Seducing a Scottish Bride

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  Again, the Holder inclined his head.

  “I do not understand,” Ronan said, and he didn’t.

  To his surprise, Dungal Tarnach smiled. “Would that I could tell you my druidic honor obliged me to warn you of such treachery in your midst,” he said, that odd almost-wistful note in his voice again.

  “Alas,” he continued, “it had naught to do with the three greatest precepts druids abide by. Do you know them?” He glanced at Ronan, one white brow arcing. “We train for twenty long years, enduring much hardship to hone and perfect our skills. But above all, we vow to honor the gods, to be ever manly, and to always speak true.”

  “And you are speaking the truth.” Ronan knew it in his bones.

  “To be sure.” The Holder lifted his voice above the rising wind. “But not for those reasons. They would only have swayed me . . . many years ago.”

  “And now?”

  “Now . . .” Dungal Tarnach looked away, his gaze seeming to search for an answer in the thickly clustered ash and rowan trees crowding the edge of the glade. “Now, I warned you because doing so serves our purposes as well.”

  Ronan almost choked.

  His jaw did slip. “Warning me serves the Holders?”

  Dungal Tarnach looked at him, his gaze no longer a harmless blue. “We seek only the return of what is ours. The Raven Stone, as you know,” he said, the red glint in his eyes deepening on each word. “The stone was tainted when Maldred stole it from us. His thievery — taking the property of friends — greatly diminished the stone’s power.”

  “Then why do you still want it?” Ronan felt a ridiculous surge of hope.

  “Because even tainted, the stone is ours.” The Holder stood straighter, seeming to grow in height and dimension. “It is of untold sanctity and significance to us. And its powers are still formidable.”

  “Then why didn’t you jump when you were handed a chance to search for it within our walls?” Ronan puzzled. “You’re no’ making sense.”

  “Druids always make sense,” the Holder corrected him. “Turned or nae, we ne’er waste a word. Had we agreed to such a treacherous plan as was offered to us, the stone’s value would have decreased yet again. We must find the stone on our own terms, not accept it from the hands of a man whose heart is so blackened he’d spill the blood of his own to gain his wicked ends.”

  “I see.” Ronan released a breath, understanding indeed. “So now that you’ve assured the stone won’t lose further power, you mean to keep plaguing us?”

  “We mean to continue our search — as we have done since time was.”

  “And if I tell you I have ne’er truly believed in the stone? Or that my father and grandfather and all those before them spent years looking for it, always to no avail?”

  “Then I would tell you that their failure makes no difference. The stone does exist and we will get it back.”

  The words spoken, Dungal Tarnach stepped forward and offered his hand. “I will also tell you I wish you well in dealing with your man.”

  Ronan took the Holder’s hand, gripping tight. “And I . . . thank you for the warning.”

  “It will be the only one given. The next time we meet, there will be no niceties. But” — his eyes flickered blue for just a moment — “I was gladdened to meet you here today. You are a good man, Ronan MacRuari. In another life we might have been friends.”

  The words spoken, the Holder turned and walked away, quickly disappearing into the trees on the far side of the clearing, leaving Ronan alone.

  His fury, though, erupted all around him, pressing close and cutting off his air.

  “By all that’s holy, I still canna believe it,” he roared, spinning around to race through the underbrush.

  Heart pounding, he charged down the narrow path to the jetty and leaped into the little skiff before he had time to disbelieve Dungal Tarnach’s words.

  In his heart, he knew he’d spoken true.

  He could only hope he wasn’t mistaken.

  If so, he was about to kill an innocent man.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hours later, Gelis wrinkled her nose and wondered how much longer it would take for Anice to pay a visit to Dare’s grandest luxury . . . a privy chamber reserved solely for women.

  Set deep into the thickness of the stair tower’s walling, the tiny room boasted a mosaic-tiled floor and not one but two air-spending window slits. A wicker basket near the necessary brimmed with a goodly supply of clean and fragrant sphagnum moss, while a small wooden corner shelf held a laver kept fresh with cold, scented water and a tiny jar of lavender soap, adding to the chamber’s charm.

