Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel: Highland Warriors Book 2

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  Isobel recognized one of her brother’s best guardsmen. Named Sorley, he was an older man, incredibly loyal. He came forward with long strides, carrying a bulky, red-stained leather pouch.

  “Ill tidings, Mackintosh!” Sorley set the pouch on a large, flat-topped rock. “Like as not to do with this! Brigands were seen on the high moor above Castle Haven and” – he glanced at the sack – “they carried a grisly package.”

  Isobel’s stomach dropped. She knew what the bloodied sack held.

  “I know what’s in that pouch.” Kendrew gripped Sorley’s arm, his gaze flashing to the sack, then back to the guardsman. “Were the bastards killed? Did you get their names? Why they did this?”

  The other Cameron guards exchanged glances. One of them looked again at the slaughter field. Only Sorley met Kendrew’s eye.

  “Nae, we didn’t catch them.” Sorley looked uncomfortable. “We tried, scouring the hills for hours. I’m not sure we even saw them. It was the strangest thing.” He ran a hand through his hair, glanced at Isobel. “Tam, our tallow lad at Haven, saw them and told our chief. But by the time we ran out to look for them, they were gone.”

  “Yet you have three heads in thon bag.” Kendrew released Sorley’s arm and looked to his own men who’d pressed near. “Where did you get them?”

  “That’s what’s so odd.” Sorley shifted, but didn’t look away from Kendrew’s fierce gaze. “We saw a mailed warrior up by the castle falls, the cataracts in the gorge behind Haven. We all saw him – a big, hard-faced man carrying a spear. But his mail shone like the sun and he wore a great plumed helm like men haven’t used in ages.

  “He stepped to the edge of an overhang up on the gorge and beckoned to us.” Sorley shook his head, as if disbelieving his own words. “We saw then that he couldn’t have been one of the blood-drenched brigands Tam described. The man’s armor didn’t bear a speck of blood.”

  “And the heads?” Kendrew prodded.

  “We found them in a pool up beside the falls, just about where the mailed warrior beckoned to us.” Sorley rubbed the back of his neck. “Thing is, the man was nowhere to be seen when we reached the overhang. He’d vanished as if he hadn’t been there at all.”

  “Humph.” Kendrew folded his arms. “Men dinnae disappear into the thin air.”

  “Some do.” Isobel spoke softly, recalling the big, hard-faced warrior she’d seen at the Rodan Stone, the night of the revels.

  He, too, had vanished like the mist.

  And he matched Sorley’s description.

  “So the cravens who did this escaped?” Kendrew started pacing, his fury palpable. “No one even saw them close enough to guess who they were?”

  Again Sorley glanced at the other Cameron guards. “Wee Tam thought they were MacNabs.”

  Kendrew snorted. “They’re a pack o’ poets and women.”

  “We have other cause to suspect them.” A frown appeared between Sorley’s brows. “Some of us went up onto the high moors after we found the heads. It was there, on the outermost fringes of our land, that we again saw the mailed warrior. A storm was blowing in and mist swirled around him, but we were sure it was him.”

  “He raised his spear at us.” One of the other Cameron guards stepped forward, his frown even deeper than Sorley’s. “Then” – he crossed himself – “when we started toward him, he swung the spear around, pointing it to the east, in the direction of Duncreag.”

  “And did you catch up with him this time?” Kendrew’s gaze was piercing.

  “We couldn’t, lord.” The guard looked to Sorley.

  “He disappeared again.” Sorley shrugged, spreading his hands. “Could be he ran off into the mist, it was thick enough, the rain just beginning to hammer down on us. Who can say? We saw him, that’s certain.

  “And” – Sorley’s voice held no doubt – “we believe he was telling us MacNabs killed those men.”

  “I cannae believe it.” Kendrew threw a glance at Grim.

  His friend came to stand beside him. “MacNabs have always been unfriendly.”

  “They’re hermits, not murderers.” Kendrew pulled a hand down over his chin. “Nor can I see Archie MacNab harboring such men beneath his roof.”

