Alasdair’s patience snapped, the edges of his vision beginning to redden. “Lady Marjory has naught to do with this.” He almost reached for the dirk hidden in his boot. He did raise his voice so all would hear. “I should’ve known better than to come here.”
“Aye, you should have.” Kendrew spoke just as loud. “MacDonalds are ne’er welcome here.”
“That I know.” Alasdair tossed back a gulp of ale, fighting his temper.
Marjory might not be in her brother’s hall, but wherever she was, she could appear any moment. Kendrew wouldn’t be so agitated if that weren’t so. He kept sliding glances to an arched doorway in the far side of the huge, weapon-hung room. His edginess proved he expected her. If so, Alasdair wouldn’t allow her to walk in and find him brawling with Kendrew.
He was tempted.
More than that, he now knew what else had been bothering him ever since Lady Isobel had greeted him and his men, ushering them into the stronghold’s great hall, despite her husband’s heavy frown.
Marjory wasn’t the only one missing.
Kendrew’s captain of the guard was also absent. The man wasn’t easy to miss, huge and big-bearded as he was. His wild black hair and the silver warrior rings he braided into his beard, coupled with his storm-gray eyes and hard, rough-hewn face, made him notable. He was also one of Kendrew’s most ferocious fighting men.
Tongue-waggers claimed he could cleave a man in two with a single stroke of his ax.
Alasadair didn’t doubt it.
He also knew that if Kendrew was going to send two pitch-coated galleys into the night, the battle-probed warrior was the man he’d choose to lead such a mission.
“Enough insults, Mackintosh.” Alasdair gestured toward the smoke-hazed hall beneath the dais, the crowded rows of long tables. “Where is your captain? The man called Grim? I do not see him.”
“Grim?” Kendrew’s brows lifted and for a moment he looked surprised. “He’s no’ out in a black-painted longboat if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“The thought crossed my mind.” Alasdair was still suspicious.
“Grim is nowhere near your damty coast.” Kendrew paused, a wicked glint coming into his eyes. “He’d be afraid of catching a rash o’ barnacles down your way.”
Along the high table, Kendrew’s men chuckled.
Lady Isobel stood. “I agree with Blackshore.” She used Alasdair’s title, her voice strong and firm. “This ribbing must stop. Now, before the good name of our House of Mackintosh is sullied beyond repair.
“Ribbing?” Kendrew twisted round to look at her. “Men who come uninvited can expect-”
“That isn’t so.” She dismissed his protest with a wave of her hand. “If anyone disagrees” – she glanced about, her brows lifting – “I shall personally see that such rudeness is rewarded with an empty stomach. The next man to slur our guests will not receive dinner in my hall this night. And I do mean everyone.”
She sent a pointed look at Kendrew before she took her seat again.
Silence spread across the dais and along the trestle tables beyond. A few grumbles rose here and there, a scattering of cleared throats. No one lifted a voice to challenge her.
Even Kendrew looked chastised, a faint flush staining his face. He speared a bannock with his eating knife, proceeded to smear the halved roll with butter.
Lady Isobel smiled, nodding pleasantly at Alasdair.
“My lady, you do honor to Nought.” Alasdair used his most courteous tone, ignoring Kendrew. “Your husband is fortunate to have you.”
“It’s you I’ll have, you briny bastard … your head on a pike,” Kendrew mumbled around his bannock.
Or so Alasdair thought, though he couldn’t prove it.
If Lady Isobel heard, she chose not to react, sipping her wine instead.
“My husband told you true, lord.” She set down her drinking chalice, her gaze direct. “We do not have ships. Our strength is elsewhere. Perhaps in the bravery of our men, their skill at arms. And surely in the impassable peaks that enclose our territory. The cold, clean air that greets us each morn and helps us sleep well at night.
“And Grim…” She paused, ignoring the dark glance Kendrew tossed at her. “He is only seldom at Nought these days. Did you not know he stayed on at Archie MacNab’s last year? It was after Kendrew and his men rescued Marjory and me from the band of broken men who’d captured us. They took us to Duncreag, the MacNab stronghold in the next glen.”
“Aye, I remember.” Alasdair did.
