Seduction of a Highland Warrior (Highland Warriors Book 4)

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  Alasdair just looked at him, keenly aware of his men snickering again.

  Only this time they were laughing at him.

  Geordie took the meat twist from Grim’s hand. He gulped it down with relish. Then, with surprising speed for his age, he snatched a second treat from Grim’s fingers. To Alasdair’s horror, Geordie then braced his front paws on the side of the cart and stretched to slurp Grim’s bearded face.

  The big man grinned, reaching down to rub Geordie’s bony shoulders as the old dog swished his tail.

  Alasdair felt heat sweep him, his chest tightening, as he stared at the spectacle.

  It was beyond acceptable.

  Equally annoying, some of his men were swinging down from their horses, joining Grim beside the wagon.

  One of the bastards took his hip flask from his belt and offered Grim a swig. Alasdair knew it was finest uisge beatha, fiery Highland spirits that a man didn’t generally share with a foe.

  “I told you Grim is a good man.” Marjory appeared at his elbow. Her eyes glittered in triumph. “You haven’t told me why you’re truly here.”

  Alasdair turned his back on the men – they were now passing round the whisky – and set both hands on Marjory’s shoulders, gripping tightly.

  “I hoped to see you, lass. I want you.” He told her true. A great mistake, because as soon as the words left his tongue, her expression closed, turning frosty. He stepped back, shoved a hand through his hair. “I’d thought-”

  “What?” She looked at him, her gaze twin shards of sapphire ice. “Did you wish to catch me unawares, slake your manly needs again?”

  “Nae, that was no’ my intent. I did wish to see you, aye. I’ll no’ deny it. No’ more. But I had other reasons as well. Suspicions I hoped-”

  “About my brother?” Her face went even colder. “All know you can’t abide him.”

  “Sweet lass, I…” The words snagged in his throat. She was standing so near, the wind lifting her hair so the silken strands teased against him. He couldn’t breathe without inhaling her scent, an intoxication so feminine and entirely her own, its freshness maddening him. His heart slammed against his ribs and his head began to throb again. Another part of him also pounded as desire sluiced him, pouring like a fever into his blood, his loins.

  He frowned. He was sure she’d sense his need for her.

  The soft clearing of a throat saved him. Relief, and something else, an indefinable emotion, flashed across Marjory’s face as she turned to her friend, Isobel. The other woman stood a few feet away, watching them with a bemused smile.

  “I, too, would hear what brought you here?” Isobel’s smile deepened as she came forward to hook her arm through Alasdair’s. “If your concerns have to do with the Glen of Many Legends, we at Nought should hear them.”

  “He brought his worries to Nought’s hall not long ago,” Marjory stated. “I cannot imagine he has anything of greater import to tell us now.” She looked at Alasdair, challengingly. “Unless he is again in need of-”

  “Norn!” Isobel stepped away from Alasdair, her eyes rounding. “You forget yourself-”

  “She is right to be wary.” Alasdair’s voice was rough, his emotions warring inside him. Half of him wanted to pull Marjory in his arms, haul her over his shoulder, and ride with her to Blackshore. The other half of him knew he had a duty to protect every man, woman, and child in the glen.

  Torn, he glanced toward the herring cart where Grim had hitched himself onto the cart’s bed and was rubbing Geordie’s ears.

  “Ho, Grim!” Alasdair called to him. “A word with you.”

  The big man grunted and pushed to his feet, giving Geordie one last ear rub before he sauntered over to Alasdair, suspicion all over him.

  “Aye?” He hooked his thumbs in his sword belt.

  In the herring cart, Geordie whined. Worse, the sound of his tail thumping against the cart’s side proved the dog liked Grim.

  The thought made Alasdair’s stomach twist.

  Grim cocked a brow, waiting.

  “The other day at the Dreagan’s Claw, after you left…” Alasdair glanced at Marjory and Isobel, hoping his words wouldn’t frighten them. Then he told Grim everything he’d seen on the little beach, from the smears of pitch at the tide line to the smoored campfire that someone had taken such care to hide behind a low mound of stones. The only thing he left out was that he’d thought he’d seen his ancestor, Drangar the Strong, staring up at him from the strand moments before he’d hastened down the cliff path.

