Nor could he pace about angrily, spewing smoke and fire, his much-dreaded roar echoing through the dreagan vale, making the rocky, broken ground and even the high, bare cliffs tremble beneath his wrath.
Such days were long gone.
Truth be told, they were so far in the distant past that he sometimes found it hard to recall just how ferocious he’d been. Or that one glance from his fiery red eyes had struck terror into the hearts of men.
Now, in the dark and dank confines of this dread cave where he was so regrettably trapped, all he could do was roll his great stony-scaled body hither and thither. At times, he took especial care to stretch his legs and wriggle his long, claw-tipped toes. Even if he wasn’t going anywhere, it was beneath his dignity to suffer muscle cramps in limbs that once made the earth shake.
Such spasms also hurt.
So Slag did what he could to relieve them.
Once, long ago, he’d have been better able to cope with such agonies. Not that he’d been plagued by many weaknesses back in those carefree days he missed so much. If he was honest, and dreagans always were, he’d only been hampered by one truly shameful shortcoming.
Unfortunately, his worst failing had brought him to this pass.
The sad fate of being trapped by the cold, hard stone he loved so dearly—dreagans were hewn of stone, after all—but unable to roam the beloved, mist-hung vale that was carved so deeply in his heart.
Even stone hearts bled, as well he knew.
And second chances were the stuff of dreams: elusive, bittersweet, and definitely not within the reach of a dreagan, however big and mighty.
Here, where he was, he almost wished he’d been the smallest of his kind and not the largest.
His life, such as it was, would’ve been easier to endure.
But he was where he was and also as huge as he was.
And he had only himself to blame that he was here.
So he did what he always did—unable to do aught else—and pushed his feet against the rock-hard wall of his nest, giving his toes one last wriggle. Then he let his scaly eyelids drop, blotting the impenetrable blackness that pressed around him so cloyingly.
Sleep would soon come and spend him a few hours’ numbness.
Hours that—to a dreagan—could last a hundred years or more.
Not that Slag minded, not now.
Oblivion erased cares, and the horror of being wedged into a tight, confining place he couldn’t escape. And most blessed of all, when he slumbered, he couldn’t scold himself for the embarrassing truth that had landed him here.
On the never-to-be-forgotten day when the traitor Rodan had brought evil to the vale of dreagans, his all-consuming greed driving him to unleash unspeakable terror on Nought as his unholy henchmen shouted dark curses and ripped open dreagan cairns in search of the treasure they’d hoped to find there…
Slag had run.
Instead of rearing up on his great hind legs and fire-blasting Rodan and his minions, Slag had clamped his tail between his legs and fled.
But it hadn’t been Rodan and his hell-fiend friends who’d frightened him.
The day—Slag would never forget—had been cold and dark, the sky low and black with angry, boiling clouds. Wind tore through the vale, bending trees and flattening the heather. Rain spat and hissed, peppering the ground. And lightning split the heavens, thunder booming worse than any dreagan’s roar.
It’d been too much for Slag.
And instead of rearing up and roaring, doing his part to quell Rodan’s villainy, he’d run. He’d taken off as fast as his legs could carry him, seeking shelter not from Rodan and his perfidy, but from the one thing that terrified him more than all else.
Thunder and lightning.
Slag, once the mightiest dreagan of them all, had a humbling secret.
He was afraid of storms.
Chapter Ten
A sennight later, Isobel stood on the battlements of Castle Haven, her face tilted to catch the night wind. The air was clean, cold, and smelled of pine, the brisk freshness good for her soul. Stepping closer to the wall, she rested her hands on the ledge and looked out across land loved by Camerons for centuries. The reasons were manifold, going deeper than time could reach. The Glen of Many Legends was special, filled with magic and wonder. Silvery mist drifted across the hills and moorland, and stars glittered against a sky that shone like polished silk.
Surely there was no more stirring place.
Despite Kendrew’s warning, nothing terrible had happened and no strangers had been seen prowling about. If anything, the glen was more lovely now than ever.
