“Well?” She raised a single red-gold brow. “At least admit that you were packing for a journey.”
“Have a care . . .” He let the warning trail off, knowing it was too late.
The j-word had been spoken.
And Buckie had heard, as a glance at the door proved. Already, the old dog’s other eye had popped open and his tail was thumping against the floor.
Ronan ignored him.
Lady Gelis flashed the beast a smile.
“Do not encourage him.” Ronan frowned. It wouldn’t do for Buckie to become attached to her. Or look forward to excursions he could no longer enjoy. “His hips are bad, so his days of adventure are over. His legs don’t always support him and he falls. Buckie ne’er leaves the keep.”
“Indeed?” She gave him a look that could’ve been interpreted as implying that Buckie’s plight was his fault and had nothing to do with the beast’s wobbly back legs.
Fighting the ridiculous urge to defend himself, Ronan wondered how everything had slid out of his control. He’d come abovestairs to see what had happened, possibly to defend Lady Gelis against whoe’er or whate’er had ravaged the bedchamber. Instead, he’d found her tending the hearth fire and the room already put to rights.
Worse, she asked questions he didn’t care to answer and shot him looks that made him feel like a gangling, beardless laddie who’d just been caught with his hand down a kitchen lassie’s bodice.
As if she knew it, she smiled at him.
Not a warm, adoring kind of smile as she’d given Buckie, but a smug one.
“Talking about your dog and that-which-you-don’ t-wish-mentioned-in-his-presence doesn’t change that I know you were preparing for one.” Her words explained the smugness.
Walking briskly to the bed, she picked up one of his folded tunics and placed it with a touch too much care in his opened travel bag.
“Eilean Creag is a busy place,” she mused, reaching for another tunic. “There are comings and goings through all seasons. Some men wish my father’s advice or to trade with him, while others plead aid or offer an alliance. The stream of visitors never ends.”
She dropped the second tunic into the leather bag. “Do not think I am some light-minded creature unable to recognize a man’s I-daren’ t-say-the-word kind of gear. Or” — she looked at him meaningfully — “when someone is in haste and must rush away before a task is completed.”
Ronan’s brows snapped together. “A MacRuari ne’er leaves any task unfinished. Nor do we run from aught.”
He stepped closer to the bed — to her — a flash of pride whipping through him.
Glen Dare and his family might be blighted and cursed, but he loved both fiercely.
Nor was it for naught that each newly born MacRuari babe was fed a spoonful of clan earth as his first nourishment. As Torcaill had sung earlier, during the feasting, the tradition sealed the child’s lifelong bond to his home glen.
Such as it was.
It remained theirs.
And there wasn’t a MacRuari living, dead, or yet to be born who’d deny its pull. From the clan’s dimmest beginnings, their ties to Glen Dare were unbreakable; their love of the dark woods, bog and moor, and the steep, mist-hung hills, deep and abiding.
Sacred.
As was their honor, something that seemed to weigh more heavily on him the longer he dallied in his new bride’s fetching, rose-scented presence.
He shut his eyes, drew a tight breath.
Then, knowing he shouldn’t, but unable not to, he seized her by the shoulders. “Hear me, lass, and I will tell you of Glen Dare’s MacRuaris.”
“Ooh, aye?” Her voice was a purr, soft and honeyed. “Mayhap there are things I could tell you!”
Ronan blanked his emotions, more than sure that she could tell him things.
Certain, as well, that he did not wish to hear them.
He let his gaze bore into hers, willing her to understand. “Anything a MacRuari does is done with deliberation and purpose, and always for the good of the clan.” He tightened his grip on her, hoping to strengthen the truth of his words. “You err if you believe otherwise.”
“Say you?” Her eyes sparked. “We both know there isn’t a Highland chieftain in all these hills who wouldn’t claim the same. I am more keen to hear why it is MacRuari custom for their men to shun their brides.”
