Seducing a Scottish Bride (2 page)

A man of iron will and incomparable strength, his name alone can inflame the hearts of those who follow him. And those who
don’t know to stay away, for it is said he fears nothing and has no mercy.

Only a fool would dare allow that there might be corners of Kintail untouched by the Black Stag’s sway.

But there was one deeply shadowed corner of that land, haunted by the doomed aspirations of a man best forgotten. Maldred
the Dire was his name, and although he has long since disappeared from history, his clan, the MacRuaris, still bear the shame
of his nefarious deeds.

The shame, and the sorrow.

Keeping to themselves, the blighted clan dwell unseen in the fair land of Kintail, their quiet presence unnoted by man, until
one amongst them grows weary of the shadows, unwilling to accept a fate written long before he or his heir, the Raven, ever
thought to tread these hills.

Aging chief of the MacRuaris,
his
days might be numbered, his life’s journey nearing its end. But the Raven is young and vital, a man of valor and passion
who does not deserve to be alone.

But before the Raven can find happiness, old debts must be repaid.

The hidden past unrolled and brought to the fore.

A past that inextricably binds the fates of the Black Stag and the man called the Raven. An unwanted turn of events that even
the mighty Duncan MacKenzie cannot escape, for the truth of it cuts to the marrow, trapping him by means of his one great
weakness.

His honor.

EILEAN CREAG CASTLE, THE WESTERN HIGHLANDS, AUTUMN 1348

L
et us speak plainly, my sister. What you would have us do is pure folly.”

Lady Gelis MacKenzie dismissed her elder sister’s opinion with an impatient flip of one hand. Scarce able to contain her own
excitement, she ignored the other’s lack of enthusiasm and stepped closer to the arch-topped windows of their tower bedchamber.

A bedchamber she hoped she wouldn’t be sharing with Lady Arabella much longer.

Not that she didn’t love her sister.

She did.

Just as she adored their lovely room, appointed as it was with every comfort and luxury their father, the Black Stag of Kintail,
chose to lavish on them. Elegant trappings met the eye no matter where one gazed, and those trusted enough to gain entry saw
immediately that the room’s sumptuous finery rivaled even that of the Black Stag’s own privy quarters. But Gelis cared little
for the splendor of the hooded fireplace and matching pair of carved oaken armchairs, or the jewel-toned tapestries and extravagant
bed hangings of richest brocade, each costly thread glowing in the light of fine wax candles.

Flicking a speck of lint off her sleeve, she cast a glance at her sister. Even if some stubborn souls refused to admit it,
she
knew that life held greater treasures.

Wax candles and hanging oil lamps might banish shadows and a well-doing log fire surely took the worst bite out of a chill
Highland morn, but such things did little to warm a woman’s heart.

Enflame her passion and make her breath catch with wonder.

Wonder, and love.

Such were Gelis’s dreams.

And all her sister’s purse-lipped protestations weren’t going to stop her from chasing them.

Apparently bent on doing just that, Arabella joined her in the window embrasure. “Such nonsense will bring you little joy,”
she contended. “Only a dim —”

“I am not light-minded.” Gelis whipped around to face her. “Even Father wouldn’t deny Devorgilla of Doon’s wisdom.”

Arabella sniffed. “There’s a difference between spelling charms and herb-craft and expecting moon-infused water to reveal
the face of one’s future mate.”

“Future
love
,” Gelis corrected, unable to prevent a delicious shiver of anticipation. “Love as in a girl’s one true heart-mate.”

Looking unconvinced, Arabella moved closer to the window arch and peered down into the bailey. “Och, to be sure,” she quipped,
“we shall hasten below, stare into the bowl you hid in the lee of the curtain wall last night, and then we shall see our true
loves’ faces there in the water.”

“So Devorgilla said.”

Arabella lifted a brow with predictable skepticism. “And you believe everything you are told?”

