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.
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!”
She dusted her skirts and made no move to tuck her breasts back inside her torn bodice.
Buckie padded up to her, pressed his great bulk against her soiled skirts.
Ronan let his arms drop. “I will see you safely to Eilean Creag.” The words formed before he could stop them. “Anywhere, so long as you are afforded safety.”
“Pah!” She cut the air with a hand. “I am where I wish to be.”
Ronan scoffed. “You live on dreams, methinks!”
He scowled at her.
She bent to retrieve the fallen armlet, her breasts still swinging.
Straightening, she let her eyes speak the words her lips held close. “I know you would not hurt me,” she did say, watching him. “Nor am I frightened by whate’er menace caused you to push me.”
“Sweet lass, I am the menace —”
“Nae, you are my raven.”
Ronan’s gut clenched at her innocence. “You err, lass. I am —”
“I believe you know what you are.” She lifted her chin. “To me and, aye, what I am to you!”
“ Lass —”
“Even so,” she cut him off again, “there are things about me that you need to know.”
On the words, she set the armpiece on the rough-planked table and whipped up her skirts, revealing a sgian dubh strapped to her thigh.
“The wee blade I gave Hector was not my only one.” She looked at him, her color high. “Ne’er think I walk about unprotected! Much as I cherish our legends and tradition, I am not some large-eyed, song-trilling milkmaid born on the hill who trusts in naught more than charms and saining rituals to keep her safe.”
Reaching for the deadly blade, she withdrew the dagger a few telling inches from its fine leather sheath. The brightly gleaming steel shone wickedly narrow, its razor-sharp edge clearly honed to kill.
Ronan narrowed his eyes on the weapon, glad for something besides her naked, still-jigging breasts to focus on.
“My mother — a master at knife-throwing — gave me this dirk.” She kept her chin raised, her eyes glinting as bright as the sun on the lochan.
“She learned the craft from her brothers,” she hurried on, caressing the richly tooled sheath as she spoke.
“And you learned well.” Ronan was sure of it.
She nodded, clearly proud. “Mother taught me well. She also ne’er let me forget that her skill once saved her life.”
She paused then, her fingers stilling on the dirk’s sheath.
Ronan felt a sharp pulling in his loins, wondered if she knew how much the play of her fingers on that long leather sheath was rousing him.
As was every other part of her!
He bit back a groan, his blood heating. Ne’er had he seen a more tempting creature.
Her breasts gleamed in the day’s soft light.
Her nipples puckered in the chill air. Hued the exact shade of dusky-rose he’d imagined; he could scarce bear looking upon them.
Nor, saints preserve him, could he resist.
Heedless, she flicked a clinging twig from her skirts and tossed back her tangled, flame-bright hair. “Like Mother, I, too, would ne’er hesitate to use my talents to safeguard myself or those I hold dear!”
Ronan grunted.
He believed every word she said, but the wind was freshening. Light gusts tugged at her up-hitched skirts, lifting the edges and giving him brief, tantalizing glimpses of her red-curled femininity.
And the sight — so unwittingly revealed — was nigh unmanning him.
Quickly, before he did something they’d both regret, he reached and yanked down her skirts. Not wanting to risk helping her adjust her bodice and thus, inevitably, touch her flesh, he shrugged off his great travel cloak and swirled it around her shoulders.
“You will catch a chill if you dinna cover yourself.” The excuse sounded ridiculous even to him.
She lifted a brow.
Her lips quirked then curved into another of her dazzling smiles.
“My health is as stout as yon Highland garrons.” She glanced at the two horses, quietly grazing side by side near Buckie’s onion creel. “I ne’er take a chill.”
As if to prove it, she lifted her hands and removed his cloak, slipping out of it quickly before his warmth and his scent bewitched her so thoroughly she couldn’t ever bear to be parted from it.
Already, her heart was skittering and it was all she could do not to clutch the thing against her breasts, branding his heat and the clean, manly essence of him into her skin.
Instead, she folded the cloak carefully and placed it on the trestle table’s cushioned bench.
Then she drew a breath, opting for honesty. “I know you covered me so you wouldn’t have to see my breasts.”
To his credit, he didn’t deny it.
He did, however, look more miserable than she’d yet seen him.
“Lass —”
“Dinna say it.” She looked down, tied her bodice laces as best she could with fingers she pretended weren’t trembling. “I have eyes, see you?”
Her task complete, she brushed the grass and dirt off her skirts. She needed to busy herself lest she burst into tears — or great gales of laughter — at the futility of her gown-fastening efforts.
Retied, her already-dipping bodice once again covered her, but only just.
Her breasts strained against the ripped cloth, the generous swells barely contained. And, much to her horror, her right nipple was poking through a jagged little tear she’d somehow overlooked in her haste to redo the laces.
Indeed, she looked more scandalously naked than before!
A truth plainly evidenced by the Raven’s tight, hard-set expression as he struggled not to glance any lower than her carefully lifted chin.
“You have much more than eyes, sweetness. I would that you didn’t.” He took a step closer; his voice came rough, husky. “And you shouldn’t have —”
“What I shouldn’t, husband mine, is allow you to keep telling me you are a menace.” She snatched a jug from the table, sloshed a measure of wine into a cup, and thrust it into his hands. “Drink,” she urged, drawing herself up, “perhaps Valdar’s fine Gascon wine will loosen your tongue.”
Pray that ne’er happens, she was sure he said beneath his breath.
She shoved a curl off her forehead, her heart thumping. “I know our union was meant to be. You know that I have visions and I have seen you in them!”
He stared at her, wine cup poised at his lips, his face an unreadable mask. But a muscle jerked in his jaw, its sudden appearance giving him away.
He knew.
She was sure of it.
