Seduction of a Highland Warrior (Highland Warriors Book 4)

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  “I have a wee scrape, no more.” Alasdair knew he carried an egg-sized swelling at his temple. His head hurt worse than if he’d downed a barrel of bad wine. But he welcomed the throbbing pain.

  It took his mind off what really weighed on him.

  Marjory.

  They were a good distance from Castle Nought. Even the ancient cairns known as the dreagan stones were now well behind them. Yet Marjory continued to torment him. He’d almost believe she’d bewitched him. He could still feel her silky hair, the smooth warmth of her breasts, so full, round, and tempting. The taste of her lips and how she’d welcomed the thrust of his tongue. The frustrating knowledge that if they hadn’t been disturbed…

  He scowled, aching to settle his mouth over hers now.

  More than that, he wanted to take back the words he’d said to her. Hoped she’d known why he’d done so. Regrettably, her face as she’d bid him to leave, left no doubt that she’d not guessed his intent.

  In that regard, Ewan was right.

  He had been an arse.

  But he was sure he was right about Kendrew. The bastard had to have something to do with the black-painted longboats seen off Blackshore’s coast.

  Alasdair didn’t trust him past the end of his sword.

  “So when will you claim Lady Marjory?” Ewan leaned over and punched his arm, his smile not slipping. “We all ken you want her.”

  Alasdair glared at him. “I want many things. One is for you to stop blethering.”

  “Dinnae care for the truth, eh?” Ewan straightened, looking smug. “I’d be for setting the heather ablaze, telling everyone. If I’d lost my heart to such a fine lass as Marjory Mackintosh, that is.”

  “If I have, it’s no one’s concern.” Alasdair glanced at his other men, annoyed to see they’d also edged nearer. Each man’s ears appeared turned his way, flapping like ship sails as they tried to listen.

  His ire rising, Alasdair lifted his voice. “What should concern you is the reason we rode to Nought.”

  “Aye, so you could see Lady Marjory.” Ewan looked him in the eye. “We all know it.” He waved a hand at the other men. “Will you be denying it?”

  “I say you’re mad.” Alasdair kneed his horse, spurring forward.

  Ewan raced after him, catching him swiftly. “I’m no’ crazed enough no’ to ken that grief will come of the ruckus you caused at Nought.” His mirth gone now, Ewan spoke earnestly. “If the King hears, he’ll declare our oaths broken. He’ll call us hot-headed heathens and send his armies to banish us from our land. They’ll come like a tide, making good his threat to ship us to the Isle of Lewis.”

  “You think I’m no’ aware of that?” Alasdair rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. “Kendrew knows it, too. That’ll be why he’s sent galleys to harass us. He’ll have ordered them to provoke us until we sail out in challenge. When the King cries foul, the longships will beat away, ne’er to be seen again. Mackintosh will point the finger at us, ridding himself of a hated foe and” – anger heated Alasdair’s nape – “no doubt accepting Blackshore when the crown offers him our lands as a reward. He’s a crafty bastard-”

  “I dinnae think he has galleys.” Ewan’s voice held doubt. “Even Lady Marjory said-”

  “She’ll no’ ken what he’s about.” Alasdair was sure of it. “Like as no’, Kendrew doesn’t have longships. But he can aye hire a few.”

  “Ahhh...” Ewan nodded.

  “Indeed.” Alasdair leaned toward his cousin, heavily aware of their age difference. “There isn’t much that cannae be bought for a handful of silver. Galleys and a crew to man them can be had easily.”

  And he’d fallen for the bait, losing his head.

  Putting his clan, and everything he cared about, at risk.

  The knowledge rode him in a worse way than Ewan or any of his men could guess. He just wasn’t of a mood – yet - to release the fury boiling inside him. He felt too raw. Stripped bare and bleeding, as if someone twice his size and strength had whipped him with a steel-tipped flail, taking whacks until not a shred of resistance remained.

  His soul had been dredged, his very heart wrung by the hands of a woman. And if he only lusted after her, as he’d been trying to tell himself, why did he have the worst urge to leap from his horse and smash something?

  His cousin’s head, for one. Or an inviting slab of hard Nought stone. Anything would do, long as it stemmed his rage.

