She’d die if aught happened to him.
Remembering his kisses — and the horrible blackness she’d seen enfold him in her most recent vision — she hastened her step, almost colliding with a kitchen laddie weaving his way across the hall with a platter of sausages and fresh-baked bannocks.
Somewhere a shutter cracked in the wind and someone slammed it shut, the noise overloud in her ears. Fearing the onset of another vision, she pressed a hand to her breast, relieved when the buzzing in her head proved no more than her own blood pounding in her temples.
Almost at the entry, she skirted several castle dogs squabbling over a bone. She deflected the interest of another when he trotted up to her, eager for ear rubs and back scratches. Then one of the iron-bracketed resin torches flared as she dashed past, the flames leaping upward, dancing wildly and sparking a plume of bright, hissing ash.
And finally she was there.
The hall’s great iron-studded doors loomed but a few paces before her. Hugh MacHugh still marched to and fro, his stride long and purposeful, the blade of his meat cleaver glinting in the torchlight.
But Anice was gone.
Disappointment swept her, but she tamped it down, hastening instead to insert herself in front of the cook, effectively blocking his path.
“My lady.” He stopped at once. “A fine morn to you.”
“Aye, and it would be if I knew where my husband has ridden off to.” She leaned forward, so close she could almost smell his nervousness. “I don’t suppose you can tell me?”
He shook his head. “Nae, I —”
She overrode him. “I already know . . . you canna say.” She drew herself up, said a silent prayer of thanks that she wasn’t some wee slip of a maid, easily blown away on the slightest puff of a breeze.
“But I do wish to have a word with Anice,” she added. “Where is she?”
Hugh MacHugh swallowed. “Anice?”
“Herself, and no other.” Gelis lifted her chin. “She was here just moments ago. I saw her standing there” — she pointed to where a little charcoal brazier hissed and glowed in a shadowy corner — “and watching you.”
Hugh MacHugh’s face reddened.
“I didn’t see her, my lady,” he said, shuffling his feet.
But his gaze flicked to the door.
“Ha! So she left the hall, did she?” Gelis darted around him, seizing the door latch. “Then I will just go after her. She couldn’t have gone far.”
To her surprise, the cook didn’t argue with her.
Instead, he drew a hand over his thinning red hair and blew out a breath.
“She went to gather broody hen eggs,” he admitted, his big hands working on the shaft of his meat cleaver.
“Then perhaps I shall . . . help her!” Gelis hitched up her skirts and tugged on the door latch.
Hugh MacHugh’s hand closed around her wrist. “It willna do you any good to go out there, my lady.”
“Ah, but I do disagree,” she owned, jerking free.
She yanked open the door and scooted out onto the landing before he could try to stop her again.
But she saw at once that he had no need.
A tight phalanx of guardsmen lined the entire length of the keep’s outer stair, their close-packed ranks grim-faced and silent.
And even if she’d consider nipping past them, their drawn and crossed swords blocked the way.
She was well and truly trapped.
Though she would catch Anice and speak to her later.
That knowledge — and her pride — lifting her spirits, she straightened her back and walked to the edge of the landing with all the dignity she could muster. She put her hands on the cold stone of the landing wall and leaned out into the chill morning wind, pretending to relish its briskness.
One, two obviously deep gulps of the brittle air — and perhaps an appreciative sigh or an artful head toss — should be enough to convince the guardsmen.
It wouldn’t do to have them think their new lady had been about to gallop down the keep stair and streak across the bailey, looking for broody hens!
But when, after enough air gulping and head tosses, she turned to go back inside, all thought of hen eggs, Anice, and even stony-faced guardsmen fled her mind.
Maldred the Dire’s heraldic crest was gone.
Or rather, she couldn’t see it.
Her jaw slipping, she stared up at the space above the hall door where the great hoary stone should have been. Either her eyes had suddenly gone as milky as old Buckie’s or her taibhsearachd was playing some new trick on her.
