Seducing a Scottish Bride

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  Torcaill made a dismissive gesture. “I do have the third eye, and I’ve never known it to lie.”

  Ronan released a breath, too aware of that truth to argue.

  “You still mean to follow your plan.” Torcaill looked at him, his eyes seeing all.

  “I have no choice.”

  “There are always choices.”

  “And you no longer approve of mine.”

  “I did not expect her to be gifted.” The druid pulled on his long white beard, his gaze thoughtful. “She has great power, that one. Even the cold flames of Dare’s torches responded to her. Did you not feel their bursts of warmth?”

  “I felt Lady Gelis’s heat and naught else!”

  Ronan scowled. The old wizard’s ability to loosen his tongue was almost as vexing as his own inability to ignore his bride’s charms.

  Her siren charms, the saints preserve him.

  Gelis MacKenzie was the meaning of seduction.

  It scarce mattered whether she had a third, fourth, or even a fifth eye.

  She affected him.

  He swallowed a curse. His head was beginning to hurt and a hot throbbing ache between his shoulders threatened to drive him mad.

  “She needs your protection.” Torcaill’s voice didn’t hold a jot of sympathy. “Her gift —”

  “Hell’s bells!” Ronan glared at him. “Why do you think I began this mummery if not to keep her safe?”

  “You mishear me, lad.” Looking annoyingly sage, the druid raised a hand, one gnarled finger aimed at a sliver of mist snaking across the ground toward their feet. When the mist wraith rose and curled back into the trees, disappearing behind the moss-grown trunks, the old man lowered his arm.

  “Your bride,” he continued, “needs to be safeguarded from more than shadows and yon creeping menace.”

  “Say you?” Ronan wrenched out his sword and thrust its business end into the dark, peaty ground. “I say such menaces ought to beware.”

  He’d no sooner spoken the words before the pounding between his shoulders worsened. The night now thoroughly ruined, he tightened his grip on his blade’s hilt. Somewhere a high-pitched wailing broke the silence. Choosing to ignore it, he deliberately let his sword slide deeper into the soft, leaf-covered earth.

  His earth, as some souls might need to be reminded.

  He also glowered.

  Just for the sheer pleasure of it. And as fiercely as any riled Highlander can.

  At once, the weird keening faded. Even the nearby mist shrouds quivered, then withdrew. Whether from his fury or his blade, each billowing curtain slid away, finally settling over a tumbled gathering of ancient burial mounds and standing stones. The resting place of Clan MacRuari’s hoariest forebears and the tainted ground whence such thick fog often came.

  Giving the crumbled relics one final glare, he knew a moment of triumph when the mist disappeared into the ground, leaving only the light haze of the moon. The wind dropped as well, though he’d swear the air went colder.

  Either way, he’d made his point.

  Or so he thought until he turned back to Torcaill and saw a look on the old man’s face that he hoped wasn’t pity.

  “Your blade and your scowls will not aid the lass,” the druid warned, shaking his head. “Not when they realize the prize beneath your roof.”

  “They?” Ronan tossed another glance at the ancient burial ground. “Why do I think you don’t mean the mist wraiths? Or the moldering bones of my ancestors.”

  “Because I do not.” Torcaill followed his stare, his long white hair blowing in a wind Ronan didn’t feel. “You ken who I mean. I’ve seen it in your eyes. Just as I know their return is why you wished to journey to Santiago de Compostela.”

  Ronan yanked his sword out of the earth, cleaned its tip with an edge of his plaid, then jammed the thing back into its sheath.

  He looked at the druid. “Is there aught you do not know?”

  “I know all that I am meant to know.”

  Ronan folded his arms. “Might that include the whereabouts of that which my enemies seek?”

  “The Raven Stone?” The druid looked at him as if he could scarce believe his ears. “Think you I would not have destroyed it years ago if I did? Rendering the stone worthless is the only way to break the curse and stop the Holders of the Stone from returning.”