  Whatever he felt for Norn was slaying him.

  Kendrew’s blows hadn’t fazed him.

  He’d enjoyed pummeling the bastard. Warriors who didn’t regularly fight grew old and fat, their sword arms useless. Once-sharp wits went dull. When a real battle came along, they were worthless. They’d face their foes as shadows of what they’d been, quickly finding their guts slit, their blood drenching the ground.

  In such a light, the scuffle with Kendrew had been a gift.

  Now he was primed for battle.

  “We’ll none of us be going to Lewis.” Ewan guided his horse around a spill of broken rock and pebbles. “That island’s beyond the edge of the world. Men say it’s a dark place with worse cold and mist than the blackest winter here in the Glen of Many Legends. Our men have wives and families at Blackshore.” He glanced to the warriors just riding up to them. “They’re no’ for riling the King and-”

  “The King can sleep easily in his royal bed.” Alasdair drew rein again and stopped beside a tumbled mass of rock. Even in the slanting sun, the outcrop held an air of menace. Little grew here except stunted hawthorns, heather, and a bit of straggly whin. Circling hawks were the only life they’d seen since reaching the higher ridges.

  Looking round, Alasdair resisted the urge to spit against evil. He turned back to Ewan before he did. “Our people needn’t worry,” he vowed, determining to make it so. “No MacDonald will give Robert Stewart cause to send his armies marching on us. Though I cannae speak for Mackintosh. He’s aye a scoundrel.”

  “He’s a good man to lord it over these Godforsaken peaks.” Ewan glanced to where the ground fell away from one side of the path, disappearing into a narrow, dark-shadowed ravine that appeared bottomless. “Kendrew is mad to dwell here.”

  “He would say you differently.” Alasdair adjusted his plaid against the knifing wind. “For all his bluster, he does love this place.”

  “He’s still crazed. Did you see the bull’s skull on the wall of his great hall? The bones hung about as trophies?”

  “They were animal bones, not from men.” Alasdair secretly appreciated Kendrew’s upholding of the old ways. But he kept his expression cleared, not about to let on that he admired aught about their enemy.

  “Did you believe Mackintosh about the ships?” one of his men called from the rear of their party.

  “I considered it.” Alasdair spoke true. “His surprise appeared great, his anger as well. He’s also a braggart. If he had such ships, he’d boast of them, no’ deny their existence.”

  “Then why are we on this bleeding goat track rather than riding straight to Blackshore?” Another warrior raised his voice, sounding irritated. “If our horses don’t slip on these damned rocks and send us plunging to our deaths, the wind will soon blow us away.”

  Alasdair silently agreed.

  A cold, strong wind raced through these high passes and at each twist in the path, the land grew wilder. The shifting of the stony ground made every step treacherous. His kinsman had put words to what surely nagged them all.

  Men died gladly in battle.

  No one went happily to his grave because of a fool’s errand.

  This was anything but.

  So Alasdair swung his horse around to face his men. He understood their annoyance. They’d been riding two abreast for the last hour, following a steep, rough path through the worst of Nought’s most savage heights. The air was thin here, the cold bone-piercing.

  There was also rain on the wind, like as not sleet.

  Alasdair sat straighter in his saddle, hoping he h
adn’t brought his men here in vain.

  The looks on their faces said they saw it that way.

  So he took a breath, cleared his throat. “Why do you think we brought along spears only to leave them hidden near the dreagan stones while we called at Castle Nought?” He lifted his voice so every man could hear him. “We did so because even if those two black-painted longships don’t belong to the Mackintoshes, they could’ve been hired by Kendrew. Mercenaries paid in coin to harry our coast and provoke a sea fight with us. That, my friends, is what I believe.

  “And” – he patted the long, steel-tipped spear tied to his saddle – “what place along this coast offers mooring so hemmed by sheer-sided cliffs that the land presents an impassable barrier? The ideal spot to strike a foothold if a shipmaster wished to appear and disappear at will?”

  He looked hard at each warrior. “Think, men, and tell me.”

  “Drangar’s Point offers many hidden caves and little-used coves.” Angus, a heavily built man with a bold, square face, surveyed the towering rock walls pressing so close to them. “We needn’t scour this arse-end of Nought to find a hidey-hole for ships no’ wanting to be seen.”

