Seducing a Scottish Bride

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  She brushed aside his concern and took his arm, her grip firm. “Buckie is in fine fettle. He’s enjoyed the day and still is.”

  Ronan harrumphed.

  “His pleasure in the day will circle round to bite him when he wakens on the morrow and canna stand.” He looked down at her, ignoring how right her hand felt on his arm. “I’m sure you meant no ill, but allowing such an aged beast to run all the way from Dare to —”

  She laughed, a pleasing, flirtatious sound, bright and lively, that warmed the chill air. Truth be told, her laughter could have even warmed him if the reason for it weren’t so objectionable.

  Ronan frowned.

  For sure, he’d judged her wrongly if she found humor in poor Buckie’s plight.

  “You mistake — I see it all o’er you.” She slanted a mischievous glance at him as she tugged him forward, leading him through the trees to the clearing with its dark-watered lochan and her garish Viking tent. “Buckie’s presence here is another of my surprises. He didn’t walk a step of the way. He rode, and in great style!”

  Ronan stopped short. “He rode?”

  Another ripple of laughter and a sharper tug on his arm was all the answer she gave.

  Until she marched right through the slithering mist snakes beginning to wind here and there across the leafy ground and pulled him into the clearing.

  “There! See for yourself how Buckie got here.” She pointed triumphantly at an empty wicker creel.

  Large, hung about with ropes and what looked to be the willow banding used to hoop his grandfather’s wine barrels, the large basket was clearly an onion creel.

  The thing sat beside the lochan’s boulder-strewn shore, its telltale reek carried on the wind.

  Ronan stared.

  A suspicion — something — snapped tight somewhere deep in his chest.

  He swallowed hard.

  Then he blinked, unaccustomed heat pricking his eyes when he spotted one of Dare’s horses chomping grass not far from the creel.

  Someone had placed the beast’s saddle on a nearby boulder and it was at the saddle that Ronan now stared. A rope dangled from the high-armed cantle at the back of the saddle, the rope’s purpose squeezing Ronan’s heart.

  His gaze flicked to the onion creel then back to the saddle, not that he could really see it now, blurry as his vision had gone.

  He cleared his throat, squaring his shoulders before he risked turning back to her.

  “Dinna tell me you rigged a carrying basket for Buckie?”

  “I did!” She smiled. “Hugh MacHugh and Hector helped me. We put Buckie in the basket at Dare and his feet didn’t touch the ground until he got here.”

  She blinked herself then and swiped a hand across her cheek. “I vow he enjoyed the ride!”

  “And where did you get such an idea?” Ronan could still scarce believe it.

  “From Jamie Macpherson,” she returned, the answer making no sense at all. “James the Small of Baldreagan, though his real style is James of the Heather.”

  “I ne’er heard tell of him.” Ronan tried not to sound annoyed.

  Truth was, the very way she’d said the man’s numerous by- names perturbed him.

  “Jamie has an old dog, Cuillin,” she twittered on, her eyes sparkling. “He crafted a riding basket for him, and when my father saw it, he had similar carriers made for his own aged hounds, Telve and Troddan.”

  She tossed her hair over her shoulder, as if that explained everything. “The dogs accompany Father everywhere, though he didn’t bring them along to Dare.”

  Ronan almost snorted.

  The Black Stag would have known why he left his beloved canines at home.

  Would that he’d been so careful with his daughter.

  “Jamie would have brought his dog here with him,” she declared, her lips curving in another dazzling smile. “He ne’er takes a step without Cuillin at his side.”

  Ronan humphed.

  The admiration he heard in his lady’s voice annoyed him greatly.

  His golden neck torque squeezed him tighter than e’er before.

  Dog lover or nay, he was certain he didn’t like this Jamie Macpherson.

  “I am sure I’ve heard of other such dog-creels,” he lied, something deep and ridiculous pricked inside him, forcing him to undermine the other man’s brilliance.

  “Indeed, I may have seen three or more such devices in Inverness,” he embellished, feeling the fool but unable to halt his tongue. “And perhaps another on Skye, last time I visited Aidan MacDonald of Wrath. That one, too, is well keen on his hounds.”