Yet no weird buzzing filled her ears. And neither the landing nor the solid bulk of the keep walling appeared to fade or waver.
Everything looked and felt as it should — save for the missing crest stone.
Her heart thumping, she stepped closer, craning her neck to get a better look. In that moment, the sun broke through a cloud, its bright morning light silvering the tower wall like a polished mirror.
At once, she spotted the great stone slab that was once Maldred’s, recognizing its distinctive shape set so prominently above the door.
But the sight sent chills down her spine and she had to clasp a hand to her mouth to keep from gasping.
The stone might still be there, but no one could ever call it Maldred’s again.
Every last faded line of incising and carvings had been erased.
The stone stared down at her, its age-pitted bulk looking no different from the other squares of granite masoned so proudly into Dare’s walls.
But the power of it stopped her heart.
That, and the distinct impression that the stone could see her. Then the clouds closed over the sun again and the odd sensation vanished.
Gelis shivered and rubbed her arms.
Then she smiled.
Whatever force had smoothed the stone’s surface, she knew in her heart it boded well.
Dare was on its way to healing.
She was absolutely certain of it.
Ronan was almost certain he’d made a grave error.
His little skiff, scarce more than a cockleshell, tossed and pitched in the cold, choppy waters of Loch Dubh. The small, black-watered loch vexed and bedeviled him, giving itself as dark as its benighted name.
Scowling, he set his jaw against the pain in his ribs when the skiff plunged into yet another deep trough, but struggle as he would, the tossing waves and icy, spray-filled air undid each hard-won ply of his carefully wielded oars.
A driving wet mist drove up the loch and low clouds raced across the surrounding hills. The gusting wind blew in his face, making it ever harder to reach the little islet standing out so blackly against the thick gray fog shrouding the fine, rolling sweeps of Dare’s highest moorland.
But a dark-cloaked figure stood waiting on the islet’s stone jetty, the man’s penetrating stare piercing the whirling mist and keeping him on course.
Tall, white-maned, and wind-beaten, the berobed observer could only be Dungal Tarnach.
Or so Ronan hoped.
He tightened his grip on the oars, almost sure of it.
No one else save Valdar knew his true whereabouts.
And the power of the man shone bright against the islet’s thickly wooded foreshore, his mere silhouette edged with a shifting orangey-red glow that lit the tall ash and scarlet-berried rowan trees behind him.
The glow brightened as Ronan drew near, the wind swinging round to buffet him from behind and send the little skiff racing across the foaming waves, directly toward the old stone pier and the slick, weed-hung rocks lining the strand.
“So you came — Raven.” The man nodded in greeting, then held out a hand to aid him ashore when the skiff bumped against the jetty.
Ronan gripped the extended hand, pride not letting him refuse the courtesy. “I would hear what you have to say,” he said simply, stepping up onto the pier. “I trust I will not have cause to regret meeting with you.”
The Holder looked at hi
m, his eyes like smoldering coals. “Come with me to the Tobar Ghorm and you can decide what you make of my tidings.”
“There are tales told in my family of the Blue Well,” Ronan said as they left the jetty to follow a narrow track through the trees. “The well was sacred to the Ancients. A place where folk no longer remembered gathered on certain days to drink the water and leave offerings in the hope of securing good fortune or curing ills. The Old Ones —”
“Still hold Tobar Ghorm as hallowed.”
Ronan frowned. “Then I find it an odd trysting place for a Holder.”
Dungal Tarnach turned to face him. “The well’s sanctity is the reason I chose it,” he said, the strange glow edging his robes gone now.
Even his eyes no longer glimmered eerily but appeared a faded light blue.
They’d left the trees and now stood in a small clearing overgrown with dead heather and thigh-high, autumn-red bracken. The Holder glanced at the Tobar Ghorm, his almost-ordinary gaze fixing on the barely discernible well in the center of the little glade.
Of very great antiquity indeed, little remained of the well save a tumble of toppled stones. Some were covered with early Celtic carvings, while others appeared simply moss-grown or riddled with lichen.
