A particularly wild Highland reel started up then, the burst of screaming pipes and fiddles putting a glint in her eye all the same.
“Tsk, tsk . . .” She wagged a finger. “You were quite ungallant!”
“Then we are quit!” Torcaill sprang to his feet, pulling her up with him. “You cannot deny you called me an old goat and a buzzard.”
He stared down his nose at her until her eyes twinkled with mirth.
“I did call you that, right enough,” she admitted, letting him guide her into the center of the dancers.
“A lass can err . . .”
Her words floated back to Gelis as the two began to jig and twirl. “I did not make an error with you.” She leaned into Ronan, her heart filling. “I knew from the start that we — dear saints, look!”
She pointed at the whirling pair. “Do you see them?”
Ronan blinked. “I do, but I can hardly believe it.”
Even so, the night’s silver-cast light shone clearly on a tall, straight-backed young man so handsome and proud he could only be Torcaill. His beard and hair gleamed as dark as Ronan’s own and his shoulders looked nearly as wide. Gaunt and gray no more, he tripped the reel with more vigor than any other man dancing.
And the blushing maid in his arms laughed brightly, her own hair no longer grizzled and white, but auburn and glossy. Her eyes sparkled as he whirled her around, her flying skirts not black but blue, their hems lifting to reveal well-turned ankles and fast, perfectly stepping feet.
Until a cloud passed over the moon and the illusion faded, leaving them as they were before.
But still they twirled and jigged, smiling and laughing the while.
An uncomfortable heat swelled in Gelis’s throat. She swiped a hand across her cheek and blinked back the nontears no self-respecting MacKenzie would shed.
“ ’Tis said this is a festival of lovers.” She lifted her chin to counter the wobble in her voice. “If they leap over the bonfires later — I shall believe it!”
I believe it now — every e’en we share is a loving festival . . .
Gelis blinked, not sure she’d heard the words.
“You are as happy, my lady?”
That, she did hear.
But the uncertainty in the beloved voice took her by surprise.
“Tell me,” he pressed. “Are you as content as those two . . . as we saw them just now?”
He stepped closer, the intensity of his gaze scorching her.
Her shoulders bumped into something hard and solid, and she started, only now realizing that he’d led her into the quiet of the little stone circle.
“Well?” He braced his hands on either side of her, trapping her against one of the stones. “I need the answer, sweetness.”
The hitch in his voice undid her.
Her heart nearly leaped from her chest.
“Och, Ronan! I will tell you how happy I am!” She flung herself at him, slinging her arms around his neck. “Happier than these stones are old,” she gushed, indicating them with a toss of her head. “My love for you is greater than the breadth of the sky or the depth of the sea! Even the number of waves rolling to shore, the sands and all the —” She broke off, his creased brow worrying her.
“What is it?” She angled her head, a great fear gripping her. “Do you not feel the same?”
She had to know.
He tightened his arms around her and kissed her long, deep, and hard, his passion dispelling her ill ease until he broke the kiss to look at her.
His brow was even more troubled than before.
“You know I feel the same.” He paused. “There’s just one thing —”
“You have regrets?” She rushed the words, the look on his face almost laming her.
“Aye, I do.” He watched her closely. “I regret I ne’er seduced you.”
“Didn’t seduce me?”
He shook his head. “Nae, I didn’t. No’ properly. ’Twas you who —”
“Ahhhh . . . but you did!” She laughed, relief almost splitting her. “I was seduced the very moment I saw you. And” — she grabbed his face, kissing him soundly — “I swear if Valdar hadn’t sent his man to fetch me, I would have come looking for you myself!”
“Ach, lass.” He squeezed her, the thickness of his voice saying so much. “Then shall we say that we were both seduced?”
“Um-hmmm . . .” she agreed, this time not bothering to blink back her nontears. “Seduced and forever bound.”
