“Foolish, more like.” He seized her chin and slanted his mouth over hers in a hard, furious kiss. Hot, crushing, and taking the breath from her, it was a kiss full of anger and thrumming, unchained need. And so glorious that a floodtide of exhilaration swept her, especially when he plunged his tongue into her mouth, his taste and the intimacy making her cling to him, demanding more.
She kissed him back with fervor, twining her fingers in his hair and pressing into him. She wanted to drink him in, savor the essence of him, the feel of his large, powerfully muscled body melded to hers. Her heart almost stopped when he pulled her even closer, so fast against him that her feet left the ground.
“Kendrew…” She floated on a glittering cloud, dizzy. She nipped his lower lip, then curled her tongue around his, teasing, enjoying.
“Enough!” He tore his mouth from hers and stepped back, looking fierce. “Go now, you she-vixen. If you dinnae”—he shoved a hand through his hair, his chest heaving—“I swear I’ll carry you to thon forecourt beneath your tower walls and finish what we started at the revels. And I’ll have you again and again until I’m sated, no’ caring who sees.”
Isobel’s ardor vanished. “You wouldn’t dare.”
His arched brow said he would. “Doubt me at your peril.”
“I would be ruined.” Isobel placed a hand to her breast, covering her gaping bodice. She didn’t miss that, this time, he didn’t lower his gaze.
“You should’ve thought of your good name before you went to Nought.” He towered before her, big and menacing. “For sure, before you came out here, half undressed and with your hair spilling down everywhere.”
He folded his arms, his black scowl daring her to deny it.
She couldn’t.
That truth sent heat washing the length of her. Even the tops of her ears burned. Rarely had she been so mortified. And she had no one to blame but her own scandalous self.
It was a galling admission.
But it gave her the strength to stand tall.
“You are a bastard, Kendrew Mackintosh.” She flipped her hair over one shoulder.
“Nae, I am not.” His voice was tight. “But I am many other things, ’tis true.”
Isobel’s chin went up. “Then prove that you are a night-walker and disappear again.”
Not waiting, she turned and made straight for the tower’s silver-washed forecourt and the postern gate just beyond. She went as proudly as she could, taking care to keep her head high and her back straight. Above all, she refused to glance over her shoulder.
Something told her that if she did, he’d make good his threat to ravish her beneath the castle walls, in view of all and sundry.
And if she didn’t wish to see blood spill between him and her brother, she’d let him.
As things stood…
She simply stepped through the arched entry into the tower and ascended the winding stair to her bedchamber, not pausing until she had bolted the door behind her. Only then did she release the breath she’d been holding and face the worst truth of the night.
If she’d had the sliver of a chance to win Kendrew’s heart, she’d ruined it now.
He not only rejected her for being a lady. He now despised her because she didn’t behave like one.
It was the last turn of events she’d expected, a new and daunting obstacle that wasn’t at all promising. But she’d think of a way to surmount it, just as she always did.
This time would be no different.
She’d make sure of it.
Deep in the pinewood Isobel had just left, a large, dark shape waited until she slipped inside Castle Haven and Kendrew’s footfalls faded into the mist. The steps—not so noiseless to one such as him—wouldn’t have stirred a mouse. Yet caution was never misplaced. Only when empty silence spread through the cold night air did the hazy form emerge from the trees to hover at the wood’s edge.
Just as he’d done earlier on his beloved Nought land when the lovely, raven-haired Cameron woman stopped at the Rodan Stone.
She’d seen him then, looking his way and even speaking to him.
Something warmed inside him at the recollection. Something good, even though he knew he couldn’t truly feel such a long-dormant sensation. In memory, he recalled the like very well. And he missed such things, he did.
Once, in distant days so long ago the first dew hadn’t yet kissed the land, his living heart had aye been filled with honor, loyalty, dedication, and pride. Love, too, though not for a woman as is the wont of most red-blooded men. As a dreagan master, he’d had nary a moment for frivolous pursuit. His mortal life had been devoted to duty and the magnificent sweep of jagged cliffs, cold, deep mist, and jumbled boulders he was sworn to protect.
It was a responsibility he’d taken seriously.
And one he’d shouldered gladly.
A weight he bore even now, though only in spirit, as things were.
The figure frowned—if the filmy, wraithlike form he crafted with all his not-so-impressive strength could even be called a figure. The shape was the best he could manage, given his circumstances.
At least he could still think, and that was a blessing for which he was most grateful.
Even if his mind-wanderings often caused him pain.
He was.
And that was quite a wonder. The alternative, a dull, black, unthinking void, would be a greater tragedy. Keeping his dark thoughts in rein was definitely the lesser evil, compared to not existing at all.
Now someone else knew of him.
Although…
The fetching Cameron lass didn’t quite have the right of it. Even so, her acknowledgment of him at the Rodan Stone was an event to savor. He just wished her encounter with his kinsman, Kendrew the Wild, as he liked to think of the lad, hadn’t run so ill-fated.
Not that he’d watched, of course.
As a man of noble sensibilities, he’d discreetly withdrawn as soon as he’d seen where the two were heading. But one such as he picked up on nuances. Ghosts, insubstantial as they are, detect faint ripples in the atmosphere unnoticed by those still weighted and burdened with mortal bodies. When things went bad between the young pair, he’d felt the night air quiver in distress, then the deep, rolling shockwaves of their angry emotions.
Their upset had buffeted him, making it difficult to keep his wispy form from dispersing. This was always demoralizing, for he enjoyed drifting about in the same huge, powerfully built shape he’d once kept hard-muscled and so very well trained. Then, as now, he’d appreciated having bright mail glinting from his broad shoulders, and he’d taken pleasure in lining his arms with fine, gold rings. Such adornments were recognized as signs of a man’s valor and prowess. And that wee spot of vanity he’d granted himself, for he’d earned his warrior’s reputation. He’d had both his long sword and his war ax hanging at his waist, and he wore them still.
Even if no one but he was aware.
A man’s pride never left him, after all.
Nor his need for justice, though such were thoughts best left for another day. At present, he was again concerned for the lovely young Cameron maid who—he was sure—had hung her heart on his gruff and swaggering kinsman. A lad who clearly needed some sense and chivalry knocked into his thick, too-stubborn skull.
To the lad’s credit, he had followed the lass to her home.
Even if he’d largely done so because he wrongly suspected the cravens who’d hidden behind an outcrop at the revels had been James Cameron’s men.
He’d come here, and that counted much.
And as happened so often whenever something monumental seemed about to occur, Kendrew just had to arrive in the moment when Isobel appeared to have noticed him in the wood beneath her window.
The figure frowned again and then released a long sigh. For sure, he’d trailed the maid to be certain she reached her part of the glen safely. But he’d also hoped to delve deeper into her seeming ability to sense his presence, even see him. If she could see him, she might be
capable of sensing others such as him.
And what a wonder that would be.
But before he could drift over to her tower’s little forecourt, his hot-headed kinsman had burst onto the scene waving her cloak in the air as if he’d never learned the first shade of manners.
The figure shuddered, wishing not for the first time that he could resume physical form just long enough to share a bit of his hard-earned wisdom.
When the last earthly breath is drawn, one finally realizes that life itself was the prize. Each day should be enjoyed to the fullest, and all a man should care about leaving behind is the good of his name.
Kendrew—by the look of matters—needed to learn that truth.
And he had matters of his own to attend.
He couldn’t lose heart. Nor could he allow distractions, for his personal reasons for walking—nae, drifting about the glen—meant a great deal to him and were of such import that he couldn’t dally.
The dreagans were stirring.
He’d heard them this night—in his realm that was possible—praise all the gods.
He’d cross paths with Lady Isobel again soon, he was sure. Indeed, he’d make a point to do so. He could not let things stand as they were.
