Seducing a Scottish Bride (4 page)

Perchance to help you becalm yourself?

Duncan blinked, certain he’d heard the lout mutter such nonsense under his fool English breath. But his friend and good-brother
was merely studying his knuckles, the ghost of a smile playing around his lips.

A smile that indicated he’d soon spew some sage wisdom that Duncan knew he didn’t want to hear.

“We’ve journeyed a long road together, and it grieves me to say this,” the other began, proving it. “But mayhap you should
be concerned about age if your memory serves you so poorly. I am here to collect your promised winter provender for Devorgilla.
Caterine and I set sail for Doon within a sennight and you’d offered —”

“I ken what I offered!” Duncan began pacing, furious he’d forgotten. “Not that she needs aught. I’d wager my sword that old
woman can spin porridge from moonglow and ale from sunshadows on the hills.”

Certain of it, he paused by one of the arched windows, his gaze stretching across Loch Duich’s glittering blue waters and
beyond, seeking a certain little-visited corner of Kintail.

The only tainted corner of his lands.

His back to the room, he swallowed hard, not wanting to admit the dread spreading through him, tightening his chest and robbing
him of breath. Only when he knew nary a sign of it would show on his face did he turn around, immediately scowling upon seeing
his wife presenting the Sassunach with a platter of oatcakes and cheese.

Just as she’d plied the courier from
that place
with good ale and a hot meal, even promising him a soft heather pallet before the hall’s fire.

Ne’er guessing the damnation the man had brought them.

His mood more sour than ever, Duncan folded his arms. “Mayhap I should venture along when you set sail for Doon,” he said,
ignoring his wife’s head-shaking in favor of throwing a dark look at his friend. “Perhaps the
cailleach
can toss together some toads’ warts and newts’ eyes, chant a few spelling words, and rid me of my troubles?”

His wife ceased her head-shaking at once. “Oh, Duncan, you are making your troubles,” she said, setting down the tray of oatcakes
and cheese.

“It scarce matters whether I am or not. Or if I traveled to Doon.” Tipping back his head, Duncan stared up at the heavy-beamed
ceiling, then at his wife. “I doubt even the great Devorgilla can undo the past.”

Linnet’s eyes widened. “The past?”

Duncan nodded. “So I have said. My own and that of Clan MacRuari.”

“The offer for Gelis came from the MacRuaris,” Sir Marmaduke observed, pushing to his feet. “The courier feasting on meat
pies and stewed eels in the hall is one of that ilk. I heard the name before I came abovestairs.”

Duncan frowned at him. “Be that as it may, this is one time when you are not privy to my affairs. Take heed before you speak
that name so easily.”

“ ’Tis a name I’ve never heard before.” The Sassunach slanted a glance at Linnet, but she only shrugged, her face echoing
his puzzlement.

“I knew naught of them either,” she said, her gaze lighting on the rolled parchment. “Not until their chieftain’s man rode
through our gates this morn.”

“Very few know of them.” Duncan took to pacing again, not surprised when two of his oldest hounds struggled to their feet
to trail after him. Named Telve and Troddan for two ancient broch towers in nearby Glenelg, the beasts always knew when his
moods were at their darkest. “From what I hear, the clan wishes it that way and” — he paused to shove a hand through his hair
— “for certes, they are best avoided.”

Sir Marmaduke snorted. “I see no reason for your concern, my friend. If you find the MacRuaris so unsavory, send their man
on his way. As you’ve done with all the others.”

Duncan sighed, his world contracting to a small, spinning place of misery.

Slowing his pace to match his dogs’ stiff-legged gaits, he slid a look at his lifelong friend and the woman he loved even
more than life, no longer caring if they could see into his soul, recognize the fears simmering there.

The saints knew he had good reason for them.

“I told you,” he began, directing his words at the Sassunach, “this suitor is different. He is a man like no other. The last
man I would see married to either of my girls. And” — Duncan pressed his fingers to his temples — “he is the one man I cannot
refuse.”

Linnet gasped.

