Chapter Three
Not long after noontide the next day, Ronan descended the tightly winding stair to Castle Dare’s great hall, only to stop halfway
down, blessed inspiration hitting him like a fist in the gut. Overwhelmed by the simplicity of the solution, he leaned back
against the stair tower’s cold stone wall and released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
The infernal aching in his head left him as well. Praise be the saints. Swiftly and nigh completely, the fierce pounding receded,
almost as if he hadn’t spent the entire night tossing and turning.
Seeking answers that seemed impossible.
A way to appease his grandfather, keep peace with the all-powerful Duncan MacKenzie, not shame the man’s daughter, and, above
all, not endanger her.
“Your bride approaches, sir. The MacKenzies have been sighted!” Hector, one of the kitchen laddies, burst around the curve
of the stair, his freckled face flushed with excitement. “A great party of them. Word is, they’re just now riding through
the glen.”
“Are they now?” Ronan’s mouth twitched in what he’d meant to be a frown before he caught himself. Nary a single visitor had
entered Glen Dare in all of Hector’s years. The boy deserved his pink-cheeked enthusiasm.
Not wanting to spoil it for him, Ronan forced a smile. “Why don’t you take yourself off to the kitchens and tell Cook I said
to give you sugared almonds for Lady Gelis. When she arrives, you may present them to her.”
“Aye, sir.” Hector bobbed his head, his grin spreading ear to ear.
“And, Hector” — Ronan reached to tousle the boy’s head — “be sure to have Cook give you a portion as well. And a custard pastie.”
Hector’s eyes widened, his face glowing brighter than a candle flame. “I will do, sir, and . . . thank you!”
Then he was gone, hurrying away on his skinny, nimble legs. Ronan stared after him, more aware than was good for him that
the lad’s smile was the first real one he’d seen at Dare in longer than he could remember. That Gelis MacKenzie’s arrival
should be the cause of such an event, inadvertently or not, pinched a place too close to his heart for comfort.
Not that it mattered.
Now that he knew what he had to do, it made no difference how many MacRuaris might fall under her spell.
Frowning all the same, he took the remaining stairs two at a time, not surprised to find the hall filled to its smoke-blackened
rafters. His grandfather’s men crowded everywhere, talking among themselves, quaffing ale, and, he was sure, speculating.
As were a few men he’d swear he’d ne’er seen before. Herders from the looks of them, quiet-living souls who preferred the
boulder-strewn slopes on the edges of MacRuari lands to the cloying mists of its verdant glen.
Almost envying them, Ronan glanced deeper into the hall, letting his ears adjust to the din. A great babble that shook the
walls, with all trestle benches occupied and those celebrants who hadn’t found a seat cramming the aisles or jostling for
space in the corners. Chaos reigned, but as soon as he stepped through the door arch, silence fell and all eyes turned his
way.
Their stares stabbed him, the curiosity on their faces reminding him of how recently he’d sworn ne’er to take a third wife.
“The Black Stag’s own daughter?” A man standing in the light cast by a wall torch thrust out a hand, touching his sleeve.
“Is it true?”
Acknowledging the speaker with a nod, Ronan strode past him, making straight for his tall-backed oaken chair on the dais.
His grandfather was already there, enthroned in a similar chair, waiting.
Ronan bit back a curse.
He, too, waited.
His heart pounded in slow, rhythmic beat. And with each step he took toward the high table, the heavy, rune-carved torque
about his neck grew tighter. Its gold seemed to heat until it was all he could do not to glance down just to be certain some
dark magic hadn’t transformed the bit of ancient Norse frippery into a flaming, viselike ring.
Reaching the dais, he willed away the sensation, schooling his features into a mask of indifference as he clapped a hand on
his grandfather’s shoulder in greeting before claiming his own seat.
For the moment, all was well.
And if none of the craning-necked long- noses gawping at him from the trestle tables called for a bedding ceremony, all would
remain so.
He hoped.
An innocent woman’s life depended on it.
A goodly distance away, but closer to Dare than most wise folk would wish to tread, Sir Marmaduke Strongbow reined in his
steed. His face grim-set, he raised a hand. As he was staunch friend to Clan MacKenzie and respected by all, the men riding
behind him followed suit, halting their mounts until nothing moved in the deeply forested glen except the thick swaths of
mist curling about the trees.
Mostly great Caledonian pines and firs, save the fringe of birches along the nearby burnside, they were scarce visible, their
glistening trunks little more than dark smudges hidden by fog.
The kind of fog that curled a man’s toes and lifted hairs he didn’t know he had.
