Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  Kendrew didn’t move. A low humph was his only reply. Speech was no longer possible with the warm curve of her hip pressing against him, her damnable violet scent invading his senses.

  But she was right.

  The sound of retreating footsteps proved Hugh and her cousin were moving down the passage. Relieved, Kendrew reached to yank open the secret door just as Isobel sidled past him to do the same.

  Only, in the tightness of the tunnel, she didn’t sidle far.

  “Oh, dear…” She froze, surely aware that she’d just rubbed the fullness of her breasts across his chest. “I’m sorry.” Her voice sounded breathy, excited, and not at all remorseful. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Lady Isobel, I say you did.” Kendrew gripped her arm, pulling her back in front of him. “I doubt there is aught you do without deliberation.”

  She huffed, straining away from him. “You don’t know me at all.”

  “I know you better than I wish.” Kendrew held her by the waist, his fingers splayed across her hips. In the narrow tunnel, her back touched the wall, her breasts crushing against him. Her hair spilled everywhere, liquid silk, intimate and sinuous. And this time, he wasn’t of a mood to ignore temptation.

  “You are”—he lowered his head and nipped her earlobe, trailed kisses down her neck—“a born seductress.” He kissed the curve of her cheek, then wished he hadn’t, because her skin was so smooth and warm, enticing. “But I’m no’ a man to hide in shadows.

  “Suchlike runs against my nature.” He straightened, setting firm hands on her shoulders, ignoring the sweet glide of her hair across his fingers. “Yet I dinnae think you’d wish me to kiss you out in the corridor, on the other side of thon door? Or down in the great hall with your brother and everyone else looking on?”

  “No, that isn’t what I wish.” She took a deep breath and Kendrew sensed rather than saw her frown. “What I want—”

  “I ken what you want.” He gripped her chin, lifting her face to his even though she couldn’t see him in the darkness. “Such passions are no’ good for you. You’re better off in your ladies’ bower, stitching fancy borders on linens.”

  “Then step aside so I can go there.” Her voice snapped with anger, just as Kendrew had hoped.

  Releasing her, he edged past her, pulling open the tunnel door before he damned his chivalry and hitched up her skirts, taking her against the wall as his painfully tight body roared for him to do. She wouldn’t fight him. Far from it, she’d welcome him, sliding her arms around his neck and kissing him deeply, urging him on.

  He could quench his need for her so easily.

  Leaving her now would damn him to sleepless nights, endless longing, and regret.

  His honor—such as it was—won the battle.

  “Wait till I’m down the stairs before you leave the tunnel, Lady Isobel.” He did his worst, stepping out into the dimly lit corridor.

  “What?” She burst from the secret passage, grabbing his arm. “You can’t go down the stairs. Are you mad? Someone might see you.”

  “I’ll say I lost my way returning from the stables.” He shook off her grip and started along the corridor, making for the turnpike stair.

  “Kendrew, please…” Isobel didn’t come after him.

  Kendrew kept on, not looking back.

  “You are mad.” She hissed the words, angry now.

  Kendrew smiled, giving his steps a swagger. Anger was good. Thinking him crazed, even better. His smile widened when he reached the turret stair and stepped into its shadows.

  He welcomed the gloom.

  The dimness would hide him from view if Isobel dashed to the stair’s entry and peered down to watch his descent. With luck, she wouldn’t see him nip into the secret tunnel at the next landing.

  It was best if she thought he’d boldly marched down the stair.

  Mad as she believed him, uncaring if he caused her woe.

  What a pity that he did care.

  Worse than that, he didn’t think he could stop.

  Even as Kendrew made his way through Castle Haven’s much-too-low, much-too-narrow secret wall passage, this time heading back down to the great hall, his long-passed but still lively ancestor, Daire, drifted to and fro in a quiet corner of the battlements. He’d always appreciated the contemplative benefits of pacing. And just now, he needed to decide if there was hope for Kendrew.

  He believed so.

  The notion put a smile on his once-proud face.

