Chapter Three #3
grave, our stillborn son with her. Is it so difficult to think I am not desirous of a third marriage?”
“I am not afraid of childbearing.” Gelis stood back and patted her hips, proud of her generous curves. Certain she’d guessed
the reason for his discomfiture. “You needn’t concern yourself for me. Why, Devorgilla, the great wise woman of Doon, once
told me I have the perfect form for birthing. She assured me I would have many fine and strong sons.”
“And I hope you do.” He folded his arms and looked at her, his expression giving the impression that he hoped she’d bear those
sons to a different man.
Displeasure and a cold, black anger poured off him, stealing inside her like thousands of tiny, ice-coated fingers, each one
squeezing her heart.
Crushing her dreams.
Hoping she was mistaken, perhaps overtired from the journey, or that he was simply upset by her father’s rudeness, she brushed
at her cloak, causing its closure to open. The Raven’s sharp intake of breath upon seeing the bared swell of her breasts encouraged
her and she drew a deep breath, deliberately enhancing his view.
But rather than the appreciation she’d expected, his eyes grew more shielded, the set of his jaw looking tight enough to crack.
Confused, she hitched up her bodice, covering the top rims of her nipples. Unfortunately, the movement made her breasts jiggle,
which only served to deepen his scowl.
The wind freshened, too — a damp, gusting chill bringing the scent of rain while low, scudding clouds proved a fitting backdrop
for cold miens and clipped words.
For the Raven’s frosty indifference.
“I do not understand.” She kept her chin lifted, met his gaze full on. “Your courier said —”
“My grandfather’s man, not mine.”
“Yet you did not hinder us in coming here.” A surge of triumph swelled inside her. Now she had him. “You could have sent your
own messenger, telling us you had no interest in our union.”
“And dash the hopes of an old man? Causing you shame in the by-going?” He shook his head. “I think not, my lady. As I told
your sire, I, too, have my honor.”
“You have an odd way of showing it.” She flicked a raindrop off her cloak. “Even your grandfather greeted me gladly.”
“My grandfather is always glad-hearted in the company of women. He is overfond of them.”
“And you are not?”
Rather than answer her, his mouth tightened into a straight hard line.
“That, you do quite well.” Gelis eyed him hotly. “If there were a Highland prize-giving for frowning, I vow you would win
it.”
His dark eyes glinting, he gave her a look that would have made a lesser female’s belly quiver. “That should not astonish
you. If you would know the truth of it, it’s been forever since I’ve smiled.”
A sudden gust of wind caught his plaid then, lifting its edge and riffling his hair, making him appear as untamed as the night
around them. Gelis’s breath caught in her throat. He truly was magnificent.
She swallowed, furious that he so affected her. That each time the torchlight fell across his face, he seemed to grow more
handsome.
Dark, fierce, and dangerously dashing.
Even his scent had its way with her. A heady blend of leather, plaid, and wild, wide-open moorland, full of wind and rain,
the scent was so like she’d imagined it would be that her pulse leaped and her throat began to burn, filling with a painful
thickness she refused to acknowledge.
He was her raven and he should need and desire her as much as she wanted him. After all, it was he who’d come to her. Not
the other way around, though she had sought him with old Devorgilla’s scrying bowl. Remembering the day, she shivered. And
when he finally stepped before her, barely a breath separated them.
“Come, let us go inside.” His expression softened for a moment. “You are cold and it’s beginning to rain.”
“Aye, so it is.” Gelis lifted her face, letting the light drizzle mist her cheeks. “I do not run from the weathers or angry,
frowning men!”
He arched a brow. “Even so, I will not see you catch a chill.”
She blinked, too stubborn to dash the raindrops from her eyelashes. “You fash yourself over a chill, yet would plunge me into
embarrassment in the hall by announcing there will be no wedding.”
He touched her face, using the backs of his fingers to smooth away the moisture. Despite her annoyance, a flash of excitement
whipped through her.
“I did not say that.” His fingers stilled, barely hovering above her cheek, so tantalizingly close, spirals of warm, silky
pleasure spun through her, a sweet deliciousness settling low in her belly.
“Then what did you say?” She looked at him, wondering if he knew how thrilling she found his touch. That his mere fingertips
were making her tremble and burn in wicked places. “Please tell me, for I cannot make sense of your words.”