Sir Marmaduke had the audacity to remain unmoved. His gaze flashed to Duncan’s great sword, the jeweled dirk thrust beneath
his belt. “Since when have you lacked the courage to decline an unwelcome marriage bid for one of your daughters?”

“They call him the Raven,” Duncan said as if his friend hadn’t spoken. “Ronan MacRuari is his given name. He is the scion
of a dark clan, his house the most blighted in all the land.”

Duncan paused, clearing his throat before his tongue refused to form the words. “I ought say
my
land, as they live hidden away in a bleak and empty corner of Kintail. Castle Dare is their home. A place I haven’t visited
in many a year. No man wishing to see the next day’s sunrise would willingly set foot there.”

“They are that evil?” Linnet sank onto a chair.

“They are that cursed,” Duncan amended, knowing the distinction made little difference. “Tradition claims they had a sorcerer
ancestor in their distant past. Maldred the Dire. An archdruid of such great wickedness his legacy has marked them, bringing
doom and grief to the clan all down the centuries.”

“Dear saints.” Linnet clapped a hand to her breast.

Sir Marmaduke frowned, already reaching for his sword. “You must refuse this offer by any means. I will postpone the journey
to Doon.” He stepped forward, patting his blade. “My sword arm is yours, as always.”

“Your sword arm is the last thing I’d want unleashed on the MacRuaris,” Duncan said, touched by his friend’s loyalty but well
aware that he couldn’t make use of it. “Such recourse is closed to me.”

“I do not understand.”

“You would if I’d spoken plainer words.”

“Then speak them,” his wife urged. “Please, I pray you.”

His heart heavy, Duncan went back to the table, helping himself this time to a cup of tepid ale. The drink’s staleness suited
him. He picked up the rolled parchment, only to let it drop again as if it’d been an adder and bit him. “The offer for Gelis
did not come from the Raven but from the man’s grandfather, the MacRuari chieftain. He is the man I cannot refuse, not his
grandson and heir.”

“Why can you not refuse him?” His wife came into his arms, holding him tightly. “Surely you can?”

“Nae, I cannot,” Duncan spoke true. “My honor forbids it.”

“Your honor?” Linnet pulled back to stare at him. “How can you speak of such a thing with your daughter’s life at stake?”

“Because,” Duncan told her, the truth breaking him, “without the valor of old MacRuari, I would not have a daughter. Not Gelis.
Not Arabella. Nor even you. Valdar MacRuari saved my life when I was a lad. I owe him that long-standing debt and now he is
wishing to claim it.”

“Oh.” The color left Linnet’s face. “Now I see.”

And Duncan saw that she did.

Honor was everything to a MacKenzie. Even death was preferable to forsaking it.

“Indeed, I see as well.” Sir Marmaduke sighed. “You have no choice.”

“Such is the way of it,” Duncan agreed, wishing it were otherwise. “As soon as arrangements can be made, Gelis must wed the
Raven. God help the man if aught befalls her.”

G
elis paused just inside the crowded bailey, her hand still on the latch of the postern gate. Chaos reigned, and she didn’t
need her newly discovered ability as a
taibhsear
to recognize that the turmoil was anything but the usual bustle and stir known to fill Eilean Creag’s vast, cobbled courtyard.
Not that the pandemonium ruffled her. Ever one to find a certain excitement in disorder, she put back her shoulders and ran
her still-frozen fingers through her hair, not surprised to note that nary a pin remained.

The image of the raven remained as well, the memory of his dark good looks and spellbinding intensity making her heart pound
and her blood quicken. Thinking, too, of the fierceness of his embrace, she leaned down to swipe at the wet sand and bits
of seaweed clinging to the lower half of her cloak, not at all bothered that her efforts made so little difference.

She had more important matters on her mind than caring if anyone glanced askance at her.

As for her ruined clothes, she’d apologize to the laundresses and see that they received a few ells of fine woolen cloth for
their trouble, if she could make her way to where they worked at a wooden trough across the bailey — a next to impossible
undertaking, considering the throng of kinsmen and servants.

