EILEAN CREAG CASTLE, THE WESTERN HIGHLANDS, AUTUMN 1348
Let us speak plainly, my sister. What you would have us do is pure folly.”
Lady Gelis MacKenzie dismissed her elder sister’s opinion with an impatient flip of one hand. Scarce able to contain her own excitement, she ignored the other’s lack of enthusiasm and stepped closer to the arch-topped windows of their tower bedchamber.
A bedchamber she hoped she wouldn’t be sharing with Lady Arabella much longer.
Not that she didn’t love her sister.
She did.
Just as she adored their lovely room, appointed as it was with every comfort and luxury their father, the Black Stag of Kintail, chose to lavish on them. Elegant trappings met the eye no matter where one gazed, and those trusted enough to gain entry saw immediately that the room’s sumptuous finery rivaled even that of the Black Stag’s own privy quarters. But Gelis cared little for the splendor of the hooded fireplace and matching pair of carved oaken armchairs, or the jewel-toned tapestries and extravagant bed hangings of richest brocade, each costly thread glowing in the light of fine wax candles.
Flicking a speck of lint off her sleeve, she cast a glance at her sister. Even if some stubborn souls refused to admit it, she knew that life held greater treasures.
Wax candles and hanging oil lamps might banish shadows and a well-doing log fire surely took the worst bite out of a chill Highland morn, but such things did little to warm a woman’s heart.
Enflame her passion and make her breath catch with wonder.
Wonder, and love.
Such were Gelis’s dreams.
And all her sister’s purse-lipped protestations weren’t going to stop her from chasing them.
Apparently bent on doing just that, Arabella joined her in the window embrasure. “Such nonsense will bring you little joy,” she contended. “Only a dim —”
“I am not light-minded.” Gelis whipped around to face her. “Even Father wouldn’t deny Devorgilla of Doon’s wisdom.”
Arabella sniffed. “There’s a difference between spelling charms and herb-craft and expecting moon-infused water to reveal the face of one’s future mate.”
“Future love,” Gelis corrected, unable to prevent a delicious shiver of anticipation. “Love as in a girl’s one true heart-mate.”
Looking unconvinced, Arabella moved closer to the window arch and peered down into the bailey. “Och, to be sure,” she quipped, “we shall hasten below, stare into the bowl you hid in the lee of the curtain wall last night, and then we shall see our true loves’ faces there in the water.”
“So Devorgilla said.”
Arabella lifted a brow with predictable skepticism. “And you believe everything you are told?”
Gelis puffed a curl off her forehead. “I believe everything Devorgilla says. She has ne’er been known to err. Or can you prove otherwise?”
“I —” Arabella began, only to close her mouth as quickly. Turning aside, she trailed her fingers along the edge of a small table. “ ’Tis only that you’ve so much fancy,” she said at last, a slight furrow creasing her brow. “I would not see you disappointed.”
“Bah!” Gelis tried not to convulse with laughter. “My only disappointment is when Father refuses a bonny suitor! I do not mind him naesaying the toads, but some have been more than appealing.”
“Then why bother to peer into a scrying bowl if you already know Father isn’t about to let you wed?” Arabella dropped onto the cushioned seat in the window embrasure, a frown still marring her lovely face.
“Isn’t about to let either of us wed,” Gelis amended, grabbing her sister’s arm and pulling her to her feet. “He shall claim we are both too young even when we are withered and gray! Which is why we must use Devorgilla’s magic. If the scrying bowl shows us the faces of our future husbands, we shall have the surety that there will be husbands for us. I will go mad without that certainty.”
You already are mad, Gelis thought she heard her sister grumble. But when she shot a glance at her, Arabella wore her usual look of eternal composure.
An expression that could needle Gelis beyond patience.
Choosing to ignore it, she tightened her grip on Arabella’s arm and dragged her toward the door. “Come,” she urged, triumph already surging through her, “there is no one in the bailey just now. If we hurry, we can test our fortune before anyone notices.”
“We will see naught but the bottom of the bowl,” Arabella decided as they made their way belowstairs and out into the empty courtyard and an emptiness so stifling its heavy quiet threatened to dampen Gelis’s confidence. Brilliant autumn sunshine slanted across the cobbles, and nothing stirred. The whole of the vast enclosure loomed silent, the thick curtain walls seeming to watch them, looking on in stern disapproval of their frivolous pursuit.