  Grim didn’t need to know everything.

  Besides, Alasdair didn’t believe in ghosts. He’d seen mist and nothing else. But the pitch on the rocks and the cold campfire had been real.

  “I didn’t see anything the like when I was there.” Grim didn’t believe him.

  Or he was lying.

  “Men see what they expect to see.” Alasdair watched him closely. “I looked more carefully because I suspected something would be there.”

  “And if there was?” Grim’s eyes narrowed.

  “Then someone has been using the inlet to hide.” Alasdair was sure of it. “I’ll wager they’re up to no good, whoe’er they are.”

  He didn’t say he suspected they could be mercenaries paid by Kendrew.

  Grim was shaking his head. “The Dreagan’s Claw is nigh inaccessible. If the currents don’t sink a ship that comes too close to those cliffs, the rocks will rip the bottom out of any boat that tries to enter the inlet. Only a shipmaster bent on destruction would-”

  “Vikings could pass those rocks with ease.” Alasdair spoke his worst concern. “Their shipmasters can take a ship to hell and return unscathed, no’ a scratch on the hull and nary a man lost.”

  “Vikings?” Grim grinned, touched the silver Thor’s amulet hanging round his neck. “Fear the Northmen, do you?”

  A few feet away, Marjory and Isobel stood close together, their hands clasped tightly. Both women had gone pale and Alasdair wished there’d been a way to speak of the matter without alarming them.

  “I fear no man.” He kept his gaze on Grim. “But I’ll no’ have unrest descend on this glen. You’ll no’ deny the Northmen aye bring trouble.”

  Grim folded his arms. “I’d suggest you let Nought men deal with trespassers on our shores. If such intruders have even been here. If they harry you at Blackshore, then you can make them your business.”

  “They have been at Blackshore.” Alasdair’s blood chilled at his suspicions. He was sure the two black-painted dragonships had been sent by Kendrew. Worse, that they had something to do with Marjory.

  Grim appeared unconcerned. “Ships passing your coast, howe’er they’re painted, say naught.”

  “They were also in my loch.” Alasdair heard Marjory gasp and his heart clenched. “No’ dragonships” – he glanced at her – “but a black-painted coracle, slipping along beneath my stronghold’s walls. One of my men saw the boat from the ramparts.”

  He didn’t say that his guardsman swore he saw a long-necked humpbacked sea serpent, steam blowing from the creature’s nostrils.

  Alasdair knew a black-painted coracle, a round cockleshell of a two-manned boat, could be mistaken for such a beast on a cold, dark-misted night. The steam would’ve been the luminescence of spume, stirred by the dipping of oars into the water.

  In his mind, Alasdair saw his great-uncle, Malcolm, sitting ramrod straight on his stool in Alasdair’s painted solar. The truth, lad, varies depending on the direction of a man’s viewpoint, the aged warrior loved to say. Ne’er forget that and you’ll do well in life.

  It was a lesson Alasdair had taken to heart.

  Steam-spewing sea beasties weren’t swimming in Loch Moidart.

  But his man had seen something.

  Grim didn’t turn a hair. “Did you see the coracle?”

  “My man’s word sufficed.”

  “I’ll tell Kendrew.” Grim’s tone hinted at what he’d say.

  He’d make Alasdair sound like a ra
ving madman.

  Alasdair nodded curtly. He didn’t care.

  He did have another point. “It would be like him to send a paid crew to Blackshore, stirring trouble, hoping to goad me into a sea fight.”

  Grim snorted. “We have better to do at Nought than pull such pranks.”

  As if the heavens agreed, thunder cracked closer than before and a gust of wind shook the trees, bringing a flurry of cold, spitting rain.

  “Come, ladies.” Grim took both women by their elbows, began steering them away. “We’ll wait out the storm at Skali. Hella will-”

  “Nae, we must return or Kendrew will be furious.” Isobel dug in her heels, balking. “He thinks we’re in the ladies’ solar, working on new wall hangings for the great hall.”

  “If we hurry, we can be back before he notices.” Marjory turned, already making for the trees.

