Seducing a Scottish Bride (41 page)

“Tsk, tsk . . .” She wagged a finger. “You were quite ungallant!”

“Then we are quit!” Torcaill sprang to his feet, pulling her up with him. “You cannot deny you called me an old goat and a
buzzard.”

He stared down his nose at her until her eyes twinkled with mirth.

“I did call you that, right enough,” she admitted, letting him guide her into the center of the dancers.

“A lass can err . . .”

Her words floated back to Gelis as the two began to jig and twirl. “I did not make an error with you.” She leaned into Ronan,
her heart filling. “I knew from the start that we — dear saints, look!”

She pointed at the whirling pair. “Do you see them?”

Ronan blinked. “I do, but I can hardly believe it.”

Even so, the night’s silver-cast light shone clearly on a tall, straight-backed young man so handsome and proud he could only
be Torcaill. His beard and hair gleamed as dark as Ronan’s own and his shoulders looked nearly as wide. Gaunt and gray no
more, he tripped the reel with more vigor than any other man dancing.

And the blushing maid in his arms laughed brightly, her own hair no longer grizzled and white, but auburn and glossy. Her
eyes sparkled as he whirled her around, her flying skirts not black but blue, their hems lifting to reveal well-turned ankles
and fast, perfectly stepping feet.

Until a cloud passed over the moon and the illusion faded, leaving them as they were before.

But still they twirled and jigged, smiling and laughing the while.

An uncomfortable heat swelled in Gelis’s throat. She swiped a hand across her cheek and blinked back the nontears no self-respecting
MacKenzie would shed.

“ ’Tis said this is a festival of lovers.” She lifted her chin to counter the wobble in her voice. “If they leap over the
bonfires later — I shall believe it!”

I believe it now — every e’en we share is a loving festival . . .

Gelis blinked, not sure she’d heard the words.

“You are as happy, my lady?”

That, she did hear.

But the uncertainty in the beloved voice took her by surprise.

“Tell me,” he pressed. “Are you as content as those two . . . as we saw them just now?”

He stepped closer, the intensity of his gaze scorching her.

Her shoulders bumped into something hard and solid, and she started, only now realizing that he’d led her into the quiet of
the little stone circle.

“Well?” He braced his hands on either side of her, trapping her against one of the stones. “I need the answer, sweetness.”

The hitch in his voice undid her.

Her heart nearly leaped from her chest.

“Och, Ronan! I will tell you how happy I am!” She flung herself at him, slinging her arms around his neck. “Happier than these
stones are old,” she gushed, indicating them with a toss of her head. “My love for you is greater than the breadth of the
sky or the depth of the sea! Even the number of waves rolling to shore, the sands and all the —” She broke off, his creased
brow worrying her.

“What is it?” She angled her head, a great fear gripping her. “Do you not feel the same?”

She had to know.

He tightened his arms around her and kissed her long, deep, and hard, his passion dispelling her ill ease until he broke the
kiss to look at her.

His brow was even more troubled than before.

“You know I feel the same.” He paused. “There’s just one thing —”

“You have regrets?” She rushed the words, the look on his face almost laming her.

“Aye, I do.” He watched her closely. “I regret I ne’er seduced you.”

“
Didn’t seduce me?
”

He shook his head. “Nae, I didn’t. No’ properly. ’Twas you who —”

“Ahhhh . . . but you did!” She laughed, relief almost splitting her. “I was seduced the very moment I saw you. And” — she
grabbed his face, kissing him soundly — “I swear if Valdar hadn’t sent his man to fetch me, I would have come looking for
you myself!”

“Ach, lass.” He squeezed her, the thickness of his voice saying so much. “Then shall we say that we were both seduced?”

“Um-hmmm . . .” she agreed, this time not bothering to blink back her nontears. “Seduced and forever bound.”

SUE-ELLEN WELFONDER is a card-carrying Scotophile whose burning wish to make frequent (free) trips to the land of her dreams
led her to a twenty-year career with the airlines. Bilingual, she flew international all those years, working her flights
as foreign language speaker. Her flying career allowed her to see the world, but it was always to Scotland that she returned.

Now a full-time writer, she’s quick to admit that she much prefers wielding a pen to pushing tea and coffee. She spent fifteen
years living in Europe and used that time to explore as many castle ruins, medieval abbeys, and stone circles as possible.
Anything ancient, crumbling, or lichened caught her eye. She makes annual visits to Scotland, insisting they are a necessity
as each trip gives her inspiration for new books.

Proud of her own Hebridean ancestry, she belongs to two clan societies: the MacFie Clan Society and the Clan MacAlpine Society.
In addition to Scotland, her greatest passions are medieval history, the paranormal, and dogs. She never watches television,
loves haggis, and writes at a 450-year-old desk that once stood in a Bavarian castle.

Sue-Ellen is married and currently resides with her husband and Jack Russell Terrier in Florida. Readers can learn more about
her and the world of her books at
www.welfonder.com
.

