Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel: Highland Warriors Book 2

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  “Meadowsweet?” Isobel’s brow creased. The common strewing herb wasn’t known as something to be left at graves.

  But Grim nodded. “Nought’s seneschals have always mixed meadowsweet with the floor rushes,” he explained. “Lady Aileen liked the herb’s freshening qualities. Sadly, the meadowsweet was the only thing she did like at Nought. Kendrew remembers that, so-”

  “He leaves the herb for her now.” Isobel had to remind herself to breathe.

  Seeing her struggle – her chest felt so tight - Grim’s eyes clouded with concern. His sympathy let her heart squeeze all the more.

  “So it is, my lady.” His words made it worse. “He has surely carried more meadowsweet to Rannoch Moor than would fill this glen.”

  Isobel swallowed against the thickness in her throat. “He must’ve loved her very much.”

  “He hardly knew her.” Grim glanced at the neatly laid rows of lettuce near where they stood. When he looked back at her, he studied her face for a long moment, as if deciding if he should say more.

  Above them, a cloud slipped over the sun, darkening the little garden around them. The smell of rich, loamy earth, onions, garlic, and herbs grew stronger, the pungency heavy in the air.

  A sharp wind swept down from the hills, chill, damp, and heralding rain. Isobel shivered, gooseflesh rising on her arms as Grim’s meaning dawned.

  “You’re saying he was very young.” She made the words a statement, knowing.

  Grim’s nod confirmed her guess.

  “He was a wee lad when she died.” He held her gaze as he spoke. “But he never forgot her fondness for meadowsweet. And, aye, he did love Lady Aileen. He still does, though I suspect part of the reason he visits her so often is guilt. He feels responsible for her death.”

  Isobel blinked. “What?”

  Surely she’d misheard him.

  “It is true, my lady.” Grim glanced at the lettuce again, and then a tidy cluster of rosemary. Large and solid as an ox, his shoulders were broad enough to blot her view of the revelry on the field behind them. Silver rings glinted in his beard, adding to his air of fierceness. But in that moment – as he studied the ground – he appeared weighted by a burden he couldn’t shake.

  A deep sorrow, Isobel sensed, that frustrated him because he couldn’t besiege it.

  “Kendrew believes his mother wouldn’t have died if he hadn’t been born.” Grim looked up then, his tone proving she’d guessed rightly.

  He wasn’t a warrior who lost a battle gladly.

  Yet this with Kendrew – who he clearly loved – wasn’t a skirmish fought with steel and strength. It went deeper, to a place Grim couldn’t go.

  “I’m sorry…” Isobel touched the ambers at her neck, confused. “I don’t understand. He was only a child, a very young one at that. How can he blame himself for a parent’s passing?

  “Sad, though it is” – she had to say it – “such sorrows aren’t infrequent in these hills. Life is hard. Winters cold, our larders often lacking, and no one will deny clan feuding claims a great toll.”

  “To be sure, that is so, my lady.” Grim agreed easily. “Kendrew wouldn’t argue any of that. He knows the harshness of our lands better than most. He feels as he does because his mother died while trying to take him and Marjory away from Nought.”

  He frowned a little, pausing. “She didn’t want her children raised there and left Kendrew’s father. She was taking them to her family in Glasgow, but-”

  “She died on the journey?”

  “She did, aye. Flooding rains struck when they were only halfway across the bog. Lady Aileen and her escort were trapped there for days.” Grim looked down, nudging the path’s gravel with his boot. “Kendrew’s mother caught a fever. The ladies of Rannoch saw their fire and went to help. They took Lady Aileen into their care, doing what they could. But-”

  “She didn’t make it.” Isobel tightened her fingers on the ambers.

  “She was lost, aye. Most regrettably, she passed the morning Kendrew’s father arrived at the Rannoch ladies’ encampment, searching for her.” Grim glanced up from the gravel. “Lady Aileen died in his arms, with Kendrew and Marjory looking on.”

  “Dear God.” Isobel dashed a hand across her cheek.

  Now she knew why the Rannoch light-skirts were so welcome at Nought.

