Several times, the strong sea winds had almost sent him hurtling back to Blackshore.
Once he’d paused atop a particularly notable promontory, sure he’d reached the Dreagan’s Claw, only to discover when the mists parted that he was nowhere near the hidden inlet so loved by Vikings and other sea raiders in his day.
He drifted nearer to the cliff’s edge and peered down into the deep, steep-sided cove. Apparently the place was still appreciated.
As he’d suspected, the two black-painted longships moored there.
A handful of smaller boats had been pulled onto the shingled bank. Men gathered there, sitting round a fire. They clearly didn’t know they were observed. Instead they drank from mead horns, laughed, and conversed. Seemingly in highest spirits, their mood was congratulatory.
Still, their swords and spearheads shone through the mist. And although they’d coated their mail with pitch or black paint, a fool could see that each man on the narrow shore was dressed for battle.
Equally arrayed were the men who’d remained on the two longships.
Drangar only wished they could see him.
They could if he’d desired.
But his warrior instincts told him it was best to let them believe no one saw them.
So he pulled his long black cloak closer about his tall, well-muscled form – insubstantial, though it was – and clutched his leather-gloved hand tighter around his spear shaft. A shame he couldn’t hurl the spear down at them. He’d love to pierce one of them, pinning the craven to the rocky ground. Doing so would’ve given him much satisfaction.
For with the capabilities he’d developed as a ghost, he heard every word to pass the men’s lips.
And if ever such a skewering death was deserved, the miscreants below earned that and more.
Their plans also needed telling.
Unfortunately, along with exceptional hearing, Drangar’s ghostly condition also brought limitations. He couldn’t simply float into Blackshore’s hall, sail over to Alasdair’s high table, slam a heavy fist onto the boards, lift his voice, and announce what he knew.
But he could use his wits and warlord’s logic to do what he could.
He’d seen Alasdair and his small band of men riding to Nought.
Knowing the Mackintoshes as he did, he knew their chieftain, Kendrew, would not welcome the MacDonald party. He’d greet them curtly and quickly send Alasdair on his way.
But Alasdair had a sharp mind. He wouldn’t miss a chance to visit the Dreagan’s Claw, having ventured so deep into Mackintosh territory.
At least, Drangar hoped so.
Almost sure of it, he drew back from the cliff edge and settled in to wait. The men below would be leaving soon. That, too, he’d heard. But Drangar wasn’t going anywhere. Leastways he wasn’t until Alasdair and his men appeared. He just hoped they’d come soon.
The wind blowing in off the sea was strengthening. And a man did have his pride. Much as Drangar was adept at holding himself together, such powerful gusts as tore across these cliffs did tend to toss him about. Already the great plumes on his helmet were in danger of being blown away. And his gleaming black hair, always his pride, had been whipped into a snarl of knots and tangles.
When he returned to Drangar Point and the Warrior Stones, he’d have to spend longer than usual to wipe the sea salt off his coat of mail. He took care to keep its links well polished and he could tell the buffeting Nought winds were seeping through the wool of his cloak, the salt already dulling the sheen of his mail.
A warrior looked best when his armor shone.
Still, he knew that if any man saw him, he’d present a fierce and daunting image.
Doing his part to help his kin was worth a bit of discomfort and unpleasantness.
Feeling justifiably noble, he allowed himself a rare smile.
Ghostdom did have certain advantages.
Eager to make use of one of them, he sheltered in the lee of an outcrop, gathering the energy he’d need to do what he planned. He just hoped Alasdair and his men would notice and then act upon his message.
So much depended on them.
Chapter 7
Marjory could hardly believe she’d returned to the hall to find Alasdair at Nought. Or that having been taken so unaware, she’d barely had a chance to speak with him before he’d left. What didn’t surprise her was her brother’s satisfaction at Alasdair’s angry departure.
She couldn’t just let him go.
Her heart had leaped to see him. And when he’d looked at her, his face had been fierce, his eyes blazing with a fiery heat she knew was desire.
That and something else.
Something that quickened her blood and made her tremble with excitement.
