She did trust him.
Even so, something made the ambers quicken. And she doubted it’d been Kendrew.
He only posed a danger to her heart.
Could the enchanted gems be cautioning her that his presence at the cairn festivities would leave her emotions in a worse turmoil than she was already in?
Before she could decide, she heard the soft scrape of a shoe against the stone flagging of the parapet walk. Then the gentle rustling of cloth, announcing that someone had joined her on the battlements.
A woman.
And if it was Catriona – out of her bed and braving the steep, winding stairs to the parapet, risking limb and the child she carried beneath her breast – Isobel would have sharp words for her friend.
But when she turned, rather than scold Catriona, she found her jaw slipping.
Beathag, the cook’s wife, stood on the other side of the battlements. The stout woman’s back was turned to Isobel and she appeared to be staring at the cataracts that splashed down a gorge in the hills not far from castle’s curtain wall. Beathag’s dark cloak blew in the wind and the night’s luminous silver cast turned her iron-gray hair the gleaming white of newly-fallen snow.
A freshening drift of cinnamon wafted from her, carried on the wind.
Isobel sniffed, frowning.
Beathag usually boasted one of two scents: salt herring or a trace of fine, roasted meat. Sometimes she also carried a hint of woodsmoke from the kitchen fires.
She never smelled of cinnamon, claiming the costly spice made her sneeze.
“Beathag…” Isobel started forward, and then froze when the woman turned. “Dear saints!” Isobel clapped her hands to her face, staring at the woman – a crone - who was definitely not Cook’s wife.
“Beathag is sleeping peaceably in her bed.” The woman smiled, her blue eyes twinkling in the starlight. “I needed a guise to make my way up here, see you?” She winked, looking pleased. “Some folk still be shuffling about down in the great hall. It wouldn’t do if they saw me.
“A guise was needed, aye.” The crone cackled.
“A guise?” Isobel’s heart galloped.
Shrinking in size before her eyes, the woman wore her snowy white braids wound on either side of her head. Small black boots, impeccably clean, graced her feet, and her wrinkled cheeks held a touch of pink. A half-moon brooch of beaten silver gleamed above her heart. And it was upon seeing that shining crescent that Isobel’s surprise became wonder, relief sweeping her.
“Grizel.” Isobel quickly crossed the wall-walk to join the tiny woman, the female half of the mythic pair known as the Makers of Dreams. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you since I was a child.”
“So you remember, h’mmm?” Grizel preened, the rose in her cheeks deepening. “‘Twas a fierce fever you had, it was. With your mother gone away, the saints rest her soul, who better than me to sit with you, eh? Could be I also murmured a few healing words o’er you.”
She winked, her ancient eyes crinkling. “It did no harm, what?”
“No indeed.” Isobel smiled. Images from those long-ago days flashed across her mind, vibrant, real, and becoming clearer the deeper Grizel peered into her eyes. “You sang to me and helped me sleep.”
“Ones such as me always help.” Grizel’s thin chest puffed a bit. “That’s why I’m here. But you’ll already be for knowing that, eh?”
“I know you wouldn’t come without good reason.” Isobel didn’t want to say more.
Grizel and her partner, Gorm, were good souls. But sometimes they took spoken words too literally. A carelessly turned phrase could land one in a precarious situation if the well-meaning Makers of Dreams granted a wish uttered without consideration.
Grizel put her hands on her hips, the glint in her eye proving it. “You’ve grown into a wise lass, you have. Such prudence will serve you well.”
Isobel did her best not to frown. Grizel’s words weren’t encouraging. Indeed, they made her belly knot and set her heart to thumping nervously.
“Will I have need of caution?” She broke another rule of dealing with the Makers of Dreams.
Questions were never asked directly.
Grizel and Gorm loved riddles.
“You are asking the wrong person, alas.” Grizel’s merry tone took the sting from her words.
“I see.” Isobel didn’t see at all.
“You shall, anon.” Grizel sounded sure.
Isobel was anything but certain. But she knew not to try and rush the ancient for an explanation.
