Seduction of a Highland Warrior (Highland Warriors Book 4)

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  It was a truth that could damn them both.

  And now that he’d seen her again after a year, the feelings he’d hoped had lessened returned with a vengeance. Kissing her hadn’t slaked his desire. Far from it, he desired her more than ever. Even though he knew the disaster that such folly would unleash on the glen.

  He was doing his best to push her from his thoughts when he heard, “Kissed Lady Marjory, did ye?”

  Ewan MacDonald, his cousin and general nuisance, strode up to him, wearing a cocky grin. “Was she good enough to put such a frown on your face?”

  “Have a care with your tongue, laddie.” Alasdair narrowed his eyes at the younger man, his mood worsening when Ewan’s grin broadened.

  “Aye, well…” Ewan hooked his thumbs in his sword belt, his mirth not diminishing. “To be sure, my tongue hasn’t been having the fun yours has of late.”

  “God’s eyes!” Alastair snarled, fisted his hands.

  He’d do more when he confronted Rory. The loon should never have gabbled that he’d seen Alasdair kissing Norn at the joy women’s bowers. Alasdair might even invite him to a round of swordplay, using the sharp edge of his brand to teach him to keep his lips sealed.

  “I see she was better than good.” Ewan employed his best efforts into ruining Alasdair’s day.

  It’d been a fine one until now. Ewan had clearly forgotten the reason they’d come up here. The training he’d sworn he was eager to participate in. He’d tagged along to make a nuisance of himself. And he’d chosen a damned irritating place to do so. Here atop one of the grandest cliffs in MacDonald possession, the sea breaking white beneath them, and a polished silver sky stretching above.

  Drangar Point was sacred to Clan Donald.

  Alasdair’s heart should be swelled with pride.

  Instead, his pulse raced with annoyance and he could feel the heat spreading up his neck, a muscle jerking in his jaw. He stared out at the sea, annoyed by his cousin’s assessment of Norn.

  Ewan was right.

  She was better than good.

  And even here at Drangar Point and in the midst of a training ordeal that should blur his mind to all but his purpose, his need for her raged like fire.

  Furious, he drew another long, tight breath. He focused on the sword hilt in his hand, the roar of the sea. Cold wind blew around him and the tang of brine filled his lungs. He was home on this high rocky crag, the world blue and gray, seabirds wheeling on the air currents, and long waves rolling in from the horizon.

  He loved this place.

  On such a day, there should be little that could diminish his pleasure in being here.

  Sadly, Ewan enjoyed such power.

  The fiend stepped closer, joining Alasdair at the cliff edge. “Come, cousin. We all saw you drag Lady Marjory into the Lughnasadh bower. Why bother to steal a kiss if you willnae tell how sweet she is?”

  Relief swept Alasdair, Ewan’s babble revealing Rory hadn’t betrayed him.

  Ewan meant Alasdair’s meeting with Norn at the harvest fair’s cloth-stall. The few moments they’d had in the bower before Kendrew’s arrival.

  Still…

  “I didnae steal a kiss from her.” Alasdair spoke through gritted teeth, not about to say there’d been no need for thievery. She’d welcomed his attentions, even encouraging him, damn her.

  “We had words, no more.” He’d dare anyone to say otherwise.

  Ewan snorted. “You were ne’er a good liar.”

  Alasdair clamped his jaw, not bothering to answer. He also kept his gaze on the water, refusing to reward his cousin’s badgering with a glance.

  Suffering his blether was bad enough.

  Indeed, it was becoming a worse agony than holding Mist-Chaser at arm’s length, the sword’s blade kept level above the sea several hundred feet below. His arm had lost all feeling hours ago. The rigorous training ritual, a trial he hadn’t endured in years.

  Making amends, he planned to stand there throughout the coming night. The drizzle just beginning to fall only strengthened his resolve. Each droplet that sneaked beneath his plaid to roll down his back made him more determined to persevere.

  If Ewan would leave, he’d achieve his goal.

  But the bastard seemed unperturbed by the racing wind and chill wetness. Alasdair’s foul mood wasn’t serving to banish him either. Far from it, Ewan rocked back on his heels, seeming more ready than ever to keep peppering Alasdair with irksome observations.

