But his gaze slid to the jewel-rimmed chalice, his hesitancy giving Isobel hope.
“Please.” She touched his arm, pressing his rock-hard muscle. “If Midsummer Eve meant anything to you, anything at all, then do this for me.”
He inhaled audibly, releasing the breath slowly. “You go too far, Lady Isobel.”
“Would you care about a woman less bold?” She stepped closer, letting her breasts brush his mail-coated chest. “One too afraid and simpering to-”
“Damn you.” He jerked back as if she’d scorched him, and then took three long strides to the viands table. Frowning blackly, he snatched up the blessing chalice and marched back to the cairn where he tossed the vessel’s contents onto the waiting stones.
“So mote it be.” He made the words sound as if they’d choked him.
If anyone noticed, they gave no sign.
Everyone around the cairn cheered, the dancers whirling faster, faces shining in the excitement of the moment. Only two souls stood quiet, their countenances glowing with a wholly different kind of exhilaration. They were Marjory and Alasdair, standing at the edge of the crowd, looking at one another as if no one else existed.
When Alasdair lifted a hand to stroke Marjory’s hair back from her face, Isobel knew trouble would erupt.
“Leave them be.” Isobel grabbed Kendrew’s arm when she saw he’d spotted them. “They are only talking.”
“Say you.” He pulled free, flashing another look at the pair. “Talking they are now, aye. And a moment ago he was touching her hair. We both know what happens next.” He took her chin, tilting her face to his. “Dinnae think to defend her. I’ll no’ have my sister tainted by a MacDonald.
“I’m fetching her from the bastard’s clutches” - he released her – “and then I’m taking her home to Nought where she belongs.”
Isobel’s heart sank. “But the feasting-”
“Your carouse will go on without Mackintoshes.” He started toward his sister, glancing back only once. “You should be glad to see the last of me.”
“No, wait…” Isobel set his banner on an empty bench near the viands table and made to go after him, but a firm grip to her elbow stopped her.
“He’ll no’ be taking her anywhere, my lady,” the deep voice behind her sounded amused.
Grim.
Isobel froze. Her gaze was still on Kendrew’s broad, silver-glinting shoulders as he shoved his way through the ring of dancers, heading for Marjory and Alasdair, who hadn’t yet noticed his approach.
She looked away before he reached them, not wanting to see Marjory’s anguish when her brother tore her from the man she’d set her heart on.
Instead, Isobel turned to Grim. The man who – according to Grizel – held secrets she needed to hear.
For a beat, she thought she saw the crone and her enchanted white stag in the shadows of the pines, the two of them looking her way, watching.
But when she blinked, they were gone.
Grim remained, offering the best smile he could for a man with such a hard, rough-hewn face. “Norn will no’ be letting him push her around, ne’er you worry.” He glanced her way, his lips twitching at the sight of Kendrew and Alasdair going toe to toe against each other, clearly arguing.
Marjory looked cool as spring rain, untroubled and sure of herself.
She didn’t look anguished at all.
But Isobel’s heart raced wildly. Kendrew in a temper was a sight to behold. Almost, but not quite, as glorious as when his blue eyes blazed with passion, his gaze locking with hers as he lowered his head to kiss her…
Isobel tore her gaze from him, not wanting his friend to read her emotions. “I am worried for my friend, Lady Marjory.” It wasn’t a lie. “She knows her mind and-”
“Kendrew will no’ treat her wrongly.” Grim clearly misunderstood her concern. “He does right by her and always will. His temper will have cooled by the feasting this e’en. He’ll be in fine fettle then.”
Isobel doubted it.
But she did need to speak to Grim. Such an opportunity might not arise again so easily. And he’d already proven himself an ally, of sorts.
“Grim...” She went to the viands table, pouring him a generous cup of ale. “I would speak with you about a certain matter. Something that might” – she waited until he accepted the ale – “go against your loyalties to discuss with me.”
His face turned a shade less convivial. “I am a true man, my lady. I do not betray bonds of blood or oath, not for anyone.”
