Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  His dander roused, Kendrew noted that his sister appeared unaware of everything else around her. Her gaze was locked on Alasdair, as if she and her clan’s mortal enemy existed in a world all their own.

  Kendrew had never seen such a look on her.

  He did whip back around before anyone saw him gawping. Now he knew why Norn had gone to such lengths to ensure they attended the ceremony.

  It hadn’t been about honor and the clan’s good name.

  She’d hoped to see Alasdair MacDonald.

  And that meant only one thing.

  He’d have to find a husband for her, and soon.

  It was a task he’d set upon with relish. He’d do so as soon as he managed to rid his own mind of Isobel Cameron. And that was an undertaking he wasn’t sure he could master, if the truth were known.

  As if she knew, Isobel flashed a triumphant look at him and quickened her step, moving ahead of him so that he had no choice but to observe the enticing sway of her hips as they neared the cairn.

  “Good men,” she greeted her brother and the MacDonald, “see who has joined us at last…”

  She turned, gesturing with her free hand. “The Mackintosh of Nought, with his warriors. And”—she flashed a significant look in Alasdair’s direction—“his sister, Lady Marjory.”

  It was then, seeing the look Isobel and Norn exchanged, that Kendrew knew which way the wind blew in this, his beloved Glen of Many Legends. When they both sent a similar look at Lady Catriona, sheltering from the wind in a nearby pavilion, he was sure.

  The womenfolk were banding together, conspiring against him.

  Not that it would do them any good.

  He was on to them now, aware of their trickery.

  And he had no intention of being led on a merry chase. He hunted and cornered his own prey, as Isobel would soon discover to her peril.

  Her very great peril.

  Chapter Eleven

  In the next glen, far from Kendrew and the three women conspiring against him, Ralla the Victorious held court in the great hall of Duncreag, Clan MacNab’s proud stronghold. A massive, wind-lashed eyrie every bit as daunting as Nought, Duncreag sat so high on a sheer, rocky crag that clouds and mist often hid its walls from view. As at Nought, a steep and narrow path led to the well-guarded gatehouse, but unlike Kendrew’s stone steps, where each tread cut into the cliff face, access to Duncreag was more like a goat track that wound its way up the bluff.

  Visitors were few because Clan MacNab was aye at odds with its neighbors.

  And any foe who dared to come unannounced would be met with a rain of fire arrows before he had climbed the first twist of the treacherous castle path.

  Duncreag’s impregnability suited Ralla well.

  He didn’t believe in making life easy for his enemies. Nor was he above having done with one of his own men if he suspected treachery. He wasn’t going to leave this world by a knife between the ribs as he slept.

  In truth, he rarely slumbered.

  Sleeping wolves didn’t catch much prey.

  And Ralla was a hungry man.

  This night he was also jovial. Proving it, he rapped his empty ale cup on the high table and leered at a young, bare-breasted slave girl plucking a harp in a shadowy corner of the dais. “You, Breena, fetch us more drink!

  “I am thirsty, make haste!” Ralla laughed, banging his cup more vigorously when the slave tried to cover her breasts as she stood. A timid village girl taken during a raid in Ireland, she blushed red as her hair when she had to step out of the corner’s sheltering murk.

  “The fate spinners have been kind to us, lass.” He grinned as if she appreciated his triumph. “I am told Mackintosh rode to Haven after all. And”—he looked round at his men—“he took his best warriors with him!”

  The hall burst into peals of laughter, though some men snarled slurs and challenges.

  Ralla beamed.

  “We know what happens when a bear doesn’t watch his den.” He pinched Breena’s hip as she darted past him toward the kitchens passage. “The men we sent back to Nought will ready a fine welcome for his return. Then”—he lifted his voice, looking round—“while he’s spluttering and reeling, we sweep in for the kill.”

  “What of the other two clans?” Tor, a crooked-nosed brute of a man, spoke around a beef rib, the juices glistening in his beard. “I’ve my eye on Lady Isobel’s amber necklace. After I’ve plowed her other delights!”

