Then Marjory’s face flashed across his mind. Her blue eyes chilled with even more dislike than she’d shown him on Nought’s cliff stair.
“Damnation.” Alasdair curled his hands to fists, willing her from his mind.
She’d driven him to enough madness this day. So he clenched his fists tighter, forcing himself not to think of her. He did recall his suspicions about Grim acting as shipmaster on one of the longboats.
And here the bastard was, right where such nefarious dealings would put him.
Alasdair felt his blood heating. His sword hand itched worse than ever. Grim strode forward, looking as if he suffered the same malady.
That suited Alasdair fine.
Miles away, on a shingled strand at the southernmost bounds of the Glen of Many Legends, Seona paused near a seaweed-draped rock. A legend herself, or so many believed, she lifted a wispy hand to her shimmering breast. She kept her gaze on Blackshore Castle, rising so proudly from the middle of Loch Moidart. The stronghold glistened with recent rain and soft yellow light shone in some of the tall, arch-topped windows. Men would gather there, warming themselves before the fire, sipping ale and telling tales.
No doubt a few such stories would be about her.
She didn’t much care for being a legend.
A fable, good for little more than giving MacDonald children shivers. And perhaps, if the tall tales came even close to the truth – which she doubted – acting as a warning to the young women of the clan.
Hoping it was so, she began drifting along the water’s edge again.
It would please her if even one innocent lass were spared the heartache she’d suffered.
Torment and anguish she still endured.
Sorrow of her own making.
Men’s hearts were fickle, while women loved true. And hurts didn’t fade over time. They worsened, digging deeper into one’s soul the longer such pain must be borne. Those were the truths she knew.
Would that she’d known them then…
In the distant past when she’d walked, not floated, along this strand. She’d been so young, her heart pure and trusting. No one else could’ve enjoyed such happiness. Or – she shivered, her long black hair rippling in the wind – no other maid could’ve been so in love.
Resenting her foolishness, she quickened her steps, almost flitting down the strand now. At least she could appreciate that her feet didn’t touch the cold, wet ground. No icy wavelets would dampen her slippers. Far from it, her soft silver-blue gown and her cloak of dove-gray shimmered flatteringly about her, looking as always as if they’d been spun of moonbeams and star-shine.
Even ghosts took pride in their appearances.
What pleased her more was the thick mist blowing in from the sea. Swirling and iridescent, the billowing fog blurred contours, hiding the great hills rising behind her and even obscuring the dark bulk of Blackshore, lurking out on the loch as it did.
Sometimes she wished it wasn’t there.
It hurt to gaze upon the stronghold that had once meant so much to her.
Now the mist and darkness were her friends, shielding her from memories that had the power to break her. She who’d been known for her gaiety, the laughter Drangar the Strong had likened to an angel’s song.
She couldn’t remember when last she’d laughed.
An eternity ago didn’t seem long enough.
Wishing that weren’t so, Seona paused again, this time casting a sad eye on the rocks of doom. Their black-glistening tips were just visible above the tide. Beyond them, deep inside the whirling mist, she imagined she saw a dark coracle bobbing in the surf.
But when she looked again, the tiny boat was gone.
As well it should be, for she’d only let her heart conjure a memory.
In her time, the fine stone causeway that stretched from the strand to Blackshore hadn’t yet been built. True, Drangar the Strong had started it, but the work wasn’t completed when she’d met her fate.
Again, she touched a hand to her breast, her heart remembering.
She could see the past so clearly, as if it all happened but a moment ago.
How Drangar had braved the worst tides to join her when she walked the strand opposite his mighty stronghold. Most times he’d row a coracle across the loch, claiming it strengthened his warrior arms to battle the waves. Now and then, he’d swim, coming to her wet and naked from the water, uncaring if he was seen.
He’d laugh, declaring that his love for her was cause for joy and never shame.
Then he’d wink and say the only souls who’d resent such passion might be graybeards no longer capable of raising such desire. And as he’d make such claims, his nakedness revealed that he was more than able – and ready – to prove his need of her.
Seona blushed, the memory of Drangar’s prowess making her shimmer brightly.