“I would not ask you to do the like.” She wouldn’t, knowing her own honor was just as proud.
But she wasn’t above taking all advantages open to her, as long as trusts weren’t broken.
“I wouldn’t wish you to tell me anything I shouldn’t know.” She hooked her arm through his, leading him away from the other celebrants. Stepping hopefully, she steered him toward the only place she could think of that would be empty this day: the walled kitchen garden.
That he went with her gave her courage.
“Then what would you know, my lady?” He waited while she unlatched the garden’s wooden gate.
“I would hear of Rannoch Moor.” She held the gate open, letting him step onto the gravel path. “I know Kendrew visits the women there and-”
“Is that what you’ve heard?” He stopped, looking at her in surprise.
“Why, yes.” Isobel didn’t understand.
Everyone knew how often he journeyed there.
“You heard rightly.” Grim angled his head, his eyes sharp now. “He does go often to Rannoch Moor. But his visits have nothing to do with the women there. He has another reason for making the journey.”
“Oh?” Isobel’s heart would’ve skipped with joy if not for the shadow that crossed Grim’s face. “Is it something bad, then?”
“Nae, my lady, though it is sad.” Grim glanced up at the clouds and then pulled a hand down over his chin before he looked back at her. “Kendrew goes to the moor to visit his mother.”
Isobel blinked. “His mother?”
“Aye, herself and no other.” Grim nodded. “The lady is buried there.”
* * *
Unbeknownst to Isobel and Grim, or any of the friendship and dedication ceremony celebrants, another guest took much interest in the day’s activities.
He was Daire.
He’d been along with Kendrew and his party for the whole journey from Nought to the erstwhile trial by combat battling ground. He’d had a time of it, keeping pace with them. Sometimes he’d fallen behind. But he’d still done the clan proud, dressed in full battle array and even donning a shining, plumed helm. He’d considered tossing a bearskin over his shoulders, but he rather appreciated the sheen of mail. Sadly, no one in the glittering entourage of Mackintosh warriors had spared him a glance. Not that he’d expected one, all things considered.
He’d been delighted to drift along in their wake, grateful that such a possibility existed for him.
Afterlife could be worse, he was sure.
Indeed, except for a certain nagging ache in his heart, he was much blessed.
Now, although he’d rather partake of the ale and victuals spread upon the viands table, he hovered patiently near where Kendrew had been staring so fixedly only a short while before. Here, close to the dense, black-looming edge of Haven’s pine wood, he had a splendid view of the festivities. But he didn’t risk the unpleasantness of having one of the dancers accidentally whirl through him.
Suchlike did happen now and then.
And perhaps it was vanity, or maybe just wistful yearning for his old life, but he didn’t like being reminded that he no longer ‘was.’
He was still here, after all.
Leastways, he was after a fashion.
So Daire – the proudest of all Mackintoshes - swelled his chest a bit and made sure his mail shone brightly as he held his position a few inches above the damp, needle-covered entrance to the woodland path.
Truly not a boastful man – certain
ly not in his long-ago mortal existence - he did bend tradition by allowing himself the title of ‘proudest.’
He figured the style was well-earned.
Unlike others of his name, the weight of centuries gave him ample time to ponder his clan’s greatness. He understood the glory of Nought. The heart-stopping splendor of sheer cliffs and dark mists, the rock-strewn vale of dreagans, so sacred and dear to him. He also knew the strength, pride, and fearlessness of the men who, all down the ages, had called his beloved home their own.
Now, much to his sorrow and annoyance, he had to look on as Kendrew, the present chieftain, narrowed the clan’s notable traits to pride.
That, and – Daire squared his shoulders, trying to hover a bit straighter – the most irksome abomination of all: stubborn foolhardiness.
The young chieftain needed to learn that little good comes of strutting about like a vaunting peacock.
Sooner or later, someone salts your tail.
Or the day arrives when you meet someone whose sword is longer and faster than your own. In a blink, you face an enemy whose ax blade is sharper and more deadly than the one in your hand.
