Men so bold meant trouble.
Drangar frowned, forgetting his own cares. Almost, he wished himself out across the open water so that he could see the men for himself. Take his measure of their strengths and weaknesses, make a battle plan.
Only one thing held him back…
His fine black mantle.
Even after so many years, he hadn’t mastered how to whoosh across great distances without his cloak slipping from his shoulders. Its fine Celtic clasp, so secure in life, was now just as insubstantial as he was.
Once, while attempting to whisk across a patch of marshland, the cloak had fallen into a bog.
It’d taken him forever to retrieve it, and twice as long to clean the hand-spun wool.
Had anyone other than his beloved Seona crafted the cloak for him, he’d risk crossing the waves to reach the moored dragonship.
But if he lost his mantle to the sea…
It was all he had left of her.
The wife he’d hurt so badly.
And who’d refused to believe that he regretted his one-time dalliance with a selkie maid? And that all the comeliest seal women of the seas could have swam ashore and he’d have walked past them all, seeing, desiring, – and loving – only his precious wife, Seona.
Instead she’d reviled him, despising him so fiercely that she’d taken her life.
The truth of it was he’d killed her.
It was a sorrow he’d borne for eternity.
A regret he could never undo.
And so he did what he could and stood guard on the cliffs, leaving the Vikings to Alasdair. Sometimes a man’s greatest moments came when he was pressed against a wall.
That, too, Drangar had learned.
If he’d failed at his own hour of reckoning, when he’d realized where Seona was and what she intended, he knew Alasdair would triumph.
He wouldn’t arrive too late, unable to prevent tragedy.
Love was strength.
And even if the lad didn’t yet know it, the Mackintosh lass loved him enough to see him through greater battles than any Vikings could pitch.
What a shame his own lady hadn’t loved him with equal fervor.
How he wished she had.
Chapter 14
With the cold wind buffeting them, Alasdair and his men thundered across Nought’s most bleak and empty bounds. Marjory shared Alasdair’s horse, her arms wrapped tightly around him, her face pressed to his plaid-draped shoulder. He spurred his horse to great speed, his riding style bold and aggressive. As if he owned these wild, windblown lands and not her family, as they’d done for centuries.
“Please, slow down! This is no place to ride like a demon.” Marjory lifted her head, raising her voice above the wind so he’d hear her.
If he did, he gave no sign.
He did send his horse sailing over a rushing burn.
“You’re crazed,” Marjory hissed the words between her teeth.
“Aye, that I am!” he called over his shoulder, proving he had heard her.
But he said no more.
And rather than slow his beast, he gave the animal his head, letting him race with them across ground many at Nought swore had been hewn by the devil’s own hand. Marjory curled her hands around Alasdair’s sword belt. Her fingers brushed the rock-hard muscles of his abdomen, an intimacy that sent warmth spooling through her belly. But instead of sighing with pleasure, as well she could, she tried to ignore the melting deliciousness. The tingles rippling so sweetly across her most intimate places.
She’d seen Alasdair’s face when he’d glanced back at her.
His expression was hard and fierce. Never had she seen him look so angry.
He clearly couldn’t wait to reach Nought, to be rid of her.
Why else would he ride at such breakneck speed?
Marjory blinked, her eyes stinging from the cold wind. Her hair streamed out behind her, a skein of tangles, she was sure. And still they barreled on. Sheer stone walls, Nought’s fiercest peaks, edged the narrow vale they were careening through, the granite heights seeming to glower down at them. Jumbles of rocks were everywhere, the broken ground treacherous, while the air was thick with the wet smell of imminent rain. More threatening was the rigidness of Alasdair’s back, the stark displeasure pouring off him.
Whatever had sizzled and burned between them in the clearing was gone.
He’d withdrawn from her, his stony silence chilling her more than the rain beginning to spit down at them from the dark and angry sky.
Stung and confused, Marjory clung to him, refusing to allow pride to make her loosen her grip on his belt. Unlike Isobel, she wasn’t an expert horsewoman. And she had no wish to fall to the rocky ground.