Recalling how he’d look at her before pulling her into his arms set her heart aflutter.
Knowing that for a time he’d loved her stilled the world around her. The mists trembled and then parted, showing the strand as it’d been on a fine, windy morning so many years before. Seabirds wheeled and dove, and the loch sparkled, foaming white onto the shingle. She’d stood on the cliffs, watching Drangar’s approach, only coming down when he’d jumped into the surf and pulled his coracle ashore.
She’d hurried then, laughing as she raced down the cliff path. At the bottom, she’d shed her clothes, leaving only her light linen undergown. Then, feeling most wanton, she’d undo her hair. Wind then tore at the long black strands, letting them stream behind her. In a playful mood, she’d run along the foreshore, deliberately dashing past her love to plunge into the water.
After a quick glance at Drangar, she’d dive deep, disappearing beneath the waves. Then she’d surface again, sea foam clinging to her like pearls. She’d twirl and tease, proud she could swim so well.
The loch was cold, so very cold.
But she didn’t notice, her joy warming her.
As did the heat in Drangar’s eyes when she’d returned to the strand. She’d known her sea-wet gown molded to her like a second skin, leaving no secrets while offering just enough mystery to tempt her lover.
Well-lusted, indeed, he’d torn off his clothes faster than the wind.
His face would darken then, his eyes narrowing with desire as he stood naked on the strand, his arms opened wide. She’d run to him, one hand clutched to her breasts, much as she pressed a hand there now.
Only unlike now, he’d been there for her.
He’d catch her to him, lifting her in the air and twirling her round and round. When they were both dizzy, he’d lower her onto the warm, dry pile of his shed clothes. The magnificent black woolen cloak he always wore.
They’d made love there on the strand, their bodies writhing on his mantle. Long sea winds had kissed them as he’d vowed his love, the words potently seductive in the soft morning light.
She’d always loved his voice, so deep and richly burred.
That long-ago day, he’d spun beautiful tales for her, making her heart sing in anticipation of the wondrous life he claimed they’d enjoy together.
He’d stroked her hair and smoothed his hand over her bared skin. Pulling her close against him, he’d warmed her with the heat of his warrior’s body. He’d nuzzled her neck, gently nipping the soft skin beneath her ear as he murmured Gaelic endearments.
Love words that slid through her like honeyed wine, melting her soul.
And, she now knew, declarations so false she should never have believed him.
How sad that she had.
But she’d not suspected his betrayal. She’d never have believed he’d spurn her. That he’d leave her to meet her end on the rocks of doom.
Seona straightened, standing as tall and proudly as she could, all things considered. She took a deep breath of the chill salt air and smoothed her shimmering silver-blue gown. She also adjusted the fall of her dove-gray cloak. Little things to occupy her, taking her mind of
f her memories.
It pained her to remember, but the truth was, he had abandoned her.
He’d cast her from him so that, at the end, there was no one but the seals to watch her breathe her last.
They alone had seen the waves swirl higher and higher around her. And the seals were there when the white tumbling surf finally claimed her, welcoming her into their cold, watery realm. Drangar the Strong hadn’t come for her as she’d secretly hoped he would.
It was foolish to even consider such a possibility.
But she’d been so in love with him.
What a shame she still was.
Chapter 10
High atop the rock-bound promontory known as the Dreagan’s Claw, Alasdair watched as Kendrew’s best friend and companion-in-arms strolled toward him. A low grumble of menace rose from his men, but Alasdair gave Grim a brief nod. His expression could say the rest.
If that failed, other tactics could be employed.
One false move and the Mackintosh warrior would have to cut his way through a wall of MacDonalds if he wished to return to Castle Nought.
The King’s writ be damned.
Certain his men agreed, Alasdair flashed a glance at Ewan. “That’s Grim. He’s Kendrew’s captain of the guard. And” – he turned back to watch the man’s approach – “it appears he’s no’ over at Duncreag, helping Archie MacNab rebuild his slaughtered garrison.”
Somewhere behind Alasdair, a scrape of steel revealed that one of his men had pulled his sword. Others quickly followed suit, the whisper of blades, chill and deadly in the cold, thin air.
