The gods did well settling him and those who’d gone before him as the guardians of this rugged, mist-drenched corner of the Highlands. Tonight he and his people—and a few lusty, well-made lasses drawn to the raucousness from the surrounding hills and moors—would honor those gods, thanking them for their bounty.
Already, the bonfires were lit in celebration, flames leaping high against the sides of the high peaks hemming Nought land. The fires threw a pulsing, golden cast across the windswept ridges and the narrow, rock-filled vale, the contrast with the glistening silver of the night sky almost too beautiful to behold.
But Kendrew did, fierce pride coursing in his veins.
He loved Nought.
And he waited all year for Midsummer Eve.
It was a night of magic.
A time when—he was sure—even the dreagans sleeping beneath their stony cairns stirred and yearned for the days of yore.
Kendrew understood such longing.
And when he let his gaze sweep the great mounds of jumbled rocks so many glen folk still feared, he knew he’d sooner take his last breath than call any other place home. He closed his eyes and breathed deep, reveling in the heady smell of cold air and damp stone, the tantalizing trace of roasting meat and woodsmoke drifting on the wind.
Joy filled him.
It was time to forget any fools who didn’t appreciate Nought and let his own passions run free. Eager to be on his way, he bounded down the bluff’s narrow stone steps and made straight for the jumbled outcroppings dotting his land, the heart of the dreagan stones.
This Midsummer Eve would be like no other.
He felt it in his bones.
Chapter Two
Isobel’s daring held until the Rodan Stone loomed before her.
She stared at the monolith, its sudden appearance through the mist both startling and unsettlingly ominous. She hadn’t faltered once since leaving Cameron territory, and although she’d imagined eyes watching her once or twice, the feeling had been fleeting. If anyone had seen her slip away, she’d surely have been followed. But she’d only heard the rustle of her own passage as she’d hurried through the thick pine forest she knew so well.
Now…
The succor of Haven’s woodsy-scented pines, rich, damp earth, and clean, cold-rushing streams lay far behind her. And Kendrew’s Nought was living up to its fierce reputation as a grim place choked by rock and battered by wind. Little more than a few tussocks of stunted heather and ghostly looking birches grew here.
Worst of all…
She’d almost swear the Rodan Stone was glaring at her.
Set deep into the wild sweep of rock, scrub, and jagged peaks that defined Mackintosh country, the monolith seemed to warn that the fates weren’t kind to those who dared trespass beyond this point. The brooding heart of this bleak, mist-shrouded corner of the glen stood near. And anyone venturing onward should take heed.
Isobel did pause. But she refused to let the hoary monument sway her.
Even so, her insides went a little cold as she eyed the stone.
Tall, eerily manlike, and more than a little menacing, the standing stone would’ve speared heavenward if it didn’t lean at an odd angle. But the towering stone did tilt forward, giving credence to the tales that the monolith was actually a once-living man who’d been flash-frozen in the act of fleeing from the dreagans.
Rodan, the storytellers called that man. They claimed he’d been a long-ago Mackintosh warrior. He was one of the clan’s revered dreagan masters, until the hungry beasts rebelled at the instigation of his greatest rival, another master of dreagans, who went by the name of Daire. That clan traitor—supposedly turned by greed—is said to have used darkest magic to spell the dreagans into attacking Rodan when he revealed that Daire was lightening Nought’s impressive stores of silver and gold, and even lining his purse with the sale of Mackintosh cattle and grain.
Daire’s nefarious deeds were paid in his blood.
Rodan was a clan hero.
And his stone had become a place of reverence for all Mackintoshes.
It also served as a boundary marker for dreagan stone territory, or so Isobel had always heard.
Just now, she was more concerned with what she felt. In keeping with the legends of Nought, thick mist rolled across the broken ground and the cold air held more than the sharp brittleness of a chill night. Something stirred in the swirling mist.
This time, she was certain.
She felt someone—something—staring at her as surely as the morrow.
And whatever it was, it was angry.