  He hadn’t been so sure the night he’d watched over Kendrew as he’d slept atop Slag’s Mound. The lad’s fury had thickened the air, even as he’d tossed and turned on the rocks, snoring worse than a dreagan.

  Now…

  Daire could scarce contain his excitement.

  In life, he’d worked hard to forge peace between the glen clans. A keen judge of character, he’d secretly selected brides from both Clan Cameron and the MacDonalds for carefully chosen Mackintosh warriors, including the chief of his day. It’d been a grand undertaking and was almost ready for fruition when Rodan’s treachery ruined everything.

  All Daire’s work had been for naught.

  No marriages took place between the pairs he’d been so sure would wed well together.

  And the enmity between the three glen clans only grew, worsening down the ages.

  Now…

  Kendrew and Isobel were better suited for each other than any of the pairs Daire had tried to match in his day.

  So a strong sense of accomplishment welled inside him. If such were possible, he was sure that his heart would beat faster, his pulse quickening. He did fancy that his ghostly mail gleamed with particular brightness, reflecting his satisfaction and delight.

  It was just a shame that there was no one to share his high spirits.

  Once, there would’ve been.

  A true and loyal soul he’d loved more than his life.

  We will never be parted. His own long-ago promise echoed in his mind as he paused by a merlon in the notched parapet wall. Lifting a mist-thin hand to his brow, he looked out across the wooded slopes of the hills, then to the high, heather-grown moorlands rolling beyond. Nothing stirred as far as his eye could see.

  You can depend on me always. More of his words, slipping out from the deep, hidden place where he kept them, knowing well that dwelling on sorrow only deepened the pain.

  But he had known glory for a time.

  And he’d enjoyed the most pure and wondrous love.

  That was long ago, sadly.

  This day held one of the small triumphs that came his way now and then. So he allowed himself his pride. Even a bit of spectral daring, leaning out through a crenel opening to catch a better view of the great, roaring waterfalls that spilled down the hills behind Castle Haven.

  The Cameron holding was a bonny place.

  Perhaps not wild and rugged enough to attract anyone from Nought, but nothing was impossible.

  He hadn’t lived all these centuries without learning that truth.

  So he braced a hand against the edge of the merlon and kept watch as he always did, hoping he wasn’t missing anything of import.

  It was hard to think with so much clean, cold air blowing across the parapets. Like all Mackintoshes, he relished sharp weather. The keening wind was music to his ears, easily distracting.

  And he really did need to keep his thoughts on Kendrew and the raven-haired lovely.

  From what he’d seen, things weren’t anywhere near settled between them. Admittedly, he’d left them to their privacy when they’d embraced in the tunnel.

  He’d expected them to kiss, even hoped fervently.

  They’d argued instead.

  Tempers rose before Daire could flit more than a pace away. And then he’d been obliged to keep an eye on them. Having taken on their cause—life as an Otherworldly being did turn boring at times, necessitating such engagement—it was in his best interest to observe them.

  Only so could he be of service.

 
; He’d already performed a most astonishing feat, causing the top stones of young Borg’s nest to keep rolling off the cairn until enough rock accumulated to make a cartload. That wonder filled him with pride. Sadly, it’d also cost him quite a bit of strength.

  But he’d managed the journey here all the same.

  His reward was great.

  He now knew that Kendrew’s heart was softening toward the fetching Cameron beauty who—beyond all doubt—was such a well-suited bride for him. There could be no other reason that he’d ignored her so fiercely upon his arrival in the Castle Haven hall. Nor could anything else have spurred him to once again suffer the tight confines of the secret passage, if not to protect Lady Isobel.

  Kendrew did care for her.

  If he didn’t, he would’ve ravished her in the tunnel. Yet he’d resisted. He’d behaved nobly, even if he’d allowed Lady Isobel to believe otherwise.

  Daire understood the lad’s reasons.

  So there was hope.

  He just didn’t know how to go about ensuring that the pair met again soon.

  Kendrew had most adamantly declined the Cameron chief’s invitation to participate in the upcoming dedication ceremony for the memorial cairn. His gallantry slipping, regretably, the lad had even thrown back his head and laughed, announcing his beard would grow past his ankles before he’d return to Castle Haven.

