Blessedly, if Isobel or Hella noticed, they didn’t say anything.
“Any woman would have good reason to keep her man from Saracen females.” Hella was nodding at Isobel. “They are known seductresses. They’re said to move in ways that steal a man’s reason.”
Marjory cleared her throat. “Do great Norse lords ever marry such women?”
Hella shrugged. “Powerful men can do as they please. Most captives became servants. But if such a woman was exceptionally attractive…” She let the words trail off, reaching to pet the cat that chose that moment to lean against her ankle.
Marjory forced herself to speak calmly. “Have you ever heard of Lady Sarina, a Saracen beauty wed to an aging Viking warlord named Rorik the Generous?”
“Not that I recall. Although” – Hella began tapping her chin – “there was a popular young fighter named Rorik the Bold who was known for his love of dark-haired, dusky-skinned foreigners.”
Marjory’s mind raced. “Are you sure he wasn’t called ‘the Generous’?”
“Nae, I would have remembered.” Hella went to the door, opening it for one of her cats who’d been crying to go out. “He was Rorik the Bold. Many were the hearts he broke because he wouldn’t look at any of us.” She turned back to the room, lifting her flaxen braid. “He didn’t care for our sun-colored hair and blue eyes.
“Only Saracen beauties would do.” She let her braid fall, her smile wistful. “Prizing them as he did, he could well have made one his wife in later years.”
“Could his name have also changed in age?” Marjory had to know.
Hella considered. “If he did something truly remarkable, perhaps. A deed his men might wish to honor with a more appropriate by-name.”
Marjory nodded, not caring for the answer.
Something told her Rorik the Bold had become Rorik the Generous, the dead Viking warlord from her dream.
Lady Sarina remained a puzzle.
Until a short while later, when Marjory and Isobel left Skali Cottage to wait by the path for Grim’s return from chasing fairy dogs.
“By the gods, Isobel. I know why Hella hadn’t heard of Lady Sarina.” Marjory rushed the words before the tightness in her chest could rise to close her throat. “Hella has been here for years. She wouldn’t know if Rorik Whoever-He-Was took a Saracen bride.”
Isobel blanched. “That could be so.”
“I fear it is.” Marjory took a deep breath, closing her eyes.
“That isn’t all you should worry about.” Isobel gripped her elbow, squeezing.
Marjory snapped open her eyes, seeing at once why Isobel sounded so concerned.
Deep in the wood ahead of them, the mist had thinned just enough to reveal a group of horsemen. Big, well-armed warriors in plaid and steel and leather, they thundered through the trees as if bent on murder.
Alasdair led them.
And Marjory had a good idea who’d incurred their wrath.
“They’re after Grim.” She grabbed Isobel’s hand and started running after the horses.
“Grim can take of himself,” Isobel said, panting beside her. “It’s you I’m worried about.”
“Me?” Marjory flashed a look at her.
Isobel pressed a hand to her side as they dashed along the path. “No man wears a look that dark unless a woman put it there.”
“Indeed.” Marjory almost stumbled.
“Love does that to a person.” Isobel had the nerve to laugh. At least, she gave a panting gasp that could be taken for laughter.
Marjory just kept running.
If Alasdair was in a temper – and he’d looked to be in a fine one – his anger would have nothing to do with her, she was sure.
But her heart was hopeful.
If she could stir him to fury, she could also inflame his passion.
Seduce him. And she’d do so properly, this time.
Such a gain was only half the battle, yet it’d bring her much closer to victory.
How sad she was no longer sure she wanted to win.
Chapter 13
“All Mackintoshes are mad men.”
Alasdair muttered the slur as he spurred his horse through the birchwood, his disbelieving gaze on Grim. He rode as fast as he dared, plunging through the thick-growing trees. His men followed close behind, a tightly packed group who surely thought his wits had left him.
Perhaps they were right.
Why else would he have reined round so abruptly to pound after Grim when they’d spied the big-bearded Mackintosh warrior striding along a burnside, bending low to peer into bushes and behind trees.
Grim’s follies were his own.
It was nothing to Alasdair if the man was feebleminded.