“Rodan…” Isobel whispered the stone’s name, hoping to placate the long-dead dreagan master if it was his ill will prickling her nape.
She looked about, studying the lichen-grown boulders and sheer cliffs. Mist wraiths slid past granite outcrops and through the scattered birches of a nearby wood. It was easy to imagine a tall, dark shape hovering there, frowning at her from the shelter of the trees.
Little fantasy was needed to see a thick-bearded spearman, his mail coat shining through the whirling mist—until the mist shifted, revealing the warrior had only been the silver-gleaming trunk of a birch. His shield, moments before blazing brighter than the sun, proved nothing more than the silvery flash of a rushing stream.
Isobel shivered, all the same.
She knew from her family history that ghosts existed.
Clan Cameron had their own Scandia, once known as the Doom of the Camerons, until they’d learned the truth of her tragic demise. A gray lady, Scandia most often appeared when tragedy struck the family, but she wasn’t the cause of those disasters, as the clan had always believed. She only sought to warn the clan of impending danger.
And perhaps—or so Isobel personally believed—Scandia simply wished to enjoy the ambiance of Castle Haven and the good cheer of men and women she’d once walked among and still viewed as her own.
Someone’s mortal passing didn’t mean the snuffing out of his soul.
Isobel was certain of that.
So she couldn’t ignore the possibility that Rodan lurked near his stone and might see her, a Cameron woman, as a threat to his people.
“Rodan…” She stood straighter, speaking louder this time. “I know you’re a clan hero.” She touched her amber necklace, taking strength in the gemstones’ smooth coolness. “I honor your bravery and—”
A whoosh of icy wind whipped past her, tearing at her cloak and then circling the stone before speeding off into the deeper shadows.
“Ack!” She brushed at her cloak and patted her hair, annoyed that the wind had loosened her braids. She’d taken care to twine blue silk ribbons through the strands and now one of the ribbons was coming undone.
“I mean no harm.” She lifted her chin, hoping her voice sounded more firm than it did to her.
She also curled her fingers around her ambers, waiting for the enchanted stones to spring to life, lending their protection as she’d been told to expect of them. Catriona had sworn the ambers quivered and heated whenever a threat loomed near.
The necklace was still.
Forcing herself to be brave, she went to the Rodan Stone and flattened her hand against the monolith’s icy, age-pitted surface. “I’ve made a pact, see you? An oath sworn on sacred white heather and with two friends to ensure this glen is never sundered again.
“I haven’t had much luck upholding my part of our plan.” She chose her words carefully, keeping her hand pressed to the stone so the gods who ruled Midsummer Eve would hear her. “I’m hoping this night’s magic will aid me. I mean no harm. I only want to see Kendrew.” It wasn’t the whole truth—she wanted his kisses, perhaps even more.
But she felt rather silly speaking to a stone.
“Once I see him, I’ll leave.” She hoped he’d see her and demand that she stay.
She’d accoutered herself to tempt him.
She wasn’t here as an enemy.
And if legends were true and the storied stone—or
Rodan himself—was guarding the entry to the dreagan stones, she wished the monolith and its spirit would note how carefully she’d readied herself to come here. She’d brushed her hair so many strokes that the long raven tresses gleamed like blue-black satin. And she’d not just bathed, albeit quickly, but had smoothed her body with rich, scented oils. She’d chosen a low-cut gown of sheerest silk, its deep sapphire color dark enough for modesty, though the soft fall of its clinging folds left little to the imagination.
She meant to leave her cloak at the edge of the dreagan stones.
Then…
She shivered and closed her eyes, refusing the notion that some fierce power here might prevent her from continuing to the heart of Nought territory. She could hear the revelry. Joyous shouts and laughter filled the air, raucous singing, and the roar of bonfires. Pipes screamed and drums rolled, the familiar music blending with the more primordial beat of what could only be scores of spear ends knocking on the stony ground.
She took a deep breath, her own wildness awakening, roused by desires older than time.