  It was a skill Ewan had honed to perfection.

  Proving it, he leaned round to peer into Alasdair’s face. “Many men say such fair-haired, cool-eyed maids as Lady Marjory make the best lovers. When a cold wind blows, the fires burn the hottest.” He winked, and then straightened. “I’ll wager her kiss alone-”

  “Have done, you arse.” Alasdair shot him a dark look, then once more fixed his gaze on his sword, determined not to let Ewan vex him.

  He was already annoyed enough for believing the long-nosed bugger’s reason for accompanying him to Drangar Point, the highest headland along the MacDonald shoreline, was to join Alasdair in a sword vigil. The age-old clan ritual strengthened a warrior’s prowess on the battlefield until no enemy could defeat him.

  The vigil was a physically demanding rite and hard to do with someone blethering in his ear. When the babble also recalled images best forgotten, such a feat proved nigh impossible.

  Not wanting to be thwarted, Alasdair threw a glance at the nearby Warrior Stones. Proud and ancient, they were two tall, upright rocks that stood close together near the cliff’s sheerest drop. Once part of a stone circle now largely toppled, the stones speared heavenward, their wet surfaces shimmering in the afternoon’s gray light. A hallowed site to the Old Ones, the Warrior Stones’ rune-and-lichen-covered boulders still held an air of mystery.

  The stones carried a touch of tragedy for the women of the clan, who called them the Sighing Stones. They insisted the wind that always wailed around the stone circle was the crying of a selkie maid returned to the sea by Drangar, a half-mythical MacDonald forebear.

  The clan women claimed Drangar broke the seal woman’s heart. In her grief, she is said to have cast a spell of resentment, turning Drangar and his warriors to stone so that they would be forever doomed to stand at the cliff’s edge, looking out upon the sea where Drangar banished the unhappy selkie to an eternity of loneliness.

  Alasdair tamped down a flare of irritation. The tales were nothing but romantic fancy.

  If any strange sounds were heard at the Warrior Stones on dark, moonless nights, it wasn’t the pitiful sobs of a despondent selkie. It was the running footsteps of MacDonald fighting men as they raced past the stone circle on their way to defend kith and kin, protecting the home glen that meant so much to them.

  That, Alasdair could believe.

  Seal women…

  Scowling more fiercely now, he shifted his feet in the rain-slick grass and tried to ignore the unpleasant tingling in his sword arm. His shoulder burned and his fingers were beginning to cramp around Mist-Chaser’s leather-wrapped hilt. Soon they’d go as numb as his arm.

  Still, he wouldn’t lower his sword.

  MacDonalds didn’t acknowledge defeat.

  Even when Ewan spoke close to his ear. “I saw Lady Marjorie trail her fingers down your chest.”

  Alasdair’s sword dipped a full inch. “You mistake.”

  The glint in Ewan’s eye warned that worse was to come. “She stood so close to you, I vow you must’ve felt the press of her bosom.”

  “Lady Marjory never came within several hand spans of me.” Alasdair’s body clenched on the lie, every inch of him recalling the warmth of her breasts, so soft and full. Her clean, heathery scent, and how she’d leaned into him so provocatively. “Your eyes are failing you.”

  “I think not.” Ewan laughed.

  “She’s Kendrew Mackintosh’s sister.” Alasdair returned his gaze to the horizon. Unfortunately, instead of the cold, gray of the sea, he saw Marjory’s larg
e blue eyes. And for an unsettling moment, the crashing of waves sounded like the thundering of his heart.

  He suspected that it was.

  So he flashed a hard look at his cousin, his voice stern. “You’d be wise to remember who she is and curb your tongue.”

  “And you?” Ewan glanced at the darkening sky, his plaid snapping in the wind. “Is she the reason you wanted to spend the day out here with the Warriors, balancing on the cliff edge in the rain and gloom?”

  “You know my reasons.”

  “Aye, I do.” Ewan grinned. “The glen being quiet of late is only one of them.”

