Seducing a Scottish Bride (9 page)

A prospect that made a tight coil of anger pulse in his gut as he pushed a way through the boisterous kinsmen carousing in
the hall’s wide center aisle.

“Why are these men in such high spirits and the ones in the bailey so grim-faced and silent?” She tugged on his arm; started
dragging her feet. “The men outside —”

“Are on duty, my lady.”

“But tonight —”

“Is no different from any other. Not for the men guarding these walls.” He looked at her, willing her not to press him. “I
require them armed and prepared at all times. As you saw, they know it well.”

She glanced back toward the door. “Surely on such an occasion —”

“There are no exceptions.” Ronan tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Not at Dare.”

Color rose in her face. “But . . . oooh!”

A clansman stumbled into her, his ale-flushed face shining even brighter as he bowed near double in apology before lurching
away to join his fellow revelers.

Men clearly enjoying the reprieve in Dare’s usual evenings of silence and gloom.

Only the MacKenzie guardsmen sat quiet, their solemn ranks lining four trestle tables against the far wall. Paying no heed
to the rich food and drink laid out before them, they kept their eyes on their lady. Eyes shaded with disapproval when, just
before the dais steps, she stopped to shrug out of her traveling cloak.

Ronan’s own eyes narrowed. “That was unwise.”

She smiled.

A flashing, triumphant smile that proved her to be a woman of even greater spirit than he’d already surmised. Disturbed by
the discovery, Ronan’s mood darkened with his worst temper since he’d learned of her imminent arrival and the reason for her
coming.

As if she sensed her power over him, she preened, turning just enough so the glow of the torches spilled full across her display.

Ronan sucked in a breath, anything but unaffected.

“I see you know your worth, lady.” He winced at the harsh words, but he could feel his body stirring in hot response, tensing
and tightening in ways that were dangerous.

Bold as day, she held his gaze. Her eyes, an unusual shade close to fire-lit amber, shimmered, their depths shone with pure
female willfulness and something he could only call amusement.

“I know your worth as well, Raven.” She stepped close, so near her breath warmed his cheek and her breasts teased his plaid.
“We will be good together. The hills will sing in approval, you will see.” She tilted her head, her tone full of challenge.
“I will not allow it to be any other way.”

A muscle in Ronan’s jaw leaped. “I want only what is meet for you,” he said, taking her cloak.

That, at least, was God’s holy truth.

And the reason her shining-eyed eagerness pierced him like a white-hot blade.

Feeling as trapped as if such a blade pinned him to the rush-strewn floor, he thrust the mantle into the arms of a passing
servant. He scowled at the man’s back, tamping down the urge to hasten after him, retrieve the cloak, and then swirl the thing
around her shoulders again. Hiding the creamy expanse of her breasts and the well-defined curve of her hips, the glittering
gold chain that circled her waist twice and then dipped low, ending in a great green bauble that rested
just there
, gleaming and winking at him from a place he had no business admiring.

Not if he wished his plan to work. Biting back a curse, he tore his gaze away and clenched his fists.

He could not, would not, fall prey to her charms.

Green bauble bouncing at her woman’s mound or nae.

Her smile deepened, revealing a dimple. “The chain was a gift from Evelina of Doon, a friend of Devorgilla’s,” she said, looking
pleased that the stone had caught his eye.

And not a bit surprised.

Ronan frowned, determining never to let his gaze light on the bauble again.

Not that she needed such wickedly placed gemstones to draw a man’s attention.

He’d noted her sparkle, as his grandfather called it, outside, in the mist and shadows. Here in the great hall, under the
blaze of the torches, she was dazzling.

Possessed of such fire and light that Dare’s infernally cold-flamed torches sparked and flared with heat. Even the candles
of a nearby standing candelabrum danced in her wake, those flames, too, giving off a burst of warmth he could feel from several
feet away.

Unfortunately, he could also feel other stares.

Already seated at the top of the high table, Valdar lairded it in style, lifting his wine cup in repeated toasts and looking
more jovial than Ronan had ever seen him.