He should slew his horse about and lead his men back home to Blackshore before Grim noticed them barreling down upon him.
But he rode on.
A fury such as he’d seldom known raged inside him and he wouldn’t have any peace until he’d addressed the matter, and swiftly.
Norn and Lady Isobel were who-knew-where in the wood, unescorted. Dark clouds filled the sky and a light rain was beginning to fall. And it was cold, the mist thickening by the minute.
Yet Grim was poking about the burn as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
The man was addled. Not worthy of protecting a louse in his beard.
Alasdair might kill him.
Bending low to the ground as the bastard was, it wouldn’t take more than one swing of Mist-Chaser to lop off his irresponsible head.
A snarl rising in his throat, Alasdair whipped out his sword.
His horse shot forward in a burst of speed, the well-trained beast sensing Alasdair’s need for blood.
Grim straightened as Alasdair thundered up, reining close. “Still about, brine drinker?” Grim didn’t flinch, even thrust out his jaw, inviting a blow. “Did you no’ hear my lady tell you to be away from here?”
“I go where I please.” Alasdair leaped down from his horse before the big man could blink. Still holding his sword, he went toe to toe with Grim. “Where is she?”
“Nowhere that concerns you.” Grim narrowed his odd smoke-colored eyes, swelled his massive chest.
Alasdair saw red. “Tell me, you bastard.”
Grim just glowered at him.
“Curse you!” Alasdair rammed his sword into the ground and plowed his fist into Grim’s face, sending him reeling. Staggering, Grim wheeled his arms, catching himself before he tumbled backwards into the burn.
Some of Alasdair’s men laughed.
Surprisingly, so did Grim.
Looking almost pleased, he rubbed his bearded jaw as he looked round at Alasdair and his mounted warriors.
“That was a fine blow.” Grim lowered his hand, shaking his head at the blood on his fingers. “It’s been a while since anyone dared.”
Alasdair didn’t return the lout’s low chuckle. “I could’ve taken your head off.” He glared at Grim, his hands on Mist-Chaser’s still-vibrating hilt. “Be glad I’ll no’ strike a man with his back to me.”
“So I turned and earned your fist?” Grim wiped more blood from his mouth, still appearing amused.
“If that wasn’t enough for you, draw that damnable ax of yours.” Alasdair held Grim’s gaze, his own as cold as he could make it. “We’ll end this here and now. After I hear where Norn is.”
Grim’s face shuttered, his levity gone.
“You’ll no’ give orders on land that isn’t yours, is what you’ll do.” He leaned toward Alasdair. “Lady Marjory” – he stressed her title – “is at the widow Hella’s cottage. Lady Isobel, likewise. No’ that it’s aught to do with you.”
“The weal of all the glen’s womenfolk is my business.” Alasdair’s fist itched to strike Grim again. He’d defend any female in need. It was a matter of honor. The only difference with Marjory was that the thought of harm coming to her turned his world red.
It made his head pound and squeezed his chest so badly he was sure his lun
gs had caught fire.
That Grim, a Nought guardsman, had let her out of his sight, putting her in possible danger, sent rage pumping through him.
“You forget your duties.” Alasdair stepped closer, resisting the urge to grab his plaited beard and twist hard.
Grim’s face hardened. “I made it my duty to follow the ladies through the wood. If I wasn’t prepared to watch o’er them, I would’ve stayed at Nought where a fine, warmth-spending fire and a platter of beef ribs called to me just when the ladies crept from the castle.”
Alasdair didn’t sympathize. “You weren’t looking out for them strolling along thon burn, peeking into bushes and behind trees.”
“Skali Cottage was ne’er out of my sight.” Grim folded his arms, belligerent. “Nor are they in danger. No one goes near that cottage. Folk hereabouts fear this wood and keep their distance.”
“My men and I rode here.” Alasdair glanced at his warriors, still mounted. He didn’t say they’d been trying to leave the wood for hours, but the trees kept closing in on them, the path twisting in wrong directions. “If we entered these blighted birches, others could as well.”