She’d erred greatly in calling him Rodan. And that mistake needed correcting.
His name was Daire.
And once, back before memory began, he’d been the greatest dreagan master of them all. In his heart, that hadn’t changed. But now he was also something else. And it was a distinction that rode him hard and kept him from peace.
He was the only soul who knew the truth of the dreagan stones.
Chapter Six
It was the chill wind blowing down off the cliffs that woke Kendrew hours later. Another factor was the horror of dreaming that a huge, mail-clad warrior with a hard, grim-set face was bending over him and glaring at him with fierce, piercing eyes. Most times, he’d welcome such a challenge. No man swung a blade with more gladness. Each new enemy kill-mark he carved into his arms or chest was a badge of honor. He cowered from no man. And he knew no fear.
But in his dream, he’d been unable to move.
The granite-faced warrior somehow pinned him in place with his stare, stealing his ability to fight and reducing him to nothing better than a bug caught in the web of a spider.
Worse, when he tried to glower back at the man, he found he could see right through him!
“Guidsakes.” He rubbed his eyes, shuddering. And it was then that he realized the third reason he’d wakened in such a foul mood.
His bedchamber wasn’t just cold as an ice-crusted burn in winter…
His bed was full of rocks.
“Bluidy hell!” He shot up from his bearskin, seeing his folly at once. He wasn’t abed at all. He’d been so vexed with Isobel that—he now recalled, wincing—upon returning to his own territory, he’d snatched his fur cloak from where he’d left it and climbed Slag’s Mound, choosing to sleep atop the great stony cairn.
Passing the night beneath the stars seemed preferable to returning to Castle Nought where he’d risk his men catching a look at his soured expression and subjecting him to endless ribbing.
Having his sister needle him was an even worse prospect.
He just hadn’t counted on the night turning so cold.
He’d also overlooked how much he’d miss his own many-cushioned bed. The great four-poster that had belonged to his father, his grandfather before him, and many other Mackintosh lairds was massive and carved of rich, age-blackened oak. Finest linens made the bed sumptuous. Furred coverlets—furs much softer than his bearskin—ensured warmth, as did the bed’s proud tartan curtaining.
A small, equally splendid table stood close by, always dressed with a fresh ewer of mead and a precious silver-and-jewel-rimmed drinking horn.
He felt a surge of pride, thinking about his room’s luxurious trappings.
He might be a warrior like no other. But he did appreciate his comforts.
Just now, he jammed his hands on his hips and looked round, not surprised to find himself alone. The whole of the dreagan vale stretched empty. Thick, gray mist hid the tops of the cliffs, while a smudge of light in the overcast sky proved the sun had risen. The chill wind that had disturbed him whistled eerily. Some good soul had doused the bonfires. And the air, already thick with the scent of damp earth and old stone, held traces of cold ash. Nowhere did he see a hulking, fierce-eyed assailant, see-through or otherwise.
More’s the pity, because if the man had been real, he would’ve relished a good fight.
Ever since he’d left Isobel, he’d been itching to break something. And the few hours of sleep he’d managed hadn’t lessened the urge. If anything, he was more riled than before. His regrettable sleeping choice hadn’t just given him a rip-roaring backache. He now faced the unpleasantness of entering his hall to even more questions than he would have done hours ago.
“Thor’s thundery arse!” He glanced again at the cloud-darkened sky, the smudge of lighter gray he knew to be the sun. Its position showed that the morning was no more.
The day had crept well past noontide.
His hall would be abuzz.
But none of the louts who’d soon accost him would’ve seen Isobel’s blue silken cloak. That problem, he’d dealt with soundly. Her good name would not be smirched. That was all he cared about. She’d also answered his other reason for tromping through the glen. He didn’t trust her brother farther than an ax blade could fall. But he didn’t doubt Isobel’s word that no men had accompanied her.
Of course, believing her made the men he’d seen at the outcrop a mystery.
