She didn’t care.
It’d been reckless to come here.
His nearness caused wild sensations to whirl inside her. Darts of pleasure danced between her legs, awakening her as a woman. The delicious tingles chased her modesty, urging her to be bold.
“Oh, dear…” She took a few backward steps, withdrawing into the deeper gloom, away from the entwined couples rolling on the grass nearby.
Sheltered by a cairn’s shadow, she lifted her hands to her cloak pin, undoing the clasp.
I can do this…She kept the vow silent, willing courage to pour through her as she removed her mantle. It was her best, deep sapphire of lightest wool and lined with silk of the same dazzling color. She folded the cloak with care, setting it on a large stone.
Straightening, she smoothed the fine blue silk of her gown. She ran her hands down over her hips and then adjusted the perilously low cut of the garment’s bodice. Wind helped her temptation plan, cooperatively molding the gown’s fluid folds to her curves.
She might as well be naked.
How startling that the notion excited rather than embarrassed her.
No man had ever gazed upon her unclothed skin.
Yet…
Heart racing, she put back her shoulders and moved deeper into the narrow vale, heading straight for Slag’s Mound. If she meant to catch Kendrew’s eye, she’d need to be quick. Three barely clad women were already gathered beneath the cairn, vying for his attention. He paid them no heed, still shouting Odin’s praise and thumping the long spear’s end against the cairn stones. Growing bolder, one of the women lifted her breasts, calling his name.
“O-o-oh, Kendrew,” the woman trilled, “these be sweeter than anything in Valhalla.”
Isobel felt a stab of resentment. She could never be so brazen, so direct. She preferred winning her man with a bit more finesse. Even so, she inhaled sharply, annoyance tightening her chest.
Bent on seduction, the other woman plucked on her bodice’s already-loosened laces. With the ease of much practice, she pulled open her gown, revealing her eye-popping bosom in all its ripe glory.
“Oh, dear.” Isobel stepped faster, scarcely aware of the wind that had just torn the last ribbon from her hair. Her braids unraveled and her hip-length tresses spilled over her shoulders and down her back, swinging free as she hurried toward the man she wasn’t of a mind to share with anyone.
She knew they were a perfect match.
Soon—she hoped—he’d believe the same.
Even so, she felt a flutter of nerves as she nipped around the mound of stones, hot on the trail of the three skirling, hip-swaying women. Slag’s Mound was immense, the largest of the dreagan cairns. Its great height cast a wedge of purple-black gloom so dense that Kendrew might not even see her if she jumped about waving her arms. Her rivals apparently felt the same, sashaying out of the murk even as Isobel stepped deeper into the cairn’s shadow.
Frowning, she hitched her skirts and hurried on, only to hear a sudden skitter of stone and feel a whoosh of air as Kendrew jumped down from the cairn, landing right in front of her.
“Sweet, bonnie lass.” He looked at her, his eyes alight with a bold recklessness that made her pulse leap. He didn’t show a hint of recognition.
In the gloom of Slag’s Mound, he didn’t know her.
Isobel crushed a twinge of disappointment. She hadn’t wanted him to recognize her. Not at first, anyway. Her plan was to captivate and then win his heart before her name could sour him.
Still…
She’d helped tend his wounds after the trial by combat. It rankled to think he’d forgotten her. Or else the cairn’s shadow and the whirling mist hid her face better than she would have thought.
She also didn’t know where to look.
The mist and smoke cloaked him well, yet standing so close to her, his nakedness was startling. She could feel his masculinity wrapping round her, dark, intimate, and almost predatory. His scent, so virile and male, made her senses reel. Delicious tingles stirred low in her belly, warming and exciting her.
As if he knew, his smile turned wicked. “Are you one of Odin’s handmaidens, come down from Valhalla to tempt me?” His tone was teasing, the words bold. “If so I am yours.”
“I—” Isobel blinked, nerves stealing her tongue.
He grinned, stepping closer. “Say you are mine.”
She nodded, stunned by her daring.
