At once, the man sounded retreat.
The sharp blast, shrill and ululant, echoed off the hills even as the standard bearer wheeled his steed in Ronan’s direction, briefly dipping the great wind-tossed banner.
That last gesture of farewell completed, Duncan MacKenzie thrust up his arm once more. His great steed reared, powerful forelegs cleaving the air before MacKenzie wrenched him around and went charging after his men.
Then they were gone, the whole glittering lot of them disappearing over the ridge.
Ronan stared at the empty air where the Black Stag had been but a moment before. “The devil himself couldn’t make such a flourish.”
Torcaill shrugged and lowered his staff. “There are many who call him a devil.”
Ronan humphed.
“That race is famed for their hot blood and flair.” Torcaill carefully slid his walking stick into a sheath tied to his saddle. “Even so, their leave-taking wouldn’t have been such a triumph hadshebeen with them.”
Ronan tensed again.
The words could have been a pail of cold water dashed in his face.
Twisting in his saddle, he glared at the druid. “Say you.”
“You know it, too.” The ancient’s eyes narrowed, looking deep. “Even if she might have left the glen unscathed, naught would have changed. She belongs here, with you.”
Ronan snorted.
He slashed the air with a denying hand.
If Gelis MacKenzie belonged in Glen Dare — with him — the fates were more than unkind.
They were cruel.
Wishing it were otherwise, he closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, he was prepared for the druid’s penetrating stare.
“Tell me again what you said earlier, Torcaill of Ancient Fame,” he pressed.
He flicked at a fold of his plaid, waiting. He kept his expression neutral.
His mind as blank as was possible.
“I would hear the words once more.”
Torcaill wagged his white-maned head. “You disappoint me, my son.”
“Humor me . . . please.”
“It is possible I have already told you more than I ought.”
Ronan edged his horse a few steps nearer to the druid’s. He leaned close. “Then there can be no harm in repeating what I have already heard.”
Torcaill drew a long breath. “When she touched you . . . you said she placed her hand on your face, brought her fingers to your lips?”
Ronan nodded.
Then he straightened, flipped his plaid over one shoulder. Why the druid found it necessary to be so explicit was beyond his ken.
It also made his face burn, much to his annoyance.
