Seducing a Scottish Bride (19 page)

With a practiced eye, Devorgilla set about her task, making sure the choicest specimens were placed just above her e’ er-burning
peat fire.

Herring thus cured would be carefully guarded. Each one stashed away as delicacies of great worth, only produced when guests
of particularly high standing came to call.

“Noble folk the like of the Black Stag’s daughter and her raven,” she announced, slanting a proud glance at Somerled as she
fastened another fine and weighty herring to the string above her fire. “They’ll no doubt wish to thank me, sail to Doon bearing
gifts and oblations . . .”

She let the words tail off, preferring to glory in how easily she’d banished the mist snakes.

How one stern look and a mere wriggle of her knotty-knuckled fingers had sent the foul slithering creatures scurrying back
to the hell whence they’d come.

“O-o-oh, aye, Somerled,” she skirled, snatching up another fat and glistening herring to hang in the cloud of steam gathering
above her cauldron, “the flow of the tides and the currents aren’t strong enough to hinder Devorgilla of Doon’s powers!”

“Fool woman!”

The powerful voice came from within the cauldron steam.

“Gaaaaa!” Devorgilla jumped.

The fish went flying from her fingers.

“Cease meddling with matters beyond your ken!” A towering dark-robed figure glowered at her from the swirling vapor.

Glaring fiercely, he scowled down his long nose, his white-maned hair whipping in an unseen wind as he raised an arm and shook
a great, silver-glowing staff.

Devorgilla lurched backward, toppling the herring creel.

Somewhere behind her, Mab hissed and Somerled barked.

The figure waved his staff more vigorously. A shower of blindingly brilliant silver-blue sparks and spangles sprayed everywhere,
lighting the cottage as if it were noontide on a bright midsummer’s day.

“Be warned, woman!” The figure’s eyes fixed on her, penetrating. “Try such foolery again and I’ll do more than just frighten
you!”

“Frighten me? Devorgilla of Doon?” Some sliver of her earlier pride made her shake out her black skirts. She jutted a somewhat
bristly chin. “Be that the style of you, then? Preying on old, helpless women?”

Somerled bumped her leg, lending support.

For a moment, the figure looked almost nonplussed.

But then his frown returned and he aimed his staff at the spilled herring. Speaking a spell darker and more ancient than any
of her own, he touched the end of the walking stick to the toppled creel, turning it and the precious fish into a charred
clump of smoking black goo.

Somerled’s brush shot straight upward, his snarl protective.

Devorgilla placed a black-booted toe over her little friend’s paw, staying him before he did anything foolish.

“Aye.” She bobbed her grizzled head, her eye on the interloper. “Preying on helpless old women . . . and spoiling their stores!”

The figure leaned close, his white head and his ancient, robe-draped shoulders looming out of the cauldron’s mist. “I see
no helpless female but a
foolish
one! Be glad I came to counsel you before your ill-placed interference causes more harm than good!”

He turned a meaningful look on the ruined herrings. “There are those who would do the like to you! And those you hold dear.”

Straightening, he jabbed his staff at the charred creel once more, this time restoring the basket and the herring to their
former condition.

“Heed me if you are wise!” He looked at her, his gaze fierce. “Leave any reckonings to those more able.”

Devorgilla huffed.

Putting back her admittedly thin shoulders, she started to argue, but already he was fading. The cauldron’s steam whistled
and swirled, closing around him, blotting him from view.

“Stay away from Dare . . .”

The words came as if from a great distance.

They echoed around the tidy little cottage until that warning dwindled, too, leaving Devorgilla and Somerled alone once more.

Mab — Devorgilla was sure of it — would be somewhere far out on the moors by now.

Safe, and seeking a comfortable bed.

“But we shall not be scared off, eh, Somerled?” She leaned down to pat the fox’s head, alarmed to see that her hand was trembling.

