Seducing a Scottish Bride (13 page)

The warmth of bright spring days when broom and whin cloaked the hills in a mantle of gold and the Highland air was softer,
sweeter than the finest wine.

Days the like of which hadn’t graced Glen Dare since his earliest childhood and were best forgotten.

Even if he’d swear he could feel that warmth now.

Smell the wild Scottish roses growing in such profusion on his mother’s trellised arbor, her own personal challenge to the
demons of Castle Dare: a tiny but well-tended garden nestled against a far wall of the bailey.

A boyhood refuge gone the way of all other bright and good things at Dare.

Nothing remained of his mother’s pride but a woody tangle of thorny root-stumps and a fallen jumble of moss-grown stones.

The memory — and the strange sensation of warmth — woke him and he flipped onto his other side. The wind seemed to have gusted
in through the window slit, its icy passage stinging his eyes.

He set his jaw, glowering once more at the ceiling crack. Truth was, he intended to do so until all such mummery left his
thoughts.

He had no business thinking about spring days alive with birdsong or a brief span of years when Dare’s hall was no stranger
to soft chuckles and smiles.

Nor his grandfather’s agony when his current jollity turned again to tears.

Such ponderings served naught.

But he
could
feel the warmth.

And the scent of roses filled his senses on every indrawn breath.

Even more strange, the ceiling crack was suddenly gone and
she
filled his vision.

A dream, he knew, but she was there all the same.

His high-spirited bride, standing on a narrow shingled strand with what looked to be an imposing curtain wall looming behind
her. All ardent woman and desirability, she watched him, her flame- colored hair bright in the autumn sunshine, her magnificent
breasts and shapely hips more than apparent.

Sparkling as the glittering loch waters at her feet, she beckoned, her allure pulling him deeper into sleep. Somewhere inside
him something twisted and cracked, freeing him of his usual caution.

Need, want, and an inexplicable urgency swept him. Then, his entire body tightened and he found himself standing only a hand’s
breadth in front of her.

He drew a harsh, rapid breath, then seized her by the arms and pulled her tight against him for a hard, demanding kiss. A
devouring, all-slaking, open-mouthed kiss full of tangling tongues and hot sighs.

The kind of kiss he’d been burning to give her ever since he’d seen her march so boldly up Dare’s steps, her wicked green
bauble bouncing against the vee between her thighs.

Some lucid part of him wondered if her gift allowed her to invade his sleep, but his dream-self didn’t care why she was there,
tempting him.

Only that she was.

Groaning, he jerked her even harder against his chest, his fingers tightening on her arms as he plunged his tongue ever deeper
into her mouth. His heart thundered, his need near bursting as she swirled her own tongue seductively over his.

Heat swept him, her attar of roses scent enfolding him, bewitching him.

He thrust a hand into the silken mass of her hair, twining his fingers in the bright, glossy curls. Soft, nubby curls with
a surprisingly familiar feel.

A feel that was just a wee bit worn, not nearly as soft as he’d thought, and decidedly woolly.

His eyes snapped open.

The illusion, dream, or whate’er it’d been spiraled away. An odd lurching disappointment shot through him and he pushed up
on his elbows to glare at the bunched plaid clutched so tightly in his hand.

His own plaid, still wrapped snug around him save that he’d managed to pull it up over his chin. Its edge tickled his nose,
the seductive scent of roses wafting up from each woolen fold, reminding him how often she’d leaned over-close at the high
table.

How many times she’d endeavored to brush her breasts against his arm, her attar of roses perfume nigh undoing him.

His brows snapped together. “By all the living saints!” he cursed, lifting up just enough to fling the rose-reeking tartan
into a corner.

When he tried to roll onto his side and found he couldn’t, he made another discovery.

The delicious warmth he’d been imagining hadn’t been imagined at all.

He
was
engulfed in warmth.

But not because his entirely too tempting, bauble-wearing bride returned his dream-kisses with such heated fervor. Nor thanks
to the unexpected coziness of the muffled converse he’d caught from the dais end of the hall, his grandfather’s occasional
bark of jolly laughter.

He was warm — overly warm — because his favorite hound, Buckie, was sprawled across his lower legs!

As if the great scruffy beast sensed Ronan’s ire, he opened one eye, giving him a long, steady look before shutting it again
and continuing with his snores.

Ronan swallowed a curse. The dog wasn’t just warming him. His entire lower body beginning somewhere about midthigh tingled
and burned as if the devil and his minions were jabbing him with red-hot fire needles.

He might not rid himself of the sensation for days.

It was that bad.

And ordering Buckie to move wasn’t an option.

The old cur was lame in his back legs and deserved his rest even more than Ronan. Nor would he budge if Ronan did glower and
scold him. Unlike the other castle dogs, Buckie was wholly impervious to his dark moods.

Far from slinking away whenever
that look
came onto Ronan’s face, Buckie would simply shuffle over and lick his hand.

Something he’d done ever since Ronan had found him tied to a tree on the edges of Glen Dare, thin, half-starving, and covered
in welts. Ronan had doubted the then-young dog would survive the night.

But he’d thrived, and to this day, Ronan could hardly take a step without Buckie trailing along at his heels.

Nor, it would seem, would he find undisturbed sleep this night.

Sighing, he lay back again, determined to try.

But he’d no sooner closed his eyes and drifted into the sweet bliss of a deep, dreamless sleep when the sound of hastening
footfalls woke him.

That, and the renewed surge of red-hot fire tingles in his legs when Buckie stirred and pushed slowly to his feet.

Trying again not to curse, Ronan once more opened his eyes, this time staring up into the smoking, hissing flames of a handheld
rush light.

A few sparks dropped onto his chest and he brushed at them, frowning.

