Seduction Of A Highland Warrior

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  Kendrew was clearly besotted with Isobel, James’s sister.

  Only Alasdair proved disinterested in pursuing matters of the heart.

  He’d left the glen, vanishing for a year. And he’d returned a different man. No longer the honor-and-duty-bound chieftain Marjory once knew, he’d become a lust-driven rogue who cared only for quenching his manly needs.

  Perhaps he’d always been such a blackguard?

  Marjory shut her eyes for a moment, listened to the wind racing through the stone garden. Frustration wound inside her, annoyance heating her cheeks.

  It didn’t help that she’d relished every scandalous touch Alasdair had given her. Their scorching kisses and his hands on her breasts…

  Her plans were doomed.

  Her heart aching.

  “I erred, don’t you see?” She glanced at her friend and then went to one of the low-walled reflective pools, watched the wind ripple the shallow water. “Alasdair might be easy to seduce, but he isn’t prepared to give his heart to any woman. I was foolish to believe he would fall in love with me.”

  “You are foolish to doubt him.” Isobel joined her at the pool. “He offered to marry you, did he not?”

  “What else could he do? Besides, he knew how Kendrew would react. He felt safe offering, hence his bold words.” That truth was a knife jab to Marjory’s heart. “It would seem our pact might not be completed. Although”—she took a step closer to the pond, nudged its stone rim with her toe—“I am not ready to concede defeat.”

  “I am glad to hear it.” Isobel moved out of the way of Hercules, who was running back and forth along the edge of the pool, barking at his reflection. “All is not yet lost. Kendrew was a much harder man to catch. I also had Catriona aye trying to persuade me to abandon my heart’s desire and forget him.

  “You”—she turned back to Marjory—“have me encouraging you with Alasdair.”

  “I know, and I love you for it.” Marjory darted a glance at the path they’d come along, making certain they were still alone. “But even you cannot conjure feelings Alasdair doesn’t have. Gorm and Grizel, your clan’s dream spinners up on the high moors, could surely work a charm for me. Yet they only guide and nudge, never really interfering in mortal affairs. The great Devorgilla of Doon… Now she’d be one to help me.” Marjory couldn’t keep the wistful note from her voice. “If I knew how to summon her, I would. She’s said to have a heart for ill-starred lovers. She might—”

  “The legendary Devorgilla will be away in Kintail or other far-off bounds, aiding those in true need of her help.” Isobel smiled. “You don’t need her meddling. You must only step over your shadow and not be waylaid by doubt.”

  “I appreciate your support, truly.” Marjory did.

  Sadly, there was another reason she’d asked Isobel to accompany her into the stone garden. Something that had nothing to do with Alasdair and that she wished had little to do with her as well.

  Unfortunately, she suspected otherwise.

  So she rubbed her arms against the cold and fought back a shiver. Then she lifted a hand to touch the smooth amber stones at her throat, knowing that she couldn’t deny their portent any longer.

  “I’m worried, my friend.” She spoke plainly. “When Alasdair said his lookouts reported black-painted longships, my ambers nearly burned my neck. Just like in that horrible dream I had not too long ago. You’ll remember, where I—”

  “Saw yourself at a Viking ship burial, being led to the dead lord’s funerary pyre?” Isobel’s brows knit. “How could I forget?”

  “I can’t either.” Marjory shuddered, curled her fingers around the now-cool ambers. “The sensation earlier, in the hall, was the same. I’m certain there’s a connection. We both know the ambers are enchanted. They don’t lie. They’re telling me of coming danger. And”—she spoke in a rush—“I’m sure it isn’t Alasdair and his kisses. He only gave a name to the peril. The ambers are warning me of Vikings.”

  “So it would seem.” Isobel began to pace, walking between the reflective pond and a group of tall granite obelisks, each one formed by nature. Dubbed Thor’s thunderbolts by the Mackintoshes who’d collected them, the unusual spears of rock had been gathered over time, whenever one broke away from the higher peaks.

  “The question is…” Isobel paused beside one of the thunderbolts, resting a hand on the stone’s curved edge. “How can a Norse ship threaten you now? Black-painted or otherwise, there aren’t any Vikings coming to claim you. That fright is behind us.”

