Seduction Of A Highland Warrior

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  Kendrew’s scowl said he’d hit his mark. “Do you aye ken everything?”

  “Nae.” Alasdair dug another few bits of dried meat from his belt pouch and offered them to Gronk and two other dogs who’d joined him. “I’m good at thinking like my enemies. Or have you ne’er heard that a man should know his foes better than his friends?”

  Kendrew snorted. “I ken all I wish of you.”

  “And I would hear more of you.” Alasdair leaned back in his chair, ignoring Kendrew’s pointed glance at the hall’s main entry. “Such as”—he lifted a hand, examining his knuckles—“if you paid someone to harry my coast with pitch-covered longships? Seeing as you dinnae have any ships yourself.”

  “I already gave you my answer.”

  “I’m asking again.”

  “Howling at the moon is what you’re doing. I might no’ like you, but I aye speak true. I ne’er heard of black-painted longships. Leastways no’ since that old tale the bards love to sing about Clan MacConacher of MacConachers’ Isle. How one of their chiefs rid the Hebrides of Black Vikings and then sweetened his victory by marrying a daughter of Duncan MacKenzie, the Black Stag of Kintail. And that, my friend”—he made sure the last word sounded anything but genial—“was o’er fifty years ago. No such devils have been seen since, last I heard. If they are about, I’ve told you what I’d do.” He sat back, grinning. “I’d find them and if their lord was braw and deep-pursed enough, I’d offer him my sister as a bride. If they proved to be bloodthirsty blackguards”—a wicked glint entered his eyes again—“then I’d send them your way. Though the reek o’ so much brine might see them turning tail before—”

  “Enough!” Alasdair stood, his anger flaring. “Call me what you will, but dinnae slur my folk.”

  “Dinnae come chapping at my door.” Kendrew shoved back his own chair, rising. He glared angrily at Alasdair. “I keep the King’s peace because it suits me. I can break it and still sleep easily. Especially with your head on a pike, high o’er Nought’s walls. The ravens feeding on your gizzard—”

  Lady Isobel’s gasp cut him off. Alasdair’s men jumped up and ran onto the dais, forming a half circle around the high table. Many of Kendrew’s warriors joined them, others staying where they were but thumping the tables with their fists. Every man stilled when Alasdair snatched a two-bladed ax off the wall and swung it at Kendrew, letting the blade head hover a breath from his nose.

  “I should take off your face. Now, while my blood’s too hot for me to care.” Alasdair held the ax shaft steady, its blade not wavering. “Unsay your slur or I will, even if your men slay me a beat later.”

  “I’ll unsay naught.” Kendrew didn’t flinch, his gaze locked on Alasdair’s. “Except that you’re a dead man.”

  “So be it.” Alasdair jiggled the ax, allowing the blade to glide along Kendrew’s cheekbone. A bead of red appeared, rolling into his beard. “I cannae think of a better way to die than defending my clan’s honor.”

  “And I’ll no’ have your corpse slumped o’er my table!” In a lightning-quick move, Kendrew grabbed the ax shaft, using it to hook Alasdair behind his knees.

  “Ompf!” The blow sent Alasdair sprawling onto the floor rushes.

  “We’ll fight proper another day, brine drinker!” Tossing aside the ax, Kendrew pounced, reaching for Alasdair’s neck. “No’ this one, no’ here—”

  “That we will!” Alasdair grabbed Kendrew first and they grappled, rolling across the rushes. The warriors who’d crowded onto the dais jumped back now, making room and widening their circle. Alasdair ignored them, only hearing Kendrew’s curse when he plowed his fist into Kendrew’s mouth, splitting his lip. “Where’er we meet, only one of us will walk away.”

  Alasdair stood, resisting the urge to plant his foot on his foe’s heaving chest. “That I promise you.”

  Kendrew laughed. “I’ll hold you to that, you arse.” Grinning as if Alasdair had only tickled his chin with a feather, he pushed up on an elbow and dragged his sleeve across his bloodied lip. “When the time comes,” he vowed, his amusement proving his love of fighting, “I’ll crush you like an egg in my hand.”

  “You can try.” Alasdair nodded as Kendrew pushed to his feet, brushing meadowsweet from his plaid.