Looking pleased, he tossed aside the long spear and snatched a discarded plaid off a clump of heather. He slung the plaid across his shoulder, as if he knew the proud sweep of its folds would only enhance his powerfully muscled chest. His eyes glinted in the smoky air, his gaze raking her from the tumbled disorder of her hair to where she still held the hem of her gown hitched above her knees.
“You take my breath.” His voice was low and deep, full of appreciation. “I knew this would be a Midsummer Eve like no other.”
Isobel stood frozen. She knew hot color blazed on her cheeks, but hoped the shadows were deep enough so he wouldn’t notice.
She couldn’t speak.
Every witty and seductive quip she’d tried to memorize on the trek here vanished as if her mind were filled with bog cotton.
“Where have you been all the e’en?” His gaze was on her face now, his eyes dark with passion. She could feel his nearness, burning her like a physical touch. A smile lifted the corner of his mouth, deepening into a grin that made her heart flip. “If you’re no’ from Valhalla, are you one o’ the lasses up from Rannoch Moor?”
Isobel knew he meant the light-skirts known to flock to Nought’s Midsummer ribaldries.
It was whispered he journeyed often to Rannoch Moor.
Isobel’s entire body flushed at the thought. By the way the joy women cooed and preened, she was sure Kendrew was a welcome visitor to their beds. Everyone knew they were accomplished sirens, able to deplete a man with a flick of their knowledgeable fingers, a single sultry glance. Herself… She still couldn’t get her tongue to work properly. Worse, her heart seemed to have leaped to her throat, lodging there so that even breathing proved difficult.
“I didnae see you earlier.” His voice deepened, the rich timbre rumbling though her, melting her. “For sure, I would’ve noticed.”
“I…” She touched her ambers, taking comfort in the stones’ cool stillness. Catriona’s enchanted necklace didn’t see him as a threat.
Their approval gave her courage. “I came late. It took a while for me to get here.”
That was true.
She just didn’t say where she’d started her journey.
To her surprise he frowned, his gaze flicking to the jagged cliffs soaring above the cookfires where whole oxen were roasting on spits. “You’ll no’ have trekked through the glen on your own?”
“I know the glen well.” Isobel couldn’t keep the pride from her voice.
Kendrew’s face remained somber. “It is a fair place. But not without dangers.” Once more, his gaze went beyond the cookfires. “Peril is known to follow lasses as beautiful as you, especially on nights when spirits are high and the mead flows so freely.”
“I wanted to see you.” The truth slipped past Isobel’s lips.
“So you did, aye?” He stepped closer, so near she could feel the heat pouring off the hard muscles of his big body. “And now I see you. Your creamy breasts tempting me”—he let his gaze dip there, then lower—“and the curve of your hips.
“I would see more of you.” He touched her cheek, his arm brushing lightly against the side of her breast.
His caress sent streams of pleasure through her. The graze of his arm against her breast made the silk of her gown pull across her nipples, the friction almost unbearable. Her body warmed, her skin tingling as her senses came alive with awareness.
“Will you be on the stones again?” It was all she could think to say.
He shook his head, his eyes locked on hers. “I think not.”
Isobel bit her lip. It was
clear that he also didn’t recall her voice.
He did want her. Desire rolled off him, thick and potent. Even the air between them sizzled. There was no doubt that she intrigued him. More than that, he was hungry for her. She could see that in his eyes. She thrilled to the knowledge, eager to feel his arms slide around her.
Isobel swallowed, wondering how long she could keep his attention before he remembered her. If they moved away from the cairn’s shadow, he surely would. She couldn’t let that happen yet. She also didn’t brush back her hair, allowing the wind-whipped strands to shield her face. She detested deceit, but she had to get close to Kendrew.
He repeatedly refused her brother’s invitations to Castle Haven.
This was her only chance.
Every moment that stretched between the battle and now flashed across her mind. Loyalties and honor weighed down on her even as hope beat wildly in her breast.
She couldn’t fail.