  “Can we be so sure?” Marjory was anything but.

  “Of course, we can.” Isobel glanced back at Nought’s torch-lit bulk and then looked again at Marjory. “I’ve spent long nights badgering Kendrew to learn his plans for you. I’ve used methods I am not proud of, pressing my advantage when he was”—her face colored—“shall we say, a bit vulnerable? Each time, he swore the same truth.” Her expression turned serious. “He’s exhausted his resources. We heard him say as much to Alasdair when they fought. Every Norse warlord or noble he’s offered your hand has declined the match. Groat’s overlord was the last. The few remaining are, according to Kendrew’s spies, either too old and infirm for you or known to be cruel. Much as we both wish he wouldn’t have tried to wed you to a Viking at all, he does love you dearly. He wouldn’t see you sent to a dotard who’d dribble in his beard or a coldhearted fiend who’d beat you.”

  Marjory drew a long breath, knowing her friend spoke true.

  Even so…

  “We also heard him say he intends to find more suitors.” Marjory wasn’t sure how long, or how efficiently, she could thwart such attempts.

  “Bluster, I’m sure.” Isobel made light of her worries.

  “I hope you’re right.” Marjory straightened her back, her gaze on the stark black peaks beyond the stone garden’s walls. “Do you truly believe the MacDonald ambers have magical powers?”

  She hoped Isobel would say no.

  Instead, Isobel looked unhappy. “Catriona believes so, and she will have heard all the tales, having been raised at Blackshore. My experience with them says they speak true. If they heat and tremble against your skin, they’re telling of danger.”

  “Then I must take heed.” Marjory stood straighter, not sure from what corner a threat could strike her. She was certain the danger came from the black-painted longships and her frightening dream.

  She knew only one way to find answers.

  Regrettably, the woman who could help her wasn’t at her cottage each time she made the journey to the humble dwelling deep in a birchwood between Nought and the clan’s famed dreagan stones.

  Still…

  “I must speak with Hella.” She hoped Kendrew wasn’t sending the widow on pointless errands to keep her from catching the older woman at home.

  He’d been angry with Hella ever since the outspoken Norsewoman upbraided him for attempting to foist an unwanted marriage on Marjory.

  Twice widowed and happily married both times, Hella lost her first husband when his Norse merchant ship sank in the treacherous waters just offshore from Nought’s Dreagan’s Claw. It was a tragedy that left few survivors. Most young oarsmen returned to Shetland whence they’d come. Hella was too badly injured to make the journey home to that far northern isle. She’d stayed on at Nought, eventually falling in love with the Mackintosh warrior who’d pulled her from the surf. The pair married, enjoying many good years until her husband succumbed to a fever.

  Rather than return to Shetland, Hella remained at Nought, the home she’d come to love as her own.

  She also loved Marjory, treating her as the daughter she never had.

  Of late, Kendrew scolded that Hella was stirring discontent in the clan. Almost as if he knew that Hella…

  “Kendrew doesn’t trust Hella.” Isobel spoke Marjory’s mind. “He suspects she had something to do with a few of the declines for your hand.”

  “She carried only a few of my messages to Norse couriers when I was unable to slip
past Kendrew’s nose.” Marjory looked at the pool’s black-glistening water. “My brother has men who’d die for him in battle. He cannot blame Hella for standing with me.”

  “He shouldn’t, but he does.”

  “After I speak with Hella, I’ll make certain she has enough peat and victuals to allow her to stay away from Nought until Kendrew is in a better mood.” She’d also be sure several of the guards loyal to her watched over the older woman’s cottage.

  If the black-painted longships posed a danger, the men in them would be an even greater threat.

  Unlike ships, men could climb steep cliff paths and find ways through tight mountain passes. A remote thatched cottage wouldn’t protect a lone woman if a war band of rough-hewn men happened upon her.

  Hella was still an attractive woman.

  Tall, blond, and strong, she could’ve been long remarried to any of the Mackintoshes’ older fighters, if she’d wished such attentions.

  She chose to live alone in her cottage.

  “And you?” Isobel sounded concerned. “Will you heed the ambers’ warning?”

  “I will if Hella gives me the answer I’m expecting.”