  “The glen is too quiet.” Alasdair didn’t share his cousin’s levity. “It’s an unnatural stillness and I dinnae like it. Did you e’er watch a cat before he pounces on a mouse? The cat freezes, no’ blinking or moving a muscle as he eyes his prey. Then, in a blink, he attacks. The mouse is doomed before he sees the cat coming.”

  “So we’re mice, eh?”

  “Nae, we’re MacDonalds. And we’ve held Blackshore for too many centuries to lose it because we allowed ourselves to be lulled into complacency.” Alasdair looked to where the sea seethed around a few black-glistening skerries. The water foamed and churned there, clouds of spray catching the light. “No’ all enemies come marching at you, clashing swords and spears against their shields and shouting war cries.

  “Some foes slip up behind you on silent feet.” Alasdair knew that well. Others didn’t bother to hide, using harvest fairs or a courier’s duty to excuse their presence. Alasdair stiffened, recalling the Norseman he’d seen leaving the joy women’s clearing.

  That one, he knew, had been up to no good.

  Sure of it, he tossed another glance at Ewan. “Such foes bear watching lest the last thing you see is the flash of their sword as it ends your life.”

  “Or” – Ewan’s grin didn’t waver – “they see the glint of MacDonald steel, having done with them.”

  “True enough.” Alasdair quirked a smile.

  It was good when a man had faith in his kin.

  He certainly did.

  No greater race walked the Highlands than Clan Donald. Even their enemies knew it and respected them, with the sad exception of the Mackintoshes.

  “So-o-o…” Ewan cracked his knuckles. “What are you going to do about her?”

  Alasdair’s smile faded. There was no need to guess whom Ewan meant.

  He did adjust his grip on Mist-Chaser. He needed a distraction, tempted as he was to swing the tip to within inches of his cousin’s belly. Just to wipe the smirk off his young face.

  “Well?” Ewan goaded him even more.

  Alasdair returned his gaze to the skerries. The current was running faster now, the water swirling around the rocks and sending up great plumes of spray. “I dinnae have plans to do aught with Lady Marjory. I did warn her to keep an eye on the shadows up Nought way. No’ that I’ve seen or heard anything troubling, least of all from those remote bounds. Still, if the quiet hereabouts bothers me” – and it did – “it’ll be deafening at Nought.

  “She needs to be wary.” And he needed his tongue cut out for voicing his concerns in a way that upset her. It ripped the heart out of him that he’d offended her. He could still see her face freezing over, feel the chill of the stare she’d turned on him. She’d thought he’d wanted her to spy for him, as if he’d ever imperil her.

  Truth was, words didn’t come easy in her presence.

  She needed only to glance at him and the famed MacDonald charm left him faster than light vanished from a pinched candlewick.

  Later, in the wood…

  Allowing him to see her bared breasts, the crests wind-chilled and thrusting at him, had given him the rest, robbing him of his wits. Shattering his restraint until he’d lost his head, reaching for her…

  Heat swept him. Not anger this time but raw unbridled need.

  Hoping Ewan wouldn’t notice, he turned his gaze once more on the horizon. Heavy clouds gathered there and a light mist was beginning to curl across the water.

  “See here, lad.” He didn’t look at his cousin. “If you dinnae wish to train, I’d sooner be alone.”

  “Och, I’ll keep vigil with you.” The scrape of steel against Ewan’s sword sheath proved his vow. Stepping closer to the cliff edge, he raised the blade, aiming it like Alasdair’s, toward the open sea.

  “But I’m no’ for staying the night on these cliffs.” Ewan looked about, his good humor gone. “No’ anywhere near the Warrior Stones.”

  Alasdair laughed. “Dinnae tell me you’re afraid old Drangar will appear?”

  “I saw him once, as well you know.”

  “You were all of eight summers. What you saw was sea mist drifting through the stone circle. Drangar, if e’er he existed, will have better to do in the Otherworld than float about these cliffs.”

  Ewan didn’t answer.

  A glance his way showed he could set his jaw as fiercely as Alasdair.

  “We’ll head back when the light fades.” Alasdair knew some clansmen did believe in Drangar’s bogle. And even though Ewan could annoy him more than a pebble in his shoe, Alasdair loved him too much to force him to suffer a dent to his pride when true fear was on him.