Sir Marmaduke shuddered, then drew his sword and laid it across his knees.
“We’re being watched.” He slid a look at Duncan, his voice low. “I’ve felt it since —”
“Mayhap since those two riders galloped away from yon heather ridge?” Duncan glanced over his shoulder, his gaze snapping
to a steep, boulder-studded rise. “They were MacRuari scouts, belike. Valdar wouldn’t be the man he is if he hadn’t posted
men to watch for us. He’ll want his hall readied for our arrival.”
Sir Marmaduke shook his head. “We aren’t being observed by men. ’Tis something else. A sense of —”
“ O-ho! Something else, you say.” Duncan glowered at him. “Now you see why I’m not pleased about my daughter coming here.
Why I’ve brought along half my garrison as her escort and refused to let Linnet and Arabella accompany us.”
Shoving a hand through his hair, he glanced at the scudding clouds. Low and steely-gray, they sped past, almost as if they
couldn’t wait to reach the next glen. “For once you have the right of it, English. Glen Dare is filled with things-that-aren’ t-men. Peer hard at any clump of heather or outcrop and you’ll see them.”
Sir Marmaduke adjusted his grip on his sword. “I vow I can do without the pleasure.”
Listening to them, Gelis allowed herself a none- too-discreet roll of her eyes. “If anything otherworldly dwells here, then
they are moor fairies and rock sprites. I would like to see them.”
“So speaks a maid whose life was spent within the shelter of Eilean Creag’s walls.” Her father narrowed his eyes on the enclosing
mist, his scowl deepening. “Would that you were still there. Fairies and sprites are the last creatures you’ll find on this
tainted ground.”
“Have a care, my friend.” Sir Marmaduke pinned him with a warning stare. “You’ll frighten her.”
“I will, eh?” Duncan spluttered. “A naked army of your hump-backed, cloven-hoofed landsmen wouldn’t scare her.”
“And you should be glad of it!” Gelis flicked the end of her braid at him. “You love me best because I am fearless.”
“Humph.” Duncan shifted in his saddle. “You would be well served to have a bit of your sister’s prudence.”
Gelis laughed. “Arabella has enough prudence for us both. A lifetime’s worth and then some!”
“Even so,” Sir Marmaduke put in, “a touch of caution wouldn’t hurt you. I wouldn’t have believed it, but this glen truly is
darker than it should be. Do not forget what we’ve told you; one word and we’ll come for you. Faster than you can blink.”
“Such a help-cry won’t be necessary.” Gelis smiled, excitement already beating through her. “I like it here. No harm will
come to me, as I’ve explained.”
Duncan mumbled beneath his breath.
Gelis straightened her back and looked about, seeing not the gloom, but the fine red glow of the autumnal bracken and the
sparkle of pink-and-white quartz in the scattered, mist-dampened boulders. The swift, clear-watered burn flowing beside the
deer track they followed.
Heartened by the beauty around her, the peace, she lifted her chin.
“Wild places have always called to me.” She locked stares with her father, knowing he couldn’t deny it. “You and Uncle Marmaduke
don’t understand power of place. Were Glen Dare as blighted as you claim, the burn would be fouled and sluggish, those deep,
rocky pools dark and stagnant.”
Beaming confidence, she waved a hand in the burn’s direction. As if smiling back at her, its bright waters tinkled and splashed,
the sound delighting her ears. Just as the large raven spiraling above quickened her pulse and made her heart skitter.
Several times now, she’d seen him, catching glimpses each time the clouds and mist parted. Once, he was off to their right,
gliding silently past the higher rock-faces. Now, he merely circled, watching her.
Waiting.
Eager to welcome her to his strange and wonderful home and letting her know he wanted her here.
It was him Sir Marmaduke was sensing.
Sure of it, Gelis flashed her most dazzling smile, hoping the raven would see. “I do not believe there is danger here. Though
there is an ancient aura about the place. A magical air I’ve never felt anywhere else.”
Her father snorted. “An ancient aura styled by Maldred the Dire.” He grabbed her pony’s reins, drawing her close. “The magic
he practiced was dark, lass. Blacker than the bottom of the coldest, deepest Highland loch. Dinna be fooled by girlish fancies.”
“I am not a girl.” Gelis raised a challenging brow. “I’m a woman full grown.”
Though she did have fancies.
Bold and exciting expectations she wasn’t about to share with her father.
Dreams and desires so deliciously wicked, they’d scandalize her sister but caused her own belly to flutter and her secret
place to burn and tingle in anticipation.
Any man who called this wild and dark glen his home would be wild and dark in other ways, too. And she couldn’t wait to discover
every one of them.