“So I erred.” His great shoulders dipped as he stared at the heavy black lines scrawled across the parchment.
“You didn’t err. You were fooled . . . and by a master at deception. The Holder clearly guised himself as one of Kintail’s men.” Ronan put his hand on the older man’s shoulder, pleased when they lifted again, squaring.
Even more pleased when Valdar’s chest swelled and his face reddened with fury.
Rage was good.
He’d feared a different reaction.
“The lying jackal!” Valdar roared suddenly, crumpling the scroll in his fist. “So they’ve returned at last, the double-dyed ring-tailed dastards! And this time armed with belly wind and lies!”
“We do not know that.” Ronan hated the admission, but it had to be made. “Too much is at stake not to take the warning seriously.”
Valdar’s brows shot upward. “Dinna tell me you mean to meet the bastard?”
“I see no choice.” Ronan ran a hand through his hair, released a breath. “Not if my lady’s life is in danger.”
Something inside him twisted at the possibility she’d be harmed by someone at Dare.
The very notion jellied his knees.
“Then I’ll go with you.” Valdar swung away from him and snatched up his Viking axe. “ ’Tis overlong since Blood Drinker quenched his thirst!”
“Nae.” Ronan took the axe from him and hung it back on the wall. “You and Blood Drinker will stay here — someone needs to look after Gelis.”
And keep a sharp eye on everyone else.
He frowned. Those words, too, lodged in his throat, the meaning behind them too horrible to voice.
But Valdar had puffed up his chest and jammed his hands on his hips, once again looking much younger — and stronger — than his years.
“I will do as Dungal Tarnach proposes.” Ronan spoke before he could change his mind. “I’ll meet him at the Tobar Ghorm and I’ll go there alone.”
Valdar snorted.
“If you make it!” Striding back to the table, he poured himself another cup ofuisge beatha, draining it in one quick gulp. “The loch surrounding the Blue Well’s islet is vile. ’Tis known to be infested with nameless creatures, it is. Dark, terrible things much worse than water horses and water bulls. Things —”
Ronan cut him off with a hand wave. “Be that as it may, I can’t risk not going.”
Valdar harrumphed. “I still dinna like it.”
“Neither do I,” Ronan agreed.
But he’d like it even less if he ignored such an opportunity and ill befell his lady.
His lady and Valdar and even himself.
Since time immemorial — or, to be specific, since Valdar stole the Holders’ Raven Stone — the turned druids had reviled Clan MacRuari, vowing their ruination unless the powerful stone was returned to them.
If they’d now won a MacRuari as an accomplice, no chances could be taken. Frowning, Ronan picked up the parchment and reread the boldly inked lines.
Even on a second reading, they galled.
“I’ll ne’er believe it.” Valdar snatched the scroll and tossed it into the fire. “There isn’t a man at Dare who’d turn coat on us.”
“Mercy on the man’s soul if there is.” Ronan watched the parchment blacken and burn. “He’ll no’ live long enough to e’er change sides again.”
But a short while later, as he paced Dare’s rainswept battlements, needing the night’s cold brittle air and icy wind to clear his mind, it wasn’t the possibility of a betrayer that twisted him in knots.