“Ho, Grim!” Alasdair lifted his voice as the warrior drew near.
“MacDonald.” Grim didn’t break stride, crossing the broken ground as easily as if it were a smooth, well-swept floor. “Looks like Nought bounds aren’t good for you,” he returned, his gaze flicking to the lump at Alasdair’s temple. “Or have your men grown so unruly they’ve taken to knocking their chief about the head?”
Alasdair ignored the slurs. He did touch the hilt of Mist-Chaser, knowing Grim would notice. “Word is you bide o’er in the next glen these days. That you’re now Archie MacNab’s man. What brings you-”
“I am aye Kendrew’s man.” Grim stopped where he was, placing one foot on a large rock, proprietarily. “Why are you here? You, a MacDonald, so far from your own waterlogged Blackshore?”
“We had business with your chief.” Alasdair kept his hand on his sword. “A matter that makes me wonder at finding you here of all places.”
“Och, aye?” Grim cocked a brow, looking skeptical.
“So I said.” Alasdair straightened, damned the wind for whipping his hair into his eyes.
He itched to unleash his sword, the urge almost tugging his lips into a smile. Instead, he kept his face stony, his gaze hard.
A clash with Kendrew’s captain wasn’t wise.
Alasdair and his warriors outnumbered the Mackintosh champion. The outcome would be sealed before steel struck steel. Mackintoshes weren’t the only fighters in the Glen of Many Legends. And a MacDonald riled, his temper ignited, was a force no man would wish to face. But Grim’s reputation as a champion was well-known. And as chieftain, Alasdair wasn’t of a mind to lose three good men, perhaps more, just to quench his simmering anger.
Fury that, he knew, had as much to do with Marjory as her brother.
So he drew a tight breath before her face could rise before him again, spurring him to rashness. Why just the thought of her sent his wits flying and caused him to lose all control, was a mystery he didn’t care to examine too closely. Leastways, not at the moment. He did square his shoulders and step forward, placing himself before his men. If Grim had any sense, he wouldn’t push him.
Grim folded his arms, eyeing Alasdair coldly. His silence spoke louder than words. He clearly wanted Alasdair and his men gone, off Nought lands.
“There can be no business to bring you here. I’m thinking you followed the length of your nose.” Grim’s words proved his enmity. “This is Mackintosh territory.”
“So it is. And that’s all the more reason for my interest, see you?” Alasdair flicked a look at the stumps of smooth, age-darkened wood that littered the ground. He then aimed a pointed glance at the twist of fossilized root in Grim’s hand. “Gathering stone roots, are you?”
To his surprise, the big man looked embarrassed. “Foul things clog this headland.” Grim cast aside the root as if it’d turned into a snake. “They can trip up a man, or a horse.” He glanced at the MacDonald garrons. “The stone roots make it hard to patrol these cliffs.
“Even your hill ponies, surefooted as they are, could take a fall.” He shifted and the sun came from behind a cloud, catching his broad-bladed war ax. “I’d no’ see a beast hurt on Nought ground. No’ even one of yours.”
“So you’re on watch, eh?” Angus strode over, his tone unfriendly. “Looking for anything in particular?”
“If I was, it’d be naught to you.” Grim eyed Angus up and down. “I’ve no’ wish to cut down a man double my years. Be gone before I change my mind.”
Angus spluttered, his face reddening. “I’m no’-”
“You could be my father.” Grim stepped forward and set a hand on Angus’s shoulder, gripped once, and released him. “Be glad I have other cares on my mind this day.”
“Humph.” Angus brushed at his plaid, looking nowise placated. Far from it, he fixed Grim with a rude, unblinking stare.
“Have a care, graybeard.” Grim held his gaze, spoke easily. “Still, you command a good share of your Blackshore territory. I’ll no’ have it on my shoulders if you suddenly find yourself holding no more than the earth packed round your moldering bones.”
A dangerous glint entered Angus’s eyes. “See here, you-”
“Enough.” Alasdair stepped between them. He nodded at Angus and then glanced to where the land dropped down to the sea before turning to Grim. “Longships interest me, naught else. Black-painted war galleys. I’m thinking you’ll know of them.”