  Alasdair frowned as Grim and Isobel hastened after her. They disappeared into the wood, thick mist hiding them like an eager conspirator.

  “Wait!” Alasdair strode forward, catching them in several swift strides. “I have horses. My men and I will take you back to Nought. We’ll have you there before the worst of the storm breaks.” He ignored Grim, looking only at the women. “Kendrew won’t know you’ve been away.”

  Grim’s eyes took on a stubborn glint. “I think not-”

  “An excellent idea.” Isobel took Alasdair’s side, gracefully disentangling herself from Grim’s hold on her arm. She started forward, smiling. “We shall be in your debt.”

  “You don’t have extra horses.” Marjory didn’t move.

  Alasdair smiled. “Grim can ride in the herring cart with Geordie. I’ve rigged an oiled sailcloth to cover the cart for Geordie. The brine smell might be a bit sharp, but they’ll be comfortable enough.”

  Grim said nothing.

  He was looking at Alasdair as if he’d grown two heads and a tail.

  “You, Lady Isobel, can ride with my cousin, Ewan.” Alasdair felt a stone fall from his heart when she beamed, her gaze lighting on Ewan as the lad swung down from his horse and made her a bow.

  “I shall be pleased.” She hitched her skirts and went to join Ewan, no doubt hurrying before Grim or Marjory could argue with her.

  “That leaves me.” Marjory turned a cool blue gaze upon him.

  “She stays with me.” Grim stepped between them. “Or” – he lifted his hands, flexing his fingers – “are you thinking otherwise?”

  “No’ at all.” Alasdair pushed past him and swept Marjory into his arms. “The matter’s settled. She rides with me.”

  Grim roared and blocked his path. “I’ll no’ allow it.”

  Alasdair stepped around him, carrying Marjory across the little clearing. His men were already riding forward, Ewan leading his horse. Lady Isobel was mounted behind him and Alasdair would’ve sworn she winked at him as they rode closer.

  Behind him, Grim muttered curses.

  But after tossing one last furious glance at Alasdair, he swung himself into the herring cart with Geordie, quickly pulling the oiled sailcloth into place as if to blot the view of Alasdair and his men.

  It was then that Isobel slipped from Ewan’s horse, falling hard onto the mossy ground.

  “Owwww!” She rolled onto her side, clutching one ankle. She made no attempt to stand, her dark eyes round and full of pain. “I’ve hurt my foot,” she cried, not looking at Alasdair or Marjory.

  Alasdair did glance at Marjory, not surprised to see her frowning.

  Isobel wasn’t injured, he was certain.

  But something was amiss.

  Before he could figure out what, Grim leapt from the cart and ran over to Isobel.

  “My lady – dinnae move!” The big man knelt beside her, sliding an arm beneath her shoulders. She turned toward him, pressing her face against his neck, moaning pitiably. “Be still,” Grim advised again, this time reaching for her hem. “Let me see your ankle.”

  “No-o-o!” She grabbed his hand, shoving it aside. “Don’t touch it, please!”

  “Lady, you can ride in the cart. But first you must let us look.” Alasdair started forward only to stop when he caught a glimpse of Isobel’s face.

  She was smiling.

  There could be no mistaking.

  “I don’t think I could stand the jarring.” Isobel’s voice lifted, the words muffled because she spoke against Grim’s shoulder. “I’d rather stay a while at Hella’s.” That was much clearer. “Grim can carry me there.”

  “I will, my lady,” Grim quickly agreed.

  But he threw a look at Marjory, his bearded face suspicious. “You should return with us to Skali, lady. You cannot ride on with MacDonald-”

  “Oh, but she must.” Isobel spoke without lifting her head. “If she reaches Nought swiftly enough, she can join Kendrew in the hall at supper, telling him I’m feeling poorly and have retired early.

  “He aye comes abovestairs late, after making his rounds of the castle. By then” – she paused and Alasdair would’ve sworn she was struggling against laughter – “Grim and I can be back at Nought and-”

  “No one will be the wiser,” Marjory finished for her.

  “It’s for the best.” Isobel threw them a glance, not looking at all pained.

  Alasdair was mightily so.