  “James thought the same, sir.” Sorley was respectful. “He’s sending a party to Duncreag to-”

  “I will take men there.” Kendrew’s tone was harsh, final. “Good men who can climb up to Duncreag without using their fool goat track and” – his chest swelled a bit – “men who won’t be seen until they’re inside the bailey, swords and axes drawn if need be.

  “You” – he spoke directly to Sorley – “ride back to Haven and tell Cameron to scour his own lands and send word to Alasdair MacDonald if he hasn’t yet done so. My men and I will see Lady Isobel to Nought.” He flashed a look at her, his face unreadable. “She can stay there until all danger has passed. Nought is closer or I’d send her away with you. Now begone and make haste.”

  Turning to Isobel, he gripped her arm, pulling her toward their horses before Sorley and his men had mounted their own and ridden off.

  “Now you’ll see why Mackintoshes are night-walkers, my lady.” He swept her up into his arms – not to kiss her as she’d hoped he’d do, but to swing her onto her saddle and thrust the reins into her hands. “I dinnae believe for a heartbeat that old Archie MacNab had anything to do with this. But I do think something’s amiss at Duncreag.

  “Charging up to their castle gate as your brother would’ve done will serve naught if my suspicions are founded.” He mounted his own horse, signaling his men to ride. “You’ll be safe at Nought. When I return-”

  “You’ll see me back to Haven.” Isobel saw it on his face.

  “So I will, aye.” His tone brooked no argument.

  “And I say you won’t,” Isobel disagreed anyway.

  Not that her defiance mattered.

  Kendrew was already spurring ahead of her. His men dutifully circled their mounts around hers, shielding her from any trouble they might encounter as they rode after Kendrew, making for Nought.

  The stronghold she’d so hoped would be her new home.

  It would be, too, if she was ever able to talk sense into Kendrew.

  What a shame she no longer believed such a day would come.

  Chapter 19

  Hours later, in a dark and remote glen that ran parallel to the Glen of Many Legends, and that Kendrew secretly believed was truly benighted, he learned the reason he’d been plagued by neck-prickles for long. The answer to the riddle peered up at him from a quaking, mud-filled pit beneath the rocky crag that held Duncreag Castle, ancient seat of Clan MacNab.

  Except…

  This cold, mist-drenched night it appeared as if the MacNabs had a new home.

  Their naked, butchered bodies filled the reeking muck pit that had once been a moat. Hundreds of years before, until some long-ago MacNab chieftain decided their lofty stronghold’s unassailable position made the trouble of maintaining a moat unnecessary.

  “Sons of Thor.” Grim stood at the pit’s edge, looking down at the mangled remains. The stench was sharp, bearable only because the light rain washed the air. “There are women and children down there, I’m sure of it. And old men, feeble and bent…”

  Kendrew agreed, choosing not to look again.

  The first time he had, he’d imagined Isobel down there, knowing that any fiends capable of such atrocities would take especial pleasure in getting their hands on such a prize as a gently born lady.

  So he kept his back to the horror and looked over his men, making sure they, like him, were prepared to become night-walkers.

  “Talon” – he narrowed his eyes at a burly, square-faced warrior – “take off your Thor’s hammer and rub more peat onto that ugly face of yours.”

  “I forgot I had it on.” Talon nodded, complying at once, removing his amulet and slipping it into a pouch tied to his peat-blackened sword belt.

  “Are all blades smeared?” Kendrew walked down the
line of his men, examining their sword and ax blades, making sure that, like his own weapons, they’d been well-coated with peat juice so that nary a glint of silver would reveal their presence as they slipped round behind Duncreag’s massive bluff and quietly scaled its heights.

  It’d been long since he’d truly night-walked.

  And he felt more than naked without his Thor’s hammer and arm rings. He’d need days to clean the caked muck from the links of his mail shirt. And he’d have to polish Blood Drinker’s huge, long-bearded head for hours if he wished to soothe the mighty war ax’s pride.

  Even the wolf pelts that he and his men had thrown around the shoulders – his bearskin was too heavy and cumbersome for such a climb as stood before them – had been well-blackened and now reeked of goop and bog water. But the pelts would help shield them from view, and nothing else mattered. A wise warrior bent on ambush lead a careful approach and then attacked in a rush, taking his foe by surprise.

