Ronan snorted. “Let them. Think you I fear the miscreants?” He glared at the older man, willing him to see his strength. “I have cleaved grown men in twain, fought off a score of axe-wielding half-Celt, half-Norse Islesmen and sent them running back to their Hebrides before they could cry Thor or Cuchulainn. A MacRuari ne’er runs—”
“Bah!” The druid waved a hand. “You have never faced such as these,” he warned, his eyes gleaming in the darkness. “Their power is so great they could charm your beasts into throwing the lot of you, even make them trample you with their flailing hooves.”
“The devil roaring!” Ronan blew out a breath, not at all liking his options.
“There is a way.”
“And you will be knowing it, for a wager!”
Torcaill flicked at his robes. “I but offer counsel, as I have ever done.”
Ronan waited. “Well?”
“It would be well if you were to keep a cool head and sharp wits.”
“Be that your advice?” Heat flashed through Ronan. “Have you e’er known a MacRuari whose wits weren’t sharp? My own are honed enough, I say you — as is my sword.”
“None doubt it. But you will be distracted.” Torcaill glanced at the enclosing wall of great Caledonian pines, his brow knitting when several mist tendrils slithered into view.
Turning toward them, he raised his hand, but the mist snakes shimmied and quivered, quickly receding into a thicket of whin and broom before he could point his finger at them.
Ronan cleared his throat.
The druid smoothed a fold of his cloak.
“Whether you would hear it or nae,” he said, “Lady Gelis poses problems you must —”
“I know what I must do about her,” Ronan snapped, wishing he did.
That annoying tinge of pity on his face again, the druid sighed. “Any man’s head would be turned by Lady Gelis. His blood stirred and heated. You must not let her cloud your thinking.”
“She will no’ be here long enough to do the like.” Ronan remained firm. “After what you’ve told me this e’en, I am determined to see her gone. Safely so, and no matter what it costs me.”
Torcaill’s expression turned to one of disappointment. “Have you not heard a word I’ve said?”
“Och, to be sure and I have.” Ronan blew out a breath. He’d heard every word as clearly as if the wizard had branded them into his flesh.
He just didn’t like them.
“Then heed me well” — Torcaill strode after him when he started to pace — “you must keep the lass safe within Dare’s walls.”
Ronan whirled on him. “Within the walls, you say? What makes you think the Holders won’t breach them? If they are so all-powerful, they might just blow down our gates with a puff of their sulfuric breath!”
“You ought not jest —”
“I would rather jest than believe the like.” Ronan put a hand to the back of his neck, certain it would soon catch fire. “I told you, I have ne’er fully believed the tales about Maldred and his foes and am no’ sure I wish to now.”
He started pacing again, then spun back around as quickly. “No, IknowI do not want to believe in them.”
Even if he had seen a strange red-eyed figure lurking at the wood’s edge.
Odd souls were known to roam the Highlands at times.
He’d just happened to catch sight of one.
As for the melted shutter hinges, he was sure there was a good explanation.
“Whether you believe or not matters little,” the druid declared, further fouling his mood. “You have the choice of keeping your bride safe behind Dare’s walls or sending her to her doom.”