Even so, cloaked in soft mist as the clearing now was, it was all too easy to imagine ancient rites taking place there. Perhaps, too, that those so gifted might use the well’s Druidecht to pass easily between this world and those beyond.
Ronan shuddered and drew his plaid closer about his shoulders. The Tobar Ghorm’s pagan magic yet pulsed here, untouched by the centuries, its life force seizing him like a fist clenched around his soul.
Unthinkable that a turned druid would dare risk treading here.
Yet Dungal Tarnach stood proud, not a trace of shame or humility on his face.
He looked at Ronan then and for one brief moment a trace of sadness flickered in his eyes. “You think one such as I cannot hold a place such as this in high honor?”
“I did not say that.” Ronan frowned, feeling oddly chastised.
“You did not have to.”
“I —” Ronan bit off the words, not even sure what he meant to say.
He glanced up at the low black clouds racing so swiftly across the sky, wishing they could whisk him back to Dare. The Tobar Ghorm and its little islet were more than dark, bleak, and lonely.
The place was having a weird effect on him and he didn’t like it.
Most especially he didn’t care for the way — since stepping into the clearing and nearing the well — he couldn’t help but notice the lines on the Holder’s face or the bony thinness of his shoulders.
The slight hitch in his step when he walked, as if his hips pained him.
“Did you know, Raven,” he said then, suddenly standing next to the well, “that even on a day as dark as this, the water of the well remains blue as sapphire?”
As if to prove it, he leaned over the fallen stones and peered down into the rubble. Straightening, he turned back to Ronan.
“You should look.” He glanced at the well again, his robes lifting in the wind.
“I saw the water as a lad,” Ronan admitted, remembering his awe at its brilliance.
And, too, how his young boy’s heart had believed his father’s tale that the dazzling blue was the eye color of a beautiful but tragic Celtic princess who’d drowned herself in the well when her sweetheart was killed in battle.
Preferring death to life without him, or worse, being forced to wed another, she’d rowed herself out to the little islet and taken solace in the only way she knew.
Ever since, or so legend claimed, she granted favors and healing to those visiting her well, taking especial care to help those unlucky in love, not wanting others to suffer the sorrow that had taken all joy and light from her life, ultimately causing her death.
Pushing the tale from his mind, Ronan strode across the clearing to join the Holder at the well. He did not attempt to peer through the jumble of stones and weeds to see the glittering water.
Instead, he folded his arms. “ So- o-o, Dungal Tarnach,” he began, “if you are indeed the man who penned a certain missive, I would hear the name of the traitor in my midst.”
The Holder raised a brow. “You doubt my identity?”
“I would only be sure I hear the words from the man who brought such tidings.” Ronan narrowed his eyes, taking in the Holder’s simple robe and his flowing white hair and beard. “You do not look like any MacKenzie I ever saw. Or did you use Druidecht to bespell my grandfather?”
“Valdar MacRuari saw what he expected to see — as did all your men.”
“Dare men are no fools.” Ronan spoke with conviction. “They know men that are others roam our glen from time to time. They know to be wary.”
“And they knew MacKenzies were still riding through your lands.” His mouth quirking, the Holder lifted a hand, palm upward to the heavens.
In a blink, he was changed.
For one earth-tilting moment he stood before Ronan no longer looking aged beyond measure, but like a shadow image of the Black Stag. Or, at the least, like a man who shared that one’s blood and name.
Then he lowered his hand and was himself again.
Tall, berobed, and gaunt, his white-maned head held proud despite the slight stoop to his shoulders.
“So you are Dungal Tarnach.” Ronan refused to acknowledge the man’s transformation talent.
All druids were skilled thus.
Even Torcaill, though they never discussed such things.
Ronan kept his eyes intent on this druid, now a Holder. “It matters little to me under which guise you cloak yourself. I would only hear who thinks to betray me.”
