry breath and shoved a hand through his hair. That such a day should taunt him with its beauty only tossed
fat onto the fire. The afternoon ought to be hung with shadows, a chill wind gusting round the curve of the tower, rattling
shutters and bringing the stinging bite of rain. Or, better yet, the relentless pelting of icy-needled sleet.

Och, aye, such weather would suit him better.

Instead, the sun shone with a brightness that rivaled the finest summer day and fired his frustration to a nigh unbearable
pitch. Wheeling around, he ignored the rolled parchment lying so brazenly on a magnificently carved oaken table, the missive’s
broken wax seals as damning as the words inked within, and fixed his wrath on the one person who should have warned him.

“You!” he fumed, his tone peremptory despite his great respect for his lovely lady wife, a woman as desirable now as she had
been the day he first glimpsed her, but also the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter and, as such, blessed — or cursed
— with the second sight.

She should have seen this coming.

“Why did you say nothing of this?” he demanded, striding across the chamber and snatching up the dread parchment. He waved
the thing at her, his displeasure rolling off him to fill the tapestry-lined solar. “I willna believe you didna know. Not
something of this import.”

To his wife’s credit, she didn’t retreat in the face of his anger. As always, his beloved Linnet simply remained where she
stood, her hands clasped before her, her gaze steady and unwavering, her chin lifted with just the wee shiver of stubbornness
he secretly admired.

“You of all souls ought know that I cannot control what my
taibhsearachd
wishes me to see,” she said, stepping forward to take the parchment from his hand and return it to the table. “Had I known,
I would have told you. As is” — she paused to push her heavy, flame-colored braid over her shoulder — “I cannot understand
the force of your reaction. There have been many other offers, and you’ve ne’er been pleased, but you’ve always brushed them
aside. Ne’er have I seen you take to your solar in such a ferment.”

“A
ferment
?” Turning to the table, Duncan poured himself a hefty portion of good and strong
uisge beatha
, tossing down the fiery Highland spirits in one throat-burning swig. “Fermenting doesn’t begin to describe it,” he avowed,
slamming down the cup, then dragging his sleeve across his mouth. “Not in a thousand lifetimes.”

To his horror, his wife’s eyes filled with pity. Clearly misunderstanding the reason for his ire, she quickly took on her
Saint Linnet
demeanor, clucking and cooing as she reached to adjust his plaid and smooth his shoulder- length, wind-tangled hair.

Sleek, gleaming black hair shot through with only a few streaks of silver, a matter of great satisfaction to him. Not that
he’d e’er admit his pleasure in retaining his youthful good looks. Or his tall, well-muscled form, his undisputed prowess
and continued ability to best any and all comers, regardless of age, boasts, or strength. His pride in still turning female
heads, at times even earning a few oohs and ahhs at his feats in the lists.

Och, nae, he wouldn’t admit that such things pleased him.

Far from it, he set his jaw and folded his arms against his wife’s coddling.

“If you find the thought of Gelis’s marrying so unpalatable, why not offer Arabella?” Linnet smiled encouragingly. “She is
the eldest, after all.”

Duncan snorted. “You read the missive. ’Tis Gelis they want, and no other. Word of her high-spiritedness clearly reached them
and” — he closed his eyes for a moment — “they’ll know, too, of Arabella’s calm. Seemly or no, it must be Gelis. Her fiery
blood has blazed like a beacon and caught the devil’s own eye!”

Drawing a tight breath, he glared at her. “And now I am to lose one daughter and offend the other!”

“Arabella will understand. And you must stop tying yourself in knots.” She fussed at his plaid again, the damnable sympathy
in her eyes worsening the twitch in his.

“For the love of Saint Columba, let it be,” he growled. “I willna have your pity.”

“You have my love,” she returned, deftly unfolding his arms and entwining her fingers in his. “And my constant adoration.
Though we have two daughters grown and well of an age to marry, my desire for you has ne’er lessened and shall ne’er lessen.”
She leaned close and kissed his cheek, the heathery scent of her hair swirling around him, almost letting him forget his turmoil.
Then she stepped back and angled her head, the measuring look in her eyes breaking the spell. “Your age will not increase
simply because Gelis becomes some man’s wife. She will still be your daughter and you shall e’er be —”

“Think you I am so riled because of
age
?” His brows shooting upward, Duncan stared at her, uncomfortably aware of the heat flashing up the back of his neck. “My
age, and even Gelis’s own, has little to do with it!”

“Indeed?” drawled a deep Sassunach voice from the shadows. “Then why do you feel a need to remind us? The saints know you’ve
made such a claim every time a new suitor has come to call.”

His day now wholly ruined, Duncan clamped his mouth shut and spun around to face the speaker. He was a tall, scar-faced knight
who leaned against the far wall, arms and legs casually crossed, sword at his hip, and such an air of imperturbability about
him that Duncan was certain that the heat flaming the back of his neck would soon shoot out his ears as steam.

“
This
is a different suitor.” Duncan’s head began to throb.

An annoyance that worsened when the other man pushed away from the wall and appropriated a chair, lowering himself into it
with a studied grace that was particularly annoying.

Especially since the chair was Duncan’s own.

Crossing the room in three angry strides, Duncan jammed his hands on his hips and stared down at his long-time friend. The
only soul who could dare show such insolence and live to tell the tale.

“What are you doing here?” Duncan took a step closer. “Have the southern boundaries of my territories gone so quiet that you
can leave Balkenzie for the sole pleasure of coming here to plague me?”

Sir Marmaduke Strongbow leaned back in the chair, steepled fingers slowly tapping his chin. A champion knight and staunch
supporter of the House MacKenzie, he affected as offended a look as his battle-scarred face allowed.

“You wound me,” he said, stretching his long legs toward the fire. “Balkenzie is ever held safe for you. And when I have business
elsewhere, my sweet lady wife is better at keepering than most men. As well you know.”

The Black Stag hurrumphed.

Sir Marmaduke pinned him with a stare.

“I will not contest Lady Caterine’s many talents,” Duncan conceded, restraining himself with effort. “Even so, you have yet
to tell me why you e’er seem to lurk about at the worst possible moments?”