  “She’s mine, you arse.” Ban, an equally huge man whose thick arms were lined with gold rings, glowered at Tor. “I’ll have her after Ralla, and if you think otherwise, I’ll gut you faster than you can blink. You’ll be raven fodder, good for no woman.”

  “You ask of the other glen curs?” Ralla snatched the ale jug from Breena when she returned and then tipped the ewer to his lips, drinking from the jug. “ ’Tis Cameron and MacDonald flesh that will soon be feeding carrion, that I say you. After their cairn ceremony, they’ll be drunk on glory. Their high spirits will weaken them, dulling their wits. When they hear we’ve choked the Mackintoshes on their own blood, they’ll be too stunned to react swiftly.

  “By the time they do reach for their swords”—he slammed down the ale jug, grinning—“it’ll be too late. We’ll be all over them.”

  His men roared approval, sharing his mirth.

  In the dais corner, Breena crept back into the shadows, trying to hide her nakedness behind her harp. Her efforts only drew Ralla’s amusement.

  “Dinnae cower so, lass.” He leaned toward her, wagging his bushy brows. “When our work here is done and the Glen of Many Legends runs red with blood again, purged of its vaunted heroes, our lord will come to reward us. If you please him, he may take you with him to his own keep—a place much finer than this cold pile o’ stanes!”

  On his words, Breena slunk deeper into the murk.

  And at the top of the high table, in a seat of honor, an old man with thinning hair and a straggly beard turned furious eyes on Ralla the Victorious. Leaning forward, he growled objection to the insult.

  But Ralla only grinned, waving his ale cup in the old man’s direction as if saluting him.

  “Tor!” Ralla glanced at Tor. He sat nearest the graybeard, Archie MacNab, the clan chief. “Give our friend more ale. He looks in need o’ a drink.”

  “I’d rather use his bones to put a few new dents in my sword.” But Tor stood, cracking his knuckles menacingly.

  Then he went to the old man’s chair and, a bit more roughly than was necessary, pulled a filthy cloth bind from the chief’s mouth.

  “Drink, you ancient bugger,” he growled, pouring a cupful of ale down Archie MacNab’s throat. “Celebrate, for we’re growing bored with you. Soon we’ll be sending you to join your sons in the corpse pit.”

  Still proud, all things considered, Archie spat the ale in Tor’s face.

  His daring earned him a hard cuff to the head.

  And as he sagged in his high-backed laird’s chair, Ralla laughed.

  Across the heather miles, in the heart of the Glen of Many Legends, the air was filled with a very different kind of conviviality. The high point of the memorial cairn dedication was about to begin. And although most faces shone with pride and satisfaction, one most vital guest of honor—namely Kendrew Mackintosh—scowled fiercely enough to darken the lightness of the day.

  Isobel tried not to notice.

  She prayed he’d reconsider his stance, accepting the need for lasting peace.

  The cold knot in her belly warned he’d remain stubborn.

  But she could be just as unbending, so she took a deep breath, readying herself for what could prove to be the most critical battle of her life.

  It was a fight to win her heart’s desire.

  And to undo the ravages years of strife had brought to the glen.

  All around her, people stirred, edging closer. Above them, high on the ramparts of Castle Haven, banners snapped in the wind. Dogs barked and circled, bounding forward with wagging
tails as if they, too, were eager to hear the blessing she’d been honored to speak.

  The moment was here.

  Kendrew’s frown deepened as if he knew.

  Isobel took a breath, beginning…

  “In honor of those who came before and for the weal of those yet to come, raise your swords.” She lifted her voice, speaking clear and true. “And your war ax,” she added, glancing at Kendrew. “Once the blades touch, we’ll commence the glen water blessing.”

  She wasn’t sure, but she’d almost believed Kendrew growled in his chest.

  He did let his gaze slide over her, eyeing her as if they were alone and not surrounded by jostling men and women from all three clans. Screaming pipes, running children, and excited dogs. Everything disappeared except his big, strong body so improperly close to hers, and the boldness of his scrutiny. His gaze was also a hungry one, dark with appreciation, intimate and knowing.

  He made her burn.

  Heat swept her entire body, from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. She forced herself to hold his gaze. But it wasn’t easy, feeling so vulnerable. The intensity of his perusal almost convinced her that he could see through the layers of white silk and gold-and-silver veiling she’d chosen to wear for the occasion.

