Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  “That’s why”—his gaze once again pinned Marjory—“I’ve just decided to find you a husband amongst the many Norse nobles in the north. A fine Orkney earl or a Norwegian prince—”

  “Here, here!” James leaped to his feet, rapping the table with the hilt of his meat knife. “Now isn’t the time for such talk, Mackintosh.”

  Up and down the table, men agreed.

  Kendrew scowled, but held his peace. “As you wish,” he conceded, sending a glare at Alasdair all the same.

  Alasdair fisted a hand on the table, returning the look with equal boldness. “No Highland woman used to the grace of our fair glen should be made to suffer endless winters of blackness in places where nothing grows but frost and ice.”

  “My sister loves the cold.” Kendrew flashed a look at her. “Isn’t that so, Norn?”

  Marjory tightened her lips, calmly buttering a bannock rather than responding.

  “Did you not have a special announcement to make this night?” Alasdair turned toward James, purposefully showing Kendrew his shoulder. “Something that should cheer all present, though there will surely be one or two”—he hesitated only a beat—“exceptions.”

  His words earned chuckles from the Camerons and MacDonalds on the dais.

  With the exception of the two Mackintoshes flanking Marjory, and Grim, who was seated at a nearby long table, Kendrew’s own men were dancing.

  Kendrew muttered something under his breath that sounded like he’d “show Alasdair an exception.”

  Grim heard and shot him a dark look.

  But Kendrew only snapped his brows together, glaring back at his thick-bearded friend.

  Isobel leaned forward, trying to send Kendrew her own silent warning.

  Ignoring her, he cleared his throat. “I ken what would please me, and without exception.” He emphasized the last word, tossing a look of scorn at Alasdair’s back before turning his attention on James. “Can it be the tide has finally washed away the foundation of Blackshore Castle? And MacDonald is leaving the glen to seek new lodgings far and away from Loch Moidart with its aye rising water?”

  “Kendrew.” Isobel abandoned caution and reached across the table to squeeze his arm.

  “The like must be said.” Undaunted, he smiled, seemingly pleased by the frowns aimed his way from up and down the table. “It’s only a matter of time before that pile o’ stanes falls into the loch.”

  “Blackshore is a fine holding.” Isobel hoped Catriona hadn’t heard him.

  Looking toward her friend, Isobel saw that Catriona and her brother, Alasdair, had their heads together, speaking low as they peered up at James.

  And—Isobel blinked—apparently they were no longer paying Kendrew any heed.

  He wasn’t looking at them either. His gaze was back on her, his blue eyes watching her intently.

  Beneath the table, he kept his foot on hers.

  Only now, his knee also rested against hers, the intimate pressure sending strings of pleasure rippling up and down her leg. Her skin tingled with excitement, and try as she might, she couldn’t take her hand from his arm. She could feel the solid, rock-hard strength of him through his sleeve and—even though everyone could see her touching him—she couldn’t bear to pull away.

  As if he knew, he broke the contact for her, jerking free as he narrowed his eyes at her. “I told you once, my lady, you tread where you shouldn’t.”

  “And you?” She met his gaze, leaning her knee more firmly into his. “What are you doing?”

  “Making you see your folly.” He gave her a bold look surely meant to unsettle her.

  Instead, she felt herself melting—especially when he stopped merely pressing his knee against hers and used it to rub her thigh. And he was doing so most deliberately, in a knowing and provoking manner.

  Isobel swallowed, her body quickening with excitement. Delicious warmth flooded her, tingling sensation that pooled low by her thighs, sweet and insistent.

  She bit her lip, hoping he wouldn’t guess.

  He cocked a brow, proving he knew.

  Then he lifted his ale cup, sipping slowly, his gaze locked on hers as he continued to caress her leg with his knee.

  “Friends, kinsmen!” Still standing, James rapped his dirk hilt on the table again, the interruption bringing Isobel to her senses.