  “And what is that?”

  Marjory hesitated only a moment. Isobel knew every detail of the dream. “I want to know if there are Saracen women in Norway. If so, if she recognizes the names from my dream.”

  “And if she does?” Isobel made the sign against evil.

  Marjory gave her a reassuring smile. “I’ll be forewarned.”

  Chapter Nine

  Ne’er have you made a greater arse of yourself.”

  Alasdair considered ignoring his cousin Ewan’s remark. Having ridden away from Nought at speed, they were now crossing Mackintosh territory’s higher ridges, making for their own Blackshore Castle in the south. A cold north wind accompanied them through the rocky, inhospitable terrain. Sadly, for all the wind’s strength, it didn’t blow powerfully enough to carry away Ewan’s quip. Alasdair clearly heard the amusement in the younger man’s voice.

  So he drew rein and turned in his saddle, fixing the lad with a long, hard look. “Be glad MacDonalds aren’t led by a feeble dotard, afraid to bloody his fists. I didnae do so poorly that Kendrew’s bones willnae be aching this night. Heed that well and know you’ll be less a tongue if you say another word.”

  To Alasdair’s annoyance, Ewan grinned. “Did you see Kendrew’s nose?” He glanced round at the other men, chuckling. “It’ll be bigger than his ax blade come morning. And you look—”

  “I have a wee scrape, no more.” Alasdair knew he carried an egg-size swelling at his temple. His head hurt worse than if he’d downed a barrel of bad wine. But he welcomed the throbbing pain.

  It took his mind off what really weighed on him.

  Marjory.

  They were a good distance from Castle Nought. Even the ancient cairns known as the dreagan stones were now well behind them. Yet Marjory continued to torment him. He’d almost believe she’d bewitched him. He could still feel her silky hair, the smooth warmth of her breasts, so full, round, and tempting. The taste of her lips and how she’d welcomed the thrust of his tongue. The frustrating knowledge that if they hadn’t been disturbed…

  He scowled, aching to settle his mouth over hers now.

  More than that, he wanted to take back the words he’d said to her. Hoped she’d known why he’d done so. Regrettably, her face as she’d bid him to leave left no doubt that she’d not grasped his intent.

  In that regard, Ewan was right.

  He had been an arse.

  But he was sure he was right about Kendrew. The bastard had to have something to do with the black-painted longboats seen off Blackshore’s coast.

  Alasdair didn’t trust him past the end of his sword.

  “So when will you claim Lady Marjory?” Ewan leaned over and punched his arm, his smile not slipping. “We all ken you want her.”

  Alasdair glared at him. “I want many things. One is for you to stop blethering.”

  “Dinnae care for the truth, eh?” Ewan straightened, looking smug. “I’d be for setting the heather ablaze, telling everyone. If I’d lost my heart to such a fine lass as Marjory Mackintosh, that is.”

  “If I have, it’s no one’s concern.” Alasdair glanced at his other men, annoyed to see they’d also edged nearer. Each man’s ears appeared turned his way, flapping like ship sails as they strove to listen.

  His ire rising, Alasdair lifted his voice. “What should concern you is the reason we rode to Nought.”

  “Aye, so you could see Lady Marjory.” Ewan looked him in the eye. “We all know it.” He waved a hand at the other men. “Will you be denying it?”

  “I say you’re mad.” Alasdair kneed his horse, spurring forward.

  Ewan raced after him, catching him swiftly. “I’m no’ crazed enough no’ to ken that grief will come of the ruckus you caused at Nought.” His mirth gone now, Ewan spoke earnestly. “If the King hears, he’ll declare our oaths broken. He’ll call us hotheaded heathens and send his armies to banish us from our land. They’ll come like a tide, making good his threat to ship us to the Isle of Lewis.”

  “You think I’m no’ aware of that?” Alasdair rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. “Kendrew knows it, too. That’ll be why he’s sent galleys to harass us. He’ll have ordered them to provoke us until we sail out in challenge. When the King cries foul, the longships will beat away, ne’er to be seen again. Mackintosh will point the finger at us, ridding himself of a hated foe and”—anger heated Alasdair’s nape—“no doubt accepting Blackshore when the crown offers him our lands as a reward. He’s a crafty bastard—”

  “I dinnae think he has galleys.” Ewan’s voice held doubt. “Even Lady Marjory said—”

  “She’ll no’ ken what he’s about.” Alasdair was sure of it. “Like as no’, Kendrew doesn’t have longships. But he can aye hire a few.”

