Bride for a Knight

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  An emptiness so stifling its heavy quiet threatened to dampen Gelis’s confidence. Brilliant autumn sunshine slanted across the cobbles and nothing stirred. The whole of the vast enclosure loomed silent, the thick curtain walls seeming to watch them, looking on in stern disapproval of their frivolous pursuit.

  Gelis paused and took a deep breath. She also lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders. Better to feign bravura than give Arabella the satisfaction of sensing her unease. So she glanced about as unobtrusively as she could, trying to dispel the day’s oddness.

  But the morn was odd.

  And unnaturally still.

  No sounds reached them from the nearby stables. No birdsong rose from the rowan trees beside the chapel and not a one of their father’s dogs darted underfoot as they were wont to do, eager as they were for scraps of food or simply a quick scratch behind the ears. Even Loch Duich lay silent, with nary a whisper of lapping water coming from the other side of the isle-girt castle’s stout walling.

  The water in the scrying bowl glimmered, its silvery surface beckoning, restoring Gelis’s faith as she knelt to peer into its depths.

  “See? There is nothing there,” Arabella announced, dropping down beside her. “No future husbands’ faces and not even a ripple from the wind,” she added, poking a finger into the bowl and stirring the surface.

  “No-o-o!” Gelis swatted at her sister’s hand. “We mustn’t touch the water!” she cried, horror washing over her. “Doing so will spoil the magic.”

  “There wasn’t any magic,” Arabella scoffed, drying her fingers on a fold of her skirts. “You saw yourself that the bowl showed nothing.”

  “It was glowing silver,” Gelis insisted, frustration beating through her. “‘Twas the light of the full moon, caught there and waiting for us.”

  Arabella pushed to her feet. “The only thing waiting for us is the stitchery work Mother wishes us to do this morn.”

  “The embroidery she wishes you to help her with,” Gelis snipped, tipping the moon-infused water onto the cobbles. “I ply my needle with clumsier fingers than Mother, as well she knows.”

  “She will be expecting you all the same.”

  Gelis clutched the empty scrying bowl to her breast, holding fast as if it still shimmered with magic. The face of her one true love, a man she just knew would be as much a legend as her father.

  Bold, hot-eyed, and passionate.

  Arrogant and proud.

  And above all, he’d be hers and no one else’s.

  “Let us be gone,” Arabella prodded. “We mustn’t keep Mother waiting.”

  Gelis splayed her fingers across the bottom of the bowl. It felt warm to the touch. “You go. She won’t miss me. Nor would she want me ruining her pillow coverings,” she said, distracted. Faith, she could almost feel her gallant’s presence. A need and yearning that matched her own. “I’ll help her with some other task. Later.”

  Arabella narrowed her eyes on the bowl. “If you persist in meddling with such foolery, she will be very annoyed.”

  “Mother is never annoyed.” Gelis pinned the older girl’s back with a peeved stare as she left Gelis to stride purposefully across the cobbles, making for the keep and hours of stitching drudgery.

  “Nor will I be meddling in anything,” she added, blinking against the heat pricking her eyes when the bowl went cold and slipped from her fingers. “The magic is gone.”

  But the day was still bright, the light of the sun and the sweetness of the air too inviting for her to give in to the constriction in her throat. Across the loch, the wooded folds of Kintail’s great hills burned red with bracken, their fiery beauty quickening her pulse and soothing her.

  She loved those ancient hills with their immense stands of Caledonian pine, rolling moors, and dark, weathered rocks. Even if she wouldn’t venture that far, preferring to remain on Eilean Creag’s castle island, she could still slip through the postern gate and walk along the shore.

  And if her eyes misted with unshed tears, the wind off the loch would dry them. Not that she’d let any spill to begin with. O-o-oh, no. She was, after all, a MacKenzie, and would be until her last breath. No matter who she married.

  And she would marry.

  Even if the notion put a sour taste in her father’s mouth.

  Swallowing against the persistent heat in her own throat, she glanced over her shoulder, assuring that no one was watching, then let herself out the gate.

  It was colder on the lochside of the curtain walls, the wind stronger than she’d realized. Indeed, she’d gone but a few paces before the gusts tore her hair from its pins and whipped long, curling strands of it across her face. Wild, unruly strands as fiery red as the bracken dressing her beloved hills and every bit as unmanageable as Arabella’s sleek midnight tresses ever remained in place.

  “She would look perfectly coiffed in a snowstorm,” Gelis muttered, drawing her cloak tighter as she marched across the shingle.

  Marching was good.

  She wasn’t of a mood to amble. And she certainly didn’t feel like gliding along gracefully as was her sister’s style. Truth be told, if her frustration didn’t soon disappear, she might even do some stomping. Great sloshing steps straight through the shallows of the loch, heedless of sea wrack and rocks, needing only to put her disappointment behind her.

  It scarce mattered if she looked a fool.

  No one could see her.

  Only the lone raven circling high above her.

  A magnificent creature, his blue-black wings glistening in the sun as he rode the wind currents, sovereign in his lofty domain, impervious to her woes. Or, she decided, after observing him for a few moments, perhaps not so unaffected after all for unless she was mistaken, he’d spotted her.

