Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel: Highland Warriors Book 2

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  Instead, he did what she’d most dreaded.

  He asked her name.

  * * *

  And as he did, a small party of mailed, thick-bearded men looked on from the shelter of a thrusting outcrop beyond the cook-fires. Armed with swords, shields, and spears, they ignored the tantalizing smell of roasting meat that kept drifting past on the wind. Their noses twitched with the scent of something much more tempting.

  “She’s the Cameron’s sister.” One of the spearman, a tall brute with shaggy black hair and a broken nose, pointed his spear in Isobel’s direction. “She-”

  “I told you her name back at the Rodan Stone when the bitch looked right at you.” Ralla the Victorious, so named because he’d never lost a fight, used his own spear to knock down the other man’s weapon. “She is a maid of rank and riches. And” – he flashed another look at her – “we’ll no’ be touching her this night.”

  Tor, the black-haired man with the crooked nose, bent to snatch up his fallen spear. “Thon amber necklace she wears is worth more than the coin-hoard promised us for this night’s work.”

  A third man spat on the ground. “I’d like to see her brother’s face if we sent him that necklace wrapped around her severed neck.”

  “And what would happen then?” Ralla couldn’t believe his men’s stupidity.

  The ground-spitter swelled his chest. “James Cameron would see that for all his arrogance, he’s powerless. He’d recognize that there are others whose strength is greater. Others like us and-”

  “Aye, so he would.” Ralla nodded, feigning agreement.

  Grinning, the ground-spitter whipped out his sword, testing its edge on his thumb. “I’ve ne’er used this on a woman. The thought makes me-”

  “It shows what a fool you are.” Ralla gripped the man’s wrist, twisting his arm until the blade clattered onto the rocks. “If anyone takes their pleasure with the Cameron she-witch, it’ll be me.

  “This night" – he slammed the end of his spear into the ground – “we retreat. The bitch’s presence changes our plans. The Mackintoshes are the fiercest fighters in the glen. Their chief isn’t as mead-taken as we’d hoped to find him, but we could still wipe them out if we wished. A bloodbath with the Cameron’s sister caught in the middle…”

  He let the words trail off, waiting until his men lowered their spears.

  “Such folly would only unite the three clans.” Ralla looked round, pleased to see understanding finally sink into his men’s thick skulls. “We’re hamstrung until we’ve broken the Mackintoshes’ fighting power. Once we have, we’ll crush the Camerons and MacDonalds like snails beneath our heels. That’s when we’ll feast on their oxen and take our ease with their women.”

  His men greeted the words with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

  “I be hungry for both now.” A burly man whose arms were well ringed with gold, plucked a dirk from beneath his belt and used the tip to pick at his fingernails. “I wouldn’t mind feasting on-”

  “You’ll taste my fist and more if you make trouble.” Ralla stepped toward the other man, not surprised when his bravura faded.

  Ralla hadn’t earned his by-name for naught.

  “The Mackintosh saw you a while ago.” The other man waved his dirk in Kendrew’s direction, the challenge proving he had more bollocks than Ralla believed. “He took a hard look at us, he did.”

  “The bastard was blinking ash from his eyes, no more.” Ralla refused to admit that Kendrew might’ve seen him. Such a slip would be a first in his long and illustrious career of villainies.

  “Say you.” The dirk-wielder thrust his knife back beneath his belt, dusted his hands.

  “I do.” Ralla yanked his spear from the peaty ground. “Now we’re gone from here. We’ll wash the glen with Berserker blood on another day, I promise you.”

  Turning, he walked away, taking a narrow goat path that wound along the deepest defiles of Nought’s formidable peaks. He went swiftly and with sure, long strides, knowing his men would follow.

  Ban, the dirk-wielder, caught up with him first. “I know how to handle uppity females. I’d have the Cameron bitch after you’re done with her.”

  “And so you shall,” Ralla agreed. “But not before the others.”

  No man would want her once she’d been at Ban’s mercy.

  Ralla treated his men equally, showing no favoritism. Only so could he expect men to carry spears for him. He was a fair and generous leader. When the time came, they’d all enjoy Isobel of Haven.

