Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel (Highland Warriors Book 2)

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  Unfortunately, he threw back his head and laughed, slapping the table again. And his levity was attracting attention. Men, women, and even the serving lasses, stopped to turn and stare at him.

  “I cannae marry, Norn.” He wasn’t laughing now.

  But the earnestness of his tone was exaggerated, the glint in his eye showing his amusement. “You know that, my sister.” He looked at her, shaking his head. “There isn’t a maid in all the land I’d allow to wear my ring. Even if” - he spread his hands as if to prove the futility – “I had one to offer, which I don’t.”

  “I say you do.” Grim appeared at Kendrew’s elbow, his fingers working one of the braids in his big black beard. “There!” He pulled a silver battle ring from the loosened twists of his braid. Thrusting his arm high, he waved the bauble in the air.

  “Behold – a ring!” He looked pleased by the shouts of encouragement.

  Even James appeared more intrigued than outraged, his gaze shifting between Grim, Kendrew, and Isobel.

  Kendrew’s levity vanished. “You’re a bastard, Grim. A conniving, meddlesome lout who-”

  “I but mean well for you.” Grim didn’t turn a hair.

  Isobel sat frozen, a strange blend of horror and exhilaration rising inside her.

  This was about her.

  She knew it, as surely as she breathed.

  “Finest silver it is, my friend.” Grim turned the ring so that it caught the torchlight.

  Kendrew jumped up, trying to snatch the ring from his friend. “You’re a mad man.”

  “Nae, that’s you if you don’t make use of my gift.” Grim leaned around him and set the warrior ring on the table.

  “Bluidy hell, I will.” Kendrew lunged past him, grabbing at the ring.

  His fingers brushed its edge, causing the ring to shoot across the table. It sped into Isobel’s cup ale, stopping with a little ping.

  Grim – and others – started laughing. Along the table and everywhere on the dais, men began thumping their elbows on the tabletop. Some stomped their feet, while more than a few used big, scar-backed hands to dash laugh tears from their grinning faces.

  The merriment spread throughout the hall, men and women crushing forward to see what had happened to ignite such a ruckus.

  Only Kendrew frowned, staring at the little silver battle ring as if it’d turned into a red-eyed, writhing snake and meant to bite him.

  “Bluidy hell,” he said again, apparently seeing, as Isobel did, that all eyes were on them.

  People knew there was something between them.

  The knowledge stood on every face. It hung in the air, thick and tangible, as if the hall held its breath, waiting for the inevitable.

  “She’d ne’er have me, you gawping fools.” Kendrew addressed the hall at large, but his gaze was fixed on Isobel. A muscle twitched in his jaw and the color was visibly washing from his face.

  He shook his head slowly, a warning. “She knows better.”

  “I know no such thing.” Isobel picked up the ring, seizing the moment. “I believe a union between our two houses would be good for the glen.”

  Kendrew stared at her. “Good for-”

  “For us as well, Laird Mackintosh.” Isobel smiled as brilliantly as she could with her heart hammering against her ribs.

  Then she slipped the warrior ring onto the third finger of her left hand, her gaze never leaving Kendrew’s stunned face. “I do accept your offer.”

  Kendrew’s eyes flew wide, filling with disbelief. “Now, see here, Lady Isobel-”

  Before he could finish his protest, a thunderous swell of applause rose in the hall, the tumult drowning any possible objections.

  The deed was done.

  And Isobel could see in Kendrew’s eyes that his honor wouldn’t allow him to naesay their match. To do so now would shame her.

  He was hers at last.

  Unfortunately, winning this battle didn’t mean the fighting was at an end. The hardest part of her journey stilled stretched ahead her.

  She had to make Kendrew love her.

  Unless…

  As she was half certain she’d seen in his eyes more than once, he already did.

  * * *

  Much later, long after Kendrew had resigned himself to his plight and trudged wearily to his guest chamber at Castle Haven and – a floor above him - his soon-to-be-lady wife slipped quietly into her own bed, her mood decidedly higher, another soul was wide awake, braving the wind and rain still sweeping the glen.

