He looked at her, his red-bearded chin outthrust.
Gelis took a step closer to him. The reek of onions and simmering beef pottage swirled around her, as did the pungent smell of fresh fish packed in barrels of seaweed and brine.
“But you have the goods here,” she wheedled, lifting a hand to count the delicacies on her fingers. “They’ve not yet been returned to the larder.”
Hugh MacHugh grunted.
His arms remained firmly crossed.
“See you for yourself ” — Gelis pointed to the heavy oaken worktable forming the centerpiece of the kitchens — “is that not the selfsame joint of roasted mutton, platters of which were sent to my room yestere’en?”
A crimp appeared in the cook’s fine, high brow.
“The scent still lingered in the air.” Gelis twitched her nose, demonstrably. “ ’Twas the same roasted mutton I can smell now.”
She flicked a glance at the savory evidence. “Ah-h-h, yes,” she observed, letting her nose quiver again. “I am quite sure of it. The seasonings, see you . . .”
The crimp in the cook’s brow became a crease.
Gelis waved a hand, silencing him when he opened his mouth to protest.
“And there, on the trestle table by the far wall” — she whirled in that direction — “are those not the spiced salmon pasties prepared to tempt the Raven’s palate?”
Hugh MacHugh’s tight-drawn lips said that they were.
“Or there . . .” She trailed off, thrusting out an arm to indicate a bowl of jellied eggs and a linen-draped platter that she suspected held Hugh’s own prized honey cakes, the tasty delicacies dusted with ginger.
She lifted a brow. “Are those not leftover goods? Victuals now destined for the castle dogs?”
The cook shuffled his feet, unable to meet her eye.
Sensing victory, she went to the table and lifted the edge of one of the cloth-draped bowls.
“ Ah-h-h . . .” She nodded thoughtfully. “More than enough for your lord’s hounds and any empty-bellied beggars who might come calling at the postern gates!”
To her surprise — or not — Hugh MacHugh began to flush.
He looked down, nudging a surprisingly small foot against a crack in the kitchen’s stone-flagged floor.
“I, too, would have relished such a feast.” Gelis pressed her luck. “I know you ken I was robbed of such enjoyment — as was your lord.”
The cook’s head snapped up, his pink-tinged flush turning scarlet.
“I told you, my lady—”
“The Raven’s wishes, I know.” Gelis picked up a stew ladle, pretending to examine it. “Tell me,” she ventured, setting the thing back down, “has he expressly forbidden me to explore my new home?”
“With surety, nae.” Hugh pulled a length of cloth from beneath his belt and dabbed at his glistening brow. “He only ordered that you are not to leave the keep unescorted.”
“And I shall not.” Gelis pounced. “A score of your lord’s best guardsmen shall accompany me,” she improvised, wondering if she’d dare ride out alone at all after making such a false claim.
“ ’Tis true,” a feminine voice spoke from the door to the wine cellar.
Anice.
She stepped into the kitchens, a clutch of willow bands in her work-roughened hands, her large-eyed gaze on the cook.
“The Raven’s men await her now — this moment,” she said, and Gelis hoped only she heard the tremor in the girl’s lie. “They’re gathered outside the gatehouse.”
Hugh scratched his ear, clearly undecided.
In the corner, Hector pushed up off the stool where he’d been sorting peas. Quiet until now, he came forward, his chest puffed and his new sgian dubh peeking up from the top of his left boot.
He paused beside a pile of empty wicker baskets and coiled ropes. “I heard the Raven say so myself,” he declared, not batting an eye. “The lady may go where she pleases.”
“Ha.” Hugh MacHugh wasn’t fooled.
Indeed, he was a great towering pillar of suspicion.
But something in his aspect altered.
A trace of indecision — or softening — as his gaze flitted between Anice and the lad.
Most especially when he looked at the girl.
Striding over to her, he snatched the willow bands and tossed them into a corner.
“I dinna believe a word either of you are blethering,” he said, somehow not quite managing to sound very fierce.
