Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  “Nought would be heaven to me.” The admission slipped past Isobel’s lips before she could catch herself.

  She didn’t want to sound disrespectful of Kendrew’s late mother, a woman whose sad fate was surely the reason for Kendrew’s aversion to ladies—or perhaps better said, of his refusal to let a lady touch his heart.

  Drawing boundaries kept one safe.

  Yet she knew Kendrew was a brave man. A warrior more fearless than most, except in this one matter. But she was equally bold. She was also prepared to be as daring as necessary to win his heart.

  Thanks to Grim, she could arm herself accordingly.

  “You, my lady, are a treasure any man would be honored to call his own.” Grim stepped forward and took her hand, lowering his head to brush his lips across the air just above her knuckles.

  “Though, I must warn you”—he straightened, releasing her hand—“that Kendrew will never forget the past. He loves Nought fiercely, but he’s vowed that no gentlewoman will ever again come to harm for—”

  “Lady Aileen took a fever because she was trapped in cold and rain for days.” Isobel lifted her chin, adamant. “She didn’t fall ill because black winds raced across Nought’s ramparts or a mist-wraith brushed past her, tragic though her end was.”

  Grim eyed her for a long moment, then the corner of his mouth quirked in a smile. “So I have told him many times, my lady.”

  “Then perhaps he should hear it from someone else?” Isobel returned his smile.

  “That would be very fine.” Grim’s smile spread to his eyes.

  “Then”—Isobel rubbed her arms against the day’s growing chill—“perhaps you might do what you can to ensure he stays for the feasting?”

  “It would be my pleasure.” Grim inclined his head respectfully.

  “I am pleased to hear that, Sir Grim.” Isobel folded her hands at her waist, hoping he couldn’t see that she was much more than pleased.

  Hope and anticipation quickened her pulse. Excitement made her heart beat faster, and she was sure that if Grim looked closely, he’d see the blood drumming low at the base of her throat.

  It was all she could do to stand calmly by as he bowed and then turned to stride down the gravel path and out the garden gate.

  For the first time since the trial by combat, victory hovered within her reach. Grim had given her the means to understand Kendrew. And the wonder of such an advantage curled like sweet warmth around her heart. If she used the knowledge wisely, she could make him see reason. He’d look past the barriers he kept around himself and realize they were meant for each other.

  Nothing could go wrong.

  But when she smoothed her hands down over her silver-and-gold-threaded tunic, preparing to rejoin the revelers at the memorial cairn, her amber necklace began to warm against her neck. The stones hummed and vibrated, the pulsing heat inside them increasing with each step she took along the kitchen garden’s path.

  “Nae.” Isobel spoke the word firmly, denying what she didn’t want to know.

  Instead, she let herself out the gate and went in search of Kendrew.

  There could be no danger in loving him.

  The ambers erred.

  And even if they were right, so be it.

  She had no intention of heeding their warning.

  Hours later, Kendrew stood in the shadows of Castle Haven’s entry arch, trying not to notice that his men—all proud, battle-hardened warriors—had succumbed to the lure of well-filled ale cups and fetching, bouncing-breasted serving lasses. To a man, his gruff, hard-faced champions whirled and stamped across the cleared dancing space in the Cameron great hall. Each bushy-bearded bugger wore a foolish grin and held an enemy wench in his arms as they jigged, twirled, and leaped to the scream of pipes and the lively tones of an admittedly talented MacDonald fiddler.

  It was galling.

  Kendrew’s Berserker heart took umbrage, his disgust so thick he could taste it.

  He wanted no part of such folly.

  So he folded his arms and resisted the urge to lean his weary shoulders against the curving wall. He was tired. And one of his feet had gone to sleep because James Cameron’s ancient pest of a dog—Hector?—had sprawled across his foot and promptly fallen into a deep slumber. The dog’s thin snores and the lightness of the beast’s aged, bony body made it impossible to disturb him.

  Kendrew was a warrior of great renown.

  Countless enemies had tasted the bite of Blood Drinker’s razor-sharp beard. And he’d cut down as many with a sword and spear, never sparing his challengers a blink before sending them into the Otherworld.