It rankled to know Kendrew often received accolades for his heroics.
Tales still circulated of the night Kendrew had led his soot-and-peat smeared warriors – night-walkers they called themselves - up to Duncreag’s ramparts. They’d faced formidable odds, scaling a sheer rock-face even steeper than Nought’s worst cliffs. Bards praised the Mackintoshes, claiming no other men could’ve climbed to the inaccessible stronghold. Yet Kendrew and his warriors had passed through the night darkness unseen, gaining the gatehouse before the miscreants who’d overtaken the castle even knew they’d been set upon.
The slaughter that followed, and the rescue of the two women, was now legend.
Even some of the younger MacDonald warriors enjoyed hearing the tale.
Alasdair’s ears would shrivel if he was ever again made to suffer through the telling.
If he’d known in time, he and his men could’ve hastened to Duncreag and saved the women even more swiftly than Kendrew had done. They would’ve also seen justice served for old Archie MacNab, ridding him of the miscreants who’d invaded his home and murdered his sons.
But Alasdair hadn’t known.
Kendrew had.
Always looking for glory, he’d stormed off to the MacNab’s remote glen, rescuing Marjory and Lady Isobel almost singlehandedly.
The rankling in Alasdair’s gut worsened, leaving a bad taste in his mouth.
Lady Isobel was still speaking. He’d barely heard a word.
“The broken men…?” He seized the last scrap of her words.
“They were that, belonging to no clan.” She glanced at Kendrew, but he only took another bite of his bannock. “Ralla the Victorious was the leader. He and his men killed nearly everyone at Duncreag, almost the entire garrison. They only spared a few children to be sold as slaves, and the old laird.
“They wouldn’t have let him live much longer.” She shivered, her gaze meeting Alasdair’s. “There have always been rumors of treasure at Duncreag. Ralla hoped to force Archie to reveal the hoard’s whereabouts.”
“Bah!” Kendrew slid an annoyed look at his dog, his frown turning even blacker when the beast rested his head on Alasdair’s thigh. “There aren’t any riches at the MacNabs’ and ne’er has been. Duncreag has more stone and wind than Nought. That’s all a man will find there. It’s a place for those who like thin air and cold bare hills. Duncreag makes Nought look like a spring meadow.”
Leaning forward, he held Alasdair’s eye. “Their bards made up the hoard years ago because suchlike sounds good in a song.”
Lady Isobel’s brow pleated, but she continued. “Grim and some of our Nought warriors are there now. They’re training the young MacNabs so Duncreag will have a new garrison.” She paused, ran a finger around the edge of her wine chalice. “The MacNabs-”
“Are a clan o’ poets and scribes.” Kendrew’s tone revealed his opinion of such men. “Ne’er did have fighting in them. Why else would a craven like Ralla choose Duncreag to quarter his foul band?”
“Perhaps because the stronghold is nearly impregnable, sitting higher than an eagle’s eyrie?” Alasdair couldn’t resist the argument.
Kendrew’s scowl said he’d hit his mark. “Do you aye ken everything?”
“Nae.” Alasdair dug another few bits of dried meat from his belt pouch and offered them to Gronk and two other dogs who’d joined him. “I’m good at thinking like my enemies. Or have you ne’er heard that a man should know his foes better than his fri
ends?”
Kendrew snorted. “I ken all I wish of you.”
“And I would hear more of you.” Alasdair leaned back in his chair, ignoring Kendrew’s pointed glance at the hall’s main entry. “Such as” – he lifted a hand, examining his knuckles – “if you paid someone to harry my coast with pitch-covered longships? Seeing as you dinnae have any ships yourself.”
“I already gave you my answer.”
“I’m asking again.”
“Howling at the moon is what you’re doing. I might no’ like you, but I aye speak true. I ne’er heard of black-painted longships. Leastways no’ since that old tale the bards love to sing about Clan MacConacher of MacConachers’ Isle. How one of their chiefs rid the Hebrides of Black Vikings and then sweetened his victory by marrying a daughter of Duncan MacKenzie, the Black Stag of Kintail.
“And that, my friend,” – he made sure the last word sounded anything but genial – “was o’er fifty years ago. No such devils have been seen since, last I heard.
