Seducing a Scottish Bride (30 page)

Valdar coughed.

Grabbing his ale cup again, he helped himself to a healthy swig.

The other men at the table rushed to fuss at their plaids, clumsily trying to conceal the telltale glints and bulges of weapons
peeking up from their boots or other sundry hiding places.

A quick glance into the crowded lower end of the hall showed that every MacRuari present was equally well armed. Gelis swallowed
a curse, then scrunched her eyes to see better through the smoke-and-torch haze hanging above the long rows of tables. Her
heart caught when she spotted at least two other Norse battle-axes propped against trestle benches.

She also spied young Hector perched in a window embrasure, Buckie sprawled at his feet. And — no great surprise — the boy’s
newly acquired
sgian dubh
wasn’t tucked into a boot or beneath his belt, but proudly displayed atop one of the window seat cushions.

Most disturbing of all was the giant figure of Hugh MacHugh lurking near the hall’s vaulted entry. Pacing to and fro in front
of the massive oaken door, he held a sharp-bladed meat cleaver clutched in his hand.

Her stomach lurched at the sight.

Everyone knew a master cook had too many duties not to be busy at his kitchen fires.

Especially at this early hour of the day.

She frowned.

Then she puffed a curl off her brow and stepped closer to the high table. “Dare is readying for a siege.” She didn’t bother
to make it a question. “I’ve lived through enough at Eilean Creag to tell.”

“Dare is e’er prepared for trouble.” Valdar dug his spoon into his bowl of slaked oats, stirring. “The
showing
you see this morn has more to do with you than any foe who might or might not be bearing down on our walls.”

Her brows rose. “With me?”

“So I said.”

“But that makes no sense.”

Valdar stopped stirring his oats. “It did to my grandson.” He glanced up, eyeing her. “That much I can tell you. Before he
rode out, he ordered every man not on the walls to hie himself into the hall to guard you.”

For one shining moment, a surge of pleasure wrapped round and filled Gelis, swelling her heart and warming her until she realized
the true meaning of Valdar’s declaration.

Her gaze flashed to the Blood Drinker. “So we
are
under siege?”

“Nae.” He waved his spoon at her. “The Raven didn’t want you following him again. He set his men to keep watch so you canna
leave the hall.”

Gelis blinked.

Then she looked from him to the well-filled tables of guardsmen and back to him. Whether or not the Raven cared enough about
her to wish to prevent her from hastening after him — perhaps into danger — she still wasn’t happy with Valdar’s spoon-wielding
explanation.

“What about all the weapons?” She put her hands on her hips. “We both know those swords and dirks aren’t meant for use against
me. So” — she summoned her most persuasive smile — “just who is to be the recipient of their sharp ends?”

“That I canna say, lass.”

“Canna or willna?”

Valdar took renewed interest in oat stirring.

“I see.” Gelis tilted her head, pretending to consider. “Then I shall just have to find someone else to question.”

She glanced out over the torchlit hall, her eyes narrowed and searching, looking for the one soul she suspected might have
answers.

It took less than a wink to find her.

She’d only needed to study the shadows darkening the hall’s entry. There, where Hugh MacHugh paced in all his ruddy, rough-hewn
glory. Great- eyed Anice hovered near the door, the adulation on her face undisguised now that she felt herself unobserved.

Gelis smiled. Her pulse quickened.

Leaving Valdar to his oats and his spoon, she turned away and hurried from the dais. She strode across the hall, secretly
pleased when the Raven’s hard-faced, steel-toting stalwarts made way for her, each man stepping back respectfully at her approach,
clearing a path through their midst.

Soon, success would be hers.

A woman in love — and she was sure the timid serving lass had hung her heart on Dare’s cook — would never refuse help to another
woman suffering the same affliction.

Her own heart began to pound and her breath caught on the realization that she loved the Raven.

She shivered, a delicious swirl of warmth spilling through her. Truth was, she knew, she’d loved him ever since the morning
she’d first glimpsed him in vision. She could still see him that way, striding so boldly toward her on Eilean Creag’s little
shingled strand.

Making her blood heat and all the woman inside her quiver with desire.