She wanted to live for another day.
If only to look Alasdair in the eye, keep her chin lifted, and show him he couldn’t hurt her.
How sad that just a short while ago she’d believed everything would be right with them.
She’d felt so close to triumph.
Even though she’d not dared to show it, hope had bloomed, her heart soaring. She’d seduce him properly this time, if not with skill, then with all the passion burning inside her. And he’d succumb, falling in love with her at last, never again desiring the other women who so easily caught his eye. He’d be hers alone.
And she’d be his.
Her pact with Catriona and Isobel would be fulfilled, her heart even more joyous.
Truth was she’d want Alasdair even if he was a sheepherder and dwelled in a humble cottage like Skali.
Nothing would matter except their love, which would burn brighter than all the stars in the night sky, their passion dimming the sun.
She’d been so certain. At the clearing, she’d felt the truth so strongly. Her heart had swelled, her spirits lifting. Fortune was hers, Isobel’s trick fall paving the way for her. The rain would do the rest, demanding a halt.
Now…
She tightened her grip on Alasdair’s belt, bit her lip against the hot pain in her throat. Angry, she swallowed against the thickness rising there.
Mackintoshes didn’t cry.
But what a fool she’d been!
Riding away with Alasdair had shown her the real truth. He’d gone more distant with each heather mile they crossed. Her hopes crumbled, her budding excitement disappearing like the smoke of a snuffed candle. Frustration bit deep, her hard-won confidence fleeing.
Not about to let him know, she forced herself to sit as stiffly as he did. To pretend her arms weren’t wrapped snug about the man she loved so dearly, and wanted so badly. She ached for him with primal need, the woman in her not caring about pride. She’d have given him her virtue. She’d have done so gladly, if this ill-starred race across Nought hadn’t revealed his indifference.
But all wasn’t lost.
Soon they’d reach her home. She could walk away in dignity, not looking back.
Forgetting the dreams he’d shattered.
Until then, she’d return his cold silence and not think of anything else.
About the same time, but far out to sea, a Viking dragonship rode the night at anchor. The glow of an oil lamp illuminated the ship’s tall, serpent-headed prow and the large square sail was furled. A heavy iron-and-stone anchor secured the twenty-oared warship against the tide.
Here, so distant from the far peaks of Nought, the night was still. Nothing stirred except the water along the hull and the creaking timbers. What wind there’d been had died hours ago and the sea shone like polished black glass. Darkness hid the moon, though now and then its wan light slipped through the clouds to silver the coastline where, even on such a windless night, waves broke white against the rocks.
Some might say the Glen of Many Legends was showing its teeth.
A Viking would laugh and smash those teeth, proving that bold men with swords and axes wouldn’t be stopped by Highland bravura.
Plenty of Norse fighting men crowded the dragonship, Storm-Rider. Fearless men with good, s
trong faces that folk of weaker blood might liken to the devil’s own spawn.
The shipmaster, Ivar Ironstorm, had handpicked each oarsman. He’d chosen them for their brute strength and daring. Their willingness to swear him allegiance was also of great importance. Almost as crucial as the number of coins in the two heavy leather sacks at his feet just now. Wealth he’d been counting until Troll, his one-eyed oarsman, ruined his concentration by belching.
A fastidious man, Ivar was offended by crudeness.
Even if their night’s meal of old bread, cheese, and ale, wasn’t the sumptuous fare Ivar preferred, he expected his men to eat like the lords he’d make them once his aging overlord succumbed to his ailments and Ivar reaped the riches he so rightly deserved.
Troll might not live to receive his share.
His mood souring, Ivar stood and left the sheltered steering platform where he’d been enjoying the cold weight of silver in his palms.
“Troll!” He strode down the aisle between the rowing benches, his hand unfastening his leather clout from his sword belt.
“You belched.” He struck Troll hard in the face with the switch. The blow would have the lout biting his tongue before he’d emit another such peace-stealing noise into an otherwise quiet night.
