Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel: Highland Warriors Book 2

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  Just thinking of such a fabled creature filled Marjory’s mouth with the taste of bitter ash.

  Not that she’d wish a cretin upon him.

  On second thought, perhaps she would.

  She also needed to know the truth.

  So she took a deep breath and spoke her mind. “It is rumored you’re to take a Mackinnon bride. That plans have been made and-”

  “Is it now?” He looked amused. “Folk must’ve been mightily bored to spread such prattle. I’m wed to the glen, lass. Keeping peace is enough to occupy me. I’ve more to do than look for a wife.”

  “So it’s not true?”

  “Nae.” He touched her face again, lifting her chin as he let his gaze slide over her, lingering just long enough at her amber necklace to show that he recognized the gemstones as belonging to his clan. Believed enchanted, the ambers had passed to her through Alasdair’s sister, Catriona, and then by way of another friend, her brother’s wife, Isobel.

  “The ambers...” Marjory waited until he looked up. “I hope you don’t mind I wear them?”

  “Nae, I am glad that you do.” He trailed his finger along the sensitive skin beneath her ear, his touch making her blood quicken. “I’d heard Lady Isobel gave you the ambers at her wedding celebration. They suit you well.”

  “I treasure them.” She did.

  “As you should.” He looked at her, his expression unreadable. “They’re a clan heirloom, no’ a mere adornment.”

  “That I know.” Marjory hoped her face didn’t reveal that, to her, the stones were much more.

  She and her two friends shared a secret pact, the amber necklace sealing their oath to foster peace between the three clans who shared the glen.

  Catriona and Isobel had kept their vows. They’d each wed the chieftain of one of the other clans, erstwhile foes allied through nuptial bliss.

  Marjory was the last, her part of the plan as yet unfulfilled. She’d hoped for a match with Alasdair, a union she’d been confident to achieve. Instead, he’d ignored her and then vanished.

  He hadn’t made it easy.

  And now…

  He’d returned a stranger.

  Still a man who put duty above all else, and no less handsome than before, yet there was a new and hard edge to him, a boldness that hinted at a fierce will she doubted would bend even for her.

  “Some say the ambers are charmed.” His voice held a teasing note, reminding her that he scoffed at such notions. “Whate’er you believe, they hail from the same ancient amber hoard as the stone in my sword pommel.” He patted the blade’s hilt, drawing her attention to the gleaming gold at its head. “My enemies swear the amber’s powers aid me in battle. The truth is” – he winked – “any man’s skill with a sword has more to do with muscle and long years of practice.

  “Though I’ll own Mist-Chaser is a fine brand.” He hooked his thumbs in his sword belt, his pride evident. “Many of my bitterest foes have bloodied her steel. She’s a thirsty lass when unsheathed.”

  “I’ve no doubt.” Marjory felt a chill, once again struck by how much he’d changed.

  He’d always been a fierce warrior, his reputation made by the sword.

  Now he struck her as almost ruthless.

  A man who’d let no one take what was his. And who’d gladly send his enemies to the darkest, coldest end of hell. But then his smile deepened, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that made her insides flutter.

  He truly was the most dashing man she’d ever seen.

  As if he knew, he leaned toward her and smoothed her hair back from her face, his touch unleashing a wealth of shivery sensation.

  “I’m glad you have such faith in my skill.” The look on his face said he meant something other than swordplay.

  Something intimate, forbidden, and darkly exciting.

  Marjory’s heart raced.

  Hope soared and she began to imagine him stepping closer, perhaps even lowering his mouth to hers for a kiss. His hands sweeping around her, pulling her against him as he-

  “I owe my skill to my grandsire who put a wooden practice sword in my hand almost as soon as I took my first steps.” His words shattered her burgeoning bliss, making clear that she’d misread him. “What he didn’t teach me, I learned on the field. Often enough fighting Mackintoshes,” he added, sounding pleased to remind her.

  “Did you come here to fight us this morn?” She set her hands on her hips, straightened her spine.

  He was well-armed. He wore his sword strapped low on his hip and a dirk winked from beneath his belt. A quick glance at his feet showed an extra dagger tucked into his boot.