Gelis paused and took a deep breath. She also lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders. Better to feign bravura than give Arabella the satisfaction of sensing her unease. So she glanced about as unobtrusively as she could, trying to dispel the day’s oddness.
But the morn was odd.
And unnaturally still.
No sounds reached them from the nearby stables. No birdsong rose from the rowan trees beside the chapel, and not a one of their father’s dogs darted underfoot as they were wont to do, eager as they were for scraps of food or simply a quick scratch behind the ears. Even Loch Duich lay silent, with nary a whisper of lapping water coming from the other side of the isle-girt castle’s stout walling.
The water in the scrying bowl glimmered, its silvery surface beckoning, restoring Gelis’s faith as she knelt to peer into its depths.
“See? There is nothing there,” Arabella announced, dropping down beside her. “No future husbands’ faces and not even a ripple from the wind,” she added, poking a finger into the bowl and stirring the surface.
“No-o-o!” Gelis swatted at her sister’s hand. “We mustn’t touch the water!” she cried, horror washing over her. “Doing so will spoil the magic.”
“There wasn’t any magic,” Arabella scoffed, drying her fingers on a fold of her skirts. “You saw yourself that the bowl showed nothing.”
“It was glowing silver,” Gelis insisted, frustration beating through her. “ ’Twas the light of the full moon, caught there and waiting for us.”
Arabella pushed to her feet. “The only thing waiting for us is the stitchery work Mother wishes us to do this morn.”
“The embroidery she wishes you to help her with,” Gelis snipped, tipping the moon-infused water onto the cobbles. “I ply my needle with clumsier fingers than Mother, as well she knows.”
“She will be expecting you all the same.”
Gelis clutched the empty scrying bowl to her breast, holding fast as if it still shimmered with magic. The face of her one true love, a man she just knew would be as much a legend as her father.
Bold, hot-eyed, and passionate.
Arrogant and proud.
And above all, he’d be hers and no one else’s.
“Let us be gone,” Arabella prodded. “We mustn’t keep Mother waiting.”
Gelis splayed her fingers across the bottom of the bowl. It felt warm to the touch. “You go. She won’t miss me. Nor would she want me ruining her pillow coverings,” she said, distracted. Faith, she could almost feel her gallant’s presence. A need and yearning that matched her own. “I’ll help her with some other task. Later.”
Arabella narrowed her eyes on the bowl. “If you persist in meddling with such foolery, she will be very annoyed.”
“Mother is never annoyed.” Gelis pinned the older girl’s back with a peeved stare as she left Gelis to stride purposefully across the cobbles, making for the keep and hours of stitching drudgery.
“Nor will I be meddling in anything,” she added, blinking against the heat pricking her eyes when the bowl went cold and slipped from her fingers. “The magic is gone.”
But the day was still bright, the light of the sun and the sweetness of the air too inviting for her to give in to the constriction in her throat. Across the loch, the wooded folds of Kintail’s great hills burned red with bracken, their fiery beauty quickening her pulse and soothing her.
She loved those ancient hills with their immense stands of Caledonian pine, rolling moors, and dark, weathered rocks. Even if she wouldn’t venture that far, preferring to remain on Eilean Creag’s castle island, she could still slip through the postern gate and walk along the shore.
And if her eyes misted with unshed tears, the wind off the loch would dry them. Not that she’d let any spill to begin with. O-o-oh, no. She was, after all, a MacKenzie, and would be until her last breath. No matter whom she married.
And she would marry.
Even if the notion put a sour taste in her father’s mouth.
Swallowing against the persistent heat in her own throat, she glanced over her shoulder, assured that no one was watching, then let herself out the gate.
It was colder on the lochside of the curtain walls, the wind stronger than she’d realized. Indeed, she’d gone but a few paces before the gusts tore her hair from its pins and whipped long, curling strands of it across her face. Wild, unruly strands as fiery red as the bracken dressing her beloved hills, and every bit as unmanageable — unlike Arabella’s sleek midnight tresses, which ever remained in place.
“She would look perfectly coiffed in a snowstorm,” Gelis muttered, drawing her cloak tighter as she marched across the shingle.
Marching was good.
She wasn’t of a mood to amble. And she certainly didn’t feel like gliding along gracefully, as was her sister’s style. Truth be told, if her frustration didn’t soon disappear, she might even do some stomping. Great sloshing steps straight through the shallows of the loch, heedless of sea wrack and rocks, needing only to put her disappointment behind her.
It scarce mattered if she looked a fool.
No one could see her.
Only the lone raven circling high above her.