Daire knew the like well.
In his day, he’d failed to win everlasting peace in the glen by kitting the perfect love matches he’d planned so carefully. He’d had a knack for the like. Rodan the traitor had seen to the end of those hopes and aspirations when he’d shown his true face, bringing hordes of callous mercenaries to slaughter men and dreagans alike. Darkness descended as they ravaged Nought, ripping apart the cairns, searching for silver and gold they’d never find.
Nought’s treasure was the strength of its high, noble peaks, the freshness of pure mountain air, the goodness of cold, rushing rivers, and the endless maze of jumbled rock that so often deterred invaders. Wealth could also be found in the richness of Nought’s upland grazing, hidden places dressed in lush, sweet grass that made Mackintosh cattle the finest in all the Highlands.
But the greatest prize was the people who called Nought home.
Proud men and women who loved their land so fiercely that even the price of death wasn’t too dear if it meant holding on to the beloved glen that held their history and blood, the promise of distant days yet to come. So long as a Mackintosh held Nought, the world was good.
Daire meant for things to stay that way.
When he walked – rather than floating – he’d done a fair job. Now, insubstantial as he was, he could only observe. And at times, use his ghostly skills to lend a few helpful nudges. Like the day he’d kept pushing the top stones off Slag’s Mound so that Kendrew would be forced to deliver them to Castle Haven for the memorial cairn.
Still…
He couldn’t fight flesh and blood men.
Those days were past.
Yet war-bands roamed the glen. And – Daire shuddered – they were bold men well able to come close to Kendrew and his warriors in an affray. For sure, they’d wash the lower reaches of the glen, Cameron and MacDonald territory, with bright, fast-running blood. And they’d laugh the while, enjoying their horrible deeds and caring for no one.
Once, Daire, Slag, and the other dreagan masters and their beasts could’ve banished such dastards in the blink of an eye. Even the most fearsome fighter ran when a blast of dreagan fire melted his sword.
But those days were gone.
Daire’s might held all the substance of a curl of mist. And even if Slag had fared better in the Otherworld and still retained his former strength, Daire had no idea where the beast was.
They couldn’t confront the cravens prowling the glen. Men who lived for mayhem and slaughter and only wished to leave the Glen of Many Legends in smoking ruin.
Stopping the fiends fell to Kendrew.
Yet Kendrew believed himself as invincible, as untouchable, as Daire was now.
Daire would give anything to touch again. To once more rest his hand on the shoulder of the big, stony-scaled friend he missed more with each passing century.
Time didn’t heal wounds.
It sharpened the ache.
Kendrew should joy in the chance to revel and laugh with new friends. Good men who would make fine allies, strong fighters at his back. Fearless champions at his side, men unafraid to stand in a shield wall. Above all, he should admit he’d lost his heart to the raven-haired Cameron lass.
She would be good for him, Daire knew.
She had the soul of a Norsewoman. And no female could be finer than that.
Regrettably, Daire’s means of persuading the lad to embrace rather than repel such bounty were limited.
He’d already done what he could.
Just now he drifted a bit away from the wood, his gaze seeking the big, hard-faced warrior called Grim and the Cameron beauty, Lady Isobel. They’d moved deeper into walled kitchen garden, standing in deep converse in the shadows of the gardener’s tool shed.
Watching them gave Daire hope.
The warrior Grim had a good heart. He could tell the maid truths that would help her turn Kendrew from his foolish, destructive path.
Thinking it prudent to give Grim a few nudges in that direction – only if need be, of course - Daire smoothed a hand down over his mail shirt and prepared to float up and over the circle of whirling dancers, then into the tiny, stone-walled garden.
But before he’d flittered more than a few paces, a loud crashing noise reached him from somewhere in the piney woods behind him.
Daire stopped at once, hovering in place.
Something large, heavy, and awkward was trundling through the trees, cracking branches and trampling underbrush, making an unholy din.
It was an unmistakable racket.
A furor only those in his realm would hear and – his pulse quickened – the kind of noisy passage no entirely whole dreagan would make.