  He followed her glance. “Dinnae worry. I’ll no’ be lopping off anyone’s head. But” – his voice hardened – “there are always those who’d turn a fairground into a battlefield. The greater fool is a man who forgets suchlike are about.”

  “You mean my brother.”

  “I meant anyone who’d disturb the glen’s peace. Such gatherings attract more than good hill folk and innocent wayfarers.”

  “You expect trouble?” She shot a glance at the MacDonald guardsmen near the wood’s edge, noting that they’d followed their chieftain’s lead. Steel glinted from beneath their plaids, proving they wore more arms than was appropriate for a harvest fair.

  Marjory drew a tight breath. The Glen of Many Legends had seen enough bloodshed.

  “This ground has run red more often than it should.” She nudged the grass, a wave of protectiveness rising inside her. “It doesn’t need another drenching.”

  Alasdair turned her to him, his hands on her shoulders. “The glen is quiet these days. So long as I have breath in me it will remain so. The arms are a precaution.”

  “Something is bothering you.” She could feel it, see it in his eyes.

  “Aye, that is true.” He didn’t deny it. “And it’s naught to do with my hairy-legged kinsmen and how many swords they’re carrying. It has to do with you.” Gripping her elbows, he drew her into the shaded arch of a flower-covered bower. “See here, lass-”

  “I see you’re inviting trouble pulling me in here.” Marjory didn’t care for his tone, so gave him her airiest in return. A few moments ago, she might’ve welcomed entering a bower with him. Now…

  She stood firm, not letting him maneuver her deeper into the shadows. “If Kendrew-”

  “He is no’ my master.” His face hardened. “No man is that and any who thinks otherwise lives dangerously.”

  “He’s in an ill temper of late.”

  “His mood will worsen if he crosses me.” Alasdair set his hand on his sword hilt. “If he grieves you, he’ll no’ live to have a mood.”

  “He means well, even if I don’t always agree with him. And I’m used to his bluster.” She didn’t say how good she was at outfoxing him.

  There were some things men needn’t know.

  She glanced past Alasdair’s shoulder at the three banners flying from Castle Haven’s walls. Sited in the heart of the glen, Haven was a Cameron holding and hosted each year’s early harvest fair and market. In olden days, only the Camerons’ snarling dog pennant overlooked the festivities. Since a trial by combat settled glen disputes two years before, Mackintosh and MacDonald pennants were also raised.

  The banners vouched for the clans’ amity, declaring erstwhile foes were now allies, if not friends.

  Her brother disagreed.

  In his eyes, and despite the truce pressed on the glen by King Robert III, Alasdair remained a reviled and much-resented enemy.

  Marjory felt otherwise.

  She also knew she was the reason for her brother’s growing temper.

  If things continued as she hoped, his annoyance would only increase. Unbeknownst to him, she undid his every machination, employing wit and daring to ensure that each suitor he found soon withdrew his interest. She’d become adept at persuasion, flattery, pleading when need be, and offering coin when all else failed. Some were skills she wasn’t proud of. But she wouldn’t
allow Kendrew to wed her against her will.

  So she did what she must.

  Fortune blessed the bold.

  To that end, she couldn’t miss meeting the one-eyed Viking who’d agreed to carry her own letter rather than Kendrew’s to his master.

  A decline she’d penned in Kendrew’s name.

  “I must be away.” She moved to edge past Alasdair, back to the open space before the cloth stalls.

  “No’ yet, sweet.” He didn’t budge. Far from it, she’d swear he grew to fill the bower’s arched entry. “I’ll have a word with you, and then you can be on your way.”

  Marjory frowned. “We’ve already had words.”

  “No’ the important ones.” Stepping closer, he placed his hands on either side of her shoulders, backing her against the flowered wall and trapping her there. “The MacDonald ambers suit you.” His gaze flickered to the gemstones. “You should wear them always.”

  “I do.” Marjory lifted a hand to the necklace. The stones rested cool and smooth against her skin. A sign, if legend spoke true, that all was good in her world, no threat or danger imminent.

  A pity the necklace didn’t seem to warn of MacDonalds.

  In particular, their chieftain.

