Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  All that mattered was kissing her.

  Until somehow he’d lifted her skirts, the silky material sliding over his wrist as he stroked his hand up the sleek length of her leg. When he reached the soft, female heat at the juncture of her thighs, his fingers brushing the downy curls there, his wits returned and he yanked back his hand as if she’d scorched him.

  He released her at once, breaking the kiss and stepping away from her. Biding the remainder of his good sense, he used the broad width of his back to shield her from the crowded hall. Her lips were kiss-swollen, her hair mussed, and her lovely breasts flushed pink with the sweetest tinge of feminine arousal he’d ever seen.

  She was without doubt the most desirable woman he could imagine.

  She was comely, spirited, and so responsive that it was all he could do not to take her here and now, against the wall of the entry arch.

  He knew she wouldn’t say no.

  Her rapid breathing and—he wished he hadn’t noticed—the stunned, starry-eyed look on her face, were as telling as if she’d pinned her heart on her sleeve.

  She fancied herself in love with him.

  And that meant he had no choice but to convince her that she wasn’t.

  “You’d best right yourself.” He let his gaze sweep her, lingering on her breasts, the pulse beating rapidly at the base of her throat. “You’ll no’ want to head back to your high table until you do.”

  “And you?” She surprised him with a level stare, her eyes glittering in the torchlight. “Will you now join us at the dais?”

  Kendrew felt his brow furrow. He’d expected her to beg him not to follow her there.

  Unfortunately he was now obliged to go.

  Only by acting the scoundrel could he prove to her that he was one.

  So he ignored the twinges of guilt pricking him and once more narrowed the space between them. Only this time rather than touching her, he backed her against the wall, trapping her by planting his hands on either side of her head. Leaning in, he looked into her eyes, making sure that his expression was his darkest.

  “I will wait for you there, aye.” He would, though he wished there was another way to be rid of her. “Be warned, I’ll no’ play the courtier. You’ve pushed me too far, Isobel of Haven.”

  “I am not afraid of you.” One corner of her mouth lifted in a smile, secretive and knowing. “Indeed, I find our encounters most enjoyable.”

  Daring much, she lifted a hand to touch his face, trailing one finger along the side of his jaw. “As do you”—she held his gaze, not blinking—“though I know you don’t wish to acknowledge the pleasure.”

  Kendrew scowled at her. “It’s no’ pleasure—”

  “You are not a good liar, Laird Mackintosh.” She had the boldness to deepen her smile.

  Then she ducked beneath his arm and strode away from him, her head high as she disappeared into the shadows at the back of the entry hall.

  A trace of spring violet drifted in her wake.

  Fleeing the scent, Kendrew squared his shoulders and made for her brother’s high table. When she returned to claim her place there, he’d put an end to this folly once and for all time coming.

  He just wished he didn’t have the dreadful feeling that his own folly had just done more than circle round and bite him in the arse.

  He wasn’t just arse-bit.

  He was doomed.

  And it wasn’t even the potency of her kiss or the undeniable attraction of her full, creamy-skinned bosom that brought him to such a pass.

  It was the way her face had lit when she’d spoken of his land.

  His heart had split to see the wonder in her eyes. And having seen it, he doubted he could resist her much longer. A woman he desired and who also appreciated Nought was too great a temptation.

  Unless he turned around and left the hall now, never looking on her again.

  But he kept on, elbowing a path straight to the dais and the empty seat awaiting him there.

  And as he neared the dais steps, the night’s rain pounded down on the roof and the wind rose, great bursts of thunder booming with especial glee.

  Thor was well pleased.

  What a pity Kendrew wasn’t ready to surrender. Isobel might be bold in the shadows, but she’d back down if challenged in the blazing light of her family’s high table with kith and kin looking on.

  She was a lady, after all.

  And Kendrew was about to show her the meaning of scoundrel.

  The gods and their jesting be damned.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Isobel regretted nipping into the secret, hall-skirting passage as soon as its cold, dank air rushed to greet her. Eerie on any visit, the dimly lit corridor was especially unpleasant with rain and wind lashing the castle walls. Outside, thunder rolled ominously, the booms echoing in the gloom. But the little-used passage curved back to the dais, offering her a chance to tidy and calm herself before she reclaimed her seat at the high table.

