Ronan frowned.
From behind, his horse nudged him in the shoulder.
Buckie barked and wriggled from his arms . . . then bolted off down the path before Ronan could seize him.
If anyone was of a mind to call the dog’s loping, loose-limbed, hinky-hipped trot a bolt.
He had other worries.
Vikings had settled in the glen!
The evidence was clearly visible . . . winking at him through the trees: a great and colorful sailcloth awning — the marauding Norsemen’s favoredtent— curving proudly near the jumble of outcropping rock at the head of Creag na Gaoith’s nameless little lochan.
Boldly striped in red, blue, and gold, the shelter appeared open on one side, revealing — if he wasn’t mistaken — a crude wood-planked floor within.
A well-laden trestle table and a bench piled high with cushions.
“By all that’s holy!” He blinked.
Then he shook his head, knuckled his eyes.
The Viking tent didn’t go away.
Far from it, Buckie suddenly appeared from around one of the supporting poles. Capering like a hinky-hipped puppy, he put his nose to the ground, sniffing at a securely fastened tie-rope before bounding over to a well-doing cookfire close to the lochan’s edge.
The cook fire he’d smelled . . . complete with a haunch of spit-roasted beef.
Dare beef, like as not.
Determined to find out, he wheeled about and swung up into his saddle. He whipped out his blade, raising it high. But before he could spur his horse and thunder into the clearing,shestepped into his path.
“My husband — I greet you!” She beamed up at him, all light and laughter, her amber eyes dancing. “I dare say you took your time in getting here.”
Ronan nearly choked.
Worse, he could hardly breathe.
Full of vigor and feminine spirit, she peered up at him. “I’d begun to despair that you’d come.”
“You, my lady, look anything but despairing.”
“So I would hope!” She hitched up her skirts and twirled. “Though I am not exactly dressed for a feasting-in-the-wild, having left Dare in such haste this morn,” she announced, laughing.
“A feasting?” Ronan could scarce get out the words.
Her smile dimpled.
“Our nuptial celebrations,” she emphasized, pointing to the striped sailcloth awning. “Meats, libations, and more await your pleasure.”
My pleasure would be knowing you safe within Dare’s walls.
The words jammed in his throat.
His fool arm appeared stuck as well, frozen in place above his head, his fingers clasped tight around his leather-wrapped sword hilt, the long steely blade shining in the wood’s dim lighting.
He winced, wishing he could sink beneath the nearest bog pool.
She rattled on, clearly unaware of his discomfort. “Every succulent delicacy that was tossed out our bedchamber window is on yon table,” she enthused, looking more fetching than ought to be allowed. “I went to the kitchens and secured the untouched remains from your cook.”
