Chapter Ten #2
Then he blinked, unaccustomed heat pricking his eyes when he spotted one of Dare’s horses chomping grass not far from the
creel.
Someone had placed the beast’s saddle on a nearby boulder and it was at the saddle that Ronan now stared. A rope dangled from
the high-armed cantle at the back of the saddle, the rope’s purpose squeezing Ronan’s heart.
His gaze flicked to the onion creel then back to the saddle, not that he could really see it now, blurry as his vision had
gone.
He cleared his throat, squaring his shoulders before he risked turning back to her.
“Dinna tell me you rigged a carrying basket for Buckie?”
“I did!” She smiled. “Hugh MacHugh and Hector helped me. We put Buckie in the basket at Dare and his feet didn’t touch the
ground until he got here.”
She blinked herself then and swiped a hand across her cheek. “I vow he enjoyed the ride!”
“And where did you get such an idea?” Ronan could still scarce believe it.
“From Jamie Macpherson,” she returned, the answer making no sense at all. “James the Small of Baldreagan, though his real
style is James of the Heather.”
“I ne’er heard tell of him.” Ronan tried not to sound annoyed.
Truth was, the very way she’d said the man’s numerous by- names perturbed him.
“Jamie has an old dog, Cuillin,” she twittered on, her eyes sparkling. “He crafted a riding basket for him, and when my father
saw it, he had similar carriers made for his own aged hounds, Telve and Troddan.”
She tossed her hair over her shoulder, as if that explained everything. “The dogs accompany Father everywhere, though he didn’t
bring them along to Dare.”
Ronan almost snorted.
The Black Stag would have known why he left his beloved canines at home.
Would that he’d been so careful with his daughter.
“Jamie would have brought his dog here with him,” she declared, her lips curving in another dazzling smile. “He ne’er takes
a step without Cuillin at his side.”
Ronan humphed.
The admiration he heard in his lady’s voice annoyed him greatly.
His golden neck torque squeezed him tighter than e’er before.
Dog lover or nay, he was certain he didn’t like this Jamie Macpherson.
“I am sure I’ve heard of other such dog-creels,” he lied, something deep and ridiculous pricked inside him, forcing him to undermine the other man’s brilliance.
“Indeed, I may have seen three or more such devices in Inverness,” he embellished, feeling the fool but unable to halt his
tongue. “And perhaps another on Skye, last time I visited Aidan MacDonald of Wrath. That one, too, is well keen on his hounds.”
Lady Gelis’s brows lifted, her gaze teasing.
Teasing, taunting, and all-seeing enough to send his own brows dipping into a deep, down-drawn scowl.
“You needn’t be jealous of Jamie.” She laughed the words, her merriment making him frown all the more. “He was one of my father’s
favorite squires. He’s newly married and happily settled at Baldreagan, his home. He would love Buckie.”
As if he knew he was being discussed, that long-eared brute trundled over to them. Looking quite pleased with himself, he
eyed them, his bright gaze going from one to the other, his tail wagging furiously.
Then he was off again, hinking away to trot along the lochan’s shore, eagerly sniffing every rock and clump of heather he
passed.
Jamie Macpherson faded from Ronan’s mind.
He looked back at his bride, shamed that — for a space, anyway — he’d thought her capable of allowing harm to come to the
old dog.
He ran a hand through his hair, shamed, too, that his feelings for her would suddenly swell so fiercely in this of all places.
He bit down on the inside of his mouth, shamed even more that he wasn’t awash with guilt.
Far from it, very different emotions were whipping through him. Even when he slid a cautious glance across the lochan to where
the worst jumble of stones hugged the foot of Creag na Gaoith.
No ghosts lingered there.
Only nothingness stared back at him.
The hollow whistling of the wind, the rattle of tree branches, his own thundering heartbeat, and — he still couldn’t believe
it — Buckie’s excited snuffling.
“Well?” She was standing before him, poking his chest with a finger. “What do you think?”
“Lady, I am . . . overwhelmed.” He winced, hoping only he heard the thickness in his voice. “Truth is, I dinna know what to
say.”
“Then say you are pleased.” She stepped back, attar of roses in her wake. “And” — her smile went wicked — “that you will not
be wroth with your cook for helping me.”
“Nae — by Saint Columba’s knees! I am anything but displeased with you and I will go easy with Hugh — I promise you.” But
his gaze went to her Viking tent, the sight of it sobering him.
The tent could so easily have belonged to some broken half- Norse Islesman, wandering the hills and aching for trouble.
Or worse . . . a trap laid by the Holders.
Ronan glanced at the sky, certain the clouds were darkening, their roiling mass closing in on Creag na Gaoith, their fast-moving
shadows blotting the sun.
