Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  “You see he is thirsty.” Kendrew took a step toward the man, letting the edge of the ax blade nudge the man’s wide leather belt.

  “Threats are no’ wished here, Mackintosh.” James’s warning went unheeded.

  “A word o’ caution, no’ threat.” Turning back to James and Alasdair, Kendrew swept his huge war ax in a circle, taking in the crowd. “From this day onward, Mackintosh strength guards all.”

  The vow made—Isobel noted that he spoke only of the glen, not the other two clans—he hauled back to swing Blood Drinker in a whistling arc, bringing the big blade down onto the joined blades of James’s and Alasdair’s swords with such speed that Isobel feared he’d knock the swords out of the other two men’s hands.

  But the ax head lit down as gently as a feather.

  Kendrew grinned, his flourish drawing appreciative gasps from the celebrants.

  Neither James nor Alasdair flinched, their iron-willed calm surely meant to show Kendrew that they were equally bold. Warrior chieftains just as worthy to wield power in the glen they all shared.

  In seeming acknowledgment, Kendrew raised one hand, using the other to keep his ax blade atop James’s and Alasdair’s weapons. “Then have done with your ceremony.” He spoke to Isobel, but his voice carried, deep and strong. “Blood Drinker wearies of consorting with mere swords.”

  Isobel bit back a smile. “Then he shall now be revived through the power of our glen water.”

  “Humph.” Kendrew’s brows lowered. “So he may, as long as his steel isn’t pitted by the taint of Blackshore or Haven water.”

  “Kendrew!” Marjory glared at him, and then flashed apologetic looks at James and Alasdair. “He doesn’t mean—”

  “I do.” Kendrew’s tone was mutinous. “If I find a single speck of tarnish, there’ll be a price to pay.”

  “As there will be if we must keep suffering your blether.” Alasdair flicked his wrist in warning, causing his sword—a blade known as Mist-Chaser—to ring against Blood Drinker’s long-bearded head.

  “You’ll be free o’ me anon, brine-drinker.” Kendrew twisted his own wrist, letting his war ax force Mist-Chaser down a few inches.

  “No’ soon enough.” Alasdair jerked his arm, lifting his sword back into place.

  Isobel glanced at Marjory, still standing so close beside her. Then she flashed a look at Catriona, who was now making her way through the throng, coming to join them before the memorial cairn.

  Her friends’ gazes were locked on the three chieftains.

  This moment was one they’d worked hard to make possible. Though—Isobel was sure—James and Alasdair would erroneously believe that the idea for the cairn and the celebrations was their own.

  The women of the glen knew better.

  And they couldn’t let their brothers ruin what they’d achieved. Their efforts and hearts’ blood should spread gladness throughout the glen and prove long-lasting, leaving a legacy of peace for all time to come.

  If this day’s ceremony failed, their hopes would be dashed, slipping ever farther from their grasp.

  And that was a tragedy Isobel couldn’t allow.

  So she kept her chin raised and smiled determinedly as Catriona finally reached her and Marjory’s sides. She gave her two friends a tiny nod, knowing they’d understand her unspoken message.

  Kendrew could balk all he wished.

  He didn’t stand a chance against the battle pitched before him.

  He was outnumbered three to one.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hoping the sacred number three would prove fortunate, especially for a trio of—she truly believed—such well-meaning and deserving women, Isobel again raised the blessing chalice, this time using both hands to hold the gleaming vessel high above her head.

  She pretended not to see the hint of doubt in her friends’ eyes.

  Hoping to encourage them, she let her faith in their pact shine in her own eyes. The renewed stubbornness glinting in Kendrew’s fierce-eyed stare gave her a most satisfactory boost. If he noticed her strength, that she’d thrown down a gauntlet and was battle-ready, the war was half won. He might not care for her methods, but he was sharp-minded enough to know when he’d met a greater opponent.

  Praying it was really so, Isobel squared her shoulders and rushed on, calling out the age-old words she’d been practicing for days.

  “Powers of water, strong and everlasting, bless these weapons and the men who yield them, keeping them true and ever faithful to the sacred glen whence you come.”