He couldn’t be gone already.
She hastened from the dais, glancing about, her pulse still racing as her gaze flickered over the hall’s weapon-hung walls. Everywhere she looked, swords, spears, and axes seemed to stare back at her accusingly because she dared to search for a MacDonald in their midst. Kendrew’s bearskin cloak hung above the high table, the thick black pelt glistening in the firelight. For two pins, she’d believe the cloak might come to life any moment, growling at her.
She didn’t care.
Hurrying deeper into the hall, she kept searching for Alasdair. There were so many men milling about. She hadn’t seen him go. She’d only caught the angry surge of warriors, Mackintoshes and MacDonalds, leaving the dais and heading toward the entry arch.
She narrowed her eyes, straining to see into the hall’s farthest corners. Here and there, wall torches revealed red-painted wolf and bear skulls, hinting at the clan’s claim of Berserker ancestry. Huge silver-rimmed bull horns and ancient, battle-damaged shirts of mail shone in the flickering light, testimony of a warlike past.
There were also a few bones. She shivered, knowing the hall’s darker recesses held worse things. She avoided those relics from distant times when pagan worship and sacrifices were more than tales to amuse clansmen on cold winter nights.
Just now, she’d offer anything to catch a glimpse of Alasdair’s broad shoulders in the throng of men near the door. She’d love to spot the glint of his auburn hair gleaming in the torchlight, or to hear his deep voice above the din, admire his plaid swirling about him as he strode purposely through the crowd.
But he was nowhere to be seen.
Nor were his clansmen. The MacDonalds had left the hall.
Before she could decide what to do, she felt a light touch on her arm. Turning, she saw Isobel standing beside her, looking flushed.
“This shouldn’t have happened.” Isobel slid a reproachful look at her husband. “I tried to keep them from each other’s throats. My efforts were as helpful as tossing grease on a fire.”
“Good riddance, eh?” Kendrew joined them, looking pleased as his guardsmen began filing away from the hall’s great double doors. They’d trailed Alasdair and his men to the door, flanking them as if they were released prisoners. “Thon MacDonald willnae be fouling Nought with his presence again for a while, I vow.”
“He had reason to come here.” Isobel challenged him.
“No’ any good one.” Kendrew leaned against a table edge, crossed his arms.
“Why does he think you’d attack Blackshore?” Marjory was sure he had another reason for visiting Nought. She hoped it was her. “Nor have we ever had galleys, certainly not black-painted ones. He knows that.”
“So I told him.” Kendrew shrugged.
“I’m thinking you said more than that.” Marjory noted the blood flecks in Kendrew’s beard, and then glanced back toward the dais.
The hall’s proud upper level stood in shambles.
Several chairs and a trestle bench lay toppled in the rushes. A platter of freshly baked meat pasties had been knocked off the high table, much to the delight of Gronk and the other castle dogs who’d pounced on the delicacies. Spilled ale and wine from broken ewers stained the snowy-white table linens and spread across the
floor in strong-reeking puddles.
The smell would hang in the air for days.
“A bit o’ bloodletting ne’er hurt any man.” Kendrew rolled his shoulders, brushed a few sprigs of meadowsweet off his sleeve. “Could be I knocked some sense into him. At the least, he knows he’s no’ welcome here.”
“He knew that before,” Marjory reminded him.
“Did I no’ say he’s daft?” Kendrew strode over to the fire to warm his hands. “How can he no’ be? Accusing us of sailing round in pitch-coated longboats, whetting our ax heads as we approach his shores. Black Vikings, come a-raiding.
“Speaking of the Norse” – he shot a look at Marjory – “why did you return so early? Weren’t you with old widow Hella? Thought you’d be at her cottage all the day, listening to her blether. Or did you know MacDonald was coming?”
“She couldn’t know that.” Isobel went over to him, began dabbing flecks of blood from his beard with a napkin. “She-”
“I ken the two of you. Aye scheming, you are.” Kendrew snatched the napkin and tossed it aside. “Dinnae deny it for you cannae.”
