Seduction of a Highland Warrior (Highland Warriors Book 4)

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  Still, it was the strength of his sword arm that gave Mist Chaser her true power.

  And perhaps the blood that sometimes covered his arms to the shoulders after a good day’s warring.

  A foe’s blood was known to strengthen a sword.

  Such truths existed.

  Bogles and Black Vikings…

  The first was discounted easily. The second almost as quickly, as bards far and wide still sang the praises of Darroc MacConacher for chasing the Black Vikings from the Hebridean Sea. And after he’d wed Arabella MacKenzie, harnessing his own fierce reputation to the fame of the maid’s much-vaunted father, the Black Stag of Kintail, no Black Viking wanting to keep his head would dare near Scotland.

  Not even after fifty-some years.

  Unless…

  A chill swept Alasdair. What if the black-painted longships hadn’t been Black Vikings at all? He could imagine some men taking such measures if they didn’t wish to be seen. Kendrew and his men were known for smearing soot and peat muck onto their skin and their weapons when they crept up on unsuspecting strongholds. They loved surprising their enemies in nighttime raids. Everyone in the Glen of Many Legends knew it. Kendrew boasted of his skill at such attacks.

  Alasdair rubbed the back of his neck, thinking.

  Kendrew could employ such a ruse to attack Blackshore, putting the blame on Vikings. It would be just the sort of underhanded ploy he’d use to rid himself of Alasdair.

  He had the means to commit such a perfidy.

  There was a narrow inlet known as the Dreagan’s Claw cut deep into the northernmost bounds of Mackintosh territory. A bleak, stone-walled access said to have been carved in distant times when a dreagan’s foot slipped, one of his claws rending a tear in the earth. The inlet was barely wide enough for an oared ship to enter. Nor did it lead anywhere, ending soon enough in a rim of fallen rock beneath Nought’s steepest, most impassible cliffs.

  To Alasdair’s knowledge, the Mackintoshes ignored the inlet, deeming it useless as submerged rocks, huge and jagged, clogged the dark, uninviting waters. Nor did the Mackintoshes possess galleys.

  Or did they?

  Nothing Kendrew did surprised Alasdair.

  His gut warned that the black-painted longships had nothing to do with the Black Viking raiders of old and everything to do with the Mackintosh.

  Indeed, he was sure of it.

  He could smell the scoundrel’s trickery on the wind. He did not see another furtive movement in the mist across the loch, a stirring now accompanied by a faint bluish glow. Turning away before his tired eyes fancied a shape in an innocuous shaft of moonlight, he headed back to his solar.

  There was no such thing as mist shapes drifting along the lochshore. As for black-painted longships, they were a matter he’d address.

  It was just a shame that doing so would mean journeying to Nought.

  In the same moment Alasdair entered his solar, the mist stirred on the far side of the loch as an otherworldly being peered across the water at Blackshore. The being – a ghost, many would call her - knitted her brow as she drifted closer to the loch’s edge.

  Stopping there, she hitched her filmy skirts, not wanting her hems dampened.

  Once, she’d been known as Seona.

  But her name no longer held significance.

  Those who would’ve – or should’ve – cared for her were no more, their mortal bones fallen to dust as fine as, if not finer than, her own.

  What did matter was that she existed in some form still. Not a very substantial one, all things considered. But she did possess the ability to focus her gaze on the torch-lit window arch that had given her a glimpse of Alasdair. He’d been in a foul temper, she was sure.

  And as little happened in her world, curiosity prickled all through her.

  She’d have enjoyed a better look at him.

  He’d stared her way long enough, after all.

  Not that he’d seen her. Like all mortal men who saw what they believed and nothing more, he’d have noted only a shimmering in the night mist. If he’d been caught off guard, he might’ve spotted her tall, slim form limned by the silvery glow that always surrounded her.

  Those who did see her often mistook her for moonlight.

  Even so, she took pride in her appearance. She might not have possessed enough beauty to keep the love of the man who broke her heart centuries ago, but she’d always taken care to move with grace, listen with interest, acquiesce when need be, and praise always.

  It hadn’t been enough.

  She’d been set aside, abandoned before she’d had a fair chance to prove her worthiness.

