Seducing a Scottish Bride

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  Gelis swallowed, any words she might have said lodging firmly in her throat.

  So greatly did he affect her.

  Something flickered in his eyes then, and he lifted a hand, bringing it almost to her cheek as if to dash away the dampness she was trying to so hard to ignore.

  But before his fingers touched her, he lowered his hand, turning away so swiftly she wondered if he’d even reached for her at all.

  Indeed, she blinked and found herself alone.

  From somewhere, she heard the hollow clatter of hooves on cobbles, the sound moving away from her and into the mist and dark beyond Dare’s walls.

  Even Valdar was nowhere to be seen, though she couldn’t blame him for seeking the comforts of his hall on such a chill, damp morn.

  Not now that all the excitement was over.

  But then, as she turned to make her own way back into the keep, she did spy another soul remaining.

  Buckie.

  And the sight of him caused her heart to wrench.

  The dog sat in the lee of the gatehouse wall, staring fixedly into the shadows of the tunnel-like pend. His head was lowered, his ears hanging, and his great plumed tail flat and unmoving against the wet cobbles.

  “Buckie!” Gelis called to him, but his only response was a single twitch of one tatty-looking ear.

  “Come, old boy,” she tried again, crossing over to him. She stroked his head, laid on her most coaxing tone. “I’ll give you a fine meat-bone to chew beside the fire.”

  He looked up at her then, his milky eyes sad.

  “Och, Buckie, please . . .”

  But the dog refused to budge. With a pitiful groan, he returned his attention to the empty gatehouse pend, once more ignoring her.

  “You love him that much, eh, Buckie?” Gelis bit her lip, shoved a mist-dampened curl off her brow.

  She also blinked hard, fighting another ridiculous attack of the stinging heat that seemed wont to jab at the backs of her eyes this morn.

  “As you will then, laddie, I’ll leave you be.” She gave the dog one last head-and-ears fondle, then turned and strode resolutely across the bailey.

  Gathering up her skirts and lifting her chin — just in case anyone was watching her — she mounted the keep stairs, ascending them with a studied grace that would surely have impressed her sister.

  She spared a glance at Maldred’s heraldic shield as she neared the landing, but in the gray morning light, the stone’s ancient engravings appeared even more worn and age-smoothed than before.

  Squinting up at the thing, she could barely make out the lines of the raven’s sculpted wings.

  No matter.

  She reached for the hall door’s heavy iron latch, letting herself into the warmth and firelit coziness of the great hall. The day was young, and it was time to see to the first stages of her seduction plan.

  But first she needed to find her shoes, do something with her hair, and then make a quick visit to the kitchens.

  If the fates were on her side, Ronan MacRuari would learn the mettle of a MacKenzie woman.

  And that she — Gelis MacKenzie — wasn’t one to accept defeat quietly.

  As Gaelic winds blow, strong and fey, about the time Gelis hurried up Castle Dare’s winding turnpike stair, her mind busy with her plan, another soul bustled about a tiny, thick-walled cottage on the Hebridean isle of Doon.

  That sweet isle, little more than a deep-blue smudge against silver-misted skies, was a different world. A nigh-mythical place that — to most — proved difficult to reach due to the isle’s high black cliffs and the treacheries of its surrounding waters.

  The black skerries with teeth sharp as a razor’s edge and rip tides capable of claiming the most stout, well-manned sailing vessel.

  Truth be told, those who were granted access to Doon’s golden-sanded shores had only the good graces of Devorgilla to thank.

  Bent, grizzled, and slow of gait, but with twinkling blue eyes that defied her age, the far- famed wise woman of Doon was selective in whom she called friend.

  Likewise, she made a formidable foe.

  And she it was, Devorgilla of Doon, who unwittingly or otherwise, now mirrored Gelis’s circular ascent up Dare’s winding stair tower.

  Even if the crone’s circuitous path only took her round and round the tidy, peat-smoke-smelling confines of her cozy, low- ceilinged home.

  As a good, nae, as the most revered cailleach in all the Highlands and the Isles, she wasn’t just hobbling round her central hearth fire.

