Seduction of a Highland Warrior (Highland Warriors Book 4)

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  A rowan grew at one side of Skali, lending protection to the cottage. At their approach, one of Hella’s cats leapt off a bench beside the door. Moving fast, the cat streaked past them into the wood.

  Hurrying as well, they followed the last bit of path to the cottage. With its rough stone walls and heather thatch, Skali could’ve belonged to another time. Long-ago years when the ancient magic was strong. Many believed such powers lingered in the Glen of Many Legends.

  Somewhere in the mist, another of Hella’s cats gave a loud, high-pitched wail.

  Hella’s pets were the reason Marjory hadn’t brought along Hercules. He didn’t care for cats and was especially suspicious of the Norsewoman’s. Just now, when another glowing-eyed cat appeared out of the mist to fix them with a long, unblinking stare, she almost understood her dog’s objections to the creatures.

  Hella’s cats were a bit uncanny.

  “Do you believe the tales that claim Hella has certain powers?” Isobel leaned in, whispering in Marjory’s ear. “The cats are said to aid her and-”

  “They are her companions, not her familiars. They’re spoiled, not wicked.”

  “Still…” Isobel lowered her voice. “Folk do whisper she has certain powers.”

  “No more than any woman who bathes her face with Beltane dew and hopes to gain youthful skin all her days. Or” – Marjory eased her arm from Isobel’s grip – “the girls who hide yarrow beneath their pillow, believing they’ll see the face of their future husband in a dream.”

  “I’ve done both.” Isobel sounded embarrassed.

  “So have I.” Marjory smiled. “And there you have it. Hella is no different than any of us, save that she’s borne two great tragedies and earned wisdom from her sorrow. It cannot be easy to be twice widowed.”

  “Men do speak of her-”

  “To be sure, they do,” Marjory kept her voice low. “Age hasn’t diminished her beauty and her rejection of their suits leaves them no choice but to look for other reasons than the truth.”

  “That she still loves her two late husbands too much to desire another?”

  “So I believe.”

  Isobel sighed. “No man could replace Kendrew either. He-” She broke off when Hella appeared in the doorway.

  “Ladies…” Smiling, she came forward with her arms outstretched in welcome. A tall, strongly made woman, her face only carried a few faint lines around her eyes. Her flaxen hair hung in a thick braid to her waist, the strands still bright and silken. She wore a light-gray gown and a silver clasp held a deep-blue shawl about her shoulders. The colors, combined with the fairness of her hair and skin, were reminiscent of a clean Nordic wind blowing across the cold, deep waters of her distant homeland.

  A silver Thor’s hammer amulet rested against her breasts, her only adornment.

  “You do me honor.” She glanced at Isobel and then looked back to Marjory. “What brings you to Skali on such a chill, misty day?”

  Marjory smiled. “Who at Nought doesn’t relish a walk in such weather?”

  “True enough.” Hella ushered them through her doorway, into the cozy warmth of her cottage. “Yet something tells me there’s another reason?”

  “You are perceptive as always.” Marjory spoke true. “But it is aye a pleasure to visit you at Skali.”

  And it was.

  In keeping with her home’s name, Hella had arranged cushioned benches around the cottage’s main room. Peats glowed on the central hearth and the stone-flagged floor was well-swept and spotless. Hella’s sturdy oaken table proved equally clean, its surface scrubbed and gleaming. Two small chairs and a low, three-legged stool offered further seating, while the quiet smoldering of the peat fire and the wind through the thatch lent to the coziness.

  Bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling rafters. And a string of plump, golden herring stretched across one wall, the fish drying in the earthy-sweet haze of peat smoke that filled the little room.

  Marjory jerked her gaze from the herring, her heart giving a sharp lurch at the proof that Alasdair had been there.

  Isobel moved to the fire to warm her hands. “M’mmm…” She sighed appreciatively. “Such lovely herring, Hella. Wherever did you fetch them?”

  Marjory drew a tight breath, felt heat sweep her nape.

  For two pins, she’d look murder at Isobel.

  Instead, she kept her gaze on one of Hella’s cats, a small gray tabby, sleeping on a window ledge. Two other cats, one entirely black and the other tri-colored, played with a heather sprig in a corner.