  “Ahhh…” Ewan nodded.

  “Indeed.” Alasdair leaned toward his cousin, heavily aware of their age difference. “There isn’t much that cannae be bought for a handful of silver. Galleys and a crew to man them can be had easily.”

  And he’d fallen for the bait, losing his head.

  Putting his clan, and everything he cared about, at risk.

  The knowledge rode him in a worse way than Ewan or any of his men could guess. He just wasn’t of a mood—yet—to release the fury boiling inside him. He felt too raw. Stripped bare and bleeding, as if someone twice his size and strength had whipped him with a steel-tipped flail, taking whacks until not a shred of resistance remained.

  His soul had been dredged, his very heart wrung by the hands of a woman. And if he only lusted after her, as he’d been trying to tell himself, why did he have the worst urge to leap from his horse and smash something?

  His cousin’s head, for one. Or an inviting slab of hard Nought stone. Anything would do, as long as it stemmed his rage.

  Whatever he felt for Norn was slaying him.

  Kendrew’s blows hadn’t fazed him.

  He’d enjoyed pummeling the bastard. Warriors who didn’t regularly fight grew old and fat, their sword arms useless. Once-sharp wits went dull. When a real battle came along, they were worthless. They’d face their foes as shadows of what they’d been, quickly finding their guts slit, their blood drenching the ground.

  In such a light, the scuffle with Kendrew had been a gift.

  Now he was primed for battle.

  “We’ll none of us be going to Lewis.” Ewan guided his horse around a spill of broken rock and pebbles. “That island’s beyond the edge of the world. Men say it’s a dark place with worse cold and mist than the blackest winter here in the Glen of Many Legends. Our men have wives and families at Blackshore.” He glanced to the warriors just riding up to them. “They’re no’ for riling the King and—”

  “The King can sleep easily in his royal bed.” Alasdair drew rein again and stopped beside a tumbled mass of rock. Even in the slanting sun, th
e outcrop held an air of menace. Little grew here except stunted hawthorns, heather, and a bit of straggly whin. Circling hawks were the only life they’d seen since reaching the higher ridges.

  Looking round, Alasdair resisted the urge to spit against evil. He turned back to Ewan before he did. “Our people needn’t worry,” he vowed, determining to make it so. “No MacDonald will give Robert Stewart cause to send his armies marching on us. Though I cannae speak for Mackintosh. He’s aye a scoundrel.”

  “He’s a good man to lord it over these godforsaken peaks.” Ewan glanced to where the ground fell away from one side of the path, disappearing into a narrow, dark-shadowed ravine that appeared bottomless. “Kendrew is mad to dwell here.”

  “He would say you differently.” Alasdair adjusted his plaid against the knifing wind. “For all his bluster, he does love this place.”

  “I still say he’s crazed. Did you see the bull’s skull on the wall of his great hall? The bones hung about as trophies?”

  “They were animal bones, not from men.” Alasdair secretly appreciated Kendrew’s upholding of the old ways. But he kept his expression cleared, not about to let on that he admired aught about their enemy.

  “Did you believe Mackintosh about the ships?” one of his men called from the rear of their party.

  “I considered it.” Alasdair spoke true. “His surprise appeared great, his anger as well. He’s also a braggart. If he had such ships, he’d surely boast of them, no’ deny their existence.”

  “Then why are we on this bleeding goat track rather than riding straight to Blackshore?” Another warrior raised his voice, sounding irritated. “If our horses don’t slip on these damned rocks and send us plunging to our deaths, the wind will soon blow us away.”

  Alasdair silently agreed.

  A cold, strong wind raced through these high passes, and at each twist in the path, the land grew wilder. The shifting of the stony ground made every step treacherous. His kinsman had put words to what surely nagged them all.

  Men died gladly in battle.

  No one went happily to his grave because of a fool’s errand.