  O-o-oh, nae.

  She was scuttling along deiseil, circling her fine smoldering peat fire in a sunwise direction. She chuckled to herself as she went, taking care to croon to the little red dog fox trotting along in her wake.

  The wee fox, Somerled by name, knew better than any that the crone’s mind was just as busy that morn as was Lady Gelis’s in distant Glen Dare.

  Devorgilla pressed a hand against her hip and glanced at him as she passed her cottage’s two deep-set windows, her wizened face wreathing in a smile when the sharp-eyed fox swished his thick, white-tipped tail.

  Her faithful companion and helpmate for some years now, he understood her well.

  She winked at him, pleased when he flicked his tail once more.

  “Ach, laddie, we have much to celebrate this morn, eh?”

  Without halting her shuffling black-booted feet, she snatched a twist of dried meat from a small wooden bowl on her table and tossed the tidbit to the little fox.

  She cackled with glee when he leaped in the air, catching the treat before it fell to the flag stoned floor.

  “Guid,” she gushed, watching him fall into place behind her again, prancing along as if he hadn’t just performed such a bold and dashing maneuver.

  She, too, felt nimble just now.

  Power sizzled through her bones and lightened her heart. And though she wouldn’t own it — the Old Ones frowned on those who boasted — she was almost sure even her finger- and toenails tingled with magic.

  So she continued on her way, mumbling blessings and indulging in a wee bit of humble if well-deserved self-praise.

  ’Twas well enough earned.

  If she dared say so herself.

  Her third rounding of the cottage’s central hearth fire completed, she paused. She raised her hands, palms upward, her gaze following her black-sleeved arms but seeing much more than her ceiling’s blackened, herb-hung rafters.

  Then, when her palms began to warm and pulse with the Old Ones’ benevolence, she lowered her arms. Well satisfied, she turned her attention to the steaming cauldron hanging on its great iron hook above the pungent, earthy-sweet smolder of the peats.

  Unable to help herself, another gleeful cackle — or two — rose in her throat.

  She didn’t even attempt to stifle them.

  Even though her excitement and bustling was clearly a great botheration to Mab, the tricolored cat curled in the exact middle of Devorgilla’s sleeping pallet and pretending disdainfully that it was just another ordinary Doon morn.

  Not that any day on that cliff-girt, sea-bound isle could be called the like.

  Devorgilla wagged a finger as if to emphasize the point.

  Her wee fox lifted a paw in absolute agreement.

  “We showed those mist wraiths, eh, Somerled?”

  The fox’s golden eyes glittered.

  “Banished them with a mere wriggle of my fingers, we did!”

  Chortling still, the crone demonstrated. Her bright eyes full of merriment, she thrust her hand into the cauldron’s steam and twitched her fingers, causing the drifts of steam to shift and waver.

  “Mist wraiths — fie!” She withdrew her hand. “Let them try to rise again. Perhaps next time I shall tie them all in knots!”

  She nodded to herself, very much liking the idea, but set the possibility aside for the moment.

  Other chores and duties beckoned.

  Stooping to the side, she plunged her hands into a large wicker creel, ret
rieving a handful of plump, waiting-to-be-smoked herring.

  A gift from Sir Marmaduke Strongbow and his lady wife, Caterine, but originally from Glenelg’s joy woman, Gunna of the Glen, the prized fish needed to be hung one by one to a taut-stretched drying rope she’d affixed across the modest breadth of her cottage.

  With a practiced eye, Devorgilla set about her task, making sure the choicest specimens were placed just above her e’ er-burning peat fire.

  Herring thus cured would be carefully guarded. Each one stashed away as delicacies of great worth, only produced when guests of particularly high standing came to call.

  “Noble folk the like of the Black Stag’s daughter and her raven,” she announced, slanting a proud glance at Somerled as she fastened another fine and weighty herring to the string above her fire. “They’ll no doubt wish to thank me, sail to Doon bearing gifts and oblations . . .”

  She let the words tail off, preferring to glory in how easily she’d banished the mist snakes.

