Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  “Bah!” Kendrew made a dismissive gesture. “Dreagans haven’t roamed since the world was young. More like some cravens broke open the cairn hoping to find the treasure buried beneath. Though”—he glanced round—“all here know that tale, too, isn’t likely.”

  He set his hands on his hips to deter argument.

  He knew the direction it would come from, too.

  A crafty look had entered his sister’s eyes the moment Grim mentioned the scattered stones. Marjory might be strong-willed and even fearless—as was every Mackintosh, after all—but she also had one glaring trait entirely her own.

  She couldn’t hide her thoughts.

  “Come, I’d speak with the patrol guardsmen.” Kendrew gripped Grim’s arm, leading him toward the other men before Lady Norn could vex him any further this day. “We’ll send men to search for trespassers and a second party to repair the dreagan cairn.”

  Men, no doubt mailed and carrying long spears, had destroyed the cairn.

  And Kendrew would find the truth.

  Failure to do so would mean he’d have no choice but to ride to Castle Haven and Blackshore to warn the other two chiefs that strangers were on the loose, wreaking havoc in the glen.

  That was something he hoped to avoid.

  He did not wish to see Lady Isobel again.

  Yet he would if he couldn’t solve the dreagan cairn mystery. The risk of Isobel falling prey to skulking marauders couldn’t be allowed.

  Even a howling madman had honor.

  He just never would have believed that his would bring him to such a lamentable pass.

  Damn the lass and the wretched hold she had on him.

  He didn’t want her.

  And as a man of honor, it irked him beyond belief to know that wasn’t true.

  Chapter Seven

  A sennight later, Daire drifted to and fro in front of the Rodan Stone, hoping he hadn’t lost his touch as a grand dreagan master. It seemed a possibility, all things considered. Seven days now, he’d tried to track and find Borg, the young dreagan who’d crept from his nest when the marauders tore away the stones from his cairn, searching for treasure. A pity they hadn’t seen him.

  The sight might’ve chased the blackguards out of the glen.

  But the once mighty dreagans roamed only in Daire’s realm now.

  And with his earthly life stolen from him before he’d been well trained, Borg was surely having trouble finding the way back to his damaged cairn. Daire could feel the beast’s distress, his aimless wanderings. Yet, as with Daire’s other attempts to use his long-dormant skills, he seemed doom to failure.

  This was his fourth visit to the Rodan Stone.

  He’d been that certain he’d find the errant dreagan here.

  It was true that evil-doers returned to the scene of their villainy. And it was equally true that the wronged and dispirited were also drawn to the place that had brought them such grief.

  Or so Daire believed.

  He certainly spent too much time at the Rodan Stone.

  Though his reasons were many and he hoped Rodan knew he came, treading the ground his old friend-turned-bitterest-enemy no longer dared.

  It scarce mattered that he didn’t exactly tread, his wispy feet no longer capable of the act.

  He came and that was enough.

  Just now he paused to fold his equally insubstantial arms, once so powerfully muscled. His face hardened as he watched mist curl past the tumbled rocks and heather that marked this supposedly sacred corner of the dreagan stones. Not that anything associated with his archrival, Rodan, could hold even a breath of holiness.

  This was tainted ground.

  The only reason the bastard’s pillar leaned so shamefully was that the gods saw fit to prevent such a craven from standing upright.

  Rodan was bent for eternity.

  And that was meet justice for his perfidious nature.

  Pleased by the crooked angle of Rodan’s monolith, Daire straightened his own back and held himself as erect as one such as he could. On this, the seventh day of his search for Borg, he’d taken care to polish his mail, imagining the heavy steel links shone with the flashing brightness of the sun on the sea. He’d also donned his great plumed helm, ensuring that its steel caught the eye. The many gold rings on his arms gleamed and sparkled brilliantly. And his long sword and war ax should also attract Borg. They were weapons that any dreagan would know and honor.

  Or so Daire hoped.

  But the stillness around him was complete. He could’ve been in the grayest, most silent heart of Niflheim, the Norse abode of the dead. And although he was no longer a powerful leader of men, guarding Nought with his warrior’s skill and prowess, his wits hadn’t deserted him. His memory was long, stretching back to days when boulders were little more than tiny, wind-driven kernels of sand.

  Now, hoping his great knowledge would serve him again, he pressed both hands to his heart and closed his eyes. Then he summoned his remembered images of the young dreagan he wished to lead back to safety.

  It wasn’t easy.

  Other memories flooded his mind, wringing his soul and making his heart squeeze. But Borg needed him most now. So he willed away everything else and used the powers vested in his ghostly state to send a wordless command to the wandering dreagan.

  “Come, lad.” Daire spoke aloud this time. He lifted his once-strong voice, even though the words echoed through the glen as a cold, hollow wind, nothing like the call of a living, mortal man.

  Mortal he wasn’t.

  But he did live, as did Borg, who wasn’t very mortal either.

  If the young, known-to-be-clumsy dreagan possessed a whit of sense, he’d heed the summons.

  “Borg, my little friend”—Daire smiled, knowing the creature was ten times his size, if not larger—“I am waiting for you.”

  It was then that he heard a rustling in the heather. Angling his head, he caught a skittering of pebbles, then the unmistakable crunching of heavy, beclawed feet on stone. The earth shook and the air shivered, filling his realm with the well-loved, never-forgotten sounds that heralded a dreagan’s approach.

  Daire’s heart brimmed with gladness.

  Borg was shuffling toward him, already less than a dozen paces away.

  “Borg, there’s my good dreagan.” Daire praised the beast, his voice low and soothing, full of love.

  The dreagan’s long tail began to swish, flattening heather and scattering stones.

  “I am here, lad.” Daire’s chest was so tight he could hardly speak. “Soon you’ll rest again, safe in your own good den.”

  Borg snorted, puffs of fire and smoke showing his trust.

  He came forward slowly, the same shimmering mist that swirled around Daire also rippling along the dreagan’s huge, lumbering body and trailing in his wake. His scales and the high, fan-shaped ridge on his back gleamed like quartz-shot granite. His lack of scars proved his youth. Borg’s great head was close to the ground, his eyes full of doubt, as if he feared reproach. But his tail kept gliding from side to side, the sight making Daire’s spirit soar.

  Borg was glad to have been summoned.

  He was happy to be found.

  Reaching Daire at last, the dreagan leaned into him, snorting his relief. He nudged Daire’s shoulder, seeking affection like a long-lost dog. Daire gave it lavishly, praising the dreagan and petting his massive side. Then Borg’s whole body quivered as he began to rumble deep in his chest, his pleasure clear.

  Daire swallowed hard, wishing…

  He pushed the thought aside, feeling guilty because he was indeed very pleased to have this dreagan answer his call. He also had a duty to see Borg across the narrow vale to his ruined cairn.

  “Your home is not looking so fine at the moment, my friend,” he warned the dreagan, still stroking the gritty, rock-hard scales. “But I know a few words that will help you sleep well again despite the discomfort. And”—he hoped this would prove true—“Kendrew the Wild, himself, who lairds it in Nou
ght these days, is out now, searching for the men who disturbed you. He’s set others to repair your nest.

  “Come now.” He started forward, pleased when the dreagan obediently followed. Together they strode through the heather and rock, making for the far side of the vale. “Soon you will be home, once again sleeping beneath a fine blanket of stone.”

  Borg leaned into him again, blowing out a grateful breath.

  “Aye, that you will, my wee one.” Daire patted the dreagan’s shoulder. “The good men of Nought have their hearts in the right place. Even if”—he started forward again, Borg with him—“they don’t know you truly exist.”

  What they needed was to tell their chief to get his head out of his hindquarters.

  But Daire kept that sentiment to himself.

  He doubted Borg would appreciate such man-woman matters. And the truth was that Daire was certainly no expert in the like either. But he knew well when a man was making a fool of himself.

  Ghost or no, he hadn’t forgotten his talent for keeping order in the glen. Kendrew the Wild needed watching and guidance. A bit of fatherly direction, even if too many centuries to count stretched between them. Kendrew’s late father rested peaceably, his spirit content and not deigning to roam Nought at all.

  So the task fell to Daire.

  And he already had a very good idea how he could set the stones rolling, as it were.

  So he smiled as he and Borg continued across the heathery, rock-filled landscape. He even imagined the whirling mist glittered a bit in approval. And there was much to celebrate, after all. For the first time in so long, he’d once more proved himself successful as a dreagan master. Soon he would also help Kendrew the Wild and the lovely, raven-haired maid who ached for him.

  Then, as all good things happened in threes, perhaps he’d triumph over his own great tragedy.

  Glancing at Borg trudging along beside him gave him hope.

  That alone was a wondrous feeling.

  Very fine, indeed.

  A fortnight later, in the great hall at Castle Haven, Isobel stopped prodding at the plump, green herring she couldn’t bring herself to enjoy and turned to face her good-sister and dearest friend. Catriona had been eyeing her, one red-gold brow lifted suspiciously, ever since she’d taken her place next to Isobel at the high table.

  Truth was Catriona had been watching her closely every day of the past two weeks. Just now she was doing it in a way that made Isobel want to squirm.

  Instead, she frowned.

  “What is it?” Isobel set down her eating knife. “Have I grown a wart on my nose?”

  “You haven’t touched your herring.” Catriona took a demonstrative bite of her own. “They’re quite good. Beathag seasons them much better than our cook at Blackshore.” She dabbed her chin with a linen napkin. “Can it be that fish disagrees with you?”

  “I’m not hungry.” Isobel hoped she didn’t sound peevish.

  She did take a deep, long breath, ignoring the tantalizing food smells. She was grateful for the earthy sweet scent of peat wafting from the brazier set in a corner of the dais. Peat smoke always soothed her. She secretly believed a trace of it ran in every Highlander’s veins.

  Peat was one of their secret weapons. Like the scream of pipes, a breath of peat smoke made Highland hearts beat fast and true, turning them invincible.

  Sadly, at the moment, even the magic of peat failed her.

  The longing inside her was an ache, strong and insistent. Since Midsummer Eve, her heart’s yearning had turned unbearable, sharp and cutting as the edge of a sword. And she knew only one way to assuage the need clawing at her.

  Green herring, peat, and even well-meaning friends weren’t enough.

  She wanted Kendrew.

  Yet the world conspired against her.

  Leaning forward, she glanced down the long table to where her brothers James and Hugh, fondly accorded the honor of clan storyteller, discussed the memorial cairn with Alasdair MacDonald. Seeing them speak so energetically, agreed and content in their plans, made her want to clench her fists and pound on the table to stop their blether. More than that, she itched to let the steam rising inside her shoot straight out of her ears.

  She had no desire to cry. Only women without a backbone resorted to tears.

  But she was seething.

  All around her the hall teemed as it did every noontide. Men warmed the trestle benches, eating and talking. Noise and clamor reigned, the mood boisterous and jovial. The hearth fire blazed and torches burned, hazing the air. Kitchen servants bustled everywhere, hefting platters of food and ale jugs. Dogs barked and scrounged, playing in the aisles between the crowded long tables.

  No one guessed the turmoil inside her.

  Determined to keep it that way, she sat up straighter and assumed her calmest mien. She even smiled at Beathag when the stout old woman sailed past the high table with a basket of fresh-baked bannocks. Smelling delicious, they might’ve tempted her any other time.

  She almost called out for the cook to return so she could have one. A honey-smeared bannock would be easier to eat than herring. And Beathag did make the finest bannocks in all Scotland. Her skill was legend.

  But at the other end of the table, James clapped Alasdair on the shoulder and rose from his laird’s chair.

  “Kinsmen, friends!” His deep voice rang out, commanding attention. “Blackshore”—he glanced at Alasdair—“and I have good tidings.”

  A hush fell over the long tables as Alasdair pushed to his feet as well. The same air of purpose and satisfaction surrounding James also lit the MacDonald chief’s face. The two men, bitter foes only months before, stood together like brothers. Their alliance, born in blood and fury, had blossomed, their bond now carved in stone.