  “There’s no need to hold the vigil more than a few hours.” Alasdair gave the concession gladly.

  The tightness left Ewan’s face at once. “I wouldn’t mind being in the hall when Cook serves our supper.” He glanced at Alasdair, his good cheer restored. “Did you catch the smell of roasting pork when we passed the kitchens this morn? My mouth has been watering ever since.”

  “I noticed, aye.” Alasdair returned the younger man’s smile.

  He just wished he could shake his certainty that the glen peace was about to be ripped apart. And in a way that meant a harder fight than ever before. His inability to sleep well in recent times and the increasing sensation that someone, somewhere was watching him, only underscored his distrust of the ongoing calm.

  Any man who lived near the sea knew that still waters often preceded the worst storms.

  Men in coastal Scotland also knew one Viking never came alone. And the man who’d left the joy women’s encampment so rapidly had been a Norseman. Alasdair could smell the bastards at a hundred paces.

  A Highland woman in the clutches of such marauders would be doomed to a living death.

  Worse, once they tired of her.

  There were many fetching lasses at Blackshore. Also plenty of strong, older women and healthy children who would make good slaves.

  Clan Cameron had no less to offer.

  And at Nought…

  Marjory’s face flashed before him again, only now desire was the last thing on his mind.

  He shifted his feet on the wet grass, squared his shoulders as if readying for battle.

  Truth was, he hadn’t just made this visit to the Warrior Stones because the age-old sword vigil was believed to give men strength, courage, and – when all else failed – a proud and noble death.

  He’d wanted to take advantage of Drangar Point’s wide-sweeping vistas. The high, fissured cliffs along this stretch of coastline offered excellent hiding for men planning raids into the Glen of Many Legends.

  His gut told him such men were about.

  And he always trusted his instinct.

  Doing so made the difference between a simple fighting man and a good leader of warriors.

  Alasdair took pride in being the latter.

  For that reason, he’d make sure his men did more that night than enjoy Cook’s savory roasted pork. As soon as they’d filled their bellies and quenched their thirst, he’d give them a warrior’s task. Every MacDonald old enough to hold a sword would spend the night sharpening his weapons.

  He just hoped such a precaution would prove for naught.

  Sadly, he didn’t think so.

  Hours later, long after Alasdair and Ewan left Drangar Point and returned to Blackshore Castle where they were surely enjoying a meal of roasted
pork and fine heather ale, another MacDonald warrior stood in the thin mist that blew across the high, wind-swept promontory.

  The rain had stopped, but Drangar Point was colder now. Not that the warrior minded. A fierce-looking man, he was the sort who’d stare a winter gale in the eye, daring the wind to chill him.

  Exceptionally tall, he had dark, piercing eyes and a black beard, carefully trimmed. He wore a coat of mail that gleamed brightly, a plumed helmet, and a long black cloak of finest wool and that he valued as one of his most prized possessions. Humble despite the greatness he could claim, he was rather proud to know that his enemies quaked when he but touched the sword hanging at his side.

  At least, that had once been so.

  This night, as on so many others, he had greater cares than instilling dread in his foes.

  He’d leave such pleasures to Alasdair.

  He also shared the young chief’s opinion that the glen was too quiet.

  And that no Viking sailed alone.

  Frowning, he stopped his pacing to stand with his feet apart, his hands braced on his hips as he surveyed the night before him. Moonlight silvered a broad path across the sea and cast shadows over the Warrior Stones. The two spearing heavenward shone wetly, the runic symbols carved into them, almost humming with life. The altar stone glowed white, retaining its dignity even though centuries of wind, rain, and lichen had rendered its runes almost indecipherable.

  Not that it mattered now.

  The runes belonged to a distant age.

  Rolling his shoulders, the warrior sympathized. He felt his own years keenly.

  He was also aware of a distant sound coming from the sea. A familiar noise that, though still faint, had nothing to do with the strong currents and huge tides brought on by the fullness of the moon.

  It was the rhythmic pulling of oars and the hiss of water racing down the sides of a fast-moving galley.