Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel: Highland Warriors Book 2

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

And men called him a scoundrel.

  He was to be pitied, he was.

  That was way of it.

  “You speak of James Cameron’s whims.” Marjory lowered Hercules to the rush-strewn floor and straightened, smoothing her skirts. “Because of you, he’s relinquishing his plan to erect a memorial cairn with-”

  “Hah!” Kendrew slapped his thigh, his good humor restored. “Like as not, thon cross-grained seaweed-eater Alasdair MacDonald threatened to take back his Blackshore stones on hearing that I’d no’ be sending any from Nought.”

  “He’d never do that.” Marjory’s tone was cool. Her cheekbones washed pink. “The MacDonald is a man of honor. He and Laird Cameron are agreed to-”

  “Agreed, are they?” Kendrew’s levity vanished. “How would you know what those two cravens are planning?”

  Marjory’s chin went up. “They aren’t cravens. And there will be a memorial at Castle Haven. But now, because of your refusal to send stones, the cairn will be built of rock from Cameron and MacDonald land.”

  “By thunder!” Kendrew stared at her. “You opened Cameron’s letter.”

  She didn’t deny it.

  Half disbelieving, Kendrew looked on as Marjory extracted the parchment from a silk purse hidden in the folds of her gown. She held out the scroll, showing that the seal was broken. A snarling dog could still be seen in the cracked red wax, his image stamped deep and true.

  It was clearly Cameron’s missive.

  The beast was Skald, the ferocious dog that also graced the Cameron banner and had done so for centuries.

  Kendrew frowned. His sister’s defiance didn’t surprise him at all.

  “Here, it was meant for you.” She wriggled the parchment at him, causing the broken seal to jangle on its dangling, red silk ribbon.

  In the flickering torchlight, the scroll minded Kendrew of a writhing snake. But he took it, annoyed that just touching something from Castle Haven made some deep, dark part of himself wonder if he was about to be struck down by a thunderbolt.

  Marjory lifted a brow, giving him the horrible notion that she’d read his mind.

  “She’s a bold lassie, our Norn,” a deep voice called from a nearby table, breaking the men’s quiet.

  The man sounded proud. As if the far-famed Lady Norn hadn’t just snapped a seal, but faced down an army of helmed and jeering spearmen.

  Several other warriors chuckled, but most held their tongues.

  The silent men were wise for they knew the peril of Kendrew’s Berserker fury.

  The others…

  Kendrew tossed a scowl at the chucklers, quickly ending their mirth.

  “So you did read the letter.” He turned back to Marjory.

  “Someone had to.” She didn’t blink. “Be glad I did. You’d have put us all at risk otherwise. You can’t allow things to remain as they stand. It won’t do for the other two glen clans to erect their own memorial.”

  “Why not?” Kendrew rather liked the idea.

  He also took pleasure in irritating the buggers.

  “Because…” Marjory paused as Gronk sidled up to them and dropped onto his haunches with a gusty, big-dog sigh, indicating he’d been unsuccessful in finding treat-givers. “King Robert is sure to hear that the memorial cairn is missing Nought stones. He’ll know why and before we know it, we’ll have his Lowlanders loose in the glen again. And this time they’ll come to tame you.”

  Kendrew snorted, not about to answer such nonsense.

  His sister took a breath. “Or worse, they’ll come to haul us all to the Isle of Lewis, as they threatened last time if we didn’t hold our peace.”

  “Pah! You go too far, Norn.” Kendrew reached down to rub Gronk’s ears. “King Robert is an intelligent man. He’ll know my keeping away from Camerons and MacDonalds is more than honoring a truce.” He straightened, folding his arms. “I dinnae need to send stones to Castle Haven to prove aught.”

  “You should send them because it’s right.”

  “Keeping Blood Drinker sheathed is all the righting I’m willing to do.” Kendrew spoke firm, his words final.

  Cameron and MacDonald could build a bridge to the moon with stones from their own territories. As long as he wasn’t troubled, it was no matter to him. Save that he was glad to have done with such foolery. Perhaps now there’d be no more Castle Haven couriers darkening his door at all hours, bringing letters he had no intention of reading, then requiring sustenance before they took their leave.