  Then they’d send her to hell.

  Chapter 3

  She’d already lost his attention.

  Isobel watched Kendrew’s brows draw together as he glanced past her to where the largest cook fire blazed near the rocks at the base of Nought’s highest peaks. Well-burning torches circled the fire pit, lending to the festive air, and a whole ox roasted in the fire’s leaping flames. The wind was just turning, treating them to the tantalizing aroma of perfectly done meat. Yet Kendrew frowned as if eying a cauldron of warty toads seasoned with newt fingers.

  His gaze flickered over the soaring cliffs, red-gold in the firelight. He took a step forward as he stared, his fists clenching at his sides. But then his face cleared and he turned back to her.

  “Your name, sweet.” His smile flashed as he came closer. Holding her gaze, he touched her face again, this time gliding his knuckles along her cheek and then down her neck. “I’d know what a lass as fair as you is called.”

  “I am Isobel.” Her voice was strong. In this, a point of honor, she couldn’t lie. Though she wished he hadn’t prodded her. “Isobel of-”

  “Of the Ambers,” he decided, fingering her necklace, clearly thinking she was a joy woman from Rannoch Moor. “‘Tis a fitting name.”

  He released the gemstones and gave her another of his crooked smiles. “Though I vow you are worth a thousand such baubles.”

  Isobel’s heart pounded. “The necklace was a gift.”

  “No doubt.” His gaze dropped to her bosom, lingering there before returning to her face. “I would reward you with a much greater treasure. Some say” – he leaned in, lowering his voice – “that all the world’s gold lies buried beneath the dreagan stones.”

  Isobel lifted her chin. “I do not want your wealth.”

  She didn’t.

  She wanted him.

  So she looked into his eyes, directly. “Riches have little meaning to me.”

  “Then you are a maid like no other.” His smile deepened. “Now I know the gods have looked after me this e’en.”

  “Perhaps they desired us to meet?” Isobel couldn’t believe her boldness.

  “The gods are aye wise.” Kendrew’s voice was rough, his eyes dark with hunger. “They ken what’s good for a man.”

  “Aye, they do.” She took a breath, struggling not to sweep her hands against her skirts, dashing the dampness from her palms.

  She couldn’t lose courage now.

  Not when desire crackled in the air between them, filling her with hot, shivery anticipation. Blood racing, she glanced about, the tremulous sensation increasing when she saw they were alone.

  All around them, the spear-thumping continued, the sound oddly muted as if the stone-knocking belonged to another place and time. The scream of pipes, drum beats, and raucous laughter came loudest from the near the cook-fires where carousers were gathering to dance.

  Yet here, beneath Slag’s Mound…

  Isobel glanced at Kendrew, and then back at the empty landscape. She saw only broken rock, heather and bracken. The dark peaks that pressed so close, guarding the tight stony vale. The land’s fierceness quickened her blood. She almost felt light-headed.

  Nothing but shadow and mist surrounded them. The drifting smoke, so redolent of roasting meat and laced with just a trace of sweet, heady mead. All else was still, the world holding its breath.

  The isolation was thrilling.

  She should be alarmed. Her maidenly sensibilities on high alert, u
rging her to run. Instead, she ached to touch Kendrew’s muscled chest and arms, tracing her fingers along his blue kill-marks and then gliding her hands lower, learning his mysteries as he kissed her deeply.

  “Perhaps the gods make mistakes.” It was a feeble attempt to regain her ladylike dignity.

  She failed miserably.

  “Norse gods?” Kendrew laughed and shook his head. “They make mischief. And they make merry.” His lips curved in a slow, dangerous smile. “Erring isn’t in their nature. They see and know all. It’s no good thing to ignore their wisdom.” He stepped closer, his body almost touching hers. “We daren’t offend them.”

  Isobel met his gaze, aware of the implication behind his words.

  He wanted her.

  And he meant for them to enjoy the same wild and uninhibited carnality going on throughout the narrow vale, beyond the wall of mist and the shielding bulk of Slag’s Mound where couples whirled and danced around the bonfires. And then – she knew - they fell in a tangle of arms and legs onto the cold, stony ground, mating furiously.

