If her story were true, his son had cared for the lass so much that he’d taken her maidenhead. If her story were true, she knew Drustan had powers beyond most mortal men and had cared for him enough to both give him her virginity and come back to save him.
He wondered how much Gwen Cassidy truly knew about Drustan. He would speak with Nell and have her casually mention a few things, observe the lass’s reaction. Nell was a fine judge of character. He would spend time with her himself as well, not to question her—for words were without merit, lies easy to fabricate—but to study the workings of her mind as he would study an apprentice. Between the two of them, they would discern the truth. Drustan was clearly not demonstrating a levelheaded response toward the lass.
His eldest son could be so stubborn sometimes. After three failed betrothals, he was so blinded by doubts about himself, so hell-bent on wedding, that he was unwilling to entertain anything that might seem to threaten his upcoming nuptials. He was going to marry, and tarry not in the process.
Although Silvan knew they needed to rebuild the Keltar line, he suspected marriage between Drustan and the Elliott lass would entail a lifetime of deception that would inevitably result in misery for both of them.
A wee bampot, was she, this Gwen Cassidy? Silvan wasn’t so certain about that.
16
Besseta Alexander fumbled above the mantel for her yew sticks, dread coiling like a venomous snake in the pit of her stomach. A deeply superstitious woman, her charms were as necessary to her as the air she breathed. Of late she’d taken to scrying daily, frantic to discover what threat was moving ever nearer her son.
When she and Nevin had first moved to Castle Keltar, she’d been thrilled to return to the Highlands. No flatlander was she; she’d ached for many years to return to the misty caps, shimmery lochs, and heathery moors of her youth. The Highlands were closer to the heavens, even the moon and stars seemed within reach atop the mountains.
Nevin’s post was a prime one, priest to an ancient and wealthy clan. Here he could live out his life in security and contentment, with no risk of the kind of battles in which she’d lost her other sons, for the MacKeltar housed the second-finest garrison in all of Alba, second only to the King.
Aye, for the first fortnight she’d been elated. But then, shortly after their arrival, she’d cast her yew sticks and seen a dark cloud on her horizon rolling inexorably nearer. Try as she might, she’d been unable to coax her sticks or her runes or her tea leaves to tell her more.
Just a darkness. A darkness that threatened her only remaining son.
And then, the last time she’d read them, the darkness had extended to one of Silvan’s sons, but she’d been unable to determine which one.
Sometimes she felt that great sucking darkness was reaching for her, trying to drag her into it. She would sit for hours, clutching her ancient runes, tracing their shapes, rocking back and forth until the panic eased. Vague fear had been her lifelong companion, even as a small lass. She dare not lose Nevin, lest those shadows gain substance and tear at her with wicked claws.
Sighing, she smoothed her hair with trembling fingers, then cast the sticks upon the table. Had she cast them with Nevin in the hut, she would have gotten yet another tedious lecture about God and His mysterious ways.
Thank you very much, lad, but I trust my sticks, not your invisible God who refuses to answer me when I ask Him why He gets four of my sons and I get only one.
Studying the design, the coil in her belly tightened. Her sticks had fallen in the identical pattern they’d formed last week. Danger—but she had no way of knowing from what quarter. How was she to prevent it if she knew not whence it came? She dare not fail with her fifth and final son. Alone, that hungry blackness would get her, carry her off into what must surely be the oblivion of hell.
“Tell me more,” she beseeched. “I can’t do anything until I know which lad presents the danger to my son.”
Despairing, she gathered them, then suddenly changed her mind and did something a good fortune-teller rarely risked lest evil forces, ever attuned to fear and despair, cunningly ply a false design upon the limbs. She cast them again, a second time, in quick succession to the first.