  Not to mention the usual amenities.

  The pride of Dare’s womenfolk, the privy was rumored to have been designed by Valdar’s mother, a woman of Norse descent who, by all recollections, lived before her time.

  Thinking of her now, confined as Gelis was to her chosen hiding place, she was glad the Norsewoman set so much store on a lady’s privacy and comfort.

  It made her vigil pass with greater ease.

  Even though, at the moment, her oversensitive nose twitched too much for her to appreciate the chamber’s luxuries.

  She only cared that no one had suspected her plan when she’d slipped from the hall, pleading an aching head.

  She also said a prayer — including a nod to the Old Ones — that Anice would soon appear.

  Her nose could not take much more of the little room’s particular tang.

  Well-appointed or nae.

  But then the door creaked open and she lunged, clamping tight fingers around her quarry’s arm and drawing her from the piquant-smelling little chamber right back out into the open of the stair tower landing.

  “Lady!” Anice stared at her, eyes wide. “You near frightened the life out of me.”

  “I had to speak with you.” Gelis kept her grip on the girl’s elbow and pulled her deeper into the shadows. “I must know where the Raven went this morn and why every man is bristling with steel.”

  Anice flushed and bit her lip.

  “You must tell me what you know,” Gelis insisted. “My husband is in danger.”

  “Ahhhh, lady.” Anice looked down, fussing at her skirts. “I know less than anyone. Would that I could help you —”

  “But you can!” Gelis refused to give up. “You must know something. I saw it in your eyes when you fled the high table earlier. Come” — she let go of Anice’s arm and glanced down the stairwell, making sure they were alone — “if you do not know where he is, tell me why you looked so frightened.”

  Anice drew a deep breath. “ ’Tis the Holders,” she said, looking miserable. “Leastways I fear they are the reason he rode out so early, why the men have taken up extra arms.”

  “The Holders?” Gelis blinked.

  Anice’s head bobbed. “They were the original Holders of the Raven Stone and Maldred the Dire’s bitterest foes,” she began, twisting her hands. “Some say they still exist, or at least their descendants. They sweep into Glen Dare again and again, always searching for their stone, wanting it back.”

  “ Pah-phooey!” Gelis puffed a curl off her brow. “If there are such men, I vow the Raven and his Dare men could make small work of them.”

  “Not the Holders, lady.” Anice leaned close, her voice low. “They are not like other men. They are . . . shadowy and have glowing red eyes. ’Tis known that they can melt steel and iron, charm any beast, and that they practice all manner of other nefarious magic.”

  Gelis flicked her braid over her shoulder. “If such terrors exist, I am sure they can be defeated. I vow my own father has fought and bested worse enemies.”

  Anice looked unconvinced.

  “So- o-o,” Gelis considered, her mind already racing, “do the mist wraiths I’ve heard castle folk whispering about have anything to do with these men?”

  “Aye, they do.” Anice dropped her voice even lower. “The mist snakes are the Holders’ minions. There have been many sightings of them
in recent times. Even Hugh says —”

  “Is Hugh MacHugh the reason you stay here?” Gelis angled her head. “The Raven once mentioned he’d offered to return you to your parents’ home, but you declined. I know MacHugh is fond of you.”

  Anice’s cheeks brightened. “He is a fine man,” she admitted, her face turning even pinker. “But I stayed on because of you, my lady.”

  Gelis’s brows lifted. “Because of me?”

  “Aye.” Anice began worrying her hands again. “I came here to work as lady’s maid for the Raven’s second wife, see you? The lady Cecilia.”

  She paused, glancing aside for a moment. “After her passing, I thought about leaving because the darkness here frightens me sometimes, but then I heard you were coming and knew I couldn’t leave.”

  “Why not?” Gelis looked at her. “If you were unhappy, surely it would have been better to go?”

  Anice’s chin rose. “I thought you might need me. And I wanted to serve you.”

  “But you did not know me,” Gelis puzzled. “That doesn’t seem —”

  “I knew your father,” the girl said, completely surprising her. “He —”

  “You met him before he brought me here?” Gelis could scarce believe it.