  “They have not been here since I was a lad.” Ronan frowned, remembering. “Valdar banished them. The battle near broke him, as you’ll recall. And now —”

  “And now” — Torcaill tapped him on the chest with his walking stick — “you must fight them. Soon, they will show themselves. They will hide behind their mist and shadows only so long. Then they will seek your lady, believing her gift can be used to lead them to the stone.”

  “A curse on the wretched stone. If I had it, I would smite it in two, proving its worthlessness.”

  The druid said nothing.

  “ ’Twas Maldred’s own wickedness that cursed the MacRuaris,” Ronan argued. “Not his foul stone. The Holders are fools to desire it.”

  “Be that as it may, it is a treasure that is theirs by right, as well you know,” Torcaill said, looking unhappy all the same.

  “To be sure, I know.” A chill passed through Ronan, even as the back of his neck flamed.

  Every clansman of his name knew that Maldred the Dire was said to have stolen the Raven Stone from the Holders, thus acquiring his great powers, along with the eternal enmity of the magical stone’s true holders.

  The dark souls believed to have originally trapped a living raven within the stone’s hollowed center, forever granting the stone’s holders all the power and wisdom of that ancient and sacred bird.

  Ronan frowned.

  His gut twisted and he drew his sword again, needing its weight in his hand.

  Lady Gelis in the clutches of the Holders was unthinkable.

  If the fabled band of wizards even existed.

  Maldred the Dire’s bitterest foes, legend claimed they’d vowed to sweep into Glen Dare again and again, their warrior descendants wreaking havoc and vengeance all down the centuries until the Raven Stone was returned to them.

  Fireside ramblings Ronan had never truly believed.

  Even when, in tender years, he’d hid from their rampages, taking shelter in Dare’s kitchens behind his grandfather’s pile of wine casks as the red-eyed devils scoured the glen, searching for the Raven Stone.

  A horror he’d later decided had only been a vengeance raid by a long-forgotten enemy clan.

  An excuse he’d had to set aside some days ago, having thrown open his bedchamber window shutters only to see a shadowy figure peering up at him from the edge of the woods beyond the curtain walls.

  Dark-robed, cowled, and with eyes like two red- glowing coals, scorching hatred had burned in the Holder’s stare.

  A fiery-eyed glare that melted the window’s iron hinges.

  Ronan set his jaw, his gaze once again on the silent burial ground and the deep ring of pines sheltering the time-worn stones. Autumn-dead bracken choked whatever paths had once wound between the ancient cairns and monoliths. Maldred’s desecrated grave slab lay broken, its two halves covered with lichen and a drift of fallen leaves.

  Nothing stirred.

  But when the moon slid behind the clouds, plunging the wood into darkness, he couldn’t help but shudder.

  He looked at the druid, a man he called friend and had trusted since birth, as had his father and grandfather before him. Many more MacRuari chieftains as well, if one could believe the clan tongue-waggers.

  “Tell me, Torcaill,” he began, not mincing words. “The Holders are men, are they not?”

  There was only a slight hesitation. “They are men, aye.”

  Ronan nodded, satisfied.

  “Then they will ne’er leave this glen alive.” He tightened his grip on his sword hilt, the smooth leather banding warm beneath his fingers. “Every last one of them can join Maldred in yon tainted ground. Let them batt
le each other as they should have done centuries ago.”

  “Think you it will be so simple?” Torcaill’s deep voice echoed in the stillness. “There is your bride to consider. She changes all.”

  “She changes naught.” Ronan firmly disagreed. “She returns to Eilean Creag on the morrow. Her father wishes to leave at first light. Lady Gelis shall accompany him.”

  Torcaill lifted a brow. “That is how you mean to safeguard her?”

  “Sending her away is the only way to ensure her safety.”

  “Letting her ride out with her father would invite the destruction of the entire party.” The druid looked at him, his expression earnest. “Can you live with such a tragedy, should it come to pass?”

  “The Black Stag is a mighty warrior. His scar-faced friend, the Sassunach, is equally capable. They can see her safe and swiftly from this blighted glen.” Ronan paused, reasoning. “I will ride with them. Take along a score of Dare’s best men. Not that Kintail would require us. He is feared in all the land. Beyond our borders as well, if you’d believe the songs sung of him.”

