Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  “I know no such thing.” Isobel wished he wasn’t so large, so disturbingly virile.

  “You are no’ a good liar, Lady Isobel.” He gave her a bold, provoking look that sent shivers rippling all through her. Chills that stirred wicked, tantalizing sensations she didn’t want to acknowledge.

  She shook her head, still stunned that he could be here, three floors above the great hall and having just burst out of a centuries-neglected hidden passage only Camerons knew existed.

  “What are you doing here?” She struggled against the urge to draw back.

  He arched a brow. “Did you no’ hear me?”

  “How can anyone not hear you?” Isobel let her gaze flick over him. She also held her ground, refusing to be intimidated. “More like, you’re ignoring my question. You have no right to be here.”

  “I say I do.” His tone implied he made his own rights. “And we will have words. I’ll leave you after we’ve spoken. Till then…”

  He stepped closer, towering over her. A rushlight gilded his rich copper hair and slanted across his mailed chest, casting him in a devilish red glow. The hellish sheen suited him, spilling over his big, hard-muscled shoulders and arms in a way that weakened her knees. Unfortunately, his fierce expression revealed that she probably didn’t want to hear whatever he wished to say.

  So she looked at him narrowly. “I think you’ll leave me now.”

  “I think not.” He didn’t budge, blocking her escape.

  “I have nothing to say to you.” Isobel made to sweep past him.

  “You will.” He clamped strong fingers around her arm. “And you’ll speak true. If you dinnae, I’ll keep you here until you do.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” Isobel knew he would.

  He glanced up and down the passage, surely aware that it was a well-trodden corridor.

  “Dinnae tempt me, lass.” He gave her a look that sent alarm clear to her toes.

  Isobel flipped back her hair. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she lied.

  “You’d best not.” He tightened his grip on her wrist, a warning. “No good would come of it.”

  “That I know.” She’d never spoken truer words. Already, her pulse leaped just from his grasp on her arm. Tingly heat sparked in her belly, spooling low by her thighs. Trying not to notice, she glared at him. “You are wild, heathen, and dangerous.”

  “So men say, aye.” A thread of cold wind blew through an arrow slit, lifting his hair about his face. “Women…” He looked down at her, one corner of his mouth curving. “They say other things.”

  “I know what they say.” Isobel’s chin went up. She was not going to discuss his joy women. Just thinking of them twisted her insides and made her feel as if tiny daggers were stabbing her heart.

  “You know prattle.” His brief smile vanished, his blue eyes suddenly hard as winter ice. “I would know if I’ve a need to speak with your brother about something other than his memorial cairn?”

  Isobel blinked, hoping she misunderstood. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I say you do.” His gaze dipped to her belly. “Though I’m thinking all is well with you.”

  “To be sure, I am well.” Isobel could hardly speak, rivers of heat washing through her. Only this heat wasn’t the exciting kind. A terrible mix of frustration, embarrassment, and anger, it welled inside her, hot and damning. “There’s no reason for you to offer me the courtesy of”—she forced herself to breathe—“saving my reputation.”

  “You are sure?” He didn’t release her, his expression intense. “It’s only been—”

  “It’s been long enough.” She rushed the admission. “I know nothing happened. I am not…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish.

  Not that there was a need.

  Kendrew’s face cleared swiftly, showing he understood. “Odin be praised.”

  “Indeed.” Isobel glared at him, his relief insulting her to the core.

  Ire gave her the strength to pull free of his grasp. Stepping back, she dusted her sleeve demonstratively, hoping to show her disdain.

  “Now that you’ve heard what you wished to know, you can tell me how you knew of the wall-tunnel.” She held his gaze, sure that her eyes gleamed like an evil shrew’s.

  She didn’t care.

  He deserved to be set upon by a host of talon-fingered, grizzle-headed crones who’d cackle with glee as they hastened him to the coldest, blackest level of hell.

  “Well?” She lifted her brows, waiting. “How do you know Haven’s secrets? I’m sure you didn’t ask James how to waylay me.”

  “I told James I didn’t trust his stable lads with Mackintosh horses. He thinks I went to the bailey to care for the beasts myself.”