  Then he’d left in a huff.

  Daire had tried to stop him, to no avail.

  His ghostly powers only went so far. And his remarkable bit of stone magic at Borg’s lair truly had left him drained. So he hovered where he was, sheltered by the merlon and the wall of an empty guardhouse. He also sent a prayer to Asgard, asking the gods not to let the strong wind rushing across the parapets whisk him back to Nought.

  He wasn’t ready to return.

  Castle Haven’s battlements truly did offer a wealth of opportunity for scouring the landscape. Set as the stronghold was, in the heart of the Glen of Many Legends, the view of the surrounding woods and hills proved irresistible.

  He didn’t often get down this way.

  And now that he was here, he needed to take advantage.

  It would be a wonder, but there was a possibility that the thick pines around Castle Haven held more than mist, shadow, and the smell of resin.

  If so…

  Daire lifted a wispy hand and dashed his cheek. Hope was a beautiful thing.

  He wasn’t abandoning his.

  Chapter Nine

  Where’s Grim?”

  Kendrew glanced sharply at Talon, the warrior riding beside him. Rocky outcrops loomed before them, marking the edge of Cameron land and the beginning of the more rugged, far superior sweep of Nought territory. The small party of Mackintoshes rode hard, making good time since leaving Castle Haven. Until now, they’d also kept together. And Kendrew wasn’t of a mind to halt. Not with his stronghold so near. His hearth fire beckoned, as did a warm meal and a cup—or several cups—of good thirst-quenching ale.

  So he lifted his voice, pressing Talon when he didn’t respond. “Grim.” Kendrew’s gaze flicked beyond the other man’s shoulder, searching the high, steep cliffs and rocky ground. “Have you seen him?”

  “Grim?” Talon blinked.

  “He was just here.” Kendrew’s brows lowered as Talon reined closer.

  “Aye, so he was…” Talon trailed off, frowning. A powerfully built man with a square, strong-featured face, he looked as puzzled as Kendrew. “I cannae say I saw him ride away.”

  “Then find him. He’ll no’ be far.” Kendrew’s jaw hardened as Talon nodded and then spurred off, disappearing into the mist at a fast canter.

  Of all men to go missing, Grim was the most likely to vanish for reasons sure to foul Kendrew’s mood.

  The flat-footed craven thrived on vexing him.

  Next to Lady Norn, that was. She lived to annoy and outwit him, plaguing him at every twist and turn, her iron will as unbreakable as Nought granite. There were times a body could fancy she’d been sired by the massive boulders that littered Nought ground and not their long-dead parents, gods rest their souls.

  Kendrew eyed the nearest outcrop, the hoary stones cracked and pitted, seeming to glare at him accusingly. He didn’t see any mailed and wild-eyed spearmen hiding there. But he could well believe his sister sprang from such origins. A nefarious changeling his parents had found red-faced and bawling in a bed of pebbles.

  Their father had been too ugly to have spawned a maid of such fair beauty.

  Norn’s tongue was too sharp for her to have been born of their sainted mother’s womb. Which meant Marjory was an interloper.

  Whatever she was, Kendrew’s blood quickened to be on Nought ground again. Breathing deep of the cold, stone-scented air, he felt his heart swell, pride surging as he rode past the first clusters of broken stone.

  Thrusting boldly from the naked earth, the jumbled rocks were just a hint of the wonders to come. Deeper into the wilds of his holding, Rodan’s Stone would claim the eye, quickly followed by Drago’s Lair, the cairn said to belong to a midsized, three-legged dreagan the talespinners loved to claim still roamed Nought.

  Legend told that Drago walked to prove he could.

  Drago was the beast seen most often at Nought. To be sure, those glimpsing him were storytellers, graybeards, and men deep in their cups. But all swore that when Drago walked, he went about proudly, bumbling through the heather, crunching over stones.

  No one feared the storied beast.

  Mackintoshes, at least, knew that the three-legged dreagan’s prowling was a matter of dignity and not a search for his next meal.