  Shame at her resentment of the women swept her, twisting her insides. She pressed her hand to her breast and closed her eyes, breathing deep. Pain, sharp and lancing, stabbed the deepest part of her. Images of Kendrew and Marjory as wide-eyed, terrified children burned across her mind. She also imagined a large, stern-faced man, broken and on his knees, tears damping his cheeks as he clutched his wife to his chest, unable to revive her.

  It was too much.

  The images were ghastly, more heartbreaking than she could bear.

  “It was long ago, my lady.” Grim looked a little embarrassed, as if he regretted telling her. He shuffled his feet, fingering one of the silver rings braided into his large black beard. “Kendrew will no’ have wanted me to-”

  “I am glad to know this.” Isobel tried to put him at ease.

  She glanced at the darkening sky, not surprised that the afternoon light was fading. Rising wind lashed the trees, tossing branches as the air turned chillier and the low, angry clouds swept ever closer. Soon, the heavens would break, rain chasing the celebrants from the field into Castle Haven’s great hall.

  Secretly, Isobel wished for a downpour.

  Truth was she’d always loved rain.

  And just now…

  If the storm raged powerfully enough, Kendrew would be forced to abandon his wish to return to Nought. He might do so if Marjory wasn’t along. But she was. And Isobel knew he’d not subject his sister to riding through teeming rain and cold, howling wind.

  But there were still things she didn’t know. Nagging questions that needed answers. She wouldn’t have any peace without prodding.

  Blessedly, she doubted Grim would mind.

  “Why” – she turned back to him – “did Kendrew’s father need days to track his wife?” Isobel puzzled this, her heart lurching at the whole tale. “Surely he knew Rannoch Moor as well as anyone in these parts? And if she’d set out for Glasgow, he could’ve easily followed her, knowing the route she’d have to take.”

  “Aye, and that would’ve been the way of it.” Grim didn’t hesitate. “Sadly, Kendrew’s father didn’t know she’d headed south. Lady Aileen knew he’d come after her and so she told him she wished to visit a cousin who’d married into Clan MacKenzie, up Kintail way.”

  “I see.” Isobel looked at him, beginning to understand.

  He continued. “She tricked him, aye. It wasn’t until a passing minstrel begged a night’s lodging at Nought and mentioned having seen her and her party crossing Rannoch that Kendrew’s father realized what she’d done.” He paused as the strutting pipers marched past the garden gate, waiting until they moved on. “He set off at once, at great speed, but by then days had passed and-”

  “It was too late.” Isobel spoke softly.

  “That it was, aye.” Grim’s tone matched his name.

  “What a tragedy.” Isobel blinked against the stinging heat pricking the backs of her eyes. “And so…” She took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. “Why did Lady Aileen dislike Nought so much? Did she also not care for her husband then?”

  Grim shrugged. “Who can say? I was but a bairn in those days. Clan graybeards tell that she loved Kendrew’s father dearly. But she despised his home. She feared the wildness, hated the cold, and saw Nought as a stony province beyond the rim of civilization.”

  Isobel frowned. “I’ve never heard of a Highlander who didn’t love wild places.”

  “She wasn’t a Highlander.” He said that as if it explained everything. “She was Glaswegian, used to the bustle of Glasgow and all the comforts and luxuries found there. Her father was a wealthy merchant and arranged the marriage so she would have a title to go with
her genteel ways. Lady Aileen was a great lady, she was.

  “So say all who knew her.” His voice was low, his tone respectful. “The pity is her ladylike delicacy brought her doom. She didn’t have the heart or backbone to love Nought as true Mackintoshes do. What we see as stirring, she viewed as desolate and barren, even threatening. The cold, dark mists carried doom and falling rock from a landslide could strike her children.

  “So...” Grim spread his hands. “Her fear for Kendrew and Marjory drove her away, turning them into orphans when she meant to save them.”

  “Yet they didn’t need rescuing.”

  “Nae, my lady.” He looked at her intently, seeming pleased by her words. “Nought land loves us as much as we revere each dark curl of mist and every inch of the rocky, broken ground, the deep, black lochans, and sheer precipices of our cliffs. To us, such wildness is beauty and as much as part of us as our own breath and blood pulsed through every stone.