“You know this, I am thinking!” She tossed back her hair. “Know that you’ve come to me as a raven and as . . . yourself! That you reach for me, dragging me against you and kissing me. So why” — she jammed her hands on her hips, her voice rising — “when we are together, myself nigh unclothed, do you look on me with such coldness? Why —”
“Och, lass, you err.” He shook his head, his eyes darkening. “It has naught to do with you. ’Tis me, only me, I swear to you. Ne’er have I —”
“Do I have the breasts of a crone?” She tore at her bodice ties, yanked her gown open. “Am I so undesirable that you —”
“Nae!” He threw the wine cup to the ground. “Ne’er you even think it!”
“But —”
A sound, deep, masculine, and elemental came from somewhere and then she was in his arms, crushed hard against him, held even more tightly than in the visions.
“Lass, lass! You are more desirable than any woman I have e’er known.” He drew back to look at her. “E’er, I say, do you hear me? Ne’er have I been more tempted!”
“ But —” The ground seemed to tilt beneath her feet and a blast of chill wind stole her protest.
She bit her lip, her heart thundering wildly. His gaze pierced her, dark and feral.
Heat blazed between them, alive and crackling, a sizzling rush of need so fierce her knees buckled and she would’ve plunged to the ground if not for his iron-bound grip on her.
“If you desire me, then make me yours!” She saw the want glinting in his eyes and it spurred her on, making her bold. “I am your wife. Do not shun me!”
She thrust her fingers into his hair, twining them in the thick raven strands as she pressed into him, aching, burning for his kiss.
But rather than oblige her, he stiffened, already pulling away from her.
“No- o-o!” She clung to him, holding tight. “I won’t let you do this —”
“I have already done the unthinkable.” He tore free of her grasp, agitation shimmering off him. “And, aye, you deserve the truth, though I’d give anything to have spared you.”
“Then speak true.” She put back her shoulders and stood tall. “See that a MacKenzie does not melt in the rain — or crumple upon hearing words she’d rather not!”
“Ach, lass.” He blew out a breath. “Let me tell you this much,” he began, starting to pace. “Torcaill told me how powerful your gift is. He sensed it and, aye, deep inside, I was no’ surprised, as I have had . . . dreams.”
He rammed a hand through his hair, glanced at her. “ ’Twas just as you say. Me, holding and kissing you, needing you more than the air I breathe.”
“Then why do you reject me?” She came after him hot-foot, chin raised and breasts bouncing. “There can be no reason. Especially if you know —”
“There are scores of reasons!” He whirled to face her, the weight of Creag na Gaoith pressing on him. “Do you see yon scarred and broken crag?”
He flung out an arm, indicating the dread heights, the mass of rubble at its foot. “Tell me, lass, if you are blessed with the taibhsearachd, why did you choose such a maligned place for your feasting-in-the-wild?”
She blinked. “Why not this place?”
Her confusion hit him full-on, a white-hot knife twisting in his heart.
She glanced at the lochan, its shining water clear and bright in the cold afternoon sun. “I’d ridden for hours and saw nowhere more pleasing.”
“And so it was . . . once.”
“Once?”
Ronan nodded, finally seeing Creag na Gaoith’s bogle peering at him from amidst the fallen stones.
A pale, almost-too-faint-to-see image, his first wife, Matilda, stood there, delicate as a spring bloom. But watching him all the same, her flaxen-blond hair unmoving in the wind, her sky-blue eyes calm, trusting as always.
Ronan blinked and she was gone.
But his guilt — and his dread — remained.
“My first wife died there,” he said, speaking quickly before prudence stayed his tongue. “We came here often and were walking there, on the other side of the lochan, when a sudden rockslide took her life. We’d only been wed a few days.”
“Dear saints!” The color drained from his new bride’s face. “I am sorry. How horrible it must have been for you.”
“It was, and the guilt haunts me still.”
“Guilt?” Her voice was shocked. “You couldn’t have prevented a rockslide.”
“Say you?” He reached to finger one of her glossy curls, needing her vibrancy, the light and warmth that seemed to glow from within her.
“To be sure I say it!” she charged, a flush staining her cheeks. “How could you have —”
“Perhaps” — he released the curl — “because in that very moment, as we strolled along beneath Creag na Gaoith, I thought to myself that I loved her so desperately I would ‘move mountains to please her.’ ”
“What?” Her eyes widened. “Don’t tell me you blame yourself because of a thought?”
“That is the way of it, aye,” Ronan confirmed, the truth sending bile to his throat. “I am cursed, see you. My thoughts sometimes take on frightening shape and form, the darker — or more irresponsible — ones causing irreparable damage if I do not marshal them quickly enough.”
“I do not believe that.” She frowned at him, her chin more stubborn than ever. “And even if it were true, I know that —”
“It is true, I assure you. There are many —” he broke off, his eye caught by a movement at the edge of the clearing.
Something large and grayish-white crashed through the heather, its massive head lowered and its great curving horns the most deadly he’d ever seen.
“A bull!” Gelis clapped a hand to her throat and stood frozen.
“That’s more than a bull!” Ronan lunged and grabbed her, once again shoving her aside. “Hold Buckie!”
And then the unholy creature charged, bursting from the trees with a terrifying bellow, the thunder of its hooves blistering the air, its earth-shaking speed leaving no time for finesse.
And totally ruining what could have been a moment of revelation.
Spinning round, Ronan seized one of the Viking tent’s support poles. He ripped it from the ground and ran forward into the bull’s path, couching the pole like a lance.
Behind him, Gelis screamed.
He ran on.
And then his world split, breaking apart on the bull’s outraged roar as it hurtled toward him, head low and horns weaving, a murderous glint in the creature’s eyes.
Eyes red as fire.