  Torcaill remained unimpressed. “Such lays are not sung by those who melt steel.”

  “The Holders will not yet have noticed her.” Ronan drew a breath, willing it so. “She can be gone before they know she was even here.”

  “They knew she was here the moment her retinue crossed into MacRuari territory.”

  “We can still get her away. By stealth, if need be.”

  Torcaill shook his head. “They would see you.”

  Ronan snorted. “Let them. Think you I fear the miscreants?” He glared at the older man, willing him to see his strength. “I have cleaved grown men in twain, fought off a score of axe-wielding half-Celt, half-Norse Islesmen and sent them running back to their Hebrides before they could cry Thor or Cuchulainn. A MacRuari ne’er runs—”

  “Bah!” The druid waved a hand. “You have never faced such as these,” he warned, his eyes gleaming in the darkness. “Their power is so great they could charm your beasts into throwing the lot of you, even make them trample you with their flailing hooves.”

  “The devil roaring!” Ronan blew out a breath, not at all liking his options.

  “There is a way.”

  “And you will be knowing it, for a wager!”

  Torcaill flicked at his robes. “I but offer counsel, as I have ever done.”

  Ronan waited. “Well?”

  “It would be well if you were to keep a cool head and sharp wits.”

  “Be that your advice?” Heat flashed through Ronan. “Have you e’er known a MacRuari whose wits weren’t sharp? My own are honed enough, I say you — as is my sword.”

  “None doubt it. But you will be distracted.” Torcaill glanced at the enclosing wall of great Caledonian pines, his brow knitting when several mist tendrils slithered into view.

  Turning toward them, he raised his hand, but the mist snakes shimmied and quivered, quickly receding into a thicket of whin and broom before he could point his finger at them.

  Ronan cleared his throat.

  The druid smoothed a fold of his cloak.

  “Whether you would hear it or nae,” he said, “Lady Gelis poses problems you must —”

  “I know what I must do about her,” Ronan snapped, wishing he did.

  That annoying tinge of pity on his face again, the druid sighed. “Any man’s head would be turned by Lady Gelis. His blood stirred and heated. You must not let her cloud your thinking.”

  “She will no’ be here long enough to do the like.” Ronan remained firm. “After what you’ve told me this e’en, I am determined to see her gone. Safely so, and no matter what it costs me.”

  Torcaill’s expression turned to one of disappointment. “Have you not heard a word I’ve said?”

  “Och, to be sure and I have.” Ronan blew out a breath. He’d heard every word as clearly as if the wizard had branded them into his flesh.

  He just didn’t like them.

  “Then heed me well” — Torcaill strode after him when he started to pace — “you must keep the lass safe within Dare’s walls.”

  Ronan whirled on him. “Within the walls, you say? What makes you think the Holders won’t breach them? If they are so all-powerful, they might just blow down our gates with a puff of their sulfuric breath!”

  “You ought not jest —”

  “I would rather jest than believe the like.” Ronan put a hand to the back of his neck, certain it would soon catch fire. “I told you, I have ne’er fully believed the tales about Maldred and his foes and am no’ sure I wish to now.”

  He started pacing again, then spun back around as quickly. “No, I know I do not want to believe in them.”

  Even if he had seen a strange red-eyed figure lurking at the wood’s edge.

  Odd souls were known to roam the Highlands at times.

  He’d just happened to catch sight of one.

  As for the melted shutter hinges, he was sure there was a good explanation.

  “Whether you believe or not matters little,” the druid declared, further fouling his mood. “You have the choice of keeping your bride safe behind Dare’s walls or sending her to her doom.”

  Ronan frowned at him. “Keeping her from doom is and has been my greatest concern.”

  Torcaill looked pleased.

  With more than a little style and dash, he raised his staff, thrusting it into a thin shaft of moonlight.

  “I might be the last druid to wear the badge of the Raven,” he announced, “but I still have enough power to serve you and your lady.”