  “Aye, we must.” Alasdair disagreed. “Kendrew, or any foe, might send a warship beating along our coast, but they’ll no’ camp there. It’s known we keep lookouts. Well-armed men able to flash down our cliff paths and be on them in their sleep, slitting throats and burning shelters before they even wakened.

  “That will deter them.” Alasdair waited as rumbles of agreement went down the column of riders. “So we’ll have a look at the Dreagan’s Claw.”

  “Dreagan’s Claw!” several men spoke as one.

  “No fool would camp there.” Angus frowned, shook his bearded head.

  “A fool, nae.” That was what worried Alasdair. “A highly confident shipmaster with a skilled crew would attempt the like.”

  He didn’t say how that spoke for Norsemen.

  Kendrew kept strong ties to Vikings. He wouldn’t have trouble finding a Shetlander or Orkneyman willing to lend him two longships. He could also have sweetened the price by tossing Marjory’s hand into the bargain.

  Having failed in procuring her a noble husband, he might be that desperate.

  Shipmasters held high rank in northern lands.

  Alasdair set his jaw, his hands white-knuckled on the reins, anger tightening his chest.

  “And so” – his voice hardened – “we’re riding for Dreagan’s Claw.”

  “No man can ride there.” Ewan leaned near, reached to grip his arm. “The men speak true. We’d end up on the rocks, adding to the grim tales about the place. There isn’t even a path that way.”

  “Aye there is, and we’re on it.” Alasdair pulled free of his cousin’s grasp. “A goat track, for sure. But it’ll lead us to the cliffs overlooking the access. If anyone is camping there, we’ll see them.”

  “And then?” Ewan didn’t look happy.

  “We line the edge of the drop-off and raise our spears, letting them know we’re aware of them.” From the corner of his eye, Alasdair saw Angus nod approval. “A small show of strength to warn that we also watch these shores, that we cannot be easily surprised.”

  “These are Mackintosh’s bounds.” One of the men at the rear spoke what Alasdair knew could be a problem.

  “The land is still part of the Glen of Many Legends.” It was Alasdair’s sole argument, without mentioning his burning need to protect Marjory. “We send patrols into Kendrew’s territory nigh every sennight, as well you know. Perhaps we haven’t ridden as far as the Dreagan’s Claw, but” – he used his most firm tone – “we are going there now.”

  His men looked at him, saying nothing.

  “My gut says the black-painted longships are using the inlet as a halting place.” Alasdair was sure of it, as certain as if someone whispered the truth in his ear.

  Indeed, about an hour ago, he’d have sworn someone had leaned close and urged him to ride on to the Dreagan’s Claw. He’d heard the words at his ear, clear and urgent, annoyingly unmistakable.

  Alasdair fought a shudder.

  He knew plenty Highlanders who claimed they heard voices. Some, like his guardsmen, Gowan and Wattie, even swore they saw bogles.

  He wanted nothing to do with ghosts.

  So he pushed the memory from his mind, determined to keep such a mystery to himself. He hoped with equal fervor to never experience the like again.

  “One look and we’ll have our surety.” He curled his hand around the shaft of his spear, glad he’d ordered them brought along.

  “And if the longships are gone?” That from Angus, who was still scowling.

  “We’ll see that they’ve been there.” Alasdair raised a hand when his men grumbled. “That’s enough for this day. We’ll ride home thereafter.”

  “We could be halfway there now,” one of his men argued.

  “Hear, hear,” others agreed.

  “Thon inlet is tight as a mouse’s ear. All say it’s clogged with jagged rock.” A big-bearded man near the front of the column, looked round at the other riders. He nodded, clearly pleased when they growled agreement. “We’ve heard the tales. The submerged rocks are fiendish, able to rip the bottom of any boat. We’ll spy nothing there but wreckage, if anything.”

  “No’ if the ships are Norse.” Alasdair spoke his worry. “They are such good seamen, they could take a ship through the eye of a needle.”

  The man clamped his jaw, unable to argue.

  Alasdair’s other men went equally stiff-faced, each one letting silence voice his displeasure.

