He hadn’t done as fine a job of knotting the plaid as he’d thought. And now, with all her stalking about, the fool knot had loosened and he could see right down the gaping edge of the tartan.
The whole of her breasts gleamed for his delectation, luscious swells, the shadowed cleft between, chill-puckered nipples and all.
Worse, her dusky rose scent cast its usual heady magic on him. Each inhaled whiff shot straight to his vitals, squeezing fast and enflaming him.
Truth be told, he’d run rock- iron hard.
So he blew out a breath, tried to ignore her scent and her breasts, and fixed his gaze on her ear. A delicate ear, yet less a distraction.
“There have always been Ravens in the family,” he explained, his voice as strained and uncomfortable as his man-piece. “But there is only oneraven. A living bird trapped inside Maldred’s Raven Stone, sealed there for all eternity. The raven’s great power serves whoe’er holds possession of the stone, or so tradition claims.”
“Then we must find it and set the bird free.”
“Would that it were so simple.”
“It might not be a bairn’s game, but it must be possible.” She beamed at him. “Were it not, there’d have been no point in his beseeching me.”
From his place by the fire, Buckie barked once as if he agreed with her.
Ronan ignored him and broke free of his lady’s grip. Stepping away from her, he flung open the shutters to stare out at the cold, rainy dark.
“For truth, lass, do you no’ think MacRuaris have been trying to do the like ever since the scoundrel and his stone vanished?”
“He vanished?”
Ronan grunted. “So it is said, aye.”
He breathed deep of the chill night air, his gaze on the great Caledonian pines beyond the curtain wall. The trees swayed and tossed in the wind, misty curtains of rain blowing past their crowns. Closer, the broad expanse of the bailey lay dark and still, though he knew its quiet concealed a score or more of guardsmen.
Dare never slept. Not even on the longest winter nights.
He frowned.
She’dedged in closer behind him. He could feel her warmth on his back and her attar of roses scent was swirling around him, filling the window arch before slipping away on the rushing night wind.
His entire body stiffened.
She was up to something.
He could feel it clear down to his toes, including the aching ones.
“To think your family has been searching for him all down the ages . . .” She let her voice tail off, the fading words full of sympathy and well-meaning.
“Aye, they have,” he agreed, bespelled by the soft, feminine heat of her, the knowledge that she stood naked beneath his plaid. “At the latest, since the first glimmer of his curse blighted us —”
He clamped his mouth shut, but it was too late.
He could see her eyes lighting even without turning around.
“ Ah-hah!” Her voice rang with excitement. “How can you say he disappeared and MacRuaris have searched for him and still claim he’s buried beneath a collapsed table grave?”
Ronan set his jaw and kept staring at the wind-tossed pines.
She persisted. “Wouldn’t his grave be the first place to search for him?”
“It was.”
“And what did they find?”