Drago the three-legged dreagan was near.
Excited, Daire forgo listening in on Grim and Isobel in favor of trying to catch Drago before the proud beast could lumber away.
It was a pursuit Daire often attempted to no avail.
Drago’s pride went deeper than ambling about just to prove he could.
He was also a one-man dreagan.
He only answered to his own master, a man long-dead, and who must sleep peaceably, because unlike Daire, he no longer roamed the glen.
Drago walked alone, coming to no man.
Except – Daire freely admitted – Grim, who gave the creature food. It scarce mattered that Drago didn’t actually eat the offerings. The glen’s magic was such that the same treats appeared on Daire’s and Drago’s side of the veil that separated the worlds.
So the three-legged dreagan loved Grim.
And, Daire hoped, perhaps some of this day’s blessing would soften Drago’s heart and he’d answer when Daire called to him. If so, a most troubling riddle might be solved. Daire might learn something that would bring him closer to finding his long-lost friend.
Drago was the last soul to see Slag alive.
So Daire hurried on, pumping his wispy legs though he knew fine that doing so wouldn’t make him float any faster.
He owed it to his friend to try.
Chapter 13
I sobel looked at the huge, Mackintosh warrior with his full-bearded, battle-hardened face and felt her heart splitting. “Is it true?” She glanced to the side, over the kitchen garden wall, but didn’t see Kendrew in the throng. “Kendrew goes to Rannoch Moor to visit his mother’s grave?”
“So he does.” Grim’s eyes held only truth.
Deep gray and compassionate, they were the same color as the rain clouds just beginning to blow in from the west. And in addition to honesty, they held a look that told Isobel he was someone who’d walk over jagged, razor-sharp knife blades for a man he called friend.
Isobel regarded him, his words echoing in her head.
“I thought he went to see…” She brushed at her sleeve, uncomfortable finishing the sentence. “I didn’t realize he’d have other reasons.
”
To her surprise, a wash of color spread across the big man’s face.
“Och, he kens the ladies there well enough. All men hereabouts do.” The tops of his ears were turning red. “But he pays them little mind. He spends his time on Rannoch at Lady Aileen’s cairn. He cuts back the heather and bracken to keep the stones from being covered. And” – he hesitated – “he leaves sprigs of meadowsweet.”
“Meadowsweet?” Isobel’s brow creased. The common strewing herb wasn’t known as something to be left at graves.
But Grim nodded. “Nought’s seneschals have always mixed meadowsweet with the floor rushes,” he explained. “Lady Aileen liked the herb’s freshening qualities. Sadly, the meadowsweet was the only thing she did like at Nought. Kendrew remembers that, so-”
“He leaves the herb for her now.” Isobel had to remind herself to breathe.
Seeing her struggle – her chest felt so tight - Grim’s eyes clouded with concern. His sympathy let her heart squeeze all the more.
“So it is, my lady.” His words made it worse. “He has surely carried more meadowsweet to Rannoch Moor than would fill this glen.”
Isobel swallowed against the thickness in her throat. “He must’ve loved her very much.”
“He hardly knew her.” Grim glanced at the neatly laid rows of lettuce near where they stood. When he looked back at her, he studied her face for a long moment, as if deciding if he should say more.
Above them, a cloud slipped over the sun, darkening the little garden around them. The smell of rich, loamy earth, onions, garlic, and herbs grew stronger, the pungency heavy in the air.
A sharp wind swept down from the hills, chill, damp, and heralding rain. Isobel shivered, gooseflesh rising on her arms as Grim’s meaning dawned.
“You’re saying he was very young.” She made the words a statement, knowing.
Grim’s nod confirmed her guess.
“He was a wee lad when she died.” He held her gaze as he spoke. “But he never forgot her fondness for meadowsweet. And, aye, he did love Lady Aileen. He still does, though I suspect part of the reason he visits her so often is guilt. He feels responsible for her death.”
Isobel blinked. “What?”
Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel (Highland Warriors Book 2) Page 20