  She is not and ne’er shall be my lady, Ronan almost roared. But the old man’s eyes were shining and his sometimes bowed shoulders had gone remarkably straight.

  When the entire length of his slachdan druidheachd suddenly made a loud popping sound, then crackled and shone with a bright silvery-blue light and he began chanting a warding spell, his voice rising with pride on every word, Ronan knew who’d won this particular battle.

  Even if it pained him to hear an incantation meant to protect his marriage bed.

  He had no intention of sharing his bedchamber with Lady Gelis.

  Pallet materials for a cozy night’s bedding already awaited him in a quiet niche off the great hall.

  He’d taken due precautions.

  So he folded his arms and watched the druid’s display. He even forced a nod of appreciation. Above all, he refrained from telling Torcaill that his best efforts would be in vain.

  Maldred’s curse and the Holders weren’t the greatest dangers to his bride.

  He was.

  And no wizard’s spell would protect her from him.

  Chapter Five

  Gelis knew something was amiss.

  The surety of it intensified with every step she took up Castle Dare’s winding stair tower — no, the glowering keep’s cold and dismal stair tower, chill, and with only the feeble light of a few hissing, sputtering rush torches to pierce the gloom. Not that the murkiness bothered her.

  She had plans for remedying Dare’s dreariness.

  Indeed, she secretly welcomed the darkness, hoping she’d be rewarded when she dispelled it.

  At the very least appreciated.

  Unfortunately, the soul she so wished to please hadn’t shown himself since he’d disappeared in the wake of his druid friend, claiming he’d see the ancient safely to his bed.

  Gelis huffed and almost tripped on the hem of her skirts.

  It was her bed that ought to be on Ronan MacRuari’s mind this night.

  Not a graybeard’s.

  However gallant the thought.

  Hitching up her cumbersome swish-swishing gown, she quickened her steps. She also bit back another snort. Chivalry hadn’t sent the Raven hastening from the feasting table. He’d removed himself from her presence. And she had a fairly good notion that he had no intention of redressing the slight.

  She tightened her lips. The shame of such a notion pulsed through her from th
e tops of her burning ears clear down to all ten of her tingling toes.

  That was what plagued her.

  Not his keep’s unsavory stair tower.

  Nor that the men sitting around the high table had fallen into such a loud and windy discussion about the demands and intricacies of effective lairding that no one noticed when she pushed to her feet and walked away.

  Not to hide and lick her wounds.

  O-o-oh, no.

  She simply needed time alone to decide her next move.

  Thinking about seduction wasn’t easy with a good score of flapping male tongues blethering on about disciplining errant clansmen or what to do when a trusted friend and ally suddenly lifted a few prize cattle.

  Or the virtues of expanding one’s lands by conquest and inheritance, followed by a heated discourse on the fine art of Highland feuding.

  Or whose bard sang the sweetest harp songs.

  Gelis straightened her back.

  Harp songs, indeed. She had more pressing matters weighing on her.

  Meaning to sort them, she tugged on the sleeve of the large-eyed serving lass leading her up the stairs. The girl halted at once, her slight form jerking as if a two-headed water horse had seized her.

  Gelis blinked, certain she’d never seen such a fearful creature.

  “Anice,” she began, wishing her own agitation wasn’t pressing her to ask what she burned to know. “Are you certain the Raven wished me taken to his chamber?”

  “His explicit orders, aye.” The girl bobbed her head. “I readied the room myself and Hector carried up an extra basket of peats for the fire.”

  But when Anice led her from the stair tower’s top landing a few moments later, taking her to the Raven’s oak-planked door, more cold and darkness greeted them.

  The bedchamber, though vast and quite imposing, proved decidedly unreadied.

  Of extra peat bricks, naught was to be seen. Nor even a stick of wood, or the merest twig, or even a bundle of dried bracken. Indeed, the hearthstone appeared swept bare with only a thin scatter of ash indicating a fire had ever burned there at all.

  Gelis peered into the dimness, the insult making her face grow hot. The shutters were thrown wide, letting chill damp air pour inside, while the moon’s luminance shone cold on the room’s terrible disarray.