  Lady Gelis’s brows lifted, her gaze teasing.

  Teasing, taunting, and all-seeing enough to send his own brows dipping into a deep, down-drawn scowl.

  “You needn’t be jealous of Jamie.” She laughed the words, her merriment making him frown all the more. “He was one of my father’s favorite squires. He’s newly married and happily settled at Baldreagan, his home. He would love Buckie.”

  As if he knew he was being discussed, that long-eared brute trundled over to them. Looking quite pleased with himself, he eyed them, his bright gaze going from one to the other, his tail wagging furiously.

  Then he was off again, hinking away to trot along the lochan’s shore, eagerly sniffing every rock and clump of heather he passed.

  Jamie Macpherson faded from Ronan’s mind.

  He looked back at his bride, shamed that — for a space, anyway — he’d thought her capable of allowing harm to come to the old dog.

  He ran a hand through his hair, shamed, too, that his feelings for her would suddenly swell so fiercely in this of all places.

  He bit down on the inside of his mouth, shamed even more that he wasn’t awash with guilt.

  Far from it, very different emotions were whipping through him. Even when he slid a cautious glance across the lochan to where the worst jumble of stones hugged the foot of Creag na Gaoith.

  No ghosts lingered there.

  Only nothingness stared back at him.

  The hollow whistling of the wind, the rattle of tree branches, his own thundering heartbeat, and — he still couldn’t believe it — Buckie’s excited snuffling.

  “Well?” She was standing before him, poking his chest with a finger. “What do you think?”

  “Lady, I am . . . overwhelmed.” He winced, hoping only he heard the thickness in his voice. “Truth is, I dinna know what to say.”

  “Then say you are pleased.” She stepped back, attar of roses in her wake. “And” — her smile went wicked — “that you will not be wroth with your cook for helping me.”

  “Nae — by Saint Columba’s knees! I am anything but displeased with you and I will go easy with Hugh — I promise you.” But his gaze went to her Viking tent, the sight of it sobering him.

  The tent could so easily have belonged to some broken half- Norse Islesman, wandering the hills and aching for trouble.

  Or worse . . . a trap laid by the Holders.

  Ronan glanced at the sky, certain the clouds were darkening, their roiling mass closing in on Creag na Gaoith, their fast-moving shadows blotting the sun.

  He looked back at her, wondering how she could glow in such a benighted place.

  “You are wroth.” She folded her arms. “I can feel it rolling off you.”

  “Nae.” Ronan pulled a hand down over his chin. “I am just . . .”

  “You are —”

  “Ach, lass! I would know what filled your mind with such folderol!” He jammed his hands on his hips, the dangers she’d faced taking his breath. “Such folly could have been the end of you! Traipsing alone through Glen Dare, a milky-eyed, nigh-toothless dog as your sole protection —”

  She laughed again, her gaze flitting to the great awning of her Norsemen’s tent.

  “I rode out with more guards than e’er accompanied me on a day’s outing from Eilean Creag,” she tossed back at him, her chin lifting. “You just haven’t seen them because I ordered them to leave me be,
to stay within guarding distance, but well out of sight.”

  “Dare guardsmen are here?” Ronan glanced round, seeing no sign of them.

  “They are . . . everywhere.”

  Ronan almost laughed.

  Seldom had he heard a better description of his grandfather’s garrison.

  And of a sudden, he could feel them, too.

  Not their eyes, they were too well-trained for such an intrusion. But their presence came to him now, a wall of massed strength and vigilance, waiting and watching as always.

  Only he had been caught off guard.

  His senses fooled by creeping shadows moving through the whin and broom, a brightly colored swatch of striped sailcloth, and the curling blue drift of wood-and-peat smoke rising on the cold morning air.

  “They set the fire for you.” He made the words a statement. “Built yon Viking tent —”

  “So you know it’s a Norseman’s shelter?”

  “Save us — to be sure, I know.”

  “ But —”

  “Sakes, lass.”

  He stood straighter, all the pride of the hills behind him. “Any Heilander who’s sailed the Hebridean seaboard would recognize such sail-screens.”