  “Dear heavens!” Marjory appeared on the dais steps, rushing forward as the warriors parted to make room for her. She looked from Alasdair to her brother and then back again. “What happened here?”

  Alasdair frowned, shoved a hand through his hair. “Your brother and I had words.”

  “Say you.” Kendrew shook back his own wild mane, blinked sweat from his eyes. “She sees fine what happened.”

  “You fought.” Marjory folded her arms, her gaze narrowing on them both.

  “We settled a matter, aye.” Alasdair threw a dark look at Kendrew. His pulse still raced and his blood roared in his ears. The scar on his arm screamed, pulling as it did sometimes, the sharp pain demanding payment in kind.

  Vengeance he burned to claim, but not in front of Marjory.

  She roused entirely different emotions in him. Dark, unholy desires that twisted and writhed deep inside him, so close to breaking free.

  “It must’ve been a matter of great import for you to come here. Something”—her blue eyes flashed—“you and my brother disagreed upon.”

  “We aye disagree.” Kendrew folded his arms.

  Alasdair just looked at Marjory, unable to help himself.

  Her hair was windblown and soft light from a nearby torch fell across her, making her feminine curves so apparent he could hardly breathe. He’d always found her beautiful, but now she had a sensual, provocative air about her that made him want to devour her. He could feel his eyelids lowering, his loins tightening. Her breasts rose and fell against her cloak, as if to taunt him. She came closer and he caught her scent, drinking it in, greedy for more. As if she knew, she touched her breast, watching him as if aware of his thoughts. Heat coursed through his blood, lust flaring. She shook her head slowly, more alluring than he’d ever seen her.

  Never had he been more conscious of her.

  He’d gone hard, the discomfort reminding him where they stood.

  Her composure didn’t falter. “Well? Her gaze flicked to the mussed floor rushes, an overturned trestle bench. “Am I not to hear the meaning of this?”

  Alasdair frowned, reached to right the toppled bench. He’d tell her true, seeing no reason to lie. “Lady, I—”

  “The MacDonald thinks we have black-painted longships and are planning an assault on his stronghold.” Kendrew stepped demonstrably before his sister. “He now knows that he erred.”

  “I know I dinnae trust you farther than the end of my sword, Mackintosh.” Alasdair jerked a nod at his men, indicating it was time to leave. “This isn’t over, be warned.”

  “Nae, it isn’t.” Kendrew came forward, slapped him on the shoulder. “That’ll be the day I spit on your grave.”

  “We shall see.” For once, Alasdair didn’t care to exchange insults with his foe.

  In one matter, Kendrew had the rights of him.

  He had erred.

  Ever since seeing Marjory again at the harvest fair, he’d forgone sleep to stare at the ceiling almost nightly, convincing himself she wasn’t the woman he wanted. That lust alone made him ache for her. Pure carnal need he could slake with any jolly serving lass willing to air her skirts. That his worry he could never get enough of just touching her was because he’d gone so long without a woman.

  And that the reason he’d not bothered had nothing to do with Marjory.

  Now he knew better.

  He would’ve preferred to remain oblivious.

  Drangar the Strong would’ve sympathized with his young descendant’s plight. Indeed, he did. He even felt Alasdair’s frustration as his own. How could he not? If mortal men knew that a bond stretched across time between those who presently walked the earth and those who went before them, men in spirit form lived that truth.

  Be
sides, didn’t he know the pain of having loved in vain?

  Drangar frowned and pulled on his neatly trimmed black beard. Even here, on the wildest, most bleak edge of Nought territory, his memories dogged him, snapping at his heels and biting hard.

  He’d hoped to escape them.

  If only for the duration of his business here, deep in enemy lands. Yet just as duty, honor, and loyalty had guided him through life and now the Otherworld, so did his regrets and longings also accompany him. Such things stayed with a man, whatever form he held.

  But at the moment, other matters occupied his mind.

  And they were much more serious than the sorrows of a wounded heart. His recollections of a woman’s soft, warm body held close to his. The fullness of lush, naked breasts against his chest as he’d cradled his love’s face in his strong, living hands, kissing her thoroughly. Or—his frown deepened—the wonder of rolling on top of her and then losing himself deep inside her, reveling in her silky, welcoming heat.

