Seduction Of A Highland Warrior
Highland Warriors [3]
Sue-Ellen Welfonder
Forever (2012)
* * *
Rating: ****
Tags: Historical Romance, Warrior, Warriors, Highlanders, Scotland, Love Story, Romance, Medieval Romance, Scotland Highlands, Highlander
Lady Marjory MacKintosh has no intention of marrying any of the suitors her brother has chosen for her. And she's employed every weapon in her arsenal to sabotage them, from persuasion to flattery to coin whenever everything else fails. She isn't proud of herself, but she simply cannot be wed against her will. She has plans of her own: braw Alasdair MacDonald. For she and two other women made a secret pact to unite the warring clans through marital bliss and Marjory is the only lass who hasn't yet kept her vow. So now it's time to employ the last weapon in her feminine arsenal to accomplish her goal - seduction...
To Alasdair MacDonald, Chieftain of the Clan Donald, honour and loyalty are everything. Though he has achieved peace with one of the two neighbouring warring clans through his sister's marriage, relations with the Clan MacKintosh remain hostile and his sword is at the ready for disaster to strike. And it is inevitable for he cannot rid his mind of the sensual - and forbidden - lass who haunts his dreams: the beguiling Marjory. Soon this fearless, hot-blooded warrior must possess her, body and soul, the consequences be damned.
But as the war between the clans rages on, a new enemy enters the glen, and he will stop at nothing to strip Alasdair of his honour and the one lass who has ever held his heart.
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With love and much affection to Aurora Mata, dear friend, loyal reader, and all-around special and generous soul. Above all, Aurora is a Scotophile extraordinaire.
Cuban-born, now a proud American, her heart is all Scottish.
Aurora also walks the walk: She’s stood atop the heathery hills, knows the heady scent of peat, she’s journeyed on the Loch Lomond mail boat, experienced true magic on the Isle of Mull, and she’s charmed the staff at my own Duncan MacKenzie’s castle, Eilean Donan near Skye. Stateside, she’s a well-kent face at Highland Games.
Aurora, I love you bundles. I’m sure you were a Highland chieftain’s lady in a past life. And I’m wishing you many more Scottish adventures in this one.
Alba gu brath!
(Scotland forever)
Acknowledgments
My books are always inspired by my lifelong love affair with Scotland, home of my heart and land of my ancestors. It’s also no secret that I believe in Highland magic. I experience it whenever I visit Scotland. And even when I can’t be there, I look for tartan whimsy in my day-to-day world. I often find it when I’m writing and slip into the “zone.” The story then springs to life, each touch of my fingers to the keys taking me back to the breathtaking Scottish land-and seascapes that fire my imagination.
For me, setting always comes first. A place has to captivate me, its atmosphere stirring my blood and making my heart pound. Only then, when I feel the heartbeat of the land, do I also pick up the pulse of the lives once lived there. The characters then stride out of the mist, telling me their tales.
That’s how my stories are born.
My Highland Warriors trilogy was inspired by a place of spectacular beauty, an area known for its rugged and remote splendor even today. The Glen of Many Legends may live only in my imagination, but its real-life counterpart is a corner of the Western Highlands known in Gaelic as Garbh-chriochan, the Rough Bounds. This area was home to men and women every bit as bold, proud, and devoted to their beloved land as Alasdair and Marjory in Seduction of a Highland Warrior.
But it wasn’t just my passion for wild places that sparked this trilogy.
I was also inspired by my admiration for women. The original multitaskers, women are simply wonderful. Courageous, daring, full of love and caring, and I truly believe the world would be a better place if women ruled. So I love writing proud and strong heroines who band together to right wrongs, protect kith and kin, and, of course, win their hero’s heart.
The heroines in my books are a reflection of the many strong women who have crossed my life’s path, inspiring and influencing me, always earning my respect and esteem.
They are too many to name and I don’t want to slight anyone by omission, so I will just say thank you!
Most especially, I want to thank my agent, Roberta Brown, and my editor, Michele Bidelspach. A true angel on earth (even if she denies it), Roberta is also my dearest friend. Michele and I also have a long history. She helped me wrap my debut title, Devil in a Kilt, when I was orphaned by my first editor. Recently orphaned anew, Michele once again took me under her wing. She’s phenomenal and I’m blessed to work with her.
As always, all my love and thanks to my very handsome husband, Manfred, who guards my turret as fiercely as a Highland Warrior. And my little Jack Russell, Em, the keeper of my heart. He’s sat on my chair through the deadlines of every book I’ve written. I hope he knows how much I love him.
HIGHLAND WARRIORS
For generations, the Glen of Many Legends has been beset by strife and bloodshed as three Highland clans claim ownership to the land. The warrior chieftains are powerful, noble, and refuse to relinquish their birthright. But three cunning, beautiful lasses are about to band together to bring order and goodwill to their beloved homeland. Yet when the campaign moves from the battlefield to the bed chamber neither laird nor lass will be able to resist the passions unleashed…
The Honor of Clan Donald
In the beginning of days, before Highland warriors walked heather-clad hills and gazed in awe across moors chased by cloud shadows, old gods ruled the dark and misty realm that would one day be known as Scotland. Glens were silent then, empty but for the whistle of the wind and the curl of waves on sparkling sea-lochs.