  Tall, hard-muscled, and with a proud, open face, he’d captivated her the first time she’d seen him. That’d been two years ago, several days before the trial by combat. Alasdair rode to her home, Castle Nought, to warn Kendrew of suspected treacheries, sharing his suspicions about strangers he’d seen in the glen.

  Kendrew scoffed at the warning. He also ignored the famed Highland courtesy shown to guests, regardless of name. He would’ve set Alasdair before the door if Marjory hadn’t intervened. Nought might be remote, perched on the stony cliffs that formed the glen’s most rugged territory, but Marjory took care that all guests were well met. Alasdair’s arrival merited lavish hospitality, including clean, warm bedding for the MacDonald party and hot baths before they’d retired. Willing kitchen lasses had provided additional comforts to those men desiring.

  Kendrew had been outraged, his behavior barely civil.

  Marjory lost her heart.

  She’d never met anyone as compelling as Alasdair. No man had ever looked at her so heatedly, his smoldering gaze starting a fire that burned in her dreams for days and months after his visit.

  Sadly, she suspected he’d allowed his gaze to devour her so boldly simply to rile her brother.

  Here in the bower, he was eyeing her the same way. Only now she knew he couldn’t help it. He surely looked at all women so hungrily. A shame his intensity still made her breath come unsteadily. Equally annoying, sunlight fell into the bower to gleam on his rich auburn hair. And like his isle-girt holding, the scent of the sea clung to him, along with a hint of cold wind and salt air.

  A heady mix, it made her behave foolishly.

  Unable to stop herself, hope beginning to flare again, she touched a finger to his plaid, tracing the detail of a soft, well-worn fold. “What is this important matter you wished to discuss?”

  He leaned closer, his breath warm on her cheek.

  Any moment he’d kiss her. A hot and ravenous kiss, full of passion.

  Sure of it, she splayed her fingers across his plaid, aware of his warmth, the hard, steady beat of his heart. She moistened her lips in readiness, waiting. She almost closed her eyes, but didn’t.

  She wanted the triumph of seeing him lower his mouth to hers.

  “Well?” She lifted a brow. “What did you want of me?”

  “I would ask you to send me word if ever you see anything strange at Nought.” He spoke bluntly. He also gripped her wrist, lowering her hand from his chest. “Travelers who might not be what they seem or” – he straightened – “a shifting in shadows when nothing is there. I do no’ trust your brother’s instincts.” He spoke briskly, all chiefly business. “I believe you’d notice a threat faster.”

  “I see.” Marjory did. And she didn’t like what she saw.

  She’d flattered herself.

  Alasdair hadn’t drawn her into the bower to kiss her.

  He hoped to engage her watchfulness at Nought, the northernmost and least accessible corner of the glen. In Mackintosh hands since time beginning, it was a forbidding place of sheer cliffs and deep gorges. Strange outcroppings and ancient cairns known as the dreagan stones lent Nought an air of mystery and danger. Few souls dared to tread there save her kinsmen.

  Many who did vowed they’d never return.

  Now and then, broken men and other undesirables attempted to slip through Nought unseen. As they rarely emerged, it was rumored Nought’s dreagans stalked and ate them.

  Or so clan graybeards liked to claim, boasting that the stony-scaled beasties believed to sleep beneath the dreagan cairns wouldn’t tolerate the passage of evildoers on sacred clan lands.

  Just now Marjory wished a dreagan would fire-blast Alasdair.

  She didn’t want to be a useful set of eyes.

  “I see no cause for such concern.” She kept her tone as cool as his. “I walk Nought’s battlements often and have seen nothing move except mist and falling rock. I know you send patrols into Nought. We all know it, even if you think we don’t. So now you tire of the bother and would have me do the watching for you?”

  “Sakes, nae.” He gripped her shoulders, giving her a look that burned right through her. “I’d only know if you feel threatened. Don’t ever put yourself in danger. Promise me you’ll do nothing so foolhardy.”

  “I never do anything foolish.” Marjory broke free, brushing her skirts. “I’m a Mackintosh.” She raised her chin, speaking with pride. “We fear nothing.”