  She hoped everyone there would be too occupied feasting or watching the dancers to notice her slip in through the hidden door near the hearth fire at the rear of the dais.

  She hurried on, willing it so.

  She just wished the corridor wasn’t rumored to hold more than chill, stale air and shadows.

  Skald, the huge, snarling black dog that graced her clan’s banner, was said to roam the passage. Many were the tales of his glowing red eyes appearing in the corridor’s empty, least-lit stretches.

  And the tragic clan ghost, Lady Scandia, a young, raven-haired woman believed to resemble Isobel, was also known to drift through the darkness here. Fortunately, Scandia hadn’t been seen in a while, and most Camerons now suspected she’d found peace at last.

  Isobel hoped it was true.

  But she still stepped lightly, trying hard not to glance over her shoulder. The corridor’s murkiness didn’t feel exactly empty. So she took care to keep her ears alert to any sound besides her own footsteps and the powerful thunderstorm raging overhead.

  It was too easy to imagine shifting figures in the deeper shadows.

  She could almost see them, a lovely wraithlike woman, or a large, wolfish dog with fire-ember eyes, or other things that—she quickened her pace—were perhaps much more terrible than Scandia and Skald.

  Pushing them from her mind, she breathed deep of the chill, rain-damp air filtering into the passage from the air slits set high into the outside wall.

  She still felt shaky from Kendrew’s long, deep kisses and needed the air to calm herself.

  She also smoothed her hair and straightened her gown as she hurried along, hoping as well that she remembered where the passage’s other well-kept secrets could be found: tiny bits of rubble that could be removed from the wall to access peepholes into the hall.

  She didn’t trust Kendrew to take his rightful place at the high table.

  And if he went elsewhere, she wanted to know before she returned to the dais, trapping herself beneath James’s watchful eye.

  Kendrew was her concern.

  And he wasn’t escaping her.

  So when she rounded a certain bend in the corridor, she began counting her steps past the iron-bracketed wall torch spluttering there. She paused after twenty-one steps, lucky seven times the sacred three. Then she steeled herself against the feel of the chill, damp stone and ran her fingers along the wall until she found a loose bit of rubble. Easing the rock from its niche, she took a deep breath and pressed her eye to the spyhole.

  Her heart raced when she did.

  Kendrew hadn’t lied.

  He was striding through the great hall, boldly using the center aisle. Head high and shoulders squared, he ignored the whirling dancers and was making straight for the steps to the dais.

  His eyes glinted in the blaze of the torches and he moved quickly, walking with purpose. Isobel could scarcely breathe watching him. Worse, his gaze wasn’t on the empty place of honor to James’s right that she’d insisted her brother reserve for Kendrew.
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  He’d fixed his stare on her other brother, Hugh, who sat across from Isobel’s seat.

  And the longer she observed his determined, unerring path, the more she grasped his intent. He would chase Hugh from his place on the trestle bench so that he, Kendrew, could sit close to her.

  Which meant…

  “You, devil.” She inhaled sharply, her entire body flaming.

  Her heart raced, her palms dampening because she knew he planned something outrageous.

  He’d warned her that he wouldn’t play the courtier. Already his lips were quirking in a roguish, self-satisfied smile. Triumph rolled off him, giving him the air of a victor about to claim his battle booty. For sure, he meant to cause a scene, perhaps even plucking Hugh from the bench and plunking him onto the vacant spot next to James.

  He’d do it with relish, Isobel knew.

  Then he’d dust his hands and grin, pleased to draw all eyes so he could proceed to embarrass her.

  The image of him striding onto the gravel beneath her bedchamber window, waving her blue cloak like a banner, flashed across her mind.

  That night, too, he’d shown his daring.

  Only this night…

  She’d hoped to display her own mettle.

  And she would, by God.

