Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  “Pah! I’ve never heard the like.” Isobel pulled back, almost knocking over her wine cup, drawing eyes.

  Turning aside, she feigned a cough to explain her clumsiness and the color she knew must be staining her cheeks.

  Worse, Catriona’s words brought a rush of scandalous images. Particularly vivid, the memory of her on her back with Kendrew’s big, naked body over hers. She saw again his powerfully muscled shoulders and chest, the swirly blue marks he carved into his flesh. She still thrilled to recall them lying skin to skin, his heated gaze burning her.

  Yet…

  He’d desired, taken, and then rejected her.

  Isobel touched a hand to her belly, her deepest places forever branded by the waves of pleasure that had spooled through her in those wondrous, bliss-drenched moments. The memory was enough to madden her.

  Beside her, Catriona blanched. “Dear saints. You are—”

  “I am not.” Isobel pressed Catriona’s foot beneath the table. “Hush, before someone hears you.” Lowering her own voice, she spoke what she knew to be true. “There is nothing growing inside me except anger, if you’d hear the way of it. That’s why I’m not eating. How can I when everything has turned so horribly wrong?”

  “You could make it wonderfully right.” Color began blooming on Catriona’s face again. She looked so pleased that Isobel knew to dread her next words. “There are some fine, braw men at Blackshore,” Catriona mused, tapping her chin. “I suspect Lady Norn will want Alasdair, but there are others. Worthy men, proud, honest, and not bad looking—”

  “No.” Isobel was firm.

  “There are times we must choose between what we want and what is best.” Catriona proved her own stubbornness. “Kendrew Mackintosh will only bring you sorrow. He already has, from what I’m seeing.”

  “You don’t know him.”

  “And you do?”

  “I believe so.” Isobel flicked an oatcake crumb off the table. “He lives by the old ways. He does things with a flourish, scorns weakness, and honors his Norse ancestors. If he blusters, he—”

  “He roars and bellows.” Catriona helped herself to another oatcake, creating more crumbs. “Mackintosh is as wild and untamed as a rogue Highland bull. To be sure, he lives by the old ways. Pretending to be a Berserker makes it easy to ignore honor and duty.”

  “I doubt he pretends at anything.” Isobel was sure he didn’t.

  He made no pretense when he’d spurned her.

  “Come, he’s not worth your tears.” Catriona stood, drawing Isobel with her. “If you’re not going to eat, let’s leave the men to their ale and blether.”

  “I am not crying.” Isobel blinked hard. If fury had caused her eyes to brighten—always a possibility—she didn’t want anyone to mistake what they saw.

  Cameron women didn’t weep.

  Few Highland women did, if their blood was true.

  And like her sisters of the hills, she would sooner eat a bowlful of pebbles than shed a single tear.

  “You look more distraught than I have ever seen you.” Catriona wouldn’t leave be.

  “Livid is what I am.” Isobel didn’t deny it, certain her annoyance pulsed around her like a bright red cloud.

  “Anger has its uses, I agree.” Catriona took her arm. “Sadly, yours won’t serve any purpose except to turn you into skin and bone if you keep refusing to eat your supper.”

  “I’m not refusing, just not hungry.”

  “So you said.” Catriona led her away from high table and down the dais steps, into the crowded hall. With a surprisingly brisk step for an increasing woman, she maneuvered them around a knot of tussling dogs, past two tray-bearing kitchen wenches, and then toward the tower stair.

  “Fresh air is good for the soul.” Catriona flashed a glance at her. “A walk on the battlements will refresh us both. Cold as the day is, perhaps the wind will wipe a certain scoundrel from your mind.”

  “I have put him from my mind.” Isobel had never told a greater lie. “I wouldn’t have mentioned him at all if you hadn’t asked what ails me.”

  “I had to ask.” Catriona released Isobel’s arm as they neared the arched entrance to the winding stair. “That’s what friends do.”

  Her gaze flicked to the softly gleaming necklace at Isobel’s throat. “I’ll not see you hurt. If my ambers won’t warn you of the peril that is Kendrew Mackintosh, then I shall. You are too fine a lady for his ilk.”

  Isobel coughed for real this time.

