Not harm, but him.
His hands, and in all the ways she’d dreamed of being caressed by a husband.
Caressed and loved.
Her heart thumping, she lowered her lashes, eyeing him as surreptitiously as possible. Unfortunately, the truth of her suspicion stood etched all over him. Never had she seen a man so determined not to notice her.
Not wanting to believe it, she shifted in her chair, deliberately pressing her knee against his thigh, a ploy that made him jerk away faster than if she’d jabbed him with a white-hot fire poker.
She frowned and withdrew her knee, opting for another tactic.
“Perhaps you should try the sugared almonds.” She nudged the bowl in his direction. “Their sweetness might improve your mood.”
His expression darkened. “There is naught under the heavens capable of such a feat, my lady. Not sugared almonds. Nor one so fair as you.”
“So you find me appealing?”
“You would take any man’s breath.” He looked at her, his gaze piercing. “As well you know.”
“You do not look very breathless.” She had the boldness to jut her chin at him, her amber eyes glittering with irritation.
His own annoyance riding him, Ronan ignored her pique. The uncomfortable way her very presence made him suspect that one wee slip in his dealings with her might see the course of his life changing.
And in ways he couldn’t control.
His grandfather’s jollity as he jested with her father proved equally bitter. Valdar’s every hooted laugh and eye twinkle twisted his innards, as did the hope brightening the faces of Dare’s guardsmen, the bursts of good cheer rising from the trestle tables.
Such gaiety wouldn’t last.
One glance at the tightly closed hall windows proved it. Already, threads of mist slipped in through the shutter slats. Long, slithering tendrils hushed along the hall’s outermost tables, dousing candles and causing the hanging crusie lamps to splutter and extinguish.
As did Ronan’s brief and mad hope of seizing his unexpected fortune and risking another chance at love.
So he did what he could, reaching for a rib of fire-roasted beef, then drawing back his hand to pull his earlobe instead. At once, a stir and racket ensued at the next table as Torcaill the druid pushed to his feet.
“I, Torcaill of Ancient Fame, do bless the Raven and his lady!” His strong voice rising, he lifted his walking stick, shaking it heavenward. “May they prosper in the name and glory of the Old Ones!”
Cheers rose and the mist wraiths withdrew, disappearing back through the closed shutters whence they’d come.
Torcaill made one last flourish with hisslachdan druidheachd, the great druidic wand seeming to shimmer and glow as he lowered it.
He looked round, the spread-winged raven decorating his robe gleaming in the torchlight. “I wish you a fair night — one and all!”
Valdar half-rose from his chair. “Ho, Torcaill!” he yelled when the druid turned and strode away. “The night is no’ yet by with. You must bless the bridal bed.”
“All has been said.” Torcaill paused, one hand clutching his staff, the other pressed against his berobed hip. “My bones are aching and I seek my own bed. Your grandson and his lady have my fullest sanction and the goodwill of the Ancients. ’Tis enough.”
“Word is you dinna even have a bed!” Valdar hooted, slamming down his wine cup. “Or did I have bog cotton in my ears all the times you’ve sworn you canna be bothered by sleep?”
“I will see he reaches his cottage safely.” Ronan stood. “The mist is thick this night. I’d no’ want him to stumble ere he reaches his door.”
Then, before the stunned faces at the high table could sway him, he strode from the dais, leaving kith and kin to think what they might.
If he’d planned rightly, Lady Gelis wouldn’t be so eager to press her knee against him again.
Her knee, or any other part of her delectable, rose-scented self.
Much as he’d regret it.