Pride flared in Isobel’s breast, the nightscape invigorating her, making her pulse quicken.
She inhaled deeply, appreciative of the beauty around her. She also clutched a parchment scroll, pressing the letter close to her heart, just as she’d done every night for the last seven nights, ever since Kendrew’s messenger, Grim, delivered such unexpected tidings.
A huge man, fierce looking, but with striking gray eyes the color of winter fog, he’d sworn that every word of the missive was true.
Kendrew would attend the memorial cairn’s dedication and friendship ceremony.
Isobel wanted to believe.
Already, the cairn stood at the top of the trial by combat’s battling ground, placed where King Robert and his sparkling entourage had watched the slaughter from their brightly painted, pennon-topped royal loge. The memorial was magnificent, each stone placed with love and pride. Clan MacDonald’s Blackshore stones made the base. Cameron offerings provided the cairn’s middle. And Kendrew’s portion from Nought served as the top layer, though the crown held mixed stones from the lands of all three clans.
Tears, blood, and honor bound the stones, while devotion to the Glen of Many Legends gave the cairn depth and meaning that no Highlander could look upon without his eyes misting.
The cairn was a sight to behold.
Beautiful to the eye, poignant to the soul, and—Isobel so hoped—a reminder that the glen clans would thrive only if they banded together, united in their dedication to one another and the land so dear to them, fierce in their commitment to face all outside threats as one.
She, Catriona, and Marjory were the beginning. Their secret pact would blossom, sealing the glen’s peace—and sanctity—for all generations to come after them. Children would be born of these unions, strong, proud sons and beautiful, high-spirited daughters of the glen, their legacy then passed on to their own descendants.
It was a good plan.
And to Isobel, so much more than a means to ensure that harmony reigned in the glen. The truth was she wanted Kendrew with a passion that threatened to consume her. She was falling in love with him.
Perhaps she already had?
Whatever her feelings, even if he remained obstinate and loving him would rip her world apart, she’d still follow him anywhere. She’d do so because their souls beat in tandem. Her feelings for him burned so hotly in her chest that only true love could flame so desperately, filling her so completely that she couldn’t even breathe without his name whispering across her heart.
Closing her eyes, she imagined his powerful, rock-hard arms sliding around her, holding her tight. His intense blue gaze piercing her, his kiss…
“Oh, please…” She curled her hands on the cold stone of the ledge, her heart aching.
They were so perfect together.
She just needed to prove it to him.
And if his letter spoke true—she didn’t need to reread the missive, each word echoed in her heart—then she’d soon have another chance to win his affection.
He already desired her. There could be no denying the attraction between them.
But she wanted his love.
Half afraid such a wish was beyond her reach, she leaned against parapet walling, her gaze lowering to the newly raised cairn.
No one stirred on the erstwhile fighting ground. The hour was late. And although the night sky still held t
he shimmering glow of summer, folk rose early at Castle Haven. Most of her kinsmen were abed, her family unaware that she held these nightly vigils—just herself, Kendrew’s letter, and the burning hope that kept her going.
She needed these quiet moments.
They helped her trust in the parchment. And in the assurances of a burly, tough-looking warrior with kindly gray eyes who’d laughed when she’d suggested the letter must be a mistake.
He’d said he knew Kendrew better than most.
And that Kendrew had vowed on his life not to miss the ceremony.
But Catriona’s borrowed amber necklace had quivered at Isobel’s throat the first time she’d touched the parchment. The stones had warmed and hummed, giving off the warning she’d been told indicated danger.
Yet she’d felt in her heart that Grim was honest.
A good and well-meaning man, for all that his face could only be called rough-hewn and somewhat frightening. Or that he wore his thick dark hair wildly tangled, his visage made more fierce thanks to the half-score of tightly woven braids plaited into his great, black beard.
She did trust him.
Even so, something made the ambers quicken. And she doubted it’d been Kendrew.