The Black Stag sat as if carved of stone, his expression leaving no doubt that he, too, had seen him eyeing the green bauble.

“He didn’t know I have it.” Gelis lifted the chain, twirling a length of it around one finger. “He wouldn’t have approved.
I wanted it because Evelina swore it would bewitch a man.”

“Indeed.” Ronan could scarce push the word off his tongue.

“You do not like it?” She let the chain drop. “ Evelina —”

“Whoever the woman is, she should ne’er have given you such a thing.” He looked at her, careful to keep his gaze above her
neck. “ ’Tis a siren’s toy.”

“I know.” Gelis laughed.

Ronan frowned. “Do you see the man in the shadows behind the high table? The gaunt one with flowing white hair and a raven
painted on his robe?” He indicated the ancient, not surprised to find his stare on them. “That man is Torcaill, and he’s here
to bless our union. I do not care to keep him waiting.”

“Neither do I,” she quipped, her dimple flashing. “I am pleased to see you so eager!”

Ronan made a noncommittal humph and offered her his arm. It was the best he could do without telling her that what he was,
was eager to be gone from her. A fool could see she’d take great glee in unraveling his plan.

Proving it, she refused his arm and set her hands on her hips. “Your friend Torcaill is holding a binding cord.” She turned
to watch the ancient approach the high table, the long golden cord dangling from his hands. “Why does he need the like?”

“Because he will use it to bind our hands when he —”

“You wish him to handfast us?” She stared at him, eyes wide. “I thought —”

“We never spoke of a handfasting!” Valdar slammed down his wine cup. “ ’Tis a true betrothal ceremony we need.” He leaped
to his feet, his eyes blazing like a Norse thunder god. “A betrothal this e’en, with a wedding soon to follow.”

“We ne’er spoke of aught.” Ronan met his glare, for once allowing his greater size and strength to work to his advantage.
“Torcaill will perform a handfasting, as I summoned him to do.” He turned to the Black Stag, his voice firm. “A handfasting
is as binding as a betrothal or wedding. As honorable. I chose it because of the circumstances at Dare. If, after a year and
a day —”

“Pah!” Gelis waved a dismissive hand. “I will not feel any different months from now than I do this day. We do not need a
trial marriage.”

“I deem it sensible.” Her father leaned forward, entirely agreeable. “I will leave here with a lighter heart, knowing this
day’s deed can be so easily undone.”

“Not so!” Gelis lifted her chin. “A handfasted couple is as married as any other once certain intimacies are accomplished.”
She smiled again. “After that, no one can unsay the pact.”

Her father’s expression darkened.

A bit farther down the high table, her scar-faced uncle took a slow sip of wine. “That being so, you have no cause to reject
such a ceremony.”

“Then so be it.” She gave a light shrug, her gaze on the druid’s golden cord. “I am not worried.”

Ronan braced himself, his own worries multiplying with Torcaill’s swishy-robed preparations. “Aye, so it shall be done,” he
agreed.

Already the ancient stood before them, his gnarled fingers wrapping the silken cord around their joined hands, his incantations
binding them with words even more constricting than his sacred golden rope.

Drawing a tight breath, Ronan glanced at the raftered ceiling, wishing the graybeard had words that would make the rest unfold
with equal ease.

Unfortunately, something told him there wasn’t enough druidic magic in the world to help him.

He was wholly on his own.

Left to his own devices to convince Gelis MacKenzie she wanted nothing to do with him.

F
or you, my lady. Sugared almonds.” A pink-cheeked boy with bright red hair placed the sweets on the high table, carefully
setting them next to the trencher Gelis shared with the Raven. “My lord thought you might like them.”

“I am fond of sweets.” Gelis reached for one, her words causing the boy’s flush to deepen. “Thank you.”

Beside her, Ronan stiffened. “Sugared almonds are Cook’s favored fare, offered to all Dare’s guests.”

“Say you?” She had her doubts about that, but flashed her best smile all the same.

