“You’d be wise to lower your voice.” The oh-so-terrible Lady Norn dropped her own to a whisper. “Or do you wish to shock Lady Isobel with your crudeness?”
Kendrew burned to shock the wench. Maybe then she’d leave him alone.
For the moment, he turned his wrath on his sister. “Thon raven-haired she-devil is-”
“She is just there, at the edge of the trees.” Marjory lifted a hand, waving at someone behind Kendrew’s shoulder. “I do believe she has the blessing water. She must be waiting for us to arrive.”
Kendrew set his jaw, his entire body flashing hot, then cold.
He was not going glance around.
He glanced at the wood’s edge. His heart slammed against his ribs when he did.
Isobel stood there. And she looked more like a pagan sacrificial offering than the great gem-studded chalice she held in her hands.
Kendrew swallowed hard, his blood roaring in his ears. He stared through the trees at her, his traitorous knees nudging his horse forward, in her direction. She looked right at him, her breasts rising as falling with her breath. Her dark gaze moved over him, studying him from the top of his head to his toes, seeming to see right inside him. His loins clenched, pounding with a response that was more feral, more primal than a rutting stag.
She’d dressed to madden him, choosing a pure white gown overlaid with a shimmering tunic of sheerest silk, shot through with sparkling threads of silver and gold. A woven belt of the same colors dazzled low on her hips, drawing his eye to the one place he had no business looking because just the thought of her sweet triangle of inky-black feminine curls would bring him to his knees.
Unfortunately, the wickedly designed gown offered no surcease if he looked above her waist either. So low-cut that the top rounds of her creamy bosom were displayed in all their glory, the gown’s bodice had surely been crafted by the devil’s own seamstress.
He couldn’t see her dusky nipples, praise all the gods in Asgard.
But he knew they were there.
And that was a fate almost worse than death. It was all he could do not to swing down from his saddle, storm over to her, and then tear open the gown’s silver-and-gold bodice laces, feasting hungrily on her breasts’ pert and tempting crests until he’d sated himself.
If ever the like was possible.
He sorely doubted it.
And – Thor help him – he didn’t know how he’d come to be off his horse and bending a leg to her.
But somehow he was doing just that.
“Laird Mackintosh, I greet you.” She looked at him from beneath her sooty, black lashes, watching him bow as if such obeisance was her due. A corner of her mouth tilted ever so slightly as if she knew how sorely he desired her, how easily she scattered his wits.
Kendrew caught himself swiftly, straightening. “A pebble in my shoe, see?” He lifted his foot, shaking it vigorously. “Damty nuisance, the like, what?”
“A shoe pebble?” She raised an elegant black brow, her tiny smile fading.
“Nae, I meant-” Kendrew snapped his mouth shut, wishing women wouldn’t twist words into their own irksome meaning. He started to say so, but Isobel’s attention was already elsewhere.
“Lady Norn.” She looked past him to his sister, smiling warmly now. “It is good of you to come.”
Marjory rode closer, beaming. “You knew we would. Indeed” – she glanced at Kendrew, and then back to Isobel – “we’re honored.”
It was all Kendrew could do not to snort.
He did lower his foot to the ground, feeling suddenly foolish.
“Aye, we are that, Lady Isobel.” Grim flourished her a grand bow. “Greatly honored,” he added, sinking ever lower in Kendrew’s esteem.
Grim was taking an especially high risk when he eyed Isobel appreciatively, his admiration putting a hint of rose on her cheeks.
Kendrew glared at him, but the lout pretended not to notice.
“A-hem.” Kendrew hooked his thumbs in his sword belt, swelling his chest a bit. “We’re clearly too late to cause a bother,” he announced, flashing an annoyed glance at his other men who were also dismounting. “We’ll be on their way then, leaving you be.”
“Oh, we cannot do that.” His sister slipped down from her saddle with a grace that made his blood boil. Gliding forward to stand beside Isobel, she turned an infuriatingly innocent smile on him. “Don’t you see that Lady Isobel has the blessing chalice ready for you?”
I’ll be blessed when I ride out o’ here. Kendrew meant to snarl the words, but his tongue wouldn’t oblige him.
He did manage to snap his brows together. “I see more than you know, Norn.”
“Then you’ll see how good it is we’re here to honor the cairn.” His sister proved how well she maneuvered him into corners.
“Are you no’ done with the like?” It cost him all his strength to bend his gaze on Isobel. “The pipes are screaming and we heard cheers a while back. I dinnae care to make you repeat-”
“The younger lads have been holding wrestling competitions.” Isobel turned a smile on him that sent another rush of heat pouring straight into his groin. “James and Alasdair are waiting for you at the cairn. Their swords haven’t yet been blessed. No one wanted to proceed without you.”
“My sword doesn’t need blessing.” The argument was his last defense. “I scarce use a brand.”
She shifted the large blessing chalice against her hip. “James and Alasdair agreed that you could have me bless your war ax.”
Kendrew looked at her, feeling the earth open beneath his feet. “They are generous.”
They were bastards of the highest order.
“If you’ll come with me now…” She glanced over her shoulder at the throng, a rowdy mix of plaid-draped, bearded Camerons and MacDonalds crowding around tables set with viands and ale.
Only the top of memorial could be seen rising above the heads and shoulders of the celebrants. Three tartan banners covered the cairn’s stones. Kendrew’s face heated to see his own clan’s colors. Grim had no doubt secreted a length of Mackintosh pride in the travel pouch he’d used to carry Nought water and a letter Kendrew hadn’t written.
Unfortunately, before he could think of a worse punishment than forcing the lout to eat his own ears, a heady drift of clean, spring violet scent wafted past his nose, duly enchanting him.
His heart began thumping. “Blood Drinker doesn’t take to…” His protest died when sunlight slanted through the pines, shining on Isobel’s sleek raven hair.
He stared, unable to look away as the sun danced over the gleaming strands.
Unbound, glossy, and begging to be touched, Isobel’s hair tumbled over her shoulders, spilling to the seductive curve of her hips.
For one crazy-mad moment, he envied the sunlight, touching her shining tresses so intimately. He knew how the silky skein felt in his hands and his fingers itched to once again enjoy the pleasure.
But he caught himself quickly, assuming his most hardened expression. “Blood Drinker doesn’t take to waiting,” he amended his cut-off sentence.
Earlier, he’d meant to say that his ax doesn’t like consorting with enemy swords – only breaking their inferior steel blades in two.
Now…
His only recourse was to put back his shoulders and stride purposely over to his most hated foes and their fool pile of stones.
He would not allow Isobel to escort him.
He’d rather cut off his own ears and eat them, then endure the torment of walking closely beside her. The humiliation of having everyone present see the truth in his eyes: that he was so besotted with the wench that he could hardly breathe for wanting her.
So he started boldly forward, swaggering deliberately. He also let his chin jut at an arrogant angle. His sister, Grim, and the rest of their contingent could follow as they desired. Or remain in the wood, for all he cared.
Lady Isobel…
He knew without glancing at her, that she kept pace with him. And that her head w
as lifted with the same degree of pride as he held his own.
She had more spirit than some men he knew.
And he was torn between the urge to turn and march away from her and the desire to pull her into his arms and kiss her roundly. But as he began leaning toward ravishing her, imagining her face if he were to grab her here, in front of her kin and friends, James and Alasdair turned his way, looking at him from where they stood before the cairn.
Both men held naked swords, clearly waiting for Isobel and the water blessing. They nodded in greeting, their welcome somewhat stilted. Until Alasdair’s eyes widened, his smile turning into a grin as his gaze flew past Kendrew to light on someone behind him.
Alasdair’s sword slipped from his fingers and he dropped it anew when he bent to snatch the blade off the ground. Suspicious, Kendrew turned to see who’d reduced the proud MacDonald chieftain to a bumbling oaf.
It was Norn.
Her own sparkling blue gaze so fixed on Alasdair that she didn’t even see him glaring at her.
His dander roused, Kendrew noted that his sister appeared unaware of everything else around her. Her gaze was locked on Alasdair, as if she and her clan’s mortal enemy existed in a world all their own.