  They were a welcome distraction.

  Even so, Hella’s enthusiastic response reached her. “The herring are fine, aren’t they? The MacDonald chieftain brought them by a while ago, a gift from one of his clanswomen for an herbal concoction I made for her.”

  “How was the MacDonald?” Isobel wriggled her fingers in the fragrant smoke rising from the peats. “Is he well?”

  “Better than I’ve ever seen him.” Hella smiled, admiration in her voice. “He’s a bonnie man. And he’s a good one to come all this way to bring such a gift to my humble door.”

  “Did he have any news?” Isobel pressed. “Tidings that might not have reached Nought?”

  “Not directly.” Hella angled her head, considering. “I have heard that he declined Laird MacKinnon’s bid for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Lady Coira is said to be a beauty. Her dowry would’ve been immense. I was surprised he rejected the offer.”

  “Perhaps he desires someone else?” Isobel’s dark gaze slid to Marjory.

  “I’ve wondered.” Hella lifted a hand, tapping her chin with a finger. “I’ve seen the fairest maids vie for his attention, yet he pays them scarce heed. I suspect his heart is given. Perhaps to someone he met when he was away so long?”

  Marjory stiffened, pretending not to hear.

  She did feel a pang, standing in the Norsewoman’s cottage, listening to her speak of Alasdair.

  More than once, she’d wished she could live as Hella did at Skali.

  Her day’s work would have been harder. She’d have faced constant toil that left a woman with reddened, calloused hands and an aching back.

  But life would’ve been so much easier.

  Her heart, and her hand in marriage, hers alone to give as she chose. Of course, even then she’d find happiness only if Alasdair happened to be a shepherd and not chieftain of an enemy clan.

  No one would have objected to their union.

  They could have lived in peace, caring for the land, raising strong, strapping sons and bonnie daughters, and enjoying evening songs by their hearth fire. And when the embers died, they’d turn into each other’s arms and spend the long dark hours of the night loving.

  Although…

  Even some shepherds were notorious charmers.

  Bold, laughing-eyed men who kissed any woman who happened across their path, simply because they could.

  The image struck her like a slap in the face, sending the homey idyll she’d envisioned spinning away.

  A rogue was a rogue, whatever his station.

  And Alasdair was the worst of such blackguards.

  “Come, you must be hungry.” Hella’s softly accented voice startled her.

  Marjory blinked, shamed to see that the older woman stood before her with a tray of fresh-baked oatcakes and cheese. She was also waiting for Marjory to take the chair she’d drawn closer to the fire.

  Isobel was already seated on one of the benches, sipping a cup of ale. Hella’s tri-colored cat had jumped up beside her, purring for attention.

  “I made the oatcakes just a while ago.” Hella glanced to where another batch baked on a girdle above the fire. A bubbling kettle of savory stew hung there as well, the tempting aroma filling the air.

  Hella offered the oatcakes again. “I know you have a good appetite. And” – she beamed – “the MacDonald even praised them. Wasn’t he kind?”

  Marjory nearly choked.

  But she took one of the oatcakes a
s she settled herself on the chair. She didn’t want to offend her friend. Hella’s oatcakes truly were the best in the land.

  Unfortunately, eating was the last thing on her mind.

  Rich auburn hair and piercing blue eyes invaded her thoughts, as did Alasdair’s powerfully muscled shoulders and his strong arms that could pull her so tightly against him. The subtle but heady scent of the sea that clung to him, dashed with the briskness of cold clean air. His hands holding her face as he kissed her, long, deep, and intoxicating.

  Hoping her thoughts weren’t blazed across her forehead, she reached for another oatcake, carefully avoiding Isobel’s knowing stare and Hella’s searching one. Unseen eyes watched her, too. A haughty black gaze that pinned her from the realm of dreams as the Saracen beauty rose in her mind, her cold face blotting all else.

  “You’re shivering.” Hella swept behind a plaid curtain where Marjory knew she slept upon a heather-stuffed pallet. Returning as quickly, she slid a soft woolen shawl around Marjory’s shoulders. “Now, my lady, tell me why you’re really here,” she urged, taking the chair across the fire from Marjory’s.