  She also bit her lip, burning to blurt that her gentle birth was the problem.

  Kendrew would’ve slaked their passions fully had she been common born.

  He wanted a woman as bold, reckless, and uninhibited as he was. She’d seen such females at the dreagan stones, the evening of the revels. And while she might thrill to nights of cold, dark mist, her Viking blood quickening at the bite of sharp, winter wind, she wasn’t at all like the light-skirts Kendrew favored.

  Not by any measure.

  “Don’t look so glum.” Catriona paused just inside the stair tower. “Your face will freeze and you’ll go through life looking soured.”

  “Bah.” Isobel smiled, unable to help herself. Then she laughed, the lightening of her spirit was so welcome. She gave Catriona a quick hug. “I’m ever so glad we’re friends. Whatever would I do—”

  A horn blast ripped through the hall, shrill and jarring.

  Both women froze, shouts rising from outside the keep. Men leaped to their feet, grabbing their sword hilts. Isobel drew a swift breath as the alarm echoed from the rafters, hollow and chilling. Then the hall door swung open and a handful of guards rushed in, their faces grim.

  “Mackintoshes!” The first sentry hurried forward, nearly tripping in his haste to reach James and Alasdair. “They’re a small party, riding hard from the north and spurring down the slopes like they’ve got wasps stinging their backs. They’ll be here anon. And”—he gained the dais, panting—“they’re armed for war.”

  “Heathen bastards!” A huge-bearded MacDonald standing near the stair tower spat onto the rushes.

  “The cloven-footed cliff-climbers cannae be trusted farther than a dirk’s end,” a Cameron agreed, his words starting a rumble of growls throughout the hall.

  “I told you Mackintosh is a craven cur.” Catriona gripped Isobel’s arm. “He grabs that horrid ax of his as quickly as he pulls out his—”

  “Catriona!” Isobel flushed, knowing fine what her friend meant to say. Words that burned deep inside her chest, hurting more than was good for her because she couldn’t refute them. “He is not coming to swing his ax.”

  She ignored the rest of her friend’s comment. It pained her to think of Kendrew’s lusty reputation. How often he was known to visit Rannoch Moor.

  She wanted him for her own.

  “The Mackintoshes will mean no harm.” She spoke with confidence, willing it so. “I am sure Kendrew is bringing stones.”

  He is also here because of me.

  Isobel knew it. And the knowledge made her heart race, filling her with hope and joy. Soaring happiness so great it was all she could do not to dash from the hall and run outside to greet him.

  “Stones don’t require a battle-ready escort.” Catriona didn’t share her enthusiasm. “They’re coming to stir trouble, you will see.”

  “Take your seats, all of you.” James’s voice reached them from the dais steps where he stood with the guards. “Nought men are aye armed. I vow they take their bluidy axes to bed with them.” He paused as the snarls and grumbles in the hall turned to hoots and sniggers. “Whate’er they’re about, they won’t be coming here to fight. No’ with just a few men against a stronghold manned with a stout garrison and plenty of MacDonald warriors as well. Mackintosh might be crazed, but he isn’t a fool.

  “More like”—James glanced at Alasdair—“he read my last letter and finally saw the folly of withholding Nought stones from the memorial.”

  “He’ll have his own reasons and purpose
.” Alasdair folded his arms. “If he’s bringing stones, it’s because he sees profit in doing so.”

  “We’ll accept them all the same.” James was firm.

  Alasdair didn’t argue. But the tight set of his jaw showed that he preferred a Cameron-MacDonald cairn over a three-clan tribute.

  “See?” Catriona’s voice held pity again. “Even if Mackintosh wanted you, he’d always cause dissent in our clans. Alasdair is furious, though he won’t say anything. I know that look on him.”

  Kendrew does want me. Isobel had to bite her tongue to keep from arguing.

  She did see that Catriona’s brother wasn’t pleased. But Alasdair wasn’t her concern. Her whole attention was on the big, fierce-eyed man just filling the open doorway to the hall. The sentries hadn’t lied. Kendrew was dressed in all his battle glory. Mail shone from his broad chest and his silver-and-gold arm rings gleamed bright in the torchlight. His long sword hung at his side and he wore his Norse war ax strapped across his back.