  How one stern look and a mere wriggle of her knotty-knuckled fingers had sent the foul slithering creatures scurrying back to the hell whence they’d come.

  “O-o-oh, aye, Somerled,” she skirled, snatching up another fat and glistening herring to hang in the cloud of steam gathering above her cauldron, “the flow of the tides and the currents aren’t strong enough to hinder Devorgilla of Doon’s powers!”

  “Fool woman!”

  The powerful voice came from within the cauldron steam.

  “Gaaaaa!” Devorgilla jumped.

  The fish went flying from her fingers.

  “Cease meddling with matters beyond your ken!” A towering dark-robed figure glowered at her from the swirling vapor.

  Glaring fiercely, he scowled down his long nose, his white-maned hair whipping in an unseen wind as he raised an arm and shook a great, silver-glowing staff.

  Devorgilla lurched backward, toppling the herring creel.

  Somewhere behind her, Mab hissed and Somerled barked.

  The figure waved his staff more vigorously. A shower of blindingly brilliant silver-blue sparks and spangles sprayed everywhere, lighting the cottage as if it were noontide on a bright midsummer’s day.

  “Be warned, woman!” The figure’s eyes fixed on her, penetrating. “Try such foolery again and I’ll do more than just frighten you!”

  “Frighten me? Devorgilla of Doon?” Some sliver of her earlier pride made her shake out her black skirts. She jutted a somewhat bristly chin. “Be that the style of you, then? Preying on old, helpless women?”

  Somerled bumped her leg, lending support.

  For a moment, the figure looked almost nonplussed.

  But then his frown returned and he aimed his staff at the spilled herring. Speaking a spell darker and more ancient than any of her own, he touched the end of the walking stick to the toppled creel, turning it and the precious fish into a charred clump of smoking black goo.

  Somerled’s brush shot straight upward, his snarl protective.

  Devorgilla placed a black-booted toe over her little friend’s paw, staying him before he did anything foolish.

  “Aye.” She bobbed her grizzled head, her eye on the interloper. “Preying on helpless old women . . . and spoiling their stores!”

  The figure leaned close, his white head and his ancient, robe-draped shoulders looming out of the cauldron’s mist. “I see no helpless female but a foolish one! Be glad I came to counsel you before your ill-placed interference causes more harm than good!”

  He turned a meaningful look on the ruined herrings. “There are those who would do the like to you! And those you hold dear.”

  Straightening, he jabbed his staff at the charred creel once more, this time restoring the basket and the herring to their former condition.

  “Heed me if you are wise!” He looked at her, his gaze fierce. “Leave any reckonings to those more able.”

  Devorgilla huffed.

  Putting back her admittedly thin shoulders, she started to argue, but already he was fading. The cauldron’s steam whistled and swirled, closing around him, blotting him from view.

  “Stay away from Dare . . .”

  The words came as if from a great distance.

  They echoed around the tidy little cottage until that warning dwindled, too, leaving Devorgilla and Somerled alone once more.

  Mab — Devorgilla was sure of it — would be somewhere far out on the moors by now.

  Safe, and seeking a comfortable bed.

  “But we shall not be scared off, eh, Somerled?” She leaned down to pat the fox’s head, alarmed to see that her hand was trembling.

  “Come, come, my little friend,” she cooed, hefting the creel of herrings onto her hip and hobbling toward the door. “We have much yet to do.”

  Above all, she needed to wash the herring — and the creel — with water from her special sacred well. Whether the basket and the fish looked fully unspelled made no difference whatsoever.

  The figure had wielded some hoary magic with his spark-spitting staff, and she wasn’t one for taking chances.

  Nor would she do any further finger wriggling.

  Instead, she opened her door and stepped out into the chill morning. Not quite sunrise, a fine silver-blue haze shimmered across the glade surrounding her cottage.

  Unfortunately, the eerie luminosity reminded her of their visitor, and she shivered, not liking him or his warnings.

  “Counsel, he called it,” she scolded, shifting the creel to her other hip. “ Counsel-schmounsel, I say!”

  Trotting along at her side, the little fox slanted a glance up at her, all hearty agreement.