  She could feel his sharp stare.

  Even sense a slight angling of his head as he swooped lower, coming ever closer, keen interest in each powerful wing beat. Challenge and conquest in his deep, throaty cries as, suddenly, he dove straight at her, his great wings folded, his piercing eyes fixed unerringly on hers.

  Gelis screamed and ducked, shielding her head with her arms, but to no avail. Flying low and fast, the raven was already upon her. His harsh cry rang in her ears as his wings opened to enfold her, their midnight span blotting the sky and stealing the sun, plunging her into darkness.

  “Mercy!” Gelis fell to her knees, the swirling blackness so complete she feared she’d gone blind.

  “Ach, dia!” she cried, the bird’s calls now a loud roaring in her ears. The icy wetness of the rock-strewn shore seeped into her skirts, damping them, the slippery-smooth stones shifting beneath her.

  Nay, the whole world was shifting, tilting and spinning around her as the raven embraced her, holding tight, his silken, feathery warmth a strange intimacy in the madness that had seized her.

  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 merit 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 onto 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. A Highland warrior ripped straight from her dreams, Gelis knew he’d be terrifying in the rage of battle yet 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 when he drew so near 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, Gelis 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.

  THE DISH

  Where authors give you the inside scoop!

  From the desk of Sue Ellen Welfonder

  Dear Reader,

  Anyone familiar with my books knows I enjoy weaving Highland magic into my stories. Scotland is rich in myth, legend, and lore, and it can be difficult to decide on the ideal tradition to use. Sometimes the choice comes easy, the answer appearing out of nowhere, almost as if by magic.

  This is the fairy dust that gives writers those amazing ah-ha moments and makes the process so wondrous. Also called serendipity, this phenomena is something I definitely believe in and have seen happen time and again.

  It happened to me most recently in Scotland, during the writing of BRIDE FOR A KNIGHT (available now). This book’s hero Jamie Macpherson is a special character, larger-than-life, full of charm, and deserving more than his lot in life. I wanted to help him find happiness.

  To do that, I needed something unique—a talisman—that would mean everything to Jamie. Something significant and life changing. But nothing felt right until I visited Crathes Castle and saw the Horn of Leys proudly displayed in the great hall. A medieval drinking horn of ivory and embedded with jewels, this treasure was presented to the Burnett family in 1323 by none other than Robert the Bruce.

  When I saw the horn and learned its history, I knew Jamie would be well served if I included a Horn of Days in his story. As for serendipity, I hadn’t planned on visiting Crathes. I didn’t have a car that day and getting there meant walking six miles each way. So I walked. Something just compelled me to go there. I believe that something was Highland magic.

  I hope you will enjoy watching Jamie discover the powerful magic of love and forgiveness. Readers wishing a peek at his world, might enjoy visiting my Web site at www.welfonder.com to see photos of Crathes Castle and even its famed Horn of Leys.

  With all good wishes,

  From the desk of Elizabeth Hoyt

  Gentle Reader,

  Whilst perusing my notes for THE SERPENT PRINCE (available now), I noticed this preliminary interview I made with the hero, Simon Iddesleigh, Viscount Iddesleigh. I present it here in the hope that it may amuse you.

  Interview With The Rakehell

  Lord Iddesleigh sits at his ease in my study. He wears a pristine white wig, a sapphire velvet coat, and yards of lace at wrist and throat. His right leg is flung over the arm of the chair in which he lounges, and his foot—shod in a large red-heeled shoe—swings idly. His ice-gray eyes are narrowed in faint amusement as he watches me arrange my notes.

  Q: My lord, you have been described as a rakehell without any redeeming qualities. How do you answer such an accusation?

  Simon: It’s always so hard to reply to compliments of this kind. One finds oneself stammering and overcome with pretty blushes.

  Q: You do not deny your rakehell tendencies?

  Simon: Deny? No, madam, rather I embrace them. The company of beautiful, yet wholly unchaste ladies, the exchange of fortunes at the gambling tables, the late night hours, and even later breakfasts. Tell me, what gentleman would not enjoy such a life?

  Q: And the rumors that you’ve killed two men in separate duels?

  Simon: (stops swinging his foot for a second, then continues, looking me frankly in the eye) I would not put too much stock in rumors.

  Q: But—

  Simon: (admiring the lace at his wrist) Is that all?

  Q: I did want to ask you about love.

  Simon: (sounding uncommonly bored) Rakehells do not fall in love.

  Q: Never?

  Simon: Never.

  Q: But—

  Simon: (now soundi
ng horribly kind) Madam, I tell you there is no percentage in it. In order for a rakehell to be foolish enough as to fall in love, he’d have to find a woman so extraordinarily intelligent, witty, charming, and beautiful that he would for-sake all other women—and more importantly their favors—for her. What are the odds, I ask you?

  Q: But say a rakehell did fall in love—

  Simon: (heaving an exasperated sigh) I have told you it is impossible. But if a rakehell did fall in love …

  Q: Yes?

  Simon: It would make a very interesting story.

  Yours Most Sincerely,

  www.elizabethhoyt.com

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter One