Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel (Highland Warriors Book 2)

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  “You won’t get to me, Lady Isobel.” The denial was meant to annoy the gods as much as to thwart her.

  “From your posturing, some might say I already have.” She smiled again, sweetly this time.

  “You make my head ache, that is all.”

  “I say that is a start.” She sounded almost merry.

  “It is nothing.” Kendrew was adamant. “There is naught between us except a most regrettable mistake.”

  “Indeed?” She lifted an eyebrow.

  The increased rise and fall of her breasts showed he’d struck a nerve. “Think what you will.” Her gaze didn’t leave his face. “Thoughts won’t alter what happened on Midsummer Eve. Nor will they change things that occurred many years ago and that had nothing to do with you.”

  “What things?” Kendrew refused to flinch. But something about the way her eyes narrowed, almost defiant, gave him a sinking feeling.

  She was too smug, much more daring than usual.

  So he narrowed his own gaze, preparing to expose himself in a way he’d rather not.

  “You spoke with my captain of the guard in the kitchen garden.” He resented letting her know he’d noticed, that even when he’d confronted Norn and Alasdair, his attention had hardly left her. “If he-”

  “Sir Grim is a gallant.” Her chin went up, a trace of color staining her cheeks. “He is a man of noble bent, chivalrous and mannerly. He only-”

  “Grim is no courtier, my lady.” Kendrew couldn’t squelch the urge to shock her, to send her running back to her high table, never to plague him again. “Did you see the rings in his beard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what they are?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “They hold the ends of his beard braids.”

  “Aye, so they do.” Kendrew leaned close to her. “They are also warrior rings.” He straightened, unable to keep his lips from quirking. “They are similar to the blue kill marks on my arms and chest. Grim makes them from the sword blades of men he defeats in battle. He has a whole chest of them, choosing different ones to braid into his beard each morning. He’s a blood-thirsty man, Grim is.

  “Indeed” – he hooked his thumbs in his sword belt, grinning now – “he can take out a man’s throat with a dirk faster than any warrior I know.”

  “You are not frightening me.” The lady didn’t turn a hair.

  Far from it, she kept her chin raised. “Such a strong warrior does honor to Nought, do you not agree?” She pinned him with a stare, smiling at the rolling thunder shaking the walls. “Your land is too proud, too magnificent, to breed men who are weak.”

  Kendrew frowned, not liking her words.

  He heard only that she called Nought proud and magnificent. And the way his heart jumped on hearing her praise bode ill for him. Seeing how her eyes shone, lighting as if she saw the same wonder he did in Nought, believing his land to be a wild and beautiful place, now that…

  He took a deep breath, not wanting to consider the implications.

  If he couldn’t thwart her with tales of his men’s brute fierceness, more drastic measures were required. Fortunately, he was good at the like. Squaring his shoulders, he glanced across the hall to the dais, his gaze going to the end of the high table where Norn sat flanked by two of his most formidable warriors. Dour men who’d love nothing more than flattening Alasdair MacDonald’s nose if the brine-drinking lout so much as looked at Kendrew’s sister.

  Seeing Norn’s peeved expression, it was clear that he’d dealt well with her.

  He’d also handle Lady Isobel.

  He just hoped the only other means open to him wouldn’t circle round and bite him in the arse. The maid was a worthy opponent, much too skilled for his liking. She surely had more than one war stratagem.

  He suspected they were all arse-biters.

  Even so, he had to take the risk.

  “You speak true, lady.” He stepped closer, crowding her. “Nought doesn’t spawn weaklings.”

  He ignored her praise of his land.

  “Nought men are strong, bold, and daring.” He set a hand on her shoulder, gripping firmly.

  To his annoyance, rather than shrinking back, she met his gaze, her eyes lighting as if his words filled her with eager anticipation.

  “Grim showed restraint when he spoke with you. He is always a charmer. I don’t share his smooth manners with ladies.” He lowered his head as he spoke, knowing she’d feel his breath on her neck. “You should’ve let me be, Lady Isobel, alone in the shadows where I was content. Instead” – he nipped her earlobe – “you’ve provoked me into showing you just what a Nought man is: wild and dangerous.”

  “I am not afraid of wild.” She matched his boldness. “And I find Nought more thrilling than dangerous.”

  “You should fear everything about me.” He gripped her chin, lifting her face. “Even here, away from Nought and in your own hall.”

  “Say you?” Her dark eyes flashed at him, her quick smile so enticing.

  Her spring violet scent rose between them, heady and intoxicating. Torchlight spooled across her, making her hair shine. Above her low-cut bodice, smooth, creamy flesh gleamed, beckoning enticingly. Her nipples were taut, thrusting beneath the silk, begging attention.

  She stood taller, putting back her shoulders so that her breasts lifted. Now, he could clearly see the dark outline of those delectably peaked crests. They rose even more beneath his gaze, pressing into the sheer fabric, which was little more than a breath of silk, letting him see so much. He inhaled sharply, wanting to taste her there, and elsewhere.

  “I am beyond speech.” He looked at her, not bothering to hide his desire.

  His heart hammered, pounding hard against his chest. His body responded to her, tightening painfully as heat poured into his loins.

  “You know what you do to me and” – he swore a tremor of excitement rushed through her – “I no longer care if anyone sees what you won’t let me deny.”

  Need almost consuming him, he released her chin and curled his hand around her neck, thrusting his fingers into the cool silk of her hair. He swept his other hand down her back, splaying his fingers over her bottom and pulling her to him as he brought his mouth down on hers, kissing her hard, fast, and hungrily.

  There could be no doubt that she’d feel his arousal.

  He’d hoped the rampant proof of his wildness would flame her almost-maidenly cheeks and send her scrambling back to the safety of the crowded hall. That she’d run to the dais and the civility of the waiting high table, never looking back and glad to be rid of him.

  But he’d hoped wrong.

  The soft gasp of pleasure that escaped her proved his folly. As did her sweet womanly warmth as she twined her arms around his neck and parted her lips beneath his. She leaned into him, even rocking her hips against the granite-like agony at his traitorous groin.

  Worst of all, he couldn’t release her.

  He pulled her more roughly to him, plundering her lips and drinking of her, knowing he’d never get enough of her honeyed kisses. He’d kill to hold on to the delicious torment of her hot, silken tongue twirling with his. Even the blending of their breath unmanned him, the intimacy so startling and heady that he had no choice but to deepen the kiss. A kiss that – something inside him railed – was more a bold and forceful melding of souls. Something so scintillatingly right, so good, that he didn’t care if her brother, Alasdair, or even long-nosed Grim leered at him over her shoulder.

  All that mattered was kissing her.

  Until somehow he’d lifted her skirts, the silky material sliding over his wrist as he stroked his hand up the sleek length of her leg. When he reached the soft, female heat at the juncture of her thighs, his fingers brushing the downy curls there, his wits returned and he yanked back his hand as if she’d scorched him.

  He released her at once, breaking the kiss and stepping away from her. Biding the remainder of his good sense, he used the broad width of his back to shield her from the crow
ded hall. Her lips were kiss-swollen, her hair mussed, and her lovely breasts flushed pink with the sweetest tinge of feminine arousal he’d ever seen.

  She was without the doubt the most desirable woman he could imagine.

  She was comely, spirited, and so responsive that it was all he could do not to take her here and now, against the wall of the entry arch.

  He knew she wouldn’t say no.

  Her rapid breathing and – he wished he hadn’t noticed – the stunned, starry-eyed look on her face, were as telling as if she’d pinned her heart on her sleeve.

  She fancied herself in love with him.

  And that meant he had no choice but to convince her that she wasn’t.

  “You’d best right yourself.” He let his gaze sweep her, lingering on her breasts, the pulse beating so rapidly at the base of her throat. “You’ll no’ want to head back to your high table until you do.”

  “And you?” She surprised him with a level stare, her eyes glittering in the torchlight. “Will you now join us at the dais?”

  Kendrew felt his brow furrow. He’d expected her to beg him not to follow her there.

  Unfortunately he was now obliged to go.

  Only by acting the scoundrel could he prove to her that he was one.

  So he ignored the twinges of guilt pricking him and once more narrowed the space between them. Only this time rather than touching her, he backed her against the wall, trapping her by planting his hands on either side of her head. Leaning in, he looked into her eyes, making sure that his expression was his darkest.

  “I will wait for you there, aye.” He would, though he wished there was another way to be rid of her. “Be warned, I’ll no’ play the courtier. You’ve pushed me too far, Isobel of Haven.”

  “I am not afraid of you.” One corner of her mouth lifted in a smile, secretive and knowing. “Indeed, I find our encounters most enjoyable.”

  Daring much, she lifted a hand to touch his face, trailing one finger along the side of his jaw. “As do you” – she held his gaze, not blinking – “though I know you don’t wish to acknowledge the pleasure.”

  Kendrew scowled at her. “It’s no’ pleasure-”

  “You are not a good liar, Laird Mackintosh.” She had the boldness to deepen her smile.

  Then she ducked beneath his arm and strode away from him, her head high as she disappeared into the shadows at the back of the entry hall.

  A trace of spring violet drifted in her wake.

  Fleeing the scent, Kendrew squared his shoulders and made for her brother’s high table. When she returned to claim her place there, he’d put an end to this folly once and for all time coming.

  He just wished he didn’t have the dreadful feeling that his own foolishness had just done more than circle round and bite him in the arse.

  He wasn’t just arse-bit.

  He was doomed.

  And it wasn’t even the potency of her kiss or the undeniable attraction of her full, creamy-skinned bosom that brought him to such a pass.

  It was the way her face had lit when she’d spoken of his land.

  His heart had split to see the wonder in her eyes. And having seen it, he doubted he could resist her much longer. A woman he desired and who also appreciated Nought was too great a temptation.

  Unless he turned around and left the hall now, never looking on her again.

  But he kept on, elbowing a path straight to the dais and the empty seat awaiting him there.

  And as he neared the dais steps, the night’s rain pounded down on the roof and the wind rose, great bursts of thunder booming with especial glee.

  Thor was well-pleased.

  What a pity Kendrew wasn’t ready to surrender. Isobel might be bold in the shadows, but she’d back down if challenged in the blazing light of her family’s high table with kith and kin looking on.

  She was a lady, after all.

  And Kendrew was about to show her the meaning of scoundrel.

  The gods and their jesting be damned.

  Chapter 14

  I sobel regretted nipping into the secret, hall-skirting passage as soon as its cold, dank air rushed to greet her. Eerie on any visit, the dimly lit corridor was especially unpleasant with rain and wind lashing the castle walls. Outside, thunder rolled ominously, the booms echoing in the gloom. But the little-used passage curved back to the dais, offering her a chance to tidy and calm herself before she reclaimed her seat at the high table.

  Hopefully everyone there would be too occupied feasting or watching the dancers to notice her slip in through the hidden door near the hearth fire at the rear of the dais.

  She hurried on, willing it so.

  She just wished the corridor wasn’t rumored to hold more than chill, stale air and shadows.

  Skald, the huge, snarling black dog that graced her clan’s banner, was said to roam the passage. Many were the tales of his glowing red eyes appearing in the corridor’s empty, least-lit stretches.

  And the tragic clan ghost, Lady Scandia, a young, raven-haired woman believed to resemble Isobel, was also known to drift through the darkness here. Fortunately, Scandia hadn’t been seen in a while, and most Camerons now suspected she’d found peace at last.

  Isobel hoped it was true.

  But she still stepped lightly, trying hard not to glance over her shoulder. The corridor’s murkiness didn’t feel exactly empty. So she took care to keep her ears alert to any sound besides her own footsteps and the powerful thunderstorm raging overhead.

  It was too easy to imagine shifting figures in the deeper shadows.

  She could almost see them, a lovely wraithlike woman, or a large, wolfish dog with fire-ember eyes. Other things that – she quickened her pace – were perhaps much more terrible than Scandia and Skald.

  Pushing them from her mind, she breathed deep of the chill, rain-damp air filtering into the passage from the air slits set high into outside wall.

