Her Raven’s naked body warmed her through and through, and the heat of her pleasure in him still pulsed and throbbed inside her.
The chill came from within.
And — she also knew — from whoever or whatever was out in that moonlight and wanting her attention.
She shivered.
The moon slid behind another cloud, its sudden disappearance plunging the bedchamber into darkness save for the faintly glowing embers of the hearth fire.
Looking that way, her heart plummeted, for there could be no denying that Buckie had noticed the someone or something out there, too.
The old dog’s head was raised, his alert stare fixed on the open window.
Until he realized he’d been seen.
At once, he dropped his head back down on his paws and, she suspected, feigned sleep. Just as she, too, meant to do, not wishing to alarm Ronan if he happened to waken and sense her ill ease.
And she was concerned.
More worried than she’d ever been since coming to Dare.
Now she had far too much to lose.
So she closed her eyes and summoned all her willpower to keep from glancing at the window arch again. Whoever or whatever wanted something from her would just have to wait.
She’d deal with them on the morrow.
She just hoped she could.
She could do it.
Standing on a high promontory on the distant Isle of Doon, Devorgilla tightened her knotty fists and scrunched her eyes to better peer down at the long line of breakers rolling toward the cliffs.
But the night winds were fresh and the seas too choppy for her to see more than the white-crested swells and the little bay of rocks and sand far below her.
“Ill limmer!” She resisted the urge to hobble back the way she’d come and then rummage through her spelling goods until she’d gathered enough of her more potent treasures to blast the long-nosed, white-bearded he-goat responsible for her present plight.
He alone was the reason she stood shivering in the night wind.
If he — whoever he’d been — hadn’t made it prudent for her to avoid using her cauldron steam to do her scrying, she’d be sleeping soundly on her pallet about now.
Instead, she shuffled as close to the cliff edge as she dared and tried again to see what she needed on the surface of the dark, tossing waters.
Somewhere on the moorland behind her, a night-bird called, breaking her concentration even as the moon suddenly rode high above the clouds. At once, a wide band of glittering silver stars lit the water, stretching toward her from the horizon, the moon’s bright light joining the white-foaming waves to ruin all chance of success.
She needed a shining black surface, smooth and unrippled.
Seeing no choice but to reach for deeper magic, she lifted her somewhat bristly chin and held out her arms, palms downward toward the sea.
Then she started to chant, lifting her voice until bit by bit the twinkling silver swath of moonlight began to draw back toward the horizon.
Encouraged, she splayed her fingers, curling just the tips so that all her power poured down the steep cliffside and into the water, her entire strength then flowing out over reef and rock to quiet the churning waves.
Her arms began to tremble and she couldn’t stand very straight in the racing wind, but she remained where she was, mumbling her spelling words more softly now that the black water was stilling.
And then she saw them.
The crone hooted and hopped with glee, her incantations forgotten.