He looked back at her, wondering how she could glow in such a benighted place.
“You are wroth.” She folded her arms. “I can feel it rolling off you.”
“Nae.” Ronan pulled a hand down over his chin. “I am just . . .”
“You are —”
“Ach, lass! I would know what filled your mind with such folderol!” He jammed his hands on his hips, the dangers she’d faced
taking his breath. “Such folly could have been the end of you! Traipsing alone through Glen Dare, a milky-eyed, nigh-toothless
dog as your sole protection —”
She laughed again, her gaze flitting to the great awning of her Norsemen’s tent.
“I rode out with more guards than e’er accompanied me on a day’s outing from Eilean Creag,” she tossed back at him, her chin
lifting. “You just haven’t seen them because I ordered them to leave me be, to stay within guarding distance, but well out
of sight.”
“Dare guardsmen are here?” Ronan glanced round, seeing no sign of them.
“They are . . . everywhere.”
Ronan almost laughed.
Seldom had he heard a better description of his grandfather’s garrison.
And of a sudden, he could feel them, too.
Not their eyes, they were too well-trained for such an intrusion. But their presence came to him now, a wall of massed strength
and vigilance, waiting and watching as always.
Only he had been caught off guard.
His senses fooled by creeping shadows moving through the whin and broom, a brightly colored swatch of striped sailcloth, and
the curling blue drift of wood-and-peat smoke rising on the cold morning air.
“They set the fire for you.” He made the words a statement. “Built yon Viking tent —”
“So you know it’s a Norseman’s shelter?”
“Save us — to be sure, I know.”
“ But —”
“Sakes, lass.”
He stood straighter, all the pride of the hills behind him. “Any Heilander who’s sailed the Hebridean seaboard would recognize
such sail-screens.”
He rocked back on his heels, pleased with his knowledge. “I saw the sailcloth tents in my youth when my father took me on
a journey through the Western Isles. ’Twas a sight I ne’er forgot, the colorful encampments of the Islesmen, those who still
clung to Nordic ways.”
“I am pleased you know of them.” She tossed her head and smiled again. “When I heard that Glen Dare has more mist than other
glens, I thought such a shelter might serve us well. My sister and I have used them on our travels and ne’er has a drop of
rain spoiled our night’s sleep.”
Ronan’s gut tightened.
Rain and wind were the least of Glen Dare’s nuisances.
“I have more Viking gifts for you,” she said before he could tell her.
Spinning around, she dashed for the shelter, hair swinging and hips swaying. “A fine Nordic armlet of heavy gold, inlaid with
gemstones,” she called over her shoulder, “brought back from Orkney by my cousin Kenneth.”
Reaching the awning, she ducked beneath its flap, disappearing into the shadows only to reappear a moment later, a gleaming
gold armpiece clutched in her hand.
“This, too, hails from Orkney.” She hurried back to him, brandishing the thing as she came. “My father gave it to me years
ago and I’ve been saving it for you.”
“For me?” Ronan blinked, at first not comprehending.
By the time he did, it was too late.
A mist wraith had wound itself around one of the tent’s tie-ropes. Inching ever higher, it was already quite near to the tent
flap, its whole quivering, transparent length very close to where Lady Gelis stood, eyes shining.
Oblivious, she held out the Nordic armlet, offering the gift to him.
“Hell’s afire!” He grabbed her and shoved her to the side, away from the tent, the force of his push sending her to her knees.
“Aaaagghhh!” Her shoulder slammed into one of the angled support poles and the golden armpiece went sailing.
She toppled sideways, landing with a gasped whoosh on the peaty, grass-tufted ground. Her bodice split wide and her breasts spilled free, jigging wildly as she scrambled to
her feet.
Ronan flinched, her cry lancing him.
He flung himself between her and the infested tie-rope. Already reaching for his sword, he had the blade half-drawn before
he realized the mist snake was gone.
The day had turned light and breezy, the cloud shadows swiftly moving away.
Nothing stirred but the rushing of the wind and a tiny gray wagtail flitting past to light jauntily on a red-berried rowan
branch.
Slanting rays of cold autumn sun fell across the Viking tent, picking out its bright colors and making the glassy, peaty-dark
surface of the lochan glitter as if it’d been scattered with jet and diamonds.
Somewhere a raven gave its harsh call.
Buckie hoppled around in a circle, howling and barking like a dog possessed.
And Ronan had ne’er felt a greater fool.
“Mother of God, lass, forgive me.” He whirled around, his arms spread wide. “Ne’er would I hurt you, no’ e’er. I’d sooner
cut my own flesh —”
“I am well.” The tremble in her voice belied her words. “No ill has befallen me — or will!”