Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  “I’ve a better idea, MacNab.” Kendrew let his voice boom, speaking as loudly as Isobel had just whispered. “With so much room here these days and”—he smiled at Breena—“a fine and able lassie to run your household, I’m wondering if you’d do me a favor, what?”

  “To be sure!” The old man stood tall again. “What are you in need of, laddie?”

  “Och, no’ much.” Kendrew slid his arm around Isobel, drawing her near. “I could use some extra grazing land on your high moors in summer. And”—he glanced at his men, his gaze lighting on the ones he knew to be married with sons—“I’d appreciate it if you could take on some fine, eager Mackintosh lads as squires?

  “I’d send along a garrison to help with their training. And”—he sounded pleased, as if the decision was his reason for coming here—“you’d be helping me, because Nought is about out of space for brawling young boys.”

  Archie MacNab swallowed, the brightness in his eyes brimming over. “I’d be honored, Mackintosh. And you couldn’t have a better fostering home for the lads than Duncreag. Truth is”—his chest puffed a bit—“I was once quite a fine fighting man myself.”

  “Then it’s done.” Kendrew nodded solemnly.

  It was all he could do to keep his lips from twitching.

  Archie MacNab could hardly handle a meat knife, as everyone for miles around knew.

  But he wasn’t about to remind the old goat.

  He did need to settle matters with Isobel.

  And while he was most pleased to help MacNab, even enjoying the way the old chief now strutted about his hall, making plans, Kendrew’s reputation stood to be tarnished if he played the gallant too long.

  He rather liked being known as a howling madman.

  So he put back his shoulders, set a grin on his face, and grabbed Isobel, sweeping her up in his arms. “I need some words with my lady.” Again, he let his voice boom, wanting all present to hear him. “We’ll see you at the high table anon”—he flashed a look at Archie—“or, perhaps no’ at all this night, depending on my lady.”

  “Kendrew!” Isobel felt her face flame.

  “That’s me, aye.” Proud of it, he marched straight down the center aisle of Archie MacNab’s great hall, making for the tower stairs.

  “Where are you taking me?” Isobel squirmed in his arms, laughter and joy bubbling up inside her because—as she’d always known—she loved Kendrew’s wildness and wouldn’t want him any other way.

  “Everyone is staring after us.” Propriety made her offer a protest.

  “Let them.” Kendrew laughed and only clutched her tighter against his chest as they reached the torchlit arch of the stair tower.

  He took the stairs two at a time, climbing the winding stone steps swiftly. “We’re up to the battlements, lass, a place where we’ll be high enough to see the peaks of Nought when I ask you what I must.”

  “But it’s storming.” Isobel didn’t care about the booming thunder, but she did worry a bit about lightning.

  “We’ll no’ step out of the stair tower.” Kendrew set her down when they reached the top landing and threw open the door. “We can see Nought from here.”

  He pointed. “Look there, to the north.”

  Isobel did, at once seeing Nought’s proud peaks through the rain and mist, the highest crests shining silver-white with each burst of lightning. Icy wind streaked across the ramparts, howling and blowing sheets of stinging, pelting rain, already beginning to drench them.

  It was a storm the likes of which probably hadn’t been seen in these hills for centuries.

  Isobel shivered, sure she’d never seen anything so magnificent.

  Except, perhaps, Nought’s master.

  “What did you want to ask me?” She turned to him now, circling her arms around him, leaning into his warmth. “You already know how Norn and I—dear saints, look!”

  But Kendrew was lowering his head, about to kiss her. “No’ just yet, lady. One kiss, and then—”

  “No, look!” Isobel broke free and ran to the far corner of the wall-walk, clutching a rain-soaked merlon. “There, high above those pines”—she pointed to a stony ledge near the top of a neighboring hill—“I swear there’s a mailed spearman standing there. A man, and—nae, it can’t be…”

  She leaned out across the merlon to see better, one hand pressed, disbelieving, to her face. “It’s a dreagan, come look! And he’s huge, standing right beside the spearman. I vow I do see them. They’re near what appears to be the narrow entrance of a cave.”