  And although Daire didn’t wish to admit failure, he couldn’t deny that he’d lost Drago’s trail.

  The three-legged dreagan was nowhere to be seen.

  Daire should also leave.

  The cold, wet night didn’t bother him. But the gusting wind proved a nuisance. It was hard to float along when the world turned into such a fury. And while the thick pines surrounding Castle Haven provided a buffer of sorts, he’d stopped counting how often a strong gale had lifted him high in the air, turning him this way and that, before dashing him into a tree.

  Not that the impact hurt him.

  But as a once-mighty dreagan master, finding himself tangled in dripping, tossing pine branches was beneath his dignity. So he disentangled himself from the clinging boughs once again, brushing at his rain-streaked mail shirt with hands too wispy to do much to improve his present appearance.

  Not that Drago would care how bedraggled Daire looked at the moment.

  The dreagan would fare no better.

  “You fool!” Daire stopped where he was, doing his best to hover in place. He also fought the urge to slap his brow with his palm.

  Drago was the proudest of dreagans.

  Dignity mattered to the three-legged beastie who only roamed so often and so far, simply so everyone would see him and know that he could.

  Yet…

  Drago sometimes lost his balance when hard rains made the ground wet and slippery.

  And he didn’t like to be seen stumbling.

  Remembering, Daire felt hope for the first time since setting off to find the creature.

  He’d been looking in the wrong place, expecting to spot Drago lumbering through the thick, mist-hung pines. But the dreagan would be elsewhere, taking shelter in an empty, disused cave or beneath a stony overhang until the ground no longer resembled a slick, running morass that would send Drago crashing to his knees.

  So Daire let the wind carry him back the way he’d come: out of the wood, across the battling ground with its newly-dedicated cairn, and up the side of the deep, narrow gorge cut into the hills behind Castle Haven.

  He found Drago crouched in relatively dry comfort beneath a jutting rock ledge at the top of the Haven falls.

  “Drago…” Daire spoke low, approaching the dreagan respectfully. There was no need for the beast to guess that Daire knew why he’d sought shelter.

  Dreagans, like men, deserved their pride.

  Daire also went gently because Drago’s deep, stony snores revealed that he slept.

  But even Daire’s careful, feather-light passage across the broken stones and boulders that edged the falls caused a flurry of loose pebbles to skitter down the steep, rocky wall of the gorge.

  Drago’s eyes snapped opened. Looking at first disoriented, recognition dawned swiftly on his long, gray-green face. He struggled against a yawn. Then he stretched, seeking to push to his feet before Daire, whom he clearly recalled as a master of dreagans.

  “Stay as you are, my friend.” Daire ducked under the ledge, dropping to his knees beside the creature. “I am most tired this night. And I am weary of the downpour.” He rested a gentling hand on Drago’s shoulder. “I’ll bide a while with you, if I may.”

  Drago gave a grateful sigh and sagged back into his crouch, a few bluish curls of stony-sweet smoke escaping from his nostrils.

  Pleased by the beast’s trust, Daire released a sigh of his own, glad indeed to be out of the racing wind and wild, wet weather.

  “You’ve wan
dered far this day.” Daire chose his words with care, making sure to lace his tone with admiration. “I’m aware you make such journeys often, even traversing the whole of our glen.”

  A low rumble rose from deep in the dreagan’s chest, letting Daire know that Drago appreciated the recognition of his ramblings.

  “I traipse about as well.” Daire’s own pride kept him from saying he drifted.

  Once, he had traipsed.

  And strode, marched, stormed, ran, and – when the mood took him – he’d ambled, enjoying the day and the wonder that was the Glen of Many Legends.

  To his mind, such experience was good enough to allow him to claim he traipsed even now.

  He also just liked the sound of the word.

  But he wasn’t here to ponder poetic musings. He had a most serious purpose.

  He needed to find his friend.

  Slag was also excellent at sniffing enemies. Together, they could track the jackals roaming the glen. Daire knew they were hard, brutal men. The kind who lived to raid and burn, leaving blood-red trail behind them, then raping and stealing women when they left.

  Suchlike weren’t welcome in the Glen of Many Legends.

  And if only Daire could find his old companion-in-guarding-the-glen, they might be able to help Kendrew banish the sorrow-bringers before they could leave their bloody mark on the glen and its people.

  So Daire turned to meet Drago’s steady red gaze and tried to keep the desperation from his voice. “You were fond of Slag.” He spoke true words, his heart swelling to form his friend’s name on his tongue.

  He also didn’t mention the brigands, not wanting to frighten this dreagan who was more proud than brave. “I have heard you were the last to see Slag before-”

  Rodan and his men unleashed hell upon the dreagan vale?

  Daire heard Drago’s gravelly answer in his head, the words as clear as his own.

  It is true. Another thread of smoke curled from Drago’s nose. I was the last to see Slag.

  “I seek my old friend, Drago.” Daire hoped the dreagan would recall how much he loved Slag. “We were separated on the day. I know Slag doesn’t sleep in his old lair as most dreagans do. I would feel his heartbeat beneath the stones if he did. The cairn is empty.

  “Nor have I been able to track him in the glen.” Daire put words to the sorrow that consumed him. “I fear” – he did – “that Rodan visited an especial horror on Slag, knowing he was my companion.

  “If that is so, I would hear the truth, whatever it is.” Daire looked deep into Drago’s eyes, willing the dreagan to understand his need. “Most of all, I would know where Slag is – if you can tell me.”

  Slag escaped Rodan. Drago shifted, sending another scatter of pebbles down the hillside. A shame he left when he did – he missed seeing Rodan’s mercenaries turn on him when no gold was found beneath our nests.

  A look of reminisce glimmered in Drago’s eyes. It was a grand sight. He turned his head, fixing Daire with his glittering eyes, clearly pleased to recall Rodan’s downfall. He went wild, Rodan did. Storming about, ordering his men to tear apart every cairn, throwing our stones hither and thither, digging deep holes into sacred earth.

  Then, when the last stone rolled and final shovelful of earth was dug, the fiends’ efforts left them empty-handed. Rodan’s face ran even more red and he cursed them, accusing them of stealing the treasure when he wasn’t looking. He swore not to pay them.

  It was then – Drago closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deep – that they threw aside their picks and shovels and drew their swords.

  In the face of such an angry horde, Rodan turned into a woman.

  Daire nodded, his lips twitching. He’d always suspected his archrival of cowardice.

  Shameful it was - Drago shuddered, his stony scales rippling at the memory – seeing him shriek and run, fearing for his life. The mercenaries took it, too, cutting him down where his stone now stands.

  The monolith tilts because we – the dreagans that were slain that day, at his command – gathered our remaining strength and tried to push it down.

  Drago looked at Daire, pride on his beautiful dreagan face. We couldn’t knock the stone to the ground, but perhaps it is more fitting that it leans, showing how he ran?

  “Indeed.” Daire agreed wholeheartedly.

  But much as it pleased him to finally learn Rodan’s true fate, he needed to find Slag.

  “You said Slag escaped Rodan, that he’d left the dreagan vale. Do you know what happened to him?” Daire’s heart lifted, hope welling in his chest because Drago surely must have some knowledge.

  I do not. Drago glanced aside, avoiding Daire’s eyes.

  Daire bit back his disappointment. “But you were the last to see him.”

  I saw him run away, Drago answered reluctantly.

  Cowardice was a failing second only to disloyalty amongst dreagans.

  “He ran?” Daire couldn’t believe it. “There must be a mistake. Slag would’ve fire-blasted Rodan and a whole army of hell-fiends. Never would he run-”

  He didn’t run from Rodan. Drago’s eyes filled with pity. There was a storm blowing that night, the worst to sweep the glen in all the ages. It was the storm that sent Slag galloping from the dreagan vale.

  Daire listened, stunned.

  Shamed, too, because he hadn’t been there to calm his friend when he’d needed him.

  Slag’s fear of thunder had been their secret.