  She blinked, knowing she had to keep her wits if she meant to turn this night’s opportunity to her advantage. Allowing Kendrew to distract her—to seduce her at her own high table and in the presence of others—when she most needed to pay attention would only thwart her chances of seizing the right moment when it came.

  And seize it she would.

  Such a chance as having Kendrew held captive across the high table from her might never come again.

  This must be her night of triumph.

  Chapter Fifteen

  My friends—your ears!” James called out again, looking round Castle Haven’s crowded great hall. Smoke from wall torches and the candles burning on every long table hazed the air. But high expectation could still be seen on the faces of the celebrants as they turned toward the dais. Even the guards lining the walls gave James their attention, though they were too well trained to leave their posts or loosen their grip on their spears.

  Servants bustling about carrying ale jugs and platters of food paused to listen from the shadows beyond the hall’s main aisle.

  Isobel sat up straighter, aware of what was coming. She just hoped that someday she and Kendrew could make a similar announcement.

  She bit her lip, not wanting to consider the consequences if they couldn’t.

  Her wishes and the sacred pact with her friends weren’t just about her attraction to Kendrew, her appreciation of Nought and its deep roots in the northern culture that drew her so strongly. The love for Kendrew that she knew burned deeply in her heart.

  So much more was at stake.

  Bitter memories needed erasing. Peace in the glen should last longer than an ever-fragile truce. So many wounds needed healing; scars could rip open again if ignored. A forever bond must be forged, guaranteeing amity and goodwill that would last lifetimes and beyond.

  The importance of her task made her heart pound and dried her mouth. She didn’t dare glance at Kendrew. A man used to fighting hard and walking away victorious, he wouldn’t surrender easily.

  This night, she needed to be the winner of battles.

  So she sat proud, keeping her gaze on her brother.

  In the center of the hall, the music stopped then and the energetic dancing slowed, the crowd surging forward to catch his pronouncement. James waited until all shuffling and shifting stopped and everyone quieted. When the hall fell silent, he lifted his voice.

  “My lady wife and I have tidings!” He set a possessive hand on Catriona’s shoulder, pride ringing in his words, shining on his face. “In honor of the new memorial cairn gracing this land, the child that Catriona carries beneath her heart shall bear the second name of Cairn. Whether a boy or a girl, the babe’s middle name will become tradition, passed from one generation to the next so that none may forget the proud and noble sacrifices made to bring peace and goodwill to this, our beloved glen.”

  Cheering and whoops greeted his words. “Hail the babe, Cairn!” the cry rose from all lips. Well-wishes filled the smoke-hazed air, men slapping others’ backs, some pounding fists on tables. “Long life and many blessings on Lady Catriona and her child!”

  The din shook the rafters.

  At the next table, two guards just returned, cold and drenched from patrol, argued about shadows one man claimed to have seen. The other guard denied anything had been there, telling his friend that if his eyes were so poor, he needn’t be out on patrol.

  Everywhere else men and women beamed. Cavorting castle dogs joined in with a chorus of barks and howls. James raised a hand and nodded to the musicians, giving them his permission to begin playing again.

  And they did, the skirling pipes and screaming fiddle even livel
ier now, as was the dancing, which resumed with renewed vigor.

  Only two souls in the hall weren’t smiling.

  Kendrew sat as if carved of granite, his face hard and stony.

  And his sister, Marjory, in turn, could’ve been fashioned of marble.

  Isobel’s heart squeezed for her friend. Alasdair had used the ruckus to leave the high table. No doubt hoping to avoid a full-fledged fight with Kendrew, he’d joined his guardsmen at a lower table on the far side of the hall. He’d taken a seat in their midst, jesting with the men and seeming glad for their jovial company.

  Although…

  His besotted gaze kept straying to Marjory.

  But then Marjory glanced at Isobel and her stricken expression changed. It was replaced by a tightening of her jaw and a determined light that suddenly shone in her sparkling blue eyes.

  Marjory was up to something.

  Proving it, she leaned past the huge Mackintosh warrior to her right and fixed Kendrew with a dazzling smile, its brilliance a sure warning.