The chill wind blasted her again, its urgency making her heart beat fast in her chest. She could almost feel a rush of emotion beneath the freezing gusts, a powerful force seeking to prove its fury.
She gripped the stone harder, the wind nearly knocking her off her feet.
“See here…” She delved deep inside her, summoning strength.
She’d come so far. And she wasn’t leaving just because Rodan and his stone apparently disliked her.
She meant to be triumphant.
But the cold wind mocked her, howling so that its scream blotted the din from the revels. For a moment, she imagined she again caught a movement in the birch wood, this time nearer to the edge of the trees. As before, it was the fleeting image of a tall, dark shape—the figure of a man—and with a furious glint in his eyes.
They were eyes as hard as stone.
And like the figure itself, they vanished when she blinked.
Still…
She could feel the specter’s annoyance. Displeasure that thickened the air, souring the night’s magic.
“You must see that my purposes are good.” She slid a hand down the side of the leaning stone, patting its solidness in reassurance. “I am intrigued by your clan leader. I know he is a bold and fearless chief, a fine man. And I want to win his heart.”
At once, the air shifted around the stone, lightening. The icy wind careened away, sweeping up and over the crowding peaks, vanishing into the night. All sense of heavy anger lifted, disappearing as if it’d never been.
Whatever had tried to block her path was gone.
Or—her pulse quickened—had given approval for her to journey on.
And so she did, hitching her skirts and hurrying toward the distant red glow of the bonfires—the ever-stranger piles of tumbled rock known to be the final resting places of sleeping dreagans.
She spotted Kendrew at once.
Naked indeed, he stood atop the largest stone cairn. Mist and smoke from the bonfires blew around him, shielding parts of him from view as if the gods of such revels envied his splendor. He’d braced one hand against his hip and held his long-bearded ax in the other. It was a powerfully masculine pose and one that made Isobel’s breath catch.
He truly was magnificent.
He breathed hard, his broad, well-muscled chest rising and falling as if he’d just finished the leaping, whirling dance she must’ve missed. The same wind that cloaked him in smoke and mist tossed his mane of rich auburn hair. And the blaze of the fires made his skin gleam like burnished bronze. His golden Thor’s hammer glinted at his throat and the blue kill-marks adorning his powerful arms and his chest seemed almost alive, each jagged slash challenging anyone to doubt his fierceness.
Isobel’s heart thundered.
A blush swept up her neck, staining her cheeks. Gloriously warlike, he looked ready to stand at Thor’s side, fighting with the irascible Viking god at Ragnarok, the great battle at the end of the world that every Norseman knew would someday bring the Doom of the Gods. Kendrew’s arms would be thick with gold rings of valor, his face fierce as he fought with all the Berserker rage of his race. The image came to her clearly, everything feminine in her responding to him and the heritage she prized so dearly.
Could she ever desire any other man after seeing him here tonight?
Sure she couldn’t, she stayed in shadow, content for the moment to simply watch him.
As she did, the mist and smoke shifted, letting her glimpse a wicked scar that slashed down his abdomen. The scar was a remnant of the trial by combat, a cut he’d suffered at the hands of Alasdair MacDonald near the battle’s end. She winced to think how close Kendrew had come to losing a part of him that all men prized so highly.
Women, too, she knew.
Caught in that age-old attraction, she wasn’t surprised to feel ripples of appreciation begin to spill through her. Delicious currents of shivery female need spooling low in her belly as blood rushed in her ears. Her pulse grew so loud that she could hardly hear the thunder of the Mackintosh warriors’ spear ends beating against stone.
Even the scream of the pipes seemed to fade, everything around her whirling away, including the cries of the many half-naked couples writhing in carnal ecstasy on the ground. Isobel’s flush deepened, her awareness of the frolicking pairs adding to her inner heat and discomfiture. The open lovemaking both embarrassed and aroused her. But she kept her gaze on her heart’s desire, her senses igniting until nothing else existed except Kendrew, so proud and magnificent, as he looked around, surveying the celebrations.