About the Author
SUE-ELLEN WELFONDER is a card-carrying Scotophile whose burning wish to make frequent (free) trips to the land of her dreams led her to a twenty-year career with the airlines. Bilingual, she flew international all those years, working her flights as foreign language speaker. Her flying career allowed her to see the world, but it was always to Scotland that she returned.
Now a full-time writer, she’s quick to admit that she much prefers wielding a pen to pushing tea and coffee. She spent fifteen years living in Europe and used that time to explore as many castle ruins, medieval abbeys, and stone circles as possible. Anything ancient, crumbling, or lichened caught her eye. She makes annual visits to Scotland, insisting they are a necessity as each trip gives her inspiration for new books.
Proud of her own Hebridean ancestry, she belongs to two clan societies: the MacFie Clan Society and the Clan MacAlpine Society. In addition to Scotland, her greatest passions are medieval history, the paranormal, and dogs. She never watches television, loves haggis, and writes at a 450-year-old desk that once stood in a Bavarian castle.
Sue-Ellen is married and currently resides with her husband and Jack Russell Terrier in Florida. Readers can learn more about her and the world of her books at www.welfonder.com.
More sensual Scottish romance from Sue-Ellen Welfonder!
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A Highlander’s Temptation
Available in mass market
October 2009
The Legacy of the Thunder Rod
Along the west coast of Scotland lies a chain of islands of such beauty and grandeur even the most ardent romantic is hard-pressed to describe their majesty. Curving bays of glistening white sand and glittering seas of every hue vie to take one’s breath while jagged, spray-strewn skerries and sheer, impossibly steep cliffs compete with gentle, grass-grown dunes and long-tumbled ruins to stir the soul.
Ruled for centuries by the pagan Norse, the Hebrides is a place of legend, each isle steeped in ancient lore and tradition. Sea-gods, mer-folk, and fabled Celtic heroes abound, their mythic tales spun with relish by silver-tongued bards in the long, dark cold of deep winter nights.
But not all such tales are widely known.
Indeed, some are kept secret.
And one of the most intriguing secrets to be found in the vast Sea of the Hebrides belongs to the once-proud Clan MacConacher.
Broken, small in number, and ill-favored with the Scottish crown, the MacConachers dwell far from their erstwhile seat in Argyll; their straight-backed, long-suffering ranks reduced to scratching out a living on a rocky, windswept isle surrounded by reefs and rough seas.
An isle they cherish because it is all that remains left to them, and, above all, because MacConacher’s Isle lies well beyond the reach of the dread MacKenzies, the powerful clan that ruined them.
Not that the MacConachers wish to forget their doom-bringing foes.
Far from it, the present chieftain is young, bold, and of fiery spirit. Keen to throw off his clan’s mantle of shame and sorrow, he has only two burning ambitions. He lives to restore his family’s good name and fortune. As he also plans for the day he can wreak vengeance on Clan MacKenzie.
His least concern is his clan’s most precious possession, the Thunder Rod.
Given to an ancestor by a Norse nobleman, the relic is a polished length of fossilized wood, intricately carved with runes and still bearing bits of brilliant color. Clan elders claim the rod was either a piece of wood torn
from the prow of Thor’s own longboat or, perhaps, crafted by a great Viking lord for his lady to keep in his remembrance when at sea.
Roughly the size of a man’s forearm and rumored to hold great magic, its particular powers do not interest the braw MacConacher chieftain.
Until the stormy morning when the black winds of fate present him with an irresistible opportunity to settle a long-simmering score.
Now, at last, he can use the Thunder Rod.
If he dares.
Chapter One
EILEAN CREAG CASTLETHE GREAT HALL AT MORNING, AUTUMN 1350
What do you mean you wish to see the Seal Isles?”
Duncan MacKenzie, the indomitable Black Stag of Kintail, slapped down his ale cup and stared across the well-laden high table at his eldest daughter, Lady Arabella. His good humor of a moment before vanished as he narrowed his eyes on her, his gaze piercing.
Arabella struggled for composure. Years of doing so helped her not to squirm. But she wasn’t sure she could keep her cheeks from flaming. Already the back of her neck burned as if it’d caught fire.