  No reason for him to see Lady Isobel Cameron.

  He should be joyous.

  Instead, his heart lurched. And his reaction unsettled him so much that he stepped around his sister, marched across the hall, and threw the scroll into the hearth fire. Only when the edges blackened and nothing but ash remained, did he stride back to Marjory.

  His step was light now, satisfaction coursing through his veins.

  The odd sense of something amiss was gone.

  “That was not wise.” Marjory narrowed her eyes as he approached, showing her displeasure.

  Kendrew flashed a smile, just to annoy her. “Wise men aren’t known for enjoying life.”

  “And you are?”

  “At the moment I am, aye.” He rocked back on his heels, feeling himself again for the first time since he’d entered his hall.

  “There are ways a man can take his pleasure without burning other men’s words.”

  “Thon was what I think of James Cameron and his bellyaching for stones.” Dusting his hands, he kept his smile in place. “I’ll be posting an extra guard or two out by the Rodan Stone. Any Cameron courier who seeks to pester me with more such fool missives will be turned away before he can penetrate our territory.”

  He might also send Grim, trusting him and no one else to also watch for a certain raven-haired Cameron female.

  She’d already proven she made her own rules.

  So he’d have to show her that he was a master at breaking them.

  But before he could head for the high table to relish the prospect, thunder sounded in the distance and rain began hissing against the ledges of the hall’s narrow, high-set windows. The wind rose and several of the wall torches sputtered, spewing ash and smoke. Kendrew frowned, chills once again rippling along his spine. Beside him, Gronk leapt to his feet, his hackles also rising.

  Kendrew eyed his dog, the beast’s ill ease fueling his own.

  “See?” Marjory cast a glance at him. “Even Thor is displeased by your stubbornness.”

  “He’ll be more annoyed by women who dinnae ken when to hold their tongues.” Kendrew was sure of that. He touched his hammer amulet all the same, certain as well that it wouldn’t hurt to show reverence.

  The odd sense of something being not quite right was back, the hall seeming a shade darker, and cold. Almost as if a great shadow had swept inside, blotting the light and chasing all warmth.

  Kendrew ran his thumb over the heavy gold of his Thor’s hammer. If the gods in Norse Asgard were indeed wroth, it wouldn’t be with him.

  But as soon as he lowered his hand, the hall door flew open and several of his warriors burst in from the storm. Patrol guardsmen, they carried swords and spears. Their faces were as dark as the weather, their long hair and braided beards wild and wind-tangled.

  Grim was them, looking equally shaken.

  And it was Grim who closed the door and hurried toward Kendrew as the other guardsmen sheathed their swords and propped their long spears in a corner.

  “By the gods!” Kendrew sprinted forward, meeting his friend halfway. “What’s happened?”

  “One of the cairns was disturbed.” Grim dashed raindrops from his brow. “I was heading for the kitchens when the patrol guards pounded up the cliff stair. They were out by the farthest bounds of the dreagan stones when they heard a great rumbling and then the sound of falling rock.” He glanced over his shoulder at the guardsmen, then back to Kendrew. “They said the ground shook and-”

  “A dreagan cairn has been damage
d?” Marjory joined them, all rapt attention.

  Grim nodded. “So it would seem, my lady. The guards-”

  “Thunder rumbles and stones are always falling hereabouts.” Kendrew’s head was beginning to pound again. He glanced at the guardsmen, still in the entry. “The earth is known to shake at times. Or did the men see anyone around the dreagan cairn?”

  “They saw no one.” Grim glanced at the guards who all shook their heads, confirming his statement. “The cairn was split in two, its stones fanning out to both sides, littering the ground all around. One or two of the men think only a dreagan breaking free could’ve caused such damage.”

  “Bah!” Kendrew made a dismissive gesture. “Dreagans haven’t roamed since the world was young. More like some cravens broke open the cairn hoping to find the treasure buried beneath. Though” – he glanced round – “all here know that tale, too, isn’t likely.”

  He set his hands on his hips to deter argument.

  He knew the direction it would come from, too.

