He made her tell him again and again as he reacquainted himself with every inch of her luscious body.

It was full night before he poked a cautious head out, retrieved their clothing, then swept her into his arms and carried her up to his bed.

Where she would sleep each night, he vowed, till the end of forever.

22

Besseta Alexander sat motionless, one hand clutching her yew sticks, the other her Bible. She grimaced at her own foolishness. She knew which one was more useful, and it wasn’t the fat tome.

She’d had her vision again. Nevin, blood dripping from his lips, the woman weeping, Drustan MacKeltar scowling, and that fourth nameless presence who seemed also to be troubled by her son’s death.

What could one old woman do to defy fate? How could she, with too many years on her bones and too little vigor in her veins, avert the impending tragedy?

Nevin wouldn’t heed her pleas. She’d begged him to give up his post and return to Edinburgh, but he’d refused. She’d pretended to be grievously ill, but he’d seen through her ploys. Sometimes she wondered that the lad had sprung from her loins, so implacable was his faith in God, so resistant was he to her “sight.”

He’d forced a promise from her that she would not harm Drustan MacKeltar. In truth, she didn’t wish to harm anyone. She only wanted her son alive. But she’d begun to realize that she was going to have to harm someone or lose Nevin.

She sat rocking for time uncounted as morning slipped away into afternoon and blended with gloaming, fighting the yawning darkness in her mind.

It was full twilight, the Highlands alive with the hum of frogs and soft hooting of owls, when she heard bells jingling, voices shouting, and the thunder of horses approaching the cottage.

Besseta pushed herself from her chair, scurried to the door, and opened it a crack.

When she saw the gypsy caravan, she closed it to a hairbreadth, for the wild gypsies frightened her. She counted ten and seven wagons in the caravan, gaily decorated and pulled by prancing horses draped in silks. They thundered past, toward Balanoch.

Nevin had told her some time ago that the gypsies camped each summer near the MacKeltar estate, where they hosted a trading fair in Balanoch, told fortunes, and mingled with the village folk. There would be wild dancing and bonfires and, next year, babes with dark eyes and skin.

Besseta shuddered, closed the door, and leaned against it.

But as a possibility slowly took shape in her mind, she struggled to rise above her fears. With the gypsies’ dark arts, she could remove the threat without harming anyone. Well…not really harming anyone. The Rom sold powerful spells and enchantments cheek by jowl with their more ordinary wares. They cost dearly, but she knew where to find an illuminated gold-leafed tome that would more than cover the price for anything she sought. The longer she considered it, the more appealing the solution seemed. If she paid the gypsies to enchant the laird, she wouldn’t really be harming him; she would just be…suspending him. Indefinitely. So that Nevin might live out his life in safety and peace.

It would mean she would have to seek those wild creatures out, brave their bawdy, sinful camp, but for her beloved Nevin, she would brave anything.

Silvan and Nell had fled their perch the moment Gwen released Drustan from the garderobe.

Nell hadn’t needed to wait around to see what was going to happen next. During Drustan and Gwen’s intimate talk, she’d been surprised the door itself hadn’t gone up in flames.

She’d followed Silvan in a blind dash to his tower, where they’d collapsed on his bed, huffing and sorely out of breath from their mad race up the hundred stairs.

When her heart finally stopped pounding, she realized, with much consternation, where she perched. On the laird’s bed! Next to him! She tensed to move away.

With strong hands on her waist, he caught her before she could flee and turned her face toward his with a firm hand beneath her chin. His eyes were brimming with emotion as he searched her gaze. Deep in their brown depths, tiny golden flecks glittered. She couldn’t look away for anything. She gazed at him mutely.

Then slowly, so slowly that he gave her a thousand lifetimes to turn away, he lowered his lips toward hers.

Nell’s breath hitched in her throat. It had been twelve years since she’d kissed a man. Did she even recall how?

“It has been long since I last kissed a lass, Nellie,” he said huskily, as if sensing her fears. “I beg you be patient. You might need to remind me of the finer nuances.”

Her breath came out in a sudden rush, ending in a small moan. His admission dashed her fears. In all her years at Castle Keltar, she’d not once seen Silvan woo a woman. She’d thought he was simply discreet about his manly needs, mayhap went to the village to satisfy his urges, but was it possible he’d been as alone as she had? She wanted to ask how long but couldn’t bring herself to voice the question. No matter, for he read it in her eyes.