Ronan frowned.
His gut twisted and he drew his sword again, needing its weight in his hand.
Lady Gelis in the clutches of the Holders was unthinkable.
If the fabled band of wizards even existed.
Maldred the Dire’s bitterest foes, legend claimed they’d vowed to sweep into Glen Dare again and again, their warrior descendants wreaking havoc and vengeance all down the centuries until the Raven Stone was returned to them.
Fireside ramblings Ronan had never truly believed.
Even when, in tender years, he’d hid from their rampages, taking shelter in Dare’s kitchens behind his grandfather’s pile of wine casks as the red-eyed devils scoured the glen, searching for the Raven Stone.
A horror he’d later decided had only been a vengeance raid by a long-forgotten enemy clan.
An excuse he’d had to set aside some days ago, having thrown open his bedchamber window shutters only to see a shadowy figure peering up at him from the edge of the woods beyond the curtain walls.
Dark-robed, cowled, and with eyes like two red- glowing coals, scorching hatred had burned in the Holder’s stare.
A fiery-eyed glare that melted the window’s iron hinges.
Ronan set his jaw, his gaze once again on the silent burial ground and the deep ring of pines sheltering the time-worn stones. Autumn-dead bracken choked whatever paths had once wound between the ancient cairns and monoliths. Maldred’s desecrated grave slab lay broken, its two halves covered with lichen and a drift of fallen leaves.
Nothing stirred.
But when the moon slid behind the clouds, plunging the wood into darkness, he couldn’t help but shudder.
He looked at the druid, a man he called friend and had trusted since birth, as had his father and grandfather before him. Many more MacRuari chieftains as well, if one could believe the clan tongue-waggers.
“Tell me, Torcaill,” he began, not mincing words. “The Holders are men, are they not?”
There was only a slight hesitation. “They are men, aye.”
Ronan nodded, satisfied.
“Then they will ne’er leave this glen alive.” He tightened his grip on his sword hilt, the smooth leather banding warm beneath his fingers. “Every last one of them can join Maldred in yon tainted ground. Let them battle each other as they should have done centuries ago.”
“Think you it will be so simple?” Torcaill’s deep voice echoed in the stillness. “There is your bride to consider. She changes all.”
“She changes naught.” Ronan firmly disagreed. “She returns to Eilean Creag on the morrow. Her father wishes to leave at first light. Lady Gelis shall accompany him.”
Torcaill lifted a brow. “That is how you mean to safeguard her?”
“Sending her away is the only way to ensure her safety.”
“Letting her ride out with her father would invite the destruction of the entire party.” The druid looked at him, his expression earnest. “Can you live with such a tragedy, should it come to pass?”
“The Black Stag is a mighty warrior. His scar-faced friend, the Sassunach, is equally capable. They can see her safe and swiftly from this blighted glen.” Ronan paused, reasoning. “I will ride with them. Take along a score of Dare’s best men. Not that Kintail would require us. He is feared in all the land. Beyond our borders as well, if you’d believe the songs sung of him.”
Torcaill remained unimpressed. “Such lays are not sung by those who melt steel.”
“The Holders will not yet have noticed her.” Ronan drew a breath, willing it so. “She can be gone before they know she was even here.”
“They knew she was here the moment her retinue crossed into MacRuari territory.”
“We can still get her away. By stealth, if need be.”
Torcaill shook his head. “They would see you.”