So she moistened her lips and tried to pretend her father wasn’t pinning her with a look that said he could see right into her soul, maybe even knew how her belly churned and that her palms were damp.
Or that all her hopes and dreams hung on this moment.
“Well?” He raised one dark brow.
Arabella plucked at a thread on her sleeve, then, realizing what she was doing, stopped at once. She looked up, somehow resisting the urge to slip a finger beneath the neckline of her gown or perhaps even loosen her bodice ties. Faith, but she needed air. Her chest felt so constricted, she could hardly draw a breath.
She did manage to hold her father’s stare. Hot and bold MacKenzie blood flowed in her veins, too. And even if she’d spent her life quashing any urges to heed her clan’s more passionate nature, this was one time she meant to do her name proud.
So she angled her chin and firmed her jaw with just a touch of stubbornness.
“You heard what I said.” She spoke as calmly as she could, her daring making her heart skitter. “The seals . . .”
She let the words tail off, the excuse sounding ridiculous even to her own ears.
Her father huffed, clearly agreeing.
“We’ve plenty of such beasties in our own waters.” He made a dismissive gesture, his tone final. “You’ve no need to journey to the ends of nowhere to see them.”
At once, a deafening silence fell around the hall’s torch-lit dais. Somewhere a castle dog cracked a bone,his gnawing all the more loud for the sudden quiet. Everywhere kinsmen and friends swiveled heads in their puissant chieftain’s direction, though some discreetly glanced aside. Whatever their reaction, no one appeared surprised by the outburst. Those who called Eilean Creag their home were well used to his occasional bouts of temper.
“If it is such creatures you wish to study, I saw one just yestere’en.” He sat back in his carved oaken laird’s chair, looking pleased. “A fine dog seal sunning himself on a rock down by the boat strand.”
Arabella doubted every word. She did tighten her fingers on the handle of her spoon.
This wasn’t about seals and she suspected her father knew it.
His continued stare, narrow-eyed and penetrating, was more than proof.
Arabella started to lower her own gaze, but caught herself and frowned instead. And rather than returning her attention to her wooden bowl of slaked oats as she would have done perhaps even just a few days ago, she sat up straighter and squared her shoulders.
She only hoped that no one else heard the wild thundering of her heart.
It wasn’t every day that she dared defy her fierce-eyed, hot-tempered father.
Indeed, this was the first time she meant to try.
Her contentment in life — she couldn’t bring herself to use the word happiness — depended on her being strong.
Firm, resolute, and unbending.
“I’m not interested in Kintail seals, Father.” She cleared her throat, careful to keep her chin raised. “And there is a need. Besides that, I want to make this journey. The Seal Isles are mine now. You gave them to me.”
“I added them to your bride price!”
“Which makes them my own.” She persisted, unable to stop. “It’s only natural I should wish to see them. I can make a halt at the Isle of Doon on the way, bringing your felicitations to your friends the MacLeans and the cailleach, Devorgilla. You can’t deny that they would welcome me. After that, I could perhaps call at —”
“Ho! What’s this?” Her father’s gaze snapped to a quiet, scar-faced man half-hidden in shadow at the end of the table. “Can it be a certain long-nosed loon of a Sassunach has been putting such mummery in your head?”
Arabella bit her lip, not about to admit that her head had been fine until a courier had arrived from her younger sister’s home a few days before, announcing that Gelis had at last quickened with child.
A pang shot through her again, remembering. Hot, sharp, and twisting, her bitterness wound tight. Just recalling how the messenger’s eyes had danced with merriment as he’d shared the long-awaited news had upturned her world.
It’d been too much.
The whole sad truth of the empty days stretching before her had come crashing down around her like so much hurled and shattered crockery.
She refused to think about the cold nights, equally empty and warmed only by the peats tossed on the hearth fire and the snoring, furry bulk of whichever of her father’s dogs chose to scramble onto her bed of an e’en.