  Now…

  She shivered, rubbing her wispy arms against the chill wind that threatened to whoosh her farther along the shore from where she now hovered, much too near the seaweed-draped rocks that had brought her such grief in life.

  She enjoyed flitting about them now.

  It was almost a challenge.

  As if returning to the scene of her greatest heartache could erase her sorrow, yet when she manifested at the rocks, nothing bad ever happened.

  She didn’t hear haunting songs beckoning from the sea.

  If any seals tumbled in the waves, they stayed where they were, only looking at her with innocent curiosity and never recrimination. They rolled in the surf, their dark, dome-shaped heads bobbing as they watched her. They didn’t torment and chastise her.

  And why should they?

  She had lost, not them.

  So she came here again and again, reclaiming the narrow stretch of shingled strand and showing the loch-kissed rocks of doom that she still had her pride.

  She was Drangar the Strong’s lady.

  His rejection of her, and even her ultimate demise, couldn’t change that.

  Once, she’d believed they’d belonged together.

  He’d dropped to one knee before her, after all. Looking deep into her eyes – eyes he’d admired for their unusual smoky-gray color – he’d vowed unending devotion and love. Then he’d stood, pulling her into his arms and swearing he’d never gaze at another if only she’d be his.

  She’d given herself willingly.

  Letting him have her on this very strand, so near to the rocks of doom.

  Then…

  She drew a long breath, more from habit than necessity, and took her gaze from Blackshore’s mighty walls. She flittered nearer to the rocks, not caring that now, at high tide, only their jagged, black-glistening tips peeked above the water.

  Of the broad, tangle-covered ledges where fair selkie maids might perch, preen, and lure a mortal man was nothing to be seen.

  Yet she knew the ledges were there.

  So she did the only thing her pride allowed her to do and tapped into her precious energy to make sure that her long black hair still held the sheen of those long-ago years. She also glanced down at her insubstantial form, grateful that the luminosity that marked her as otherworldly also flattered her smooth, pale skin.

  Her soft silver-blue gown and her cloak of dove gray could’ve been spun of moonbeams and star shine. The ethereal raiments allowed her to slip about like the shadow she supposed she was.

  One thing she wasn’t, was a sigher.

  She hadn’t been the sort to bemoan her tragedies in her true life.

  And she wasn’t about to start wailing now.

  She didn’t even spend time at the Sighing Stones. It peeved her too much that the women of Clan Donald had given the stone circle such a name.

  She knew better.

  It was beneath her dignity to even think about the place. This foreshore was where she belonged and it didn’t matter if the clan knew she walked here or not.

  She did, and that was enough.

  She just wished that her heart wouldn’t lurch against her ribs each time she looked at the rocks. She could still see herself sitting there, poised so straight-backed on their slick, briny ledges. She remembered the cold waters rising around her. How the waves had first drenched her s
kirts and then seeped into her skin, chilling her to the marrow. She’d shivered uncontrollably, her teeth chattering. Her chest tightened, making it hard to draw breath.

  Yet even then, with the tide swirling around her, she’d kept casting glances at Blackshore, expecting Drangar to come.

  But he had not.

  His heart had been stolen by another.

  And just when she’d realized her folly and would’ve pushed away from the rocks to return to the shore, she found she couldn’t. Her skirts had twisted around her, snagged by the rushing tide and trapped in submerged crevices in the rocks.

  She was doomed.

  And then she knew no more.

  Chapter 6

  “A man must admire your bravery, MacDonald, coming to Nought where you ken you aren’t welcome.” Kendrew Mackintosh leaned back in his heavily carved laird’s chair and eyed Alasdair down the considerable length of his high table. He raised his ale cup to his lips, taking a healthy swig as he Alasdair over the rim. “Aye, most men would be impressed. A shame I am no’ an ordinary man.”

  “That you aren’t, I agree.” Alasdair lifted his own cup in salute.

  Kendrew’s eyes narrowed, but then he gave Alasdair a tight half-smile. “Truth is I wouldn’t be awed if you walked on water.”

  “Kendrew.” Lady Isobel, his wife, gave him a pointed look. She sat beside him and from the way Kendrew’s brow furrowed at her tone, Alasdair suspected she also stepped on his toes beneath the table.