Yet if a man looked and listened with his heart rather than his eyes and ears, he might catch a glimpse of wonders beyond telling.
For Manannan Mac Lir, mighty god of sea and wind, loved these rugged Scottish shores. Those who haven’t forgotten legend will swear that stormy days saw Manannan plying Highland waters in his magical galley Wave Sweeper. Or that on nights when the full moon shone bright, he favored riding the edge of the sea on his enchanted horse Embarr of the Flowing Mane. All tales claimed that wherever he was, Manannan never lost sight of Scotland’s cliff-fretted coast. One stretch of shoreline was said to hold his especial attention, a place of such splendor even his jaded heart swelled to behold its wild and haunting beauty.
That place was the Glen of Many Legends.
Storytellers agree that when the day came that Manannan observed a proud and noble MacDonald warrior stride into this fair land of heather, rock, and silvery seas, he was most pleased.
Those were distant times, but even then the men of Clan Donald were gaining a reputation as men of fierce loyalty and unbending honor.
They were the best of all Highlanders.
Even the gods stood in awe of them.
So Manannan’s pleasure grew when this MacDonald warrior, an early chieftain known
as Drangar the Strong, chose this blessed spot to build a fine isle-girt fortress. Here, Drangar the Strong would guard the coast with his trustworthy and fearless garrison. And—the tale spinners again agreed—the great god of sea and wind surely believed Clan Donald would blossom and thrive, gifting the Glen of Many Legends with generations of braw Highland warriors and beautiful, spirited women.
The world was good.
Until the ill-fated day when Drangar took a moonlit walk along the night-silvered shore of his sea-loch and happened across a lovely Selkie maid who no red-blooded man could’ve resisted.
Her dark hair gleamed like moonlight on water and her eyes shone like the stars. Her lips were seductively curved and ripe for kissing. And her shapely form beckoned, all smooth, creamy skin and tempting shadows.
MacDonalds, it must now be said, are as well-lusted as their hearts are loyal and true.
Drangar fell hard, succumbing to the seal woman’s charms there and then.
But such passions flare hotly only for a beat, at least for the woman-of-the-sea who soon suffers unbearable longings to return to her watery home.
Nor is any Highlander unaware of the tragedies that so often befall these enchanting creatures and the mortal men who lose their hearts to them. Such tales abound along Scotland’s coasts and throughout the Western Isles, with every clan bard able to sing of the heartbreak and danger, the ills that can break good men.
Or, perhaps worst of all, the tears of children born to such unions.
Drangar could not allow such sorrow to visit his people.
Nor did he wish to see his seductress in anguish.
So he did as all good MacDonalds would do and followed his honor.
Rather than carry her into his castle and have his way with her, he took her shining sealskin from the rock where she’d discarded it and, returning the skin to her, he’d stood by as she vanished into the sea.
Then—the bards pause here for effect—before the waves settled, Manannan himself rose from the spume-crested depths and made Drangar a great gift of thanks for his farsightedness and his honor.
The gift was an ironbound treasure chest heavy with priceless amber.
These were enchanted gemstones that, according to legend, would bring Clan Donald fortune and blessings, aiding them always in times of trouble.
But life in the Highlands was never easy.
And even magical stones can’t always allay feuds, strife, and the perfidy of men.
Years passed and then centuries. Times were good and then also bad. Bards embroidered Manannan’s fame and nearly forgot the role of the seal woman in explaining Clan Donald’s chest of ambers. Soon other tales were added until no man knew what was real or storied.
Then the day came when even Drangar slipped into the murk of legend.
Worst fates followed and the MacDonalds’ once-mighty fortress was torn from their grasp.
But the clan never lost their honor.
Centuries later they even regained their home.
Now a new Clan Donald chieftain rules there. Alasdair MacDonald is his name and he’s a lord of warriors. A man worth a hundred in battle, well-loved by his friends and respected by his foes. Drangar’s heart would’ve burst with pride if he could have known him.
To Alasdair, honor is everything.
Yet he lives in troublesome times. And although his beloved glen is quiet, the truce that keeps it so is fragile. Two other clans now share the Glen of Many Legends, and while one can be called an ally, the other remains hostile. Many would credit Alasdair’s repute and authority that disaster hasn’t yet struck.
Those less generous would say the strength of his sword arm is responsible.
Whatever one believes, he is not a man to cross. Unfortunately, ill winds are blowing ever closer to the fair glen once so loved by Manannan and Drangar.
Alasdair’s passion for the glen is equally great.
But soon his love for a woman will challenge him to abandon everything he holds dear.
When he does, he will lose more than his honor.
His actions will unleash a calamity worse than the Glen of Many Legends has ever seen.
And every man, woman, and child there will be marked for doom.
