Seducing a Scottish Bride (22 page)

Boldly striped in red, blue, and gold, the shelter appeared open on one side, revealing — if he wasn’t mistaken — a crude
wood-planked floor within.

A well-laden trestle table and a bench piled high with cushions.

“By all that’s holy!” He blinked.

Then he shook his head, knuckled his eyes.

The Viking tent didn’t go away.

Far from it, Buckie suddenly appeared from around one of the supporting poles. Capering like a hinky-hipped puppy, he put
his nose to the ground, sniffing at a securely fastened tie-rope before bounding over to a well-doing cookfire close to the
lochan’s edge.

The cook fire he’d smelled . . . complete with a haunch of spit-roasted beef.

Dare beef, like as not.

Determined to find out, he wheeled about and swung up into his saddle. He whipped out his blade, raising it high. But before
he could spur his horse and thunder into the clearing,
she
stepped into his path.

“My husband — I greet you!” She beamed up at him, all light and laughter, her amber eyes dancing. “I dare say you took your
time in getting here.”

Ronan nearly choked.

Worse, he could hardly breathe.

Full of vigor and feminine spirit, she peered up at him. “I’d begun to despair that you’d come.”

“You, my lady, look anything but despairing.”

“So I would hope!” She hitched up her skirts and twirled. “Though I am not exactly dressed for a feasting-in-the-wild, having
left Dare in such haste this morn,” she announced, laughing.

“A feasting?” Ronan could scarce get out the words.

Her smile dimpled.

“Our nuptial celebrations,” she emphasized, pointing to the striped sailcloth awning. “Meats, libations, and more await your
pleasure.”

My pleasure would be knowing you safe within Dare’s walls.

The words jammed in his throat.

His fool arm appeared stuck as well, frozen in place above his head, his fingers clasped tight around his leather-wrapped
sword hilt, the long steely blade shining in the wood’s dim lighting.

He winced, wishing he could sink beneath the nearest bog pool.

She rattled on, clearly unaware of his discomfort. “Every succulent delicacy that was tossed out our bedchamber window is
on yon table,” she enthused, looking more fetching than ought to be allowed. “I went to the kitchens and secured the untouched
remains from your cook.”

Ronan looked at her, his surprise complete. “The meal I’d ordered for —”

“For me, aye, but now for us both to enjoy! We have” — she lifted a hand, began ticking off viands — “thick slices of cold
roasted mutton, the very same spiced salmon patties and jellied eggs, and even Hugh MacHugh’s ginger-dusted honey cakes.”

Ronan’s brows arched.

“And not just that.” She flicked another glance at the well-spread table board. “There are additional savories as well.”

It was all Ronan could do to keep from telling her that
she
was the savory.

Blessedly, speech failed him.

She flashed a dimpled smile. “Hugh MacHugh was generous.”

Ronan could only goggle.

She was beyond all, a vision against the cold gray of the wood, the dark trunks of the great Scots pines crowding the little
path.

Behind her, mist and cloud swirled across the jagged face of Creag na Gaoith, but — as if to bedevil him — a single shaft
of sunlight slanted through the trees, the golden light falling directly across her, gilding her.

Not that she needed any such embellishment.

Prominent and well-made, her breasts swelled above a tighter-fitting, lower- dipping bodice than he’d yet seen her wear, and
her flaming hair had loosened from its braid to hang about her shoulders.

Not even attempting to tame her wild tresses or right the front of her gown, she held his gaze. Her eyes smoldered, their
gold-flecked depths proud and full of challenge.

The top rims of her nipples were plainly visible.

Ronan swallowed.

His jaw went so slack he doubted he’d e’er be able to firm it again.

Another, more self-minded part of him twitched and jerked.

No danger of slackness there.

Indeed, if he ran any harder, the wretched thing might just snap in two.

Ignoring it, he finally managed to lower his arm and shove his fool sword back into its sheath. He dismounted and made a bit
of a show brushing at his travel cloak, flicking its folds into place.

Ne’er had he felt more like a bumbling, witless bravo.

It was unthinkable that he had nearly gone charging through the underbrush, brandishing his sword and yelling for
Vikings
to come out of their hidey holes and fight like men.

