Seducing a Scottish Bride (31 page)

Ronan shuddered and drew his plaid closer about his shoulders. The Tobar Ghorm’s pagan magic yet pulsed here, untouched by
the centuries, its
life force
seizing him like a fist clenched around his soul.

Unthinkable that a turned druid would dare risk treading here.

Yet Dungal Tarnach stood proud, not a trace of shame or humility on his face.

He looked at Ronan then and for one brief moment a trace of sadness flickered in his eyes. “You think one such as I cannot
hold a place such as this in high honor?”

“I did not say that.” Ronan frowned, feeling oddly chastised.

“You did not have to.”

“I —” Ronan bit off the words, not even sure what he meant to say.

He glanced up at the low black clouds racing so swiftly across the sky, wishing they could whisk him back to Dare. The Tobar
Ghorm and its little islet were more than dark, bleak, and lonely.

The place was having a weird effect on him and he didn’t like it.

Most especially he didn’t care for the way — since stepping into the clearing and nearing the well — he couldn’t help but
notice the lines on the Holder’s face or the bony thinness of his shoulders.

The slight hitch in his step when he walked, as if his hips pained him.

“Did you know, Raven,” he said then, suddenly standing next to the well, “that even on a day as dark as this, the water of
the well remains blue as sapphire?”

As if to prove it, he leaned over the fallen stones and peered down into the rubble. Straightening, he turned back to Ronan.

“You should look.” He glanced at the well again, his robes lifting in the wind.

“I saw the water as a lad,” Ronan admitted, remembering his awe at its brilliance.

And, too, how his young boy’s heart had believed his father’s tale that the dazzling blue was the eye color of a beautiful
but tragic Celtic princess who’d drowned herself in the well when her sweetheart was killed in battle.

Preferring death to life without him, or worse, being forced to wed another, she’d rowed herself out to the little islet and
taken solace in the only way she knew.

Ever since, or so legend claimed, she granted favors and healing to those visiting her well, taking especial care to help
those unlucky in love, not wanting others to suffer the sorrow that had taken all joy and light from her life, ultimately
causing her death.

Pushing the tale from his mind, Ronan strode across the clearing to join the Holder at the well. He did not attempt to peer
through the jumble of stones and weeds to see the glittering water.

Instead, he folded his arms. “ So- o-o, Dungal Tarnach,” he began, “if you are indeed the man who penned a certain missive,
I would hear the name of the traitor in my midst.”

The Holder raised a brow. “You doubt my identity?”

“I would only be sure I hear the words from the man who brought such tidings.” Ronan narrowed his eyes, taking in the Holder’s
simple robe and his flowing white hair and beard. “You do not look like any MacKenzie I ever saw. Or did you use
Druidecht
to bespell my grandfather?”

“Valdar MacRuari saw what he expected to see — as did all your men.”

“Dare men are no fools.” Ronan spoke with conviction. “They know men that are
others
roam our glen from time to time. They know to be wary.”

“And they knew MacKenzies were still riding through your lands.” His mouth quirking, the Holder lifted a hand, palm upward
to the heavens.

In a blink, he was changed.

For one earth-tilting moment he stood before Ronan no longer looking aged beyond measure, but like a shadow image of the Black
Stag. Or, at the least, like a man who shared that one’s blood and name.

Then he lowered his hand and was himself again.

Tall, berobed, and gaunt, his white-maned head held proud despite the slight stoop to his shoulders.

“So you are Dungal Tarnach.” Ronan refused to acknowledge the man’s transformation talent.

All druids were skilled thus.

Even Torcaill, though they never discussed such things.

Ronan kept his eyes intent on this druid, now a Holder. “It matters little to me under which guise you cloak yourself. I would
only hear who thinks to betray me.”

“He means to do more than betray you.” Dungal Tarnach held his gaze, his faded blue eyes equally earnest. “His plan is to
taint your food and drink with poison. He will seek to kill you, your lady, your grandfather, and any others who might have
the misfortune to sit at your high table when he chooses to make his move.”