She’d entered into a sworn pact, even kissed the sacred bloom of white heather, vowing to seal glen peace by wedding an enemy chieftain. She’d chosen Kendrew. Her heart had swiftly agreed, knowing no other man would please her more. If she could tempt him now, making him want her so fiercely her name wouldn’t matter…
Her palms went damp at her daring.
He held her gaze. “I’ve no need to return to the stones. The gods have blessed me well this night.” The look in his eyes made her feel desired. “In truth, they’ve ne’er been so good to me.”
A twinge of guilt stabbed her.
Not that she was actually tricking him. The temptation of Kendrew Mackintosh was good and necessary. It was something he’d thank her for later. After she’d had a chance to entice and bewitch him, winning his heart before he thought to guess her clan allegiance.
She just wished he’d grab her and kiss her, quickly before she lost her nerve.
Instead, he did what she’d most dreaded.
He asked her name.
And as he did, a small party of mailed, thick-bearded men looked on from the shelter of a thrusting outcrop beyond the cookfires. Armed with swords, shields, and spears, they ignored the tantalizing smell of roasting meat that kept drifting past on the wind. Their noses twitched with the scent of something much more tempting.
“She’s the Cameron’s sister.” One of the spearmen, a tall brute with shaggy black hair and a broken nose, pointed his spear in Isobel’s direction. “She—”
“I told you her name back at the Rodan Stone when the bitch looked right at you.” Ralla the Victorious, so named because he’d never lost a fight, used his own spear to knock down the other man’s weapon. “She is a maid of rank and riches. And”—he flashed another look at her—“we’ll no’ be touching her this night.”
Tor, the black-haired man with the crooked nose, bent to snatch up his fallen spear. “Thon amber necklace she wears is worth more than the coin-hoard promised us for this night’s work.”
A third man spat on the ground. “I’d like to see her brother’s face if we sent him those ambers wrapped around her severed neck.”
“And what would happen then?” Ralla couldn’t believe his men’s stupidity.
The ground-spitter swelled his chest. “James Cameron would see that for all his arrogance, he’s powerless. He’d recognize that there are others whose strength is greater. Others like us and—”
“Aye, so he would.” Ralla nodded, feigning agreement.
Grinning, the ground-spitter whipped out his sword, testing its edge on his thumb. “I’ve ne’er used this on a woman. The thought makes me—”
“It shows what a fool you are.” Ralla gripped the man’s wrist, twisting his arm until the blade clattered onto the rocks. “If anyone takes their pleasure with the Cameron she-witch, it’ll be me.
“This night”—he slammed the end of his spear into the ground—“we retreat. The bitch’s presence changes our plans. The Mackintoshes are the fiercest fighters in the glen. Their chief isn’t as mead-taken as we’d hoped to find him, but we could still wipe them out if we wished. A bloodbath with the Cameron’s sister caught in the middle…”
He let the words trail off, waiting until his men lowered their spears.
“Such folly would only unite the three clans.” Ralla looked round, pleased to see understanding finally sink into his men’s thick skulls. “We’re hamstrung until we’ve broken the Mackintoshes’ fighting power. Once we have, we’ll crush the Camerons and MacDonalds like snails beneath our heels. That’s when we’ll feast on their oxen and take our ease with their women.”
His men greeted the words with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
“I be hungry for both now.” A burly man whose arms were well ringed with gold plucked a dirk from beneath his belt and used the tip to pick at his fingernails. “I wouldn’t mind feasting on—”
“You’ll taste my fist and more if you make trouble.” Ralla stepped toward the other man, not surprised when his bravura faded.
Ralla hadn’t earned his by-name for naught.
“The Mackintosh saw you a while ago.” The other man waved his dirk in Kendrew’s direction, the challenge proving he had more bollocks than Ralla believed. “He took a hard look at us, he did.”
“The bastard was blinking ash from his eyes, no more.” Ralla refused to admit that Kendrew might’ve seen him. Such a slip would be a first in his long and illustrious career of villainies.
“Say you.” The dirk-wielder thrust his knife back beneath his belt, dusted his hands.
“I do.” Ralla yanked his spear from the peaty ground. “Now we’re gone from here. We’ll wash the glen with Berserker blood on another day, I promise you.”