“I didn’t.” Troll’s good eye glittered with rebellion and he leapt to his feet, thrusting a thick arm toward the darkened coast. “I said, look there, I did. There was a glow on the cliffs by Drangar Point. A bright flare, it was, as if from a balefire.
“Could be the MacDonalds have spotted us and are lighting fires in warning.” Troll glanced round at the other oarsmen as if hoping they’d agree.
Snores or blank stares answered him.
Ivar tapped the clout slowly against his thigh. “Blackshore’s coast is dark. There’s not a glimmer of light there. “You’re lying.” His voice took on a dangerous softness. “Aren’t you?”
“I saw the light, too.” Bors, who sprawled near a pile of oilcloth-covered weapons, pushed up on his elbow to defend his friend. “It grew and spread along the cliff top. I saw it plain as day.
“Could be there was even a man on the cliffs.” Bors touched the hammer amulet at his neck, shuddered visibly. “A tall man in a dark cloak, he was. I saw his shadow lit by the glow, even from this distance.” He curled his fingers around his talisman, gripping tightly. “He was looking out to sea, staring right at me.”
“You were asleep.” Ivar turned a stern eye on him. He took a step closer, aware that the light from the ship’s lantern would glint off his arm rings, giving his pale, unbound hair a godlike sheen. Many said he had the looks of Thor and he enjoyed using the likeness to keep his men respectful. “If you don’t wish to sleep forever, think hard before you lie to me.”
All down the ship, men swiveled their heads, watching the exchange.
Ivar folded his arms, pleased by their interest. “Well?”
Bors slid a regretful look at Troll.
He said no more.
Ivar nodded. He also made a silent note to lose both Troll and Bors in the sea before they sailed back home to his beloved Trondelag in Norway. A fine place of wild, rolling seas and cold winds where mountains and rivers of ice were kissed by snow that fell from clean, white skies. The Trondelag was also where he’d soon rule supreme, the most alluring temptress in the land at his side by day and in his bed at night.
Lady Sarina.
His overlord’s wife. And Ivar’s lover.
Ivar’s loins tightened at the thought of her. He inhaled sharply and turned on his heel, striding back up the aisle to the steering platform before his men could see the bulge straining at his breeches.
Even here, so many sea miles away, he could smell the heady musk of her perfume. Her taste lingered on the back of his tongue, rich, dark, and intoxicating. His lust for her maddened him every waking moment he didn’t have her lithe body pinned beneath him, writhing in ecstasy. When he slept, he felt her fingernails scoring his shoulders, could hear her cries of pleasure as she met his every thrust each time he drove into her hot, silky heat.
“Thor’s steaming seed…” Ivar hissed the curse as he sat back down before the two sacks of silver coins. Closing his eyes, he took a long, ragged breath, willing away the images of his seductive, dusky-skinned wanton.
Much as he desired her, wealth mattered more.
Land, power, and men to serve him.
So he plunged his hands into one of the coin sacks, letting the cold weight of the silver chase the painful pounding between his legs.
When the agony lessened, he turned his attention to another sack.
A bulky leather pouch crammed beneath a nearby rowing bench. The sack held deliberately dirtied travelers robes. Scruffy shoes with holes at the toes that would give the impression that the men who’d worn them had made a long and tedious journey. Filthy garb that two of his craftiest men had donned when they’d climbed the cliff path leading up from Clan Mackintoshes’ convenient Dreagan’s Claw inlet and paid a call to Kendrew of Nought who, he’d heard this very night, had been most pleased to greet them.
Their news exceeded his expectations.
Hoping to enjoy their tidings again, Ivar looked down Storm-Rider’s aisle, searching for Dag or Skring. He spotted Skring first, pleased to see the man sitting against the hull, whetting his ax blade.
“Skring.” Ivar jerked his head when the man looked his way, knowing the warrior would come to him at once.
And Skring did, setting aside his ax and pushing to his feet to join Ivar on the steering platform.
“You wish help counting the coin, lord?” Skring squatted beside him, his surprisingly guileless face splitting in a grin as he eyed the heavy pouches.
Ivar returned his smile.