“Nae, that is no’ the way of —” Ronan broke off, guilt sweeping him.
He was shunning her, albeit for her own good.
“ ’Tis true I stayed away of a purpose this e’en,” he admitted, frustration and remorse crowding him, making him speak as true as he deemed wise.
“Even so” — he strove for his most persuasive tone — “I had naught to do with the shambles you found upon entering this chamber.”
Naught save having wished her gone.
A departure he’d still greet with gladness.
But a regret that made him release her as quickly as if she’d turned into a writhing, two- headed viper, eager to sink venomous fangs into him.
He choked back a bark of bitter laughter.
He was the carrier of poison.
He paused.
The room’s increasing cold circled up his legs and higher, snaking ever tighter around his chest until he could scarce breathe.
“I suspect,” he began, using a strength born of long practice, “that your arrival has stirred whate’er of Maldred’s malignancy yet lingers.”
Lady Gelis waved an airy hand.
“ ’Tis common knowledge there’s a touch of darkness in every clan and glen in all broad Scotland,” she returned, leaning close again. “The sweetest glade gives way to the blackest peat bogs and some of our bonniest lochs are said to be the haunts of the most ferocious water horses and bulls.”
She drew a great breath, making her breasts swell. “Even my own fair Kintail is no stranger to ill-wishing and the evil eye! Many are the tales — would you care to hear some of them?”
Ronan sidestepped her, taking up a stance beside the hearth fire.
“Glen Dare’s darkness is different, my lady.”
She swung in his direction. “Perhaps not when viewed from another angle. My father says Robert Bruce once told him that any trap can be sprung — any ambush averted — if a man uses his wits and the land to best advantage.”
Ronan’s brows drew together.
She had him there. He wasn’t about to argue with the wisdom of Scotland’s greatest king.
Even so, he’d spoken the truth.
Leastways as much of Dare’s sad truths as he wished to share with her.
Unfortunately, she looked anything but satisfied.
She looked ready to clamp her fist around his heart and squeeze hard until he revealed all his secrets.
Her every curve beckoned and enticed. The sweet tilt of her lips, plump and reddened, begged for kisses. And one of her braids was coming undone, leaving a welter of rippling, unruly red-gold curls to spill over her breasts, so tantalizingly displayed above her gown’s deep-dipping bodice.
Ronan’s jaw locked and his hands clenched at his sides.
His deepest self ached for her, filling him with a need that bordered on feral. He swallowed hard, his entire body tense and his heart thundering. Hot blood roared in his ears, blotting even the fierce howl of the wind.
Ne’er had he seen a more desirable female.
And ne’er had he wanted one less.
Even if the shunning of her would haunt him all his days.
So the lad wanted her.
There could be no denying it.
A dark-cloaked figure standing outside Dare’s walls gave a great, gusty sigh, well pleased he’d lingered long enough to enjoy the fruits of his labor.
It hadn’t been easy for one of his years to work a spell powerful enough to send not only feasting goods but an entire, brimming bathing tub sailing out a tower window.
The task had cost him greatly.
But he’d managed, a
nd his immense satisfaction even stirred the midnight boughs of Glen Dare’s dark pines and silent alders. The proud hills, so loved by Clan MacRuari, pretended not to hear, turning disapproving ears to the gloating wind.
And in the empty trough of the moon-washed glen, the late-night waters of the burn swirled and frothed, roiling with a cold deeper and more biting than the ancients e’er intended.
Ancients so old, their names had long been lost.
Save a venerable, persistent few.
He was one such, and he stepped out of the cloaking mist now, drawing as near to Castle Dare’s walls as was prudent. He hadn’t reached his sage and hoary age by being foolish. His earlier feat had taxed him, the powerful jolt of Maldred’s saining spells still strong after so many centuries.
More debilitating than he or any of his followers would have believed, the pain sat deep in his bones, slowing his gait and dulling his senses.
Tiring eyes already red and burning from exertion.