Kendrew had never seen such a look on her.
He did whip back around before anyone saw him gawping. Now he knew why Norn had gone to such lengths to ensure they attended the ceremony.
It hadn’t been about honor and the clan’s good name.
She’d hoped to see Alasdair MacDonald.
And that mean only one thing.
He’d have to find a husband for her, and soon.
It was a task he’d set upon with relish. He’d do so as soon as he managed to rid his own mind of Isobel Cameron. And that was an undertaking he wasn’t sure he could master, if the truth were known.
As if she knew, Isobel flashed a triumphant look at him and quickened her step, moving ahead of him so that he had no choice but to observe the enticing sway of her hips as they neared the cairn.
“Good men,” she greeted her brother and the MacDonald, “see who has joined us at last...”
She turned, gesturing with her free hand. “The Mackintosh of Nought, with his warriors. And” – she flashed a significant look in Alasdair’s direction – “his sister, Lady Marjory.”
It was then, seeing the look Isobel and Norn exchanged, that Kendrew knew which way the wind blew in this, his beloved Glen of Many Legends. When they both sent a similar look at Lady Catriona, standing apart in the shelter of a nearby pavilion, he was sure.
The womenfolk were banding together, conspiring against him.
Not that it would do them any good.
He was on to them now, aware of their trickery.
And he had no intention of being led on a merry chase. He hunted and cornered his own prey, as Isobel would soon discover to her peril.
Her very great peril.
Chapter 11
In the next glen, far from Kendrew and the three women conspiring against him, Ralla the Victorious held court in the great hall of Duncreag, Clan MacNab’s proud stronghold. A massive, wind-lashed eyrie every bit as daunting as Nought, Duncreag sat so high on a sheer, rocky crag that clouds and mist often hid its walls from view. As at Nought, a steep and narrow path led to the well-guarded gatehouse, but unlike Kendrew’s stone steps, where each tread cut into the cliff-face, access to Duncreag was more like a goat track that wound its way up the bluff.
Visitors were few because Clan MacNab was often at odds with its neighbors.
Any foe who dared to come unannounced would be met with a rain of fire-arrows before he climbed the first twist of the treacherous castle path.
Duncreag’s impregnability suited Ralla well.
He didn’t believe in making life easy for his enemies. Nor was he above having done with one of his own men if he suspected treachery. He wasn’t going to leave this world by a knife between the ribs as he slept.
In truth, he rarely slumbered.
Sleeping wolves didn’t catch much prey.
And Ralla was a hungry man.
This night he was also jovial. Proving it, he rapped his empty ale cup on the high table and leered at a young, bare-breasted slave girl plucking a harp in a shadowy corner of the dais. “You, Breena, fetch us more drink!
“I am thirsty, make haste!” Ralla laughed, banging his cup more vigorously when the slave tried to cover her breasts as she stood. A timid village girl taken during a raid in Ireland, she blushed red as her hair when she had to step out of the corner’s sheltering murk.
“The fate spinners have been kind to us, lass.” He grinned as if she appreciated his triumph. “I am told Mackintosh rode to Haven after all. And” – he looked round at his men – “he took his best warriors with him!”
The hall burst into peals of laughter, though some men snarled slurs and challenges.
Ralla beamed.
“We know what happens when a bear doesn’t watch his den.” He pinched Breena’s hip as she darted past him towards the kitchens passage. “The men we sent back to Nought will ready a fine welcome for his return. Then” – he lifted his voice, looking round – “while he’s spluttering and reeling, we sweep in for the kill.”
“What of the other two clans?” Tor, a crooked-nosed brute of a man, spoke around a beef rib, the juices glistening in his beard. “I’ve my eye on Lady Isobel’s amber necklace. After I’ve plowed her other delights!”
“She’s mine, you arse.” Ban, an equally huge man whose thick arms were lined with gold rings, glowered at Tor. “I’ll have her after Ralla and if you think otherwise, I’ll gut you faster than you can blink. You’ll be raven fodder, good for no woman.”