A magnificent creature, his blue-black wings glistening in the sun as he rode the wind currents, sovereign in his lofty domain, impervious to her woes. Or, she decided, after observing him for a few moments, perhaps not so unaffected after all, for unless she was mistaken, he’d spotted her.
She could feel his sharp stare.
Even sense a slight angling of his head as he swooped lower, coming ever closer, keen interest in each powerful wing beat. Challenge and conquest in his deep, throaty cries as, suddenly, he dove straight at her, his great wings folded, his piercing eyes fixed unerringly on hers.
Gelis screamed and ducked, shielding her head with her arms, but to no avail. Flying low and fast, the raven was already upon her. His harsh cry rang in her ears as his wings opened to enfold her, their midnight span blotting the sky and stealing the sun, plunging her into darkness.
“Mercy!” She fell to her knees, the swirling blackness so complete she feared she’d gone blind.
“Ach, dia!” she cried, the bird’s calls now a loud roaring in her ears. The icy wetness of the rock- strewn shore seeped into her skirts, dampening them, the slippery-smooth stones shifting beneath her.
Nae, the whole world was shifting, tilting and spinning around her as the raven embraced her, holding tight, his silken, feathery warmth a strange intimacy in the madness that had seized her.
Gelis shivered, her entire body trembling, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. Mother of mercy, the raven’s wings were squeezing her, his fierce grip and the pressing darkness cutting off her air, making her dizzy.
But then his grasp loosened, his great wings releasing her so swiftly she nearly choked on the first icy gulp of air to rush back into her lungs. She tried to push to her feet, but her legs shook too badly and her chill-numbed fingers slid helplessly across the slick, seaweed-draped stones.
Worse, she still couldn’t see!
Impenetrable blackness surrounded her.
That, and the unnatural stillness she’d noted earlier in the bailey.
It crept over her now, icing her skin and raising gooseflesh, silencing everything but the thunder of her own blood in her ears, the wild hammering of her heart.
Her well-loved hills were vanished, Loch Duich but a distant memory, the hard, wet coldness of its narrow shore barely discernible against the all-consuming darkness. The raven was gone, too, though his breath-stealing magnificence still gripped her.
She hadn’t even seen him speed away.
Couldn’t see . . . anything.
Terror pounding through her, she bit her lip, biting down until the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. Then, her legs still too wobbly to sustain the effort, she tried to rise again.
“Please,” she begged, the nightmare of blindness a white-hot clamp around her heart. “I don’t want —”
She broke off, losing her balance as she lurched to her feet, her gaze latching on to a dim lightening of the shadows, a slim band of shimmering silver opening ever so slowly to reveal the towering silhouette of a plaid-draped, sword-hung man, his sleek, blue-black hair just brushing his shoulders, a golden, runic-carved torque about his neck. A powerfully built stranger with a striking air of familiarity, for even without seeing him clearly, Gelis knew he was watching her with the same intensity as the raven.
An unblinking, penetrating stare that went right through her, lancing all resistance.
Claiming her soul.
“You!” she gasped, her voice a hoarse rasp. Someone else’s, not hers. She pressed her hands to her breasts, staring back at him, her eyes widening as she sank once more to the ground. “You are the raven.”
The bright silver edging him flared in affirmation, and he stepped closer, the gap in the darkness opening just enough to show her his glory. And he was glorious, a man of mythic beauty, looking as if he could stride through any number of the legends of the Gael. Dark, pure Celt, and irresistibly seductive, it almost hurt to gaze on him, so great was his effect on her. He was a Highland warrior ripped straight from her dreams, and Gelis knew he’d be terrifying in the rage of battle and insatiable in the heat of his passion.
She also knew he wanted her.
Or, better said, needed her.
And in ways that went far beyond the deep sensual burning she could sense rippling all through his powerful body. His eyes made him vulnerable. Dark as the raven’s and just as compelling, they’d locked fast with hers, something inside them beseeching her, imploring her to help him.
Letting her see the shadows blackening his soul.
Then, just as he drew so near that Gelis thrust out a shaking hand to touch him, he vanished, disappearing as if he’d never been.
Leaving her alone on the surf-washed little strand, the high peaks of Kintail and the shining waters of Loch Duich the only witnesses to all that had transpired.
“ Oh- dear-saints,” Gelis breathed, lowering herself onto a damp-chilled boulder. Scarce aware of what she was doing, she dashed her tangled hair from her brow and turned her face into the stinging blast of the wind, letting its chill cool her burning cheeks, the hot tears now spilling free.