  A crafty look had entered his sister’s eyes the moment Grim mentioned the scattered stones. Marjory might be strong-willed and even fearless – as was every Mackintosh, after all – but she also had one glaring trait entirely her own.

  She couldn’t hide her thoughts.

  “Come, I’d speak with the patrol guardsmen.” Kendrew gripped Grim’s arm, leading him toward the other men before Lady Norn could vex him any further this day. “We’ll send men to search for trespassers and a second party to repair the dreagan cairn.”

  Men, no doubt mailed and carrying long spears, or shaking ground, will have destroyed the cairn.

  Kendrew would find the truth.

  Failure to do so would mean he’d have no choice but to ride to Castle Haven and Blackshore to warn the other two chiefs that strangers were on the loose, wreaking havoc in the glen.

  That was something he hoped to avoid.

  He did not wish to see Lady Isobel again.

  Yet he would if he couldn’t solve the dreagan cairn mystery. The risk of Isobel falling prey to skulking marauders couldn’t be allowed.

  Even a howling madman had honor.

  He just never would have believed that his would bring him to such a lamentable pass.

  Damn the lass and the wretched hold she had on him.

  He didn’t want her.

  And as a man of honor, it irked him beyond belief to know that wasn’t true.

  Chapter 7

  A sennight later, Daire drifted to and fro in front of the Rodan Stone, hoping he hadn’t lost his touch as a grand dreagan master. It seemed a possibility, all things considered. Seven days now, he’d tried to track and find Borg, the young dreagan who’d crept from his nest when the marauders tore away the stones from his cairn, searching for treasure. A pity, they hadn’t seen him.

  The sight might’ve chased he blackguards out of the glen.

  But the once mighty dreagans only roamed in Daire’s realm now.

  And with his earthly life stolen from him before he’d been well-trained, Borg was surely having trouble finding the way back to his damaged cairn. Daire could feel the beast’s distress, his aimless wanderings. Yet, as with Daire’s other attempts to use his long-dormant skills, he seemed doom to failure.

  This was his fourth visit to the Rodan Stone.

  He’d been that certain he’d find the errant dreagan here.

  It was true that evil-doers returned to the scene of their villainy. And it was equally true that the wronged and dispirited were also drawn to the place that brought them such grief.

  Or so Daire believed.

  He certainly spent too much time at the Rodan Stone.

  Though his reasons were many and he hoped Rodan knew he came. It was a matter of pride and honor to tread ground his old friend-turned-bitterest enemy no longer dared.

  It scarce mattered that he didn’t exactly tread, his wispy feet no longer capable of the act.

  He came and that was enough.

  Just now he paused to fold his equally insubstantial arms, once so powerfully muscled. His face hardened as he watched mist curl past the tumbled rocks and heather that marked this supposedly sacred corner of the dreagan stones. Not that anything associated with his arch-rival, Rodan, could hold even a breath of holiness.

  This was a tainted place.

  The only reason the bastard’s pillar leaned so shamefully was because the gods saw fit to prevent such a craven from standing upright.

  Rodan was bent for eternity.

  And that was meet justice for his perfidious nature.

  Pleased by the crooked angle of Rodan’s monolith, Daire straightened his own back and held himself as erect as one such as he could. On this, the seventh day of his search for Borg, he’d taken care to polish his mail, imagining the heavy steel links shone with the flashing brightness of the sun on the sea. He’d also donned his great plumed helm, ensuring that its steel caught the eye. The many gold rings on his arms gleamed and sparkled brilliantly. His long sword and war ax should also attract Borg. They were weapons that any dreagan would know and honor.

  Or so Daire hoped.

  But the stillness around him was complete. He could’ve been in the grayest, most silent heart of Niflheim, the Norse abode of the dead. And although he was no longer a powerful leader of men, guarding Nought with his warrior’s skill and prowess, his wits hadn’t deserted him. His memory was long, stretching back to days when boulders were little more than tiny, wind-driven kernels of sand.

  Now, hoping his great knowledge would serve him again, he pressed both hands to his heart and closed his eyes. Then he summoned his remembered images of the young dreagan he wished to lead back to safety.

  It wasn’t easy.