Gelis puffed a curl off her forehead. “I believe everything
Devorgilla
says. She has ne’er been known to err. Or can you prove otherwise?”

“I —” Arabella began, only to close her mouth as quickly. Turning aside, she trailed her fingers along the edge of a small
table. “ ’Tis only that you’ve so much fancy,” she said at last, a slight furrow creasing her brow. “I would not see you disappointed.”

“Bah!” Gelis tried not to convulse with laughter. “My only disappointment is when Father refuses a bonny suitor! I do not
mind him naesaying the toads, but some have been more than appealing.”

“Then why bother to peer into a scrying bowl if you already know Father isn’t about to let you wed?” Arabella dropped onto
the cushioned seat in the window embrasure, a frown still marring her lovely face.

“Isn’t about to let either of us wed,” Gelis amended, grabbing her sister’s arm and pulling her to her feet. “He shall claim
we are both too young even when we are withered and gray! Which is why we must use Devorgilla’s magic. If the scrying bowl
shows us the faces of our future husbands, we shall have the surety that there will
be
husbands for us. I will go mad without that certainty.”

You already are mad
, Gelis thought she heard her sister grumble. But when she shot a glance at her, Arabella wore her usual look of eternal composure.

An expression that could needle Gelis beyond patience.

Choosing to ignore it, she tightened her grip on Arabella’s arm and dragged her toward the door. “Come,” she urged, triumph
already surging through her, “there is no one in the bailey just now. If we hurry, we can test our fortune before anyone notices.”

“We will see naught but the bottom of the bowl,” Arabella decided as they made their way belowstairs and out into the empty
courtyard and an emptiness so stifling its heavy quiet threatened to dampen Gelis’s confidence. Brilliant autumn sunshine
slanted across the cobbles, and nothing stirred. The whole of the vast enclosure loomed silent, the thick curtain walls seeming
to watch them, looking on in stern disapproval of their frivolous pursuit.

Gelis paused and took a deep breath. She also lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders. Better to feign bravura than
give Arabella the satisfaction of sensing her unease. So she glanced about as unobtrusively as she could, trying to dispel
the day’s oddness.

But the morn
was
odd.

And unnaturally still.

No sounds reached them from the nearby stables. No birdsong rose from the rowan trees beside the chapel, and not a one of
their father’s dogs darted underfoot as they were wont to do, eager as they were for scraps of food or simply a quick scratch
behind the ears. Even Loch Duich lay silent, with nary a whisper of lapping water coming from the other side of the isle-girt
castle’s stout walling.

The water in the scrying bowl glimmered, its silvery surface beckoning, restoring Gelis’s faith as she knelt to peer into
its depths.

“See? There is nothing there,” Arabella announced, dropping down beside her. “No future husbands’ faces and not even a ripple
from the wind,” she added, poking a finger into the bowl and stirring the surface.

“No-o-o!” Gelis swatted at her sister’s hand. “We mustn’t touch the water!” she cried, horror washing over her. “Doing so
will spoil the magic.”

“There wasn’t any magic,” Arabella scoffed, drying her fingers on a fold of her skirts. “You saw yourself that the bowl showed
nothing.”

“It was glowing silver,” Gelis insisted, frustration beating through her. “ ’Twas the light of the full moon, caught there
and waiting for us.”

Arabella pushed to her feet. “The only thing waiting for us is the stitchery work Mother wishes us to do this morn.”

“The embroidery she wishes
you
to help her with,” Gelis snipped, tipping the moon-infused water onto the cobbles. “I ply my needle with clumsier fingers
than Mother, as well she knows.”

“She will be expecting you all the same.”

Gelis clutched the empty scrying bowl to her breast, holding fast as if it still shimmered with magic. The face of her one
true love, a man she just knew would be as much a legend as her father.

Bold, hot-eyed, and passionate.

Arrogant and proud.

And above all, he’d be hers and no one else’s.

