A Highlander's Temptation

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  An awkward silence fell over the birlinn.

  Men looked down at their feet or out at the water, their closed faces speaking volumes. Only Conall met her eyes, his own mirroring her sadness.

  “I’m so sorry, lass.” He spoke low, for her ears alone. “I know he’ll always love you.”

  Arabella nodded, grateful. Her throat was too thick for words. She pressed a hand to her breast and drew a great breath. Any moment she’d sink to her knees. She’d dreaded this final parting and now it was upon her, swooping down to shatter her world.

  “Conall…” She couldn’t finish, couldn’t even see him through the stinging haze of tears.

  Then, as if he sensed her pain, Sir Marmaduke swept her up and handed her into her father’s galley, giving her into his outstretched arms.

  “Lass!” Duncan crushed her to him, reaching to pull Linnet into their embrace. “If you ever speak of another adventure, I swear I’ll—”

  “You needn’t worry, Father.” Arabella slipped away from them and went to the rail. “There will be no more adventures. I have had my fill of them.”

  But that wasn’t true. She’d only had a taste and it’d been far too brief.

  Now she was going home.

  How sad that her father’s galley was carrying her in the wrong direction.

  Chapter Twenty

  Several nights later, Darroc sat alone in his thinking room, his glare pinned on the Thunder Rod. Once more, the clan’s supposed treasure hung innocently on the wall, secured by its frayed and faded tartan ribbon. And—to torment him, he was sure—the rod’s gleaming black wood and bits of brilliant color repeatedly snagged his gaze.

  All evening, he’d tried to force his attention elsewhere.

  And each time he’d failed.

  He knew why.

  The damnable relic was his last tie to Arabella. And even if it gutted him to know it was the Thunder Rod that had ultimately torn her from him, he couldn’t bear to do what he knew he should. Namely, snatch the vile length of wood off the wall and toss it into the hearth fire.

  Cast it to the flames where it could do no more damage.

  Truth was, powerful as the relic was known to be, he doubted it could be destroyed. Like as not any attempt to do so would circle around and bite the attempter in the arse. Or worse, the smoke formed by the burning wood would turn into the avenging souls of every life the Thunder Rod had ruined, each wretched spirit haunting him all his days.

  Darroc shuddered. He was half certain such horrors were possible.

  His life was haunted enough as it was. Especially since he’d sent Arabella away.

  Scowling, he reached to refill his ale cup only to drop both cup and ewer when the door flew open and slammed against the wall in an earsplitting bang.

  “Saints!” He leapt to his feet, spinning around to see who’d dared to breach his sanctuary.

  He’d given strict orders to be left alone.

  Even Frang gave him wide berth these days. And when the dog deigned to come near, it was only to stand and pierce him with accusatory stares.

  Or the beast came when he wanted food, which wasn’t particularly flattering.

  Just now it was Conall eyeing him. Only his cousin’s stare wasn’t recriminatory. Far from it, he looked like he hadn’t slept or bathed in a fortnight. His bright red hair stood up in tufts. His walk was an odd, lurching gait that was surely from being at sea. But most annoying of all, he was grinning like a loon.

  He clearly didn’t know Darroc was in mourning.

  Loping across the room, he grabbed Darroc’s arms and shook him. “Have you heard? John of Islay has sent men to the crown! They will—”

  “To be sure I know.” Darroc jerked free and brushed at his sleeves. “MacDonald’s men were here days ago, full of tidings and goodwill.” He bent to snatch up the ewer and ale cup, returning them to the table. “Every tongue-wagger in the Isles will be speaking of—”

  “You aren’t pleased?” Conall’s brows lifted. “Don’t you understand? This means—”

  “I know what it means.” Darroc turned away, misery slicing through him. “But”—he wheeled back around—“what does it matter when all the light and joy has been ripped out of my life? Now that—”

  He broke off, a horrible suspicion jellying his knees. “Why are you returned so soon? You haven’t brought her back, have you?”

  Darroc would kill him if he had.