  She still felt shaky from Kendrew’s long, deep kisses and needed the air to calm herself.

  She also smoothed her hair and straightened her gown as she hurried along, hoping as well that she remembered where the passage’s other well-kept secrets could be found: tiny bits of rubble that could be removed from the wall to access peepholes into the hall.

  She didn’t trust Kendrew to take his rightful place at the high table.

  And if he went elsewhere, she wanted to know before she returned to the dais, trapping herself beneath James’ watchful eye.

  Kendrew was her concern.

  And he wasn’t escaping her.

  So when she rounded a certain bend in the corridor, she began counting her steps past the iron-bracketed wall torch spluttering there. She paused after twenty-one steps, lucky seven times the sacred three. Then she steeled herself against the feel of the chill, damp stone and ran her fingers along the wall until she found a loose bit of rubble. Easing the rock from its niche, she took a deep breath and pressed her eye to the spyhole.

  Her heart raced when she did.

  Kendrew hadn’t lied.

  He was striding through the great hall, boldly using the center aisle. Head high and shoulders squared, he ignored the whirling dancers and was making straight for the steps to the dais.

  His eyes glinted in the blaze of the torches and he moved quickly, walking with purpose. Isobel could scarcely breathe watching him. Worse, his gaze wasn’t on the empty place of honor to James’s right that she’d insisted her brother reserve for Kendrew.

  He’d fixed his stare on her other brother, Hugh, who sat across from Isobel’s seat.

  And the longer she observed his determined, unerring path, the more she grasped his intent. He would chase Hugh from his place on the trestle bench so that he, Kendrew, could sit close to her.

  Which meant…

  “You, devil.” She inhaled sharply, her entire body flaming.

  Her heart raced, her palms dampening because she knew he planned something outrageous.

  He’d warned her that
he wouldn’t play the courtier. Already his lips were quirking in a roguish, self-satisfied smile. Triumph rolled off him, giving him the air of a victor about to claim his battle booty. For sure, he meant to cause a scene, perhaps even plucking Hugh from the bench and plunking him onto the vacant spot next to James.

  He’d do the like with relish, Isobel knew.

  Then he’d dust his hands and grin, pleased to draw all eyes so he could proceed to embarrass her.

  The image of him striding onto the gravel beneath her bedchamber window, waving her blue cloak like a banner, flashed across her mind.

  That night, too, he’d shown his daring.

  Only this night…

  She’d hoped to display her own mettle.

  And she would, by God.

  But before she could re-plug the peephole and hasten on her way, Kendrew paused with one foot on the first dais step. As if he knew she stood behind the wall, staring at him, he turned his head and looked directly at her.

  Isobel froze, her hand holding the rock just inches from the little opening in the wall.

  Her mouth went dry.

  Kendrew couldn’t possibly see her.

  But his eyes glinted in the torchlight, his gaze so intense, so challenging, that she’d swear he could. Worse, it was a look of such startling intimacy that she felt not only stripped naked, but as if her body was on fire. Unable to look away, she touched her hand to her breast, the cold hardness of the rock like ice against her flesh.

  Beneath her fingers, she could feel the rapid beat of her heart. Her knees weakened, her mind flitting back to just moments before when he’d held her so tightly, kissing her deeply and sliding his hands all over her body, making her want him so badly.

  She did now.

  And he knew it, the bold-eyed bastard.

  As if in proof, he flashed a grin. Then he turned and bounded up onto the dais, heading straight for Hugh as she’d known he’d do.

  “Sweet Valkyries…” Isobel jammed the rock into the peephole, using the heel of her palm to wedge it in place. Her pulse rushed crazily and heat stung her face.

  Her knees felt weak and once she’d sealed the spyhole, she braced her hand against the wall to balance herself. She was sure the pounding of her heart echoed in the corridor, perhaps even loudly enough to be heard through the wall, in the great hall. Outside the passage, the wind howled with more force than before, shrieking past the corridor’s high-cut air slits. From farther away, came the more ominous grumble of thunder. Only now the low rolling booms sounded more like the storied dreagan roar she’d heard at Nought on the night of the Midsummer revels than any true thunder.