He only posed a danger to her heart.
Could the enchanted gems be cautioning her that his presence at the cairn festivities would leave her emotions in a worse turmoil than she was already in?
Before she could decide, she heard the soft scrape of a shoe against the stone flagging of the parapet walk, then the gentle rustling of cloth, announcing that someone had joined her on the battlements.
A woman.
And if it was Catriona—out of her bed and braving the steep, winding stairs to the parapet, risking limb and the child she carried beneath her breast—Isobel would have sharp words for her friend.
But when she turned, rather than scold Catriona, she found her jaw slipping.
Beathag, the cook’s wife, stood on the other side of the battlements. The stout woman’s back was turned to Isobel and she appeared to be staring at the cataracts that splashed down a gorge in the hills not far from the castle’s curtain wall. Beathag’s dark cloak blew in the wind and the night’s luminous silver cast turned her iron-gray hair the gleaming white of newly fallen snow.
A freshening drift of cinnamon wafted from her, carried on the wind.
Isobel sniffed, frowning.
Beathag usually boasted one of two scents: salt herring or a trace of fine, roasted meat. Sometimes she also carried a hint of wood smoke from the kitchen fires.
She never smelled of cinnamon, claiming the costly spice made her sneeze.
“Beathag…” Isobel started forward, and then froze when the woman turned. “Dear saints!” Isobel clapped her hands to her face, staring at the woman—a crone—who was definitely not Cook’s wife.
“Beathag is sleeping peaceably in her bed.” The woman smiled, her blue eyes twinkling in the starlight. “I needed a guise to make my way up here, see you?” She winked, looking pleased. “Some folk still be shuffling about down in the great hall. It wouldn’t do if they saw me.
“A guise was needed, aye.” The crone cackled.
“A guise?” Isobel’s heart galloped.
Shrinking in size before her eyes, the woman wore her snowy white braids wound on either side of her head. Small black boots, impeccably clean, graced her feet, and her wrinkled cheeks held a touch of pink. A half-moon brooch of beaten silver gleamed above her heart. And it was upon seeing that shining crescent that Isobel’s surprise became wonder, relief sweeping her.
“Grizel.” Isobel quickly crossed the wall-walk to join the tiny woman, the female half of the mythic pair known as the Makers of Dreams. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you since I was a child.”
“So you remember, h’mmm?” Grizel preened, the rose in her cheeks deepening. “ ’Twas a fierce fever you had, it was. With your mother gone away, the saints rest her soul, who better than me to sit with you, eh? Could be I also murmured a few healing words o’er you.”
She winked, her ancient eyes crinkling. “It did no harm, what?”
“No indeed.” Isobel smiled. Images from those long-ago days flashed across her mind, vibrant, real, and becoming clearer the deeper Grizel peered into her eyes. “You sang to me and helped me sleep.”
“Ones such as me aye help.” Grizel’s thin chest puffed a bit. “That’s why I’m here. But you’ll already be for knowing that, eh?”
“I know you wouldn’t come without good reason.” Isobel didn’t want to say more.
Grizel and her partner, Gorm, were good souls. But sometimes they took spoken words too literally. A carelessly turned phrase could land one in a precarious situation if the well-meaning Makers of Dreams granted a wish uttered without consideration.
Grizel put her hands on her hips, the glint in her eye proving it. “You’ve grown into a wise lass, you have. Such prudence will serve you well.”
Isobel did her best not to frown. Grizel’s words weren’t encouraging. Indeed, they made her belly knot and set her heart to thumping nervously.
“Will I have need of caution?” She broke another rule of dealing with the Makers of Dreams.
Questions were never asked directly.
Grizel and Gorm loved riddles.
“You are asking the wrong person, alas.” Grizel’s merry tone took the sting from her words.
“I see.” Isobel didn’t see at all.
“You shall, anon.” Grizel sounded sure.
Isobel was anything but certain. But she knew not to try to rush the ancient for an explanation.