  His bearskin cloak made him appear twice as large as he already was. The Mackintosh warriors at his heels looked equally huge and fearsome.

  As did the Cameron house guards, armored, stern-faced men who poured from the shadows to form a tight, narrow line on either side of the newcomers, flanking them as they entered the hall.

  “Cameron—I salute you!” Kendrew made straight for James, ignoring the sentries. “I come in peace.” He reached behind his shoulder, plucking his war ax from its halter and offering it hilt first to James as a sign of truce. “And I bring you stones and a warning.”

  “The stones, I accept.” James nodded, ignoring the ax. “Your warning is no’ welcome. We have no need of your counsel, or concern.”

  “My concern is no’ for you.” Kendrew flipped the huge ax as if it weighed nothing and thrust it back into the halter at his shoulder. “There are others in your household I’d no’ see sundered or harmed.”

  James didn’t blink. “Others?” He flashed a look at Isobel. “Who at Castle Haven matters to you?”

  Isobel’s pulse beat wildly at her throat, every inch of her skin heating. Any moment Kendrew would name her.

  But he didn’t, not even glancing her way.

  Instead, his face hardened. “My caution is for those most vulnerable: women, bairns, and old men. A dreagan cairn was damaged these past days. We searched for whoe’er tore the stones apart, but found no one.

  “Even so, you’d best tread with care.” He fixed James with a bold stare. “If you or any of your folk are foolhardy enough to ignore my warning, I’ll no’ be responsible.”

  “You and your like have caused havoc since before time was.” That was Alasdair, his voice cold. “Many terrors we’ve suffered have come from Nought. Why, if brigands are on the prowl, a threat that would put my folk at risk, would you come here to warn me?”

  “I’m asking myself that, the now.” Kendrew folded his arms, his scowl turning black as the ceiling rafters.

  “Could be”—he looked round, frowning at any Cameron or MacDonald who dared meet his eye—“I wanted you to have your damty stones so you’d stop pestering me with unwelcome ghillies bringing letters every other e’en.”

  “My couriers were less than a score.” James bridled.

  Kendrew stared back at him. “And my honor obliges me to advise you to have a care with the stones. They hail from the damaged dreagan cairn. Could be the beast, Borg is his name, might be for wanting them returned. Could be he’ll come here and—”

  “Could be you’re full o’ Highland wind!” a deep voice boomed from near the hearth fire.

  Hoots and guffaws circled the hall.

  Kendrew looked pleased to have used legend to stir a commotion.

  James reached down to pat the head of Hector, his ancient dog, when he tottered over to lean into him. “I’d sooner worry about my dog turning into a slavering beast than fear a dreagan.”

  “Think what you will.” Kendrew shrugged, unfazed by the jeers and sniggers. He did glance at Hector, his gaze flickering over the dog’s bony frame. “I told you once already that I saw spearmen up at the falls behind this keep. You”—he shrugged dismissively—“chose not to believe me.

  “That is your folly, no’ mine.” He fixed James with a stare. “The stones will be here shortly. They’re in a cart and once they’re in your hands, I’m washing my own of you and your memorial.”

  In the shadows of the stair tower, Isobel dug her hands into the folds of her skirts, gripping tight lest her fingers tremble with ire. She also took care to keep her back straight and her face expressionless, should Kendrew turn his head and look her way. He knew she was here. Prickling awareness rippled between them, scorching the air even if he deigned to keep on ignoring her.

  Annoyance flared in her, hot and swift. This was not how she’d wished their next meeting to be.

  He’d even acknowledged Hector.

  She’d seen his face soften when he’d glanced at the old dog. Yet he avoided looking at her as if doing so would turn him into a pillar of salt.

  “Now you see him for the bastard he is.” Catriona stepped closer, resting a hand on Isobel’s shoulder. “He has forgotten you already.”

  “Nae, he just doesn’t care.” Isobel pinned him with an icy stare, willing his attention.

  Kendrew continued arguing with James and Alasdair, just now refusing James’s less-than-enthusiastic urging to return to Castle Haven for the memorial cairn’s soon-to-be-held dedication ceremony.