Setting down her spoon, she fisted her hands against the cool linen of the table covering and swallowed against the heat in her throat.
To be sure, she loved her sister dearly. She certainly begrudged her naught. But her heart wept upon the surety that such joyous tidings would likely never be her own.
“Faugh!” Her father’s deep voice boomed again. “Whoe’er heard of a lassie wanting to sail clear to the edge of the sea? ’Tis beyond —”
“Hush, you, Duncan. . . .” Stepping up to the high table, her mother, Lady Linnet, placed a warning hand on his shoulder. “Bluster is —”
“The only way I ken to deal with such foolery!” Her father frowned up at his wife and, for a telling moment, all the fury drained from his face.
The mirror image of Gelis, only older, the lady Linnet flicked back her hip-length, red-gold braid and leaned down to circle loving arms around her husband’s broad shoulders. Blessed with the sight — another gift she shared with her youngest daughter — Lady Linnet’s ability to soothe and banish her husband’s worst moods wasn’t something Arabella needed to see at the moment.
The obvious love between the two only served to remind her of the intimacies she’d never know.
Burning to call such closeness her own, she winced at the sudden piercing image of herself as a withered, spindle-legged crone humbly serving wine and sweetmeats to her parents and her sister and her husband as they reposed before her, supine on cushioned bedding and oblivious to aught but their blazing passion.
Arabella frowned and blinked back the dastardly heat pricking her eyes.
Her mother’s voice, clearly admonishing her father, helped to banish the disturbing vision. “Ach, Duncan.” She smoothed a hand through his thick, shoulder- length black hair, sleek as Arabella’s own and scarce touched by but a few strands of glistening silver. “Perhaps you should —”
“Pshaw!” He made a derisive sound, breaking free of her embrace. “Dinna tell me what I should and shouldn’t do. I’d rather hear what that meddling lout who calls himself a friend has —”
“Uncle Marmaduke has nothing to do with it.” Arabella spoke before he could finish. “He is a better friend to you than you could wish. Though he did mention that he’s here because a south-bound trading ship — ”
“A vessel said to be captained by an Orkneyman you know and trust.” Her uncle sipped slowly from his ale cup, his calm
chasing her fears and giving her hope. “Word is that the trader is large enough to take on your girl and an escort in all comfort.”
“Hah! So speaks a meddler!” Her father smacked his hand on the table. “Did I no’ just say you were the cause of this?” He roared the words, glaring round. “Aye, there’s a merchant ship set to call at Kyleakin. Could be, the captain is known to me. I ken most traders who ply these waters!”
“And I ken when you are about to make a bleeding arse of yourself.” Sir Marmaduke set down his empty ale cup and leaned back in his chair, arms casually folded. “A pity you do not know when to heed those who care about you.”
Duncan MacKenzie scowled at him. “And I say ’tis a greater pity that you dinna ken when to hold your flapping tongue!”
The words spoken, he flashed another look at Arabella. “If you’re of a mind, I’ll take you to see what wares the merchant ship carries. There are sure to be bolts of fine cloth and baubles, perhaps a few exquisite rarities. Maybe even a gem-set comb for your shiny black tresses.”
Pausing, he raised a wagging finger. “But know this, when the ship sails away, you will no’ be onboard!”
Arabella struggled against tightening her lips.
The last thing she wanted was to look like a shrew.
Even so, she couldn’t help feeling a spurt of annoyance. “I have coffers filled with raiments and I’ve more jewels than I can wear in a lifetime. There is little of interest such a ship can offer me. Not in way of the goods it carries.”
She took a deep breath, knowing she needed to speak her heart. “What I want is an adventure.”
“A what?” Her father’s brows shot higher than she’d ever seen.
He also leapt to his feet, almost toppling his chair in his fury.
Out in the main hall, several of his men guffawed. On the dais, one or two coughed. And even the castle dogs eyed him curiously, their canine eyes full of reproach.
Duncan MacKenzie’s scowl turned fierce.
Seducing a Scottish Bride Page 31