“There be much afoot thereabouts.” Grizel scratched her chin, clearly pretending to consider. “Down Rannoch Moor way, I mean.”
Dear God, she knew.
Isobel whipped back around, facing the parapet wall again. “I’m sure I don’t know what goes on in Rannoch.” She did see that Rannoch the white stag no longer stood on a rock beside the waterfall.
He’d moved to the battling ground, very near to the new cairn.
And his gaze was now fixed on Grizel, as if willing her to join him.
“He’ll be for home, it looks like.” The Maker of Dreams stepped back from the walling, smoothing her cloak, the gesture sending up a hint of cinnamon. “His work is done here, after all.”
She winked. “Don’t be telling Gorm I told you Rannoch wished to mind you of his old home. Thon he-goat harps at me for days if I spoil a riddle.”
“Then don’t worry, please.” Isobel reached to touch Grizel’s arm but somehow the old woman was already on the threshold of the door to the tower stair. “You haven’t ruined the riddle. I can’t imagine why Rannoch would wish me to think of that moor.”
She really couldn’t and didn’t want to know.
But Grizel’s eyes glinted in the shadows, her rosy-cheeked face full of mischief. “Ah, but you cannae know, mo ghaoil.” She called Isobel “my dear.” “Perhaps you’ll need to ask someone who has the answer.
“Just dinnae fash yourself”—Grizel backed deeper into the gloom—“if what you hear is grim.”
On the words, Grizel vanished, slipping away into the dimness of the stairwell. Though when Isobel hurried to the tower door arch, there was no echo of the old woman’s descending footsteps.
She was simply gone.
Isobel leaned back against the cold stone of the wall and sighed. Frustration rose in her breast, maddening, and leaving her almost wishing the fabled crone and her enchanted stag hadn’t paid her a visit.
They’d only confused her.
Their magic—for such an encounter could only be that—hadn’t worked for her. She might be wildly excited to have seen the two at all. But she could live to be a hundred and wouldn’t guess what they’d wanted her to know.
Until she drew her cloak tighter and stepped into the stair tower to make her way down the winding steps and back to her bedchamber.
The answer came when she reached the first landing and Grizel’s parting words echoed in her mind: “… if what you hear is grim.”
Grim.
Isobel stopped where she was, once again clutching Kendrew’s letter to her breast. Her heart beat faster, certainty making her pulse race.
Grim, the big, tough-looking Mackintosh warrior, was the answer to Grizel’s riddle. For whatever reason, Grizel and her pet stag wanted Isobel to speak with Kendrew’s friend about Rannoch Moor.
And she would.
Hopefully on the morrow as the friendship and dedication ceremony would begin at first light. If Kendrew came as he’d promised in his letter, his captain of the guard would surely accompany him.
Isobel would corner the man.
Then, at last, the tides would turn in her favor. Grim knew something of great import that was crucial to her winning Kendrew’s heart.
Her own heart welling with gratitude, she rushed back up the steps and dashed out onto the battlements, hurrying to the parapet wall.
But the fighting ground with its proud new cairn and even the hills and moors beyond loomed empty. The night-silvered landscape stretched still and silent around her. She couldn’t call out a thank-you. Nor could she raise her hand to wave farewell.
Grizel and Rannoch were gone.
But they’d left their magic with her.
So she curled her fingers tighter around Kendrew’s letter and took a deep breath of the cold night air, this time catching a trace of deer musk and cinnamon.
Then even that hint of her visitors faded.
It didn’t matter.
Something told her they knew she’d solved their riddle. She just hoped she’d also be able to appreciate whatever Grim would tell her.
She knew with a woman’s instinct that everything depended on his words.
“You will behave nobly?”
“Humph.” Kendrew stiffened on hearing his sister Marjory’s admonition. Sitting straighter in his saddle, he squared his shoulders and clamped his jaw. He refused to cast a sidelong glance at the pestiferous she-vixen riding so regally beside him. His grunt had earned her wrath. He could tell even without looking.