  She did keep her back straight, her shoulders proud. Her heart raced at the way he looked at her. His eyes smoldered, his mouth set in a hard, challenging line. She needed all her will not to blush. Hoping she wouldn’t, she tightened her grip on the heavy chalice in her hands and tried to think only of the blessing she was about to perform.

  She even imagined the still-covered stones of the new memorial cairn held a collective breath, waiting eagerly for the honor.

  The afternoon wind quieted, dropping just enough for her to catch the low roar of the cataracts that spilled down a gorge on the other side of Castle Haven. She could easily believe that the glen water taken from the falls wished to lend a voice to the ceremony.

  The notion was pleasing, and not at all impossible.

  Magic did happen on such fine days.

  Especially here, in the Glen of Many Legends, where wonders were never far.

  So she held up the large silver chalice, pleased when the sun glinted off the colorful gemstones on the vessel’s rim. Each jewel dazzled, offering a blessing to the power of the three waters.

  “As water and earth unite, so will the joining of these three blades ensure peace, friendship, and a common purpose to all those here.” She spoke the sacred words, lowering the chalice.

  Her brother James and the MacDonald chieftain, Alasdair, dutifully extended their weapons. They stood side by side, swords in hand, the long blades shining in the afternoon light. An expectant hush fell over the assembled crowd, men and women edging closer, all eager to be a part of the long-awaited friendship and dedication ceremony. Cameron and MacDonald pipers strutted to and fro beneath Castle Haven’s curtain walls, blowing gustily.

  Kendrew didn’t move.

  Isobel risked a glance at him.

  No longer looking at her, he’d fixed his gaze on the edge of the pines. It was the spot where the woodland path led back to his Nought lands. His fierce expression showed that he’d rather be there now.

  He was also quite magnificent. Ire stood him well, the hard set of his jaw only enhancing his appeal.

  His arm rings and fine mail coat shone brighter than the gemstones on the blessing chalice’s rim. Wind caught his rich auburn hair, tossing the gilded strands about his broad, powerfully muscled shoulders. Equally distracting, the golden Thor’s hammer at his throat gleamed with a brilliance to rival the sun, drawing eyes as if the amulet deliberately sought dominance.

  And although Isobel knew he wasn’t that much taller than her brother or Alasdair—both large, well-built men—he appeared to tower above them.

  The slight thrust of his chin proved that he noticed her perusal.

  Tamping down her irritation—he was known for causing havoc, after all—she turned to her brother and Alasdair. She nodded once, giving them the signal to bring their swords together.

  Both men did, their blades meeting with a clear ring of steel.

  Kendrew still stood as if carved of granite.

  Murmurs of unease began circling through the crowd. Hector, James’s dog, dropped onto his haunches and gave a weary, old-dog sigh. Hector’s friend, Geordie, a likewise ancient beast who belonged to Alasdair, began to bark. Leaving Hector’s side, Geordie took several stiff-legged paces toward the three men, his hackles rising as he fixed a suspicious, unblinking stare on Kendrew.

  This time Kendrew did move. But only to toss a look at his friend Grim, who took two twists of dried beef from a pouch at his belt and then tossed the treats to the disgruntled dogs, quieting them both.

  James and Alasdair frowned.

  Apparently pleased to have annoyed them, Kendrew folded his arms, his face turning stony again.

  “The ax, if you please.” Isobel stepped more closely before him, some of the precious glen water sloshing over the chalice’s rim because she’d moved too quickly in her irritation. From the corner of her eye, she saw Catriona toss back her hair, pinning a chilly stare on Kendrew.

  Isobel inhaled sharply, fixing him with a look of her own. “Your ax,” she said again. “We can’t proceed until—”

  “Thon ax is rusted in its straps.” A MacDonald standing near the cairn spat on the ground. “Belike we’ll no’ be having any friendship with Mackintoshes, what? No’ if their chief is too weak to heft his weapon.”

  “Too simple-minded,” another MacDonald declared, looking round as if proud of his wit.

  Several of his kinsmen chortled. One or two of them made similar quips.

