Kiss of the Highlander (23 page)

Although Silvan knew they needed to rebuild the Keltar line, he suspected marriage between Drustan and the Elliott lass would entail a lifetime of deception that would inevitably result in misery for both of them.

A wee bampot, was she, this Gwen Cassidy? Silvan wasn’t so certain about that.

         
16
         
 

Besseta Alexander fumbled above the mantel for
her yew sticks, dread coiling like a venomous snake in the pit of her stomach. A deeply superstitious woman, her charms were as necessary to her as the air she breathed. Of late she’d taken to scrying daily, frantic to discover what threat was moving ever nearer her son.

When she and Nevin had first moved to Castle Keltar, she’d been thrilled to return to the Highlands. No flatlander was she; she’d ached for many years to return to the misty caps, shimmery lochs, and heathery moors of her youth. The Highlands were closer to the heavens, even the moon and stars seemed within reach atop the mountains.

Nevin’s post was a prime one, priest to an ancient and wealthy clan. Here he could live out his life in security and contentment, with no risk of the kind of battles in which she’d lost her other sons, for the MacKeltar housed the second-finest garrison in all of Alba, second only to the King.

Aye, for the first fortnight she’d been elated. But then, shortly after their arrival, she’d cast her yew sticks and seen a dark cloud on her horizon rolling inexorably nearer. Try as she might, she’d been unable to coax her sticks
or
her runes
or
her tea leaves to tell her more.

Just a darkness. A darkness that threatened her only remaining son.

And then, the last time she’d read them, the darkness had extended to one of Silvan’s sons, but she’d been unable to determine which one.

Sometimes she felt that great sucking darkness was reaching for
her
, trying to drag her into it. She would sit for hours, clutching her ancient runes, tracing their shapes, rocking back and forth until the panic eased. Vague fear had been her lifelong companion, even as a small lass. She dare not lose Nevin, lest those shadows gain substance and tear at her with wicked claws.

Sighing, she smoothed her hair with trembling fingers, then cast the sticks upon the table. Had she cast them with Nevin in the hut, she would have gotten yet another tedious lecture about God and His mysterious ways.

Thank you very much, lad, but I trust my sticks, not your invisible God who refuses to answer me when I ask Him why He gets four of my sons and I get only one.

Studying the design, the coil in her belly tightened. Her sticks had fallen in the identical pattern they’d formed last week. Danger—but she had no way of knowing from what quarter. How was she to prevent it if she knew not whence it came? She
dare
not fail with her fifth and final son. Alone, that hungry blackness would get her, carry her off into what must surely be the oblivion of hell.

“Tell me more,” she beseeched. “I can’t do anything until I know which lad presents the danger to my son.”

Despairing, she gathered them, then suddenly changed her mind and did something a good fortune-teller rarely risked lest evil forces, ever attuned to fear and despair, cunningly ply a false design upon the limbs. She cast them again, a second time, in quick succession to the first.

Fortunately, the fates were inclined to be gentle and generous, for when the sticks clattered upon the table, she was granted a vision—a thing that had happened only once before in her life. Etched in her mind’s eye, she clearly saw the eldest MacKeltar lad—Drustan—scowling, she heard the sound of a woman weeping, and she saw her son, blood dripping from his lips. Somewhere in the vision she sensed a fourth person but couldn’t bring that person’s face into focus.

After a moment, she decided the fourth person must not be relevant to Nevin’s danger since she couldn’t see him or her. Mayhap an innocent onlooker.

The woman weeping must be the woman her sticks had told her would kill her son—the lady that Drustan MacKeltar would wed. She squeezed her eyes shut but could glimpse only a wee form and golden hair, not a woman she’d e’er seen before.

The vision faded, leaving her shaking and drained.

She had to somehow put a stop to things before Drustan MacKeltar wed.

She knew he was betrothed—all of Alba knew he was betrothed for the fourth time—but Nevin was infuriatingly closemouthed about the occupants of Castle Keltar. She had no idea when the wedding was to be, or even when the bride would be arriving.

Of late, the more she pried for news from her son, the more recalcitrant he became. He was hiding things from her, and that frightened her. When they’d first arrived, he’d spoken freely about the castle and its occupants; now it was rare for him to mention anything about his days at the castle but for tedious details concerning his work on the chapels.

The Alexander’s hut nestled in a valley on the outskirts of Balanoch, nearly twenty furlongs from the castle proper. Nevin, overseeing the renovation of two chapels on the estate, walked each day, but such a tiring journey was beyond her aching joints and swollen limbs. Walking to Balanoch, a furlong to the south, was possible, and on good days she could manage five or more, but twenty and back again were impossible.