  But before she could replug the peephole and hasten on her way, Kendrew paused with one foot on the first dais step. As if he knew she stood behind the wall, staring at him, he turned his head and looked directly at her.

  Isobel froze, her hand holding the rock just inches from the little opening in the wall.

  Her heart thundered and her mouth went dry.

  Kendrew couldn’t possibly see her.

  But his eyes glinted in the torchlight, his gaze so intense, so challenging, that she’d swear he could. Worse, it was a look of such startling intimacy that she felt not only stripped naked, but as if her body was on fire. Unable to look away, she touched her hand to her breast, the cold hardness of the rock like ice against her flesh.

  Beneath her fingers, she could feel the rapid beat of her heart. Her knees weakened, her mind flitting back to just moments before when he’d held her so tightly, kissing her deeply and sliding his hands all over her body, making her want him so badly.

  She did now.

  And he knew it, the bold-eyed bastard.

  As if in proof, he flashed a grin. Then he turned and bounded up onto the dais, heading straight for Hugh as she’d known he’d do.

  “Oh, God.” Isobel jammed the rock into the peephole, using the heel of her palm to wedge it in place. Her pulse rushed crazily and heat stung her face.

  Her knees felt weak, and once she’d sealed the spyhole, she braced her hand against the wall to balance herself. She was sure the pounding of her heart echoed in the corridor, perhaps even loudly enough to be heard through the wall, in the great hall. Outside the passage, the wind howled with more force than before, shrieking past the corridor’s high-cut air slits. From farther away came the more ominous grumble of thunder. Only now the low rolling booms sounded more like the storied dreagan roar she’d heard at Nought on the night of the Midsummer revels than any true thunder.

  The ambers at her neck hummed as well, pulsing warmth beginning to heat her skin.

  “I am not afraid.” She drew a deep breath and pushed away from the wall. Straightening, she brushed at her skirts and then smoothed her hair.

  Kendrew was a danger to himself, not to her.

  But he could ruin everything if he caused a scandal at the high table.

  She couldn’t allow that to happen.

  She hoped the charmed ambers weren’t warning that it would. Even the worsening of the night’s storm and the odd stonelike rumble of thunder seemed to hint that some kind of trouble that had been lurking just out of range was now preparing to rush in and cause havoc.

  Touching her necklace, she curled her fingers around the pulsating stones, willing them to cool and be still.

  Blessedly, they obliged, quieting at once.

  Isobel’s spirits lifted.

  This night was crucial, a turning point that needed to bring the triumph she yearned for so fervently. Kendrew’s glance at her a moment ago had melted her. Even if he hadn’t actually seen her, he’d certainly sensed her behind the wall. The air between them had crackled, proving that she wasn’t alone in her feelings.

  He did care for her.

  What stood between them had been a long time in coming. And it went much deeper than stolen kisses and forbidden touches. They were perfectly matched in all ways. Their bonding was powerfully right and—she was sure—absolutely inescapable. And although there wasn’t a moment when she didn’t yearn to feel his arms tighten around her, she also knew that the longing inside her was more than lust.

  It was love.

  And she couldn’t bear the damage that would ensue if Kendrew offended Hugh and a fight erupted on the dais.

  Hugh spun tales. He wasn’t a warrior.

  But he’d defend Isobel to his last breath—and if he challenged Kendrew, the result might very well be Hugh’s final gasp.

  And then…

  Isobel pressed the backs of her fingers to her lips and hurried along the corridor. Worrying about a fracas she meant to prevent would solve nothing. Returning to the high table as swiftly as her feet would carry her was what she needed to do. So she kept on, ignoring the other peepholes she passed and pretending not to notice how the shadows seemed to shift and follow her as she hastened toward the hidden door that opened beside the dais hearth.

  When she reached it, she set her hand on the latch, pausing for only a heartbeat.

  Then she prayed the hinges wouldn’t squeak and opened the door. She stepped through onto the well-lit dais. Her eyes rounded at the sight that greeted her, her jaw slipping as she stared at Kendrew and Hugh.

  Kendrew towered over Hugh’s still-sitting form, his expression so earnest it was almost comical.