“If they are about, I’ve told you what I’d do.” He sat back, grinning. “I’d find them and if their lord was braw and deep-pursed enough, I’d offer him my sister as a bride. If they proved to be bloodthirsty blackguards” – a wicked glint entered his eyes again – “then I’d send them your way. Though the reek o’ so much brine might see them turning tail before-”
“Enough!” Alasdair stood, his anger flaring. “Call me what you will, but dinnae slur my folk.”
“Dinnae come chapping at my door.” Kendrew shoved back his own chair, rising. He glared at Alasdair. “I keep the King’s peace because it suits me. I can break it and still sleep easily. Especially with your head on a pike, high o’er Nought’s walls. The ravens feeding on your gizzard-”
Lady Isobel’s gasp cut him off. Alasdair’s men jumped up and ran onto the dais, forming a half circle around the high table. Many of Kendrew’s warriors joined them, others staying where they were but thumping the tables with their fists. Every man stilled when Alasdair snatched a two-bladed ax off the wall and swung it at Kendrew, letting the blade-head hover a breath from his nose.
“I should take off your face. Now, while my blood’s too hot for me to care.” Alsadair held the ax shaft steady, its blade not wavering. “Unsay your slur or I will, even if your men slay me a beat later.”
“I’ll unsay naught.” Kendrew didn’t flinch, his gaze locked on Alasdair’s. “Except that you’re a dead man.”
“So be it.” Alasdair jiggled the ax, allowing the blade to glide along Kendrew’s cheekbone. A bead of red appeared, rolling into his beard. “I cannae think of a better way to die than defending my clan’s honor.”
“And I’ll no’ have your corpse slumped o’er my table!” In a lightning quick move, Kendrew grabbed the ax shaft, using it to hook Alasdair behind his knees.
“Ompf!” The blow sent Alasdair sprawling onto the floor rushes.
“We’ll fight proper another day, brine drinker!” Tossing aside the ax, Kendrew pounced, reaching for Alasdair’s neck. “No’ this one, no’ here-”
“That, we will!” Alasdair grabbed Kendrew first and they grappled, rolling across the rushes. The warriors who’d crowded onto the dais jumped back now, making room and widening their circle. Alasdair ignored them, only hearing Kendrew’s curse when he plowed his fist into Kendrew’s mouth, splitting his lip. “Where’er we meet, only one of us will walk away.”
Alasdair stood, resisting the urge to plant his foot on his foe’s heaving chest. “That I promise you.”
Kendrew laughed. “I’ll hold you to that, you arse.” Grinning as if Alasdair had only tickled his chin with a feather, he pushed up on an elbow and dragged his sleeve across his bloodied lip. “When the time comes,” he vowed, his amusement proving his love of fighting, “I’ll crush you like an egg in my hand.”
“You can try.” Alasdair nodded as Kendrew pushed to his feet, brushing meadowsweet from his plaid.
“Dear heavens!” Marjory appeared on the dais steps, rushing forward as the warriors parted to make room for her. She looked from Alasdair to her brother, then back again. “What happened here?”
Alasdair frowned, shoved a hand through his hair. “You brother and I had words.”
“Say you.” Kendrew shook back his own wild mane, blinked sweat from his eyes. “She sees fine what happened.”
“You fought.” Marjory folded her arms, her gaze narrowing on them both.
“We settled a matter, aye.” Alasdair threw a dark look at Kendrew. His pulse still raced and his blood roared in his ears. The scar on his arm screamed, pulling as it did sometimes, the sharp pain demanding payment in kind.
Vengeance he burned to claim, but not in front of Marjory.
She roused entirely different emotions in him. Dark, unholy desires that twisted and writhed inside him, so close to breaking free.
“It must’ve been a matter of great import for you to come here. Something” – her blue eyes flashed – “you and my brother disagreed upon.”
“So?” Kendrew folded his arms. “We aye disagree.”
“Aye, and with good reason,” Alasdair returned, his gaze on Marjory.