“We’re in Cameron territory now.” She minded him of what he already knew. “The friendship and dedication ceremony is of great import to the weal of us all. You’ll be expected to participate in the festivities. And”—she urged her garron closer—“you must do so gladly, without shaming us.”
Kendrew forgot his vow not to glance her way and shot her a glare.
He wasn’t about to answer her.
His fierce mien sufficed.
Some of the men riding behind them chuckled. One or two cursed the Camerons. Kendrew ignored them all, his attention on picking a way through the thick pines that clogged Haven land. The trees were a botheration, making the journey tedious. He much preferred the grand, rocky sweep of Nought with its soaring cliffs and brooding skies.
His land wasn’t marred by damp, cloying woods that spoiled views.
Knowing Cameron land was so plaguey made his mouth twitch with satisfaction.
They deserved no better.
“It will do you no good to ignore me.” Marjory spoke as if she didn’t realize her continued needling put her in mortal danger. “You are only hurting yourself with your fool stubbornness.”
Kendrew snorted. “Dinnae tell me what I’m doing.”
He knew it fine himself.
He suffered enough just riding on Cameron ground. His head ached and pounded and had done for the last hour. Ever since he and their mounted party of soon-to-be memorial cairn celebrants had put their beloved Nought land behind them and entered Haven territory.
He didn’t need Norn’s pestering worsening his day.
It was already the most galling of his life.
A sudden skirling of pipes and a volley of shouts reached them from somewhere ahead, beyond the damty trees. The din grated on Kendrew’s nerves. Such tumult meant the folly that was James Cameron’s and Alasdair MacDonald’s friendship and cairn dedication ceremony loomed before them, loud, raucous, and unavoidable.
Kendrew scowled, deliberately slowing his horse.
Marjory noticed.
“We are late.” She took a breath that could only be called peeved. “They will have started at sunrise. It is now well past noontide.”
“Is it now?” Kendrew glanced at her, feigning astonishment just to annoy her. “I did think we’d make better time. A pity if we’ve missed the ceremonies.”
He hoped they had.
Doing so was the reason he’d pretended to have misplaced Blood Drinker earlier that morn. All knew he never set foot outside his stronghold’s wall without the huge Norse war ax. Making the household search for the weapon had taken up much of the morning. Only after several hours did he sneak back up to his bedchamber and retrieve his beloved Blood Drinker from beneath his bed’s mattress.
It’d been a good trick.
Regrettably, it hadn’t been good enough to last the whole day.
“Lady Isobel will need to bless Blood Drinker.” Marjory cut into his thoughts, her voice smooth as silk.
Kendrew jerked, his chest tightening as if clamped round with a white-hot, iron vise. “She’ll no’ be laying a finger on Blood Drinker.”
Nor would she be touching him, if he could help it.
“You needn’t worry.” His sister’s pleasant tone said otherwise. “She won’t have to touch the ax to bless him. She’ll only sprinkle water along Blood Drinker’s haft and blade.”
Kendrew reined in sharply. “There’ll be no water-sprinkling either.”
“It’s an impo
rtant part of the ceremony.” Marjory paused as another round of cheers rose from beyond the trees. “The blessing water is a blend of water taken from Clan MacDonald’s Loch Moidart, the waterfall behind the Cameron’s Castle Haven, and”—her smile sweetened—“from one of our own Nought burns, of course.”
Kendrew stared at her. “And just where did Clan Cameron get Nought burn water?”
“Why, Grim delivered a flagon along with your letter.” Marjory’s smile didn’t falter. “Did I forget to tell you? My apologies, if I did.”
“You know you didn’t tell me.” Kendrew was going to explode. “And”—he glowered at her—“because we’re yet alone, amidst our own kin, I’ll remind you that I did no’ write that letter.
“I’ll deal with the theft of our water when we return to Nought.” He didn’t trust himself to glance at Grim.
If he did, he might cut off the bastard’s ears and make him eat them.
He did tighten his hands on the reins until his knuckles shone white. “Clan Cameron and the brine-drinkers some folk call MacDonalds can be glad we’re here to stand at the edge of their fool ceremony.
