Bride for a Knight (36 page)

Jamie swallowed, unable to answer in words.

Instead, he set aside the leather pouch and jumped to his feet, throwing his arms around his da and letting the fierceness of his embrace speak for his heart.

Others on the dais discreetly looked aside or cleared their throats, while some busied themselves flicking invisible specks of lint off their clothes or finding a variety of ways to avoid intruding on such a private moment.

Even Morag held her peace, bustling about the dais and replenishing emptied ale cups, a telltale brightness in her carefully averted eyes.

E’er congenial guests, Alan Mor and his contingent of Pabay men chose that moment to stretch their legs and enjoy some welcome fresh air in the bailey.

Aveline gave them privacy, too, turning her attention on the dancing until three of Lady Linnet’s words echoed in her mind and she near choked on her wine.

See the day
, Lady Linnet had said, the words lifting the fine hairs on Aveline’s nape.

Her gaze shot to Hughie Mac, fiddling away with fervor, and then to Neill and Kendrick, dancing so vigorously at the heart of the tumultuous throng.

“Dear Saints,” she gasped, clapping a hand to her breast. “I
have
seen this day—at the churchyard, near the Na Clachan Breugach stone!” She leapt to her feet, grabbing Jamie’s arm. “You’ll remember, I told you I saw Neill and Kendrick dancing there, to Hughie’s fiddle music.”

Awe washing over her, she shook her head. “I wasn’t seeing ghosts or bog mists, but this very day.”

“To be sure, you were,” a sage voice chimed as Devorgilla of Doon shuffled near. “Had anyone asked me, I could have told them the Na Clachan Breugach stone was indeed one of the ancient Stones of Wisdom, able to foretell the future.”

Stepping closer, she tapped a knotty finger to Aveline’s chest. “Leastways, for those able to see with their hearts.”

Aveline swallowed.

She slid a glance at Jamie and his father, her heart squeezing at how much at ease they looked. As if there’d never been a rift between them.

Turning back to the crone, she lowered her voice, “Tell me, do you think the Na Clachan Breugach stone will show me the future for Jamie and me? Perhaps let me know what awaits us?”

Devorgilla shook her head. “Ach, nay, lass, I truly doubt it,” she said, reaching down to pet Somerled when he sidled up beside them. “Such magic only works when there is a need.”

“‘When there is a need’?”

“So I have said.” The crone dipped into a pouch at her belt, offering the little fox a bit of fine, dried beef. “You have no further reason to see into the future. You—”

“What she means,” Jamie cut in, “is that you should already
know
our future, sweetness.” Sliding an arm around her, he pulled her close and smiled at the wise woman. “Is that not so, Devorgilla?”

And the crone nodded, clearly agreeing.

“Then what is our future?” Aveline probed, her gaze flitting back and forth between the two of them. “Is it as bright and filled with love as I imagine?”

“Our future is all that and more,” Jamie promised, leaning down to kiss her brow. “And our love will last for time and eternity.”

Aveline sighed, melting at his answer.

Devorgilla looked pleased, too.

Dashing a spot of dampness from her cheek, she smiled. “Aye, that is the way of it, my hearts. For time and for eternity.”

About the Author

SUE-ELLEN WELFONDER is a dedicated medievalist of Scottish descent who spent fifteen years living abroad, and still makes annual research trips to Great Britain. She is an active member of the Romance Writers of America and her own clan, the MacFie Society of North America. Her first novel,
Devil in a Kilt
, was one of Romantic Times’s top picks. It won RT’s Reviewers’ Choice Award for Best First Historical Romance of 2001. Sue-Ellen Welfonder is married and lives with her husband, Manfred, and their Jack Russell Terrier, Em, in Florida.

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Bride by Seduction

Available in mass market March 2009.

Chapter One

E
ILEAN
C
REAG
C
ASTLE
T
HE
W
ESTERN
H
IGHLANDS
, A
UTUMN
1348

L
et 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 to the room, saw immediately that its sumptuous finery rivaled even 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. 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 pursed-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 naysaying 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 towards 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.

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 who 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, assuring 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 as Arabella’s sleek midnight tresses 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.