And that, to this day, the ankle plagued him if he forgot himself and stepped wrongly. Almost feeling its dull throbbing now, he propped the fire poker against the hearth and turned to frown at his bride.
“Be it a broken tomb or a proud stronghold such as your father’s Eilean Creag, men make their legacies,” he said, blotting his mind to his wretched ankle. “Most times, they reap what they deserve.”
“Say you?” Lady Gelis’s eyes glittered all the brighter.
Indeed, were she a less prickly female, he might even suspect his tale had made her a bit misty-eyed.
Dewy-eyed for the lad he’d been.
Not the man he was.
A distinction that only worsened his mood.
Buckie chose that moment to prudently push himself to his feet and shuffle away, disappearing into the shadows of the fusty-smelling corridor.
Ronan scowled.
Would that he might escape so easily.
Behind him, one of the peat bricks popped with an uncharacteristically loud crackle. A shower of fiery, orange-red sparks puffed into the air, several of them finding the backs of his naked calves.
“Eee-ow!” He jerked, twisting to swat at his legs and almost losing his plaid in the process. He grabbed at the downward-slipping folds, certain he heard a burst of feminine laughter.
Hearty laughter, with no attempt made to stifle it.
But when he straightened, Lady Gelis was simply watching him.
The soft, doe-eyed look was gone. In its place, her lifted- chin, set-jawed look was fixed steadily on him.
“If your clan talespinners speak true, and as your own tale implies,” she declared, twirling her bauble chain, “your ancestor sleeps in an untended tomb in a forgotten burial ground overrun with nettles and bracken.”
Ronan’s jaw tightened. “His grave is hardly forgotten, my lady.”
It was a scar on the land.
“But itisneglected.” She strode forward, not stopping until they stood nearly toe to toe. “As is the half-ruinous stone crest above the keep door. I saw it when we arrived, recognizing its age.”
Ronan’s fingers froze on his half-refastened plaid-knot. He’d forgotten the crest.
Ancient, cracked, and moldering, the thing was barely recognizable as a one-time heraldic shield. Wind, rain, and cold, along with the sheer weight of the ages, had blurred its details, leaving only worn and crumbled stone.
A forever remembrance of the destruction and ruin Maldred had wreaked upon the clan.
Upon him.
Him, and all those he’d foolishly allowed a place in his heart.
“Was the crest Maldred’s?” Lady Gelis was peering up at him, her fingers doing a deft job of finishing his plaid knot. “It looks old enough to have been his.”
Ronan expelled a slow breath. “Aye, it was his. He built this tower. Leastways the oldest parts of it. If clan tradition may be believed, he chose this site because an earlier pagan sacrificial circle once stood here.”
“Indeed?” She patted the plaid knot, her fingertips just brushing his shoulder.
Ronan nodded, relief flooding him when she lowered her hands.
“Some clan elders believe the crest is carved on one of those ancient stones,” he said, still feeling her warmth on his skin. “If their suspicions are true, the sacrilege may have been what originally brought Maldred into conflict with the Old Ones, earning their eternal wrath and damnation.”
“Eternal damning is harsh.”