  “That isn’t what I asked you.”

  “I told you once that Mackintoshes can night-walk.” His mouth twitched, as if suppressing a smile. “How do you think I amused myself as a lad? Many were the days I came here and crept about these walls, in high fettle because no’ a one of you knew I was about.

  “All castles have secret squints and wall passages.” Now he did grin. “My cousins and I wagered who’d be the first to discover yours.”

  “And you won?” Isobel didn’t doubt it.

  “I did.” He looked mightily proud. “The memory served me well this day.”

  Kendrew only wished his good sense had served him better, a regret that pained him even more when the high-spirited minx swished past him to flip back the tapestry, revealing the wall-tunnel’s warped and wormwooded door. He didn’t care a whit about the pitiful door or the dank, cobwebby passage beyond. But Isobel, with her glossy black hair spilling down over her shoulders and her face flushed, was a sight to behold. The hint of fresh, spring violets trailing in her wake was a torture no man should endure.

  He frowned at her, annoyed that such a comely female could be so vexing.

  She was worse than a pebble in his shoe.

  Ignoring his scowl, she gestured at the tunnel door. “Your fine recall can guide you back down to the great hall, where your arrogant presence is surely missed.”

  Her dark eyes blazed at him, the agitated rise and fall of her breasts proving that she possessed more weapons than her raven tresses and delectable scent.

  She did have a magnificent bosom.

  And she had no idea how close he was to pulling her into his arms and tearing open the ties of her bodice, just so he could again gaze upon her luscious, dark-tinted nipples. Only this time he’d do more than look at them. He’d lick and nip them, grazing the hardened peaks with his teeth until she writhed against him. He wouldn’t stop there, also devouring another wildly alluring part of her. The notion tightened his groin painfully.

  And that unwelcome throbbing made it easier to keep glowering at her.

  “The hall awaits you.” She shook the wall hanging, sending up puffs of dust.

  “We’re no’ done talking.” He blinked against the dust cloud, willing his ache for her to subside. “You can let the tapestry fall, unless you wish your arm to cramp from holding it aloft.”

  “Oh!” The color in her cheeks deepened. But she released the wall hanging, the fury in her eyes spearing straight to his heart.

  “That’s better.” He wrapped his hands around his sword belt again, needing a reminder that he was a warrior untamed, a Berserker. And that until she answered a certain other question, he couldn’t trust her. He’d handle his desire for her later, with a good, bone-chilling dip in an icy lochan on the ride back to Nought.

  As to why upsetting her pinched his heart, making him feel a worse scoundrel than the blackest rumors about him…

  That was a matter he’d simply ignore.

  For now, he looked down at Isobel, hoping his face was fierce enough to hide what she did to him. “Tell me true. Did you spell Borg’s stones?”

  She blinked. “Borg’s stones?”

  Kendrew nodded. “You were in the hall when I spoke of Borg. The damaged cairn is called after him, ha
s been for centuries. Dinnae try to—”

  “I’m not trying to do anything.” Her eyes snapped, her outrage singeing him. “I’m surprised you knew I was there. You didn’t so much as glance—”

  “You should know why I didn’t look at you.”

  She rushed on as if he hadn’t spoken. “I know nothing of your dreagan legends, Borg, or his stones.” She waved a hand in the air. “And I wouldn’t know how to spell a dung beetle. If I had such talent, you’d be a croaking toad and I’d be safe in the peace of my bedchamber.”

  “Then I thank Thor you are no’ so blessed.” Kendrew wished she’d stop eyeing him through her thick, black lashes. Her apparent innocence annoyed him, making him feel like a great, bumbling ox.

  Still…

  He needed to probe further. “Someone cast dark magic over Borg’s stones. The topmost rocks wouldn’t stay in place when we rebuilt his cairn. They kept rolling to the ground, no matter how we set them. No’ all the stones either, just enough to fill a cart.”