“Let us be gone,” Arabella prodded. “We mustn’t keep Mother waiting.”

Gelis splayed her fingers across the bottom of the bowl. It felt warm to the touch. “You go. She won’t miss me. Nor would
she want me ruining her pillow coverings,” she said, distracted. Faith, she could almost feel her gallant’s presence. A need
and yearning that matched her own. “I’ll help her with some other task. Later.”

Arabella narrowed her eyes on the bowl. “If you persist in meddling with such foolery, she will be very annoyed.”

“Mother is never annoyed.” Gelis pinned the older girl’s back with a peeved stare as she left Gelis to stride purposefully
across the cobbles, making for the keep and hours of stitching drudgery.

“Nor will I be meddling in anything,” she added, blinking against the heat pricking her eyes when the bowl went cold and slipped
from her fingers. “The magic is gone.”

But the day was still bright, the light of the sun and the sweetness of the air too inviting for her to give in to the constriction
in her throat. Across the loch, the wooded folds of Kintail’s great hills burned red with bracken, their fiery beauty quickening
her pulse and soothing her.

She loved those ancient hills with their immense stands of Caledonian pine, rolling moors, and dark, weathered rocks. Even
if she wouldn’t venture that far, preferring to remain on Eilean Creag’s castle island, she could still slip through the postern
gate and walk along the shore.

And if her eyes misted with unshed tears, the wind off the loch would dry them. Not that she’d let any spill to begin with.
O-o-oh, no. She was, after all, a MacKenzie, and would be until her last breath. No matter whom she married.

And she
would
marry.

Even if the notion put a sour taste in her father’s mouth.

Swallowing against the persistent heat in her own throat, she glanced over her shoulder, assured that no one was watching,
then let herself out the gate.

It was colder on the lochside of the curtain walls, the wind stronger than she’d realized. Indeed, she’d gone but a few paces
before the gusts tore her hair from its pins and whipped long, curling strands of it across her face. Wild, unruly strands
as fiery red as the bracken dressing her beloved hills, and every bit as unmanageable — unlike Arabella’s sleek midnight tresses,
which ever remained in place.

“
She
would look perfectly coiffed in a snowstorm,” Gelis muttered, drawing her cloak tighter as she marched across the shingle.

Marching was good.

She wasn’t of a mood to amble. And she certainly didn’t feel like gliding along gracefully, as was her sister’s style. Truth
be told, if her frustration didn’t soon disappear, she might even do some stomping. Great sloshing steps straight through
the shallows of the loch, heedless of sea wrack and rocks, needing only to put her disappointment behind her.

It scarce mattered if she looked a fool.

No one could see her.

Only the lone raven circling high above her.

A magnificent creature, his blue-black wings glistening in the sun as he rode the wind currents, sovereign in his lofty domain,
impervious to her woes. Or, she decided, after observing him for a few moments, perhaps not so unaffected after all, for unless
she was mistaken, he’d spotted her.

She could feel his sharp stare.

Even sense a slight angling of his head as he swooped lower, coming ever closer, keen interest in each powerful wing beat.
Challenge and conquest in his deep, throaty cries as, suddenly, he dove straight at her, his great wings folded, his piercing
eyes fixed unerringly on hers.

Gelis screamed and ducked, shielding her head with her arms, but to no avail. Flying low and fast, the raven was already upon
her. His harsh cry rang in her ears as his wings opened to enfold her, their midnight span blotting the sky and stealing the
sun, plunging her into darkness.

“Mercy!” She fell to her knees, the swirling blackness so complete she feared she’d gone blind.

“Ach,
dia
!” she cried, the bird’s calls now a loud roaring in her ears. The icy wetness of the rock- strewn shore seeped into her skirts,
dampening them, the slippery-smooth stones shifting beneath her.

Nae, the whole world was shifting, tilting and spinning around her as the raven embraced her, holding tight, his silken, feathery
warmth a strange intimacy in the madness that had seized her.