  Drago had no need to scavenge, after all. Grim supplied him with all manner of supper leavings from Nought’s tables, regularly raiding the castle stores to fill whole creels with everything from barely gnawed meat ribs to entire sides of roasted oxen if the lout could steal one from the kitchen firespit without Cook catching him. Grim also nabbed barrels of herring and other pickled fish when he thought no one was looking.

  No creature small or large went hungry at Nought.

  Grim cared for them all.

  It scarce mattered that deer or other woodland creatures, and not a dreagan, enjoyed Grim’s offerings.

  A romantic at heart, Grim appreciated the fancy of feeding a dreagan.

  At the moment, neither Grim nor a needy beastie could be seen. Talon had also disappeared, the clatter of his horse’s hooves faded. Nothing stirred on these outermost fringes of Nought except cold, blowing mist. Great, billowing curtains of damp grayness that—to Kendrew’s delight—were always darker and denser than the mist found anywhere else in the Glen of Many Legends.

  All was quiet.

  And Talon was no man to tread gently. Unless he chose to night-walk, as all Mackintoshes were like to do when the need or desire rose.

  Now…

  Something was amiss.

  Kendrew frowned, narrowing his eyes to better peer through the mist. The silence boded ill. The rocks, heather, and crags returned his stare uncompromisingly, the rough terrain showing its most sullen face.

  Lifting a hand to his brow, he stared harder.

  He was better at being sullen than any hoary, lichen-covered boulders.

  His eyes were excellent.

  In the distance, he could just make out Rodan’s Stone, leaning precariously into the whirling gray. As usual, no one lurked there. For some reason, the air around the standing stone always held an unpleasant chill, leaving some to speculate that Rodan, the clan’s greatest hero, was perturbed by the tilt of his monolith.

  “Rodan must be about,” a deep voice claimed from the tight column of riders behind Kendrew. “The cold’s slicing my bones, it is.”

  Another man barked a laugh. “You’re chilled because Kendrew made us leave Castle Haven before you could pull a certain flashing-eyed serving wench onto your knee.”

  “She was already there, you arse,” the other man snarled. “A bonnie piece she was, too. Plump
and warm, all woman and wanting me.”

  More laughter rose from the men.

  Kendrew refrained. They were almost level with Rodan’s Stone and—his head began to throb—he’d swear the monolith leaned more than the last time he’d been here. Indeed, he was certain.

  “I swear there’s frost on my danglers,” the first man complained again. “Rodan’s sour at us. Ho, Kendrew.” He raised his voice, calling from the end of the column. “Mayhap we should fix his—”

  “Nae.” Kendrew bit back a shudder.

  It was superstition that kept the clan from righting the stone.

  Twisting in his saddle, Kendrew looked down the line of riders to the man who’d spoken. “What gods willed, shouldn’t be undone.”

  But—he decided as swiftly—if Grim were up to mischief, no such law would apply to him.

  The oversized lout might be Kendrew’s most trusted friend and captain of the guard, but he enjoyed thrusting his nose into places not good for him. And he did so much too often. Grim was a natural-born meddler who should’ve been a woman, with all his interfering ways.

  A pesky feeling told Kendrew his friend was up to no good.

  Talon would’ve returned with him by now if that weren’t so.

  Only a moment before, Grim had been riding at Kendrew’s side. The three of them, Kendrew, Grim, and Talon, had led the column of men. They’d jested for the last mile or so, chuckling about the look on James Cameron’s face as they’d taken their leave of Castle Haven. Grim, especially, had laughed at Kendrew’s vow that his beard would grow past his ankles before he’d set foot there again.

  Then, as they’d neared their own land and the mist thickened around them, the air turning brittle with cold, they’d all sighed in pleasure.

  The only thing a Highlander loved as much as his own bit of home glen was returning there after he’d been away. Even after such a brief excursion outside Nought bounds, Grim had edged his steed closer to Kendrew’s and reached over to thump him on the arm at their first sight of Nought’s soaring cliffs filling the sky before them.

  Now Grim was gone.