  His bare hands served as well, when need arose.

  Such was life for a Highland warrior.

  But he wasn’t cruel to animals, not even those belonging to his foes. He even tolerated Hercules, his sister’s flea-sized excuse for a canine. He wouldn’t even harm the wee beastie if the little bastard bit him. It took courage and heart for a creature so tiny to snarl at a man his size. And those were qualities he admired. Hercules also amused him. Not that he’d ever admit it.

  He did allow himself a fierce scowl.

  The needle-jab prickles in his foot were starting to creep up his leg. Cramps were setting in and twice now, his knee had threatened to buckle. As annoying, the rousing, energetic skirls of the pipes and fiddle offended his ears, the noise beginning to make his head ache.

  His men’s hoots and gleeful shouts irritated most of all.

  The weasels had clearly forgotten where they were.

  Kendrew hadn’t.

  Even in the vastness of the Cameron hall, now filled with smoke haze and the tantalizing smell of good, roasting meat, one scent lingered in the air. And its fresh lightness teased and taunted him, making him crazy as it seemed to repeatedly drift beneath his nose.

  It was the scent of spring violets.

  He suspected he only imagined the fragrance, which made its persistence all the more vexing.

  When a man scented a woman even in her absence, he was in deep trouble.

  Thor was also having a time with him, he was sure.

  Why else would he rip open the heavens, letting great, boiling masses of black-green thunderheads race in to spoil the day’s ceremony with torrents of drenching rain and cold, gusting wind?

  Gods were aye jesting with mortal men.

  And what better joke than trapping Kendrew at Castle Haven when all he wanted was to leave?

  He would have done, too. Rain and wind be damned.

  The truth was he thrived in such storms. The more wild and raw the weather, the faster his blood raced. But he wouldn’t expose his sister to the elements. Not even if she did deserve a chilling to her marrow, a stout dousing that would bring her to her senses and banish her moony-eyed yearnings for a certain brine-drinking, web-footed jackal. She’d clearly taken leave of her wits.

  And he—Kendrew’s entire body stiffened—would swear the scent of spring violets was intensifying.

  He also heard the soft swish of silk.

  “Odin’s balls.” He fisted his hands and drew a tight breath as the lady herself sailed out of the crowded hall to stand before him.

  Hector popped open his eyes and struggled to his feet, his scraggly tail wagging.

  Kendrew wasn’t about to show such adoration.

  “Lady Isobel.” He inclined his head, emphasizing her title.

  “Laird Mackintosh,” she spoke just as coolly. “You are missed on the dais. My brother saved a place for you at high table.”

  “I am fine here.” He was anything but fine.

  It wasn’t easy to speak when he was trying not to breathe. Each time he inhaled, the heady scent of spring violets flooded his senses. He also could do without the torchlight shining on her glossy black hair, the sight making his fingers itch to undo her braids.

  Indeed, he burned to do more than loosen her hair.

  And the knowledge—his capitulation—infuriated him beyond reason.

  “I can
’t sit at your high table.” He knew he sounded the fool, but couldn’t stop the words. “Blood Drinker isn’t pleased propped in thon corner.” He jerked his head to where all the men’s weapons rested near the hall door. “He’ll tarnish if I leave him.”

  “He’ll do no such thing.” Isobel glanced at the huge war ax, raging so much higher than the long swords leaning against the wall. “Though”—she looked back at Kendrew, her dark eyes twinkling—“I am much impressed by the lengths you go to avoid me.

  “Why, next you’ll tell me that Blood Drinker has advised you against consorting with black-haired females.” Her lips curved in an irresistible smile.

  Kendrew frowned. “You tread on thin ground, Lady Isobel.”

  She glanced at the floor, all innocence as she lifted her gaze to meet his. “I see solid stone strewn with rushes. Can it be”—she raised an elegant black brow—“that your eyes are failing?”

  “Don’t twist my words.” His annoyance made her mouth curl into an even more dazzling smile.