“That, too, should not surprise you. It hasn’t been my custom to converse with fetching young females. Not many are bold enough
to set foot in Glen Dare.”
“Foolish chits.”
“Many would say otherwise.”
Gelis started to argue, but he touched his fingers to her lips, silencing her. “Did you not know that those who peek beneath
rocks often see what they wish they hadn’t?” He lowered his hand. “Our betrothal ceremony will take place shortly. In the
great hall, this very e’en, just as you expected.”
“And our wedding?” Gelis was persistent. “Your courier said it should take place at the soonest.”
“My grandfather’s man,” he reminded her. “Nevertheless, I’ve a plan that will satisfy everyone.” He tucked her hand into his
arm and led her toward the door arch. “My grandfather and your father will not lose face, both keeping their honor, while
you will come to no harm. Dare’s darkness will be spared you.”
Gelis bristled. “And you? You mention everyone else.” She glanced at him as they entered the crowded hall. “Are you the only
one who won’t be satisfied?”
“I, fair lady, shall be best served of all.” Ronan steeled himself against the twisted truth, not mentioning that it was his
conscience alone that would profit.
She lifted a brow. “You don’t —”
“We’re expected at the high table.” He guided her through the crush, ignoring how her eyes had widened when he’d interrupted
her.
If his plan was to succeed, he’d have to be far more rude than cutting her off midsentence.
A prospect that made a tight coil of anger pulse in his gut as he pushed a way through the boisterous kinsmen carousing in
the hall’s wide center aisle.
“Why are these men in such high spirits and the ones in the bailey so grim-faced and silent?” She tugged on his arm; started
dragging her feet. “The men outside —”
“Are on duty, my lady.”
“But tonight —”
“Is no different from any other. Not for the men guarding these walls.” He looked at her, willing her not to press him. “I
require them armed and prepared at all times. As you saw, they know it well.”
She glanced back toward the door. “Surely on such an occasion —”
“There are no exceptions.” Ronan tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Not at Dare.”
Color rose in her face. “But . . . oooh!”
A clansman stumbled into her, his ale-flushed face shining even brighter as he bowed near double in apology before lurching
away to join his fellow revelers.
Men clearly enjoying the reprieve in Dare’s usual evenings of silence and gloom.
Only the MacKenzie guardsmen sat quiet, their solemn ranks lining four trestle tables against the far wall. Paying no heed
to the rich food and drink laid out before them, they kept their eyes on their lady. Eyes shaded with disapproval when, just
before the dais steps, she stopped to shrug out of her traveling cloak.
Ronan’s own eyes narrowed. “That was unwise.”
She smiled.
A flashing, triumphant smile that proved her to be a woman of even greater spirit than he’d already surmised. Disturbed by
the discovery, Ronan’s mood darkened with his worst temper since he’d learned of her imminent arrival and the reason for her
coming.
As if she sensed her power over him, she preened, turning just enough so the glow of the torches spilled full across her display.
Ronan sucked in a breath, anything but unaffected.
“I see you know your worth, lady.” He winced at the harsh words, but he could feel his body stirring in hot response, tensing
and tightening in ways that were dangerous.
Bold as day, she held his gaze. Her eyes, an unusual shade close to fire-lit amber, shimmered, their depths shone with pure
female willfulness and something he could only call amusement.
“I know your worth as well, Raven.” She stepped close, so near her breath warmed his cheek and her breasts teased his plaid.
“We will be good together. The hills will sing in approval, you will see.” She tilted her head, her tone full of challenge.
“I will not allow it to be any other way.”
A muscle in Ronan’s jaw leaped. “I want only what is meet for you,” he said, taking her cloak.
That, at least, was God’s holy truth.
And the reason her shining-eyed eagerness pierced him like a white-hot blade.
Feeling as trapped as if such a blade pinned him to the rush-strewn floor, he thrust the mantle into the arms of a passing
servant. He scowled at the man’s back, tamping down the urge to hasten after him, retrieve the cloak, and then swirl the thing
around her shoulders again. Hiding the creamy expanse of her breasts and the well-defined curve of her hips, the glittering
gold chain that circled her waist twice and then dipped low, ending in a great green bauble that rested just there, gleaming and winking at him from a place he had no business admiring.
Not if he wished his plan to work. Biting back a curse, he tore his gaze away and clenched his fists.
He could not, would not, fall prey to her charms.
Green bauble bouncing at her woman’s mound or nae.