  That was what he wished to do with her.

  He could mean nothing else.

  “Oh, dear.” Isobel’s nerves surfaced, unwelcome and annoying, but there all the same.

  He gripped her chin then, his gaze piercing. “You tempt me greatly, Isobel of the Ambers. I’d have you here and now, before Odin and in the shadow of Slag’s Mound.”

  He slid his thumb back and forth over her lower lip, softly. The caress sent shocking waves of pleasure spilling through her, hot and sweet. He arched a brow, clearly waiting for her consent. For all his roguishness, no one denied how much he respected women. He’d go no further unless she indicated that she wanted more.

  And she did.

  Guilt lanced her. Gentlybred women weren’t supposed to feel lust. But she’d felt such a strong physical attraction to him since the trial by combat. Even more powerfully, his boldness drew her. His Norse blood proved irresistible. They shared so much.

  He was a man like no other.

  And the look on his face as he touched her lip so gently was making her burst with longing.

  Isobel shivered, knowing she was lost. “Yes….”

  She let her voice trail off, not quite brave enough to put such wanton desires into plain words. He surely knew what she meant.

  Proving it, he grinned. “Then come here.” He pulled her close, so near that she was crushed to his hard-muscled body. Sweeping a hand down her back, he splayed his fingers over the curve of her bottom, drawing her against him. She felt his arousal now, his hardness pressing sensitive places, stirring need within her. “Let me kiss you.”

  “Then do.” Her voice was stronger this time, his touch melting her. He traced her jaw with his thumb and her skin warmed there, tiny shivers slipping down her neck and lower. She gazed up at him, her breath catching at the fierce desire in his eyes.

  “Och, I will kiss you and more. This is a night to amuse the gods, and ourselves.” The red glow from the bonfires glinted in his rich auburn hair and made the heavy gold of the Thor’s hammer at his neck gleam brightly. He’d never looked more wild, or so appealing.

  “I want you, lass.” He stroked her cheek. “Ne’er you worry.”

  “I’m not worried.” She wasn’t.

  She was excited. The sensations she felt gathering inside her, heady and delicious.

  He looked down at her, his broad shoulders blocking out the high peaks behind him, narrowing the world to just the two of them. “That’s good because we’re about to set fire to the heavens.”

  Isobel blinked.

  Kendrew grinned, the laughter lines at the corners of his blue eyes deepening. “We’ll light a blaze to warm the mead halls of Valhalla.”

  Isobel’s heart flipped. “Valhalla, yes…”

  Then, somehow, she found herself backed against the high, stone-built cairn, his hands braced on either side of her head as his mouth descended, slanting roughly over hers. His kiss was hot, deep, and bruising. Her entire body caught flame and she twined her arms around his shoulders, thrusting her fingers into his hair. She needed and wanted him so much. Her heart beat faster, blood thrumming in her veins as she parted her lips, letting his tongue plunge deep to tangle with hers in a kiss more heated than her dreams.

  Somewhere near – or distant, it was hard to tell – a great rumbling of stone shook the earth, the low, thundery sound echoing along the stark and jagged cliffs hemming the rock-strewn vale.

  “Dear saints!” Isobel froze, her eyes flying wide.

  Tremors rippled through the ground and even the polished silver sky seemed to quiver. Around them, the swirling smoke and mist eddied, caught in an unseen wind as the stone-thunder slowly faded.

  Kendrew broke the kiss, sweeping her up in his arms and turning away from the cairn. “See there” – he looked down at her, his smile flashing – “the dreagans are taken with you, Isobel of the Ambers. That was their roar just now, praising your beauty.”

  Isobel smiled. “I thought they didn’t exist?”

  “Who is to say?” He shrugged away a more direct answer. “Though” – he bent to kiss her brow – “I’ll no’ have you frightened. More like, thon rumble was a bit o’ rock rolling down the brae.”

  “I’d say a landslide.” Isobel glanced at the cliffs, so dark and brooding.

  “Aye,” Kendrew agreed, then fell silent as he followed her gaze. Another frown touched his brow, but briefly, disappearing almost faster than she’d noticed. “Falling rock is no’ uncommon here.”