Whatever Grizel wished her to know, she’d reveal in her own way and time.
Unfortunately, instead of enlightening Isobel, she turned back to the parapet wall. Lifting her chin, Grizel once again seemed to be peering at the silvery waterfall plunging down the gorge.
Isobel stepped up to the wall beside her, waiting.
The smile tugging at the crone’s lips showed that joining her at the wall was what she’d wanted Isobel to do. Pleasure almost rolled off her, the scent of cinnamon swirling around them.
“It be a fine night, h’mmm?” Grizel flashed a sidelong look at Isobel.
“Surely no more magical than at Tigh-na-Craig.” Isobel tempted fate by mentioning the name of the Makers of Dreams’ cottage. Hidden away where few men would dare wander, even if they could gain entry to the mysterious high moor where Grizel and Gorm lived, House on the Rock was a low, white-walled cottage nestled among a jumble of boulders at the base of a soaring cliff.
Isobel had never been there, but she knew powerful magic was said to permeate the cottage.
Even the peat smoke said to stain the walls and fill the cottage’s interior purportedly held enough spelling to put a soul into a slumber that lasted centuries. If, of course, Grizel and Gorm wished to burden themselves with such a long-term visitor.
Just now, Grizel appeared entirely absorbed in the cataract splashing down the nearby hillside.
“Tigh-na-Craig’s magic can be found everywhere.” This time she didn’t glance at Isobel as she spoke. “All the Highlands hold wonder. One needn’t trek far away, high over inaccessible moorland, to discover enchantment. Oft-times” – her voice took on a mischievous note – “the like is right beneath our noses. We just need to look.”
Isobel’s pulse leapt. “I’m always looking for magic.”
She was.
Her fascination with Norse culture and legend was one reason she’d been so drawn to Kendrew. Like her, he appreciated the old ways. He believed in the spirits of rock and wind, the ageless wisdom in the glen’s deep forests of pine, birch, and oak. The power of the tides was something he didn’t doubt, nor the mystery to be found in high, boggy moorlands, or atop rocky crags veiled in mist. If he were here, he’d know where Grizel was leading her.
Isobel couldn’t begin to guess.
Until she followed the crone’s gaze and saw the magnificent white stag standing on a large boulder near the bottom of the waterfall.
“Laoigh Feigh Ban.” Isobel gasped, using the Gaelic name for the magical beast. The immortal white stag, Rannoch, so named after the wild stretch of dark, impenetrable moor said to be his original home.
Now he was Grizel and Gorm’s pet and helpmate.
Isobel touched a hand to her ambers as she stared at him, her heart thundering. “It is him, isn’t it?”
“Rannoch?” Grizel’s tone held affection. “Aye, that be him. He thought it might be doing you good to see him this night.”
Isobel refrained from asking how Grizel knew the white stag’s mind.
In truth, she wouldn’t be surprised if he talked.
He did turn his proud head to stare at her, his ears twitching with curiosity. From high above, starlight fell across his pure white pelt, gilding him and letting him shine as if lit from within. His rich, liquid-brown eyes touched Isobel deeply, his steady gaze holding hers as if he could see to the roots of her soul.
“He’s trying to tell you something, he is.” Grizel put a hand
on Isobel’s arm, gripping tight. “Can you no’ hear what he’s saying?”
“Nae, I-” Isobel broke off, not wanting to admit that she only heard the whistle of the wind through the pines and the rushing water of the falls.
She did catch a faint whiff of Rannoch’s musky, earthy scent, dark and primeval.
And…
“Oh, dear.” Isobel’s eyes widened, a thought popping into her mind. Her breath caught, snagging in her throat. “I do believe…”
Instead of finishing, she turned to Grizel, sure her cheeks were blazing. “He wouldn’t be here because of his name, would he? Is that why he’s staring at me like that?”
If so, the riddle would never be solved.
She wasn’t about to tell Grizel why the word Rannoch made her blush.
“There be much afoot thereabouts.” Grizel scratched her chin, clearly pretending to consider. “Down Rannoch Moor way, I mean.”