  How he missed such pleasures.

  How he ached to simply have her beside him again.

  But he drew himself up, ever the fierce and invincible warrior.

  That he was here at all was a triumph.

  He should be glorying in this moment.

  Tall and proud, he hovered at the top of a steep narrow path, looking down into the silver-gleaming inlet known as the Dreagan’s Claw. He preferred thinking of the place as the devil’s toehold on the glen, seeing as Mackintoshes claimed the wee sliver of a cove. Either way, it was something to be here. A remarkable feat and one he enjoyed. He didn’t often venture into enemy territory. The last time was so long ago that he could scarce remember.

  He did know that he’d had an army of MacDonald warriors at his back.

  Now he stood alone.

  Or he hovered, depending on the charity of one’s viewpoint.

  What mattered was that his warrior’s instincts were still as sharply honed as ever. Centuries of ghostdom hadn’t dulled his wits. And that was a grand accomplishment, something to be celebrated. As was his ability to negotiate the treacherous winds and dark mists that made the long journey from the Warrior Stones at Drangar Point to this bleak Mackintosh outpost so arduous.

  Several times, the strong sea winds had almost sent him hurtling back to Blackshore.

  Once he’d paused atop a particularly notable promontory, sure he’d reached the Dreagan’s Claw, only to discover when the mists parted that he was nowhere near the hidden inlet so loved by Vikings and other sea raiders in his day.

  He drifted nearer to the cliff’s edge and peered down into the deep, steep-sided cove. Apparently the place was still appreciated.

  As he’d suspected, the two black-painted longships moored there.

  A handful of smaller boats had been pulled onto the shingled bank. Men gathered there, sitting round a fire. They clearly didn’t know they were observed. Instead, they drank from mead horns, laughed, and conversed. Seemingly in highest spirits, their mood was congratulatory.

  Still, their swords and spearheads shone through the mist. And although they’d coated their mail with pitch or black paint, a fool could see that each man on the narrow shore was dressed for battle.

  Equally arrayed were the men who’d remained on the two longships.

  Drangar only wished they could see him.

  They could if he’d desired.

  But his warrior instincts told him it was best to let them believe no one saw them.

  So he pulled his long black cloak closer about his tall, well-muscled form—insubstantial, though it was—and clutched his leather-gloved hand tighter around his spear shaft. A shame he couldn’t hurl the spear down at them. He’d love to pierce one of them, pinning the craven to the rocky ground. Doing so would’ve given him much satisfaction.

  For with the capabilities he’d developed as a ghost, he heard every word to pass the men’s lips.

  And if ever such a skewering death was deserved, the miscreants below earned that and more.

  Their plans also needed telling.

  Unfortunately, along with exceptional hearing, Drangar’s ghostly condition also brought limitations. He couldn’t simply float into Blackshore’s hall, sail over to Alasdair’s high table, slam a heavy fist onto the boards, lift his voice, and announce what he knew.

  But he could use his wits and warlord’s logic to do what he could.

  He’d seen Alasdair and his small band of men riding to Nought.

  Knowing the Mackintoshes as he did, he knew their chieftain, Kendrew, would not welcome the arrival of the MacDonald party. He’d greet them curtly and quickly send Alasdair on his way.

  But Alasdair had a sharp mind. He wouldn’t miss a chance to visit the Dreagan’s Claw, having ventured so deep into Mackintosh territory.

  At least, Drangar hoped so.

  Almost sure of it, he drew back from the cliff edge and settled in to wait. The men below would be leaving soon. That, too, he’d heard. But Drangar wasn’t going anywhere. Leastways he wasn’t until Alasdair and his men appeared. He just hoped they’d come soon.

  The wind blowing in off the sea was strengthening. And a man did have his pride. Much as Drangar was adept at holding himself together, such powerful gusts as tore across these cliffs did tend to toss him about. Already the great plumes on his helmet were in danger of being blown away. And his gleaming black hair, always his pride, had been whipped into a snarl of knots and tangles.

  When he returned to Drangar Point and the Warrior Stones, he’d have to spend longer than usual to wipe the sea salt off his coat of mail. He took care to keep its links well polished and he could tell the buffeting Nought winds were seeping through the wool of his cloak, the salt already dulling the sheen of his mail.