  Anice nodded. “He helped me once and I never forgot it. I’d gone with my parents on a trip to town — to Inverness — and was so overwhelmed by the size of the market and the noise and all the people that I became separated from them.”

  “You were lost?” Gelis encouraged her.

  “Horribly,” Anice confirmed, “and so frightened, my lady.”

  “And my father helped you?”

  “I . . . bumped into him.” Anice tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, her blush returning. “I was crying and running through the market stalls and just plowed right into him. He caught me by the shoulders and asked me what was wrong and when I told him, he took me up on his horse and brought me safely to my parents’ door.”

  Gelis blinked against a hot prickling at the backs of her eyes. “That sounds just like him,” she said, smiling at the girl. “I am glad he was the man you bumped into.”

  “I am, too, my lady.” Anice’s own eyes shone a bit over-bright. “So you see why I stayed on when I heard you were to be the Raven’s new wife.”

  Wife.

  The word leaped at Gelis, biting hard and making her heart seize. Even worse — saints forgive her — the very thought of another woman having been the Raven’s own jabbed hotly at all her softest and most vulnerable places.

  Never before had the notion lanced her so.

  But never either did anyone at Dare seem to speak of his two former ladies.

  Only in hand-muffled mutterings she’d done her best not to hear.

  She swallowed once, then twice, and even nipped the inside of her cheek trying to hold back the questions burning on her tongue. But then curiosity and the green-tinged stabs still pricking her overrode her willpower.

  She tossed back her hair and drew a deep breath.

  Nothing helped.

  So she blurted, “You served the Raven’s second wife, Lady . . . Cecilia?”

  Anice looked surprised, but nodded. “Aye, I did. Even to her last day, God rest her soul.”

  “You were there at the birthing?” Gelis hated herself for asking, but her tongue seemed to have taken on a mind of its own. “When she . . . died?”

  “Aye.” Anice’s brow knit. “Auld Meg and I attended her. We couldn’t do anything to help her. She —”

  “The Raven must’ve been heartbroken.” The words tasted like cold ash in her mouth.

  Gelis frowned.

  Shame scalded her, but the taste of bitter ash remained.

  Now she’d surely damned herself.

  “I know how much he loved his first wife,” she rushed on anyway, unable to stop, “but can you tell me . . . do you think he loved Lady Cecilia as much?”

  “He didn’t love her at all. No man would have —” Anice clapped a hand to her breast, her eyes wide. “ O-o-oh, forgive me, lady, I shouldn’t have said aught. But the words just popped out.”

  Gelis waved a hand, not trusting herself to speak.

  Her heart split wide, relief flooding her.

  Even though she was quite sure she was very wicked to be gladdened that the Raven hadn’t been passionately in love with his second wife.

  She knew from kitchen blether that the woman had been a frail flower. Tiny and dark-haired, and everything she wasn’t. In truth, she’d feared her own well-rounded dips, curves, and fillings might not appeal to a man used to loving a woman the size of a sparrow.

  She bit the corner of her lip.

  Now she knew different.

  Hope began to pump through her. Her blood surged. She’d been so certain the Raven deeply mourned Lady Cecilia. That her ghost would always stand between them.

  “Pray dinna be wroth with me, lady.” Anice was peering at her, her eyes worried.

  Gelis leaned back against the curve of the stair tower wall, her knees suddenly wobbly. “Nae, nae, I am not vexed,” she said, feeling anything but.

  She felt absolutely giddy.

  “So the lady wasn’t well-loved?” The question made her face heat, but she had to know. “The Raven never speaks of her.”

  “She wasn’t very kindly. Not to any of us.” Anice looked down at her hands, then back at Gelis. “I am not surprised the Raven doesn’t speak of her. Not after the way she cursed him before she died. She —”

  Whack!

  The slamming of the hall door interrupted her, the sharp cracking noise echoing in the stair tower and even shaking the walls.

  “Valdar!” The roar from the hall followed at once, thundering and furious. “Touch naught!”