“Odin can have my balls if I do more than that.” Pleased by his wit, he grinned nastily.
“You’d be wise to lower your voice.” The oh-so-terrible Lady Norn dropped her own to a whisper. “Or do you wish to shock Lady Isobel with your crudeness?”
Kendrew burned to shock the wench. Maybe then she’d leave him alone.
For the moment, he turned his wrath on his sister. “Thon raven-haired she-devil is—”
“She is just there, at the edge of the trees.” Marjory lifted a hand, waving at someone behind Kendrew’s shoulder. “I do believe she has the blessing water. She must be waiting for us to arrive.”
Kendrew set his jaw, his entire body flashing hot, then cold.
He was not going to glance around.
He glanced at the wood’s edge. His heart slammed against his ribs when he did.
Isobel stood there. And she looked more like a pagan sacrificial offering than the great gem-studded chalice she held in her hands.
Kendrew swallowed hard, his blood roaring in his ears. He stared through the trees at her, his traitorous knees nudging his horse forward, in her direction. She looked right at him, her breasts rising and falling with her breath. Her dark gaze moved over him, studying him from the top of his head to his toes, seeming to see right inside him. His loins clenched, pounding with a response that was more feral, more primal than a rutting stag.
She’d dressed to madden him, choosing a pure white gown overlaid with a shimmering tunic of sheerest silk, shot through with sparkling threads of silver and gold. A woven belt of the same colors dazzled low on her hips, drawing his eye to the one place he had no business looking because just the thought of her lush triangle of inky-black feminine curls would bring him to his knees.
Unfortunately, the wickedly designed gown offered no surcease if he looked above her waist either. So low-cut that the top rounds of her creamy bosom were displayed in all their glory, the gown’s bodice had surely been designed by the devil’s own seamstress.
He couldn’t see her dusky nipples, praise all the gods in Asgard.
But he knew they were there.
And that was a fate almost worse than death. It was all he could do not to swing down from his saddle, storm over to her, and tear open the gown’s silver-and-gold bodice laces, feasting hungrily on her breasts’ sweet, tempting crests until he’d sated himself.
If ever that was possible.
He sorely doubted it.
And—Thor help him—he didn’t know how he’d come to be off his horse and bending a leg to her.
But somehow he was doing just that.
“Laird Mackintosh, I greet you.” She looked at him from beneath her sooty, black lashes, watching him bow as if such obeisance was her due. A corner of her mouth tilted ever so slightly as if she knew how sorely he desired her, how easily she scattered his wits.
Kendrew caught himself swiftly, straightening. “A pebble in my shoe, see?” He lifted his foot, shaking it vigorously. “Damty nuisance, the like, what?”
“A shoe pebble?” She raised an elegant black brow, her tiny smile fading.
“Nae, I meant—” Kendrew snapped his mouth shut, wishing women wouldn’t twist words into their own irksome meaning. He started to say so, but Isobel’s attention was already elsewhere.
“Lady Norn.” She looked past him to his sister, smiling warmly now. “It is good of you to come.”
Marjory rode closer, beaming. “You knew we would. Indeed”—she glanced at Kendrew, and then back to Isobel—“we’re honored.”
It was all Kendrew could do not to snort.
He did lower his foot to the ground, feeling suddenly foolish.
“Aye, we are that, Lady Isobel.” Grim flourished her a grand bow. “Greatly honored,” he added, sinking ever lower in Kendrew’s esteem.
Grim was taking an especially high risk when he eyed Isobel appreciatively, his admiration putting a hint of rose on her cheeks.
Kendrew glared at him, but the lout pretended not to notice.
“A-hem.” Kendrew hooked his thumbs in his sword belt, swelling his chest a bit. “We’re clearly too late to cause a bother,” he announced, flashing an annoyed glance at his other men, who were also dismounting. “We’ll be on their way then, leaving you be.”
“Oh, we cannot do that.” His sister slipped down from her saddle with a grace that made his blood boil. Gliding forward to stand beside Isobel, she turned an infuriatingly innocent smile on him. “Don’t you see that Lady Isobel has the blessing chalice ready for you?”