  But a short while later when they reached the jutting promontory known as the Dreagan’s Claw, grumbles were heard. The rugged path they’d been following ended abruptly in a tangle of rock neither man nor beast should attempt to scramble over. Twisted tree roots, ancient and fossilized, showed that once, long ago, thick woods covered this high, windblown place. Worst of all, gaping black crevices left no doubt that one wrong step would send a soul hurtling into the sea that pounded the rocks far below.

  Alasdair looked round, assessing.

  Horses were useless here.

  Nor would he risk allowing them any closer to the sheer drop-off.

  He did glance at his warriors, nodding for them to dismount. “Stay with your beasts. Keep them calm and away from any gaps in the rock. I’ll go to the edge on my own. If I see ships or signs of men, I’ll signal. We’ll then line the cliffs with our spears, showing them-”

  “Cousin…” Ewan strode forward to grip his arm. “We aren’t-”

  “I prefer my bruises from battle lad. No’ because you keep pinching my arm.” Alasdair freed himself, turning to block the younger man’s access to the rocks. “I’ll no’ have you any closer to thon drop-off. Stay back unless-”

  “We aren’t alone.” Ewan slid a look at the end of the promontory. “There’s a man there, crouched among the boulders.”

  “A man-” Alasdair narrowed his gaze at the cliff’s highest point where a large outcrop spurred toward the horizon. He saw the warrior at once for he was just then standing, looking their way.

  The man’s face was strong, his expression fierce.

  Huge, with a wild mane of black hair, he’d braided warrior rings into his beard. War trophies made of silver taken from the swords of fallen enemies, the rings chinked as he moved, giving him a rough, heathen air.

  Dressed in full war gear, his mail shirt gleamed in the lowering sun. A battle sword hung at his side, but he didn’t reach for the weapon. Even so, the suspicion in his smoke-gray eyes warned that he’d draw it if provoked. A wolf pelt slung round his shoulders, as his Viking war ax, marked him as a Mackintosh.

  He was Grim.

  Kendrew’s captain of the guard. He was also a man noted for his blood thirst and savagery.

  Alasdair cracked his knuckles, welcoming a clash with the stony-faced giant. He’d fought toe to toe with the man at the trial by combat. They’d been a good match
. Alasdair had put a keen sword slice into the man’s left hip, a cut that had surely bit deep. In return, the Mackintosh champion had given Alasdair such a whack on his head that his skull had reeled for days after the battle.

  He was sure the bastard remembered.

  “Ho, Grim!” Alasdair raised a hand, watching the warrior across the rocky expanse.

  “MacDonald.” Grim nodded curtly, the terse greeting making Alasdair resent the warrior kinship they’d shared at the trial by combat. Rather than fighting on, they’d each stepped back, moving away to challenge others.

  A parting spurred because they’d fought so close to the King’s royal entourage, both warriors catching the eager looks on the Lowland courtiers’ faces as they’d stared down at them from the spectators’ viewing platforms.

  When they began shouting for carnage, hoping to see the warriors tear each other apart, Alasdair and Grim ceased being enemies.

  For a beat, they were simply Highlanders.

  And so they’d exchanged swift nods and whirled to disappear into the melee, sharing the triumph of thwarting the pleasure of a common enemy.

  Now…

  No Lowland lofties stood watching them, roaring for blood. Nothing buffered the old enmity that ignited so quickly when MacDonalds and Mackintoshes came together.

  Trouble could flare in an eye-blink.

  The look on Grim’s face warned he had the same thoughts.

  Behind Alasdair, seabirds wheeled and screeched, as if crying for a fight. As this was Nought land, he had a good guess whose blood the screaming birds hoped to see spill onto the rocky ground.

  Alasdair felt the urge to please them like a fire in his blood. His heart began to pound, his gaze flicking across the broken, lichen-covered boulders that littered the promontory. Cold wind flattened the stunted bits of heather that grew here. And from far below came the pounding crash of the sea against the rocks.

  The Dreagan’s Claw would make a good place to die.

  And the barren ground would drink deeply of Mackintosh blood, welcoming its own as nourishment. So easily, it could be done.

  The fingers of Alasdair’s sword hand began to itch.

  His men stirred, growing restless.