  “You see rain and mist.” Kendrew joined her, wrapping an arm around her waist. “There’s nothing there but—sons o’ Valkyries!”

  Kendrew’s jaw dropped, his eyes rounding as he, too, stared at the sight before them.

  A tall, hard-faced warrior stood proud, his mail coat and great plumed helm brighter than the sun. He held a long spear in one hand and rested the other on the flank of a huge, stony-scaled beast with large kindly eyes that glowed red. Glittering blue puffs of smoke rose from the beast’s nostrils, and when he glanced down at the warrior beside him, Isobel was sure she’d never seen such adoration.

  The warrior smiled, too, the warmth in his eyes transforming his hard features into a handsome, roguish face.

  Then he raised his spear high above his head, pointing its tip to the north.

  “Live well, my friends. May peace and gladness be yours, all your days.” The words came on the wind, a whisper, and then they were gone.

  The warrior and the dreagan were also no more, vanished into the mist of fable where, perhaps, they’d always been.

  But this night, for a sliver of a second, they’d come to show themselves.

  And to bless the union that Isobel always knew was so perfect.

  “Oh, God…” Isobel dashed at her eyes, hot tears blinding her. She turned to Kendrew, reaching up to frame his face, certain that the wetness on his cheeks was just as hot as hers. “Did you see them?”

  “See what, lady?” He lifted a brow, surely feigning ignorance.

  “The shining spearman and his dreagan.” Isobel twisted round, glancing back at the now-empty ledge. “They were there, you had to have seen them.”

  “I saw only rain and mist.” Kendrew remained stubborn.

  But the sheen in his eyes and the catch in his throat gave him away.

  Someday, perhaps when they, too, were as old as Archie MacNab, she’d wheedle the truth out of him. For now, she’d let it be.

  Clearing her throat, she rested her hands on his shoulders and looked up at him, the love in his eyes almost splitting her heart.

  That, at least, he wasn’t hiding from her.

  “What did you want to ask me up here?” She couldn’t believe her voice was steady.

  So much depended on this night, what would happen on the morrow.

  “Only this, my lady”—he tilted her chin up and kissed her softly—“from this vantage point you can see Nought to the north and Haven to the east. I would know…”

  He kissed her again, more deeply this time.

  “Tell me true,” he said, when he released her, “which direction you’d have me take you when we leave here in the morning. Home to Haven or—”

  “You can’t be serious.” Isobel threw her arms around his neck, clinging to him. “There is only one way I wish to go, as you should know well.”

  “I’d hear the words all the same.” He looked down at her, his eyes suddenly just a bit vulnerable.

  “Oh, Kendrew. I love you so.” She leaned into him, kissing him this time.

  When she pulled back at last, her eyes were burning again. And this time, she didn’t bother to dash away her tears. They were happy tears, after all. Ones she’d waited so very long to shed.

  So she lifted up on her toes and nipped Kendrew’s ear, telling him what he needed to hear.

  “I want to go home to Nought.” Gladness swept her as soon as the words left her lips. “There, with you, and nowhere else for all our days.”<
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  To her surprise, Kendrew threw back his head and whooped.

  Then he grabbed her up into his arms and whirled her around and around. When they stopped, he pulled her to him again and kissed her long and hard.

  “Home to Nought we shall go then.” He grinned and shook the rain from his hair.

  Then he winked and said four little words she’d once begged him to say for her.

  “So mote it be.”

  Epilogue

  THE GLEN OF MANY LEGENDS

  AT THE DREAGAN STONES

  AUTUMN 1397

  Only my brother would wear mail and carry his ax at his wedding revels.”

  Marjory glanced to where Kendrew spoke with James and Alasdair near the well-laden feasting tables. Catriona sat on a nearby stool, her cloak drawn against the wind, her hands folded atop her swollen belly.

  “You’d think he still expects marauders to leap from behind an outcrop.” Marjory narrowed her eyes at her brother. “He boasts often enough of ridding the glen of Ralla and his war band, yet…”

  “He isn’t worried about brigands.” Isobel didn’t say what she suspected. She did follow her friend’s gaze, her pulse quickening to see her new husband so gloriously arrayed in full warring armor. He’d even thrown his bearskin over his shoulders, wearing the cloak proudly.

