“Nae.” Ronan pulled a hand down over his chin. “I am just . . .”
“You are —”
“Ach, lass! I would know what filled your mind with such folderol!” He jammed his hands on his hips, the dangers she’d faced taking his breath. “Such folly could have been the end of you! Traipsing alone through Glen Dare, a milky-eyed, nigh-toothless dog as your sole protection —”
She laughed again, her gaze flitting to the great awning of her Norsemen’s tent.
“I rode out with more guards than e’er accompanied me on a day’s outing from Eilean Creag,” she tossed back at him, her chin lifting. “You just haven’t seen them because I ordered them to leave me be, to stay within guarding distance, but well out of sight.”
“Dare guardsmen are here?” Ronan glanced round, seeing no sign of them.
“They are . . . everywhere.”
Ronan almost laughed.
Seldom had he heard a better description of his grandfather’s garrison.
And of a sudden, he could feel them, too.
Not their eyes, they were too well-trained for such an intrusion. But their presence came to him now, a wall of massed strength and vigilance, waiting and watching as always.
Only he had been caught off guard.
His senses fooled by creeping shadows moving through the whin and broom, a brightly colored swatch of striped sailcloth, and the curling blue drift of wood-and-peat smoke rising on the cold morning air.
“They set the fire for you.” He made the words a statement. “Built yon Viking tent —”
“So you know it’s a Norseman’s shelter?”
“Save us — to be sure, I know.”
“ But —”
“Sakes, lass.”
He stood straighter, all the pride of the hills behind him. “Any Heilander who’s sailed the Hebridean seaboard would recognize such sail-screens.”
He rocked back on his heels, pleased with his knowledge. “I saw the sailcloth tents in my youth when my father took me on a journey through the Western Isles. ’Twas a sight I ne’er forgot, the colorful encampments of the Islesmen, those who still clung to Nordic ways.”
“I am pleased you know of them.” She tossed her head and smiled again. “When I heard that Glen Dare has more mist than other glens, I thought such a shelter might serve us well. My sister and I have used them on our travels and ne’er has a drop of rain spoiled our night’s sleep.”
Ronan’s gut tightened.
Rain and wind were the least of Glen Dare’s nuisances.
“I have more Viking gifts for you,” she said before he could tell her.
Spinning around, she dashed for the shelter, hair swinging and hips swaying. “A fine Nordic armlet of heavy gold, inlaid with gemstones,” she called over her shoulder, “brought back from Orkney by my cousin Kenneth.”
Reaching the awning, she ducked beneath its flap, disappearing into the shadows only to reappear a moment later, a gleaming gold armpiece clutched in her hand.
“This, too, hails from Orkney.” She hurried back to him, brandishing the thing as she came. “My father gave it to me years ago and I’ve been saving it for you.”
“For me?” Ronan blinked, at first not comprehending.
By the time he did, it was too late.
A mist wraith had wound itself around one of the tent’s tie-ropes. Inching ever higher, it was already quite near to the tent flap, its whole quivering, transparent length very close to where Lady Gelis stood, eyes shining.