  Lowering the chalice, she dipped her fingers into the bowl, sprinkling water on the two sword blades and the head of Kendrew’s long-bearded ax.

  “As the Old Ones have willed and blessed our truce”—she took a breath—“so mote it be.”

  “So mote it be,” James and Alasdair agreed in unison as they raised their swords to the heavens.

  Kendrew humphed and shook the water droplets off Blood Drinker.

  When he started to turn away, Isobel stepped in front of him, blocking his escape. “The three of you must take your banners off the cairn.” She kept her voice low, hoping that none of the celebrants noticed he’d tried to stride away. “The blessing isn’t yet complete.”

  “Plague take your ceremony.” He shot an angry look at Alasdair, snorting as the other chief used Mist-Chaser to whip the MacDonald banner off the cairn, much to the delight of his clan’s pipers, who were now blowing more gustily than ever. “I am done here.”

  “We are only beginning.” Isobel slid a glance at Marjory, who nodded encouragement. “If you’ll just remove the Mackintosh tartan—”

  “ ’Tis myself I’ll be removing. And”—he glared at his sister, his scowl blackening when he saw she’d stepped closer to Alasdair—“my fool sister who will no’ be running after web-footed brine-drinkers.”

  “You are the one who is running.” Isobel raised her chin, letting her eyes spark with challenge. “The great Mackintosh Berserker, your arms and chest carved with pagan kill-marks, fears using his ax head to lift a piece of cloth from a pile of stones.”

  For a moment, his eyes narrowed, his mouth setting in a hard, tight line. But then he threw back his head and laughed, loud and boldly, drawing eyes. Men and women turned from watching James sweep the Cameron plaid from the cairn, looking on as Kendrew spun Blood Drinker in a fast and furious figure-eight motion. Then, with a grand flourish and at eye-blinking speed, he used the curved ax head to hook and whip the Nought banner off the stones.

  “My banner, fair lady.” He bowed low, extending the long-handled ax to her, offering the banner. “I give it to you, a token of my esteem and admiration.”

  Isobel set the blessing chalice on a plaid-draped table and accepted his banner, her heart thumping as she gathered the silken length over her arm.

  She wanted to touch her fingers to Kendrew’s face, tracing his lips and chasing the hard, cynical set of his mouth. Her heart, everything she was, ached to remind him of their kisses, the bliss they’d shared.

  Happiness she knew could be theirs if only he wasn’t so thrawn.

  “So you can be a gallant, as well as stubborn.” She held his banner close, the silk chilled from the wind. “Perhaps you will also—”

  “I am no’ a chivalrous man, Lady Isobel.” He held her gaze, looking deep into her eyes. “I am only a man who knows what is best for you. Keep thon banner and each time you gaze upon it, remember no’ to trespass on wild places where no maid as fair as you ought to tread.”

  “I am no longer a maid.” Isobel refused retreat, the loud skirl of the pipes and the general din allowing her to speak freely.

  “You remain a lady.” Kendrew was firm, his tone final.

  Looking past her, he inhaled sharply when his gaze lit on Marjory. “My sister shall stay a lady as well.” He moved to step around her, clearly bent on separating Marjory from Alasdair. “I’ll no’ allow her to—”

  “She is only giving him the ale offering.” Isobel watched her fri
end hand a large earthen jug to the MacDonald chieftain. “The ceremony is threefold. Alasdair will now bless the cairn with ale, ensuring harmony and good cheer for the glen and our clans.

  “Catriona, my good-sister, will present James with a bowl of freshest milk so he can honor the stones with the fruits and bounty of our glen and”—she felt her cheeks warming—“the future children of our land who, we all wish, shall live together in peace and prosperity for all the generations stretching before us.”

  “You said three blessings.” Kendrew folded his arms. “I only heard two.”

  Isobel took a breath, her fingers clutching his banner for courage.

  Kendrew cocked a brow, waiting. “Speak, lass, or I am gone from here in a blink.”

  “The third blessing is yours.” She explained quickly, not giving herself a chance to falter. “You must pour the remaining glen water on the cairn.” She glanced at the chalice, sure the gemstones around the rim shone brighter than before. “The combined powers of the three waters will seal the blessings and end the ceremony.”