  He didn’t have the strength to send her away again. Indeed, one reason he’d been hiding away in his thinking room was because if he went anywhere near the boat strand, he’d hop into the first fishing coble he stumbled upon and set off to fetch her, honor be damned.

  Indeed, before he’d so wisely sequestered himself in here, he’d spent days prowling her bedchamber, hoping to catch some lingering waft of her scent in the air. For the same reason, he’d forbid Mad Moraig to strip and wash the bed linens.

  He was that pathetic.

  And he didn’t think he could get through another day without her. The cold and empty nights were a trial that would soon put him in his grave.

  So he funneled all his frustration into a scowl and glared at his still-grinning cousin. “Well?” He resisted the urge to cuff the lad. For two pins, he’d do that and worse. “Where is she?”

  “Halfway to Kintail, I’d imagine.”

  Darroc’s eyes rounded. “How can that be with you here?”

  “Her father intercepted us two days out.” Conall spoke as if that was nothing. “Three galleys, manned for war. But—”

  “She’s with her father?” Darroc pressed his hands to his temples. His head was beginning to ache. “How did he know to come looking for her? We hadn’t yet sent word to him.”

  Conall shrugged. “He seemed to know everything. Apparently the MacLeans heard of the Merry Dancer and dispatched a courier to Kintail.”

  Darroc sank back onto his chair, all his hopes of Conall coming back with her—and of himself fetching her—evaporating like mist before the sun.

  If her father had her…

  “We can still go after her.” Conall made it sound so simple.

  “I sent her away for a reason.” Darroc glared at him. “It was a very good one.”

  “But it’s making you miserable.” Conall spoke the obvious.

  Darroc clenched his jaw, unwilling to admit it.

  Especially when a whine sounded from the doorway where Frang stood pinning him with another of his mournful stares.

  “He is making me miserable.” Darroc jerked his head at the dog. “Otherwise, I am—”

  “She loves you.”

  “Aye, I know.” Darroc’s gaze flashed to the Thunder Rod. “She loves me because—”

  “She’s told her father.” Conall leaned close. “She’s sworn never to marry another. Only you. Do you no’ see? You’ve ruined her for life.”

  Darroc shot to his feet. “Havers! It’s my own sorry self I’ve ruined.”

  “Then do something about it.” Conall flicked a speck of lint off his plaid. “I would if she were mine.”

  If she were his.

  The words echoed in Darroc’s head long after Conall strode from the room. Arabella had been his, regardless of why she’d fallen in love with him. And unless he wished to live the rest of his life in darkness, he really had no choice but go after her.

  As for the Thunder Rod…

  He pushed the hoary relic from his mind. In time, he was sure he could make her love him for himself, winning her heart without the help of his ancestor’s wretched seduction tool.

  Eager to begin, he glanced at the darkened windows, willing the morn to come quickly.

  He had much to do, after all.

  And he hadn’t felt so good in days.

  “Sail on the horizon!”

  The cry came not long after sunrise, the MacKenzie oarsman who’d spotted the vessel pointing at the sleek birlinn cutting a furious swath toward them. Moving at tremendous speed, the craft flew across t
he waves, its long, lashing sweeps churning the sea and leaving a boiling wake.

  It also looked familiar.

  So much so that Arabella’s breath caught in her throat and she bit down hard on her lower lip. Still, she feared to hope. But when the birlinn sped closer and a large dog’s excited barks rose above the beats of the gong, she knew.

  Especially when Mina jumped up in her basket, returning Frang’s barks so enthusiastically that Arabella almost feared the tiny dog would harm herself.

  “Dear saints, it’s Darroc!” She ran down the galley’s center aisle to where her parents and Sir Marmaduke stood on the bow platform. “He’s come for me!”

  “He’ll be disappointed.” Her father was already scowling daggers at the fast approaching birlinn. “You’ll not be going anywhere with him.”

  Her mother and Sir Marmaduke said nothing. But they did exchange glances, the look letting Arabella know they were on her side.

  The birlinn was almost upon them, and on seeing Darroc her heart galloped so fast it hurt her ribs. He stood at the steering oar as always. But his gaze was steady on her, the look on his face making her forget everything except that he was racing toward her.