She’d die if aught happened to him.

Remembering his kisses — and the horrible blackness she’d seen enfold him in her most recent vision — she hastened her step,
almost colliding with a kitchen laddie weaving his way across the hall with a platter of sausages and fresh-baked bannocks.

Somewhere a shutter cracked in the wind and someone slammed it shut, the noise overloud in her ears. Fearing the onset of
another vision, she pressed a hand to her breast, relieved when the
buzzing
in her head proved no more than her own blood pounding in her temples.

Almost at the entry, she skirted several castle dogs squabbling over a bone. She deflected the interest of another when he
trotted up to her, eager for ear rubs and back scratches. Then one of the iron-bracketed resin torches flared as she dashed
past, the flames leaping upward, dancing wildly and sparking a plume of bright, hissing ash.

And finally she was there.

The hall’s great iron-studded doors loomed but a few paces before her. Hugh MacHugh still marched to and fro, his stride long
and purposeful, the blade of his meat cleaver glinting in the torchlight.

But Anice was gone.

Disappointment swept her, but she tamped it down, hastening instead to insert herself in front of the cook, effectively blocking
his path.

“My lady.” He stopped at once. “A fine morn to you.”

“Aye, and it would be if I knew where my husband has ridden off to.” She leaned forward, so close she could almost smell his
nervousness. “I don’t suppose you can tell me?”

He shook his head. “Nae, I —”

She overrode him. “I already know . . . you canna say.” She drew herself up, said a silent prayer of thanks that she wasn’t
some wee slip of a maid, easily blown away on the slightest puff of a breeze.

“But I do wish to have a word with Anice,” she added. “Where is she?”

Hugh MacHugh swallowed. “Anice?”

“Herself, and no other.” Gelis lifted her chin. “She was here just moments ago. I saw her standing there” — she pointed to
where a little charcoal brazier hissed and glowed in a shadowy corner — “and watching you.”

Hugh MacHugh’s face reddened.

“I didn’t see her, my lady,” he said, shuffling his feet.

But his gaze flicked to the door.

“Ha! So she left the hall, did she?” Gelis darted around him, seizing the door latch. “Then I will just go after her. She
couldn’t have gone far.”

To her surprise, the cook didn’t argue with her.

Instead, he drew a hand over his thinning red hair and blew out a breath.

“She went to gather broody hen eggs,” he admitted, his big hands working on the shaft of his meat cleaver.

“Then perhaps I shall . . . help her!” Gelis hitched up her skirts and tugged on the door latch.

Hugh MacHugh’s hand closed around her wrist. “It willna do you any good to go out there, my lady.”

“Ah, but I do disagree,” she owned, jerking free.

She yanked open the door and scooted out onto the landing before he could try to stop her again.

But she saw at once that he had no need.

A tight phalanx of guardsmen lined the entire length of the keep’s outer stair, their close-packed ranks grim-faced and silent.

And even if she’d consider nipping past them, their drawn and crossed swords blocked the way.

She was well and truly trapped.

Though she
would
catch Anice and speak to her later.

That knowledge — and her pride — lifting her spirits, she straightened her back and walked to the edge of the landing with
all the dignity she could muster. She put her hands on the cold stone of the landing wall and leaned out into the chill morning
wind, pretending to relish its briskness.

One, two obviously deep gulps of the brittle air — and perhaps an appreciative sigh or an artful head toss — should be enough
to convince the guardsmen.

It wouldn’t do to have them think their new lady had been about to gallop down the keep stair and streak across the bailey,
looking for broody hens!

But when, after enough air gulping and head tosses, she turned to go back inside, all thought of hen eggs, Anice, and even
stony-faced guardsmen fled her mind.

Maldred the Dire’s heraldic crest was gone.

Or rather, she couldn’t see it.

Her jaw slipping, she stared up at the space above the hall door where the great hoary stone should have been. Either her
eyes had suddenly gone as milky as old Buckie’s or her
taibhsearachd
was playing some new trick on her.

Yet no weird buzzing filled her ears. And neither the landing nor the solid bulk of the keep walling appeared to fade or waver.

Everything looked and felt as it should — save for the missing crest stone.