“Tor! You asked of the other glen curs…” Ralla snatched the ale jug from Breena when she returned and then tipped the ewer to his lips, drinking from the jug. “‘Tis Cameron and MacDonald flesh that will soon be feeding carrion, that I say you. After their cairn ceremony, they’ll be drunk on glory. Their high spirits will weaken them, dulling their wits. When they hear we’ve choked the Mackintoshes on their own blood, they’ll be too stunned to react swiftly.
“By the time they do reach for their swords” – he slammed down the ale jug, grinning – “it’ll be too late. We’ll be all over them.”
His men roared approval, sharing his mirth.
In the dais corner, Breena, crept back into the shadows, trying to hide her nakedness behind her harp. Her efforts only drew Ralla’s amusement.
“Dinnae cower so, lass.” He leaned towards her, wagging his bushy brows. “When our work here is done and the Glen of Many Legends runs red with blood again, scourged of its vaunted heroes, our lord will come to reward us. If you please him, he may take you with him to his own keep – a place much finer than this cold pile o’ stones!”
On his words, Breena slunk deeper into the murk.
And at the top of the high table, in a seat of honor, an old man with thinning hair and a straggly beard turned furious eyes on Ralla the Victorious. Leaning forward, he growled objection to the insult.
But Ralla only grinned, waving his ale cup in the old man’s direction as if saluting him.
“Tor!” Ralla glanced again at the big man. He sat nearest the graybeard, Archie MacNab, the clan chief. “Give our friend more ale. He looks in need o’ a drink.”
“I’d rather use his bones to put a few new dents in my sword.” But Tor stood, cracking his knuckles menacingly.
Then he went to the old man’s chair and, a bit more roughly than was necessary, pulled a filthy cloth bind from the chief’s mouth.
“Drink, you ancient bugger,” he growled, pouring a cupful of ale down Archie MacNab’s throat. “Celebrate, for we’re growing bored with you. Soon we’ll be sending you to join to your sons in the corpse pit.”
Still proud, all things considered, Archie spat the ale in Tor’s face.
His daring earned him a hard cuff to the head.
And as he s
agged in his high-backed laird’s chair, Ralla laughed.
* * *
Across the heather miles, in the heart of the Glen of Many Legends, the air was filled with a very different kind of conviviality. The high point of the memorial cairn dedication was about to begin. And although most faces shone with pride and satisfaction, one most vital guest of honor – namely Kendrew ‘the Wild’ Mackintosh – scowled fiercely enough to darken the lightness of the day.
Isobel tried not to notice.
She prayed he’d reconsider his stance, accepting the need for lasting peace.
The cold knot in her belly warned he’d remain stubborn.
But she could be just as unbending, so she took a deep breath, readying herself for what could prove to be the most critical battle of her life.
It was a fight to win her heart’s desire.
And to undo the ravages years of strife had brought to the glen.
All around her, people stirred, edging closer. Above them, high on the ramparts of Castle Haven, banners snapped in the wind. Dogs barked and circled, bounding forward with wagging tails as if they, too, were eager to hear the blessing she’d been honored to speak.
The moment was here.
Kendrew’s frown deepened as if he knew.
Isobel took a breath, beginning….
“In honor of those who came before and for the weal of those yet to come, raise your swords.” She lifted her voice, speaking clear and true. “And your war ax,” she added, glancing at Kendrew. “Once the blades touch, we’ll commence the glen water blessing.”
She wasn’t sure, but she’d almost believed Kendrew growled in his chest.
He did let his gaze slide over her, eyeing her as if they were alone and not surrounded by jostling men and women from all three clans. Screaming pipes, running children, and excited dogs. Everything disappeared except his big, strong body so improperly close to hers, and the boldness of his scrutiny. His gaze was also a hungry one, dark with appreciation, intimate and knowing.
He made her burn.
Heat swept her entire body, from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. She forced herself to hold his gaze. But it wasn’t easy, feeling so vulnerable. The intensity of his perusal almost convinced her that he could see through the layers of white silk and gold-and-silver veiling she’d chosen to wear for the occasion.
Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel: Highland Warriors Book 2 Page 18