  He watched her carefully. “If no’ you doing the spelling, it’s well known that Gorm and Grizel, the Makers of Dreams, dwell in the high moors behind Castle Haven. They favor Camerons.” He couldn’t keep the suspicion from his voice. “Could be they were persuaded to work mischief to provoke us at Nought.”

  The words fell hard from his tongue.

  Her light, clean scent kept wafting past his nose, reminding him of how her warm, smooth-skinned body had felt beneath him. All her lithe suppleness and the soft, plump weight of her full, round breasts in his hands. Then the wonder of those breasts pressed against his chest, her gasps of pleasure when…

  He pushed the memories aside before the accompanying stirrings at his loins could worsen into something more formidable. Better to think of the fabled ancients said to spin all the world’s dreams—who, most annoyingly, were sworn to watch over Isobel’s clan.

  Blessedly, he’d heard enough fireside tales of the two to envision them. And the image of a tiny, wizened crone and a small, long-bearded man with an elfin face and a whirr of iron-gray hair swiftly chased all misplaced twinges of lust, clearing his mind.

  He took a deep breath, relieved. “I ken the pair are half-mythic and—”

  “Gorm and Grizel are real.” Isobel flicked a speck off her sleeve, her eyes gleaming with annoyance. “Their home, Tigh-na-Craig—House on the Rock—exists, as does Gorm’s Cave with its Pool of Truth. All tales about them are true. But they are peace-loving souls. Neither of them would use their spelling skills to do harm.” Looking up, she let her mouth curve into a challenging smile. “They wouldn’t plague anyone undeserving, that is.”

  She eyed him boldly, implying that he deserved the full force of the fabled pair’s witchery.

  “You are a minx, Isobel Cameron.” He stepped closer, bracing his hands on the wall either side of her, trapping her against the tapestry. “I warned you already that I’m no’ a man for you to provoke.”

  “I didn’t follow you up here.” She puffed a strand of hair off her face, bristling.

  “Would you rather I’d asked you in the hall if my seed quickened inside you?” He gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

  “You accuse me of bespelling stones belonging to a dreagan cairn I never heard of.” She ignored his question, returning his stare with the same fury that raged in him. “Then you dare to turn your suspicions on ancients you’ve never met and know nothing about.”

  Kendrew looked down at her, the throbbing at his loins returning with a vengeance. “If I dared what I’d like, sweet, it would no’ be asking about stones that won’t stay in place or two hoary souls who surely know their time is better spent keeping you out of mischief than plaguing me and the good folk at Nought.”

  “You’ve had what you wanted. You can return to the hall.” She leaned against the wall, pressing her shoulders to the tapestry to put distance between them. Unfortunately, she only caused the silk of her bodice to stretch enticingly across her breasts. The gown wasn’t as wickedly low-cut as others he’d seen her in, but…

  Her infernal nipples were taut, twin peaks thrusting proudly, demanding attention.

  “Damn you, Isobel.” Kendrew couldn’t breathe. His entire body tightened, a torrent of need rushing through him, making him crazy. “I have no’ ‘had what I want.’ I hunger with wanting and”—he reached to cup her breast, then jerked his hand away before he could touch her—“you ought to be glad I can restrain myself.”

  She had the cheek to smile. “I believe you are a master of restraint.”

  He stepped back, very close to losing control. “If you or your Makers of Dreams had naught to do with Borg’s stones, then I’ll leave you with one last warning.”

  “Indeed?” Her smile didn’t falter.

  It was cold enough to frost him.

  Breezing past him, she paused beneath a rushlight. The flickering glow limned her, doing wicked things to her silky blue-black hair and lush, oh-so-tantalizing curves. Kendrew suspected she stopped there deliberately, hoping to taunt and torment him.

  And she did.

  “See here, lass.” He clenched his fists at his sides, knowing that if she so much as blinked wantonly, he’d be on her in a heartbeat. “Someone—or something—caused the stones to keep rolling off the cairn.

  “Whoe’er spelled the stones could be dangerous.” He didn’t care if he frightened her. Fear would spur her to heed his words. “No one was at the cairn save me and a handful of my most trusted men. None of us touched the stones once they were set atop the cairn. Dark magic is about in the glen and you’d be wise to have a care.”