  “She had a dream.” Isobel leaned forward, speaking earnestly. “We think you can help her find answers to what she saw

  “What kind of dream?” Hella turned to Marjory.

  “I saw a Viking fire burial.” Marjory smoothed her skirts, refusing to acknowledge the bile rising in her throat.

  Instead, she sat straighter on the rough-hewn chair, her gaze steady on the Norsewoman as she described the dream. The words flowed, coming as if from true memory, as she recalled the hard-featured Viking woman who’d taunted her and tried to tip a bitter-tasting brew past her lips. She also spoke of the other women, how they’d appeared as a group to crowd and jostle her, jeering the while. She shivered when remembering Lady Sarina, the cold-eyed Saracen.

  She left out no detail, however small. She told of the huge, bearded spearmen who’d advanced on her so menacingly, beating their spear shafts against their shields as the bright, leaping flames of burning burial ships colored the sky behind them.

  So slowly, they’d come for her, each man’s harsh, grim-set face revealing his deadly intent.

  Vaguely, Marjory noted that one of Hella’s cats was weaving in and out of her chair’s legs, brushing against her, purring.

  She reached down to stroke his back, taking comfort in his silken warmth as she shared the dream’s final scenes. How the spearmen formed a double ceremonial line so the women could poke and prod her past them, leading her to a Viking lord’s funerary pyre.

  A great dragonship, dressed with scaffolding to hide the bonfires beneath its hull.

  Death fires that would be lit as soon as she’d joined the dead Norse warlord she was meant to accompany into the Otherworld.

  Somehow she’d finished the small cup of heather ale Hella poured for her. And with the grace that Marjory so admired, the older woman had moved quietly to her side and now took the cup from her hands, setting it on the little oaken table beside her.

  “I must know” – Hella smoothed Marjory’s hair back from her brow, rested a hand on her shoulder – “did you enter the flaming dragonship?”

  “Nae, praise be.” Marjory couldn’t keep the relief from her voice. “A Highland warrior appeared on the strand, arriving out of nowhere. He looked so fierce, battle ready in all his war finery, fury rolling off him. He drew his sword and rammed the blade into the sand. Then he stared round, glaring at my tormentors.”

  Marjory ignored the look Isobel shot her, pinning her friend with a warning glance of her own.

  She wasn’t about to tell Hella that Alasdair was the hero in her dream.

  “This Highlander rescued you?” Hella slid a disturbingly knowing look at Isobel.

  “He did.” Marjory brushed oatcake crumbs off her knees, pretending she hadn’t caught the women’s exchanged glances.

  She had the most uncomfortable feeling that Hella knew the dream hero was Alasdair.

  Marjory cleared her throat, rushing on before Hella could ask her. “One of the Norsemen challenged the Highlander and he grabbed the man’s spear, leveling it at them all. He warned them not to harm me. I don’t know how he came there.”

  “He came from your heart, dear one.” Hella tucked a strand of hair behind Marjory’s ear. “A hero to brave wild seas and wind, even defy hard-fighting Norsemen to champion you. He will be the man destined for you.”

  Marjory bit her tongue rather than say something she’d surely regret. All Alasdair would do to her heart, if she allowed, was stomp on it.

  She set her jaw, pushing him from her mind.

  Fortunately, Hella didn’t seem to notice her discomfort.

  “We Norse have a saying and it is true.” Hella stepped back, looking down at her fondly. “Fate is inexorable, my dear.”

  “I told her the same.” Isobel folded her hands in her lap, looking pleased. “Such a hero would tear apart a mountain to keep his lady safe.”

  Marjory stiffened. “He wasn’t really there. It was a dream.”

  Hella shook her head. “As a Nought Mackintosh, you have enough Nordic blood in your veins to know that dreams are where our souls wander paths that once were, or where we will someday find ourselves walking.”

  Marjory inhaled deeply, wishing Hella hadn’t reminded her of what she knew so well.

  What a shame the man she knew was her destiny was a greater scoundrel than her brother.

  “Did the Highland warrior carry you away with him?” Hella returned to her seat, lifting the cat who had claimed it onto her lap. “He saved you?”