  “Then come” – he started forward past the broken rocks at the base of Duncreag’s cliff – “it is time we avenge Niall and his men.”

  “And rid these hills of such a scourge.” Grim crept along beside him, bent low to take advantage of the sheltering rocks and scrub.

  They hadn’t gone far before two men stepped from a bramble thicket, barring their way with spears.

  “Looks like our pit is about to overflow,” the nearest man jeered, tossing a glance at his companion. “Wolf-men have come to visit the MacNabs.”

  “You’re headed the wrong way, my friends.” The second man grinned, jabbing his spear-point at Kendrew and Grim, who led their party.

  “He speaks true,” the first man sneered, thrusting with his spear as well. “You’ll find the MacNabs behind you, in the corpse pit.”

  “Then say them our greetings.” Kendrew returned the men’s grins.

  It was the last thing they’d ever see, because in that moment, Talon and another Mackintosh appeared behind them, clamping firm hands over their jeering mouths. In a flash, two Mackintosh war axes rose and fell, ending the men’s interference, silencing their taunts.

  “Wolf-men.” One of Kendrew’s warriors spat on the ground. “I’ll have that bastard’s skull for an ale cup when we’re done here.”

  “Drag them in the brush for now, lest anyone see them from above.” Kendrew glanced up at Duncreag’s ramparts. “The rain will keep them from peppering us with fire arrows, but I’d no’ have them see something’s amiss and start throwing down logs or boiling water to knock us off the rocks.”

  Craning his neck, he scanned the high walls, trying to see through the drizzle.

  All seemed quiet, but thick mist and cloud obscured the tower, making it difficult to see how many guards patrolled the battlements. The soft glow of a fire hazed the night sky where he supposed the kitchens lay, indicating the stronghold was occupied by more than the two men they’d killed.

  Somewhere distant thunder rolled and the wind picked up, the rain beginning to fall harder. Within moments, the stronghold’s massive outline blurred even more as great curtains of rain and mist swept in on the freshening wind. Icy water pounded them, washing away the peat-and-soot smears they’d so carefully rubbed onto their faces and arms.

  “Damnation.” Kendrew scowled, wondering why he hadn’t thought to bring swathes of black linen. Cloth they could’ve used to wrap around their sword and ax blades, and even themselves.

  He knew why he’d forgotten.

  Worry over Isobel dimmed his wits.

  Furious, he tossed a glance at his men. “We climb now. If any man makes a noise, my dog, Gronk, will have the bastard’s bollocks for his supper.”

  “And if you’re that bastard?” Grim cocked a peat-blackened brow.

  “Then he’ll have my bollocks, you arse.” Kendrew glared at his friend. “Now hold your flapping tongue and scale this slope with me.”

  Turning back to the bluff, Kendrew took the lead, putting his foot on a jutting rock. Quiet as the night, he hoisted himself up onto the steep rock face, and immediately stretched to reach the next toehold. The best climber of his men, he was halfway up the crag before the others had even left the wet, soggy ground.

  But they followed quickly, each man scaling the steep, rain-slicked rock as effortlessly as if they were walking across Nought’s feasting hall.

  Mackintoshes excelled at the like.

  The only thing they did better was swing their war axes, bringing death to their foes.

  So the day – or night, for the hour was late – seemed theirs when they at last reached the top of the crag and, with great stealth, slipped over the rampart wall and onto Duncreag’s battlements.

  “Ho, you there!” A guard came running, his sword already drawn.

  “I am Mackintosh.” Kendrew waited for the man to reach him and then swept his ax in a killing arc, slicing deep into the guardsman’s throat.

  He looked down at the dead man, wiping his ax blade on his thigh. “Blood Drinker thanks you – he was thirsty!”

  Glancing round, he searched for other watchmen, but Duncreag was quiet. There was no sound except the hiss of rain on stone and the whistling night wind. But cook smells drifted from the keep’s entrance, and it was in that direction that he now led his men.

  Surprise was aye good.

  Surprising men with full bellies and addled by wine was even better.

  But it was his turn to be stunned when the hall door flew open and two big-bearded men with wild hair and cold eyes appeared in the archway, outlined by the smoking torchlight behind them.

  The men weren’t alone.

  They held Isobel and Marjory, dirks pressed hard against the ladies’ throats.

