Seducing a Scottish Bride

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  But something flared in the man’s eyes and Ronan saw his intent. Nathair meant to seize the Raven Stone now, using its power to win the fight. Already he’d maneuvered himself near the well’s edge, using furious windmilling slashes to keep Ronan at bay.

  “It won’t work, snake! You’ll ne’er get it!” Ronan lunged, his own blade arcing with even greater speed. “Not you, your brethren, or anyone!”

  “Bastard!” Nathair sneered. “The stone is ours.”

  “Nae,” Ronan hissed, “it is no more!”

  Leaping forward, he brought down his sword in one ferocious sweep, the force of the blow cleaving the stone in two perfect halves.

  “No-o-o!” Nathair roared as the shattered stone shot across the well lip, plunging at once into the Tobar Ghorm. Whipping round, the Holder glared at Ronan, his steel raised high for a deadly strike.

  “Yesss!” Ronan blocked the attack with ease, the other’s blade whistling harmlessly over his head while his own sword — or rather, Tarnach’ s — sliced through Nathair’s left arm to drive deep into his side, splitting his ribs.

  The snake’s eyes bulged and he toppled forward, Ronan’s sword falling from his hands.

  It was over.

  Another debt of honor paid, if a centuries-old one.

  Ronan dragged the back of his hand across his brow, only vaguely aware of the movement around him. The stumbling rush of a score of thin and stoop-shouldered old men toward the edge of the ancient sacred well.

  “ ’Tis over.” A relieved-sounding voice, aged and weary, cut through the red haze. “The stone has truly split in twain.”

  Dungal Tarnach’s voice.

  But sounding more like the benign-grumbling graybeards who gathered round Dare’s hearthside on dark winter nights than any Holder he’d ever known.

  “MacRuari! You not only destroyed the stone, you’ve freed the raven.” Tarnach glanced up at Ronan’s approach. “Come, lad, see for yourself.”

  His brow lifting at the friendly tone, Ronan joined them, these bent and frail men who knelt to peer down into the Blue Well.

  He saw at once the shattered Raven Stone. He’d destroyed it indeed. Its two halves rested on a jagged ledge deep in the heart of the well shaft.

  He also recognized the reason for the old men’s wonder.

  The awe in their voices and their surprising turn of heart.

  Peering into the well, Ronan saw that the split stone revealed the skeletal remains of some kind of ancient, long-moldered bird. But what truly stilled his heart was the raven. Black-winged and full of life, the bird was slowly spiraling upward through the shadowy well shaft.

  “ ’Tis as I knew it would be.” Dungal Tarnach pushed to his feet and stepped back, one hand pressed to his berobed chest as the raven crested the stones lining the well’s edge to whir away on glossy, blue-black wings.

  The raven circled back once, half-closing his wings to dive at them and sail past in a fast glide before soaring upward again, speeding away across the hills and moors before Ronan and the Holders — a pathetic clutch of stooped, withered old men — could even acknowledge what they’d seen.

  “Sakes!” Ronan breathed, running a hand through his hair. He could scarce believe it himself.

  More shaken than he cared to admit, he turned to retrieve his sword, but it appeared in his hand before he could. He blinked, not surprised to find Dungal Tarnach at his elbow.

  “We will see to Nathair,” said the Holder, his gaze flicking over to where a few of his brethren already knelt beside the body. “Though I’d ask your permission to bury him here.” He spread his hands and Ronan noted they were gnarled and age-spotted. “Unlike Nathair, the rest of us do not have the strength to carry him far.”

  Nor, Ronan was sure, did they have the stamina to journey very far themselves.

  Their druid wands might work a bit of flummery for them, but their bones were old.

  And though he couldn’t be sure, he suspected much of their magic had lain with their now-broken stone, whether it’d been in their possession or no.

  “ ’Tis true,” Tarnach said then, proving he could still read thoughts, regardless. “The stone fed our power. ’Twas the life force of the sacred raven trapped within. Each beat of its heart craved its stolen freedom and its sorrow bled into the stone, drenching it with the bird’s power. Now . . .”