Fortunately, the fates were inclined to be gentle and generous, for when the sticks clattered upon the table, she was granted a vision—a thing that had happened only once before in her life. Etched in her mind’s eye, she clearly saw the eldest MacKeltar lad—Drustan—scowling, she heard the sound of a woman weeping, and she saw her son, blood dripping from his lips. Somewhere in the vision she sensed a fourth person but couldn’t bring that person’s face into focus.
After a moment, she decided the fourth person must not be relevant to Nevin’s danger since she couldn’t see him or her. Mayhap an innocent onlooker.
The woman weeping must be the woman her sticks had told her would kill her son—the lady that Drustan MacKeltar would wed. She squeezed her eyes shut but could glimpse only a wee form and golden hair, not a woman she’d e’er seen before.
The vision faded, leaving her shaking and drained.
She had to somehow put a stop to things before Drustan MacKeltar wed.
She knew he was betrothed—all of Alba knew he was betrothed for the fourth time—but Nevin was infuriatingly closemouthed about the occupants of Castle Keltar. She had no idea when the wedding was to be, or even when the bride would be arriving.
Of late, the more she pried for news from her son, the more recalcitrant he became. He was hiding things from her, and that frightened her. When they’d first arrived, he’d spoken freely about the castle and its occupants; now it was rare for him to mention anything about his days at the castle but for tedious details concerning his work on the chapels.
The Alexander’s hut nestled in a valley on the outskirts of Balanoch, nearly twenty furlongs from the castle proper. Nevin, overseeing the renovation of two chapels on the estate, walked each day, but such a tiring journey was beyond her aching joints and swollen limbs. Walking to Balanoch, a furlong to the south, was possible, and on good days she could manage five or more, but twenty and back again were impossible.
If she couldn’t wheedle the information from her son, mayhap, if the weather held, she could walk to the village.
Nevin was all she had left, and no one—not the MacKeltar, not the church, nay, not even God—was taking her last son away.
“Here, horse, horse, horse,” Gwen cooed.
The creature in question peeled back its lips, showing frightfully large teeth, and she hastily retracted her hand. Ears flattened, tail swishing, it regarded her balefully.
Ten minutes ago the groom had brought two horses out of the stable and tied them loosely to a post near the door. Drustan had led the largest one off without a backward glance, leaving her alone with the other. It had taken every bit of her nerve to trudge up to it, and there she stood near the door of the stables, trying to woo the infernal thing.
Mortified, she glanced over her shoulder, but Drustan was several yards away, conversing with the stable master. At least he wasn’t watching her make a fool of herself. She was city born and raised, by God. How was she supposed to know what to do with a thousand pounds of muscle, hair, and teeth?
She tried again, this time with no tempting appendage proffered, merely a sweet murmur, but the obstinate creature nonchalantly lifted its tail and a warm stream hissed on the ground.
Hastily snatching her slippered foot from the line of fire, she arched a brow, nostrils flaring. So much for thinking this day was going to be better than last night.
It had begun with promise. A half dozen maids had toted up a steaming bath and she’d gratefully soaked her still-tender-from-lovemaking body. Then Nell had brought breakfast and coffee to her chamber. Fueled by caffeine-induced optimism after gulping the dark, delicious brew, she’d dressed and strolled off to find Drustan, to continue her efforts to convince him of the danger he was in. But the moment she’d walked into the Greathall, Drustan had in
formed her they were going to the village. On horses.
Gwen cast a dubious glance at the beast. She’d never met a horse in person, and now she was supposed to entrust her small self to that monstrous, muscular, haughty creature? It reminded her of Drustan in both stature and demeanor. And it didn’t like her any more than she trusted it.
Oh, the horse was beautiful, and at first she’d admired its lovely doelike eyes and silky nose, but it also had sharp hooves, big teeth, and a tail that—ouch! Kept flicking her across the rump every time she got too close.
“Here, horse, horse, horse,” she muttered, tentatively extending her hand again. She held her breath as the horse made a soft whinnying sound and nudged its nose toward her fingers. At the last minute her resolve slipped and, envisioning strong white teeth neatly nipping her fingers off, she fisted her hand, and the horse, of course, turned away and flattened its ears again.
