Ronan frowned at him. “Keeping her fromdoomis and has been my greatest concern.”
Torcaill looked pleased.
With more than a little style and dash, he raised his staff, thrusting it into a thin shaft of moonlight.
“I might be the last druid to wear the badge of the Raven,” he announced, “but I still have enough power to serve you and your lady.”
She is not and ne’er shall be my lady, Ronan almost roared. But the old man’s eyes were shining and his sometimes bowed shoulders had gone remarkably straight.
When the entire length of hisslachdan druidheachdsuddenly made a loud popping sound, then crackled and shone with a bright silvery-blue light and he began chanting a warding spell, his voice rising with pride on every word, Ronan knew who’d won this particular battle.
Even if it pained him to hear an incantation meant to protect his marriage bed.
He had no intention of sharing his bedchamber with Lady Gelis.
Pallet materials for a cozy night’s bedding already awaited him in a quiet niche off the great hall.
He’d taken due precautions.
So he folded his arms and watched the druid’s display. He even forced a nod of appreciation. Above all, he refrained from telling Torcaill that his best efforts would be in vain.
Maldred’s curse and the Holders weren’t the greatest dangers to his bride.
He was.
And no wizard’s spell would protect her from him.
Chapter Five
Gelis knew something was amiss.
The surety of it intensified with every step she took up Castle Dare’s winding stair tower — no, the glowering keep’s cold and dismal stair tower, chill, and with only the feeble light of a few hissing, sputtering rush torches to pierce the gloom. Not that the murkiness bothered her.
She had plans for remedying Dare’s dreariness.
Indeed, she secretly welcomed the darkness, hoping she’d be rewarded when she dispelled it.
At the very least appreciated.
Unfortunately, the soul she so wished to please hadn’t shown himself since he’d disappeared in the wake of his druid friend, claiming he’d see the ancient safely to his bed.
Gelis huffed and almost tripped on the hem of her skirts.
It washerbed that ought to be on Ronan MacRuari’s mind this night.
Not a graybeard’s.
However gallant the thought.
Hitching up her cumbersome swish-swishing gown, she quickened her steps. She also bit back another snort. Chivalry hadn’t sent the Raven hastening from the feasting table. He’d removed himself from her presence. And she had a fairly good notion that he had no intention of redressing the slight.
She tightened her lips. The shame of such a notion pulsed through her from the tops of her burning ears clear down to all ten of her tingling toes.
That was what plagued her.
Not his keep’s unsavory stair tower.
Nor that the men sitting around the high table had fallen into such a loud and windy discussion about the demands and intricacies of effective lairding that no one noticed when she pushed to her feet and walked away.