“And do you know why?” Ronan could scarce speak past the bile in his throat. “Dare men are known for their loyalty. I cannot
think of a single one who would turn so viciously against his own clan.”

The Holder shrugged. “Then perhaps you should consider the other thing Dare men are known for — they dwell on blighted ground.
Outside this glen, your name rarely passes good folks’ lips. They fear just thinking of you will touch them with your darkness.”

Ronan grunted. “It is because of the like that our men are so true, so beholden to our own.”

When the Holder only shrugged again, he flexed his jaw and struggled against clenching his hands. A horrible suspicion was
beginning to unravel in his mind and he didn’t want it to take shape.

Dungal Tarnach cleared his throat. “This man is weary of living as you do,” he said, voicing Ronan’s dread. “He is one who
hopes to turn the minds of your other men once you are no more.”

“Bah!” Ronan slashed the air with his hand. “The others would string him up on the nearest gibbet.”

“Perhaps.” The Holder fingered his beard, considering. “But he might meet with success, convincing them that without you,
Dare’s darkness can be lifted.”

Ronan snorted.

Dungal Tarnach stepped closer, gripping Ronan’s arm. “He has sought to treat with us — the Holders — vowing to throw open
your gates and let us search Dare for the Raven Stone. In return, he asks that we help him eliminate any of your men who might
resist him. Once that is done —”

“He means to live off our riches and expects you to take your Raven Stone and vanish from our bounds,” Ronan finished for
him, sure that was the way of it.

Not surprisingly, the Holder nodded.

And although he’d been so certain, the confirmation chilled Ronan’s blood.

He paced away, then swung around before he’d gone three paces. “You haven’t told me his name. Who is he?”

“I cannot speak his name.” Dungal Tarnach lifted his hands, showing his palms. “Letting it touch my tongue would diminish
my own power. I — and all my kind — have suffered enough each time we speak of your thieving forebear. I will not foul my
breath on this man.

“But” — he raised an arm, pointing across the clearing — “I will show him to you.”

Ronan followed the Holder’s outstretched arm, his heart slamming against his ribs when he saw his foe standing at the edge
of the narrow track to the jetty.

Encircled by a flickering bluish glow, he stared right back at Ronan, his eyes blank and unseeing.

His identity was unmistakable.

“Christ God!” Ronan cried, staring.

And then the image vanished, leaving only the glimmering blue haze against the trees.

When that, too, faded, Ronan whirled around to face the Holder.

“I canna believe it!” He ran a hand through his hair, vaguely noting that his fingers shook. “No’ him. I’d have trusted him
with my life — and have!”

“Men are turned by many things.” The Holder looked down at the well again, his shoulders seeming to dip a bit. “Greed and
wealth, always. Love and hate can be powerful motivators. Or, as with your ill-famed forebear, simply a raging thirst for
power.”

“I still canna believe it,” Ronan repeated, shaking his head.

His stomach roiled and he felt sick inside, as if he’d been walking along a cliff edge and someone he trusted had just strode
up to him and kicked him over the edge.

He started pacing again, then froze, a new thought stopping him in his tracks.

“Why did you tell me this?” He shot a glance at the Holder. “Would it not have served you better to keep silent?”

Dungal Tarnach was still peering down at the Blue Well. When he finally looked up, he sighed.

“Nae, it wouldn’t have served me to keep this from you,” he said, his voice sounding old, tired. “Nor would it have done us
any good to have agreed to your man’s terms — though he knows nothing yet of our refusal.”

“Say you?”

The Holder nodded. “We deemed it wise to bide for time, telling him we’d give him our answer on the next full of the moon.”

“You wished to warn me first?” Ronan spoke the obvious.

Again, the Holder inclined his head.

“I do not understand,” Ronan said, and he didn’t.