A damned unsettling one—unless his eyes were failing him.
Kendrew’s mouth twisted. His head was beginning to pain him as much as his aching back.
Scowling, he snatched up his bearskin and slung it around his shoulders. Soon every stone in his beloved vale would sprout a clattering tongue and scold him for his lies. The truth was surely stamped on his throbbing forehead. Isobel Cameron intrigued him.
He wanted her badly.
He could still feel her warm and pliant in his arms. Her taste lingered on the back of his tongue. The image of her full, round breasts kept blazing across his mind’s eye, tormenting him until such need gripped him that he could hardly breathe.
Yet he’d sooner cut off his best piece than go near her again.
A lady was the last female he wanted on Nought land or anywhere close to him. His sister was the sole exception. As a Mackintosh, she was born and bred in the shadow of the dreagan stones. Her flesh and blood were hewn of granite, her spirit weaned on cold wind and blowing mist. She thrived in darkest winter and was as strong-willed as a Norse frost giant. She also wielded her tongue as wickedly as Mackintosh men swung their war axes.
Marjory was, in a word, fearless.
Any other gently bred women…
Kendrew blotted Lady Isobel from his mind and leaped down from Slag’s Mound. It was time to return to his hall. If anyone so much as looked cross-eyed at him, he’d soon regret his mistake.
He was in a vile temper.
And Blood-Drinker was thirsty.
Kendrew knew his arrival at the keep would be worse than expected as soon as he reached the steep stone steps to Castle Nought’s lofty gatehouse. He could feel an ominous humming in the air even here, at the bottom of the cliff stair and well below the rock-girded stronghold. Bracing himself, he took the narrow steps two at a time, prepared for anything. His gut told him his sister waited in the shadows of the castle’s arched entry. Or perhaps she hovered on the other side of the stout, iron-studded door, waiting to pounce when he stepped inside the hall.
Either way, she’d have words for him, he knew.
She always did.
And she didn’t hesitate to share them.
His lips twitched as he imagined her ire. Her blue eyes would flash and she’d tap one foot, her color rising as she upbraided him. Every man in the hall w
ould turn to watch, some amused, others embarrassed. And if the gods really meant ill with him, Marjory’s wee pest of a dog, Hercules, would run circles around him, snapping at his ankles. It would be an unpleasant scene.
But her fuss would serve her naught.
He hadn’t achieved his fierce reputation by allowing himself to be cowed by a woman.
Nor was he of a mood to be pestered.
But when he assumed an indifferent mien and stepped into the gatehouse, the two guards on duty only nodded from their posts. The men had been leaning against the wall, no doubt recovering from the revels. They straightened now, their bloodshot eyes and the hint of stale ale in the cold air proving he’d guessed rightly. Neither man showed awareness of discord inside Nought’s walls.
Kendrew knew hell awaited him.
The prickles at his nape told him so. He liked to think such warnings had been passed down to him from his Berserker forebears. Wherever such niggles came from, he knew not to ignore them.
Turning, he swept a glance over the rocky expanse stretching beneath him. But if any mailed spearmen dared slink about his land, hiding behind outcrops or cairns, there was no sight of them now.
Nothing stirred at Nought except cold, blowing mist.
Yet his neck niggles remained.
So he took a deep breath, flung open the door, and entered his hall. “A good morrow to all,” he boomed, striding forward as if nothing was amiss.
And—he blinked—nothing was.
Return greetings sounded in the colorful, mead-reeking hall. Men lined trestle tables, most of the warriors eating bread and cheese. Some slumped forward, dosing with their tousle-haired heads resting on folded arms. Several well-burning logs blazed in the huge, double-arched hearth. Orange-red fire glow glinted off the round, brightly painted shields and weaponry that decorated the hearthside wall, while torchlight flickered across the richly colored tapestries and animal skins adorning the hall’s other three walls. As so often, cold gray mist slid past the high, narrow slit windows.
Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel Page 9