Dear God, she knew.
Isobel whipped back around, facing the parapet wall again. “I’m sure I don’t know what goes on in Rannoch.” She did see that Rannoch the white stag no longer stood on a rock beside the waterfall.
He’d moved to the battling ground, very near to the new cairn.
And his gaze was now fixed on Grizel, as if willing her to join him.
“He’ll be for home, it looks like.” The Maker of Dreams stepped back from the walling, smoothing her cloak, the gesture sending up a hint of cinnamon. “His work is done here, after all.”
She winked. “Don’t be telling Gorm I told you Rannoch wished to mind you of his old home. Thon he-goat harps at me for days if I spoil a riddle.”
“Then don’t worry, please.” Isobel reached to touch Grizel’s arm but somehow the old woman was already on the threshold of the door to the tower stair. “You haven’t ruined the riddle. I can’t imagine why Rannoch would wish me to think of that moor.”
She really couldn’t and didn’t want to know.
But Grizel’s eyes glinted in the shadows, her rosy-cheeked face full of mischief. “Ah, but you cannae know, mo ghaoil.” She called Isobel ‘my dear.’ “Perhaps you’ll need to ask someone who has the answer.
“Just dinnae fash yourself” – Grizel backed deeper into the gloom – “if what you hear is grim.”
On the words, Grizel vanished, slipping away into the dimness of the stairwell. Though when Isobel hurried to the tower door arch, there was no echo of the old woman’s descending footsteps.
She was simply gone.
Isobel leaned back against the cold stone of the wall and sighed. Frustration rose in her breast, maddening, and leaving her almost wishing the fabled crone and her enchanted stag hadn’t paid her visit.
They’d only confused her.
Their magic – for such an encounter could only be that – hadn’t worked for her. She might be wildly excited to have seen the two at all. But she could live to be a hundred and wouldn’t guess what they’d wanted her to know.
Until she drew her cloak tighter and stepped into the stair tower to make her way down the winding steps and back to her bedchamber.
The answer came when she reached the first landing and Grizel’s parting words echoed in her mind: ‘…if what you hear is grim.’
Grim.
Isobel stopped where she was, once again clutching Kendrew’s letter to her breast. Her heart beat faster, certainty making her pulse race.
Grim, the big, tough-looking Mackintosh warrior was the answer to Grizel’s riddle. For whatever reason, Grizel and her pet stag wanted Isobel to speak with Kendrew’s friend about Rannoch Moor.
And she would.
Hopefully on the morrow as the friendship and dedication ceremony would begin at first light. If Kendrew came as he’d promised in his letter, his captain of the guard would surely accompany him.
Isobel would corner the man.
Then, at last, the tides would turn in her favor. Grim knew something of great import that was crucial to her winning Kendrew’s heart.
Her own heart welling with gratitude, she rushed back up the steps and dashed out onto the battlements, hurrying to the parapet wall.
But the fighting ground with its proud new cairn and even the hills and moors beyond loomed empty. The night-silvered landscape stretched still and silent around her. She couldn’t call out a thank you. Nor could she raise her hand to wave farewell.
Grizel and Rannoch were gone.
But they’d left their magic with her.
So she curled her fingers tighter around Kendrew’s letter and took a deep breath of the cold night air, this time catching a trace of deer musk and cinnamon.
Then even that hint of her visitors faded.
It didn’t matter.
Something told her they knew she’d solved their riddle. She just hoped she’d also be able to appreciate whatever Grim would tell her.
She knew with a woman’s instinct that everything depended on his words.
* * *
“You will behave nobly?”
“Humph.” Kendrew stiffened on hearing his sister Marjory’s admonition. Sitting straighter in his saddle, he squared his shoulders and clamped his jaw. He refused to cast a sidelong glance at the pestiferous she-vixen riding so regally beside him. His grunt had earned her wrath. He could tell even without looking.
“We’re in Cameron territory now.” She minded him of what he already knew. “The friendship and dedication ceremony is of great import to the good of us all. You’ll be expected to participate in the festivities. And” - she urged her horse closer – “you must do so gladly, without shaming us.”