To his surprise, Dungal Tarnach smiled. “Would that I could tell you my druidic honor obliged me to warn you of such treachery
in your midst,” he said, that odd almost-wistful note in his voice again.

“Alas,” he continued, “it had naught to do with the three greatest precepts druids abide by. Do you know them?” He glanced
at Ronan, one white brow arcing. “We train for twenty long years, enduring much hardship to hone and perfect our skills. But
above all, we vow to honor the gods, to be ever manly, and to always speak true.”

“And you are speaking the truth.” Ronan knew it in his bones.

“To be sure.” The Holder lifted his voice above the rising wind. “But not for those reasons. They would only have swayed me
. . . many years ago.”

“And now?”

“Now . . .” Dungal Tarnach looked away, his gaze seeming to search for an answer in the thickly clustered ash and rowan trees
crowding the edge of the glade. “Now, I warned you because doing so serves our purposes as well.”

Ronan almost choked.

His jaw did slip. “Warning me serves the Holders?”

Dungal Tarnach looked at him, his gaze no longer a harmless blue. “We seek only the return of what is ours. The Raven Stone,
as you know,” he said, the red glint in his eyes deepening on each word. “The stone was tainted when Maldred stole it from
us. His thievery — taking the property of friends — greatly diminished the stone’s power.”

“Then why do you still want it?” Ronan felt a ridiculous surge of hope.

“Because even tainted, the stone is ours.” The Holder stood straighter, seeming to grow in height and dimension. “It is of
untold sanctity and significance to us. And its powers are still formidable.”

“Then why didn’t you jump when you were handed a chance to search for it within our walls?” Ronan puzzled. “You’re no’ making
sense.”

“Druids always make sense,” the Holder corrected him. “Turned or nae, we ne’er waste a word. Had we agreed to such a treacherous
plan as was offered to us, the stone’s value would have decreased yet again. We must find the stone on our own terms, not
accept it from the hands of a man whose heart is so blackened he’d spill the blood of his own to gain his wicked ends.”

“I see.” Ronan released a breath, understanding indeed. “So now that you’ve assured the stone won’t lose further power, you
mean to keep plaguing us?”

“We mean to continue our search — as we have done since time was.”

“And if I tell you I have ne’er truly believed in the stone? Or that my father and grandfather and all those before them spent
years looking for it, always to no avail?”

“Then I would tell you that their failure makes no difference. The stone does exist and we will get it back.”

The words spoken, Dungal Tarnach stepped forward and offered his hand. “I will also tell you I wish you well in dealing with
your man.”

Ronan took the Holder’s hand, gripping tight. “And I . . . thank you for the warning.”

“It will be the only one given. The next time we meet, there will be no niceties. But” — his eyes flickered blue for just
a moment — “I was gladdened to meet you here today. You are a good man, Ronan MacRuari. In another life we might have been
friends.”

The words spoken, the Holder turned and walked away, quickly disappearing into the trees on the far side of the clearing,
leaving Ronan alone.

His fury, though, erupted all around him, pressing close and cutting off his air.

“By all that’s holy, I still canna believe it,” he roared, spinning around to race through the underbrush.

Heart pounding, he charged down the narrow path to the jetty and leaped into the little skiff before he had time to disbelieve
Dungal Tarnach’s words.

In his heart, he knew he’d spoken true.

He could only hope he wasn’t mistaken.

If so, he was about to kill an innocent man.

H
ours later, Gelis wrinkled her nose and wondered how much longer it would take for Anice to pay a visit to Dare’s grandest
luxury . . . a privy chamber reserved solely for women.

Set deep into the thickness of the stair tower’s walling, the tiny room boasted a mosaic-tiled floor and not one but two air-spending
window slits. A wicker basket near the
necessary
brimmed with a goodly supply of clean and fragrant sphagnum moss, while a small wooden corner shelf held a laver kept fresh
with cold, scented water and a tiny jar of lavender soap, adding to the chamber’s charm.