Not that it mattered.
The buffoons and drolls who called Dare their own would soon pay for their vices. Naught but soot and ash would be left to them, their sojourn with the treasure of others ended by their own unwitting hand.
The figure almost smiled.
At long last the MacRuaris possessed a prize they’d fight to keep.
The old man, because his heart was soft. And the younger, their only true threat, because he desired the girl.
If that one lost his heart as well, the possibilities for leverage were endless.
He need only bide his time.
This time the figure did smile.
Reveling in it, he lifted a bony long-fingered hand and adjusted the cowl of his robes. The night was chill and wet, the racing wind not good for one of his indeterminate years. And despite his many powers, he’d yet to master a spell against the elements.
Though that, too, would soon be possible.
As would . . . anything.
Once the Raven Stone was his again.
For the now, he angled his head to peer through the gloom until his gaze found the dark bulk of Dare’s tower. As arrogant as the race, it soared high above the castle’s machicolated walls. Mist — in great part, his mist — curled around its impassive stones while the craftily narrow windows were shuttered and black against the night.
All, that was, but one.
It, too, was tightly closed, but faint yellow light gleamed through the shutter slats.
Focusing on those narrow slivers of soft, flickering light, the figure felt his heart begin to thud with anticipation. He breathed deep, his sharp sense of smell letting him catch a whiff of attar of roses even here.
That, and the stronger musk of man.
Clearly, they were still together.
More than pleased by the implication, the figure didn’t even blink when a wind gust snatched his hood from his fingers and blew his long, white-maned hair across his face, the whipping strands stinging his eyes.
He’d enjoyed too many successes this night to pay heed to such a little nuisance. So he shoved back his streaming hair, smoothed his robes, and turned away from Dare’s walls, eager to seek his bed.
He had a feeling his dreams would be most pleasing.
The doom of the MacRuaris was assured.
It was only a matter of time.
Chapter Seven
Ronan stood by the hearthside, adjusting the fall of his plaid as surreptitiously as possible. His mind was a careful blank and his expression as stony as he could make it. Both talents he’d been honing for years. Unfortunately, he was less skilled in tempering his more lustful urges.
But a man’s plaid was good for many things.
The voluminous folds perfect for hiding any unwanted problems that might arise.
Determined to avoid such a problem, he squared his shoulders and drew a long breath. In the time he’d needed to steel himself against Lady Gelis’s charms, he’d come to a very important decision.
When the sad day arrived that Valdar was no more and Ronan took his place at the head of the clan, his first chieftainly act would be to forbid the wearing of low-bodiced gowns within Dare’s walls.
A decree against full bosoms — in particular, those with fetching nipples — would be even more pleasing, if impossible to enforce.
He almost smiled at the notion all the same.
Leastways until Lady Gelis took another dangerously deep breath and her decidedly pert and rose-hued nipples threatened to pop into view.
Ronan scowled at the prospect.
His plaid stirred.
Lady Gelis’s breasts swelled even more.
“So-o-o . . .” She picked up her glittering green temptress bauble and fingered the thing as she eyed him. “Are you saying I now have two MacRuari men who wish me gone?”
Ronan blinked. She’d distracted him with all her deep breathing and bauble fingering.
“Two MacRuaris?” He wasn’t following her. “Wishing you gone?”
She nodded. “You, by your own admission” — she flung out an arm to indicate the room — “and if I am to understand your suspicions about who was behind the ravaging of this chamber, your archdruid forebear. Mordred the Dire, may the saints rest his soul.”
“Maldred.” The bedside night candle hissed and guttered on the utterance. “Such was his name and I’d be surprised if you could find a saint — any saint — who’d deign to bless the dastard.”
“Then I say he is to be pitied, not reviled.”
Ronan’s jaw slipped. “Pitied?”
Her head bobbed again. “Och, for sure, and I’d say so.”
Entirely certain, she tilted her head, well aware that the golden light of a well-burning brace of candles was playing advantageously on her fiery tresses.