  “I am to have that honor?” Kendrew’s brow arched a fraction higher. His tone made it sound more like an annoyance than a privilege.

  “It was hoped you’d accept.” Isobel wasn’t about to tell him she’d argued with her brother and Alasdair to secure such an honor.

  Or that she’d outsmarted them by implying the last blessing would be of lesser significance.

  She knew it was the most important.

  Nothing else mattered—except that Kendrew complied.

  And then—she fervently hoped—that he’d agree to stay for the celebratory feasting.

  Unfortunately, the tense line of his jaw warned he was about to storm away. Or that steam would shoot from his ears any moment, ruining the glee of the celebrants, who were already circling the cairn in a joyous, foot-stamping dance, wild, carefree, and happy.

  “Hail to the glen!” The revelers shouted the chant, holding hands as they rounded the memorial deiseal, moving in the direction of the sun. “Peace to our lands! By the gods’ will, so mote it be!”

  “So mote it be.” James and Alasdair stood side by side before the cairn, the ale jug and bowl of milk, respectively, held high in their hands.

  When they tipped the ale and the milk onto the stones, a great cheer rose from the circling dancers. The pipers went wild, strutting proud, their red cheeks puffing with all their lung power.

  “It’s time.” Isobel’s heart thundered. “Four little words, ‘so mote it be,’ and then…” She let her voice trail away, sharply aware that Kendrew’s expression had turned fierce.

  “Old women like your Grizel should chant such drivel.” A muscle jerked beneath his eye.

  As before, he didn’t move.

  But his gaze slid to the jewel-rimmed chalice, his hesitancy giving Isobel hope.

  “Please.” She touched his arm, pressing his rock-hard muscle. “If Midsummer Eve meant anything to you, anything at all, then do this for me.”

  He inhaled audibly, releasing the breath slowly. “You go too far, Lady Isobel.”

  “Would you care about a woman less bold?” She stepped closer, letting her breasts brush his mail-coated chest. “One too afraid and simpering to—”

  “Damn you.” He jerked back as if she’d scorched him, and then took three long strides to the viands table. Frowning blackly, he snatched up the blessing chalice and marched back to the cairn, where he tossed the vessel’s contents onto the waiting stones.

  “So mote it be.” He made the words sound as if they’d choked him.

  If anyone noticed, they gave no sign.

  Everyone around the cairn cheered, the dancers whirling faster, faces shining in the excitement of the moment. Only two souls stood quiet, their countenances glowing with a wholly different kind of exhilaration. They were Marjory and Alasdair, standing at the edge of the crowd, looking at each other as if no one else existed.

  When Alasdair lifted a hand to stroke Marjory’s hair back from her face, Isobel knew trouble would erupt.

  “Leave them be.” Isobel grabbed Kendrew’s arm when she saw he’d spotted them. “They are only talking.”

  “Say you.” He pulled free, flashing another look at the pair. “Talking they are now, aye. And a moment ago he was touching her hair. We both know what happens next.” He took her chin, tilting her face to his. “Dinnae think to defend her. I’ll no’ have my sister tainted by a MacDonald.

  “I’m fetching her from the bastard’s clutches”—he released her—“and then I’m taking her home to Nought where she belongs.”

  Isobel’s heart sank. “But the feasting—”

  “Your carouse will go on without Mackintoshes.” He started toward his sister, glancing back only once. “You should be glad to see the last of me.”

  “No, wait…” Isobel set his banner on an empty bench near the viands table and made to go after him, but a firm grip to her elbow stopped her.

  “He’ll no’ be taking her anywhere, my lady,” the deep voice behind her sounded amused.

  Grim.

  Isobel froze. Her gaze was still on Kendrew’s broad, silver-glinting shoulders as he shoved his way through the ring of dancers, heading for Marjory and Alasdair, who hadn’t yet noticed his approach.

  She looked away before he reached them, not wanting to see Marjory’s anguish when her brother tore her from the man she’d set her heart on.

  Instead, Isobel turned to Grim, the man who—according to Grizel—held secrets she needed to hear.