  “Alas” – he glanced over the garden wall at the sweeping green of the battle site, the thick pines edging the field’s length – “even some Highlanders cannae appreciate the starkness that is Nought. For Lady Aileen, such a savage place felt hostile, seeming like hell.”

  “Nought would be heaven to me.” The admission slipped past Isobel’s lips before she could catch herself.

  She didn’t want to sound disrespectful of Kendrew’s late mother.

  A woman whose sad fate was surely the reason for Kendrew’s aversion to ladies.

  Or perhaps better said, his refusal to let a lady touch his heart.

  Drawing boundaries kept one safe.

  Yet she knew Kendrew was a brave man. A warrior more fearless than most, except in this one matter. But she was equally bold. She was also prepared to be as daring as necessary to win his heart.

  Thanks to Grim, she could arm herself accordingly.

  “You, my lady, are a treasure any man would be honored to call his own.” Grim stepped forward and took her hand, lowering his head to brush his lips across the air just above her knuckles.

  “Though, I must warn you” – he straightened, releasing her hand – “that Kendrew will never forget the past. He loves Nought fiercely, but he’s vowed that no gentlewoman will ever again come to harm for-”

  “Lady Aileen took a fever because she was trapped in cold and rain for days.” Isobel lifted her chin, adamant. “She didn’t fall ill because black winds raced across Nought’s ramparts or a mist-wraith brushed past her, tragic through her end was.”

  Grim eyed her for a long moment, then the corner of his mouth quirked in a smile. “So I have told him many times, my lady.”

  “Then perhaps he should hear it from someone else?” Isobel returned his smile.

  “That would be very fine.” Grim’s smile spread to his eyes.

  “Then” – Isobel rubbed her arms against the day’s growing chill – “perhaps you might do what you can to ensure he stays for the feasting?”

  “It would be my pleasure.” Grim inclined his head, respectfully.

  “I am pleased to hear that, Sir Grim.” Isobel folded her hands at her waist, hoping he couldn’t see that she was much more than pleased.

  Hope and anticipation quickened her pulse. Excitement made her heart beat faster, and she was sure that if Grim looked closely, he’d see the blood drumming low at the base of her throat.

  It was all she could do to stand calmly by as he bowed and then turned to stride down the gravel path and out the garden gate.

  For the first time since the trial by combat, victory hovered within her reach. Grim had given her the means to understand Kendrew. And the wonder of such an advantage curled like sweet warmth around her heart. If she used the knowledge wisely, she could make him see reason. He’d look past the barriers he kept around himself and realize they were meant for each other.

  Nothing could go wrong.

  But when she smoothed her hands down over her silver-and-gold threaded tunic, preparing to rejoin the revelers at the memorial cairn, her amber necklace began to warm against her neck. The stones hummed and vibrated, the pulsing heat inside them increasing with each step she took along the kitchen garden’s path.

  “Nae.” Isobel spoke the word firmly, denying what she didn’t want to know.

  Instead, she let herself out the gate and went in search of Kendrew.

  There could be no danger in loving him.

  The ambers erred.

  And even if they were right, so be it.

  She had no intention of heeding their warning.

  * * *

  Hours later, Kendrew stood in the shadows of Castle Haven’s entry arch, trying not to notice that his men – all proud, battle-hardened warriors – had succumbed to the lure of well-filled ale cups and fetching, bouncing-breasted serving lasses. To a man, his gruff, hard-faced champions whirled and stamped across the cleared dancing space in the Cameron great hall. Each bushy-bearded bugger wore a foolish grin and held an enemy wench in his arms as they jigged, twirled, and leaped to the scream of pipes and the lively tones of an admittedly talented MacDonald fiddler.

  It was galling.

  Kendrew’s Berserker heart roared protest, his disgust so thick he could taste it.

  He wanted no part of such folly.

  So he folded his arms and resisted the urge to lean his weary shoulders against the curving wall. He was tired. And one of his feet had gone to sleep because James Cameron’s ancient pest of dog – Hector? – had sprawled across his foot and promptly fallen into a deep slumber. The dog’s thin snores and the lightness of the beast’s aged, bony body, made it impossible to disturb him.