  Other memories flooded his mind, wringing his soul and making his heart squeeze. But Borg needed him most now. So he willed away everything else and used the powers vested in his ghostly state to send a wordless command to the wandering dreagan.

  “Come, lad.” Daire spoke aloud this time. He lifted his once-strong voice, even though the words echoed through the glen as a cold, hollow wind, nothing like the call of a living, mortal man.

  Mortal he wasn’t.

  But he did live, as did Borg, who wasn’t very mortal either.

  If the young, known-to-be-clumsy dreagan possessed a whit of sense, he’d heed the summons.

  “Borg, my little friend...” Daire smiled, knowing the creature was ten times his size, if not larger. “I am waiting for you.”

  It was then that he heard a rustling in the heather. Angling his head, he caught a skittering of pebbles, then the unmistakable crunching of heavy, beclawed feet on stone. The earth shook and the air shivered, filling his realm with the well-loved, never-forgotten sounds that heralded a dreagan’s approach.

  Daire’s heart brimmed with gladness.

  Borg was shuffling towards him, already less than a dozen paces away.

  “Borg, there’s my good dreagan.” Daire praised the beast, his voice low and soothing, full of love.

  The dreagan’s long tail began to swish, flattening heather and scattering stones.

  “I am here, lad.” Daire’s chest was so tight he could hardly speak. “Soon you’ll rest again, safe in your own good den.”

  Borg snorted, puffs of fire and smoke showing his trust.

  He came forward slowly, the same shimmering mist that swirled around Daire also rippling along the dreagan’s huge, lumbering body and trailing in his wake. His scales and the high, fan-shaped ridge on his back gleamed like quartz-shot granite. His lack of scars proved his youth. Borg’s great head was close to the ground, his eyes full of doubt as if he feared reproach. But his tail kept gliding from side to side, the sight making Daire’s spirit soar.

  Borg was glad to have been summoned.

  He was happy to be found.

  Reaching Daire at last, the dreagan leaned into him, snorting his relief. He nudged Daire’s shoulder, seeking affection like a long-lost do
g. Daire gave it lavishly, praising the dreagan and petting his massive side. Then Borg’s whole body quivered as he began to rumble deep in his chest, his pleasure clear.

  Daire swallowed hard, wishing…

  He pushed the thought aside, feeling guilty because he was indeed very pleased to have this dreagan answer his call. He also had a duty to see Borg across the narrow vale to his ruined cairn.

  “Your home is not looking so fine at the moment, my friend,” he warned the dreagan, still stroking the gritty, rock-hard scales. “But I know a few words that will help you sleep well again despite the discomfort. And” – he hoped this would prove true – “Kendrew the Wild, himself who lairds it in Nought these days, is out now, searching for the men who disturbed you. He’s set others to repair your nest.

  “Come now.” He started forward, pleased when the dreagan obediently followed. Together they strode through the heather and rock, making for the far side of the vale. “Soon you will be home, once again sleeping beneath a fine blanket of stone.”

  Borg leaned into him again, blowing out a grateful breath.

  “Aye, that you will, my wee one.” Daire patted the dreagan’s shoulder. “The good men of Nought have their hearts in the right place. Even if” – he started forward again, Borg with him – “they don’t know you truly exist.”

  What they needed was to tell their chief to get his head out of hindquarters.

  But Daire kept that sentiment to himself.

  He doubted Borg would appreciate such man-woman matters. And the truth was that Daire was certainly no expert in the like either. But he knew well when a man was making a fool of himself.

  Ghost or no, he hadn’t forgotten his talent for keeping order in the glen. Kendrew the Wild needed watching and guidance. A bit of fatherly direction, even if too many centuries to count stretched between them. Kendrew’s late father rested peaceably, his spirit content and not deigning to roam Nought at all.

  So the task fell to Daire.

  And he already had a very good idea how he could set the stones rolling, as it were.

  So he smiled as he and Borg continued across the heathery, rock-filled landscape. He even imagined the whirling mist glittered a bit in approval. And there was much to celebrate, after all. For the first time in so long, he’d once more proved himself successful as a dreagan master. Soon he would also help Kendrew the Wild and the lovely, raven-haired maid who ached for him.