When the Raven’s mouth tightened, she knew he’d noticed.
Pleased, she let her eyes twinkle.
She also looked at him, wondering when he’d notice that his oh-so- carefully-donned plaid was slipping down his shoulder. And what a fine shoulder it was. Broad, well-muscled, and gleaming in the firelight, its manly allure made it all too difficult to concentrate on some hoary MacRuari ancestor and his centuries-old curse.
Even so, she wanted to try.
“In the great hall this e’en, your druid sang that MacRuari bairns are fed a spoonful of clan earth, sealing their love for kith and kin, the home glen,” she began, watching him carefully. “Is it true?”
“So true as the morrow, aye.”
“Can it be Maldred did not receive one?”
“For certes he was given such a token. Not heeding the practice would have seen the banishment, or worse, of the hen wife who helped birth him.” He scowled, and the plaid dipped a bit lower, this time revealing an equally fine bit of hard, naked chest.
Something inside Gelis squeezed. Everything in her world seemed to sharpen and then recede until she saw only the fire-gilded expanse of the Raven’s bare, beckoning skin. Looking at it set off a tingling flurry of warm, delicious flutters deep in her belly.
There, truth be told, and lower.
She shivered.
Her mouth went bone dry.
He was frowning at her, clearly mistaking the reason for her silence. The flush, she knew, was spreading across her breasts and inching slowly up her throat, soon to flame her cheeks a bright, glowing red.
She took a strengthening breath, forcing her mind off his chest and back to his maligned ancestor. “Could it be that bairns in Maldred’s day were not yet given such spoonfuls of earth?”
He shook his head. “The ceremony is a clan bonding ritual older than the ringtailed lout himself.”
“And it works?”
“You have already heard that it does.” He yanked up his plaid, his scowl going even blacker.
Almost as black as the whirls of decidedly masculine chest hair she’d caught a fleeting glimpse of before he’d jerked his plaid back in place.
That accomplished, he pushed away from th
e table and began to pace. “The clan earth runs in our blood,” he said, slanting a glance at her. “A MacRuari would be skinned, spitted, and roasted before he’d leave these lands.”
“Then” — Gelis laid on her most triumphant tone — “it follows that a MacRuari wouldn’t sunder them either. Not the glen or its people.”
Ronan stopped in his tracks.
He almost choked.
“Maldred the Dire was no ordinary clansman. He cannot be measured against the rest of us. His legacy —”
“His legacy is a broken grave slab.”
Every muscle in Ronan’s body tensed and his mouth compressed into a hard, firm line.
Across the room, bright amber eyes flashed hotly.
Ignoring their heat, he picked up the fire poker and jabbed at the peats.
“Once, my lady, when I was too young to know better, I tried to do something about Maldred’s cracked grave slab.” He kept his attention on the softly glowing peats. “Spurred by clan pride and a boy’s innocence, I marched into the overgrown burial ground, determined to wedge the two pieces of weathered stone back together again.”
“But you couldn’t.” She spoke the obvious.
“Nae, but that is no’ the purpose of my tale.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her, not surprised to see her jaw set stubbornly again.
“See you, I needed only three bold strides on that weedy, tainted ground before my right foot plunged knee-deep into a rabbit hole. The thing was hidden beneath a clump of tussocky deer grass.” His fingers tightened around the fire poker. “I broke my ankle that day. The injury kept me from accompanying my father on a long-anticipated journey to Inverness.”
He paused, remembering. “There were some amongst the clan elders who felt I’d been punished for daring to try to repair Maldred’s gravestone. My own concern was more with losing out on the adventure of a foray into a bustling township. To a wee laddie who’d ne’er yet left this glen, it was a bitter disappointment.”
Even more damning, when the break did not heal well, he was left with a painful limp that took him nearly a year of steely willpower and hard training to banish.
Seducing a Scottish Bride Page 11