  Her brother Hugh was twisted around on the trestle bench, looking up at Kendrew with shining eyes, his ruddy face flushed with pleasure.

  Hugh was preening.

  And Kendrew was goading him, using Hugh’s vanity to maneuver him into a corner.

  The scene was strange, and entirely different from what she’d expected to find. Isobel could only stare at the two of them—as did everyone else at the high table.

  No one even noticed when she slid quietly into her own seat.

  “Och, nay…” Kendrew waved a dismissive hand, looking uncharacteristically humble as he peered down at Hugh. “Honored though I am, I have too much respect for bards to take your rightful place at the top of the table.”

  He placed a hand over his heart, shaking his head. “You’ve earned thon place beside your clan leader.” He glanced there now, ignoring James’s narrowed eyes. “If you’ll treat us to one of your lays later, I’ll gladly sit here where you’ve kindly warmed the bench for me.”

  “You do make a point…” Hugh swelled his chest a bit, his gaze flicking down the table to his usual seat, now cleared and held free for Kendrew. “I am rather accustomed to my own place at the table. And”—he pushed to his feet, stepping over the bench—“I will be telling tales by the fire later, after the feasting and dancing. Folks enjoy hearing them before they go abovestairs to their beds.”

  “I’ll look forward to the pleasure.” Kendrew claimed Hugh’s seat with speed.

  He didn’t even glance at Isobel, but the foot he pressed down over hers beneath the table proved that he knew she was there.

  And that he considered tricking Hugh a victory.

  It was, too.

  “Well done.” Isobel looked across the table at him. She kept her voice low, but not so soft that he’d loudly prompt her to speak more clearly.

  The glint in his eyes assured her that he wouldn’t hesitate to do something so outrageous.

  “You tempt me to do many things, my lady.” His words proved it.

  Lifting Hugh’s left-behind ale c
up, he took a long sip, watching her over the rim.

  “Why else would I be here?” He set down the cup, arching a brow at her. “You know there is only one reason.”

  His deep voice rolled over her, its richness making her pulse quicken. For such a big, burly man, he did have a beautiful voice. But it was the implication of his words and the intensity of his gaze that melted her. She could see her own feelings mirrored in his eyes, a truth he couldn’t hide behind his bluster.

  “You do not speak, lady?” His tone went a shade huskier, as if he knew what he did to her and reveled in watching her squirm.

  “Be glad I can temper my tongue.” Isobel lifted her chin, letting her eyes flash.

  “And since you ask why you’re here… Perhaps you wished to pay respects to the battle fallen and support friendship and amity between the glen clans?” She tried to pull her foot from beneath his.

  He smiled and clamped down harder on her toes. “What the glen needs is strong men and sharpened steel.”

  “There are other ways to promote peaceful living.” Isobel held his gaze.

  “No’ for warriors.” Kendrew raised his voice, looking round at the other men at the table. “Men speak with their swords. Mackintoshes”—his tone rang with pride—“let their axes talk for them.”

  Near James, Alasdair set down his eating knife. “I agree with Lady Isobel.” His gaze lit briefly on Marjory, still trapped between two stony-faced Mackintosh guardsmen. When he looked again at Kendrew, his expression was direct, almost challenging. “Our host, James Cameron, and my lovely sister, his wife, Lady Catriona, prove that connubial bliss serves as well as any blade to foster goodwill between warring clans.”

  Marjory’s cheeks turned pink and the wine cup she’d been about to lift to her lips nearly slipped from her fingers. “He speaks true, Kendrew. Such unions have borne fruit and ended feuds throughout the Highlands. Wedding an erstwhile enemy does have merit.”

  She didn’t look at Alasdair.

  But she didn’t need to.

  Her own troubles forgotten, Isobel held her breath, waiting for Kendrew’s outburst.

  It came as a smile. And it was a slow, damning smile that spread across his face as he turned to fix his sister with a chilly stare. “Marriages between allies are better.” He looked around the table again, as if expecting agreement. When no one spoke, he picked up his ale cup and drained it, slapping it down with a loud clack.