The near shame of it coursed through him.

He gritted his teeth and drew a tight breath. He would not redden in front of her.

Nor would he let her see how deeply she affected him.

Unfortunately, from the look she was giving him, he suspected she knew fine.

“Of course, you were startled.” She came closer, her red-gold curls swinging about her hips. The scent of roses swirled around
him. “It was my intention to surprise you.”

His nose quivered, her perfume almost overwhelming his senses.

“To be sure, and you did, just! Surprise me.” He eyed her sharply, scarce able to think straight. “But did you no’ consider
Buckie —”

She brushed aside his concern and took his arm, her grip firm. “Buckie is in fine fettle. He’s enjoyed the day and still is.”

Ronan harrumphed.

“His pleasure in the day will circle round to bite him when he wakens on the morrow and canna stand.” He looked down at her,
ignoring how right her hand felt on his arm. “I’m sure you meant no ill, but allowing such an aged beast to run all the way
from Dare to —”

She laughed, a pleasing, flirtatious sound, bright and lively, that warmed the chill air. Truth be told, her laughter could
have even warmed
him
if the reason for it weren’t so objectionable.

Ronan frowned.

For sure, he’d judged her wrongly if she found humor in poor Buckie’s plight.

“You mistake — I see it all o’er you.” She slanted a mischievous glance at him as she tugged him forward, leading him through
the trees to the clearing with its dark-watered lochan and her garish Viking tent. “Buckie’s presence here is another of my
surprises. He didn’t walk a step of the way. He rode, and in great style!”

Ronan stopped short. “
He rode?
”

Another ripple of laughter and a sharper tug on his arm was all the answer she gave.

Until she marched right through the slithering mist snakes beginning to wind here and there across the leafy ground and pulled
him into the clearing.

“There! See for yourself how Buckie got here.” She pointed triumphantly at an empty wicker creel.

Large, hung about with ropes and what looked to be the willow banding used to hoop his grandfather’s wine barrels, the large
basket was clearly an onion creel.

The thing sat beside the lochan’s boulder-strewn shore, its telltale reek carried on the wind.

Ronan stared.

A suspicion — something — snapped tight somewhere deep in his chest.

He swallowed hard.

Then he blinked, unaccustomed heat pricking his eyes when he spotted one of Dare’s horses chomping grass not far from the
creel.

Someone had placed the beast’s saddle on a nearby boulder and it was at the saddle that Ronan now stared. A rope dangled from
the high-armed cantle at the back of the saddle, the rope’s purpose squeezing Ronan’s heart.

His gaze flicked to the onion creel then back to the saddle, not that he could really see it now, blurry as his vision had
gone.

He cleared his throat, squaring his shoulders before he risked turning back to
her.

“Dinna tell me you rigged a carrying basket for Buckie?”

“I did!” She smiled. “Hugh MacHugh and Hector helped me. We put Buckie in the basket at Dare and his feet didn’t touch the
ground until he got here.”

She blinked herself then and swiped a hand across her cheek. “I vow he enjoyed the ride!”

“And where did you get such an idea?” Ronan could still scarce believe it.

“From Jamie Macpherson,” she returned, the answer making no sense at all. “James the Small of Baldreagan, though his real
style is James of the Heather.”

“I ne’er heard tell of him.” Ronan tried not to sound annoyed.

Truth was, the very way she’d said the man’s numerous by- names perturbed him.

“Jamie has an old dog, Cuillin,” she twittered on, her eyes sparkling. “He crafted a riding basket for him, and when my father
saw it, he had similar carriers made for his own aged hounds, Telve and Troddan.”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder, as if that explained everything. “The dogs accompany Father everywhere, though he didn’t
bring them along to Dare.”

Ronan almost snorted.

The Black Stag would have known why he left his beloved canines at home.

Would that he’d been so careful with his daughter.

“Jamie would have brought his dog here with him,” she declared, her lips curving in another dazzling smile. “He ne’er takes
a step without Cuillin at his side.”

Ronan humphed.

The admiration he heard in his lady’s voice annoyed him greatly.

His golden neck torque squeezed him tighter than e’er before.

Dog lover or nay, he was certain he didn’t like this Jamie Macpherson.