Grim clamped his jaw, his mouth setting in a tight, thin line.
“Ho, Grim!” One of Alasdair’s men edged his horse near, and then leaned forward over the beast’s neck. “What were you looking for in the bushes along the burn? Naked water sprites?”
Grim said nothing.
Alasdair narrowed his eyes at him, furious. “What kept you from standing guard outside Skali?”
“I did.” Marjory stepped out of the trees to stand beside Grim. Eyes blazing, she stood as straight as if she’d swallowed a sword, her clipped tone chilly as the air.
“Lady Marjory.” Alasdair nodded once, met the icy blue of her stare.
“Blackshore.” She lifted her chin, his title cold on her tempting lips.
Several MacDonalds chuckled.
Alasdair ignored them, seeing no one but the indignant woman before him. Pure sensual heat poured off her, charging the air. Her braid had come undone and her shining hair spilled to her hips. She was breathing hard, her color high. She’d clearly been running, but she looked bed-mussed, as if freshly sated, the pleasure still rippling through her. She tantalized him beyond reason. Her eyes were opened wide, blue fire snapping in their depths, her stance almost regal, definitely defiant.
Alasdair’s heart thumped.
He’d never seen her more magnificent.
And rarely had he felt such a fury.
“This wood is no place for women alone.” He shot a glance at Lady Isobel, just emerging from the trees. Every bit as disheveled as Marjory, she didn’t come close to firing his blood as did the angry vixen still glaring at him as if she hoped her stare would set him aflame.
Striding over to her, he curled his hand around her wrist, his grip firm. “You, especially, aught know that, my lady.” He lifted her hand, flicking a look at her sapphire ring. “There are aye men about in any glen. Brigands and rogues you dinnae wish to meet.”
A deep rumbling came from Grim’s chest and he took a step forward, balling his fists. “That’d be you, to my way of it.”
Ewan and some of Alasdair’s men crowded Grim, forming a snarling wall of plaid, steel, and muscle between their chief and Marjory. An argument ensued, voices raised and curses sworn, also the sound of a scuffle.
Alasdair scarce noticed.
He released Marjory’s arm, unable to bear the feel of her skin beneath his fingers.
Every inch of him burned to grab her and kiss the breath from her. He ached to ravish her. Stoke her fury into a raging, fiery heat that would consume them both until nothing remained but smoking cinders.
He looked her up and down, need searing him. She’d been running hard because her cloak had come askew, the edges gaping to reveal the blue woolen gown beneath. The soft material clung to her curves, showing how well-suited her body was for loving. She was made to be naked in a man’s arms, to writhe and moan in the throes of deep, sinuous pleasure. And he was the man who should introduce her to such carnal delights.
Nae, he was the only man she should know so intimately.
He fisted his hands, not from anger but to keep from grabbing her to him. He stepped closer to her, almost toe to toe.
“You’ll regret this meeting, Norn.” His voice was low, dark. His need was a fierce drumming in his blood, almost excruciating. He caught her hand again and brought it to his mouth, kissing her knuckles, nipping the tips of her fingers.
Behind them, his men were still arguing with Grim. He didn’t care. Her skin was smooth, the taste of her nectar on his tongue. Hunger for her seized him, her soft gasp and the warm, feminine scent of her driving him wild.
“You should ne’er have left Nought’s walls.” He threaded his fingers with hers, turned her hand to kiss the soft underside of her wrist. “There are dangers in these parts, see you? And you’ve run right into the worst of them.”
“That I know!” She jerked free, stepping back to glare at him.
“You know naught.” Alasdair caught her by the waist, held her fast. “If you did-”
A strange roaring in his ears cut him off and he blinked, not sure if the sound was the thunder of his own blood or Grim shouting at him.
Then Grim loomed before him, his beard rings clacking. “Unhand her or-”
“Stay out of this.” Alasdair thrust out an arm, splaying his hand against the bastard’s mailed chest. “You neglected your duties-”
“He did not.” Marjory inserted herself between them, grabbing his wrist and lowering his hand with surprising strength. “I sent him into the wood. I’d seen a large dog near the burn. It might have been a wolf. I feared for Hella’s cats. Grim left us at my bidding.”