  The Mackintosh warriors put their hands to their sword hilts, their faces darkening.

  Kendrew’s lips twitched. Or so Isobel thought—the flash of amusement in his eyes was so fleeting that she couldn’t be sure it’d been there at all.

  He was enjoying himself.

  No one else seemed to have noticed.

  James’s mien was solemn, his stance before the draped memorial cairn proud and respectful.

  But a muscle jerked in Alasdair’s jaw at the mention of Kendrew’s Norse battle-ax. He narrowed his eyes, his displeasure at Kendrew’s inclusion in the ceremony more than apparent.

  Ignoring them both, Kendrew stretched his arms and noisily cracked his knuckles. Isobel shot him a warning look, but that only made him cock a bemused brow as he rolled his powerful shoulders, showing no hurry to reach for the ax strapped across his back.

  Isobel straightened her own shoulders, keenly aware that all eyes were turned on her. “Your weapon, Laird Mackintosh,” she spoke coolly, pretending not to see the challenge in his clear blue eyes.

  He was deliberately provoking her.

  “My ax is Blood Drinker.” He still made no move to retrieve it. “He likes hearing his name.”

  Some of his warriors chuckled. Gathered near the viands table, they thumped one another’s arms, amused by their leader’s obstinate behavior.

  “By whatever name, he will drink no more, blood or otherwise, if I slice his haft to bits with my sword.” James scowled at Kendrew, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his brand tighter.

  Beside him, Alasdair snarled low in his throat. “Unholy goat-men, cliff-climbers no’ worthy of—”

  “Blood Drinker, then.” Isobel ignored their slurs, keeping her gaze on Kendrew as she did as he bade, naming his ax. “I cannot perform the water blessing if you do not offer me your weapon.”

  “That I have already done, my lady.” Kendrew’s words sent heat creeping up her neck, his meaning so obviously not the great bladed ax he wore. “By coming here this day,” he added, mischief sparking in his eyes.

  “Then please…” Isobel’s pulse skittered wildly. His taunt recalled scintillating images, memories of them lying together, tightly entwined…

  “That would no’ be wise.” A corner of his mouth tilted
upward. “Me, pleasing you—”

  “I’ll have your gizzard for my dog’s supper.” James shot him a fierce glare, his earlier restraint gone.

  Kendrew grinned, not taking his gaze off Isobel. “As you wish, though I’d prefer something much finer for my own feasting.”

  “Kendrew…” Marjory stepped beside Isobel, her eyes like sapphire ice. “You shame Nought and all we stand for.” She spoke beneath her breath, her voice only loud enough to be heard by those standing close. “If you don’t cease, I am no longer your sister.”

  “Dinnae tempt me, Norn.” He still didn’t look away from Isobel. “No’ that I can think of anything else with Lady Isobel before me.”

  Isobel lifted her chin, sure her face was aflame. “These are the waters from our lands.” She raised the blessing chalice, hoping to return the crowd’s attention to the ceremony rather than the dangerous exchange between her and her clan’s erstwhile greatest foe.

  The man who, even now, took her breath away, firing her blood and making her desire nothing more than to be held in his arms. Kissed long and deeply, his hands roving over her, sweeping down her back, and then clutching her hips, pulling her close…

  She cleared her throat, feeling Kendrew’s gaze like a flame on her skin. “The powers of the joined waters, their peace and protection, must flow over the blades of your united weapons.”

  “So be it.” Looking away from her at last, Kendrew stepped back, his gaze snapping to the MacDonald man who’d jeered that his ax was “rusted in its straps.” “Let no man say that Nought might won’t stand to protect this glen.” He reached over his shoulder, whipping out the great, long-handled war ax with lightning speed.

  “I will cut down any fool”—he swung the ax around as if it weighed nothing, pointing the long-bearded ax head at the gawping MacDonald clansman—“who dares claim otherwise.”

  The man bristled, straightening his back. “I say what I will.”

  “No’ if Blood Drinker takes your tongue before you can spew a word.” Kendrew grinned when the sun glinted off his weapon’s ax head.

  The polished blade shone in challenge, gleaming bright as his mail.