  For a beat, she thought she saw the crone and her enchanted white stag in the shadows of the pines, the two of them looking her way, watching.

  But when she blinked, they were gone.

  Grim remained, offering the best smile he could for a man with such a hard, rough-hewn face. “Norn will no’ be letting him push her around, ne’er you worry.” He glanced her way, his lips twitching at the sight of Kendrew and Alasdair going toe to toe against each other, clearly arguing.

  Marjory looked cool as spring rain, untroubled and sure of herself.

  She didn’t look anguished at all.

  But Isobel’s heart raced wildly. Kendrew in a temper was a sight to behold. Almost, but not quite, as glorious as when his blue eyes blazed with passion, his gaze locking with hers as he lowered his head to kiss her…

  Isobel tore her gaze from him, not wanting his friend to read her emotions. “I am worried for my friend, Lady Marjory.” It wasn’t a lie. “She knows her mind and—”

  “Kendrew will no’ treat her wrongly.” Grim clearly misunderstood her concern. “He aye does right by her and aye will. His temper will have cooled by the feasting this e’en. He’ll be in fine fettle then.”

  Isobel doubted it.

  But she did need to speak to Grim. Such an opportunity might not arise again so easily. And he’d already proven himself an ally, of sorts.

  “Grim…” She went to the viands table, pouring him a generous cup of ale. “I would speak with you about a certain matter. Something that might”—she waited until he accepted the ale—“go against your loyalties to discuss with me.”

  His face turned a shade less convivial. “I am a true man, my lady. I do not betray bonds of blood or oath, not for anyone.”

  “I would not ask you to do the like.” She wouldn’t, knowing her own honor was just as proud.

  But she wasn’t above taking all advantages open to her, as long as trusts weren’t broken.

  “I wouldn’t wish you to tell me anything I shouldn’t know.” She hooked her arm through his, leading him away from the other celebrants. Stepping hopefully, she steered him toward the only place she could think of that would be empty this day: the walled kitchen garden.

  That he went with her gave her courage.

  “Then what would you know, my lady?” He waited while she unlatched the garden’s wooden gate.

  “I would hear of Rannoch Moor.” She held the gate open, letting him step onto the gravel
path. “I know Kendrew visits the women there and—”

  “Is that what you’ve heard?” He stopped, looking at her in surprise.

  “Why, yes.” Isobel didn’t understand.

  Everyone knew how often he journeyed there.

  “You heard rightly.” Grim angled his head, his eyes sharp now. “He does go often to Rannoch Moor. But his visits have nothing to do with the women there. He has another reason for making the journey.”

  “Oh?” Isobel’s heart would’ve skipped with joy if not for the shadow that crossed Grim’s face. “Is it something bad, then?”

  “Nae, my lady, though it is sad.” Grim glanced up at the clouds and then pulled a hand down over his chin before he looked back at her. “Kendrew goes to the moor to visit his mother.”

  Isobel blinked. “His mother?”

  “Aye, herself and no other.” Grim nodded. “The lady is buried there.”

  Unbeknownst to Isobel and Grim, or any of the friendship and dedication ceremony celebrants, another guest took much interest in the day’s activities.

  He was Daire.

  He’d been along with Kendrew and his party for the whole journey from Nought to the erstwhile trial by combat battling ground. He’d had a time of it, keeping pace with them. Sometimes he’d fallen behind. But he’d still done the clan proud, dressed in full battle array and even donning a shining, plumed helm. He’d considered tossing a bearskin over his shoulders, but he rather appreciated the sheen of mail. Sadly, no one in the glittering entourage of Mackintosh warriors had spared him a glance. Not that he’d expected one, all things considered.

  He’d been delighted to drift along in their wake, grateful that such a possibility existed for him.

  Afterlife could be worse, he was sure.

  Indeed, except for a certain nagging ache in his heart, he was much blessed.

  Now, although he’d rather partake of the ale and victuals spread upon the viands table, he hovered patiently near where Kendrew had been staring so fixedly only a short while before. Here, close to the dense, black-looming edge of Haven’s pine wood, he had a splendid view of the festivities. But he didn’t risk the unpleasantness of having one of the dancers accidentally whirl through him.