  “Have a care, Mackintosh. I’m no’ in the mood for such blether.” Alasdair kept his own voice cold but civil. He also glanced to where his men sat at a long table in the lower hall. Only a handful had accompanied him. His cousin Ewan and a few other stout fighters made up his party. Just now, they conversed in seemingly genial terms with a score of burly, big-bearded Mackintosh warriors. Alasdair’s men were their equal in size and brawn.

  Though not of Berserker blood, they were formidable with a blade in their hands. Each man was capable of cutting a foe to ribbons before he knew he’d been struck.

  So sharp was MacDonald steel.

  So good were the men who wielded it.

  Yet all MacDonald swords and shields were stacked in a small room off the Mackintosh stronghold’s well-guarded entry. If a scuffle broke out, it would be fisticuffs only. Alasdair and his men wouldn’t be able to snatch their arms before they came to blows with their enemies.

  At Alasdair’s side, Kendrew’s shaggy gray beast of a dog eyed him hopefully, even rested a paw on his knee. Called Gronk, the beast had trotted over to Alasdair the moment he’d entered the torch-lit hall. Dogs usually did flock to him, sensing his sympathy.

  He’d made the mistake of giving Gronk a twist of dried beef from a leather pouch he carried on his belt.

  Now the dog wanted more.

  His begging was making Kendrew’s enmity worse.

  “Poison my dog, MacDonald, and the buzzards flying round Nought’s peaks will be picking your bones clean before nightfall.” Kendrew scowled at his dog. “Doubt me at your peril.”

  Alasdair ignored him, calmly taking a bit of dried beef from his belt pouch. Kendrew’s face reddened when Gronk snatched the treat.

  “I know fine what you’re capable of.” Alasdair kept his tone just short of an insult.

  “Do you, now?” A slow deliberate smile spread over Kendrew’s face. He glanced at his wife as if expecting praise. But Lady Isobel only looked annoyed, her back ramrod straight and her shoulders rigid.

  “Why do you think I’m here?” Alasdair resisted the urge to rub his scar. The damned wound was paining him again, as if his arm knew he sat at the table of the man responsible for slicing into his muscle.

  His temper rising, he shot a glance at the small storeroom near the hall’s entry arch. He didn’t care that his weapons were stacked away, out of reach. He’d relish setting upon Kendrew with his bare hands.

  He wouldn’t mind smashing the lout’s nose.

  He deserved worse.

  “I’m waiting for you to tell me.” Kendrew leaned back in his chair, folded his arms. His smile was gone now, his gaze turned sharp.

  “My scouts reported two black-painted longships off Drangar Point.” Alasdair waved away the serving lass who tried to refill his ale cup. “Some of my men believe they were Black Vikings, the marauders of old returned to menace our waters. Others claim the lookouts saw phantom galleys or were deep in their cups, mistaking mist for dark-hulled warships.”

  “That’s no’ what you think.” Kendrew didn’t blink.

  “Nae, it isn’t.” Alasdair met his foe’s stare, waiting for a flash of guilt or a spark of triumph. But there was nothing.

  Kendrew might’ve been made of stone.

  Around them, the hall was erupting in agitated mumbling. Men shifted on trestle benches, their expressions wary and suspicious. Not for the first time since arriving at the remote stronghold, Alasdair was glad that Marjory hadn’t shown herself. Her presence would only distract him and he already wondered at the wisdom of having made the trek at all.

  Nought was a wild and bleak land, full of rock and cold wind. Shadows and echoes prevailed, and the mists here were often impenetrable. Some of Nought’s peaks soared so high and were clustered so tightly together that the sun never reached their stony feet. Equally damning were the mysterious dreagan stones, ancient cairns spread along the steep-sided vale that cut deep through the heart of Kendrew’s rugged, mountainous territory.

  A place better fit for rock-climbing, cloven-footed goats than men.

  No one came here gladly.

  And now that he was here, he wouldn’t leave until he’d had his answers. Kendrew might not look guilty, but he also didn’t invite trust.