  A warrior looked best when his armor shone.

  Still, he knew that if any man saw him, he’d present a fierce and daunting image.

  Doing his part to help his kin was worth a bit of discomfort and unpleasantness.

  Feeling justifiably noble, he allowed himself a rare smile.

  Ghostdom did have certain advantages.

  Eager to make use of one of them, he sheltered in the lee of an outcrop, gathering the energy he’d need to do what he planned. He just hoped Alasdair and his men would notice and then act upon his message.

  So much depended on them.

  Chapter Seven

  Marjory could hardly believe she’d returned to the hall to find Alasdair at Nought. Or that having been taken so unaware, she’d barely had a chance to speak with him before he’d left. What didn’t surprise her was her brother’s satisfaction at Alasdair’s angry departure.

  She couldn’t just let him go.

  Her heart had leaped to see him. And when he’d looked at her, his face had been fierce, his eyes blazing with a fiery heat she knew was desire.

  That and something else.

  Something that quickened her blood and made her tremble with excitement.

  He couldn’t be gone already.

  She hastened from the dais, glancing about, her pulse still racing as her gaze flickered over the hall’s weapon-hung walls. Everywhere she looked, swords, spears, and axes seemed to stare back at her accusingly because she dared to search for a MacDonald in their midst. Kendrew’s bearskin cloak hung above the high table, the thick black pelt glistening in the firelight. For two pins, she’d believe the cloak might come to life any moment, growling at her.

  She didn’t care.

  Hurrying deeper into the hall, she kept searching for Alasdair. There were so many men milling about. She hadn’t seen him go. She’d only caught the angry surge of warriors, Mackintoshes and MacDonalds, leaving the dais and heading toward the entry arch.

  She pressed a hand to her breast, straining to see into the hall’s farthest corners. Here and there, wall torches revealed red-painted wolf and bear skulls, hinting at the clan’s claim of Berserker ancestry. Huge silver-rimmed bull horns and ancient, battle-damaged shirts of mail sh
one in the flickering light, testimony of a warlike past.

  There were also a few bones. She shivered, knowing the hall’s darker recesses held worse things. She avoided those relics from distant times when pagan worship and sacrifices were more than tales to amuse clansmen on cold winter nights.

  Just now, she’d offer anything to catch a glimpse of Alasdair’s broad shoulders in the throng of men near the door. She’d love to spot the glint of his auburn hair gleaming in the torchlight, or to hear his deep voice above the din, admire his plaid swirling about him as he strode purposely through the crowd.

  But he was nowhere to be seen.

  Nor were his clansmen. The MacDonalds had left the hall.

  Before she could decide what to do, she felt a light touch on her arm. Turning, she saw Isobel standing beside her, looking flushed.

  “This shouldn’t have happened. I tried to keep them from each other’s throats.” Isobel slid a reproachful look at her husband. “My efforts were as helpful as tossing grease on a fire.”

  “Good riddance, eh?” Kendrew joined them, looking pleased as his guardsmen began filing away from the hall’s great double doors. They’d trailed Alasdair and his men to the door, flanking them as if they were released prisoners. “Thon MacDonald bastard willnae be fouling Nought with his presence again for a while, I vow.”

  “He had reason to come here.” Isobel challenged him.

  “No’ any good one.” Kendrew leaned against a table edge, crossed his arms.

  “Why does he think you’d attack Blackshore?” Marjory was sure he had another reason for visiting Nought. She hoped it was her. “Nor have we ever had galleys, certainly not black-painted ones. He knows that.”

  “So I told him.” Kendrew shrugged.

  “I’m thinking you said more than that.” Marjory noted the blood flecks in Kendrew’s beard, and then she glanced back toward the dais.

  The hall’s proud upper level stood in shambles.

  Several chairs and a trestle bench lay toppled in the rushes. A platter of freshly baked meat pasties had been knocked off the high table, much to the delight of Gronk and the other castle dogs who’d pounced on the delicacies. Spilled ale and wine from broken ewers stained the snowy-white table linens and spread across the floor in strong-reeking puddles.