  He looked aside, then back at Ronan. “Two wrongs have been righted. Maldred no longer holds the stone he took from us, and the raven has regained the freedom we took from it. There are many among us who will be gladdened that our craft is now reduced to” — he held out his hand and Ronan’s empty leather pouch appeared in it — “a few simple wizard’s tricks.”

  Ronan took the pouch, an uncomfortable tightness beginning to spread through his chest. “You —”

  “We are not all as Nathair. We will keep our word.” Dungal Tarnach hitched up his robes to turn away, revealing that his shoes were cracked and worn. “We might need a few nights to reach the end of your glen, but then you will see us no more.”

  “Hellfire and damnation!” Ronan swore against the tightness in his chest. The fool sensation had somehow spread to his throat, sitting there hot and persistent.

  And he feared he knew only one way to rid himself of it.

  “Have you e’er heard of a Highlander turning away guests?” he blurted, certain the husky, rough-edged words had come from someone else’s lips.

  “Eh?” Dungal Tarnach stopped in midturn. He looked back at Ronan, his eyes wet and red-rimmed.

  Old-man red-rimmed and quite ordinary.

  If an old man’s tears can ever be called the like.

  Seeing them sealed Ronan’s fate.

  He swore again. But the hot tightness in his chest and throat broke free, something inside him splitting as wide as the cracked Raven Stone, releasing him as surely as the stone had given up its bird.

  Fighting back a ridiculous urge to throw back his head and shout his triumph, he reached out to grasp Dungal Tarnach’s hand between his own.

  “Have you e’er heard of a MacRuari turning away friends?” he amended his first question.

  The wetness in the druid’s eyes glistened. “Ne’er in my day,” he replied, his voice as thick as Ronan’s. “Though that was more than long ago . . .”

  “Nae, that day is now.” Ronan squeezed the old man’s hand, pumping. “If you are so inclined?”

  A tear slid down the druid’s cheek. “With the greatest pleasure,” he said, nodding.

  “Then so be it.” Ronan stepped back and snatched his discarded plaid off the grass, eager now to be gone.

  He had much to explain.

  First and foremost, he needed to tell his lady how much he loved her.

  He’d only realized when facing Nathair that he’d never yet said the words.

  But a short while later when he left his little skiff on the shore of Loch Dubh and began the long ride back to Dare, those words and any other ones he might have said flew from his mind completely.

  He’d but ridden around a steep hill slope before an onion creel blocked his path.

  An onion creel dressed with a plaid blanket and a tangle of leather straps.

  “By the Rood!” He knuckled his eyes, but the basket remained.

  Reining in at once, he swung down from his saddle, his feet not even touching the ground before she stepped from the trees, Buckie trotting along right beside her.

  “Gelis!” He strode forward, catching her by the shoulders. “Saints, lass, I told you to stay at Dare. Do you not know the kind of danger —”

  “From a band of ragged, damp-eyed old men?” She laughed, her eyes sparkling. “You were magnificent! And I cannot wait to . . . greet them properly! And the raven!” She beamed at him, taking his breath. “Who would have thought —”

  “You saw?” Ronan’s jaw slipped.

  “We all saw.” Valdar appeared at her side, shoulders back and chest swelled.

  Others quickly joined
them; Hugh MacHugh, Hector and the Dragon, and even Anice with two of the youngest kitchen laddies clutching her hands. On and on they came, stepping out from behind trees or thickets of broom and whin, until Ronan would’ve sworn the whole of Dare’s household stood before him.

  Buckie wagged his tail and barked, not to be ignored.

  “Think you we’d let you take on the Holders without us keeping your back?” Valdar plucked Blood Drinker from beneath his belt, brandishing it boldly. “One sly trick on their part and we’d have been on them in a wink!”

  He jammed his hands on his hips, looked round. “Faster even!”

  And only then did Ronan notice how well-armed his people were.

  Steel glinted and shone everywhere and those unable to swing a sword clutched other weapons. Pitchforks and scythes were in abundance, and — if his eyes weren’t fooling him — even several long and sharp-ended bone stitching needles tucked beneath Anice’s belt.