  Kendrew stared, disbelieving. Somewhere terrible thunder boomed, though in some still sane part of himself, he knew it was only the roar of his own blood in his ears. Chills swept him, hot and cold, his fury boiling and breaking free in a horrible roar so loud even the two men holding his women took a backward step.

  Torchlight from a wall sconce fell across Isobel then and he saw a trickle of blood on her neck.

  It was then that his world turned red.

  The Berserker rage took him.

  Bellowing, he charged across the cobbles, swinging Blood Drinker as he ran. To his surprise – or perhaps not – the men holding Isobel and Norn dropped their dirks and fled, racing across the bailey toward the outbuildings clustered against the curtain wall.

  A dozen Mackintosh blades stopped them, swords and axes wielded with deadly accuracy until both men lay sprawled on their backs, their blood staining the cobbles as they twitched and jerked in their death throes.

  Kendrew scarcely noticed, grabbing both Isobel and his sister and dragging them away from the open hall door.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” He pulled them into the lee of a wall near the gatehouse, his voice shaking with rage as he glared at them.

  “You’re cut.” He wiped the blood off Isobel’s neck with his thumb.

  “It’s only a scratch.” She caught his hand, kissed his fingers. “I’m fine.”

  Behind them, his warriors fought with the men pouring out of the great hall. Big, wild-eyed men with huge beards and, unlike the two guards who’d run from Kendrew’s fury, weren’t afraid to face Mackintosh axes.

  The ring of steel was loud, the sound of sword and ax blades slicing through mail and flesh, a sickening accompaniment to the clatter of falling weapons. Groans and cut-off cries filled the air as men thrashed on the cobbles, writhing in their final struggle for breath.

  “Tell me I’m no’ seeing you here.” Kendrew scowled at the two women, flashed a quick glance over his shoulder, relieved to see Grim and Talon holding his back. “I can only be having a fearing dream, for no female would be so foolhardy to walk into an ambush.”

  “You’re hurting us.” Isobel jerked against his fierce grip, pressing a hand to her breast when he released her. “We weren’t afraid, neither of us. We knew you’d-”
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br />   “I dinnae matter!” Kendrew roared. “I’d hear why you’re not at Nought? Dinnae tell me you followed us?” He struggled against shaking the answer from her, fought harder not to grab her face and kiss her deeply, despite the danger all around them.

  Isobel was brazen enough to have trailed him.

  Norn was little better.

  But he could’ve wept to know them safe.

  “Answer me!” He gripped Isobel’s shoulders, fury heating his entire body like a raging flame. “How did you get here? Have your wits left your head?”

  “They came thanks to your stable hand, Angar.” A deep voice rose from the gloom beyond Grim and Talon. “The price of your ladies’ journey here was the promise of any wealth he wished from Duncreag’s treasure pit.”

  “Angar?” Kendrew didn’t know any such man. He did whirl to face a huge, thick-bearded man who seemed more amused than concerned that Grim and Talon held spear points at his mail-coated belly.

  “I ne’er heard of Angar.” Kendrew tossed Blood Drinker from one hand to the other as he approached the other man, clearly a leader. “I would know who you are? I like to ken a man’s name before I feed his blood to my ax.”

  Thick-beard smiled. But it was a cold smile that only emphasized the hard glint in his eyes. “I am Ralla the Victorious, Laird Mackintosh.” His voice was smooth, confident. He was clearly unaware that he had only a few moments to live. “You’ve no need to know my name, because your gods in Asgard already do.

  “I’ve sent many men to Odin’s feasting hall.” He glanced to where Kendrew’s men still fought his own, shrugging when he saw that no Mackintosh had yet fallen. “Perhaps you will be the first of your race to reach Valhalla this night.”

  “Who is Angar?” Kendrew moved with lighting speed, setting Blood Drinker’s blade beneath Ralla’s chin.

  “He came looking for a new lord some weeks past, saying he needed work.” Norn stood next to Isobel, the two women holding hands. “He was so quiet, I forgot to mention him. Indeed, I’d forgotten him entirely until he appeared in the ladies’ solar, branding an ox knife and threatening to cut us if we didn’t go with him.”