Not even a shred.
His hands clenched against the wall. Try as he had, theirs was a match forged in hell, and he’d despised her almost from the first.
Even more damning, he’d killed her.
Chapter Eight
Two things became immediately clear to Gelis when she wakened early the next morning.
First, and most disturbing, she was alone.
Her bed — nae, the Raven’s massive oaken four-poster — nearly swallowed her whole. She eyed the broad expanse of sumptuous coverings and furred throws, not missing that they were barely rumpled. And of the sea of goose down pillows massed along the elaborately carved headboard, hardly a one proved disturbed.
Only the pillow she herself had slept on.
Her late-night hopes that the Raven might return during the small hours, slipping silently into the bed to ravish her, had been for naught.
She pushed herself up on her elbows, puffed a tiny goose feather off her cheek.
Then she frowned.
What should have been the most glorious morning of her life was remarkable only in that she’d wakened without Arabella’s snores ringing in the day.
Not that her oh-so-perfect sister had e’er believed that she made such ghastly nocturnal music!
Gelis knew.
She also knew she needed to make haste.
Clear and clean morning air was streaming in through the still-closed shutters. And the dim gray light just beginning to dispel the room’s shadows indicated she’d slept longer than had been wise.
Her second realization wouldn’t suffer fuzzy, sleep-addled wits.
Seducing Ronan MacRuari wasn’t going to be a walk through the heather.
She’d need more than bouncing green love-baubles and scandalously dipping bodices.
Fortunately, she had a plan.
And she was more than ready to set it in motion.
Heart thumping, she scrambled down from the great bed’s high mattress and hurried across the rushes to a little oaken table in the far corner.
Naked, but too excited to mind the chill that was raising gooseflesh on her skin, she eyed the grooming goods set neatly before her.
Someone, likely the large-eyed girl, Anice, must’ve slipped into the chamber only a short while ago and had obviously taken great care to please.
The provided amenities were no less fine than those she was accustomed to at Eilean Creag. A large bowl, a drying cloth, and a ewer of fresh bathing water awaited her morning pleasure. Best of all, a small earthen jar of her own rose-scented soap had been placed on the table as well, and she dipped her fingers into it quickly, eager to rush through her ablutions and be on her way.
Already, she could hear a great bustle stirring in the bailey below. Trumpet blasts, men’s shouts, and the clank of armor filled her ears. The snorts and whinnies of restless, hoof-stamping horses reached her as well, that great ringing clatter a sure sign that her father and his guardsmen were readying for imminent departure.
At the thought, her breath snagged and she clapped a hand to her throat. An awful tightness spread through her chest, and for one wild, crazy moment, scenes from her life as she’d known it up till now flashed before her.
Nottaibhs, images called forth from her gift, these images were ripped from her heart.
She closed her eyes, the memories so clear she could almost reach out and touch them.
Her father, with his oh-so-commanding presence, almost larger than life, always plaid-wrapped and sporting his sword, would remain her forever hero. Her mother,Saint Linnetto all who knew and loved her, beautiful still, and the most caring soul she knew.