He hadn’t yet seen her.
And when one of the women mating beneath the dreagan cairn nearest to Isobel tipped back her head and released a throaty cry of bliss, Isobel almost turned and hastened back the way she’d come.
She might want Kendrew.
But she wanted him for her husband.
She gulped as her gaze flicked over the scene of pagan debauchery. She wasn’t sure he’d even glance at her with so many unclothed, willing women flitting about the great mounds of stones. Firelight gilded them, displaying their charms to advantage as they roamed about, seeking to entice new partners for vigorous tumbles in the heather.
The women were notably alluring. Females of skill and experience who’d come in from distant hills and moorlands to indulge in a good night’s trade at the Mackintoshes’ Midsummer revels.
It was a fest known for such delights.
Vibrant, beautiful, and lusty, they were joy women who made Isobel feel like a dim gray shadow. Her midnight tresses suddenly struck her as uninspired against so many flame-haired females, their unbound hair shining brighter than the bonfires. And although the other women were voluptuous, she doubted a single one came up to her chin. Their smaller stature made her feel clumsy and over-large. Kendrew would be a fool to waste such an enchanted night on her. Yet she’d come here with such hope.
Isobel frowned, not sure what she could do if he didn’t notice her.
And if he did, would he find her lacking?
She was a virgin.
She didn’t even know how to kiss.
“Kendrew!” A big, burly man tossed Kendrew a spear, laughing when he caught it midair and quickly took up the rhythmic stone-pounding, beating the spear end on top of Slag’s Mound.
Kendrew grinned. He gripped the spear with enthusiasm, the merriment in his eyes setting off a flurry within her. Her doubts fled, replaced by something wondrous. A sensation that made her feel soft and warm inside, thrilling in a different way from the tummy flutters caused by catching a glimpse at his nakedness.
His smile showed her his soul.
And her heart split wide at the intimacy.
She understood the longing to uphold and honor the old Viking ways. The same Nordic blood flowed in her veins and, more than anyone she knew save Kendrew, she felt deeply bound to her heritage.
Sharing that bond with Kendrew was her dream.
A goal that meant as much to her as sealing glen peace with their union.
Their appreciation of northern ways would enrich their lives. She could feel their connection, even here in the shadows at the edge of the dreagan stones. The feeling was so strong that she wanted to hurry past the other cairns and scramble up onto Slag’s Mound, capturing his attention. Once she did, she’d make him see how perfect they were for each other. But she remained where she stood, simply enjoying how his exuberance thrummed the air.
His passion beat around her, as much a part of the night as the stones and mist, the luminous silver sky. Surely twice the size of most men, he looked even larger up on the cairn. But it was his grin that made her path irrevocable, ruining her for all others.
She could love him so easily. Doing so would be as natural as breathing.
So she placed a hand on her heart and took a few steps toward the center of the dreagan vale and the high, stone-built mound.
“Odin!” Kendrew threw back his head then and roared the Norse god’s name. “We honor you with our revels!” He raised the spear high, shaking it at the heavens. “Bless us this night and throughout the coming year!”
“Odin, Odin!” Everywhere, Mackintosh warriors took up the cry.
The pounding of spears on stone rang in the cold night air, the sound deafening, primordial.
Isobel felt the festival’s magic building, the intensity of ancient, long-simmering powers. She watched Kendrew, every part of her tingling, fired with excitement.
The blowing mist and smoke swirled so thick now that she could hardly see more than his outline, big, powerful, and edged dark against the lighter gray of the haze. He kept the spear above his head as he shouted Odin’s praise, his passion making blood scream in Isobel’s ears. Her pulse roared, matching the beat of the spears, the flexing of Kendrew’s arm as he thrust the spear heavenward.
She bit her lip, her world spinning until nothing existed except the two of them and the night’s magic.
She knew she was breaking every rule she was supposed to live by.
Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel Page 3