She bit her lip and glanced round. Some of the garrison men tried to look busy though clearly doing nothing, while others
gathered in tight, noisy circles, their raised voices and agitation outdone only by the barking of the castle dogs. With the
exception of her father’s favorite old hounds, Telve and Troddan, every four- legged beast at Eilean Creag raced frantically
about, scattering chickens, annoying horses, and lending to the general air of madness and mayhem.

Something was seriously wrong.

Determined to get to the bottom of it, she started forward, only taking a few steps before Arabella squeezed through the crush
in front of her. Blocking the way, she reached out and gripped Gelis’s arm.

“I knew you’d gone to the foreshore.” Arabella’s nose wrinkled at the sight of her mussed and dampened clothes. “You picked
a fine day to go running about looking like a drowned fishwife.”

“And you look like a prune with your face all screwed up.” Gelis snatched back her arm. “It
is
a fine day. You won’t believe what —”

“ ’Tis you who won’t believe what Father has to say to you. He —”

“You told him about the scrying bowl.” Gelis could feel her face coloring. “Instead of helping Mother stitch pillow coverings,
you ran off to make trouble for me.”

“Och, ’tis trouble for you, to be sure, but not of my making.” Arabella grabbed her elbow again and started pulling her forward,
toward the keep. “A courier arrived while you were out splashing along the lochside. He brought an offer for you and Father
has agreed. He —”

“A marriage offer? For me, and not you?” Gelis stopped, shaking her head. “And Father agreed? Ach, I do not believe it.”

“Right enough ’tis for you. And, nae, I dinna mind. Not at all. Truth is, I would not want such a furor on my shoulders!”
Arabella looked at her. “Why do you think everyone is in the bailey? They’re hiding from Father’s fury.”

She jumped aside when one of the castle dogs shot past, chasing two goats. “See? Even the dogs have left the keep, except
for poor Telve and Troddan. And they’re both cowering in a corner of Father’s solar, looking frightened and with their tails
between their legs.”

“I don’t understand.” Gelis swiped at an escaping curl. “You said he agreed.”

“He did. But that doesn’t mean he’s happy about it.”

Gelis was too stunned to think straight. “That doesn’t make sense. He’s never greeted such offers with gladness. He wouldn’t
accept one that makes him so angry everyone in the castle runs outside to get away from him.”

“Well he has.” Arabella flicked at a speck of lint on her sleeve. “I heard him arguing with Uncle Marmaduke. He said something
about his honor pushing him against a wall.”

“I see.” Gelis considered. “Whoever made the offer has Father by his danglers.”

“Gelis!” Her sister looked scandalized. “If you speak so crudely, no man will take you. Not even if he’s a two- headed ogre
or if Father presents you on a silver-gilt platter.”

Gelis started to laugh, but closed her mouth when a cloud sailed across the autumn-blue sky, its passage darkening the cobbles
and making her shiver. The raven’s shadow was following her. She could feel him with her, sense his great wings beating the
air. Glancing up, she saw only the cloud, but another chill rippled down her back. Whether she could see him now or not, her
heart knew he was there. In his raven-form, he spiraled over the bailey, hovering first, then swooping near, almost as close
as he’d been on the strand. Then he pinioned away, leaving only the bustling, sun-washed courtyard.

Her breath caught and a distinct tingle of anticipation fluttered low in her belly.

Exhilarating, and . . . delicious.

A surge of triumph filled her and she pressed a hand to her breast. He
was
her intended, she was sure of it. Either the marriage bid came from him or he was letting her know it would come to naught.

A man as powerful as the raven wouldn’t let her be given to someone else.

On impulse, she seized her sister’s arms, squeezing tight. “Whoever has offered for me won’t be a two-headed ogre. I am certain
of it. He will be the perfect husband for me. You will see.”

“How I wish it for you!” Arabella shook free and dusted her gown. “But perfect husbands don’t usually hail from obscure, dark-doomed
clans. I heard Father say the man —”