  He now knew what exactly what had bothered him when Isobel’s fall put a frown rather than worry on Marjory’s face.

  Lady Isobel hadn’t slipped from Ewan’s horse at all. She’d staged the fall. And there could only be one reason she’d done so.

  She wanted to give Marjory time alone with him.

  And – his lips twitched, his mind racing – he intended to take full advantage.

  Far be it from him to disappoint a lady.

  Hours later, another proud MacDonald stood tall and straight at the edge of Blackshore’s most rugged headland, the sheer cliffs known as Drangar Point. It was because the promontory bore his name that Drangar gave his best efforts to hover erect and not let the wind make a mockery of his once-intimidating posture.

  It helped that the night had settled.

  Fine silver light spilled down across the sea each time the moon slid from behind the clouds. And hardly a ripple broke the water’s black, glassy surface. Mist hid the horizon and thicker fog curled around the Warrior Stones, the twin monoliths that speared heavenward only a few paces from where he hovered.

  Drangar glanced at the stones, so still and cold. Even the altar stone, toppled onto the grass these long centuries, appeared to be holding its breath, waiting. Runes and lichens covered the stones, aged markings as silent as the mist-shrouded night.

  Once, in the distant past when he’d carved the runes, he’d believed their magic would guard Blackshore and Clan Donald for all his days and beyond.

  Now, he suspected his conceit might’ve angered the Old Ones.

  The stones were sacred before he’d touched them, after all.

  His runes probably weren’t needed.

  Yet the gods had given him a gift that required safekeeping. At the time, it never crossed his mind that he’d already possessed something so precious that its worth was immeasurable. He’d simply accepted the gods’ benefice.

  Then, as he should have known, he’d paid the price.

  Drangar stood straighter, adjusted the fall of his fine black cloak.

  How pathetic that just touching the soft woolen folds hurt him more than if someone thrust a dagger into his heart.

  Yet he wore the cloak always.

  A reminder of all he’d lost.

  How over the years, he’d learned what truly mattered in life. Such as taking pleasure in the small joys and accomplishments, and that it wasn’t victory that made a man great, but the courage to step upon the road that would take him there.

  He frowned, wishing one road was still open to him.

  But just as in their earthly lives, ghosts made their own paths. And the woman he’d loved then, and still loved now, had barred the way to
her heart.

  He couldn’t reach her.

  Even as he’d failed to save her when they’d lived. He tried, pounding across the strand and plunging into the cold, tossing sea, swimming out to the tidal rocks that had stolen the life from his love.

  All his power and might availed nothing.

  And in the end, only they remained.

  He’d been colder, his earth life more empty, than these long years beyond the grave.

  So he took a deep breath – or did as if – and stood as tall and proudly as he could, grateful for the things he had achieved.

  He also thanked the gods for causing the wind to drop.

  Maintaining his dignity proved easier when he wasn’t buffeted about as if he possessed less substance than a wisp of bog cotton.

  How sad that the description fit.

  Yet he had every right to keep his head lifted. Despite his limitations, he’d managed to attract the young chief’s attention at the Dreagan’s Claw. He might not have the solidness he’d once kept so hard-muscled and battle-ready, but his wits hadn’t deserted him. Some things stayed with a man, even in the Otherworld.

  Love didn’t leave a man either, as well he knew.

  Or the sorrows that could still weigh down on a man’s shoulders, making his heart ache with a fierceness to rival any living man’s tragedies.

  If young Alasdair was wiser than he’d been, he’d be spared such heartache.

  Drangar hoped it would be so.

  Perhaps he should pay a call to Blackshore and do what he could to talk sense into the lad. To be sure, he wouldn’t be able to sit him down in his painted solar and lecture him as he’d like to do.

  But he still had ways.

  Unfortunately, just as he made to wish himself into Alasdair’s presence, his ever-sharp eyes caught a glimmer on the water that wasn’t moonglow.

  His warrior instincts snapping alert, Drangar peered out across the sea to where a faint reddish glow revealed the night lanterns of a moored ship. A high dragon-headed prow rose black against the darkness, revealing the ship’s Nordic origin.

  Whoever the Vikings were, they felt safe enough to light a fire.