Swish!
Behind her, Drustan watched with amazement.
“Have you never seen a horse before, lass? They doona answer to ‘horse.’ They have no idea they are horses. ’Tis like sauntering into the forest, saying, ‘Here, boar, boar, boar. I should like to roast you for dinner.’”
She shot a startled, embarrassed look over her shoulder. “Of course I’ve seen a horse before.” Her brows puckered and she added sheepishly, “In a book. And don’t get all cocky on me; you should have seen your face when you saw a car for the first time.”
“A car?”
“In my time we have…wagons that need no horses to pull them.”
He scoffed and dismissed her statement completely. “So you’ve never ridden a horse,” he remarked dryly, tossing himself up into his saddle. It was a lovely motion, full of casual grace, supreme confidence, and male power to the Nth degree.
It made her downright irritable. “Show-off.”
He tossed her a lazy grin. “Although I’ve not heard that before, ’twould seem you weren’t complimenting me.”
“It means arrogant and smug, flaunting your skill.”
“One must work with what one has.” His eyes lingered on her lips, then dropped to her breasts, before he dragged his gaze away.
“I saw that. Don’t look at me like that. You’re betrothed,” she said stiffly, resenting Anya Elliott clear down to the marrow in her bones.
“Och, but I’m not yet wed,” he muttered, looking at her from beneath his brows.
“That is a despicable attitude.”
He shrugged. “ ‘Tis the way of men.” He wasn’t about to discuss his true beliefs on the issue with her. His true beliefs were one reason why his attraction to her disturbed him so much. He’d far prefer to be chaste for at least a few weeks before his wedding, and once wed would not stray. Yet she was an irresistible temptation.
But he was strong. He would resist her. To prove it, he smiled down at her.
What was his deal today? Gwen wondered suspiciously. She knew he hadn’t decided to believe her—she’d overheard him talking with Dageus before he’d seen her entering the hall. He’d said he was taking her to the village to see if anyone recognized her.
“I can walk,” she announced.
“It’s a day’s walk,” he lied, and shrugged again. “But if you wish to walk twenty furlongs…” Without further ado, he turned his mount and slowly started off. She trailed along behind him, muttering under her breath.
Ha, he thought she didn’t know what a furlong was, but she knew all kinds of measurements. A furlong was roughly an eighth of a mile, which meant the village was approximately two and a half miles, and while it certainly wouldn’t take her all day, there was her predisposition toward inertia to consider.
He stopped and tossed her a look that said last chance. Shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand against her brow, she scowled up at him. Again, he wore leather trews, that cased his powerful thighs, a linen shirt, his leather bands, and leather boots. There was just something irresistible about a well-muscled man in leather. His dark hair spilled unbound over his shoulders, and as she gazed at him he gave that achingly familiar lionlike toss of his mane, and her hormones roared in response. She refused to think about what she knew lay in his snug leather trews. Knew from personal experience. Because she’d had her hand wrapped around it. Because she’d like to wrap her lips around it….
She tucked her bangs behind her ear with a dismal sigh.
When he nudged his mount near, she skittered back.
A corner of his lip rose in a mocking smile. “So there are some things you fear, Gwen Cassidy.”
She narrowed her eyes. “There’s a difference between fear and lack of familiarity. Anything one does for the first time can be daunting. I have no experience with horses, therefore I have not yet developed proper responses. Yet is the significant word there.”
“Then come, O brave one.” He extended his hand. “ ‘Tis apparent you won’t be able to ride on your own. If you doona ride with me, you’ll have to walk. Behind me,” he added, just to irritate her.
Her hand shot up toward his.
With a snort of amusement, he clamped his fingers about her wrist and lifted her, deftly sliding her into position on the saddle in front of him. “Easy,” he murmured to his mount. Or was it to her? She wasn’t sure which of them was more skittish.
