Chapter Ten
By all the Powers!” Ronan stared at his dog, eyes wide. Disbelief and amazement buzzed in his head. “What mummery is this?”
A familiar bark tried to explain.
But Ronan only shook his head and ran an agitated hand through his hair.
The beast couldn’t be here.
Yet there he sat, head cocked and eyes bright. His bony haunches rested almost smack in the middle of a slimy red-green patch
of sphagnum moss and his swish-swishing tail was more than a little mud-grimed, as were his legs.
Sticky bits of bracken clung to his shaggy, gray- tufted coat.
He smelled abominably.
Ronan hadn’t seen the dog look happier in years.
But he’d kill the miscreant who had set him loose.
Fury tightened his chest. His golden torque seemed to squeeze his neck, making it difficult to breathe. He started forward,
hands clenched at his sides, the dog’s obvious joy at being out only flaming his anger.
After this, Buckie’s confinement to the keep would prove even more difficult than before.
And that was a crime beyond payment.
Ronan’s mood darkened and he stepped wrongly, his foot sliding on the slick dead leaves matting the narrow little deer track.
“God’s curse!” he roared, his arms flailing before he righted himself.
When he did, he scowled all the blacker, tried not to be moved by Buckie’s panting, tongue-lolling excitement.
Whether the foray pleased the old dog or not, he could have done irreparable damage to his hips.
Creag na Gaoith was a goodly distance from Dare Castle. The terrain between was rough and challenging. A man riding a sure-footed,
stout-hearted garron required all his skill and several hours to reach the Rock of the Wind and its little boulder-rimmed
lochan.
That Buckie had made it so far was nothing less than a wonder.
And — as Ronan had already decided — the sure death of whoe’er proved responsible.
Spurts of anger shooting all through him, he bent to scoop Buckie into his arms. If need be — and it appeared such was the
case — he’d hold the aged dog clamped across his lap for the ride back to Dare.
It was then that he caught the scent of cookfires.
The mouthwatering aroma of choice sides of beef roasting slowly on carefully tended spits.
A faint tinge of Norse ale, and if his senses weren’t lying, a distinct whiff of fiery Highland uisge beatha.
Water-of-life, and every Highlander’s cure-all, the much-prized spirits had naught to do in this benighted place, the devil’s
own playing ground.
Ronan frowned.
From behind, his horse nudged him in the shoulder.
Buckie barked and wriggled from his arms . . . then bolted off down the path before Ronan could seize him.
If anyone was of a mind to call the dog’s loping, loose-limbed, hinky-hipped trot a bolt.
He had other worries.
Vikings had settled in the glen!
The evidence was clearly visible . . . winking at him through the trees: a great and colorful sailcloth awning — the marauding
Norsemen’s favored tent — curving proudly near the jumble of outcropping rock at the head of Creag na Gaoith’s nameless little lochan.
Boldly striped in red, blue, and gold, the shelter appeared open on one side, revealing — if he wasn’t mistaken — a crude
wood-planked floor within.
A well-laden trestle table and a bench piled high with cushions.
“By all that’s holy!” He blinked.
Then he shook his head, knuckled his eyes.
The Viking tent didn’t go away.
Far from it, Buckie suddenly appeared from around one of the supporting poles. Capering like a hinky-hipped puppy, he put
his nose to the ground, sniffing at a securely fastened tie-rope before bounding over to a well-doing cookfire close to the
lochan’s edge.
The cook fire he’d smelled . . . complete with a haunch of spit-roasted beef.
Dare beef, like as not.
Determined to find out, he wheeled about and swung up into his saddle. He whipped out his blade, raising it high. But before
he could spur his horse and thunder into the clearing, she stepped into his path.
“My husband — I greet you!” She beamed up at him, all light and laughter, her amber eyes dancing. “I dare say you took your
time in getting here.”
Ronan nearly choked.
Worse, he could hardly breathe.
Full of vigor and feminine spirit, she peered up at him. “I’d begun to despair that you’d come.”
“You, my lady, look anything but despairing.”
“So I would hope!” She hitched up her skirts and twirled. “Though I am not exactly dressed for a feasting-in-the-wild, having
left Dare in such haste this morn,” she announced, laughing.
“A feasting?” Ronan could scarce get out the words.
Her smile dimpled.
“Our nuptial celebrations,” she emphasized, pointing to the striped sailcloth awning. “Meats, libations, and more await your
pleasure.”
My pleasure would be knowing you safe within Dare’s walls.
The words jammed in his throat.