Her heart thumping, she stepped closer, craning her neck to get a better look. In that moment, the sun broke through a cloud,
its bright morning light silvering the tower wall like a polished mirror.

At once, she spotted the great stone slab that was once Maldred’s, recognizing its distinctive shape set so prominently above
the door.

But the sight sent chills down her spine and she had to clasp a hand to her mouth to keep from gasping.

The stone might still be there, but no one could ever call it Maldred’s again.

Every last faded line of incising and carvings had been erased.

The stone stared down at her, its age-pitted bulk looking no different from the other squares of granite masoned so proudly
into Dare’s walls.

But the power of it stopped her heart.

That, and the distinct impression that the stone could see her. Then the clouds closed over the sun again and the odd sensation
vanished.

Gelis shivered and rubbed her arms.

Then she smiled.

Whatever force had smoothed the stone’s surface, she knew in her heart it boded well.

Dare was on its way to healing.

She was absolutely certain of it.

Ronan was almost certain he’d made a grave error.

His little skiff, scarce more than a cockleshell, tossed and pitched in the cold, choppy waters of Loch Dubh. The small, black-watered
loch vexed and bedeviled him, giving itself as dark as its benighted name.

Scowling, he set his jaw against the pain in his ribs when the skiff plunged into yet another deep trough, but struggle as
he would, the tossing waves and icy, spray-filled air undid each hard-won ply of his carefully wielded oars.

A driving wet mist drove up the loch and low clouds raced across the surrounding hills. The gusting wind blew in his face,
making it ever harder to reach the little islet standing out so blackly against the thick gray fog shrouding the fine, rolling
sweeps of Dare’s highest moorland.

But a dark-cloaked figure stood waiting on the islet’s stone jetty, the man’s penetrating stare piercing the whirling mist
and keeping him on course.

Tall, white-maned, and wind-beaten, the berobed observer could only be Dungal Tarnach.

Or so Ronan hoped.

He tightened his grip on the oars, almost sure of it.

No one else save Valdar knew his true whereabouts.

And the power of the man shone bright against the islet’s thickly wooded foreshore, his mere silhouette edged with a shifting
orangey-red glow that lit the tall ash and scarlet-berried rowan trees behind him.

The glow brightened as Ronan drew near, the wind swinging round to buffet him from behind and send the little skiff racing
across the foaming waves, directly toward the old stone pier and the slick, weed-hung rocks lining the strand.

“So you came — Raven.” The man nodded in greeting, then held out a hand to aid him ashore when the skiff bumped against the
jetty.

Ronan gripped the extended hand, pride not letting him refuse the courtesy. “I would hear what you have to say,” he said simply,
stepping up onto the pier. “I trust I will not have cause to regret meeting with you.”

The Holder looked at him, his eyes like smoldering coals. “Come with me to the Tobar Ghorm and you can decide what you make
of my tidings.”

“There are tales told in my family of the Blue Well,” Ronan said as they left the jetty to follow a narrow track through the
trees. “The well was sacred to the Ancients. A place where folk no longer remembered gathered on certain days to drink the
water and leave offerings in the hope of securing good fortune or curing ills. The Old Ones —”

“Still hold Tobar Ghorm as hallowed.”

Ronan frowned. “Then I find it an odd trysting place for a Holder.”

Dungal Tarnach turned to face him. “The well’s sanctity is the reason I chose it,” he said, the strange glow edging his robes
gone now.

Even his eyes no longer glimmered eerily but appeared a faded light blue.

They’d left the trees and now stood in a small clearing overgrown with dead heather and thigh-high, autumn-red bracken. The
Holder glanced at the Tobar Ghorm, his almost-ordinary gaze fixing on the barely discernible well in the center of the little
glade.

Of very great antiquity indeed, little remained of the well save a tumble of toppled stones. Some were covered with early
Celtic carvings, while others appeared simply moss-grown or riddled with lichen.

Even so, cloaked in soft mist as the clearing now was, it was all too easy to imagine ancient rites taking place there. Perhaps,
too, that those so gifted might use the well’s
Druidecht
to pass easily between this world and those beyond.