  The effect was devastating, slamming through him with as much impact as if someone twice his size and strength had run a spear into his chest.

  He ached to kiss her.

  Instead, he set his jaw and just looked at her, hoping his fierce mien would discourage her.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t.

  As he should’ve known, she proved her mettle, stepping closer to him. Her scent and her sparkling eyes fuddled his wits until he was sure he’d splutter nonsense if he tried to argue with her.

  The woman was a proper pest.

  Gods how he wanted her.

  She eyed him up and down, bold and brazen. “Someone needs to talk sense into you.” She reached to stroke Hector’s ears, the motion making her breasts shift beneath the shimmering veils of silver-and-gold silk she called a gown.

  Kendrew knew in that moment that she wanted him dead.

  She’d set upon a nefarious scheme to reduce him to a blithering idiot.

  And it was working.

  “What I need is no concern of yours.” He spoke more harshly than he’d intended, but he’d required all his strength to tear his gaze from her silk-covered bosom. Everything conspired against him. The carouse in the hall kept all eyes turned from the entry. And, closer by, a wall torch flickered near Isobel, the flame glow casting a spill of golden light across her, gilding her curves.

  Outside, thunder boomed and lightning flashed in the narrow slit windows cut into the wall. Rain hammered on the roof and wind howled, making him believe that Thor and all the other gods in Asgard were raising their mead horns, looking down at him and laughing.

  This was what they loved best.

  Watching mortals squirm.

  “You won’t get to me, Lady Isobel.” The denial was meant to annoy the gods as much as to thwart her.

  “From your posturing, some might say I already have.” She smiled again, sweetly this time.

  “You make my head ache, that is all.”

  “I say that is a start.” She sounded almost merry.

  “It is nothing.” Kendrew was adamant. “There is naught between us except a most regrettable mistake.”

  “Indeed?” She lifted an eyebrow.

  The increased rise and fall of her breasts showed he’d struck a nerve. “Think what you will.” Her gaze didn’t leave his face. “Thoughts won’t alter what happened on Midsummer Eve. Nor will they change things that occurred many years ago and that had nothing to do with you.”

  “What things?” Kendrew refused to flinch. But something about the way her eyes narrowed, almost defiant, gave him a sinking feeling.

  She was too smug, much more daring than usual.

  So he narrowed his own gaze, preparing to expose himself in a way he’d rather not.

  “You spoke with my captain of the guard in the kitchen garden.” He resented letting her know he’d noticed, that even when he’d confronted Norn and Alasdair, his attention had hardly left her. “If he—”

  “Sir Grim is a gallant.” Her chin went up, a trace of color staining her cheeks. “He is a man of noble bent, chivalrous and mannerly. He only—”

  “Grim is no courtier, my lady.” Kendrew couldn’t squelch the urge to shock her, to send her running back to her high table, never to plague him again. “Did you see the rings in his beard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what they are?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “They hold the ends of his beard braids.”

  “Aye, so they do.” Kendrew leaned close to her. “They are also warrior rings.” He straightened, unable to keep his lips from quirking. “They are similar to the blue kill-marks on my arms and chest. Grim makes them from the sword blades of men he defeats in battle. He has a whole chest of them, choosing different ones to braid into his beard each morning. He’s a bloodthirsty man, Grim is.

  “Indeed”—he hooked his thumbs in his sword belt, grinning now—“he can take out a man’s throat with a dirk faster than any warrior I know.”

  “You are not frightening me.” The lady didn’t turn a hair.

  Far from it, she kept her chin raised. “Such a strong warrior does honor to Nought, do you not agree?” She pinned him with a stare, smiling at the rolling thunder shaking the walls. “Your land is too proud, too magnificent, to breed men who are weak.”

  Kendrew frowned, not liking her words.

  He heard only that she called Nought proud and magnificent. And the way his heart jumped on hearing her praise boded ill for him. Seeing how her eyes shone, lighting as if she saw the same wonder he did in Nought, believing his land to be a wild and beautiful place, now that…

  He took a deep breath, not wanting to consider the implications.