  So Alasdair slapped his hand on the high table, hard enough that ale cups jumped. “I think the black-painted ships were yours. All ken you and your men call yourselves night-walkers, smearing peat juice and soot all o’er yourselves before you go raiding.

  “Why no’ do the same to a longship?” Alasdair leaned forward, his anger rising again. “It’d be a clever way to rid yourself of an enemy while putting the blame on others. If word reached the King that Black Vikings attacked my territory, he’d ne’er point a finger at you, wouldn’t hold you responsible for breaking his truce.”

  “You’re howling mad.” Kendrew sounded amused. “And you’ve made a fool’s errand. I dinnae have any galleys. And I know naught of Black Vikings. But if I did” – his smile returned - “mayhap I’d offer them my sister. Seeing as they’d surely have a braw leader no’ averse to a fetching bride in good health and who’d come with a hefty dowry. If you haven’t heard, I’m looking to arrange a worthy match for her.

  “She’s a real beauty.” He lifted his ale cup, took a long sip. “She deserves the best husband I can find her. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I didnae come here to speak of your sister.” Alasdair’s voice was low and hard.

  “I am glad to hear it.” Kendrew leaned forward, his eyes like slits. “If you dared to try I’d have to cut out your tongue.”

  “Before you could, I’d pierce your gullet with my eating knife.” Alasdair held Kendrew’s stare, gripped his ale mug tighter than necessary.

  Kendrew’s taunts were getting to him.

  To his surprise, the dastard laughed. “A shame you’re a brine drinker, MacDonald. I vow I could like you if you weren’t.”

  Alasdair nodded, doubting the likelihood.

  Somewhere in the shadows of the hall, one of the Mackintosh warriors lifted his voice, repeating his chief’s jest about Alasdair walking on water. Rapping his table, the man also suggested MacDonalds were born with webbed feet. Throughout the hall, men chuckled.

  The MacDonald guards’ faces darkened.

  “Aye, well.” Kendrew reached across the high table, clinked his ale cup against Alasdair’s. “I like seeing my men in good spirits. I’ll have to stop calling you brine drinker and say water walker.”

  �
�A good swordsman has no need to walk on water.” Alasdair returned his smile, making sure it didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Your steel would serve you naught if I knocked it out of your hand with my axe.”

  “You can try.” Alasdair set down his cup, without drinking.

  He glanced at the MacDonald table in the lower hall where even Ewan looked annoyed. His cousin rarely lost his temper. Other kinsmen shifted uncomfortably, some fisting and unfisting their hands. Not one appeared in the mood for such ribbing.

  “None of us asked for this truce.” Alasdair surely hadn’t. “The King ordered peace. Now that we have it, we must all sup at the same bowl, however unappetizing. If you still wish to fight” – Alasdair used his strongest voice – “come at me full on and we’ll clash steel. Dinnae hide behind a pitch-coated longship.”

  “I haven’t hid since I left my mother’s womb.” Kendrew paused, looking pleased as his men went into whoops of laughter. “And I’m no’ worried about royal wishes. I’d rather sink Blood-Drinker in your skull.” He flashed a glance at the huge Norse war ax hanging on the dais wall. “Indeed, I dream of doing so.”

  Beside him, Lady Isobel colored. “Kendrew…” She set a hand on his arm, her knuckles whitening as she squeezed his hard muscle. “Alasdair is our guest.”

  “He’s a bluidy pain in the arse.” Kendrew leaned forward, Isobel releasing him. “A limpet-coated, salt-smelling brine drinker who came here to befoul Nought’s air with fool accusations, when all he wants is to run to court and besmirch our good name, hoping to bring the King’s wrath hammering down on us. The black-painted longships are no doubt his own, a scheme to wrest Nought into his grasp.

  “Do you think” – he glanced at his wife – “I’m no’ aware of his plans to seize all the glen, even using my sister to do so?”

  Lady Isobel sat up straighter, her dark eyes troubled. “Have done, Kendrew.”

  “No’ say the MacDonald my mind?” Kendrew took another swig of ale, slapped down his cup. “He’s worse than the King and his Lowlanders. I’ll no’ have him making Marjory a pawn for his greed. Think you I’m no’ aware how he chases after her, or why he wants her?”