  “He disappeared, vanishing as if he hadn’t been there at all.” Marjory wasn’t surprised by that part of the dream. “I fought the women holding me. I even tossed the brew they wanted me to drink into their faces. But there were so many of them. They fell upon me from all sides, dragging me to the burning ship, a great dragonship that the men set alight with torches.

  “I felt the flames, even choked on the whirling soot and ash. And then” – she tamped down a shudder, took a grateful sip of ale – “the banging of my window shutter wakened me. It was raining hard, a cold, wet wind gusting into my bedchamber. And yet…”

  She glanced at Isobel, appreciative of her friend’s nod of encouragement. “When I went to close the shutters, my foot knocked a small metal cup like the one in my dream. The beaker of some foul-smelling brew that the first woman tried to force me to drink, but-”

  “When she looked again” – Isobel leaned forward, finishing for her – “it was only one of Hercules’s wooden dog toys. That would’ve been the end of it, but Marjory’s room smelled faintly of smoke. And not from the smoored peats on her hearth, but the acrid reek of burning wood and things best not mentioned in gentle company.”

  “I see.” Hella paused, sipped her ale. “The dream and everything you experienced on waking was that vivid?”

  “It was.” Marjory nodded.

  Hella’s brow furrowed. “You are afraid this will come to pass?”

  “I’m concerned, aye.” Marjory stood, began pacing the small, bench-lined room.

  Terrified was a better description, but pride wouldn’t allow her to acknowledge such dread.

  “I wish I hadn’t been away so much these last days.” Hella set down her ale cup, her gaze flicking to the clusters of herbs hanging above them. “Some of the glen women pay well for certain cures. It was Maili, the laundress at Blackshore, who sent the MacDonald here with herring for me. I’d given Maili a salve to soften her hands. And Beathag, the cook’s wife over at Castle Haven” – she flashed a look at Isobel when she mentioned her home – “sent word that she needed my special tincture for a toothache.”

  Marjory heard only one word.

  Blackshore.

  She couldn’t allow Isobel to use Hella’s mention of Alasdair’s stronghold to bring up his name again.

  The determined glint in Isobel’s eyes said she was about to.

  �
�Hella…” Marjory didn’t give her the chance. “I’ve been wondering about your northern homeland.”

  Hella twisted around to look at her. “What do you want to know?”

  Marjory stopped pacing, stood as far as possible from the string of MacDonald herrings. She took a deep breath. “Are there Saracen women in Norway?”

  “Not always, but often enough.” Hella closed her eyes briefly, as if remembering. “Viking men appreciate comely women as much as they crave good, fertile land. My people have always traveled far and wide, often taking robust children and young, beautiful women as captives to be sold or traded.

  “See here…” She lifted the plaid curtain to her sleeping corner again, disappearing to return with a length of shining silver coins. “This is a belt-chain made of dirhams, Arab coins from distant lands beyond the known horizon. My first husband, Lars, crafted the belt for me not long after we wed. He was a trader and often spoke of the mysteries of the far-off places he visited.”

  She set the belt on the table and the silver coins gleamed red in the firelight.

  “It’s very fine, isn’t it?” A soft smile curved Hella’s lips as she looked at the gift. “Lars spoke of the beauty and grace of the women in those lands. He said they smelled of sultry nights and that their silky black hair shone like moonlight on a deep, dark sea. Their eyes” – she shrugged, lifting her hands – “he swore a man could sink into their depths, so beguiling were they.

  “Indeed, if I hadn’t known how much he loved me, I would’ve fretted each time he set sail.” Her face brightened then, her smile deepening. “If I’m honest, worry over those far-flung lovelies was the reason I took to accompanying him on many of his journeys.”

  “I wouldn’t want Kendrew around such temptation either.” Isobel gave a delicate shudder.

  Marjory resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Her brother didn’t know any women except Isobel existed. A more besotted man didn’t walk the earth.

  Alasdair…

  Marjory drew a tight breath, an unpleasant rush of heat sweeping her. How could she have given her heart to a man who was drawn to women as easily as bees swarmed to a honey hive? Annoyance shot through her and she was sure her cheeks were glowing.