“I’m not a temptress.” She wouldn’t even consider it.
Isobel laughed. “Ah, but you can be if you wished.” She nodded to the burly stall-holder, indicating she and Marjory would each take a spit-roasted herring. “You just have to use what nature gave you, that’s all. You can begin the next time you see Alasdair.”
“He’s on his way to Blackshore. He’ll be busy, having been gone so long.”
“He’ll be back. And sooner than you think, I’ll wager. Or” – she produced a coin to pay for their fish – “did you not know it’s impossible to chase a thirsting man from a spring?”
“I am not a spring.”
“Nae, you’re a woman.” Isobel smiled brightly. “And that’s even better.”
Marjory just looked at her. “I do believe marriage has maddened you.”
“So it has.” Isobel had the audacity to wink. “In the very best way, I’ll agree.”
And as Marjory strove to keep a flush from blooming on her cheeks as she watched the stall-holder take their herring off the spits, she knew her friend’s influence must be affecting her. Because even before the man brought them the fish, she knew what she had to do.
She’d seduce Alasdair.
The only question was how and when.
Chapter 2
No one would ever make the mistake of claiming Marjory Mackintosh surrendered easily. In truth, she wasn’t at all wont to do so. Not ever, if she had any say in matters. Regrettably, as she stood with her friend Isobel in the festively decorated ladies’ bower at the harvest fair, she felt dangerously near to admitting defeat.
The possibility rankled. She’d never been thwarted.
Yet here she was, surrounded by chattering clanswomen, sipping watered wine and nibbling oatcakes when she should be plying her wiles on Alasadair. Enchanting him with her wit, seducing him with her womanly charm, as Isobel kept informing her. A wee wriggle of the hip and bounce of the bosom and he’d lose his head, her good-sister insisted.
Perhaps that was even so.
Isobel should know.
Hadn’t she won Kendrew with the fine art of feminine persuasion? Now, after all was said and done, a soul would be hard-pressed to find a husband more ridiculously in love with his wife than her brother.
Marjory’s heart squeezed, remembering how Kendrew had pulled Isobel to him, kissing her hard and fast when he’d left them at the ladies’ bower. He’d also glanced back at her three times when he strode away with his men. No one could doubt how besotted he was. Or that his wife meant everything to him.
Isobel clearly understood men.
But could Marjory find success with her methods? Would a few glances from beneath lowered lashes and a brief but artful touch to her breast fire Alasdair’s blood, winning his undying affection?
His love?
Marjory was skeptical, but willing to try her seduction skills on him.
Regrettably, he’d left the harvest fair hours ago.
He’d sauntered away into the crowd, surely putting her from his mind as easily as he tossed his plaid over his shoulder. His remarkably broad and oh-so-appealing shoulders. Marjory frowned, his image flashing across her mind, burning into her heart. Unlike her brother, Alasdair hadn’t even looked back once.
Damn him for an arrogant bastard.
She wished a worse curse on Groat, the one-eyed, gold-earringed Viking courier who was also proving as scarce as winged sheep.
Waving away a serving girl’s offer of more watered wine, she turned to her good-sister. “You’re certain our friend said he’d be here?”
“Groat?” Isobel blinked.
“Shhhh….” Marjory lowered her voice, certain that every woman in the bower just developed overly sensitive ears. “Of course, I mean him. I’ve searched everywhere and he simply isn’t here. You spoke with him before he left Nought. Perhaps you misunderstood?”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t have.” Isobel shook her head. “He made quite clear that he’d only hand over Kendrew’s missive if you met him at the fair and” – a touch of regret flickered across her face – “gave him the sapphire ring he saw you wearing at the high table.
“He was adamant about the ring.” Isobel linked her arm with Marjory’s, leading her to a quiet corner of the garland-festooned tent. “Only then would he-”
“I already gave him enough silver coin to keep him in cows and women for years.” Marjory flicked at her sleeve, her annoyance rising. “He promised to hand over Kendrew’s letter of agreement when you slipped him my own parchment declining his overlord’s terms for marriage.”