Turning, he walked away, taking a narrow goat path that wound along the deepest defiles of Nought’s formidable peaks. He went swiftly and with sure, long strides, knowing his men would follow.
Ban, the dirk-wielder, caught up with him first. “I know how to handle uppity females. I’d have the Cameron bitch after you’re done with her.”
“And so you shall,” Ralla agreed. “But not before the others.”
No man would want her once she’d been at Ban’s mercy.
Ralla treated his men equally, showing no favoritism. Only so could he expect men to carry spears for him. He was a fair and generous leader. When the time came, they’d all enjoy Isobel of Haven.
Then they’d send her to hell.
Chapter Three
She’d already lost his attention.
Isobel watched Kendrew’s brows draw together as he glanced past her to where the largest cookfire blazed near the rocks at the base of Nought’s highest peaks. Well-burning torches circled the fire pit, lending to the festive air, and a whole ox roasted in the fire’s leaping flames. The wind was just turning, treating them to the tantalizing aroma of perfectly done meat. Yet Kendrew frowned as if eyeing a cauldron of warty toads seasoned with newt fingers.
His gaze flickered over the soaring cliffs, red-gold in the firelight. He took a step forward as he stared, his fists clenching at his sides. But then his face cleared and he turned back to her.
“Your name, sweet.” His smile flashed as he came closer. Holding her gaze, he touched her face again, this time gliding his knuckles along her cheek and then down her neck. “I’d know what a lass as fair as you is called.”
“I am Isobel.” Her voice was strong. In this, a point of honor, she couldn’t lie. Though she wished he hadn’t prodded her. “Isobel of—”
“Of the Ambers,” he decided, fingering her necklace, clearly thinking she was a joy woman from Rannoch Moor. “ ’Tis a fitting name.”
He released the gemstones and gave her another of his crooked smiles. “Though I vow you are worth a thousand such baubles.”
Isobel’s heart pounded. “The necklace was a gift.”
“No doubt.” His gaze dropped to her bosom, lingering there before returning to her face. “And I would reward you with a much greater treasure. Some say”—he leaned in,
lowering his voice—“that all the world’s gold lies buried beneath the dreagan stones.”
Isobel lifted her chin. “I do not want your wealth.”
She didn’t.
She wanted him.
So she looked into his eyes, directly. “Riches have little meaning to me.”
“Then you are a maid like no other.” His smile deepened. “Now I know the gods have looked after me this e’en.”
“Perhaps they desired us to meet?” Isobel couldn’t believe her boldness.
“The gods are aye wise.” Kendrew’s voice was rough, his eyes dark with hunger. “They ken what’s good for a man.”
“Aye, they do.” She took a breath, struggling not to sweep her hands against her skirts, dashing the dampness from her palms.
She couldn’t lose courage now.
Not when desire crackled in the air between them, filling her with hot, shivery anticipation. Blood racing, she glanced about, the tremulous sensation increasing when she saw they were alone.
All around them, the spear-thumping continued, the sound oddly muted as if the stone-knocking belonged to another place and time. The scream of pipes, drum beats, and raucous laughter came loudest from near the cookfires where carousers were gathering to dance.
Yet here, beneath Slag’s Mound…
Isobel glanced at Kendrew, and then back at the empty landscape. She saw only broken rock, heather, and bracken. The dark peaks that pressed so close, guarding the tight stony vale. The land’s fierceness quickened her blood. She almost felt light-headed.
Nothing but shadow and mist surrounded them. The drifting smoke, so redolent of roasting meat and laced with just a trace of sweet, heady mead. All else was still, the world holding its breath.
The isolation was thrilling.
She should be alarmed, her maidenly sensibilities on high alert, urging her to run. Instead, she ached to touch Kendrew’s muscled chest and arms, tracing her fingers along his blue kill-marks and then gliding her hands lower, learning his mysteries as he kissed her deeply.
“Perhaps the gods make mistakes.” It was a feeble attempt to regain her ladylike dignity.
Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel Page 4