“And I told you to leave be with the wine barrels. One of the lads could have repaired the hoops.” He grabbed her hands, turning them palm upward. “ ’Tis no’ work for a lass.”
Anice flushed.
Gelis almost laughed.
So that was the way the cat jumped!
Proving it, the scowling-faced giant dragged Anice across the room, stopping in front of a long wooden rack on the wall. Hung with every manner of cook pots, long-handled ladles, and scummers, it also held an assortment of mortars, and pestles, trivets and measuring weights, and a few round earthen jars.
“Here!” He snatched one of the jars and, removing its rag stopper, thrust in his fingers to withdraw a smelly, greasy-looking unguent.
This he smeared onto Anice’s palms before taking her elbow and guiding her to a little three-legged stool next to the pile of ropes and wicker baskets.
“Stay there until your hands absorb the selfheal cream.” He straightened, wiping his own hands on the cloth tucked beneath his belt. “You can use the time to remember that I have a nose for smelling lies. That’s aimed at you, too, laddie,” he added, flashing a glance at Hector. “I’ll no’ have the like in my kitchens. No’ for any reason.”
That last, Gelis was sure, was meant for her.
Feeling duly chastised, she cleared her throat.
“You mustn’t blame them. They but meant to champion me. They’ll both know I’d hoped my surprise would help me gain the Raven’s favor.” She lifted her chin. “I do not yet have it, you see.”
She spoke plain, giving Hugh MacHugh the honesty he’d demanded.
Unable to let her only friends here — save Valdar and Buckie — take the brunt of his burst of temper.
However unfierce it truly was.
Already, some of the agitation had left his face. In its place, his earlier look of indecision returned, making him appear almost boyish, save for his full red-gold beard.
Pulling on that beard again, he eyed her. “So you desire the Raven’s favor, eh? Now you’ve given me something to chew on, my lady.”
The words spoken, he began pacing, stroking his beard all the while.
Silent, he strode to and fro between the stinky little onion table, his larger oaken worktable, and the great double-arched roasting hearth.
“I’ll do your bidding, lady.” He paused at last, drawing up beside Anice and dropping a hand onto her shoulder. “In great part because I ken Anice would ne’er have told such a whopping falsehood unless she truly believed you have the heart to ride out —”
“Och, she does!” Anice bobbed her head. “You should have seen her when we entered the bedchamber and —”
“Be that as it may, she will ride out under full escort — as she said.” Hugh MacHugh was adamant.
“But . . .” Gelis hedged, ashamed to admit her deceit. “There isn’t an escort waiting for me. Not yet anyway. I’d meant to gather one . . .”
That was true enough.
Though she’d feared they’d say her nae.
The cook looked at her, his blue eyes sharp. “They shall accompany you, never fear.”
Gelis smoothed her hands on her skirts. “They might not be pleased —”
“Leave it to me.” He smiled then and patted his considerable girth. “I’m no man o’ letters with a silvered tongue. Nor a great lord like your sire, commanding men with the flip of a finger. But” — his eyes twinkled — “there isn’t a man in the garrison who wouldn’t do my bidding for a double portion of viands or a plump sac
k of my honey cakes!”
“Then you’ll help me?” Gelis could scarce believe it. “With everything?”
Hugh MacHugh nodded, his red beard gleaming.
“ O-o-oh! Thank you!” Gelis threw her arms around him, hugging him fiercely, uncaring that he smelled of onions and fish brine.
And when she pulled back, she somehow wasn’t surprised to see a bit of dampness misting his eyes before he quickly knuckled it away.
Hugh MacHugh, master cook and curly-bearded giant, was a romantic.
Who would’ve thought it?
A good portent, to be sure.
Willing it so, she whirled, grabbing first Anice, and then young Hector, embracing them as well. But her high spirits plummeted when she turned to leave and nearly tripped over Buckie.
He lay sprawled on the stone-flagged floor, the deep shadow cast by the teetering pile of empty wicker baskets making it almost impossible to see him.
But she saw him now and the sight made her heart wince.