Isobel hooked her arm through his, leaning into him. “Even if it’s true, I’ve not heard too many complaints from you.”
“Humph.” Kendrew frowned. The kind of scowl he wore when Isobel maneuvered him into a corner. A place he apparently enjoyed, for he slid his arm around her, drawing her close. “I only want the best for my sister. The MacDonald is no’ the man for her.”
“To be sure, he isn’t,” Isobel agreed, sending a quick wink to Marjory. “We all know that.”
Kendrew’s frown vanished. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“Of course, men can change…” Isobel smoothed back his hair, adjusted his plaid, her voice soothing. “Look how you-”
“Dinnae compare me with a brine drinker.” Kendrew’s voice hardened and he took his wife’s wrists, lowering her hands from his chest. He turned to Marjory, suspicious again. “I’ll hear why you came back so soon. If your visit to old Hella had aught to do with Blackshore, if it was a ruse, I’ll-”
“Hella wasn’t there.” Marjory spoke true. “And she isn’t old, just widowed.”
“Could be I’ve forgotten.” Kendrew reached down to scratch Gronk’s head when the dog came to sit beside him. “That woman goes on so many rambles I scarce take note of her. I’ve no’ seen her in years.”
Just then the hem of Marjory’s cloak stirred and a tiny black nose appeared, quickly followed by a small white paw. Then the dog’s entire brown-and-white face emerged, his friendly brown gaze honing in on Kendrew.
He looked down at the tiny dog, taking a backward step. “Dinnae think to do it, laddie. My boots aren’t in need of watering.”
Peering up, Hercules gave him a long, intense stare before disappearing once more behind his Marjory’s skirts.
“If you wouldn’t glower at him, he’d leave you be.” Marjory lifted her chin, her mind racing. Alasdair would soon be at the bottom of the cliff stair, riding away…
Kendrew kept grumbling about Hercules, his words seeming to come from a great distance.
Marjory only heard the thundering of her heart. Then the loud thunk as one of the guards dropped the door’s drawbar in place, barring the hall from intruders. Unwanted guests like Alasdair and his men.
After such a fracas, Kendrew would watch her even more carefully. Her chances of meeting Alasdair alone, of seducing him, would diminish greatly.
Her insides went cold at the prospect.
Kendrew was still fussing about her dog. “You’ve trained the wee bugger to devil me.” He flashed a glance at her hem where Hercules’s little black nose was peeking into view again. “You, my only sister who ought to know I aye have your best interests at heart. Rather than thank me, you-”
“I’ll take him to my room.” Marjory had no intention of doing so. But she did scoop Hercules into her arms and head in that direction.
She just pushed through the crowd until she was sure Kendrew could no longer see her and then veered toward a certain shadowy corner. Once there, she set down Hercules and slid her hand beneath a moth-eaten wolf pelt on the wall. With outstretched fingers, she searched for a loose stone that, when pressed, opened Nought’s least-used secret passage. It was the original cliff stair, ruined in a rockslide over three hundred years before.
Marjory doubted even Kendrew knew it existed.
She’d discovered the stair as a child when she’d enjoyed hiding behind the hanging wolf-and-bearskins to spy on the late-night festivities in the hall. Her shoulder had accidentally bumped the access rock and the great stone door had groaned open, revealing its dark, cobwebby secrets. She’d learned the rest from an old clanswoman who’d been fond of her and, Marjory later discovered, had used the passage in her youth to tryst with her lover.
Marjory intended to do the same.
Alasdair might not be her lover, but she did mean to win his heart. Nor was she averse to doing whatever such a feat required of her.
Truth be told, she looked forward to such encounters.
His kisses only whet her appetite for more. And as her intentions were surely noble, she saw no shame in pursuing his attentions.
So she moved carefully, concentrating, as she felt along the wall. The stone was cold and damp, hard and not giving, until at last her thumb rubbed across the raised, rough-edged rock that was different from the rest. Relief sweeping her, she pushed the rock.
A low groan rewarded her. The telltale grinding of stone on stone as the hidden door slowly opened, revealing the passage beyond.