  “Sweet Jesu — the Raven!” Gelis hitched up her skirts and ran down the stairs, Anice quick on her heels.

  Already, other voices were rising, loud and alarmed, the sudden din accompanied by the barking of dogs, shouts, and the sound of scraped-back benches and scuffling.

  Panting, the two women burst from the stair tower into chaos. Everywhere men were jumping to their feet and the floor was strewn with crockery and cups from several upturned long tables. The castle dogs raced about in circles, getting underfoot and greatly lending to the ruckus, while near the stair-foot two cursing men stood half-naked, using their plaids to smother burning floor rushes.

  Gelis veered out of their way, nearly falling headlong over a toppled candelabrum.

  Anice did stumble into it, the hem of her skirt catching fire from the still-burning candles scattered in a ring around the thing’s curving arms.

  “Aggggh!” she wailed, freezing.

  “Here!” Gelis yanked a linen off the nearest table and dropped to her knees to swat at the flames with the bunched cloth. “ ’Tis out already — dinna fret.”

  Pushing to her feet, she grabbed Anice’s arm, pulling her deeper into the throng, away from the candelabrum fire and the two men.

  Busy slapping at the smoking rushes with their plaids, they had the flames nearly under control, and — more urgently — across the hall, the Raven still bellowed, his angry voice sharp against the tumult.

  “Dear saints, what has — aaiieee!” Gelis leaped aside as four of the castle dogs sped past, nearly knocking her down.

  Righting herself, she shoved back her hair and grabbed up her skirts to rush forward again, pushing and pressing through the tight- packed throng.

  “Ronan!” she called, finally seeing him.

  Just gaining the dais, he tore up the steps to that raised platform, the dark fury on his face closing her throat.

  Ronan! She tried to cry out again, but her voice emerged as a rasp, her chest so tight she could hardly breathe.

  Panting, she clasped a hand to her breast and looked on in horror as he raced across the dais, murder in his eye. Valdar and the others were already on their feet, but they sprang back from the table, shock on their faces as he whipped out his s
word, raising it above his head.

  For one horrible moment, Ronan held the brand high and stared down at the rich viands spread across the pristine white linen. A great platter of roasted stag haunch hadn’t yet been touched, but the bread and ale clearly had.

  As well, more than one cup held dredges of his grandfather’s prized Gascon wine.

  And someone — or perhaps all of them — had done great justice to Hugh MacHugh’s excellent cheese pasties.

  Ronan’s heart twisted and a terrible fear ripped his innards.

  Pray God he wasn’t too late.

  Then, with all the rage inside him, he brought down his sword, swiping the glittering blade the full length of the high table.

  Food, wine-and-ale cups and ewers, everything flew to the floor with a deafening clatter, the crash plunging men into silence.

  Spinning around, he raised his blade again, this time searching the packed hall. Some still-hoping part of him willed that he’d only just made a fool of himself and that when he met his supposed betrayer’s eyes, he’d see only surprise and innocence.

  But then he spotted the man.

  And his entire stance was one of wariness.

  His face blanched with guilt.

  “Sorley!” Ronan jumped down from the dais, his sword flashing. “A reckoning!”

  “You’re mad!” The guards captain backed away, hands in the air. “Whatever you heard is untrue.”

  “What makes you think I’ve heard aught?” Ronan advanced, the other man’s slip sealing his fate.

  As if he knew, Sorley’s own blade appeared in a quicksilver move. “Ooh, aye, your time has come, Raven,” he snarled, vaulting over a bench, his sword already slashing.

  Ronan met his arcing swipe, the two blades sliding together with an ear-piercing screech. “Aye, my time is nigh,” he hissed, “but no’ how you mean it!”

  His muscles straining against the guardsman’s strength, he drew on his own reserves and flung him back, lunging before the other could gain his balance.

  But Sorley recovered as quickly, bringing up his sword and springing forward, their blades clashing again and again. Men pulled back benches and tables, forming a watchful ring around them. From the corner of his eye, Ronan saw Torcaill raise his slachdan druidheachd at the edge of the circle.