  It was a badge of his Berserker lineage.

  Just like the golden Thor’s hammer at his throat and the many silver-and-gold rings lining his arms. His mail shirt and Blood Drinker’s curving, long-bearded blade shone bright in the afternoon’s cold sunlight.

  He dazzled her.

  As he’d done ever since he’d marched so boldly onto the field at the trial by combat, his great Norse ax in his hand, grinning roguishly as if he welcomed the fierce fighting about to commence.

  Isobel’s heart swelled looking at him.

  Truth was, he’d always dazzle her.

  She told him so often, unable to resist his flashing smile and boyish pleasure each time she praised him. He didn’t need to impress her. So she suspected he’d had other reasons for coming to their wedding feast armed like a returning conqueror awaiting accolades.

  “He’s hoping Alasdair or James will give him cause to fight.” Marjory put Isobel’s suspicion to words.

  “He wouldn’t dare.” Isobel knew he would. “Not this day.”

  “He’d relish nothing more.” Marjory sounded sure. “He’d especially enjoy bloodying his hands on Alasdair. Did you hear how he growled his greeting when the MacDonalds arrived?

  “I’m surprised swords weren’t drawn then.” Marjory’s gaze flickered to Alasdair, worry creasing her brow. “Alasdair would surely have left if he didn’t wish to offend you.”

  “He stayed because of you, my dear.” Isobel smiled when her friend’s cheeks bloomed pink. “He might be keeping his distance, but his eyes haven’t left you since he arrived.”

  “If that is so, Kendrew will make trouble.” Marjory glanced at her little dog, Hercules, tucked comfortably into her arm. He returned the look, sagely. “You see”—she stroked his tufted head—“even Hercules knows Kendrew will do as he pleases.

  “He won’t challenge Alasdair or James.” She kept petting Hercules. “He’ll provoke them into picking a fight. He’s that clever, my brother.”

  Isobel couldn’t deny it.

  There was reason for concern. The enmity between the three chieftains hadn’t wholly vanished, though each warrior tolerated the others. James and Alasdair had even grown friendly, to a degree.

  And they’d all agreed to stay in convivial spirits throughout the day’s celebrations. No heated words were to fall, or even to be implied. No bloodletting of any kind.

  Isobel, Marjory, and Catriona had insisted, using what influence they could.

  So far it was working.

  Nothing marred the fine, crisp day. A brisk wind blew in from the west and not a single cloud broke the brilliant blue of the afternoon sky. Nought’s soaring granite peaks sparkled in the sunlight, while autumn-red bracken shone like jewels on the moors. Yellow and gold leaves skittered along the rocky ground, adding whimsy. And the air was fresh and clean, smelling of woodsmoke and, as always at Nought, the heady tang of cold, damp stone.

  The Glen of Many Legends was smiling.

  It was just a shame that Marjory was not.

  “You are too hard on him.” Isobel softened words that might sound traitorous by gently tucking a strand of Marjory’s hair behind her ear. “Kendrew only desired to show his rivals a bit of bluster. This is his day, after all. You weren’t in the hall early this morn when he spoke to his younger warriors.

  “He paced back and forth in front of them, warning them how to behave at the wedding feast.” Isobel smiled, remembering. Kendrew hadn’t known she stood in the shadows, watching. “He cautioned them not to get too ale-headed, not to quarrel, and to be gallant to visiting womenfolk, dancing with and complimenting them all.”

  “He would forget every word if Alasdair claimed me for one dance.” Marjory drew a breath, her gaze once again on Alasdair.

  “So he would, yes.” Catriona joined them, slowly lowering herself onto a large, flat-topped boulder at the base of a cairn. “He’s taunting my brother, Alasdair, with his plans to see you wed to a Norse nobleman.

  “He claims”—Catriona glanced between Isobel and Marjory, and then at the three warriors—“he’s already heard from several keen to wed you.”

  “Pah!” Isobel dismissed the possibility.

  It was true, sadly.