His fool arm appeared stuck as well, frozen in place above his head, his fingers clasped tight around his leather-wrapped
sword hilt, the long steely blade shining in the wood’s dim lighting.
He winced, wishing he could sink beneath the nearest bog pool.
She rattled on, clearly unaware of his discomfort. “Every succulent delicacy that was tossed out our bedchamber window is
on yon table,” she enthused, looking more fetching than ought to be allowed. “I went to the kitchens and secured the untouched
remains from your cook.”
Ronan looked at her, his surprise complete. “The meal I’d ordered for —”
“For me, aye, but now for us both to enjoy! We have” — she lifted a hand, began ticking off viands — “thick slices of cold
roasted mutton, the very same spiced salmon patties and jellied eggs, and even Hugh MacHugh’s ginger-dusted honey cakes.”
Ronan’s brows arched.
“And not just that.” She flicked another glance at the well-spread table board. “There are additional savories as well.”
It was all Ronan could do to keep from telling her that she was the savory.
Blessedly, speech failed him.
She flashed a dimpled smile. “Hugh MacHugh was generous.”
Ronan could only goggle.
She was beyond all, a vision against the cold gray of the wood, the dark trunks of the great Scots pines crowding the little
path.
Behind her, mist and cloud swirled across the jagged face of Creag na Gaoith, but — as if to bedevil him — a single shaft
of sunlight slanted through the trees, the golden light falling directly across her, gilding her.
Not that she needed any such embellishment.
Prominent and well-made, her breasts swelled above a tighter-fitting, lower- dipping bodice than he’d yet seen her wear, and
her flaming hair had loosened from its braid to hang about her shoulders.
Not even attempting to tame her wild tresses or right the front of her gown, she held his gaze. Her eyes smoldered, their
gold-flecked depths proud and full of challenge.
The top rims of her nipples were plainly visible.
Ronan swallowed.
His jaw went so slack he doubted he’d e’er be able to firm it again.
Another, more self-minded part of him twitched and jerked.
No danger of slackness there.
Indeed, if he ran any harder, the wretched thing might just snap in two.
Ignoring it, he finally managed to lower his arm and shove his fool sword back into its sheath. He dismounted and made a bit
of a show brushing at his travel cloak, flicking its folds into place.
Ne’er had he felt more like a bumbling, witless bravo.
It was unthinkable that he had nearly gone charging through the underbrush, brandishing his sword and yelling for Vikings to come out of their hidey holes and fight like men.
The near shame of it coursed through him.
He gritted his teeth and drew a tight breath. He would not redden in front of her.
Nor would he let her see how deeply she affected him.
Unfortunately, from the look she was giving him, he suspected she knew fine.
“Of course, you were startled.” She came closer, her red-gold curls swinging about her hips. The scent of roses swirled around
him. “It was my intention to surprise you.”
His nose quivered, her perfume almost overwhelming his senses.
“To be sure, and you did, just! Surprise me.” He eyed her sharply, scarce able to think straight. “But did you no’ consider
Buckie —”
She brushed aside his concern and took his arm, her grip firm. “Buckie is in fine fettle. He’s enjoyed the day and still is.”
Ronan harrumphed.
“His pleasure in the day will circle round to bite him when he wakens on the morrow and canna stand.” He looked down at her,
ignoring how right her hand felt on his arm. “I’m sure you meant no ill, but allowing such an aged beast to run all the way
from Dare to —”
She laughed, a pleasing, flirtatious sound, bright and lively, that warmed the chill air. Truth be told, her laughter could
have even warmed him if the reason for it weren’t so objectionable.
Ronan frowned.
For sure, he’d judged her wrongly if she found humor in poor Buckie’s plight.
“You mistake — I see it all o’er you.” She slanted a mischievous glance at him as she tugged him forward, leading him through
the trees to the clearing with its dark-watered lochan and her garish Viking tent. “Buckie’s presence here is another of my
surprises. He didn’t walk a step of the way. He rode, and in great style!”
Ronan stopped short. “He rode?”
Another ripple of laughter and a sharper tug on his arm was all the answer she gave.
Until she marched right through the slithering mist snakes beginning to wind here and there across the leafy ground and pulled
him into the clearing.
“There! See for yourself how Buckie got here.” She pointed triumphantly at an empty wicker creel.
Large, hung about with ropes and what looked to be the willow banding used to hoop his grandfather’s wine barrels, the large
basket was clearly an onion creel.
The thing sat beside the lochan’s boulder-strewn shore, its telltale reek carried on the wind.
Ronan stared.
A suspicion — something — snapped tight somewhere deep in his chest.
He swallowed hard.