Seeming not to notice, her newly handfasted husband applied himself to the roasted meat on the trencher.

Not about to let him spoil the moment, she picked up the bowl of nuts and held it out to the boy. “Why don’t you take a handful
for yourself?”

“Och, I have my own.” His small chest puffing, he produced a grubby leather pouch, opening it to reveal a portion of the sticky
treats. “Lord Ronan wanted me to have them.”

“Ah, is that so?” She slid a glance at him, pitching her voice for his ears alone. “You already mentioned how infrequently
guests honor Dare, but I am pleased to see that you are fond of children.”

“Hector is a good lad.” He set down his cup without looking at her. “He tends Dare’s dogs and helps with the chickens.”

“I will soon have more duties.” The boy’s face lit with importance. “The lord has promised me a
sgian dubh
when he next leaves the glen. Once I have it, I shall join the night patrol. They’ve chosen me to train because I have sharp
eyes.”

“And if you had a fine dirk now?” Gelis spoke to the lad, but turned a questioning look on the Raven. “I might have the perfect
sgian dubh
for you.”

Hector’s eyes rounded. “You do?”

“If she does, you may have it.” Ronan gave approval, his face hard-set though his words were kind.

Gelis winked at him. “I have gifts for you, too.” She leaned close, making sure her breasts brushed his sleeve. “If you would
but have them!”

In answer, his jaw tightened.

He said nothing.

A few seats away, Valdar slapped the table. “A spirited gel, what did I say?”

Next to him, Duncan hrumphed. “I vow this hall will soon be ringing with her liveliness.” Leaning around his host, he aimed
a pointed glance at her. “Mind your outbursts, lass, or you might find yourself back home before a year and a day rolls around.”

“Dare is my home now.” Gelis returned his stare, her chin lifted. “I shall not be returning to Eilean Creag save to visit.”

This time it was the Raven who hrumped.

His grandfather hooted.

Encouraged by the old man’s mirth, Gelis edged closer to Ronan, near enough so that he couldn’t help but catch her precious
attar of roses scent. Triumph hers, she watched his nose quiver. Sadly, the rest of him remained as rigid as if he were made
of granite.

She forced a smile, undaunted.

Seduction was her game.

And she meant to win.

“Dare was as good as your home — once!” Valdar’s booming voice sounded again as he reached to clink his wine cup against Duncan’s.
“You would be wise to remember those days and have done with your fomenting. It serves naught. The deed is done, by all the
Powers!”

“ ’Tis still a hard matter.” Duncan swung around to cast a dark look at Sir Marmaduke. “Even if some have forgotten their
own ill ease none so long ago.”

“There are times we must be satisfied with what the fates give us.” Sir Marmaduke lifted the wine flagon and refilled his
cup. “In especial, once a deed is done.”

The Black Stag’s brows snapped together.

Sir Marmaduke merely sipped his wine.

“He but speaks the truth, Father.” Gelis wriggled the fingers of her left hand, proud of her new ring’s sparkle. “ ’Tis too
late for objections.”

Valdar slapped the table again. “So I said, just!”

Tight-lipped, Duncan held his peace.

Glad for it, Gelis turned back to Hector. The lad still hovered at her elbow, so she flipped aside her golden waist-chain
and its bauble, revealing a delicate
sgian dubh
at her hip. It was a child’s dagger, and its beautifully worked horn handle gleamed in the torchlight.

“This is a special dirk,” she said, handing it to the boy. “My brother Robbie gave it to me when I was about your age. Our
father fashioned it for him, and I’ve kept it as a talisman. It will serve you well.”

“O-o-o-h, it shall! I thank you.” Hector curled his fingers around the dirk’s sheath. “Wait until the lads in the kitchens
see this.”

“You misremember, lass.” Duncan spoke up as soon as the boy darted away with his prize. “ ’Twas your uncle Kenneth who gave
Robbie that wee blade,” he reminded her. “He made it in the good years, before he turned —”