  He rocked back on his heels, pleased with his knowledge. “I saw the sailcloth tents in my youth when my father took me on a journey through the Western Isles. ’Twas a sight I ne’er forgot, the colorful encampments of the Islesmen, those who still clung to Nordic ways.”

  “I am pleased you know of them.” She tossed her head and smiled again. “When I heard that Glen Dare has more mist than other glens, I thought such a shelter might serve us well. My sister and I have used them on our travels and ne’er has a drop of rain spoiled our night’s sleep.”

  Ronan’s gut tightened.

  Rain and wind were the least of Glen Dare’s nuisances.

  “I have more Viking gifts for you,” she said before he could tell her.

  Spinning around, she dashed for the shelter, hair swinging and hips swaying. “A fine Nordic armlet of heavy gold, inlaid with gemstones,” she called over her shoulder, “brought back from Orkney by my cousin Kenneth.”

  Reaching the awning, she ducked beneath its flap, disappearing into the shadows only to reappear a moment later, a gleaming gold armpiece clutched in her hand.

  “This, too, hails from Orkney.” She hurried back to him, brandishing the thing as she came. “My father gave it to me years ago and I’ve been saving it for you.”

  “For me?” Ronan blinked, at first not comprehending.

  By the time he did, it was too late.

  A mist wraith had wound itself around one of the tent’s tie-ropes. Inching ever higher, it was already quite near to the tent flap, its whole quivering, transparent length very close to where Lady Gelis stood, eyes shining.

  Oblivious, she held out the Nordic armlet, offering the gift to him.

  “Hell’s afire!” He grabbed her and shoved her to the side, away from the tent, the force of his push sending her to her knees.

  “Aaaagghhh!” Her shoulder slammed into one of the angled support poles and the golden armpiece went sailing.

  She toppled sideways, landing with a gasped whoosh on the peaty, grass-tufted ground. Her bodice split wide and her breasts spilled free, jigging wildly as she scrambled to her feet.

  Ronan flinched, her cry lancing him.

  He flung himself between her and the infested tie-rope. Already reaching for his sword, he had the blade half-drawn before he realized the mist snake was gone.

  The day had turned light and breezy, the cloud shadows swiftly moving away.

  Nothing stirred but the rushing of the wind and a tiny gray wagtail flitting past to light jauntily on a red-berried rowan branch.

  Slanting rays of cold autumn sun fell across the Viking tent, picking out its bright colors and making the glassy, peaty-dark surface of the lochan glitter as if it’d been scattered with jet and diamonds.

  Somewhere a raven gave its harsh call.

  Buckie hoppled around in a circle, howling and barking like a dog possessed.

  And Ronan had ne’er felt a greater fool.

  “Mother of God, lass, forgive me.” He whirled around, his arms spread wide. “Ne’er would I hurt you, no’ e’er. I’d sooner cut my own flesh —”

  “I am well.” The tremble in her voice belied her words. “No ill has befallen me — or will!”

  She dusted her skirts and made no move to tuck her breasts back inside her torn bodice.

  Buckie padded up to her, pressed his great bulk against her soiled skirts.

  Ronan let his arms drop. “I will see you safely to Eilean Creag.” The words formed before he could stop them. “Anywhere, so long as you are afforded safety.”

  “Pah!” She cut the air with a hand. “I am where I wish to be.”

  Ronan scoffed. “You live on dreams, methinks!”

  He scowled at her.

  She bent to retrieve the fallen armlet, her breasts still swinging.

  Straightening, she let her eyes speak the words her lips held close. “I know you would not hurt me,” she did say, watching him. “Nor am I frightened by whate’er menace caused you to push me.”

  “Sweet lass, I am the menace —”

  “Nae, you are my raven.”

  Ronan’s gut clenched at her innocence. “You err, lass. I am —”

  “I believe you know what you are.” She lifted her chin. “To me and, aye, what I am to you!”

  “ Lass —”

  “Even so,” she cut him off again, “there are things about me that you need to know.”

  On the words, she set the armpiece on the rough-planked table and whipped up her skirts, revealing a sgian dubh strapped to her thigh.

  “The wee blade I gave Hector was not my only one.” She looked at him, her color high. “Ne’er think I walk about unprotected! Much as I cherish our legends and tradition, I am not some large-eyed, song-trilling milkmaid born on the hill who trusts in naught more than charms and saining rituals to keep her safe.”