  “Mackintoshes are also known for their stubbornness.” Alasdair swatted at his own sleeve, a muscle working in his jaw. “You’re a thrawn folk. Stone-willed and unbending. Your brother is the worst. His wits don’t reach past the head of his broadax.” He paused, his scorn palpable. “Knowing him, he’d no’ recognize-”

  “Knowing me, you must be tired of life to stand so near my sister.” Kendrew strode up to them, scowling darkly. A big, rough-hewn man, he’d looked even more fearsome in full war gear, a sword at his belt and his huge war ax slung across his back. “Or were you just after having your bones trampled?”

  “I owe you a scar, Mackintosh.” Alasdair rubbed his left arm, his tone low and menacing. “Dinnae think I’ll hesitate to give you a bigger one.”

  “You had your chance at the trial by combat.”

  “I’d sooner fight you one on one. Name the day. I’m ready now.”

  “Alasdair! Kendrew!” Marjory rushed between them to press her hands against their chests. “This isn’t the place for a ruckus. You’re already drawing eyes.”

  “Nae, you are.” Kendrew scowled at her. “Consorting with a web-footed brine-drinker, a man better suited to scrape barnacles off his leaky galleys than stain your name by pulling you into a bower.”

  “He didn’t pull me anywhere.” Marjory bristled. “I go where I please.”

  “You’ll no’ be lying to me.” Kendrew’s eyes narrowed. “He played the gallant, fetching your ribbon when you dropped it and even daring to touch your hair. Dinnae deny it. You know I have eyes and ears everywhere. And you” – he shot a look at Alasdair – “will be missing your fingers next time you-”

  “Stand back, Norn.” Alasdair drew his sword, whipping it up so the tip hovered at Kendrew’s nose. “I could take off your face before you knew I’d cut you. Insult your sister again, if you dinnae believe me.”

  Kendrew reddened. “It’s you insulting her, soiling her reputation with your unwanted presence. Leave her be, I warn you.”

  “I speak to whoe’er I will. Though I’ll no’ frighten her by fighting you here.” Alasdair swept his blade downward, ramming the sword point into the ground. “We’ll meet again on another day, that I vow.”

  “Alasdair, please.” Marjory stepped between them again. “He doesn’t mean-”

  “I ne’er sa
y a word I don’t mean.” Kendrew kept his stare fixed on Alasdair. “I ken what’s best for my sister. Aye, we’ll clash swords elsewhere. When we do, you’re a dead man, brine-drinker.”

  “I’ll count the hours.” Alasdair yanked his sword from the ground, shoving it into its sheath. “They’ll be few if the gods are kind.”

  “My gods will eat you and spit out your bones.” Kendrew spoke loudly, grinning when the men behind him – his guards – snarled a few slurs of their own.

  “Enough.” Marjory threw a look at them, silencing them with a well-practiced narrowing of her eyes.

  Kendrew grinned, apparently pleased by the ruckus.

  Ignoring them all, Alasdair drew a coin from a pouch at his belt and flipped it to the gaping stall-holder. “For the lady’s silk ribbon.” He nodded at Marjory. “And any other trinkets she desires.”

  Turning to her, he took her hand and loosely wrapped the blue silk ribbon around her wrist. “Remember what I told you.” He didn’t bother to lower his voice, even bending to kiss her hand again.

  Beside them, Kendrew snorted. “Forgetting you is what she’ll be doing.”

  He would’ve said more, Marjory knew. But his wife, Isobel, joined them then, hooking her arm through his. And – Marjory noted with appreciation – clamping her foot on Kendrew’s booted toes.

  The two women exchanged telling glances.

  Catching the look, Kendrew frowned first at his wife and then at Marjory. “Dinnae think to try your scheming. I’ll hurl every stone at Nought in your path if you do. No sister of mine will wed a MacDonald.”

  “There’s no danger of that.” Marjory took care to speak lightly.

  She also spoke the truth, only wishing Alasdair could’ve heard how easily she dismissed the possibility.

  But he was gone.

  Already a good twelve paces away, he moved briskly through the crowd, leaving her to stare after him as he disappeared into the throng.

  “Good riddance.” Kendrew folded his arms, looking pleased.

  Marjory and Isobel ignored him until he strode off in the company of his bearded, ax-carrying guardsmen.

  “He’ll never change.” Marjory slipped the blue ribbon from her wrist, tucking it into her bodice.