  Isobel shivered. The air was cold and damp now, and…

  Somehow her bodice laces had come undone. Her gown gaped wide, open to her waist. Night wind kissed her skin, raising chill bumps. Kendrew was pulling her sleeves down from her shoulders and freeing her arms, releasing them from her gown’s constraints. His plaid was still in place, the red-based tartan bright against the whirling mist. The contrast made her feel even more vulnerable.

  “Oh…” She forgot all about rock-thunder.

  “Odin, but you’re lovely.” Appreciation shone in Kendrew’s eyes, his gaze devouring her. “Let me look at you, see the bounty the gods have sent me.”

  “You are looking.” Isobel could feel her face coloring.

  “So I am.” He didn’t deny it.

  He did snatch up what looked like a black-furred blanket and tossed it over his arm, the dark pelt cooled by the night’s chill.

  Isobel knew why he’d grabbed the fur and the knowledge slammed through her. Anticipation made her heart pound. Her emotions unraveled, whirling until nothing mattered except his strong arms holding her and the way he kept lowering his head to kiss her hair. He rubbed his face against the side of her neck, breathing deep as if he were scenting her, perhaps savoring her taste.

  Her skin prickled at the scintillating thought. Stunning expectation beat through her, shivery warmth that lit across her nerves and caused a languorous, weighty sensation deep inside her.

  She almost forgot to breathe.

  He smoothed back her hair, leaning down to nip at the soft hollow beneath her ear. Slow, tight heat wound through the lowest part of her belly, making her tremble. She caught her lip, certain she’d never felt anything quite so wondrous, so tantalizing.

  He grinned. “I could eat you whole, be warned. I’d start at the top of your head and make my way down to your sweet, wee toes, tasting every place in between. The gods know I’m tempted.” He slung the fur over his arm and started down the side of the cairn, his strides sure as he crossed the stony ground.

  Isobel darted a look at the blanket. Wicked images of them naked and entwined on the dark-glistening fur flashed across her mind.

  Surprisingly, she didn’t feel a shiver of shame.

  She did have to tamp down her doubts. A well-lusted man, Kendrew’s blood likely heated for any comely female. Attracting him hadn’t been hard. Pleasing him once he started kissing her again, when he’d no doubt pull her tight against the har
d, masculine length of his body, and if – she darted another look at the fur – they were to lie down together, pressed skin to naked skin…

  That was a different matter.

  She didn’t want to disappoint him.

  “My bearskin,” he spoke then, catching her glance at the pelt. “No maid has ever lain upon its fur.” His gaze raked her breasts, his expression so heated she would’ve sworn liquid flames were bathing her. “Not till you, this night.

  “You make me burn for you.” He stopped before a patch of heather, sheltered by the cairn. His eyes darkened as he looked at her. Then he tossed the bearskin onto the ground and lowered his head to kiss her, still holding her clutched tight in his arms.

  This kiss was just as roughly demanding as before, hot, hungry, and crushing. Full of tongue and breath, it was also shockingly intimate because he swept a hand across her breasts, rubbing and squeezing, as he plundered her mouth. He took her nipples between his thumb and fingers, rolling and pulling the tightened peaks. She arched in his arms as sensation raced through her, the pleasure almost too intense.

  “That’s my lass…” He was palming her now, his big, calloused hand so sweet against her skin. He kept kissing her, his heady male scent flooding her senses, making her dizzy. His tongue was masterful, sliding and dancing with hers, coaxing her to respond.

  And she did. She even rocked her hips, giving herself up to the ancient, time-honored needs welling inside her. Womanly cravings that urged her on to the heated, carnal bliss she knew only he could give her. Powerful yearnings that felt so natural, that all her inhibitions spun away, leaving only raw, aching desire.

  He set her on her feet and pushed the hair back from her shoulders. “Sweet lass, what have you done to me?” Pulling her close, he kissed her face and her throat. Then he swept lower, dragging bold, urgent kisses across the top swells of her breasts, grazing her nipples with his teeth. “You turn my head as no other.”

  “I am glad.” She plunged her fingers into his hair, holding him against her breasts, melting when he swirled his tongue across her nipples.