  That could only mean one thing.

  And the truth of it sent joy spiraling through her.

  She wanted to shout, whirl, and dance. She would have, too, if she didn’t wish to risk making things worse between her father and Darroc.

  Then he was there, the birlinn shooting past to whip around in a tight circle of lashing spray before gliding to a smooth, backwatering halt alongside the galley without even a single, jarring bump.

  “MacKenzie—I greet you!” Darroc jumped into the galley without invitation. “I, Darroc MacConacher, chief of my race, have come to ask for your daughter’s hand.”

  “You are a mad man.” Duncan bristled. “And you shall not have Arabella.”

  “Then, sir, I will take her.” On the birlinn, Frang barked agreement.

  Duncan glared at the dog and leapt down from the bow platform, going toe-to-toe with Darroc. “Over my dead body, you will!”

  “I should hope that it will not come to that.” Darroc put a hand to his sword hilt, gripping it loosely. “But if you give me no choice…”

  Duncan roared.

  Then he leapt backward and reached for his own steel, yanking it halfway out of its scabbard before a strong hand gripped his wrist and forced the blade back into its sheath.

  “Have done, Duncan.” Sir Marmaduke waited a few moments before releasing his grip. “Let us hear what the man has to say. There can be no harm—”

  “You stay out of this!” Duncan twisted around to glare at him. “Arabella is my daughter, not yours.”

  “She’s my niece and”—he slid an arm around her when she ran up to them, pulling her close—“I, for one, have grown weary of watching her pine for this man.”

  “She hasn’t been pining.” Duncan waved an agitated hand. “She—”

  “No, Father, you’re wrong.” Arabella broke away from her uncle and went to stand next to Darroc, demonstratively reaching for his hand. “I have been pining for Darroc and”—she laced their fingers—“I do want to be his wife.”

  “By the Rood!” Her father’s face turned purple. “He’s a bleeding MacConacher!”

  “And you, sir, are a MacKenzie.” Darroc smiled at him. “As is the woman I love more than my own life. There cannot be another man in all broad Scotland who could want her more. Or”—he squeezed her hand—“who will worship the very ground she walks on and make her wishes come true before she even knows she has them.”

  A muscle beneath Duncan’s left eye began twitching. “What are you, MacConacher? A poet?”

  “He is the man who loves me.” Arabella lifted her chin, her heart swelling on the words. “And he is the man I love. The only man I shall ever want.”

  Duncan glared at her, his eye twitch worsening.

  He said nothing.

  “Is silence your consent?” Darroc spoke into the sudden quiet.

  “My daughter will never marry a MacConacher.” Duncan snorted. “I’d sooner see her paired with a four-eyed toad!”

  “Father, please!” Arabella’s face flamed, shame scalding her.

  “She’s my daughter, too.” Linnet joined them, hooking her arm through her husband’s. “I would know her happy. And”—she looked up at him, catching his gaze—“if not for this MacConacher, she wouldn’t be here with us now.”

  “So what would you have me do?” He broke away from her and began pacing the galley’s single aisle. “Marry her to the enemy?”

  “Oh, yes.…” Linnet studied her fingernails. “The man who not only plucked her from the sea, but served vengeance on the men who would have killed her, not to mention ridding our seas of—”

  “Enough!” Duncan threw up his hands. “I will… consider the match.”

  “Considering isn’t good enough.” Darroc pressed him. This time he was the one who went toe-to-toe. “I’d have your answer now.”

  “Saints, Maria, and Joseph!” Duncan rammed his fingers through his hair. “What if I’m not of a mood to give it?”

  Arabella spoke before Darroc could answer. “Did you know, Father, that ‘Saints, Maria, and Joseph’ is one of Darroc’s favorite curses?”

  She smiled sweetly, waiting for the explosion.

  When none came and he only stared at her, almost cross-eyed in his annoyance, she decided to press her advantage.

  Quickly, before anyone could stop her, she bent to seize Mina’s basket and thrust it to the MacConacher oarsmen looking on with interest from the birlinn. Then, as soon as Hugh had the basket, she winked at the man beside him.