  He purposely avoided mention of the traces of a campfire he and his men had found, deep in a defile cut through Nought’s most inaccessible peaks.

  He’d handle that threat on his own, without frightening her.

  He also held back that his sister believed the Norse gods in Asgard were responsible for the stones repeatedly falling off the cairn.

  Marjory thought it was the work of prankster Loki.

  A jest to irritate and—Marjory had been smug when she’d said this—to prod him into “doing the honorable thing” and seeing the stones delivered to James Cameron for his damty memorial.

  There had been just enough stones to fill a cart.

  No more, no less.

  Kendrew’s mood blackened. It galled to think the gods would side with Camerons.

  “I’ll keep your warning in mind.” Isobel didn’t look the least concerned. “Not that I intend to set foot in Nought territory ever again.”

  “Then we are done, my lady.” Kendrew inclined his head, already reaching to fling back the tapestry and duck into the foul-smelling excuse of a tunnel Clan Cameron called a hidden passage. “I’ll no’ trouble you again. See that you do the same and—”

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Heavy footsteps and the deep voices of two men floated up the winding stair. Their clumping and low-spoken converse echoed through the passage, coming ever closer. Any moment they’d reach the landing…

  “That’s Hugh, my brother, and a cousin.” Isobel clapped a hand to her breast, her gaze darting to the still-empty turret arch. “If they find us—”

  “They won’t.” Kendrew lifted the tapestry and pushed open the door to the wall passage. “In with you and”—he put a hand on her back and urged her inside the dark space—“be still until they’ve passed.”

  “Oh!” She spluttered, flashing him an indignant glance over her shoulder.

  “Hush.” Kendrew nipped into the passage with her, closing the warp-wooded door behind them. Hugh Cameron and his cousin were already in the corridor, the noise of their approach unmistakable in the tunnel’s darkness.

  The blackness swirled around them, dank, thick, and filling with the scent of spring violets.

  Kendrew’s blood raced in response. “Odin’s balls.”

  “You said we must be quiet.” Isobel’s voice came from much too close, her shoulder bump
ing his arm. The movement sent another waft of violet past his nose.

  “It’s your scent, damn you.”

  “My scent?”

  “Aye.” He glanced her way, catching the gleam of her eyes in the darkness. Praise the gods he couldn’t see the rest of her.

  He did stand still, trying not to breathe. But his lungs rebelled, mocking him as he inhaled deeply, drinking in her light, clean fragrance. His vitals stirred, urgent desire sweeping him.

  Outside, in the corridor, Hugh and his cousin paused near the tunnel entrance. Their muffled voices filtered through the tapestry and the wooden door, revealing they were praising a lusty laundress named Maili who—according to the two men—enjoyed airing her skirts and was highly skilled at carnal pleasuring.

  Kendrew frowned, trying to block his ears as well as not breathe.

  Colorful tales of a maid’s oral talents weren’t what he needed to hear.

  “Oh, dear…” Isobel sounded equally pained.

  “Shhhh.” Kendrew turned, placing a hand over her mouth.

  It was a grave mistake.

  Her soft, warm lips pressing into his palm was torture. The silken spill of her hair brushing across his wrist roused him beyond restraint. Cool and sleek, the satiny strands branded him as surely as if she’d set an iron to his flesh. He released her at once, lowering his hand with the lightning speed that had won him battles.

  But it was too late, his best warring skills tromped.

  The damage was done.

  Furious, he clenched his jaw to trap the growl rising in his throat. His wits must’ve abandoned him. He should’ve entered the secret wall-tunnel on his own, leaving Isobel in the corridor. Her brother and cousin would’ve passed by her without a word.

  Now…

  The fusty passage struck him as much tighter than before.

  He knew it was darker.

  Total, complete gloom that made it easy for certain images to whirl across his mind. Just as the closeness ripped away his restraint, letting desire surge so fiercely he feared he’d break Isobel if he did cast aside caution and pull her into his arms.

  “I think they’re leaving.” She whispered the words, daring fate when her soft breath teased his neck.