“The man you are to wed, yes,” her mother clarified. “His given name is Ronan MacRuari. Theoffercame from his grandfather, Valdar, the MacRuari chieftain. Your father’s connection to this man is the reason he can’t object to the marriage. You’ll understand once he’s explained.”
But rather than enlightening her, his jaw went tighter and his mouth compressed into a firm, hard line.
“You must tell her, my friend.” Crossing the room, Sir Marmaduke offered him a brimming cup ofuisge beatha. “She deserves to know.”
Duncan snatched the cup and dashed the fiery Highland spirits onto the floor rushes. Slamming the empty cup onto the table, he glowered at his friend. “How would you tell one of your daughters she’s to wed the scion of such a blighted clan? A family so scourged ’tis said the sun even fears to shine into their glen?”
Sir Marmaduke stared right back at him. “ ’Tis simple. I would start at the beginning.”
“ ’Tis simple.” Duncan’s eyes flashed. “Were that so, think you I would be so wroth? Telling the tale from the beginning or starting with the arrival of the offer makes nary a difference. The chance of harm is the same.”
“You’re fashing yourself for naught. I won’t be harmed.” Gelis was sure of it. “Whatever darkness surrounds his clan, the Raven won’t let anything happen to me. I know that from the vision I had on the lochside. Ronan MacRuari isn’t a fiend. He’s a man whose soul is aching. He needs me. And he wants me. He’ll treat me —”
“He’ll treat you with all the chivalry and respect a man owes his lady wife.” Duncan started pacing again. “I ne’er said he’s a fiend. And his grandfather, Valdar, has more honor and heart than any man I’ve ever known. Excepting one.” He tossed a look across the room to where Sir Marmaduke once again lounged against the table. “Be that as it may, there are unspeakable dangers at Castle Dare. The MacRuaris are not fiends. What they are is cursed.”
“Then they need someone touncurse them.” Gelis plucked a drying strand of seaweed off her skirts, twirling it around her fingers. “I have reason to believe that someone is me.”
Duncan scowled at her. “Dinna make light of dark deeds that stretch back to a time when these hills were young. For centuries, every MacRuari — or those close to them — who thought he could rise above the curse fell to a tragic end. And if he survived, his remaining days were so plagued with horror that he wished he had died.”
“I see.” Gelis tossed the bit of seaweed into the hearth fire. “That does rather change things.”
Duncan cocked a brow, looking skeptical.
Her mother appeared relieved. “If you desire, I’m sure we can find a way to decline the offer,” she said, glancing at her husband. “Old ties or nae.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Dropping into her father’s hearthside chair, Gelis settled herself, making ready for a long, comfortable sit. “I am not afraid of the MacRuari curse and I certainly do want to marry the Raven.”
Linnet’s brow furrowed. “But you just said —”
“I meant that, hearing all this, I can’t just ride off to wed the man as I was fully prepared to do.” Leaning back in the chair, she smiled. “What I meant was that I now need to learn everything I can about the clan and their curse before I meet the Raven. Only then can I help him.”
“Help him?” Her father looked as if the two words tasted of ash.
“So I have said.” Gelis smiled. “And I can only do that if you tell me the tale. All of it and from the beginning, just as Uncle Marmaduke suggested.”
As she waited for her father to begin, she strove not to appear smug. But it was hard. Difficult, too, to smother the laugh bubbling in her throat. Gelis MacKenzie, the Devil’s own daughter, afraid of ancient curses and dark glens. Hah!
Truth was, she was anything but afraid.
She was eager.
Days later and many leagues distant, in a dark and still corner of Kintail, Ronan — the Raven — MacRuari lit the wall torches in his bedchamber, his mood worsening when the additional light failed to banish the room’s shadows. A good score of fine wax candles burned as well, as did a particularly fat hearth log, its crackling, well-doing flames only underscoring the futility of such measures.
At least here at Castle Dare.
His family’s home since time uncounted and a place so blighted that even a candle flame burned inward, keeping its light and warmth to itself and letting the castle residents shiver in the gloom.
A plague and botheration so vexing he burned to tear down the entire stronghold, stone by accursed stone. The saints knew, the reasons for doing so were beyond counting. Unfortunately, so were the circumstances that made him banish the thought as quickly as it’d come.
Clenching his fists, he closed his mind to the blackness and glowered at the thick gray mist floating past the windows. Impenetrable and cloying, each billowing drift filled the tall, unshuttered arches, curling, fingerlike tendrils seeping over the stone ledges and into the room, penetrating just enough to annoy him.
Ronan set his jaw, his entire body tensing. Once, in younger years, he’d whipped out his sword with a flourish and leaped forward, lashing at the window-mist only to watch the cold, damp tendrils slither away over the sills like a swarm of writhing, translucent snakes.
Now he knew better.
All the massed steel in the Highlands couldn’t stand against such unholiness.
He bit back a curse, refusing to let the darkness win, even if a stony-faced mien was a notably hollow triumph. Unclenching his fists, he ran a hand through his hair, not surprised to catch the smell of rain in the air. Elsewhere in Kintail, he was sure, good folk were enjoying a fine autumn afternoon, a notion that squeezed his heart and caused a tight, pulsing knot to form in his gut.