  “And,” she added, encouraged, “there’s no reason we canna use some other means to help our charges, eh?”

  She paused halfway across the glade and set down the creel, just to rest her back. The thing was heavy and, truth was, she was getting too old for such onerous chores as lugging full baskets of herring to her well and back.

  Devil-blast the long-nosed, white-maned buzzard who’d made such a trek necessary!

  “Call me a foolish woman, indeed!” Pressing both hands against the small of her back, she stretched. She rotated her shoulders and rolled her neck, her angry gaze on the early morning sky.

  A few stars still glimmered, distant and frosty, while a crescent moon yet hung above the tops of the alders and birches ringing her circular glade. And far below Doon’s cliffs, out across the still-dark waters of the Hebridean Sea, the tides were running fast and pale gray light was just beginning to edge the clouds.

  Not that she cared — now — if the sun ne’er broke the horizon this morn.

  She had more important things to do.

  “Ach, Somerled.” She snatched up the herring creel with a deal more vigor than before. “Now I know what must be done.”

  The little fox cocked his head, eyes bright.

  Waiting.

  Eager as ever to do her bidding.

  Pleased, and with a decidedly light spring in her step, Devorgilla led the way to her special well, her wee helpmate matching her hurrying strides.

  And just before they reached the well, Devorgilla cackled again.

  Their magic-staff-swinging visitor, all piercing eyes and wild-tossing, white-maned hair, had done more than he’d ever intended.

  Far from simply warning her, he’d shown her what she’d overlooked till now.

  And she intended to take full advantage.

  Whether it pleased the old goat or not.

  Chapter Nine

  Gelis stood in the middle of Castle Dare’s great kitchens, her hands fisted at her hips, unwilling to believe that her plan would shatter on the will of one stiff-necked, nae-saying ox of a man who called himself Dare’s master cook.

  To her way of looking at it — at the moment, anyway — he appeared as unbending as the thick stone columns supporting the kitchens’ high-vaulted ceiling.

  He certainly seemed to have his mind set on vexing her.

 
With one notable exception, rarely had she seen a man so utterly unmoved by her best dimpled smile and kindest morning greetings.

  Nor did he seem overly appreciative of her rose attar perfume. Not that the delicate scent was noticeable against the stronger kitchen smells of roasting meat, simmering stews, and onions.

  So many onions!

  The great pile of them made her eyes burn, and she stepped farther away from the table where two young boys busied themselves chopping the odoriferous bulbs.

  Unfortunately, the sharp bite of onion air wasn’t so easily avoided.

  Not if she wished to enlist the cook’s aid.

  Doing so required suffering the kitchens, pungent as the great groin-vaulted area was.

  She bit her lip and tried not to breathe too deeply. She also stifled the urge to tap her foot.

  Showing annoyance would get her nowhere.

  So she eyed the cook carefully, focusing all her thoughts on winning his favor.

  Affectionately dubbed Hugh MacHugh, or so she’d heard, the double name reflected his extraordinary size.

  And he was incredibly large.

  Ranging head and shoulders above most men and making up nearly as much in breadth and girth, his great bulk dwarfed even the vastness of the huge, arched roasting hearth looming behind him.

  Gelis kept her chin lifted all the same.

  Hugh MacHugh would have a chink somewhere.

  Most men did.

  And those who didn’t weren’t worth the bother.

  So she narrowed her eyes and kept her perusal appraising.

  There had to be something that would get her past his head-shakings and lock-jawed denials.

  Not nearly as old as she would have expected, Hugh MacHugh appeared genial enough otherwise.

  Clear blue eyes, twinkling and bright, watched her from beneath a high forehead, smooth if a bit wary. Autumn-bronze hair graced his brow, if the carefully combed strands were a bit wispy. And he sported round apple-red cheeks and a curling copper beard, obviously his pride.

  He was pulling on that beard now.

  Yanking on the glossy rose-red curls as he wagged his head, tsk-tsking her every request.

  “Nae, it canna be done, my lady.” He folded massive, well-muscled arms across his chest. “In all my days, I have ne’er gone against Lord Raven’s wishes.”