  Hugh MacHugh had his trusty meat cleaver and Auld Meg wielded a wicked-looking iron birthing implement, the proper use of which Ronan didn’t care to imagine.

  Ronan blew out a breath, shook his head.

  His heart began to thump.

  And the awful tightness was spreading through his chest again. This time it not only crept upward to thicken his throat, it was also stinging his eyes.

  Then he remembered three of Valdar’s words.

  We all saw.

  He cleared his throat, certain of something odd going on.

  Something everyone knew but him.

  “How could you have seen what happened?” He glanced at Gelis, then his grandfather. “The Tobar Ghorm isn’t visible from the lochside.”

  “So you say?” Torcaill stepped forward and made a great arc with his wand and, for a blink, the Blue Well appeared, its glade peaceful now, even the cleared bracken and heather returned as it’d been before.

  “Some wizards’ powers never fade,” Torcaill added proudly, lowering his staff.

  “As Valdar said, we would have come to fight with you,” his lady announced, hooking her arm through his and leaning into him. “We watched it all, waiting —”

  “Am I to believe your wand would have sent everyone flying through the air to the islet?” Ronan turned to Torcaill. “There has only e’er been one skiff kept at Loch Dubh.”

  To his surprise, the druid only tightened his grip on his wand and stared back at him.

  Gelis slid a telling glance at his grandfather and laughed.

  “You tell him,” she said, looking about to burst.

  And so utterly delectable in her merriment that his heart did burst.

  “That dog must be hungry,” Valdar declared with a shrewd glance at Buckie. “I have some dried deer meat in a pouch tied to my saddle bow. I’ll just fetch it now —”

  Ronan shot out an arm and caught the back of his plaid as the old man tried to move away. “Buckie can have your entire store of venison . . . later. I’d hear how you meant to get out to the islet without boats.”

  “Ach, botheration! Why not?” Valdar hooked his hands around his belt and glowered round. “What’s the good of a chieftain’s secrets with the whole o’ the clan now a-knowing them!”

  “Secrets?” Ronan lifted a brow.

  “Underwater causeways!” His grandfather yelled the word. “A whole maze of ’em zig-zagging just below the water’s surface and leading from every side o’ Loch Dubh out to the islet. I discovered them when I was a laddie and my own skiff ran aground on one.”

  Ronan glanced at the loch. “For the pilgrims of old,” he said, guessing the reason. “They used them to reach the sacred well and you” — he slid an arm around Gelis, drawing her close — “meant to use them to rush to my aid.”

  “That was our plan, aye.” Valdar’s chin came up. “Had I known the outcome, I’d ne’er have revealed —”

  Ronan cut him off. “Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

  The old man’s eyes lighted. “Ach,” he blustered, taking a sudden interest in his fingernails, “just that what I’ve been meaning to say to you for a good long while now.”

  “And that is?”

  Valdar slid a look at Gelis. “Only that I told you so. That lassie is what you needed, just!”

  “And I couldn’t agree more.” Ronan took her face in his hands and kissed her.

  “But he’s wrong about one thing,” he breathed against her ear before releasing her. “I not only need you, I love you and will for all our days.”

  “Oh, Ronan!” Gelis flung her arms around his neck, clinging tight. “I love you, too,” she cried, lifting her voice above the cheers, barks, and shouts rising around them. “We will always love each other. Into forever and beyond!”

  And as soon as the words were spoken, a great dark form circling high above them dipped one wing in approval.

  Epilogue

  CASTLE DARE, THE BAILEYMIDSUMMER EVE

  Isn’t it magnificent?” Gelis glanced up at the new heraldic crest above the keep door. “It takes my breath,” she vowed, her heart catching as she stared at the recently mounted stone slab.

  Ronan made a noncommittal humph, but dutifully tipped back his head to follow her gaze.

  A gift from the Black Stag, the stone peered down at them, benevolent and proud.

  Carved on a polished sea rock taken from Eilean Creag’s shoreline, the stone’s center bore a great incised swirl representing the Corryvreckan and lauding Valdar’s long-ago bravery against the deadly whirlpool. Equally meaningful, flanking engravings of a raven and a stag stood out in bold relief, bracketing the swirl and honoring the joined future of both clans.