Isobel looked uncomfortable. “I tried to reason with him. He refused after seeing your ring. He really wants it, so I’m sure he’s about somewhere.”
“I’ve worn tracks in the mud traipsing past all the booths and stalls. I even visited the horse market and the weaponsmiths. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen and he’s not a man to be overlooked.”
“No, he isn’t.”
Marjory shuddered, remembering how the huge Viking had pulled slowly on his earring, his one good eye glinting wickedly at the young kitchen lasses who’d served him at Nought’s high table.
He clearly appreciated women as much as he hungered for gold.
“I worried he’d demand a night with Maili.” Isobel spoke of Nought’s most light-skirted, men-loving laundress. “She did wink at him a few times, until he noticed your sapphire ring and lost interest in her.”
“Greed always matters most to such men.”
“Even so, I think Maili gave him an itch. She’s a comely lass and enjoys flaunting herself. She’ll have stirred certain flames in him.”
“His lusts scarce concern me.” Marjory didn’t care if he desired a thousand serving lasses. She only wanted him to hand over Kendrew’s letter.
“Ahhh, but maybe his itch does matter?” Isobel begin tapping her chin. “Perhaps Maili started a fire he decided to quench here, at the market fair? There are other ladies’ bowers at the festival. They’re set back in the wood, away from prying eyes and very welcoming to men with certain needs.” Isobel smiled. “I’m betting you didn’t look there?”
“To be sure, I didn’t.” Marjory felt herself coloring.
“I think you should.” Isobel didn’t appear at all adverse to the idea.
“What if someone sees me?”
“What if Groat is there and you don’t go, missing him?”
“He’ll make haste back to his ship and deliver Kendrew’s agreement to his lord to spite me for not giving him my sapphire ring.”
“That would be the way of it, I’m thinking.” Isobel nodded slowly.
Marjory rested a hand over the small leather purse tied to her belt. She could feel the tiny, hard shape of her ring in its depths.
It was a precious keepsake that had belonged to her grandmother, and her grandmother before her.
“I should gut him when he reaches for his payment.” Marjory was tempted. Her father had taught her how to defend herself as soon as she was able to hold a child’s dagger. She’d been a fast learner. “He should’ve been satisfied with the bag of coin I gave him.”
“Aye, he should’ve been.” Isobel took her arm again, this time urging her toward the tent’s pinned-back entrance flap. “But he wasn’t. And if you dirked him, his shipmates would only come searching for him, causing even more trouble than losing your ring.”
They stepped outside where the crowd was thinning, many visitors making for the cook stalls and refreshment booths for their evening supper. Even so, Marjory cast a hopeful glance up and down the fair’s main thoroughfare. Groat the Viking was nowhere to be seen.
She took a deep breath. “You’ll have to keep Kendrew occupied if he comes for us before I return.”
“Leave that to me.” Isobel winked and gave her a little nudge. “You’ll be the last thing on his mind, I promise.”
Marjory didn’t doubt it.
She also gave her friend a quick hug and then started down the th
oroughfare, making for the dark line of trees at the far end of the market.
If Groat was there, she’d find him.
Even if she had to pry him from a joy woman’s arms.
Fortune favors the bold. And, of late, she was feeling most daring.
Damn the lass.
And damn his clan’s ambers for resting so sweetly against her smooth, creamy skin. Alasdair scowled as he rode at the head of the long column of his men. Traveling as swiftly as possible through the thick piney woods that, to his mind, clogged Cameron territory, he and his party were making good time. Castle Haven and its harvest fair well behind them.
Good riddance, in his view.
He didn’t like how Marjory Mackintosh made a liar of him.
There wasn’t anything sweet about how she wore the MacDonald ambers.
Provocative is how they looked on her.
Almost as if the gleaming gemstones, so rich and golden, wished to taunt him, drawing his attention to the lush swell of her full, round breasts. Worse, he could so easily imagine their pert rosy crests. That he’d yet to see, touch, and taste them struck him as a terrible injustice. That a Viking husband might soon do so, made him murderous.