More sensual Scottish romance from Sue-Ellen Welfonder!

Please turn this page for a preview of

A Highlander’s Temptation

Available in mass market

October 2009

A
long the west coast of Scotland lies a chain of islands of such beauty and grandeur even the most ardent romantic is hard-pressed
to describe their majesty. Curving bays of glistening white sand and glittering seas of every hue vie to take one’s breath
while jagged, spray-strewn skerries and sheer, impossibly steep cliffs compete with gentle, grass-grown dunes and long-tumbled
ruins to stir the soul.

Ruled for centuries by the pagan Norse, the Hebrides is a place of legend, each isle steeped in ancient lore and tradition.
Sea-gods, mer-folk, and fabled Celtic heroes abound, their mythic tales spun with relish by silver-tongued bards in the long,
dark cold of deep winter nights.

But not all such tales are widely known.

Indeed, some are kept secret.

And one of the most
intriguing
secrets to be found in the vast Sea of the Hebrides belongs to the once-proud Clan MacConacher.

Broken, small in number, and ill-favored with the Scottish crown, the MacConachers dwell far from their erstwhile seat in
Argyll; their straight-backed, long-suffering ranks reduced to scratching out a living on a rocky, windswept isle surrounded
by reefs and rough seas.

An isle they cherish because it is all that remains left to them, and, above all, because MacConacher’s Isle lies well beyond
the reach of the dread MacKenzies, the powerful clan that ruined them.

Not that the MacConachers wish to forget their doom-bringing foes.

Far from it, the present chieftain is young, bold, and of fiery spirit. Keen to throw off his clan’s mantle of shame and sorrow,
he has only two burning ambitions. He lives to restore his family’s good name and fortune. As he also plans for the day he
can wreak vengeance on Clan MacKenzie.

His least concern is his clan’s most precious possession, the Thunder Rod.

Given to an ancestor by a Norse nobleman, the relic is a polished length of fossilized wood, intricately carved with runes
and still bearing bits of brilliant color. Clan elders claim the rod was either a piece of wood torn from the prow of Thor’s
own longboat or, perhaps, crafted by a great Viking lord for his lady to keep in his remembrance when at sea.

Roughly the size of a man’s forearm and rumored to hold great magic, its particular powers do not interest the braw MacConacher
chieftain.

Until the stormy morning when the black winds of fate present him with an irresistible opportunity to settle a long-simmering
score.

Now, at last, he can use the Thunder Rod.

If he dares.

EILEAN CREAG CASTLETHE GREAT HALL AT MORNING, AUTUMN 1350

W
hat do you mean you wish to see the Seal Isles?”

Duncan MacKenzie, the indomitable Black Stag of Kintail, slapped down his ale cup and stared across the well-laden high table
at his eldest daughter, Lady Arabella. His good humor of a moment before vanished as he narrowed his eyes on her, his gaze
piercing.

Arabella struggled for composure. Years of doing so helped her not to squirm. But she wasn’t sure she could keep her cheeks
from flaming. Already the back of her neck burned as if it’d caught fire.

So she moistened her lips and tried to pretend her father wasn’t pinning her with a look that said he could see right into
her soul, maybe even knew how her belly churned and that her palms were damp.

Or that all her hopes and dreams hung on this moment.

“Well?” He raised one dark brow.

Arabella plucked at a thread on her sleeve, then, realizing what she was doing, stopped at once. She looked up, somehow resisting
the urge to slip a finger beneath the neckline of her gown or perhaps even loosen her bodice ties. Faith, but she needed air.
Her chest felt so constricted, she could hardly draw a breath.

She did manage to hold her father’s stare. Hot and bold MacKenzie blood flowed in her veins, too. And even if she’d spent
her life quashing any urges to heed her clan’s more passionate nature, this was one time she meant to do her name proud.

So she angled her chin and firmed her jaw with just a touch of stubbornness.

“You heard what I said.” She spoke as calmly as she could, her daring making her heart skitter. “The seals . . .”

She let the words tail off, the excuse sounding ridiculous even to her own ears.

Her father huffed, clearly agreeing.

“We’ve plenty of such beasties in our own waters.” He made a dismissive gesture, his tone final. “You’ve no need to journey
to the ends of nowhere to see them.”

At once, a deafening silence fell around the hall’s torch-lit dais. Somewhere a castle dog cracked a bone,his gnawing all
the more loud for the sudden quiet. Everywhere kinsmen and friends swiveled heads in their puissant chieftain’s direction,
though some discreetly glanced aside. Whatever their reaction, no one appeared surprised by the outburst. Those who called
Eilean Creag their home were well used to his occasional bouts of temper.

“If it is such creatures you wish to study, I saw one just yestere’en.” He sat back in his carved oaken laird’s chair, looking
pleased. “A fine dog seal sunning himself on a rock down by the boat strand.”

Arabella doubted every word. She did tighten her fingers on the handle of her spoon.

This wasn’t about seals and she suspected her father knew it.