  Understanding, he stretched out his arms and caught her about the waist, lifting her into the birlinn.

  Behind her, Darroc laughed, joining her in a wink.

  Her father bellowed his outrage. “MacConacher! Dinna think to steal her away!”

  “He doesn’t have to, Father.” Arabella gripped the birlinn’s rail, standing tall. “I am going with him whether it pleases you or nae. But”—she leaned forward, not wanting to hurt him—“it would mean so much to me if you’ll be happy for us. You know how much I love you.”

  To her amazement, a smile flickered across his face.

  It was gone in an instant, but it gave her hope.

  “I saw that!” She beamed back at him, her heart flipping. “Does this mean you’ll come with us to Castle Bane? Stay there long enough to get to know Darroc and then see us wed. Our union properly blessed and feasted?”

  The smile didn’t return, but he jerked a nod. “Where did you learn to be so brazen?”

  Arabella laughed. “If you don’t know, perhaps you should ask Mother.”

  “Oh, he knows.” Linnet smiled across at them. “He just isn’t fond of owning to things that displease him.”

  “I can sympathize.” Darroc returned her smile, willing to come halfway.

  “I’m sure you can.” Linnet’s eyes twinkled.

  The rowers on each craft exchanged commiserating glances, clearly of a like mind. Some even chuckled. Those married for many years nodded sagely.

  Duncan scowled at them all. Then, almost as an afterthought, he offered a grudging humph.

  Then, before he could voice a more unpleasant protest, Linnet drew him from the rail.

  As soon as they moved away, Darroc swept Arabella into his arms and kissed her deeply. Again and again until they broke apart, gasping for air.

  Darroc slid a glance at the galley, already pulling away. “I wouldn’t say we’ve won him over, but—”

  “It’s a fair start, I agree.” Arabella could hardly believe it. “Considering how he is.…”

  “You know what this means, don’t you?” He smoothed back her hair, the love in his eyes melting her. “You are mine now, Arabella. All mine, praise every saint in heaven! And, by God”—he cradled her face as if she were the most precious thing in the world—“I’ll
never ever let you go.”

  “You won’t have to. I’ve been yours forever, I’m thinking.” She slid her arms around his neck, twining her fingers in his hair. “But if ever you do wish to be rid of me, you’ll be very sorry.”

  “Ach, sweetness, I was sorry this time.” He kissed her, lightly now. “I didn’t last an hour before I wanted you back in my arms. I paced the battlements and prowled about your bedchamber, aching for you.”

  “Aching?” Arabella leaned into him, letting her body press against his.

  “Aching terribly.” He brushed the hair from her face again, his gaze going to her father’s galley. The other craft beat along beside them, but at a courteously discreet distance. “When night falls, I will show you how much.”

  Arabella’s eyes flew wide. “But we can’t—not this trip.”

  Scandalized, her gaze flitted to the crowded rowing benches. The narrow center aisle and stern-and-bow platforms, both glaringly bare of a sailcloth awning.

  When she looked back at him, she knew her cheeks were tinged pink. “Your men would see us.”

  To her surprise, Darroc laughed. “Sweet lass, I thought you were bold?”

  Arabella swallowed. “Not that bold.”

  “I am glad to hear it!” He laughed again and gave her another fast, hard kiss.

  Then he slid a pointed glance at the prow. “But if you’re inclined to change your mind and be daring, perhaps it will please you to know there’s a new plaid kist tucked away near the bow.”

  “A new plaid kist?” Arabella blinked.

  He nodded. “To replace the one I pitched into the sea on our way to Olaf’s isle.”

  “What’s in the new chest?” She had a good notion.

  “Ach, just an armful of plaids to make a comfortable pallet and”—he grinned—“our own special sailcloth screen, brought along just for you.”

  “You were that sure of me?” Her pulse quickened at the thought.

  “Nae.” He shook his head. “I was that sure of us.”

  “Oh, Darroc!” She flung herself at him, her heart bursting. “I love you so!”

  “Not as much as I love you.” He leaned down to nibble her ear.