He should’ve kissed her in the bower.
She’d expected a kiss, he was sure. He’d seen the desire in her eyes. Clearly using her womanly wiles, she’d leaned her supple body into him, even lifting up on her toes and bringing her lips so close to his own. Never had he burned more to seize a woman to him.
Only her name restrained him.
And now that a good length of miles stretched between them, and his blood still blazed with wanting her, he knew one thing...
If she ever again tempted him so brazenly, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions.
Had he not given her good-day when he had, she’d be in his arms now. Like as not, beside him on his plaid, the heather and the wind the only witnesses to how long and deeply he’d kiss her. Little under the sun could’ve stopped him from ravishing her.
And there’d be hell to pay if he did.
Too many good men of the glen, from all three clans, spilled their life’s blood to satisfy the King’s demands at the trial by combat. The freedom of every man, woman, and child in the glen, their right to remain on land they’d held for centuries, perhaps even their lives, depended on that fateful day, their willingness to abide by the King’s truce.
Peace had come, but at a price.
Still his feud with Kendrew went deeper, having roots that reached farther back than the battle that had soaked the glen red two years before. Even the scar Kendrew carved into Alasdair’s arm that wretched day was but a drop in the sea to their enmity.
Yet the bastard’s sister…
Alasdair set his jaw, not wanting to think of her. But he saw her so clearly before him. She invaded his mind, bewitching him. Everything about her made him crazy. Her shining waist-length hair swinging about her hips in ways that weren’t good for a man. She carried more curves since he’d last seen her and they stood her well, making him itch to explore them. Even her eyes sparkled more than he remembered, their blue depths clear as water and beckoning, almost suggestively.
Nae, indeed that.
She’d become a seductress.
Alasdair drew a tight breath, his mood worsening. Fury beat through him, his blood still heated. Upon reaching Blackshore, he might forego a warm bath and take a bare-arsed dip in the loch.
And he’d thought his attraction to her had waned.
“Ho, Alasdair!” Wattie, one of his older clansmen, reined close. “Guid kens,” he boomed, “the Mackintosh is a besotted fool, eh? Did you see him all moony-eyed each time his lady wife even looked at him?”
“Cannae say I noticed.” He had, but Kendrew was the last man he wished to discuss.
He also didn’t believe his worst enemy capable of any true feelings for a woman.
Save lust, of course.
“You missed a right fine show.” Wattie hooted. “I’m thinking his bonnie lass need only flick her skirts and he’ll come running.”
Alasdair snorted. “Aye, that I’ll believe.”
“Nae, nae.” Wattie shook his head. “It’s love that’s addled him. Lady Isobel is more to him than a bedmate. Anyone can see-”
“He’s daft, aye, but no’ how you mean.” Alasdair drew his horse to a halt and twisted round, facing Wattie full on. “You were along when his men ambushed us at Nought two years ago.” The memory made the back of Alasdair’s neck heat. “My sister, Catriona, rode with us. Yet he set his pack of ax-swinging wild men on us with no caring that a lady could’ve been harmed, much less killed.
“I’ll ne’er forgive him for that.” Alasdair leaned over, fixing Wattie with a long, hard look. “Dinnae tell me that bastard loves any woman, for I’ll no’ believe it. He cares only for holding on to his land. He’ll sacrifice anyone and anything to do so.”
“He said he didnae know Catriona was with us.” Wattie tread dangerous ground. “There was so much mist blowing, have you forgotten? I dinnae think his men saw-”
“My sister could’ve been killed.” Alasdair snarled the words, the blaze at his nape sweeping through him, igniting his temper. “Kendrew carries that shame.”
“I didnae say I like him.” Wattie looked embarrassed.
Alasdair felt like an arse.
Wattie was a good man, one of Alasdair’s best. A fierce and fiery fighter in younger years, he still wielded a blade with terrifying skill. Now a widower, he deserved amusement where he found it.