If she couldn’t wheedle the information from her son, mayhap, if the weather held, she could walk to the village.

Nevin was all she had left, and no one—not the MacKeltar, not the church, nay, not even God—was taking her last son away.

“Here, horse, horse, horse,” Gwen cooed.

The creature in question peeled back its lips, showing frightfully large teeth, and she hastily retracted her hand. Ears flattened, tail swishing, it regarded her balefully.

Ten minutes ago the groom had brought two horses out of the stable and tied them loosely to a post near the door. Drustan had led the largest one off without a backward glance, leaving her alone with the other. It had taken every bit of her nerve to trudge up to it, and there she stood near the door of the stables, trying to
woo
the infernal thing.

Mortified, she glanced over her shoulder, but Drustan was several yards away, conversing with the stable master. At least he wasn’t watching her make a fool of herself. She was city born and raised, by God. How was she supposed to know what to do with a thousand pounds of muscle, hair, and teeth?

She tried again, this time with no tempting appendage proffered, merely a sweet murmur, but the obstinate creature nonchalantly lifted its tail and a warm stream hissed on the ground.

Hastily snatching her slippered foot from the line of fire, she arched a brow, nostrils flaring. So much for thinking this day was going to be better than last night.

It had begun with promise. A half dozen maids had toted up a steaming bath and she’d gratefully soaked her still-tender-from-lovemaking body. Then Nell had brought breakfast and coffee to her chamber. Fueled by caffeine-induced optimism after gulping the dark, delicious brew, she’d dressed and strolled off to find Drustan, to continue her efforts to convince him of the danger he was in. But the moment she’d walked into the Greathall, Drustan had informed her they were going to the village. On horses.

Gwen cast a dubious glance at the beast. She’d never met a horse in person, and now she was supposed to entrust her small self to that monstrous, muscular, haughty creature? It reminded her of Drustan in both stature and demeanor. And it didn’t like her any more than she trusted it.

Oh, the horse was beautiful, and at first she’d admired its lovely doelike eyes and silky nose, but it also had sharp hooves, big teeth, and a tail that—
ouch!
Kept flicking her across the rump every time she got too close.

“Here, horse, horse, horse,” she muttered, tentatively extending her hand again. She held her breath as the horse made a soft whinnying sound and nudged its nose toward her fingers. At the last minute her resolve slipped and, envisioning strong white teeth neatly nipping her fingers off, she fisted her hand, and the horse, of course, turned away and flattened its ears again.

Swish!

Behind her, Drustan watched with amazement.

“Have you never seen a horse before, lass? They doona answer to ‘horse.’ They have no idea they are horses. ’Tis like sauntering into the forest, saying, ‘Here, boar, boar, boar. I should like to roast you for dinner.’”

She shot a startled, embarrassed look over her shoulder. “Of
course
I’ve seen a horse before.” Her brows puckered and she added sheepishly, “In a book. And don’t get all cocky on me; you should have seen your face when you saw a car for the first time.”

“A car?”

“In my time we have…wagons that need no horses to pull them.”

He scoffed and dismissed her statement completely. “So you’ve never ridden a horse,” he remarked dryly, tossing himself up into his saddle. It was a lovely motion, full of casual grace, supreme confidence, and male power to the N
^th
degree.

It made her downright irritable. “Show-off.”

He tossed her a lazy grin. “Although I’ve not heard that before, ’twould seem you weren’t complimenting me.”

“It means arrogant and smug, flaunting your skill.”

“One must work with what one has.” His eyes lingered on her lips, then dropped to her breasts, before he dragged his gaze away.

“I saw that. Don’t look at me like that. You’re betrothed,” she said stiffly, resenting Anya Elliott clear down to the marrow in her bones.

“Och, but I’m not yet wed,” he muttered, looking at her from beneath his brows.

“
That
is a despicable attitude.”

He shrugged. “ ‘Tis the way of men.” He wasn’t about to discuss his true beliefs on the issue with her. His true beliefs were one reason why his attraction to her disturbed him so much. He’d far prefer to be chaste for at least a few weeks before his wedding, and once wed would not stray. Yet she was an irresistible temptation.

But he was strong. He would resist her. To prove it, he smiled down at her.

What was his deal today? Gwen wondered suspiciously. She knew he hadn’t decided to believe her—she’d overheard him talking with Dageus before he’d seen her entering the hall. He’d said he was taking her to the village to see if anyone recognized her.

“I can walk,” she announced.

“It’s a day’s walk,” he lied, and shrugged again. “But if you wish to walk twenty furlongs…” Without further ado, he turned his mount and slowly started off. She trailed along behind him, muttering under her breath.