Grim arched a brow. “How so?”
“Mayhap you steered such a vessel?” Alasdair voiced his suspicion.
“Why would I do that?”
“Could be that’s what I’m waiting to hear.”
“Then you may well spread your plaid on the rocks for the night as you’ll be waiting long. No’ in all thon broad waters did I see such craft.” Grim swept an arm toward the sea. “If I did, mayhap I’d no’ tell you.”
“That would be a mistake you’d rue.” Alasdair followed Grim’s gaze, his own narrowing on the horizon.
The light was fading, but the coast’s splendor still took a man’s breath. Beyond the cliff’s edge, the air was filled with wheeling, screaming seabirds. But the eye was drawn farther, toward a vast, open vista of rolling sea and countless islands, rocky islets, and black-glistening skerries. Gleaming white sand ringed each island, some low and grassy, others boasting jagged, mist-topped peaks. Some marked themselves through sheer, beetling cliffs, black and forbidding. But even those soaring rock-faces opened here and there, offering glimpses of welcoming coves where the last of the day’s sun sparkled like jewels on the water.
Alasdair’s heart squeezed at the beauty. No Highlander could stand in such a place and not be moved, deeply so. If such land were his own, his pride would know no bounds. If the land belonged to another, his soul would weep. Alasdair set his jaw, not about to do so. He also understood why the land-hungry Norse returned so often, aye seeking to make the Sea of the Hebrides their own.
He could even sympathize with Kendrew, wanting all the Glen of Many Legends.
Whatever it cost him to bring his nefarious plan to fruition.
At the thought, Alasdair leaned toward Grim. “My lookouts saw such ships off Blackshore’s coast. Hull and sails, black as pitch.”
“Perhaps your men saw seabirds?” Grim didn’t blink. He’d stepped closer to Alasdair, his pride evident as he again surveyed the great, watery expanse bef
ore them. “In certain light, any bird can look black. Or” – his tone held a trace of humor – “mayhap your men were in their cups?
“I’m just off those seas and have seen no such ships.” He clamped his lips then, apparently regretting his admission.
“You were sailing?” Alasdair glanced at his men, suspicion racing through his veins.
One of his warriors spat on the rocks. Others peeled their eyes on Grim, their stances aggressive, faces hard.
“Speak, man.” Alasdair held up a hand when his men started to move forward. “I believe your chief sent the ships to provoke a fight, a sea battle. It would serve him well to see me break the King’s peace.”
“Bah! If Kendrew wanted to challenge you, he’d come overland, no’ by water.” Grim shook his head, making his silver warrior rings jangle.
Alasdair pressed him. “If you came here by sea, where is your ship? The crew? Have you birds’ wings strapped to your back to cross water? Or” – his voice hardened – “did Kendrew lie when he swore Mackintoshes dinnae have galleys?”
“Kendrew spoke true.” Grim defended his master.
“Then it’s you telling a tall one.” Ewan sauntered over to them.
Alasdair shot him a look. But Grim offered Ewan a crooked smile, for a beat, transforming his rough-hewn face. He looked almost congenial.
“I like a man who speaks his mind.” Grim glanced back at the sea, drew his hand down over his chin. “No Mackintosh tells tales. Save the ones we enjoy before our fire of a long, dark winter night. Truth is, an Irish galley set me ashore no’ far from the mouth of the Dreagan’s Claw.
“I climbed up the cliff path and hadn’t been here long before you arrived.” He looked at Alasdair, his eyes narrowing. “If aught was amiss hereabouts, I’d have noticed. To my mind, it’s you out of place here.”
Grim hooked his thumbs in his sword belt, his face unfriendly again.
Alasdair didn’t blink, not moved by the unspoken threat.
“You were on an Irish ship?” Alasdair wasn’t sure he believed him. “Is Kendrew now seeking to wed Lady Marjory to an Irish kinglet?” The words sprang from his tongue before he could stop them.
Seduction of a Highland Warrior (Highland Warriors Book 4) Page 17