“Come.” Marjory signaled to Hercules as she stepped into the chilly darkness, the ancient stair so familiar she didn’t need a torch.
Even if she had, ruined as the passage was, enough light trickled through cracks in the rock walls to allow anyone to descend the narrow steps without too great a risk of slipping.
Hercules bounded ahead of her, racing down the steps as if they were playing a game.
Marjory hurried after him, hoping only to catch Alasdair before he reached the guardhouse at the base of Nought’s main cliff stair.
Ducking cobwebs, she slowed her steps where fallen rumble made the stairs treacherous. She listened for the sound of trickling water, careful on the patches slickened by damp and moss. Then, just when she was sure the well-manned guardhouse would loom up before her, its back wall marking the end of the old passage, she caught the murmur of men’s voices and the sound of masculine feet tromping down the main stair.
She quickened her own steps, recognizing one deep voice above the others.
Alasdair was just ahead of her.
And her timing couldn’t have been better, for a long-forgotten niche loomed near, hewn into the rock wall of the old passage. Either an ancient storeroom or a wind shelter for erstwhile guards, the tiny room was well protected from the elements, and from prying eyes.
Marjory hastened down the last few steps and then paused to catch her breath.
She shivered badly.
But the prickling sensation was from excitement, not the cold.
If this was to be her only opportunity to be alone with Alasdair, she would do everything in her power to make the best of it. Her very life and happiness hung on her boldness.
She just hoped Alasdair would be receptive.
“Blackshore, wait!”
“Marjory?” Alasdair turned on the cliff stair, his jaw slipping to see her a dozen steps above him. Wind tore at her hair and although she clutched her blood-red cloak to her breast, he could see the MacDonald ambers gleaming at her throat. Mist swirled everywhere and torchlight from farther up the steps cast a halo around her, revealing her shapeliness and letting her appear like a living flame, seductive and alluring. She beckoned him in a way that made his entire body tighten.
She was breathing hard, her breasts rising and falling beneath her cloak. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted.
Alasdair knew she’d only hastened from the hall, ye
t she looked as if she’d just risen from a mussed bed, still roused and excited from love play.
The thought set him like granite and he swore, ordering his men to remain where they were before he bounded the steps to stand before her.
He gripped her shoulders, shaking his head as he looked at her. “You shouldn’t have come after me. It was dangerous to do so.”
He didn’t say he posed the threat, knowing she’d assume he meant her brother.
“Kendrew thinks I’m in my room.” She held his gaze, unblinking. “I had to speak to you, alone.”
“We are hardly that, my lady.” He didn’t release her. As always, her scent bewitched him, the temptation of her nearness hitting him like a blow to the chest. His heart thundered and he’d wager anything that hers pounded as fiercely.
It was all he could do not to kiss her again, their audience be damned.
There were onlookers, even if to their left, where the cliff path fell away into nothingness, little could be seen but thick whirling mist.
Elsewhere…
He didn’t care. Lifting his hand, he trailed his knuckles along the softness of her cheek and then down the smooth line of her neck, noting how her pulse quickened beneath his touch.
“If you look behind and above you” – he stepped closer and leaned toward her – “your brother’s guardhouse is well-manned. My warriors are but a few steps below us. I wouldnae say we’re no’ observed, sweet.”
“We shall be in here.” She drew him off the stair and behind a jutting rock that looked like part of the cliff face.
In truth, the outcrop hid a deep and narrow niche in the rock wall, forming an alcove that must’ve been used as a guardhouse or storeroom in earlier centuries. It stood empty now, the tight space filled with nothing but cold, the damp, and shadows.
It was a sheltered place, well shielded from the main cliff stair. The cave-like niche also offered absolute protection from prying eyes.
Alasdair’s men wouldn’t disturb them here.
Nought’s guards hadn’t seen them slip inside the secret place. Alarm horns would’ve blasted if they had. Marjory had spoken true.
Seduction of a Highland Warrior (Highland Warriors Book 4) Page 12