  Now…

  A hard, cold knot formed in Daire’s chest, guilt pressing down on him. “Did you see where he went?”

  Drago shook his great head, regret in his eyes.

  But he did slide his long tail out from under him, uncurling its length to point north, back towards Nought.

  “He is at Nought?” Daire was doubtful. He hadn’t felt his friend’s presence in centuries.

  Slag could be there. Drago swished his tail to point in each of the three other directions. He could be anywhere. In his fright, he ran in circles, his path ever widening until I saw him no more.

  “I see.” Daire nodded, understanding at last.

  His instinct hadn’t failed him these long years he’d searched for his friend.

  Slag was no longer in the Glen of Many Legends.

  He’d run from his greatest fear and likely didn’t stop until he was so far from home, that the way back was forever lost to him.

  And it was Daire’s fault for leaving him alone that day.

  It scarce mattered that Rodan – his superior – had sent him on a false errand to the outermost reaches of Nought land. Rodan had insisted Daire go on his own, claiming he wished Slag at his side that afternoon, intending to engage him to train younger dreagans.

  Daire had even been proud to see Slag chosen for such an honor.

  He’d never seen his friend again.

  But his search wasn’t over. And he refused to give up hope.

  The good thing about being a ghost was having all the time one needed.

  Daire would take advantage.

  Chapter 16

  K endrew’s first thought on awakening in his annoyingly comfortable guest bed at Castle Haven was that his poor, aching head would split apart any moment. The Thor’s hammer that he always wore about his neck had somehow taken on a life of its own, growing in size and menace to pound viciously on his temples.

  Even the inside of his head rang with the hammering.

  And someone must’ve crept into his room in the night and poured sand into his eyes.

  Then the devious buggers had set fire to the backs of his eyelids. Sure of it, he pressed both hands to the sides of his face and groaned loudly.

  Never had he suffered such agony.

  Lady Isobel was responsible.

  If his wretched, besotted self hadn’t felt such a need to sit across from her at the high table, he’d never have obliged himself to spend the after-feasting hours sitting on a stool before the hall fire. He’d have been spared the misery of listenin
g to Hugh-the-bard-who-was-anything-but spin his long-winded tales.

  But honor-bound men do strange things.

  So he’d dutifully perched on a wobbly, three-legged stool beside the hearth. And he’d schooled his features into an equally dutiful look of appreciation until Isobel’s clapper-tongued brother finally reached the end of his monotonous repertoire.

  The wind-brewer’s tales had proved so boring that he’d been able to tolerate them only by repeatedly tossing down cups of Clan Cameron’s surprisingly good ale.

  He didn’t quite remember, but he suspected some pernicious fiend had also plied him with a generous supply of uisge beatha, Highland water of life.

  Spirits so strong and fiery a thimble-sized draught could fell an ox.

  From the pounding in his head, he must’ve downed barrels.

  He was going to kill Isobel.

  Grim would be treated to agonies worse than death.

  But first he’d have done with the dimwitted arse hammering on his guest room door. The window shutters were still tightly shut, but it was plain to see that the sun hadn’t even tinged the horizon.

  It was well before cockcrow, making the door-banger the worst sort of moron.

  The persistent knocking also intensified the drumming at his temples.

  Such a disturbance – and to a guest’s chamber – was beyond bearing.

  It was fiendish.

  He suspected, deliberate.

  Furious, Kendrew pushed up on his elbows and cracked his eyes just enough to peer into the gray, murk-filled room. He didn’t recall where he’d thrown his clothes before he’d more or less fallen into bed. But he did see the glint of Blood Drinker’s long-bearded ax head winking at him from the far corner.

  Easing his legs off the high mattress – every muscle in his body railed against the motion – he pushed shakily to his feet, trying not to notice the room swaying around him as he clutched the bedpost.

  He was half-tempted to seize his ax and throw open the door, naked and threatening.

  But he doubted he had the strength.

  He did manage to lift the ewer on the bedside table and tip the jug’s icy water over his aching head.

  The effect was startling.