  But now wasn’t the day to spoil Marjory’s enjoyment of Alasdair’s company, however sparse any contact between them proved.

  “I’ve heard nothing about a Viking husband for Norn.” Isobel set a hand on Catriona’s shoulder, squeezing lightly to warn her not to disagree.

  “I will not wed such a man if he finds one.” Norn set down Hercules, brushing her skirts in place when she straightened. “I’ve waited long to fulfill my part of our pact.” Her voice was strong, unwavering. “You both know—Alasdair and I have feelings for each other. I’ll not allow Kendrew to ruin my chance at happiness.”

  “We won’t either.” Isobel knew she spoke as well for Catriona.

  When Catriona nodded, her gaze dipping to Isobel’s ambers, Isobel understood her friend’s message.

  Agreeing, she reached to remove the precious necklace, fastening them as swiftly around Marjory’s neck. “You must wear these ambers now, dear friend. And”—she gripped Marjory’s upper arms and kissed her on both cheeks—“you must see them returned to Blackshore Castle, their true home.”

  “But…” Marjory curled her fingers around the stones, her lovely blue eyes glistening. “If Kendrew sees me wearing them, he’ll grow suspicious.”

  “He’ll do no such thing.” Isobel had ways of distracting him. “If he says anything, we shall tell him—”

  “Tell me what?” Kendrew spoke from the end of the cairn. He leaned back against the stones, his arms folded, his gaze locked on Isobel.

  “Why…” She completely forgot what she’d been about to say.

  Kendrew did that to her.

  Especially looking as he did this day, the sun and firelight making his mail glitter. The heat in his eyes stirred a thrilling response deep inside her. And—her heart fluttered—especially to see him so magnificent here in the vale of the dreagans where their story had begun.

  She turned to her friends, hoping they’d help her wriggle out of an awkward situation, but Marjory and Catriona were gone. They were moving swiftly across the stony ground, making for the feasting tables. Catriona had her hand tucked securely into Marjory’s arm. Little Hercules trotted in their wake, his head and tail held high, his gait jaunty, as if he was part of a conspiracy.

  Which, of course, he was, as her friends had plainly deserted her.

  So she did what anyone would do in such a position and stood straighter, putting back her shoulders. She also lifted her chin, letting her eyes snap.
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  Only then did she trust herself to face Kendrew.

  “How long have you been standing there?” She tried for indignation.

  “Long enough for my ears to ring.” He gave her one of his crooked smiles.

  It was the same roguish smile that melted her at the Midsummer Eve revels.

  “I…” Isobel felt her knees weaken, images and memories whirling across her mind.

  “Is aught amiss?” The smolder in his eyes showed he knew what ailed her. The way his gaze roamed over her revealed that he was also recalling all that had happened here, in the shadow of these stones.

  “Can it be”—he pushed away from the side of the cairn and strolled toward her, setting both hands on her shoulders as he looked down at her—“that you are no longer wearing your ambers?”

  Isobel lifted a hand to her bare neck, guilt sluicing her. “I gave them to your sister. She has a greater need for them than I do now.”

  That was true.

  “She needs them?” Kendrew arched a brow.

  Isobel nodded vigorously. “I’ve told you the ambers are enchanted. They warn of danger and—”

  “I’ve dealt with any threats hereabouts.” Kendrew leaned down and kissed her, long, slowly, and thoroughly. “No woman in this glen need close her eyes in fear at night. No trespasser would dare set foot here again. Word has spread—they’ll know the welcome they’d reap.”

  He swept his arms around her, lowering his head to nuzzle her neck.

  Isobel leaned into him, delicious tingles rippling across her nerves when he nipped her ear.

  “I gave Marjory the ambers because I felt sorry for her.” She did, but not in the way she was leading Kendrew to believe. “I thought they’d take her mind off watching her two best friends wed while she is still a maid.”

  Kendrew straightened, looking fierce for a moment. “She’ll marry soon enough.”

  Isobel hoped so fervently—to the man Marjory loved, Alasdair MacDonald.

  If the fates were kind, the MacDonald ambers would protect her, signaling if a Norse betrothal should indeed loom on the horizon.

  Such a help wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.