“That I know, Wat.” Alasdair reached over to clap his shoulder. “There isn’t a redeemable bone in Mackintosh’s body, so how could you like him?”
“I wouldn’t mind breaking a few o’ his bones.” Wattie grinned, pumped a balled fist in the air.
The other warriors laughed. Not feeling so jovial himself, Alasdair looked down the line of men, glad for their levity. Two years of peace hadn’t been easy on them. Hard and eager fighters, a wrong look or word could set them off. And once they’d drawn their steel, the first blood scented, there’d be no stopping them.
Alasdair eyed their swords now, knowing they’d serve him at a single nod.
Except…
One man’s blade was missing.
And it wasn’t just any sword. It was the one pried from the hand of the last MacDonald clansman to die at the trial by combat. A sword aptly named Honor and that was now held in great reverence by the clan. Every time a party of warriors left Blackshore, one of them carried Honor rather than his usual brand.
And just now that warrior’s sheath was empty.
When the man blanched beneath Alasdair’s stare, clearly guilty of losing the precious sword, a snarling growl rose in Alasdair’s throat. Anger almost choked him as he spurred down the line of men.
“Rory!” He jerked his horse to halt beside the warrior. “Where’s Honor? Dinnae tell me you don’t know.”
“I-I….” Rory shifted in his saddle, his gabble answer enough.
Honor was gone.
Marjory’s bravura waned the deeper she moved into the woods edging the market grounds. Although the sun still shone brightly over the harvest fair, it could’ve been after nightfall among the thick pines and moss-covered rocks of Clan Cameron’s forest. The trees’ green-black needle canopies hid the light and the scent of resin, rich loamy earth, and wild orchids, made clear that she’d left the crowded fair behind her, entering a dark and secret place.
Not that the forest frightened her.
A Mackintosh feared nothing, after all.
But she was also a lady.
And trees weren’t the only things in the wood this particular day.
Pinpricks of yellow light flickered ahead, revealing the semi-circle of garishly painted, flower-bedecked tents known as the other ladies’ bowers. If she had any doubt, female laughter, a few telltale cries and moans, and snatches of bawdy song, drifted on the air, leaving no mistake she’d almost reached her
destination.
The place where men came to attend their manly cravings.
Marjory’s breath hitched as she remembered how a certain part of her had warmed and tingled when Alasdair pulled her into the bower’s shade, using his powerful arms to cage her against the flowered wall. She’d been so sure he’d kiss her, claim her lips in a bold slaking of passion. The possibility made her shiver with desire. When he didn’t kiss her, she’d quivered with annoyance.
The tingles remained, taunting her.
But as she drew closer to the joy women’s encampment, catching hints of ale and the ladies’ heavy musk perfume, she also knew there had to be more to such pleasures than the furious couplings sure to be going on within the colorful, flower-draped tents.
When a naked woman burst from one of the bowers, dragging an equally bare-bottomed man behind her, then shrieking with laughter as she thrust him into the arms of another, just as bare joy woman, she was sure of it.
She’d never share Alasdair with another female.
And she wouldn’t have the opportunity to fret about such matters unless she retrieved Kendrew’s letter from Groat the Viking.
So she nipped behind a tree, smoothed her hair, and brushed down her skirts. Then, straightening her back and shoulders, she stepped round beside the tree, allowing herself a good view of the clearing between the half-circle of tents.
Groat the Viking had to be there.
With luck, he’d emerge from one of the bowers any moment.
If need be, she’d call at the tents, asking for him.
Most of the joy women would be Rannoch Moor ladies, welcome at Nought’s Beltane and Midsummer Eve festivals. They wouldn’t gossip about her, even if they guessed her reason for coming here. There were times when all women held together and this was one of them.
She hoped, anyway.
She also folded her arms, already feeling frightfully conspicuous.
She was just about to start tapping her foot on the needle-strewn ground when she heard, “A wench with such fine breasts shouldn’t cross her arms unless she wants a man plumping and weighing them. Her teats, I mean.”
Seduction of a Highland Warrior (Highland Warriors Book 4) Page 4