Now he knew what had disturbed Buckie.

He blinked. Then he raised a hand to wave away the smoke from in front of his eyes, half wondering if he’d wakened in the
fires of hell.

Before he could decide, the rush light moved and he saw Anice, the large-eyed slip of a serving lass, peering down at him.
Her throat worked convulsively and her thin little face looked white as the moon.

“O-o-oh, sir!” she cried. “You must come at once! They’ve ravaged your bedchamber and —”

“What?” Ronan blinked again, the last dredges of sleep making it hard to think. “They who?”

The girl shook her head so rapidly that one of her thin black braids slipped from its pins. “I’m sure I dinna care to know,”
she wailed, and then Ronan
did
know.

He leaped from the pallet. “Lady Gelis,” he demanded, snatching up his plaid. “Is she harmed?”

“Nae, sir, she’s fussing about the fine victuals having been tossed out the window.”

At the niche’s opening, Buckie dropped onto his haunches and whined.

Ronan’s eyes widened. “The repast I ordered? It was tossed out the window?”

Anice looked down at the rush light in her hand, unable to meet his eye. “Aye, that’s the way of it, my lord. The lady thinks
it was you what did it.”

The Raven’s stomach clenched, an icy dread streaking down his spine.

Whipping around, he dashed from the little niche to sprint across the darkened hall, making for the stair tower. He raced
up the winding stairs, taking them two at a time and not even bothering to curse when, almost at the top, a misstep caused
him to slam his bare toes full into one of the unyielding stone steps.

Pain shot up his leg and made his eyes water, but he didn’t even scowl.

There’d be time enough for that later.

He hadn’t expected the Holders to move so quickly.

Nor, he realized, hearing Buckie clumping up the stairs behind him, would he have believed how much Lady Gelis’s safety meant
to him.

Somehow, somewhere in the brief span of time since she’d first flashed him her brilliant smile and he’d dreamed of kissing
her on some narrow strip of shingled shore, she’d become more than a well-born lass he wished to keep from harm.

She’d become important to him.

And that was a greater danger than the Holders and all their unholy mist wraiths combined.

A greater danger indeed.

And one he wasn’t at all sure he could conquer.

He just knew that he must.

P
repared for the worst, Ronan burst into his bedchamber only to come to a skittering, undignified halt. Far from requiring
rescue, Lady Gelis knelt calmly on the bearskin rug in front of the hearthstone, her delectably rounded bottom bobbing in
the air as she jabbed an iron poker at a tidy pile of just-beginning-to-smolder peat bricks.

Ronan’s eyes widened. He stared at her, well aware his jaw was slipping. His breath lodged in his throat, making it difficult
to think. Worst of all, her flame-bright hair caught the fire glow and his fingers itched to touch the gleaming strands.

A man could lose himself in such silky, glistening tresses.

Lose himself and much more.

He frowned.

Praise the saints she hadn’t yet undressed.

Even so, it took all his strength to tear his gaze from her jigging buttocks.

When he could, his pent-up breath left him in a great, gusty rush.

“What goes on here?” He strode forward, his stare pinned on the iron poker in her hand. “Who —”

“We both know who is responsible.” Cool as spring rain, she set aside the fire poker and stood. “One glance was all I needed”
— she made a sweeping gesture, turning — “though I vow anyone would have guessed upon seeing . . .”

She froze, her extended arm poised in midair. “Mercy!” she gasped, her eyes widening. “You’re naked!”

“Bah. I —” Ronan started to deny it, but clamped his mouth shut instead.

He
was
naked.

He firmed his jaw and squared his shoulders, opting for a show of dignity. With each breath, he became more aware of the heavy
plaid still clutched in his hand, the dry bits of rushes and herbage tickling the bare soles of his feet.

Lady Gelis was staring at him.

He could neither move nor speak.

Great folds of tartan dangled from his fingers to pool on the floor. Rather than throw the plaid around him, he’d simply snatched
it up and run, so great had been his urgency to reach her side and ensure her safety.

Now he looked the fool.

“You forgot to don your plaid,” she said, quite unnecessarily.

“Nae,” Ronan lied, “I did not wish to waste time with such trivialities in my haste to see what was amiss here.”

Her eyes twinkled. “There is naught amiss here that cannot be easily rectified.”

Something in her tone warned him.

Against his better judgment, he glanced down, his worst dread confirmed.

Her jigging buttocks had affected him more than he’d realized.

Heat shot up the back of his neck. His vitals caught flame. After all, it wasn’t every day such a desirable female stood staring
at his man piece.

Nor could he recall having ever seen a more amused-looking female.

Or one who looked quite so triumphant.

Ronan cleared his throat, pride not letting him sling on his plaid too hastily. “Fair lady, you’d be hard-pressed to find
a Heilander who doesn’t sleep naked as the good God made him.” He held her gaze as he spoke, forcing himself to use slow and
careful movements as he covered himself.

The plaid finally in place, he dusted his hands, blessed composure his once again. “Anice woke me,” he began, doing fine until
he perceived a certain canine stare boring into him from the door.

Buckie lay sprawled across the threshold, his shaggy head resting on his paws, his milky eyes keener than Ronan had seen them
in years.

Definitely unblinking, and perhaps even a wee bit accusatory.

Ronan let out a long breath. “Anice and my dog, Buckie, woke me,” he started again, the correction earning him an appreciative
tail swish. “Anice said the victuals I’d sent up for you went missing and that —”

“So you admit they were meant for me?” Gelis pretended to examine her fingernails. She had him now. “Not for the two of us?”

“I hardly see how that matters.” He brushed at his plaid, looking more trapped than if she’d pinned him in a corner with a
twelve-foot lance.

“It matters to me.”

He lowered his brows, but said nothing.