If anything, the dog looked even more dejected than he had in the bailey.
“Awwww, Buckie . . .” She dropped to her knees beside him. “I didn’t know you were there,” she crooned, fondling his ears, stroking a hand down his shaggy back.
His tail swished across the stone floor, but when he twisted round to peer at her, his eyes were still sad.
Defeated.
Gelis frowned. “Now, Buckie. You know he’ll be back.”
The dog blinked.
Then, with a bit of an effort, he struggled to his feet and stood looking at her.
His tail swished again.
When his gaze slid to the door and he shook himself, his eyes turning hopeful, Gelis knew she had a problem.
Remembering her promise, she rubbed the dog’s bony shoulders.
“A fine meat-bone for you, h’mmm?” She did her best to make the bribe sound tempting. “I am sure Hugh can spare one.”
Hugh MacHugh grunted.
Gelis pretended not to hear.
Instead, she pushed to her feet, prepared to insist. “He can have a stew bone, anything with meat on it. Or perhaps the mutton . . .” She stopped, her gaze snapping to the pile of empty creels.
Hector was perched on one of the upturned baskets, his feet resting on a tight-wound coil of heather rope.
Gelis frowned again.
Something — indefinable and niggling — flickered at the edge of her mind. She lifted a hand, began tapping her forefinger against her chin.
And as she tapped, her gaze lit on Anice. The girl still sat on the little three-legged stool, her selfheal-smeared hands resting on her lap.
Hands damaged repairing the hooping on Castle Dare’s wine barrels.
Gelis’s finger stilled in midtap.
She spun around, searching a shadowy corner across the kitchen. The willow bands Anice had carried up from the wine cellar lay there still, innocent and . . . beckoning.
Stirring memories.
Gelis stared at them, an idea forming.
Her heart began to thump.
As if he sensed her excitement, Buckie barked. His eyes began to brighten and his tail swishes became rapid, full-fledged wags.
Watching him, Gelis had to struggle against raising a balled fist and shouting Cuidich N’ Righ!
She wasn’t as successful in stifling a little bounce of joy.
Or the laughter she couldn’t seem to quell.
It bubbled forth, uncontained.
“ Lady —” Anice stood, reached out a goop-smeared hand. “Are you well?”
Gelis dashed a hand across her cheek. “I am fine, never fear,” she managed, the words garbled by her mirth. “Indeed, I am feeling better by the moment.”
Then, not caring that Hugh MacHugh, Anice, and even Hector were gawping at her as if she’d run mad, she crossed the room to seize one of the willow bands and wave it before her like a prize.
“I will need this, too,” she announced, beaming at the slack-jawed cook. “To go along with a meat-bone and —”
Hugh ran a hand over his head. “You want the willow band? To go with a dog bone?”
“Aye, and” — Gelis nodded, her mouth twitching — “a coil of rope and —” She broke off, knowing she was going about this the wrong way.
So she set down the length of willow and smiled.
“Tell me, Hugh MacHugh,” she began, “have you ever heard the saying that a man must fight for what he wants in life?”
Hugh MacHugh gave her a look of astonishment, but finally nodded.
“Then you’ll understand that women must do the same,” she expanded.
When he only stared at her, owl-eyed, she snatched up the willow band, brandishing it like a sword.
“I am about to ride into battle. And this” — she laughed as she wielded the bobbing willow — “is going to help me win.”
“God go with you and keep you.” Ronan stared after the departing company of MacKenzies.
Riding as one, they moved fast. Tight-knit, banners flying, and shouting their slogan, the fore riders in their ranks were already cresting the next ridge.
Ronan watched them, his every sense alert.
Mounted no less nobly and drawn up high atop his own vantage point, he felt a great surge of relief. By long custom, he shot a glance over his shoulder, but saw naught amiss. Even so, his horse shifted and tossed its head, the low clouds and scudding mist making him nervous.
He patted the beast’s neck, spoke a few soothing words.
And still the MacKenzies rode on.