Her hair was wind-blown and soft light from a nearby torch fell across her, making her feminine curves so apparent, he could hardly breathe. He’d always found her beautiful, but now she had a sensual, provocative air about her that made him want to devour her. He could feel his eyelids lowering, his loins tightening. Her breasts rose and fell against her cloak, as if to taunt him. She came closer and he caught her scent, drinking it in, greedy for more. As if she knew, she touched her breast, watching him as if aware of his thoughts. Heat coursed through his blood, lust flaring. She shook her head slowly, more alluring than he’d ever seen her.
Never had he been more conscious of her.
He’d gone hard, the discomfort reminding him where they stood.
Her composure didn’t falter. “Well?” Her gaze flicked to the mussed floor rushes, an overturned trestle bench. “Am I not to hear the meaning of this?”
Alasdair frowned, reached to right the toppled bench. He’d tell her true, seeing no reason to lie. “Lady, I-”
“The MacDonald thinks we have black-painted longships and are planning an assault on his stronghold.” Kendrew stepped demonstrably before his sister. “He now knows that he erred.”
“I know I dinnae trust you farther than the end of my sword, Mackintosh.” Alasdair jerked a nod at his men, indicating it was time to leave. “This isn’t over, be warned.”
“Nae, it isn’t.” Kendrew came forward, slapped him on the shoulder. “That’ll be the day I spit on your grave.”
“We shall see.” For once, Alasdair didn’t care to exchange insults with his foe.
In one matter, Kendrew had the rights of him.
He had erred.
Ever since seeing Marjory again at the harvest fair, he’d forgone sleep to stare at the ceiling almost nightly, convincing himself she wasn’t the woman he wanted. That lust alone made him ache for her. Pure carnal need he could slake with any jolly serving lass willing to air her skirts. That his worry he could never get enough of just touching her was because he’d gone so long without a woman.
And that the reason he’d not bothered had nothing to do with Marjory.
Now he knew better.
He would’ve preferred to remain oblivious.
Drangar the Strong would’ve sympathized with his young descendant’s plight. Indeed, he did. He even felt Alasdair’s frustration as his own. How could he not? If mortal men knew that a bond stretched across time between those who presently walked the earth and those who went before them, men in spirit form lived that truth.
Besides, didn’t he know the pain of having loved in vain?
Drangar frowned and pulled on his neatly trimmed black beard. Even here, on the wildest, most bleak edge of Nought territory, his memories dogged him, snapping at his heels and biting hard.
He’d hoped to escape
them.
If only for the duration of his business here, deep in enemy lands. Yet just as duty, honor, and loyalty had guided him through life and now the Otherworld, so did his regrets and longings also accompany him. Such things stayed with a man, whatever form he held.
But at the moment, other matters occupied his mind.
And they were much more serious than the sorrows of a wounded heart. His recollections of a woman’s soft, warm body held close to his. The fullness of lush, naked breasts against his chest as he’d cradled his love’s face in his strong, living hands, kissing her thoroughly. Or – his frown deepened – the wonder of rolling on top of her, then losing himself deep inside her, reveling in her silky, welcoming heat.
How he missed such pleasures.
How he ached to simply have her beside him again.
But he drew himself up, ever the fierce and invincible warrior.
That he was here at all was a triumph.
He should be glorying in this moment.
Tall and proud, he hovered at the top of a steep narrow path, looking down into the silver-gleaming inlet known as the Dreagan’s Claw. He preferred thinking of the place as the devil’s toehold on the glen, seeing as Mackintoshes claimed the wee sliver of a cove. Either way, it was something to be here. A remarkable feat and one he enjoyed. He didn’t often venture into enemy territory. The last time was so long ago, he could scarce remember.
He did know that he’d had an army of MacDonald warriors at his back.
Now he stood alone.
Or he hovered, depending on the charity of one’s viewpoint.
What mattered was that his warrior’s instincts were still as sharply honed as ever. Centuries of ghostdom hadn’t dulled his wits. And that was a grand accomplishment, something to be celebrated. As was his ability to negotiate the treacherous winds and dark mists that made the long journey from the Warrior Stones at Drangar Point to this bleak Mackintosh outpost so arduous.
Seduction of a Highland Warrior (Highland Warriors Book 4) Page 11