He valued a man who could pass for a hapless mendicant friar or a pilgrim yet could delight in dancing in a foe’s spilled guts an hour later.
Who would suspect that such a courier carried false messages?
Ivar clapped a hand on Skring’s shoulder, hoping to show his appreciation. He rewarded such followers well and Skring would soon be a rich man.
They all would, if everything went to plan.
So Ivar took a silver flask and two small silver cups from a niche in the ship’s hull and poured two measures of fine birch wine.
He gave a cup to Skring, proving his favoritism.
Not many men were worthy of his private stock of birch wine.
“I’d hear again your assessment of the Mackintosh chieftain’s reaction.” Ivar clinked his wine cup against Skring’s and then turned his gaze on the black line of coast that was the Glen of Many Legends. “You’re sure he’ll be satisfied with only one bag of coin?”
It didn’t seem possible.
All men thirsted for land, sinuous hot-blooded women, and coffers of gold.
Silver, in this instance.
“We can’t risk him declining my lord’s offer.” Ivar wouldn’t consider failure.
Skring tossed back his birch wine, thrust out his cup for more. “Mackintosh has everything most men desire,” he reported as Ivar refilled his cup. “Land aplenty. And by all accounts, he loves his wife and lusts after no other.”
“And riches?” Ivar arched a brow.
Skring shrugged. “His hall is grand and Dag and I were feasted like kings. I’d say he suffers no dearth of coin. He doesn’t need the second sack of silver. We didn’t even mention it.” He cocked a brow, following Ivar’s gaze to the coast. “We thought that would please you.”
“It does.” Ivar could scarce believe his good fortune.
No one would guess that Kendrew hadn’t received the full bride price for his sister.
If any of his men dared say a word, they wouldn’t live to speak another.
A fact they knew well.
Still…
“The Mackintosh.” Ivar rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. “He has pride, I’ve heard? And he’s rumored to care for his sister. Why would he accept so little
for her hand?” He turned back to Skring, truly puzzled. “Surely he would bargain for more?”
“Not Kendrew Mackintosh.” Skring drained his wine cup again, dragged his arm over his mouth. “He’s proud of his family’s ties to the northlands. He even claims descent from Berserkers.”
“Ahhh…” Ivar rubbed his chin, his lips quirking. “So he wishes to strengthen blood ties to the old homeland?”
Skring snorted. “That’s why he’s accepting the offer as we made it. You, lord,” – he leaned forward and tapped his cup to Ivar’s again – “are the prize. We told him your overlord is dying and that his greatest wish is to see you, his most powerful warlord, settled and wed before he breathes his last, leaving all to you.”
“Settled and wed to a Scotswoman of Nordic blood?” Ivar’s doubts were beginning to ease. “A Scotswoman who, upon Lord Rorik’s passing, will be the wife of the greatest noble in the land?”
Skring nodded. “So it is, lord.”
“Mackintosh wants his sister to marry into Norse nobility.” Ivar felt a slow smile curving his lips. “And” – he slapped his knee – “that she shall!
“A pity she’ll only enjoy my new status for such a brief time.” Ivar’s loins began to throb again. Skring and Dag had reported that Lady Marjory was fair, yet said to be quite attractive.
Women with hair the color of moonbeams didn’t stir him. But he’d still relish a tumble or two with her.
She was no doubt a virgin.
Her sheath would be tight and slick, a reward for his trouble in fetching her.
Best of all, it would drive Sarina to fits of jealousy if he rutted with the Scotswoman before they sent her to take Sarina’s place on Rorik’s funerary pyre.
Sarina in a rage would be a rare delight.
Ivar could almost spill himself now, just imagining taking her when she was in a temper.
“You are a good man, Skring.” Ivar reached again for his prized birch wine.
Skring grinned and held out his cup.
And at the other end of Storm-Rider, Bors and Troll kept horror-filled gazes on the long dark coast that was the Glen of Many Legends.
The pulsating glow on Drangar Point was back again.
Seduction of a Highland Warrior (Highland Warriors Book 4) Page 24