  Kendrew was a warrior of great renown.

  Countless enemies had tasted the bite of Blood Drinker’s razor-sharp beard. And he’d cut down as many with a sword and spear, never sparing his challengers a blink before sending them into the Otherworld.

  His bare hands served as well, when need arose.

  Such was life for a Highland warrior.

  But he wasn’t cruel to animals, not even those belonging to his foes. He even tolerated Hercules, his sister’s flea-sized excuse for a canine. He wouldn’t even harm the wee beastie if the little bastard bit him. It took courage and heart for a creature so tiny to snarl at a man his size. Those were qualities he admired. Hercules also amused him. Not that he’d ever admit it.

  He did allow himself a fierce scowl.

  The needle-jab prickles in his foot were starting to creep up his leg. Cramps were setting in and twice now, his knee threatened to buckle. As annoying, the rousing, energetic skirls of the pipes and fiddle offended his ears, the noise beginning to make his head ache.

  His men’s hoots and gleeful shouts irritated most of all.

  The weasels had clearly forgotten where they were.

  Kendrew hadn’t.

  Even in the vastness of the Cameron hall, now filled with smoke haze and the tantalizing smell of good, roasting meat, one scent lingered in the air. And its fresh lightness teased and taunted him, making him crazy as it seemed to repeatedly drift beneath his nose.

  It was the scent of spring violets.

  He suspected he only imagined the fragrance, which made its persistence all the more vexing.

  When a man scented a woman even in her absence, he was in deep trouble.

  Thor was also having a time with him, he was sure.

  Why else would he rip open the heavens, letting great, boiling masses of black-green thunderheads race in to spoil the day’s ceremony with torrents of drenching rain and cold, gusting wind?

  Gods were aye jesting with mortal men.

  And what better joke than trapping Kendrew at Castle Haven when all he wanted was to leave?

  He would have done, too. Rain and wind be damned.

  The truth was he thrived in such storms. The more wild and raw the weather, the faster his blood raced. But he wouldn’t expose his sister to the elements. Not even if she did deserve a chilling to her marrow, a stout dousing that w
ould bring her to her senses and banish her moony-eyed yearnings for a certain brine-drinking, web-footed jackal. She’d clearly taken leave of her wits.

  And he – Kendrew’s entire body stiffened – would swear the scent of spring violets was intensifying.

  He also heard the soft swish of silk.

  “Odin’s balls.” He fisted his hands and drew a tight breath as the lady herself sailed out of the crowded hall to stand before him.

  Hector popped open his eyes and struggled to his feet, his scraggly tail wagging.

  Kendrew wasn’t about to show such adoration.

  “Lady Isobel.” He inclined his head, emphasizing her title.

  “Laird Mackintosh,” she spoke just as coolly. “You are missed on the dais. My brother saved a place for you at the high table.”

  “I am fine here.” He was anything but fine.

  It wasn’t easy to speak when he was trying not to breathe. Each time he inhaled, the heady scent of spring violets flooded his senses. He also could do without the torchlight shining on her glossy black hair, the sight making his fingers itch to undo her braids.

  Indeed, he burned to do more than loosen her hair.

  And the knowledge – his capitulation – infuriated him beyond reason.

  “I can’t sit at your high table.” He knew he sounded the fool, but couldn’t stop the words. “Blood Drinker isn’t pleased propped in thon corner.” He jerked his head to where all the men’s weapons rested near the hall door. “He’ll tarnish if I leave him.”

  “He’ll do no such thing.” Isobel glanced at the huge war ax, raging so much higher than the long swords leaning against the wall. “Though” – she looked back at Kendrew, her dark eyes twinkling – “I am much impressed by the lengths you go to avoid me.

  “Why, next you’ll tell me that Blood Drinker has advised you against consorting with black-haired females.” Her lips curved in an irresistible smile.

  Kendrew frowned. “You tread on thin ground, Lady Isobel.”

  She glanced at the floor, all innocence as she lifted her gaze to meet his. “I see solid stone strewn with rushes. Can it be” – she raised an elegant black brow – “that your eyes are failing?”