“Come, come, my little friend,” she cooed, hefting the creel of herrings onto her hip and hobbling toward the door. “We have
much yet to do.”

Above all, she needed to wash the herring — and the creel — with water from her special sacred well. Whether the basket and
the fish looked fully
unspelled
made no difference whatsoever.

The figure had wielded some hoary magic with his spark-spitting staff, and she wasn’t one for taking chances.

Nor would she do any further finger wriggling.

Instead, she opened her door and stepped out into the chill morning. Not quite sunrise, a fine silver-blue haze shimmered
across the glade surrounding her cottage.

Unfortunately, the eerie luminosity reminded her of their
visitor
, and she shivered, not liking him or his warnings.

“
Counsel
, he called it,” she scolded, shifting the creel to her other hip. “ Counsel-schmounsel, I say!”

Trotting along at her side, the little fox slanted a glance up at her, all hearty agreement.

“And,” she added, encouraged, “there’s no reason we canna use some other means to help our charges, eh?”

She paused halfway across the glade and set down the creel, just to rest her back. The thing was heavy and, truth was, she
was getting too old for such onerous chores as lugging full baskets of herring to her well and back.

Devil-blast the long-nosed, white-maned buzzard who’d made such a trek necessary!

“Call me a
foolish woman
, indeed!” Pressing both hands against the small of her back, she stretched. She rotated her shoulders and rolled her neck,
her angry gaze on the early morning sky.

A few stars still glimmered, distant and frosty, while a crescent moon yet hung above the tops of the alders and birches ringing
her circular glade. And far below Doon’s cliffs, out across the still-dark waters of the Hebridean Sea, the tides were running
fast and pale gray light was just beginning to edge the clouds.

Not that she cared — now — if the sun ne’er broke the horizon this morn.

She had more important things to do.

“Ach, Somerled.” She snatched up the herring creel with a deal more vigor than before. “Now I know what must be done.”

The little fox cocked his head, eyes bright.

Waiting.

Eager as ever to do her bidding.

Pleased, and with a decidedly light spring in her step, Devorgilla led the way to her special well, her wee helpmate matching
her hurrying strides.

And just before they reached the well, Devorgilla cackled again.

Their magic-staff-swinging visitor, all piercing eyes and wild-tossing, white-maned hair, had done more than he’d ever intended.

Far from simply
warning
her, he’d shown her what she’d overlooked till now.

And she intended to take full advantage.

Whether it pleased the old goat or not.

G
elis stood in the middle of Castle Dare’s great kitchens, her hands fisted at her hips, unwilling to believe that her
plan
would shatter on the will of one stiff-necked, nae-saying ox of a man who called himself Dare’s master cook.

To her way of looking at it — at the moment, anyway — he appeared as unbending as the thick stone columns supporting the kitchens’
high-vaulted ceiling.

He certainly seemed to have his mind set on vexing her.

With one notable exception, rarely had she seen a man so utterly unmoved by her best dimpled smile and kindest morning greetings.

Nor did he seem overly appreciative of her rose attar perfume. Not that the delicate scent was noticeable against the stronger
kitchen smells of roasting meat, simmering stews, and onions.

So many onions!

The great pile of them made her eyes burn, and she stepped farther away from the table where two young boys busied themselves
chopping the odoriferous bulbs.

Unfortunately, the sharp bite of
onion air
wasn’t so easily avoided.

Not if she wished to enlist the cook’s aid.

Doing so required suffering the kitchens, pungent as the great groin-vaulted area was.

She bit her lip and tried not to breathe too deeply. She also stifled the urge to tap her foot.

Showing annoyance would get her nowhere.

So she eyed the cook carefully, focusing all her thoughts on winning his favor.

Affectionately dubbed Hugh MacHugh, or so she’d heard, the double name reflected his extraordinary size.

And he
was
incredibly large.

Ranging head and shoulders above most men and making up nearly as much in breadth and girth, his great bulk dwarfed even the
vastness of the huge, arched roasting hearth looming behind him.