  Isobel tried not to frown. Her breath did catch, her chest tightening.

  “You mustn’t be wroth.” Catriona reached for her hand, trying to lace their fingers.

  “I am well,” Isobel fibbed, pulling away. She didn’t want sympathy. She knew what was coming. And she’d meet it with a raised chin and all the poise of her station.

  She was a lady, after all.

  If Kendrew were here to remind her, she’d blister him with iciest grace, scalding him with frost. But he wasn’t, so she kept her gaze fixed on her brother and Alasdair. They, too, deserved a bit of chilly disdain.

  “We are to have a fine cairn.” James’s words made Isobel’s heart lurch. “We’ll have a base of MacDonald stones as Blackshore is the glen’s southernmost holding. Haven stones will serve as the middle, representing this stronghold at the glen’s heart. We’ll mix our stones with Blackshore’s to make the cairn’s crown.

  “I propose placing the memorial where King Robert’s royal viewing loge stood. That spot”—he looked again to Alasdair, who nodded agreement—“has the best outlook over the battling ground.”

  “So be it.” Alasdair lifted his ale cup, showing approval.

  “If all men are in accord…” James paused, raising a hand as men cheered. As one, they thumped tables with their fists and stamped their feet on the rush-covered floor. Some rattled swords or beat dirk hilts on trestle benches, the noise making dogs bark. The uproar was deafening. Not a single protest was tendered.

  Even Isobel’s quiet-spoken brother Hugh, who preferred scribbling tales to swinging steel, was thwacking the table edge with the flat of his hand.

  James and Alasdair grinned.

  Their triumph made Isobel forget her wish to appear calm and ladylike. Narrowing her eyes, she shot daggers at her brother. She also aimed a peppered look at Alasdair, just for good measure.

  They were in this together. Both men’s behavior went beyond unjust.

  A cairn without Mackintosh stones couldn’t be declared a true memorial.

  Kendrew and his Berserkers had also fought in the trial by combat. Mackintosh blood had flowed as freely as Cameron and MacDonald blood. Nought losses drenched the ground as red as the fallen of Haven and Blackshore. Everyo
ne knew Kendrew was a proud and stubborn man. Work on the cairn should be delayed until he relented and sent stones.

  Anything else was dishonorable.

  And it was her brothers’ and Alasdair’s plans that ruined her appetite.

  It had nothing to do with the irksome welling in her chest each time the sun dipped behind the hills, reminding her that another day had passed without her having an opportunity to see Kendrew.

  She knew he desired her.

  But she couldn’t make him love her—and bring peace to their clans—if he kept himself from her.

  Furious that he was doing just that, she stabbed a piece of herring and popped it into her mouth. The briny taste almost gagged her, but she forced herself to swallow. She usually loved herring, especially when it was so fresh. Now, nerves kept her stomach tied in knots.

  She winced and reached for her wine cup, hoping to dash the taste.

  “I couldn’t bear food either, not at the beginning.” Catriona leaned close, breaking into Isobel’s misery. Her voice was low, commiserating. “Green herring was especially troublesome.”

  Isobel nearly choked on her watered wine. “I am not troubled.”

  “No?”

  “So I said.” Isobel slapped down her cup, her face heating. “Dear saints, but you have notions.”

  “With reason, I believe.” Catriona set a hand to her own thickening middle. “I am concerned.”

  “Shhh…” Isobel glanced down the table again, relieved to see that none of the men looked their way. “There’s no need for worry. I told you—”

  “You told me enough.” Catriona folded her napkin and placed it carefully on the table. “Mackintosh is like a wild beast. Wholly uncontrollable. Such men need only glance at a woman and she’d—”

  “Well, I didn’t.” Isobel’s cheeks burned. She almost wished she had taken his seed. Then she would’ve had something of him. “He did not… I am not—” She didn’t finish, afraid her voice would crack if she did.

  “You are sure?” Catriona sounded doubtful. “I have heard that such men are more potent than most.” She edged closer, whispering against Isobel’s ear. “Some folk believe even the air around them will quicken a womb.”