  “It is magnificent,” she repeated, the portent of the carvings warming her.

  “Aye, full magnificent,” Ronan agreed, no longer looking at the crest stone at all.

  Gelis laughed and flicked her braid at him.

  “You, my Raven, are that and more,” she teased, the heated look in his eyes making her wish the night’s revelries were behind them.

  As if he knew, he put his hands on her shoulders. “I can scarce believe —”

  “What?” She pulled back to look at him. “That Maldred finally rests in a new tomb inside the family chapel? I think he’s pleased.”

  Sure of it, her gaze went to where his erstwhile crest stone graced its original place in the pagan circle now standing free beneath the shimmering night sky.

  “That, too, would make him happy. To know —”

  “I was not speaking of him.” Ronan pulled her close, sliding his arms tight around her. “I meant I can scarce believe how much I love you. If we should live a thousand lifetimes, I will search for you in each one. I —”

  “Ach, Ronan, I love you more — I vow it!” She flung her arms around his neck, kissing him.

  “Hot meats!”

  They broke apart as a kitchen lad rushed past, a huge platter of steaming roasted beef and mutton hoisted on his shoulder.

  Ronan stared after him. Then he looked at her, his eyes glinting wickedly. “I am ravenous.”

  Gelis shivered. The look and his tone left no doubt about the nature of his craving.

  “Even so . . .” She flashed her best smile. “There is more to this e’en than the dip of my gown’s bodice or the swing of my bauble chain. Whichever” — she winked — “you were eyeing just now!”

  “I was admiring you, no’ your fripperies.” He caught her to him again. “But I won’t toss you o’er my shoulder and race abovestairs with you until the time is seemly!”

  Tingling at the prospect, she trailed a finger down his chest. “If two of our guests keep sparring, we might not have to wait long.”

  “Hmmm?” He blinked.

  “There.” She frowned at a table set beneath a gaily decorated Viking tent pavilion.

  “I thought they’d get on so well.” Her gaze lit on two pinch-faced, white-haired guests. One sported a long-beard and was male and the other could be described as a bit grizzl
ed, bright of eye, and female.

  “Come!” She grabbed Ronan’s hand and pulled him in their direction. “If we do not do something —”

  “He will not accept your offerings.” Devorgilla of Doon’s peeved voice rose as they neared. “Somerled only —”

  The crone snapped her mouth shut when the little fox on her lap took a bit of roasted mutton from Torcaill’s outstretched hand.

  “Some might say he has more sense than you.” Not quite able to keep the gloat out of his voice, the druid held out a second morsel.

  This, too, was accepted.

  Torcaill’s eyes lit with triumph.

  Devorgilla’s lips thinned to a tight, petty-looking line.

  “You’ve turned his mind with tidbits,” she snipped, her knotty fingers clutched possessively in the little fox’s lustrous fur.

  “He has the wits to know what’s good for him. You would be wise —”

  “I am wise.” Devorgilla slid her arm around Somerled, drawing him close. “Enough to know I have no wish to dance with you!”

  “Oh, dear.” Gelis started forward, but a firm hand held her back.

  “Wait.” Ronan leaned close. “Torcaill can handle her.”

  “Now, see here, woman,” the druid began, proving it, “it is not every day that I extend a hand in peace. This day I offer it in respect as well. Your wee friend knows that and is honored. Can you not —”

  “I have been reaping respect since before you lifted your first wand!” Devorgilla’s chin jutted. “I’ve no need —”

  “Then respect and admiration.” Torcaill sat back, stroking his beard. “And,” he added, his voice deepening, “I was wielding my wand long before the first bloom of girlhood ever touched your fine cheeks.”

  The crone’s mouth formed a little O and she clapped a hand to her face as if to test his words.

  “Aye, very fine cheeks,” the druid confirmed, nodding when the crone’s fingers strayed upward to pat her frizzed gray-white hair.

  “I’m still not for dancing with you.” She huffed and lowered her hand. “My ears haven’t forgotten you called me foolish and unskilled.”