He adjusted her lightweight cloak and encircled her waist with his arms. Gwen closed her eyes as a wave of longing flooded her. He was touching her. All over. His chest was pressed against her back, his arms around her to guide the tethers, his thighs pressing against hers. She was in heaven. The only thing that could make it better would be for him to remember her, to know her and look at her the same way he had their last night together in the circle of stones.
Was it possible that the memory was somewhere in him and, if she only found the right words, he would recall? On a cellular level, wouldn’t he have to possess the knowledge? Perhaps deeply buried, forgotten and ethereal as a misty dream?
She silently savored the contact, then realized that neither he nor the horse was moving. His breath was warm, fanning the nape of her neck. It took all her will not to shift in the saddle and plant a deep, wet kiss on those lips that were only a turn of her head away.
“Well? Don’t we move forward or something?” she asked. If they stayed still, touching like this, she couldn’t be held responsible for her actions. Some of his silky hair had fallen forward over her shoulder, and she fisted her fingers to prevent them from reaching up and caressing it. What was he doing back there? It wouldn’t do her any good to start fantasizing about him. This Drustan was a month younger than hers and a lifetime short of a lick of common sense. He was taking her to Balanoch to see if anyone recognized her, the dolt!
“Aye,” he said hoarsely. His thighs tensed and he spurred the horse into motion.
Gwen nearly lost her breath as the animal moved beneath her. It was frightening. It was dizzying. It was exhilarating. Mane ruffling in the breeze, the horse made occasional soft horsey grunts as it galloped over the emerald and heather-filled field.
It was an incredible experience. In her mind’s eye, she envisioned herself bent low over its back, soaring through the meadows and hills. She’d always wanted to learn to ride, but her parents had dictated her strenuous educational curriculum, and it had permitted no outside activities. The Cassidys were thinkers, not doers.
There was one more way she could distance herself from them, she decided. She could become a doer, and think as little as possible.
“I would like to learn to ride,” she informed him over her shoulder. She was going to be there awhile, after all, and it certainly couldn’t hurt to acquire some medieval skills. She couldn’t bear being without the freedom of transportation. In her century, when her car was in the shop, she felt trapped. She suspected it would be wise to gain all the independence she could. What if he never believed her? Married his bimbo and refused to return her to her own time? Panic flooded her at that thought. She definitely needed some ba
sic skills.
“Mayhap the stable master can fit you into his schedule,” he said against her ear. “But I hear tell he makes his apprentices shovel out the stables.”
She shivered. Had his lips brushed it deliberately, or had the horse’s gait pressed him suddenly forward?
“Perhaps Dageus could teach me,” she countered waspishly.
“I doona think Dageus will be teaching you a blethering thing,” he said in a dangerous voice, and that time his lips did brush her ear. “And I bid you keep your lips off my brother, lest I confine you to your chambers.”
What game was he playing? Had that been jealousy lacing his deep brogue, or wishful thinking on her part?
“Besides, as long as you fear the horse, he can sense it and will not respond well. You must respect him, not fear him. Horses are sensitive, intelligent creatures, full of spirit.”
“Kind of like me, huh?” she said cheekily.
He made a sound of strangled laughter. “Nay. Horses do as they’re told. I doubt you ever do. And you certainly have a lofty opinion of yourself, doona you?”
“No more so than you.”
“I see spirit in you, lass, but you demonstrate naught else, and so long as you continue to lie to me, respect will never be part of it. Why not tell the truth?”
“Because I already did,” she snapped. “And if you don’t believe me, then why don’t you take me back through the stones?” Gwen suggested, inspired by a sudden thought. If he would only take a short one-day jaunt into the future, she could show him her world, her cars, show him where she’d found him. Why hadn’t she thought of that last night?
“Nay,” he said instantly. “The stones may never be used for personal reasons. ’Tis forbidden.”
“Ha! You just admitted that you can use them,” she pounced.
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