Tears she wasn’t about to check, regardless of her proud name.
The blood-and-iron strength of her indomitable lineage. A heritage that apparently held much more than she’d ever suspected.
More than she or anyone in her family would ever have guessed.
Still trembling, she tipped back her head to stare up at the brilliance of the blue autumn sky. To be sure, the raven was nowhere to be seen, and the day, nearing noontide now, stretched all around her as lovely as every other late October day in the heart of Kintail.
But this day had turned into a day like no other.
And she now knew two things she hadn’t known upon rising.
Her heart full of wonder, she accepted the truth. She was a taibhsear like her mother, inheriting more than Linnet MacKenzie’s flame-colored tresses, but also her taibhsearachd.
The gift of second sight.
A talent that had slumbered until this startling morn, only to swoop down upon her with a vengeance, making itself known and revealing the face of her beloved.
Her future husband and one true love.
There could be no doubt, she decided, getting slowly to her feet and shaking out her skirts, adjusting her cloak against the still-racing wind.
“I was wrong,” she whispered, thinking of the scrying bowl as she turned back toward Eilean Creag and the postern gate. The magic hadn’t disappeared.
It’d only gone silent.
Waiting to return in a most wondrous manner.
A totally unexpected manner, she owned, slipping back into the now-bustling bailey. She possessed her mother’s gift, and knowing how accurate such magic was, she need only bide her time until her raven came to claim her.
Then true bliss would be hers.
Of that she was certain.
About the same time, but in one of Eilean Creag Castle’s uppermost tower chambers, Duncan MacKenzie, the redoubtable Black Stag of Kintail, stood at an unshuttered window, hands fisted at his sides, the twitch at his left eye threatening to madden him. Scowling as only he could, he clenched his jaw so tightly he wondered he didn’t crack his teeth.
He did feel the weight of his years. They bore down on him as ne’er before.
Their burden and his outrage.
His scowl deepened and he glared at the sparkling waters of Loch Duich, the fair hills of his cherished Kintail, and the eye-gouging clarity of the cloudless autumn sky. The lofty cliffs and headlands on the far side of the loch earned his especial disfavor. Too impassive was their stare, too uncaring, the soaring rock that should have been weeping.
He wouldn’t weep either. As one of the Highlands’ fiercest and most powerful chieftains, such a weakness fell beneath his dignity.
But he was mightily grieved.
“Saints, Maria, and Joseph,” he swore, curling his fingers around his sword hilt, then releasing it as quickly. His trusty brand wouldn’t help him in this pass. Truth be told, he dare not even consider the like. He did allow himself another glower at the wild mountain territory he called his own, great and boundless hills that had the gall to appear at such peace, so calm and untroubled.
He could scarce breathe for vexation.
Never in all his days had he felt so cornered, so well and truly trapped.
He blew out an angry breath and shoved a hand through his hair. That such a day should taunt him with its beauty only tossed fat onto the fire. The afternoon ought to be hung with shadows, a chill wind gusting round the curve of the tower, rattling shutters and bringing the stinging bite of rain. Or, better yet, the relentless pelting of icy-needled sleet.
Och, aye, such weather would suit him better.
Instead, the sun shone with a brightness that rivaled the finest summer day and fired his frustration to a nigh unbearable pitch. Wheeling around, he ignored the rolled parchment lying so brazenly on a magnificently carved oaken table, the missive’s broken wax seals as damning as the words inked within, and fixed his wrath on the one person who should have warned him.
“You!” he fumed, his tone peremptory despite his great respect for his lovely lady wife, a woman as desirable now as she had been the day he first glimpsed her, but also the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter and, as such, blessed — or cursed — with the second sight.
She should have seen this coming.
“Why did you say nothing of this?” he demanded, striding across the chamber and snatching up the dread parchment. He waved the thing at her, his displeasure rolling off him to fill the tapestry-lined solar. “I willna believe you didna know. Not something of this import.”
To his wife’s credit, she didn’t retreat in the face of his anger. As always, his beloved Linnet simply remained where she stood, her hands clasped before her, her gaze steady and unwavering, her chin lifted with just the wee shiver of stubbornness he secretly admired.
“You of all souls ought know that I cannot control what my taibhsearachd wishes me to see,” she said, stepping forward to take the parchment from his hand and return it to the table. “Had I known, I would have told you. As is” — she paused to push her heavy, flame-colored braid over her shoulder — “I cannot understand the force of your reaction. There have been many other offers, and you’ve ne’er been pleased, but you’ve always brushed them aside. Ne’er have I seen you take to your solar in such a ferment.”