Alasdair lifted a brow. “Indeed?”
“Yes.”
“Lady, you are a poor liar.” He let a slow smile curve his lips, hoping to irritate her into telling the truth.
When she said nothing, he leaned in. “I aye heard wolves fear Nought dreagans too much to roam here.”
“Grim knows his duty.” She ignored the bait. “A pity you don’t have the courtesy to heed a lady’s wishes.” She lifted a hand, dashed a raindrop from her brow. “I made clear you aren’t welcome here.”
“I go where it pleases me.” Alasdair straightened. “But I’ll own that we were on our way to Blackshore. We didn’t get far because every track in this devil-damned wood runs in circles.”
“Is that so?” Marjory smiled, threw a look at Lady Isobel, almost as if they’d conspired for the wood to vex him.
Almost, he could believe it.
He did frown. “This place is uncanny.”
“If you can’t follow a track through the trees, you shouldn’t have come in the first place.” She drew her cloak tighter, briskly brushing its folds in place. “Someone else could’ve delivered Hella’s herring.”
Alasdair couldn’t argue with that.
It was true.
“Why did you come here?” Marjory’s chin came up.
She knew he had other reasons.
Too bad he wasn’t about to share them.
Leastways he had no intention of telling her he’d use any excuse to see her again. It didn’t matter if such a meeting took place in anger. Or if the damty circumstances made him look a fool.
There wasn’t much a man wouldn’t do when he wanted something badly enough.
And he wanted Marjory.
Worse, he desired her so fiercely that his need to be near her overrode his good sense. He should’ve sent one of his men with the widow’s herring. That same man could’ve journeyed on to Nought to question Kendrew about the tar he’d seen on the shore at the Dreagan’s Claw. His suspicion that one of his guards hadn’t spotted a sea beastie in Loch Moidart, but a black-painted coracle.
The forerunner of men he was sure wished to provoke a fight.
Men he believed were acting on Kendrew’s orders.
Now…
He’d struck Kendrew’s captain of the guard with such force that the man’s head had snapped back and his split lip was already swelling. Marjory was in a temper, clearly protective of her oversized watchdog. And after he’d fallen upon her, kissing her wrist and even biting her fingers, she no doubt held him for an ill-mannered craven.
Alasdair frowned and rubbed the back of his neck.
Had he ever made a greater mess of things?
Truth was, his wits fled whenever Marjory was near. She was speaking now and he hadn’t heard a word she’d said.
“I asked why you’re here,” she lifted her voice, narrowing her eyes at him so that he half believed she’d read his thoughts. “I don’t believe it was to deliver herring.”
“We did take herring to the widow.” It was all he could think to say.
She did fuddle his wits.
Somewhere not too distant, thunder rumbled then. And the wind was picking up, bringing the sharp wet chill of an imminent downpour.
His men’s soured faces said they knew it.
Very shortly, they’d all be drenched. And if Marjory caught an ague, he’d never forgive himself.
“So you won’t tell me?” Her voice held an edge. The wind brought her scent closer, teasing his senses with a light, clean freshness reminiscent of a spring meadow. “I’ll give you no peace until you do.”
“I am well warned, my lady.” He almost laughed.
At last, a way to bind her to him.
Instead, a rusty, old-dog bark drew his attention to the herring cart where Grim now stood. Alasdair frowned, knowing his favorite dog, Geordie, slept in the cart. Geordie was old, lame, and fond of any excursion outside Blackshore’s walls. He deserved his rest without being distressed.
His blood heating, Alasdair strode toward Grim. “Touch my dog and I’ll have a new sword belt from your hide. He’s no’ the wild beast you were searching for along the burn. Geordie wouldn’t-”
“I ne’er hurt animals.” Grim whipped around to face him, the twist of dried meat in his hand showing he’d been about to give Geordie a treat, not harm the dog. He patted a leather pouch hanging from his belt. “I aye carry food for dogs with me.”
Seduction of a Highland Warrior (Highland Warriors Book 4) Page 22