“I am sure I’ve heard of other such
dog-creels
,” he lied, something deep and ridiculous pricked inside him, forcing him to undermine the other man’s brilliance.

“Indeed, I may have seen three or more such devices in Inverness,” he embellished, feeling the fool but unable to halt his
tongue. “And perhaps another on Skye, last time I visited Aidan MacDonald of Wrath. That one, too, is well keen on his hounds.”

Lady Gelis’s brows lifted, her gaze teasing.

Teasing, taunting, and all-seeing enough to send his own brows dipping into a deep, down-drawn scowl.

“You needn’t be jealous of Jamie.” She laughed the words, her merriment making him frown all the more. “He was one of my father’s
favorite squires. He’s newly married and happily settled at Baldreagan, his home. He would love Buckie.”

As if he knew he was being discussed, that long-eared brute trundled over to them. Looking quite pleased with himself, he
eyed them, his bright gaze going from one to the other, his tail wagging furiously.

Then he was off again, hinking away to trot along the lochan’s shore, eagerly sniffing every rock and clump of heather he
passed.

Jamie Macpherson faded from Ronan’s mind.

He looked back at his bride, shamed that — for a space, anyway — he’d thought her capable of allowing harm to come to the
old dog.

He ran a hand through his hair, shamed, too, that his feelings for her would suddenly swell so fiercely in this of all places.

He bit down on the inside of his mouth, shamed even more that he wasn’t awash with guilt.

Far from it, very different emotions were whipping through him. Even when he slid a cautious glance across the lochan to where
the worst jumble of stones hugged the foot of Creag na Gaoith.

No ghosts lingered there.

Only nothingness stared back at him.

The hollow whistling of the wind, the rattle of tree branches, his own thundering heartbeat, and — he still couldn’t believe
it — Buckie’s excited snuffling.

“Well?”
She
was standing before him, poking his chest with a finger. “What do you think?”

“Lady, I am . . . overwhelmed.” He winced, hoping only he heard the thickness in his voice. “Truth is, I dinna know what to
say.”

“Then say you are pleased.” She stepped back, attar of roses in her wake. “And” — her smile went wicked — “that you will not
be wroth with your cook for helping me.”

“Nae — by Saint Columba’s knees! I am anything but displeased with you and I will go easy with Hugh — I promise you.” But
his gaze went to her Viking tent, the sight of it sobering him.

The tent could so easily have belonged to some broken half- Norse Islesman, wandering the hills and aching for trouble.

Or worse . . . a trap laid by the Holders.

Ronan glanced at the sky, certain the clouds were darkening, their roiling mass closing in on Creag na Gaoith, their fast-moving
shadows blotting the sun.

He looked back at her, wondering how she could
glow
in such a benighted place.

“You are wroth.” She folded her arms. “I can feel it rolling off you.”

“Nae.” Ronan pulled a hand down over his chin. “I am just . . .”

“You are —”

“Ach, lass! I would know what filled your mind with such folderol!” He jammed his hands on his hips, the dangers she’d faced
taking his breath. “Such folly could have been the end of you! Traipsing alone through Glen Dare, a milky-eyed, nigh-toothless
dog as your sole protection —”

She laughed again, her gaze flitting to the great awning of her Norsemen’s tent.

“I rode out with more guards than e’er accompanied me on a day’s outing from Eilean Creag,” she tossed back at him, her chin
lifting. “You just haven’t seen them because I ordered them to leave me be, to stay within guarding distance, but well out
of sight.”

“Dare guardsmen are here?” Ronan glanced round, seeing no sign of them.

“They are . . . everywhere.”

Ronan almost laughed.

Seldom had he heard a better description of his grandfather’s garrison.

And of a sudden, he could feel them, too.

Not their eyes, they were too well-trained for such an intrusion. But their presence came to him now, a wall of massed strength
and vigilance, waiting and watching as always.

Only he had been caught off guard.

His senses fooled by creeping shadows moving through the whin and broom, a brightly colored swatch of striped sailcloth, and
the curling blue drift of wood-and-peat smoke rising on the cold morning air.

“They set the fire for you.” He made the words a statement. “Built yon Viking tent —”