  If he couldn’t thwart her with tales of his men’s brute fierceness, more drastic measures were required. Fortunately, he was good at the like. Squaring his shoulders, he glanced across the hall to the dais, his gaze going to the end of the high table where Norn sat flanked by two of his most formidable warriors. Dour men who’d love nothing more than flattening Alasdair MacDonald’s nose if the brine-drinking lout so much as looked at Kendrew’s sister.

  Seeing Norn’s peeved expression, it was clear that he’d dealt well with her.

  He’d also handle Lady Isobel.

  He just hoped the only other means open to him wouldn’t circle round and bite him in the arse. The maid was a worthy opponent, much too skilled for his liking. She surely had more than one war stratagem.

  He suspected they were all arse-biters.

  Even so, he had to take the risk.

  “You speak true, lady.” He stepped closer, crowding her. “Nought doesn’t spawn weaklings.”

  He ignored her praise of his land.

  “Nought men are strong, bold, and daring.” He set a hand on her shoulder, gripping firmly.

  To his annoyance, rather than shrinking back, she met his gaze, her eyes lighting as if his words filled her with eager anticipation.

  “Grim showed restraint when he spoke with you. He is aye a charmer. I don’t share his smooth manners with ladies.” He lowered his head as he spoke, knowing she’d feel his breath on her neck. “You should’ve let me be, Lady Isobel, alone in the shadows where I was content. Instead”—he nipped her earlobe—“you’ve provoked me into showing you just what a Nought man is: wild and dangerous.”

  “I am not afraid of wild.” She matched his boldness. “And I find Nought more thrilling than dangerous.”

  “You should fear everything about me.” He gripped her chin, lifting her face. “Even here, away from Nought and in your own hall.”

  “Say you?” Her dark eyes flashed at him, her quick smile so enticing.

  Her spring violet scent rose between them, heady and intoxicating. Torchlight spooled across her, making her hair shine. Above her low-cut bodice, smooth, creamy flesh gleamed, beckoning enticingly. Her nipples were taut, thrusting beneath the silk, begging attention.

  She stood taller, puttin
g back her shoulders so that her breasts lifted. Now he could clearly see the dark outline of those delectably peaked nipples. They rose even more beneath his gaze, pressing into the sheer fabric, which was little more than a breath of silk, letting him see so much. He inhaled sharply, wanting to taste her there, and elsewhere.

  “I am beyond speech.” He looked at her, not bothering to hide his desire.

  His heart hammered, pounding hard against his chest. His body responded to her, tightening painfully as heat poured into his loins.

  “You know what you do to me and”—he swore a tremor of excitement rushed through her—“I no longer care if anyone sees what you won’t let me deny.”

  Need almost consuming him, he released her chin and curled his hand around her neck, thrusting his fingers into the cool silk of her hair. He swept his other hand down her back, splaying his fingers over her bottom and pulling her to him as he brought his mouth down on hers, kissing her hard, fast, and hungrily.

  There could be no doubt that she’d feel his arousal.

  He’d hoped the rampant proof of his wildness would flame her almost-maidenly cheeks and send her scrambling back to the safety of the crowded hall. That she’d run to the dais and the civility of the waiting high table, never looking back and glad to be rid of him.

  But he’d hoped wrong.

  The soft gasp of pleasure that escaped her proved his folly. As did her sweet womanly warmth as she twined her arms around his neck and parted her lips beneath his. She leaned into him, even rocking her hips against the granitelike agony at his traitorous groin.

  Worst of all, he couldn’t release her.

  He pulled her more roughly to him, plundering her lips and drinking of her, knowing he’d never get enough of her honeyed kisses. He’d kill to hold on to the delicious torment of her hot, silken tongue twirling with his. Even the blending of their breath unmanned him, the intimacy so startling and heady that he had no choice but to deepen the kiss. A kiss that—something inside him railed—was more a bold and forceful melding of souls. Something so scintillatingly right, so good, that he didn’t care if her brother, Alasdair, or even long-nosed Grim leered at him over her shoulder.