  Isobel might have been a dust mote.

  A speck of lint on his sleeve or—her blood began to rush in her veins, her temper rising—a smear of mud on the sole of his shoe.

  “Your cheeks are red and your eyes are catching flame.” Catriona curled firm fingers around Isobel’s arm, pulling her deeper into the shadows. “I do believe it’s time for our walk on the battlements. Now, before he does look this way and sees you so upset.”

  “I’m fine.” Icy cold claws squeezed Isobel’s heart, iron bands clamping round her chest, making it hard to breathe. “And I am not going up on the ramparts.”

  “You can’t stay here in the gloom, staring at him.” Catriona tugged on her arm.

  “I won’t be.” Isobel broke free. “I’m away to my bedchamber.”

  Catriona’s eyes widened. “The stair tower to your room is across the hall.”

  “I know.” Isobel tossed back her hair, a little thrill at her daring already lifting her spirits.

  “You’ll have to pass Kendrew.” Catriona’s brow furrowed.

  “So I will.” Isobel shot another glance at the scoundrel. Then she took a deep breath. “He’s about to see what it feels like to be air.”

  “Don’t be foolish.” Catriona snatched at her arm, but Isobel was faster, gliding purposefully out of the shadows and into the crowded hall.

  Her bravura faded before she’d taken ten steps.

  Kendrew’s back was turned.

  Worse, James, Alasdair, and Hugh crowded around him, leading him toward the dais, in the opposite direction from her path. Hector, the clan traitor, slinked along behind them, sniffing at Kendrew’s heels.

  Isobel’s hands curled to fists, annoyance sweeping her like sheeting fire. But she kept her chin raised and didn’t break stride, crossing the hall with as much dignity as she could summon. Without looking back, she entered the turnpike stair and climbed to the third landing. There, she paused beside an arrow slit so the cold night air could cool her face. Only when the heat began to ebb did she start down the long, dimly lit passage to her bedchamber.

  Frustration accompanied her every step.

  She should have provoked a meeting, challenging Kendrew to admit his intent, one way or the other. But doing so would’ve caused a clan fight in the hall. Blood would’ve spilled, she’d have been ruined, and—she couldn’t ignore the possibility—men could’ve died.

  Isobel frowned.

  Despite everything, her heart still pounded just from having seen
him. Her body responded, craving his arms around her. Need filled her, tingly awareness that flickered along her skin. Recalling his kisses melted her even now, when she was so angry she couldn’t see straight.

  She was also seeing things that couldn’t be.

  She stopped, staring as the wall ahead of her rippled and shimmied, rolling like waves on the sea. A huge tapestry hung there, its colorful width lifting in an impossible, unseen wind.

  “Sweet holy heather.” Her eyes rounding, she reached for her amber necklace, gliding her fingers across the polished gemstones.

  The ambers were cool and still, withholding any hint of danger.

  Sure the enchanted necklace erred, she started to back away. She knew of another, less direct route to her bedchamber. A secret passage through the thickness of the castle walls, its entrance…

  “Agh!” She remembered now. The hidden passage opened here. And someone was inside, trying to force the damp, age-warped door behind the tapestry.

  Isobel’s blood ran cold. No one used the murky wall-tunnel.

  Yet the scrape of wood on stone filled the quiet. As did the rattle of the old door’s rusted latch. Then the heavy woven cloth was flung aside and a big, dark shape pushed into the corridor.

  It was Kendrew.

  And although he didn’t reach for his war ax, he did look angry enough to murder.

  Chapter Eight

  Felicitations, my lady.” Kendrew bowed his head ever so slightly, his eyes glinting in the corridor’s dimness. “We have business. Privy matters best aired here, away from the ears of your kin.”

  “Any matters between us ended when you returned my mantle.” Isobel stared at him, her heart thundering.

  “You know that isn’t so.” He flexed his shoulders, as if throwing off the closeness of the secret tunnel. Somewhere, he’d also cast away his bearskin, but he was still so huge and burly that he diminished everything else around them. He wrapped his hands around his sword belt as if he knew and was pleased to use his great height and width to crowd her.