“Humph.” He sounded less than convinced.
Gelis lifted her chin. “You should be concerned with me,” she said, putting her best MacKenzie challenge into the words. “I am your wife, wasmeantto be your wife. Truth be told” — she met his gaze boldly — “no pair has ever been better suited.”
Silence.
Unperturbed, she poked a finger in his chest. “You know it in your heart.”
“I know I should have seen you away from this place the moment you stepped out of yon trees.” He flashed a glance toward the tall Scots pines. “That I didn’t —”
She pressed her fingers against his lips. “Perhaps the Old Ones drew us here?” She angled her head, watching him. “They have a way of kenning us better than we know ourselves. We fought the bull together. Perhaps that shared triumph was a lesson?”
“Be that as it may, you will no’ come here again.”
He released her then, stepping back to study her face, his own pale in the cold autumn light. Dark shadows were just beginning to shade the skin beneath his eyes and deep lines bracketed his mouth.
His gaze dropped to Buckie. The dog stood pressed against her, his hips a bit wobbly but his ears still perked and his hackles raised. Clearly, he had no intention of taking himself elsewhere.
Not that he could with one of the Viking tent’s tie-ropes looped around his neck in a makeshift collar, the other end held securely in her hand.
“You see,” she said, following his gaze, “we were safe all along. And” — she reached to take his hand, twining their fingers — “if the bullhadcharged us, you would have slain him first. That I know.”
Ronan harrumphed again, wishing he were as certain.
Nor did he know how they were going to make it back to Dare, especially with Buckie.
The two garrons were gone.
“We are no’ safe even now.” He pulled his hand from her grasp, turning aside to stare off in the direction the beast had taken. “He could return any moment.”
“Not that bull.”
She sounded sure of it.
Ronan eyed her, something about her tone lifting the fine hairs on his nape. “What do you mean no’that bull?”
Had she, too, noted the creature’s odd red-glowing eyes? Guessed — as he had — that the creature was bespelled?
If so, she ought to ken they were safe from him nowhere.
To be sure not here in a scarce-to-be-defended clearing with no place to hide or run should the thing have a change of heart and come thundering back again.
Instead, a hard-riding group of Dare’s best guardsmen came spurring into the clearing, the two missing garrons led behind them. They drew up fast, stout warriors all; each man a faithful stalwart, tough, seasoned, and well-hung with bristling steel.
“Ho! Ronan!” The first called, lifting a hand in greeting. “What goes on here?” He rode forward, his sharp gaze noting the collapsed Viking tent. “We heard Buckie barking and then your two mounts came crashing through the trees.”
Ronan took a deep breath, dignity not letting him show his relief at their arrival.
He’d forgotten their hidden presence.
More than evident now, they swung round into a shielding semicircle, upright and alert, their hands ready to draw swords at a single eye- blink if need be.
And clearly unaware of what had transpired.
“You did not see him, then?” Ronan turned back to Sorley, the eldest and most able guardsman.
“See who?” Sorley’s plaid rippled in the wind. “Torcaill?”
“Nae.” Ronan made a dismissive gesture. “That one is far from here . . . sprinkling Lammas ash and iron chips round our boundary markers.”