“A ferment?” Turning to the table, Duncan poured himself a hefty portion of good and strong uisge beatha, tossing down the fiery Highland spirits in one throat-burning swig. “Fermenting doesn’t begin to describe it,” he avowed, slamming down the cup, then dragging his sleeve across his mouth. “Not in a thousand lifetimes.”
To his horror, his wife’s eyes filled with pity. Clearly misunderstanding the reason for his ire, she quickly took on her Saint Linnet demeanor, clucking and cooing as she reached to adjust his plaid and smooth his shoulder- length, wind-tangled hair.
Sleek, gleaming black hair shot through with only a few streaks of silver, a matter of great satisfaction to him. Not that he’d e’er admit his pleasure in retaining his youthful good looks. Or his tall, well-muscled form, his undisputed prowess and continued ability to best any and all comers, regardless of age, boasts, or strength. His pride in still turning female heads, at times even earning a few oohs and ahhs at his feats in the lists.
Och, nae, he wouldn’t admit that such things pleased him.
Far from it, he set his jaw and folded his arms against his wife’s coddling.
“If you find the thought of Gelis’s marrying so unpalatable, why not offer Arabella?” Linnet smiled encouragingly. “She is the eldest, after all.”
Duncan snorted. “You read the missive. ’Tis Gelis they want, and no other. Word of her high-spiritedness clearly reached them and” — he closed his eyes for a moment — “they’ll know, too, of Arabella’s calm. Seemly or no, it must be Gelis. Her fiery blood has blazed like a beacon and caught the devil’s own eye!”
Drawing a tight breath, he glared at her. “And now I am to lose one daughter and offend the other!”
“Arabella will understand. And you must stop tying yourself in knots.” She fussed at his plaid again, the damnable sympathy in her eyes worsening the twitch in his.
“For the love of Saint Columba, let it be,” he growled. “I willna have your pity.”
“You have my love,” she returned, deftly unfolding his arms and entwining her fingers in his. “And my constant adoration. Though we have two daughters grown and well of an age to marry, my desire for you has ne’er lessened and shall ne’er lessen.” She leaned close and kissed his cheek, the heathery scent of her hair swirling around him, almost letting him forget his turmoil. Then she stepped back and angled her head, the measuring look in her eyes breaking the spell. “Your age will not increase simply because Gelis becomes some man’s wife. She will still be your daughter and you shall e’er be —”
“Think you I am so riled because of age?” His brows shooting upward, Duncan stared at her, uncomfortably aware of the heat flashing up the back of his neck. “My age, and even Gelis’s own, has little to do with it!”
“Indeed?” drawled a deep Sassunach voice from the shadows. “Then why do you feel a need to remind us? The saints know you’ve made such a claim every time a new suitor has come to call.”
His day now wholly ruined, Duncan clamped his mouth shut and spun around to face the speaker. He was a tall, scar-faced knight who leaned against the far wall, arms and legs casually crossed, sword at his hip, and such an air of imperturbability about him that Duncan was certain that the heat flaming the back of his neck would soon shoot out his ears as steam.
“This is a different suitor.” Duncan’s head began to throb.
An annoyance that worsened when the other man pushed away from the wall and appropriated a chair, lowering himself into it with a studied grace that was particularly annoying.
Especially since the chair was Duncan’s own.
Crossing the room in three angry strides, Duncan jammed his hands on his hips and stared down at his long-time friend. The only soul who could dare show such insolence and live to tell the tale.
“What are you doing here?” Duncan took a step closer. “Have the southern boundaries of my territories gone so quiet that you can leave Balkenzie for the sole pleasure of coming here to plague me?”
Sir Marmaduke Strongbow leaned back in the chair, steepled fingers slowly tapping his chin. A champion knight and staunch supporter of the House MacKenzie, he affected as offended a look as his battle-scarred face allowed.
“You wound me,” he said, stretching his long legs toward the fire. “Balkenzie is ever held safe for you. And when I have business elsewhere, my sweet lady wife is better at keepering than most men. As well you know.”
The Black Stag hurrumphed.
Sir Marmaduke pinned him with a stare.
“I will not contest Lady Caterine’s many talents,” Duncan conceded, restraining himself with effort. “Even so, you have yet to tell me why you e’er seem to lurk about at the worst possible moments?”
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.”