I’ll be blessed when I ride out o’ here. Kendrew meant to snarl the words, but his tongue wouldn’t oblige him.
He did manage to snap his brows together. “I see more than you know, Norn.”
“Then you’ll see how good it is we’re here to honor the cairn.” His sister proved how well she maneuvered him into corners.
“Are you no’ done with the like?” It cost him all his strength to bend his gaze on Isobel. “The pipes are screaming and we heard cheers a while back. I dinnae care to make you repeat—”
“The younger lads have been holding wrestling competitions.” Isobel turned a smile on him that sent another rush of heat pouring straight into his groin. “James and Alasdair are waiting for you at the cairn. Their swords haven’t yet been blessed. No one wanted to proceed without you.”
“My sword doesn’t need blessing.” The argument was his last defense. “I scarce use a brand.”
She shifted the large blessing chalice against her hip. “James and Alasdair agreed that you could have me bless your war ax.”
Kendrew looked at her, feeling the earth open beneath his feet. “They are generous.”
They were bastards of the highest order.
“If you’ll come with me now…” She glanced over her shoulder at the throng, a rowdy mix of plaid-draped, bearded Camerons and MacDonalds crowding around tables set with viands and ale.
Only the top of the memorial could be seen rising above the heads and shoulders of the celebrants. Three tartan banners covered the cairn’s stones. Kendrew’s face heated to see his own clan’s colors. Grim had no doubt secreted a length of Mackintosh pride in the travel pouch he’d used to carry Nought water and a letter Kendrew hadn’t written.
Unfortunately, before he could think of a worse punishment than forcing the lout to eat his own ears, a heady drift of clean, spring violet scent wafted past his nose, duly enchanting him.
His heart began thumping. “Blood Drinker doesn’t take to…” His protest died when sunlight slanted through the pines, shining on Isobel’s sleek raven hair.
He stared, unable to look away as the sun danced over the gleaming strands.
Unbound, glossy, and begging to be touched, Isobel’s hair tumbled over her shoulders, spilling to the seductive curve of her hips.
For one crazy-mad m
oment, he envied the sunlight, touching her shining tresses so intimately. He knew how the silky skein felt in his hands and his fingers itched to once again enjoy the pleasure.
But he caught himself quickly, assuming his most hardened expression. “Blood Drinker doesn’t take to waiting,” he amended his cut-off sentence.
Earlier, he’d meant to say that his ax didn’t like consorting with enemy swords—only breaking their inferior steel blades in two.
Now…
His only recourse was to put back his shoulders and stride purposefully over to his most hated foes and their fool pile of stanes.
He would not allow Isobel to escort him.
He’d rather cut off his own ears and eat them than endure the torment of walking closely beside her. The humiliation of having everyone present see the truth in his eyes: that he was so besotted with the wench that he could hardly breathe for wanting her.
So he started boldly forward, swaggering deliberately. He also let his chin jut at an arrogant angle. His sister, Grim, and the rest of their contingent could follow as they desired. Or remain in the wood, for all he cared.
Lady Isobel…
He knew without glancing at her that she kept pace with him. And that her head was lifted with the same degree of pride as he held his own.
She had more spirit than some men he knew.
And he was torn between the urge to turn and march away from her and the urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her roundly. But as he began leaning toward ravishing her, imagining her face if he were to grab her here, in front of her kin and friends, James and Alasdair turned his way, looking at him from where they stood before the cairn.
Both men held naked swords, clearly waiting for Isobel and the water blessing. They nodded in greeting, their welcome somewhat stilted. Until Alasdair’s eyes widened, his smile turning into a grin as his gaze flew past Kendrew to light on someone behind him.
Alasdair’s sword slipped from his fingers and he dropped it anew when he bent to snatch the blade off the ground. Suspicious, Kendrew turned to see who’d reduced the proud MacDonald chieftain to a bumbling oaf.
It was Norn.
Her own sparkling blue gaze so fixed on Alasdair that she didn’t even see him glaring at her.
Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel Page 17