“He means to do more than betray you.” Dungal Tarnach held his gaze, his faded blue eyes equally earnest. “His plan is to taint your food and drink with poison. He will seek to kill you, your lady, your grandfather, and any others who might have the misfortune to sit at your high table when he chooses to make his move.”
“And do you know why?” Ronan could scarce speak past the bile in his throat. “Dare men are known for their loyalty. I cannot think of a single one who would turn so viciously against his own clan.”
The Holder shrugged. “Then perhaps you should consider the other thing Dare men are known for — they dwell on blighted ground. Outside this glen, your name rarely passes good folks’ lips. They fear just thinking of you will touch them with your darkness.”
Ronan grunted. “It is because of the like that our men are so true, so beholden to our own.”
When the Holder only shrugged again, he flexed his jaw and struggled against clenching his hands. A horrible suspicion was beginning to unravel in his mind and he didn’t want it to take shape.
Dungal Tarnach cleared his throat. “This man is weary of living as you do,” he said, voicing Ronan’s dread. “He is one who hopes to turn the minds of your other men once you are no more.”
“Bah!” Ronan slashed the air with his hand. “The others would string him up on the nearest gibbet.”
“Perhaps.” The Holder fingered his beard, considering. “But he might meet with success, convincing them that without you, Dare’s darkness can be lifted.”
Ronan snorted.
Dungal Tarnach stepped closer, gripping Ronan’s arm. “He has sought to treat with us — the Holders — vowing to throw open your gates and let us search Dare for the Raven Stone. In return, he asks that we help him eliminate any of your men who might resist him. Once that is done —”
“He means to live off our riches and expects you to take your Raven Stone and vanish from our bounds,” Ronan finished for him, sure that was the way of it.
Not surprisingly, the Holder nodded.
And although he’d been so certain, the confirmation chilled Ronan’s blood.
He paced away, then swung around before he’d gone three paces. “You haven’t told me his name. Who is he?”
“I cann
ot speak his name.” Dungal Tarnach lifted his hands, showing his palms. “Letting it touch my tongue would diminish my own power. I — and all my kind — have suffered enough each time we speak of your thieving forebear. I will not foul my breath on this man.
“But” — he raised an arm, pointing across the clearing — “I will show him to you.”
Ronan followed the Holder’s outstretched arm, his heart slamming against his ribs when he saw his foe standing at the edge of the narrow track to the jetty.
Encircled by a flickering bluish glow, he stared right back at Ronan, his eyes blank and unseeing.
His identity was unmistakable.
“Christ God!” Ronan cried, staring.
And then the image vanished, leaving only the glimmering blue haze against the trees.
When that, too, faded, Ronan whirled around to face the Holder.
“I canna believe it!” He ran a hand through his hair, vaguely noting that his fingers shook. “No’ him. I’d have trusted him with my life — and have!”
“Men are turned by many things.” The Holder looked down at the well again, his shoulders seeming to dip a bit. “Greed and wealth, always. Love and hate can be powerful motivators. Or, as with your ill-famed forebear, simply a raging thirst for power.”
“I still canna believe it,” Ronan repeated, shaking his head.
His stomach roiled and he felt sick inside, as if he’d been walking along a cliff edge and someone he trusted had just strode up to him and kicked him over the edge.
He started pacing again, then froze, a new thought stopping him in his tracks.
“Why did you tell me this?” He shot a glance at the Holder. “Would it not have served you better to keep silent?”
Dungal Tarnach was still peering down at the Blue Well. When he finally looked up, he sighed.
“Nae, it wouldn’t have served me to keep this from you,” he said, his voice sounding old, tired. “Nor would it have done us any good to have agreed to your man’s terms — though he knows nothing yet of our refusal.”
“Say you?”
The Holder nodded. “We deemed it wise to bide for time, telling him we’d give him our answer on the next full of the moon.”
“You wished to warn me first?” Ronan spoke the obvious.
Seducing a Scottish Bride Page 23