Her smile deepened, revealing a dimple. “The chain was a gift from Evelina of Doon, a friend of Devorgilla’s,” she said, looking
pleased that the stone had caught his eye.
And not a bit surprised.
Ronan frowned, determining never to let his gaze light on the bauble again.
Not that she needed such wickedly placed gemstones to draw a man’s attention.
He’d noted her sparkle, as his grandfather called it, outside, in the mist and shadows. Here in the great hall, under the
blaze of the torches, she was dazzling.
Possessed of such fire and light that Dare’s infernally cold-flamed torches sparked and flared with heat. Even the candles
of a nearby standing candelabrum danced in her wake, those flames, too, giving off a burst of warmth he could feel from several
feet away.
Unfortunately, he could also feel other stares.
Already seated at the top of the high table, Valdar lairded it in style, lifting his wine cup in repeated toasts and looking
more jovial than Ronan had ever seen him.
The Black Stag sat as if carved of stone, his expression leaving no doubt that he, too, had seen him eyeing the green bauble.
“He didn’t know I have it.” Gelis lifted the chain, twirling a length of it around one finger. “He wouldn’t have approved.
I wanted it because Evelina swore it would bewitch a man.”
“Indeed.” Ronan could scarce push the word off his tongue.
“You do not like it?” She let the chain drop. “ Evelina —”
“Whoever the woman is, she should ne’er have given you such a thing.” He looked at her, careful to keep his gaze above her
neck. “ ’Tis a siren’s toy.”
“I know.” Gelis laughed.
Ronan frowned. “Do you see the man in the shadows behind the high table? The gaunt one with flowing white hair and a raven
painted on his robe?” He indicated the ancient, not surprised to find his stare on them. “That man is Torcaill, and he’s here
to bless our union. I do not care to keep him waiting.”
“Neither do I,” she quipped, her dimple flashing. “I am pleased to see you so eager!”
Ronan made a noncommittal humph and offered her his arm. It was the best he could do without telling her that what he was,
was eager to be gone from her. A fool could see she’d take great glee in unraveling his plan.
Proving it, she refused his arm and set her hands on her hips. “Your friend Torcaill is holding a binding cord.” She turned
to watch the ancient approach the high table, the long golden cord dangling from his hands. “Why does he need the like?”
“Because he will use it to bind our hands when he —”
“You wish him to handfast us?” She stared at him, eyes wide. “I thought —”
“We never spoke of a handfasting!” Valdar slammed down his wine cup. “ ’Tis a true betrothal ceremony we need.” He leaped
to his feet, his eyes blazing like a Norse thunder god. “A betrothal this e’en, with a wedding soon to follow.”
“We ne’er spoke of aught.” Ronan met his glare, for once allowing his greater size and strength to work to his advantage.
“Torcaill will perform a handfasting, as I summoned him to do.” He turned to the Black Stag, his voice firm. “A handfasting
is as binding as a betrothal or wedding. As honorable. I chose it because of the circumstances at Dare. If, after a year and
a day —”
“Pah!” Gelis waved a dismissive hand. “I will not feel any different months from now than I do this day. We do not need a
trial marriage.”
“I deem it sensible.” Her father leaned forward, entirely agreeable. “I will leave here with a lighter heart, knowing this
day’s deed can be so easily undone.”
“Not so!” Gelis lifted her chin. “A handfasted couple is as married as any other once certain intimacies are accomplished.”
She smiled again. “After that, no one can unsay the pact.”
Her father’s expression darkened.
A bit farther down the high table, her scar-faced uncle took a slow sip of wine. “That being so, you have no cause to reject
such a ceremony.”
“Then so be it.” She gave a light shrug, her gaze on the druid’s golden cord. “I am not worried.”
Ronan braced himself, his own worries multiplying with Torcaill’s swishy-robed preparations. “Aye, so it shall be done,” he
agreed.
Already the ancient stood before them, his gnarled fingers wrapping the silken cord around their joined hands, his incantations
binding them with words even more constricting than his sacred golden rope.
Drawing a tight breath, Ronan glanced at the raftered ceiling, wishing the graybeard had words that would make the rest unfold
with equal ease.
Unfortunately, something told him there wasn’t enough druidic magic in the world to help him.
He was wholly on his own.
Left to his own devices to convince Gelis MacKenzie she wanted nothing to do with him.