  Reaching for the deadly blade, she withdrew the dagger a few telling inches from its fine leather sheath. The brightly gleaming steel shone wickedly narrow, its razor-sharp edge clearly honed to kill.

  Ronan narrowed his eyes on the weapon, glad for something besides her naked, still-jigging breasts to focus on.

  “My mother — a master at knife-throwing — gave me this dirk.” She kept her chin raised, her eyes glinting as bright as the sun on the lochan.

  “She learned the craft from her brothers,” she hurried on, caressing the richly tooled sheath as she spoke.

  “And you learned well.” Ronan was sure of it.

  She nodded, clearly proud. “Mother taught me well. She also ne’er let me forget that her skill once saved her life.”

  She paused then, her fingers stilling on the dirk’s sheath.

  Ronan felt a sharp pulling in his loins, wondered if she knew how much the play of her fingers on that long leather sheath was rousing him.

  As was every other part of her!

  He bit back a groan, his blood heating. Ne’er had he seen a more tempting creature.

  Her breasts gleamed in the day’s soft light.

  Her nipples puckered in the chill air. Hued the exact shade of dusky-rose he’d imagined; he could scarce bear looking upon them.

  Nor, saints preserve him, could he resist.

  Heedless, she flicked a clinging twig from her skirts and tossed back her tangled, flame-bright hair. “Like Mother, I, too, would ne’er hesitate to use my talents to safeguard myself or those I hold dear!”

  Ronan grunted.

  He believed every word she said, but the wind was freshening. Light gusts tugged at her up-hitched skirts, lifting the edges and giving him brief, tantalizing glimpses of her red-curled femininity.

  And the sight — so unwittingly revealed — was nigh unmanning him.

  Quickly, before he did something they’d both regret, he re
ached and yanked down her skirts. Not wanting to risk helping her adjust her bodice and thus, inevitably, touch her flesh, he shrugged off his great travel cloak and swirled it around her shoulders.

  “You will catch a chill if you dinna cover yourself.” The excuse sounded ridiculous even to him.

  She lifted a brow.

  Her lips quirked then curved into another of her dazzling smiles.

  “My health is as stout as yon Highland garrons.” She glanced at the two horses, quietly grazing side by side near Buckie’s onion creel. “I ne’er take a chill.”

  As if to prove it, she lifted her hands and removed his cloak, slipping out of it quickly before his warmth and his scent bewitched her so thoroughly she couldn’t ever bear to be parted from it.

  Already, her heart was skittering and it was all she could do not to clutch the thing against her breasts, branding his heat and the clean, manly essence of him into her skin.

  Instead, she folded the cloak carefully and placed it on the trestle table’s cushioned bench.

  Then she drew a breath, opting for honesty. “I know you covered me so you wouldn’t have to see my breasts.”

  To his credit, he didn’t deny it.

  He did, however, look more miserable than she’d yet seen him.

  “Lass —”

  “Dinna say it.” She looked down, tied her bodice laces as best she could with fingers she pretended weren’t trembling. “I have eyes, see you?”

  Her task complete, she brushed the grass and dirt off her skirts. She needed to busy herself lest she burst into tears — or great gales of laughter — at the futility of her gown-fastening efforts.

  Retied, her already-dipping bodice once again covered her, but only just.

  Her breasts strained against the ripped cloth, the generous swells barely contained. And, much to her horror, her right nipple was poking through a jagged little tear she’d somehow overlooked in her haste to redo the laces.

  Indeed, she looked more scandalously naked than before!

  A truth plainly evidenced by the Raven’s tight, hard-set expression as he struggled not to glance any lower than her carefully lifted chin.

  “You have much more than eyes, sweetness. I would that you didn’t.” He took a step closer; his voice came rough, husky. “And you shouldn’t have —”

  “What I shouldn’t, husband mine, is allow you to keep telling me you are a menace.” She snatched a jug from the table, sloshed a measure of wine into a cup, and thrust it into his hands. “Drink,” she urged, drawing herself up, “perhaps Valdar’s fine Gascon wine will loosen your tongue.”