Gelis kept her chin lifted all the same.

Hugh MacHugh would have a chink somewhere.

Most men did.

And those who didn’t weren’t worth the bother.

So she narrowed her eyes and kept her perusal appraising.

There had to be something that would get her past his head-shakings and lock-jawed denials.

Not nearly as old as she would have expected, Hugh MacHugh appeared genial enough otherwise.

Clear blue eyes, twinkling and bright, watched her from beneath a high forehead, smooth if a bit wary. Autumn-bronze hair
graced his brow, if the carefully combed strands were a bit wispy. And he sported round apple-red cheeks and a curling copper
beard, obviously his pride.

He was pulling on that beard now.

Yanking on the glossy rose-red curls as he wagged his head, tsk-tsking her every request.

“Nae, it canna be done, my lady.” He folded massive, well-muscled arms across his chest. “In all my days, I have ne’er gone
against Lord Raven’s wishes.”

He looked at her, his red-bearded chin outthrust.

Gelis took a step closer to him. The reek of onions and simmering beef pottage swirled around her, as did the pungent smell
of fresh fish packed in barrels of seaweed and brine.

“But you have the goods here,” she wheedled, lifting a hand to count the delicacies on her fingers. “They’ve not yet been
returned to the larder.”

Hugh MacHugh grunted.

His arms remained firmly crossed.

“See you for yourself ” — Gelis pointed to the heavy oaken worktable forming the centerpiece of the kitchens — “is that not
the selfsame joint of roasted mutton, platters of which were sent to my room yestere’en?”

A crimp appeared in the cook’s fine, high brow.

“The scent still lingered in the air.” Gelis twitched her nose, demonstrably. “ ’Twas the same roasted mutton I can smell
now.”

She flicked a glance at the savory evidence. “Ah-h-h, yes,” she observed, letting her nose quiver again. “I am quite sure
of it. The seasonings, see you . . .”

The crimp in the cook’s brow became a crease.

Gelis waved a hand, silencing him when he opened his mouth to protest.

“And there, on the trestle table by the far wall” — she whirled in that direction — “are those not the spiced salmon pasties
prepared to tempt the Raven’s palate?”

Hugh MacHugh’s tight-drawn lips said that they were.

“Or there . . .” She trailed off, thrusting out an arm to indicate a bowl of jellied eggs and a linen-draped platter that
she suspected held Hugh’s own prized honey cakes, the tasty delicacies dusted with ginger.

She lifted a brow. “Are those not leftover goods? Victuals now destined for the castle dogs?”

The cook shuffled his feet, unable to meet her eye.

Sensing victory, she went to the table and lifted the edge of one of the cloth-draped bowls.

“ Ah-h-h . . .” She nodded thoughtfully. “More than enough for your lord’s hounds and any empty-bellied beggars who might
come calling at the postern gates!”

To her surprise — or not — Hugh MacHugh began to flush.

He looked down, nudging a surprisingly small foot against a crack in the kitchen’s stone-flagged floor.

“I, too, would have relished such a feast.” Gelis pressed her luck. “I know you ken I was robbed of such enjoyment — as was
your lord.”

The cook’s head snapped up, his pink-tinged flush turning scarlet.

“I told you, my lady—”

“The Raven’s wishes, I know.” Gelis picked up a stew ladle, pretending to examine it. “Tell me,” she ventured, setting the
thing back down, “has he expressly forbidden me to explore my new home?”

“With surety, nae.” Hugh pulled a length of cloth from beneath his belt and dabbed at his glistening brow. “He only ordered
that you are not to leave the keep unescorted.”

“And I shall not.” Gelis pounced. “A score of your lord’s best guardsmen shall accompany me,” she improvised, wondering if
she’d dare ride out alone at all after making such a false claim.

“ ’Tis true,” a feminine voice spoke from the door to the wine cellar.