Chapter One
LUGHNASADH HARVEST FAIR AT CASTLE HAVEN
The Highlands
Late Summer 1398
If she’d had any doubt that the day was a disaster, Lady Marjory Mackintosh knew it by the time she landed at the fair’s crowded row of cloth stalls.
Most years she loved Lughnasadh.
A lively gathering to give thanks for the season’s first harvest and to mark the end of summer, the ancient festival offered one of the few markets that ever visited the Glen of Many Legends.
All three glen clans attended, glad for the entertainments and an opportunity to replenish supplies now that the sun was on its descent into winter darkness. Folk from neighboring lands also took advantage. Everywhere, visitors jostled to examine wares not readily available in the glen. Others flocked to the cook stalls and refreshment booths, while some chose to watch the jugglers, musicians, and dancers who paraded past rows of brightly painted wooden stalls.
Bards spun tales for eager listeners. And young girls wearing flower garlands threw crumbled oatcakes to the birds so that the glen’s smallest creatures could take part in the celebration.
Somewhere a woman laughed, her voice light and full of merriment.
Marjory felt a spurt of envy.
She would’ve enjoyed a reason to delight in the day’s excitements. Unfortunately, she couldn’t feel anything beyond a nagging frustration, disappointment clouding her pleasure.
Alasdair MacDonald wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
Not that she’d truly expected to encounter the dashing Clan Donald chieftain. He’d been away from the glen nearly a year, after all. And whatever his business, he hadn’t bothered to send a single word offering felicitations or even inquiring of her health.
He’d undoubtedly forgotten her.
And wasn’t she a fool to let that bother her.
To wish for even a moment that the feelings she’d once imagined he held for her were true. Sadly, she’d misread him. She needed to forget the heat in his eyes and the flash of his smile. The way his body brushed hers in a passing moment. And how his scent took over her senses and left her weak in the knees.
The time had passed when his mere proximity would infuse her with delicious warmth, making her skin tingle and stirring potent desire deep inside her.
She knew better now.
His feelings for her, if they’d ever existed, had clearly turned as cool as the shadows on the hills in the hour of gloaming.
So she set a deliberately intent look on her face and began perusing the artfully displayed silk ribbons offered by the nearest cloth vendor. It wouldn’t do to let anyone who suspected her attraction to Alasdair think she might be suffering under his absence.
Her face heated, her pulse quickening in annoyance at how eagerly she’d scanned the crowds upon arriving at the fair. Slipping away from her brother and his wife, she’d worked her way through the stalls and past countless traders’ carts, so hopeful to catch a glimpse of the tall, strapping man she ached to see. Now at the cloth stalls, placed at the farthest end of the fair, she had to admit defeat.
And for more than not spying Alasdair in the bustle, although the other soul she’d hoped to find certainly held no place in her heart.
A Norseman not adverse to fattening his purse, he was the latest in a long line of self-seeking men who accepted coin and jewels in return for helping her thwart her brother Kendrew’s attempts to see her wed.
She had her own plans.
At least, she had until Alasdair vanished from the glen, never to be seen again.
Even so, she cast another glance down the row of cloth stalls. Regrettably, she saw little but the noisy throng and drifting smoke from the cook fires. She certainly didn’t spot the one-eyed Norseman w
ith a gold ring in his ear whom she desperately needed to see. More important, she also failed to see the warrior chieftain whose mere glance sent hot shivers racing through her blood.
Marjory frowned.
Alasdair wasn’t worth the thoughts she wasted on him.
No doubt he wasn’t at the harvest fair because he was occupied with a maid he deemed more pleasing than her. Indeed, she was quite certain that was so. Alasdair was known to be a well-lusted man.
He wouldn’t lack for female companionship, wherever he held himself.
Sure of it, she fought against the resentment that slammed into her. Her head began to ache.
“Sweet lass, you brighten the day more than if a ray of sunlight fell to earth.”
Marjory froze, her breath catching at the deep, rich voice she hadn’t heard in so long. Alasdair. His big, masculine shadow fell across her, melding with her own in an intimate joining. His scent swirled around her, a heady blend of man, peat smoke, and the sea, as familiar as if she’d breathed him in yesterday. But she hadn’t. And that truth burned in her chest, a tight coil of injured possessiveness she had no right to feel.
Still…
She bit her lip, aware of the fair’s atmosphere shifting, the air almost igniting around her.
The fine sapphire ribbon she’d been admiring slipped from her fingers to curl on the grass. Before her, the cloth stall dimmed, as did the colorful wares piled on its display board. Everything around her ceased to exist, the fairgoers smudging to a blur as her heart leaped, her body and her emotions responding to him in ways she knew she should squelch at once.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t.
He stood right behind her.
So near that her skin prickled, tingling as if he’d touched her. Pleasure swept her, a sweet, warm tide. But his presence reminded her of the other reason she’d made certain not to miss the harvest fair. The peril she faced with each new day: forced nuptials with a Viking lord of high rank who’d expect an amenable wife.
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