Scores of powerful hoofbeats tossed up clumps of sod and thundered on the chill morning air, the clank of armor and the creak of leather drowning out the soft soughing of the Highland wind.
The saining words Torcaill murmured so quietly.
Ancient blessings so old their meanings were indecipherable to anyone who hadn’t lived them.
Ronan slid a glance at the druid, noting that his staff gleamed bright silver against the drifting mist.
Indeed, the thing pulsed and glowed in rhythm with the rise and fall of the graybeard’s incantations.
Safeguarding spells that seemed to be working, however much the words sounded like gibberish.
Ronan frowned.
Grateful as he was for the druid’s support, it galled him that such measures were necessary.
That Glen Dare wasn’t as . . . others.
His heart began to hammer in his ears and he let out a long breath, almost a sigh.
He kept his gaze pinned on the riders, his shoulders tense until the valiant array spurred up the braeside to gather on the hill’s summit.
And not just any summit.
Steep, heather-covered and scored with rock-strewn corries, the rise marked the end of Dare’s influence and the beginning of the Black Stag’s own territory.
Not surprisingly, the skies were brighter there. Indeed, as he looked on, pale sun broke through the clouds, the slanting rays streaming down to glint brightly off so much massed steel and valor.
The Black Stag was easily recognizable. Ever a man apart, he sat his horse proudly, black mail gleaming and his dark hair whipping in the wind. Nearby one of his men held the MacKenzie banner aloft, silken furls snapping.
“The saints hold that one dear.” Glad for it, Ronan kept his back straight, in respect.
Beside him, Torcaill lifted his slachdan druidheachd in silent salute.
As if Kintail knew, he raised a hand.
For one long and disconcerting moment, Ronan was sure he could feel the older man’s stare boring into him. But then the Black Stag turned, signaling to his trumpeter.
At once, the man sounded retreat.
The sharp blast, shrill and ululant, echoed off the hills even as the standard bearer wheeled his steed in Ronan’s direction, briefly dipping the great wind-tossed banner.
That last gesture of farewell completed, Duncan MacKenzie thrust up his arm once more. His great steed reared, powerful forelegs cleaving the
air before MacKenzie wrenched him around and went charging after his men.
Then they were gone, the whole glittering lot of them disappearing over the ridge.
Ronan stared at the empty air where the Black Stag had been but a moment before. “The devil himself couldn’t make such a flourish.”
Torcaill shrugged and lowered his staff. “There are many who call him a devil.”
Ronan humphed.
“That race is famed for their hot blood and flair.” Torcaill carefully slid his walking stick into a sheath tied to his saddle. “Even so, their leave-taking wouldn’t have been such a triumph had she been with them.”
Ronan tensed again.
The words could have been a pail of cold water dashed in his face.
Twisting in his saddle, he glared at the druid. “Say you.”
“You know it, too.” The ancient’s eyes narrowed, looking deep. “Even if she might have left the glen unscathed, naught would have changed. She belongs here, with you.”
Ronan snorted.
He slashed the air with a denying hand.
If Gelis MacKenzie belonged in Glen Dare — with him — the fates were more than unkind.
They were cruel.
Wishing it were otherwise, he closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, he was prepared for the druid’s penetrating stare.
“Tell me again what you said earlier, Torcaill of Ancient Fame,” he pressed.
He flicked at a fold of his plaid, waiting. He kept his expression neutral.
His mind as blank as was possible.
“I would hear the words once more.”
Torcaill wagged his white-maned head. “You disappoint me, my son.”
“Humor me . . . please.”
“It is possible I have already told you more than I ought.”
Ronan edged his horse a few steps nearer to the druid’s. He leaned close. “Then there can be no harm in repeating what I have already heard.”
Torcaill drew a long breath. “When she touched you . . . you said she placed her hand on your face, brought her fingers to your lips?”
Ronan nodded.
Then he straightened, flipped his plaid over one shoulder. Why the druid found it necessary to be so explicit was beyond his ken.
Seducing a Scottish Bride Page 15