Whatever Grizel wished her to know, she’d reveal in her own way and time.
Unfortunately, instead of enlightening Isobel, she turned back to the parapet wall. Lifting her chin, Grizel once again seemed to be peering at the silvery waterfall plunging down the gorge.
Isobel stepped up to the wall beside her, waiting.
The smile tugging at the crone’s lips showed that joining her at the wall was what she’d wanted Isobel to do. Pleasure almost rolled off her, the scent of cinnamon swirling around them.
“It be a fine night, h’mmm?” Grizel flashed a sidelong look at Isobel.
“Surely no more magical than at Tigh-na-Craig.” Isobel tempted fate by mentioning the name of the Makers of Dreams’ cottage. Hidden away where few men would dare wander, even if they could gain entry to the mysterious high moor where Grizel and Gorm lived, House on the Rock was a low, white-walled cottage nestled among a jumble of boulders at the base of a soaring cliff.
Isobel had never been there, but she knew powerful magic was said to permeate the cottage.
Even the peat smoke said to stain the walls and fill the cottage’s interior purportedly held enough spelling to put a soul into a slumber that lasted centuries. If, of course, Grizel and Gorm wished to burden themselves with such a long-term visitor.
Just now, Grizel appeared entirely absorbed in the cataract splashing down the nearby hillside.
“Tigh-na-Craig’s magic can be found everywhere.” This time she didn’t glance at Isobel as she spoke. “All the Highlands hold wonder. One needn’t trek far away, high over inaccessible moorland, to discover enchantment. Ofttimes”—her voice took on a mischievous note—“the like is right beneath our noses. We just need to look.”
Isobel’s pulse leaped. “I’m always looking for magic.”
She was.
Her fascination with Norse culture and legend was one reason she’d been so drawn to Kendrew. Like her, he appreciated the old ways. He believed in the spirits of rock and wind, the ageless wisdom in the glen’s deep forests of pine, birch, and oak. The power of the tides was something he didn’t doubt, nor the mystery to be found in high, boggy moorlands, or atop rocky crags veiled in mist. If he were here, he’d know where Grizel was leading her.
Isobel couldn’t begin to guess.
Until she followed the crone’s gaze and saw the magnificent white stag
standing on a large boulder near the bottom of the waterfall.
“Laoigh Feigh Ban.” Isobel gasped, using the Gaelic name for the magical beast. The immortal white stag, Rannoch, so named after the wild stretch of dark, impenetrable moor said to be his original home.
Now he was Grizel and Gorm’s pet and helpmate.
Isobel touched a hand to her ambers as she stared at him, her heart thundering. “It is him, isn’t it?”
“Rannoch?” Grizel’s tone held affection. “Aye, that be him. He thought it might be doing you good to see him this night.”
Isobel refrained from asking how Grizel knew the white stag’s mind.
In truth, she wouldn’t be surprised if he talked.
He did turn his proud head to stare at her, his ears twitching with curiosity. From high above, starlight fell across his pure white pelt, gilding him and letting him shine as if lit from within. His rich, liquid-brown eyes touched Isobel deeply, his steady gaze holding hers as if he could see to the roots of her soul.
“He’s trying to tell you something, he is.” Grizel put a hand on Isobel’s arm, gripping tight. “Can you no’ hear what he’s saying?”
“Nae, I—” Isobel broke off, not wanting to admit that she heard only the whistle of the wind through the pines and the rushing water of the falls.
She did catch a faint whiff of Rannoch’s musky, earthy scent, dark and primeval.
And…
“Oh, dear.” Isobel’s eyes widened, a thought popping into her mind. Her breath caught, snagging in her throat. “I do believe…”
Instead of finishing, she turned to Grizel, sure her cheeks were blazing. “He wouldn’t be here because of his name, would he? Is that why he’s staring at me like that?”
If so, the riddle would never be solved.
She wasn’t about to tell Grizel why the word Rannoch made her blush.
Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel Page 16