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.
Chapter Four
For 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 —”
“Now is not the time to speak of that one.” Sir Marmaduke placed a hand on his arm. “Be glad Gelis has an admirer in the lad. His merriment will prove a greater talisman than any child’s miniature dagger.”
The Black Stag shook his arm free. “She shouldn’t have need of a talisman! By all the saints, I shall be glad when —”
“It will gladden you even more, Kintail, to hear that she has no need of such a token.” Ronan set down his eating knife. “No harm shall touch her.”
Gelis put aside her own knife. The way he’d said “no harm shall touch her” made her chest tighten and the tops of her ears burn.
Something told her he meant he wouldn’t touch her.
Not harm, but him.
His hands, and in all the ways she’d dreamed of being caressed by a husband.
Caressed and loved.
Her heart thumping, she lowered her lashes, eyeing him as surreptitiously as possible. Unfortunately, the truth of her suspicion stood etched all over him. Never had she seen a man so determined not to notice her.
Not wanting to believe it, she shifted in her chair, deliberately pressing her knee against his thigh, a ploy that made him jerk away faster than if she’d jabbed him with a white-hot fire poker.
She frowned and withdrew her knee, opting for another tactic.
“Perhaps you should try the sugared almonds.” She nudged the bowl in his direction. “Their sweetness might improve your mood.”
His expression darkened. “There is naught under the heavens capable of such a feat, my lady. Not sugared almonds. Nor one so fair as you.”
“So you find me appealing?”
“You would take any man’s breath.” He looked at her, his gaze piercing. “As well you know.”
“You do not look very breathless.” She had the boldness to jut her chin at him, her amber eyes glittering with irritation.
His own annoyance riding him, Ronan ignored her pique. The uncomfortable way her very presence made him suspect that one wee slip in his dealings with her might see the course of his life changing.
And in ways he couldn’t control.
His grandfather’s jollity as he jested with her father proved equally bitter. Valdar’s every hooted laugh and eye twinkle twisted his innards, as did the hope brightening the faces of Dare’s guardsmen, the bursts of good cheer rising from the trestle tables.
Such gaiety wouldn’t last.
One glance at the tightly closed hall windows proved it. Already, threads of mist slipped in through the shutter slats. Long, slithering tendrils hushed along the hall’s outermost tables, dousing candles and causing the hanging crusie lamps to splutter and extinguish.
As did Ronan’s brief and mad hope of seizing his unexpected fortune and risking another chance at love.
So he did what he could, reaching for a rib of fire-roasted beef, then drawing back his hand to pull his earlobe instead. At once, a stir and racket ensued at the next table as Torcaill the druid pushed to his feet.
“I, Torcaill of Ancient Fame, do bless the Raven and his lady!” His strong voice rising, he lifted his walking stick, shaking it heavenward. “May they prosper in the name and glory of the Old Ones!”
Cheers rose and the mist wraiths withdrew, disappearing back through the closed shutters whence they’d come.
Torcaill made one last flourish with his slachdan druidheachd, the great druidic wand seeming to shimmer and glow as he lowered it.
He looked round, the spread-winged raven decorating his robe gleaming in the torchlight. “I wish you a fair night — one and all!”
Valdar half-rose from his chair. “Ho, Torcaill!” he yelled when the druid turned and strode away. “The night is no’ yet by with. You must bless the bridal bed.”
“All has been said.” Torcaill paused, one hand clutching his staff, the other pressed against his berobed hip. “My bones are aching and I seek my own bed. Your grandson and his lady have my fullest sanction and the goodwill of the Ancients. ’Tis enough.”
“Word is you dinna even have a bed!” Valdar hooted, slamming down his wine cup. “Or did I have bog cotton in my ears all the times you’ve sworn you canna be bothered by sleep?”
“I will see he reaches his cottage safely.” Ronan stood. “The mist is thick this night. I’d no’ want him to stumble ere he reaches his door.”
Then, before the stunned faces at the high table could sway him, he strode fro
m the dais, leaving kith and kin to think what they might.
If he’d planned rightly, Lady Gelis wouldn’t be so eager to press her knee against him again.
Her knee, or any other part of her delectable, rose-scented self.
Much as he’d regret it.
“She’s one of the chosen, I tell you.” Torcaill stepped from the dark of the trees almost as soon as Ronan let himself out a little- used gate in the castle’s outer walling. “The brilliance of her nigh blinded me.”
Ronan suppressed the urge to snort. “She is a bright one, aye.” He looked at the druid, almost adding that the great green bauble glittering at the vee of her thighs all night had near blinded him.
That, and other things.
Not to mention the effect of the top crests of her nipples. Pert and crinkly crescents of a fine rosy hue, they’d peeked above her bodice each time she deigned to draw a particularly deep breath.
Which, he’d observed, she’d done far too often.
He frowned, his jaw and other places tightening.
Even now, in the chill dark of the wood, he could see the creamy fullness of her breasts, the sweet press of her nipples against the edge of her low-dipping gown.
He also remembered the silky huskiness of her laugh and the way she seemed fond of sliding a slow finger up and down the hilt of her eating knife.
“You err, my friend.” He reached to flick a fallen leaf off the druid’s cloak. “Lady Gelis is earthy, not chosen.”
Earthy in ways that weren’t good for a man.
He was sure of it.
A sense of doom circling round him, he bit back a groan and shoved a hand through his hair, so distracted he wasn’t sure if he’d blurted out his woes or kept them to himself.
Not that it mattered.
Torcaill of Ancient Fame, as all addressed the white-maned wizard, wasn’t a man to hide secrets from.
“She has the third eye.” He gripped Ronan’s arm, squeezing. “I saw its light shining like a lodestar. She —”
“The sight?” Ronan couldn’t help his surprise. “That canna be. My grandfather knows her as well as if she’d grown up beneath his over-long nose. He would have told me if she was a taibhsear.”
Seducing a Scottish Bride Page 7