Kendrew forgot his vow not to glance her way and shot her a glare.
He wasn’t about to answer her.
His fierce look sufficed.
Some of the men riding behind them chuckled. One or two cursed the Camerons. Kendrew ignored them all, his attention on picking a way through the thick pines that clogged Haven land. The trees were a botheration, making the journey tedious. He much preferred the grand, rocky sweep of Nought with its soaring cliffs and brooding skies.
His land wasn’t marred by damp, cloying woods that spoiled views.
Knowing Cameron land was so plaguey made his mouth twitch with satisfaction.
They deserved no better.
“It will do you no good to ignore me.” Marjory spoke as if she didn’t realize her continued needling put her in mortal danger. “You are only hurting yourself with your fool stubbornness.”
Kendrew snorted. “Dinnae tell me what I’m doing.”
He knew it fine himself.
He suffered enough just riding on Cameron ground. His head ached and pounded and had done for the last hour. Ever since he and their mounted party of soon-to-be memorial cairn celebrants had put their beloved Nought land behind them and entered Haven territory.
He didn’t need Norn’s pestering worsening his day.
It was already the most galling of his life.
A sudden skirling of pipes and a volley of shouts reached them from somewhere ahead, beyond the damty trees. The din grated on Kendrew’s nerves. Such tumult meant the folly that was James Cameron’s and Alasdair MacDonald’s friendship and cairn dedication ceremony loomed before them, loud, raucous, and unavoidable.
Kendrew scowled, deliberately slowing his horse.
Marjory noticed.
“We are late.” She took a breath that could only be called peeved. “They will have started at sunrise. It is now well past noontide.”
“Is it now?” Kendrew glanced at her, feigning astonishment just to annoy her. “I did think we’d make better time. A pity if we’ve missed the ceremonies.”
He hoped they had.
Doing so was the reason he’d pretended to have misplaced Blood Drinker earlier that morn. All knew he never set foot outside his stronghold’s wall without the huge Norse war ax. Making the household search for the weapon had taken up much of the morning. Only after several hours did he sneak back up to his bedcham
ber and retrieve his beloved Blood Drinker from beneath his bed’s mattress.
It’d been a good trick.
Regrettably it hadn’t been good enough to last the whole day.
“Lady Isobel will need to bless Blood Drinker.” Marjory cut into his thoughts, her voice smooth as silk.
Kendrew jerked, his chest tightening as if clamped round with a white-hot, iron vise. “She’ll no’ be laying a finger on Blood Drinker.”
Nor would she be touching him, if he could help it.
“You needn’t worry.” His sister’s pleasant tone said otherwise. “She won’t have to touch the ax to bless him. She’ll only sprinkle water along Blood Drinker’s haft and blade.”
Kendrew reined in sharply. “There’ll be no water-sprinkling either.”
“It’s an important part of the ceremony.” Marjory paused as another round of cheers rose from beyond the trees. “The blessing water is a blend of water taken from Clan MacDonald’s Loch Moidart, the waterfall behind the Cameron’s Castle Haven, and” – her smile sweetened – “from one of our own Nought burns, of course.”
Kendrew stared at her. “And just where did Clan Cameron get Nought burn water?”
“Why, Grim delivered a flagon along with your letter.” Marjory’s smile didn’t falter. “Did I forget to tell you? My apologies, if I did.”
“You know you didn’t tell me.” Kendrew was going to explode. “And” – he glowered at her – “because we’re yet alone, amidst our own kin, I’ll remind you that I did no’ write that letter.
“I’ll deal with the theft of our water when we return to Nought.” He didn’t trust himself to glance at Grim.
If he did, he might cut off the bastard’s ears and make him eat them.
He did tighten his hands on the reins until his knuckles shone white. “Clan Cameron and the brine-drinkers some folk call MacDonalds can be glad we’re here to stand at the edge of their fool ceremony.
“Odin can have my balls if I do more than that.” Pleased by his wit, he grinned, nastily.
Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel: Highland Warriors Book 2 Page 17