  “My brother.” The lightness of her voice was equally telling. “You see now”—she tossed a look at James and Catriona, surrounded by well-wishers—“the blessings that come of such unions.”

  “I see you trying to needle me.” Kendrew proved she wasn’t fooling him.

  “Then you see wrong.” Marjory held her ground. “I haven’t declared to a well-filled hall that I’ll be seeking a Norse or Danish bride for you.”

  “Hah!” Kendrew slapped the table edge. “So that’s the string you’re harping on. And”—he leaned toward her—“you can keep on plucking it, because the last time I looked, it’s aye fathers and brothers that find husbands for their daughters and sisters.

  “It’s ne’er the other way around.” He paused as a surge of agreement rose from the men sitting near. “Even if it was, I’d be having none of it.”

  More chuckles and hoots from the men.

  Marjory sat up straighter, readying for an assault.

  Isobel looked right at her, opening her eyes wide in a silent appeal to get her friend to leave Kendrew be. The last thing Isobel needed was for him to become aggravated and storm from the dais.

  But Marjory wasn’t finished.

  “If you wish to ruin my life, then perhaps you should be the Mackintosh to wed an erstwhile foe.” She threw down her gauntlet, challenging him.

  Isobel wanted the floor to open up and swallow her.

  It was painfully clear that Marjory was attempting to steer her brother in Isobel’s direction.

  Unfortunately, he threw back his head and laughed, slapping the table again. And his levity was attracting attention. Men, women, and even the serving lasses stopped to turn and stare at him.

  “I cannae marry, Norn.” He wasn’t laughing now.

  But the earnestness of his tone was exaggerated, the glint in his eye showing his amusement. “You know that, my sister.” He looked at her, shaking his head. “There isn’t a maid in all the land I’d allow to wear my ring. Even if”—he spread his hands as if to prove the futility—“I had one to offer, which I don’t.”

  “I say you do.” Grim appeared at Kendrew’s elbow, his fingers working one of the braids in his big black beard. “There!” He pulled a silver battle ring from the loosened twists of his braid. Thrusting his arm high, he waved the bauble in the air.

  “Behold—a ring!” He looked pleased by the shouts of encouragement.

  Even James appeared more intrigued than outraged, his gaze shifting between Grim, Kendrew, and Isobel.

  Kendrew’s levity vanished. “You’re a bastard, Grim. A conniving, meddlesome lout who—”

  “I but mean well for you.” Grim didn’t turn a hair.

  Isobel sat frozen, a strange blend of horror and exhilaration rising inside her.

  This was about her.

  She knew it, as surely as she breathed.

  “Finest silver it is, my friend.” Grim turned the ring so that it caught the torchlight.

  Kendrew jumped up, trying to snatch the ring from his friend. “You’re a madman.”

  “Nae, that’s you if you don’t make use of my gift.” Grim leaned around him and set the warrior ring on the table.

  “Bluidy hell, I will.” Kendrew lunged past him, grabbing at the ring.

  His fingers brushed its edge, causing the ring to shoot across the table. It sped into Isobel’s ale cup, stopping with a little ping.

  Grim—and others—started laughing. Along the table and everywhere on the dais, men began thumping their elbows on the tabletop. Some stomped their feet, while more than a few used big, scar-backed hands to dash tears of laughter from their grinning faces.

  The merriment spread throughout the hall, men and women crushing forward to see what had happened to ignite such a ruckus.

  Only Kendrew frowned, staring at the little silver battle ring as if it’d turned into a red-eyed, writhing snake and meant to bite him.

  “Bluidy hell,” he said again, apparently seeing, as Isobel did, that all eyes were on them.

  People knew there was something between them.

  The knowledge stood on every face. It hung in the air, thick and tangible, as if the hall held its breath, waiting for the inevitable.

  “She’d ne’er have me, you gawping fools.” Kendrew addressed the hall at large, but his gaze was fixed on Isobel. A muscle twitched in his jaw and the color was visibly washing from his face.

  He shook his head slowly, a warning. “She knows better.”

  “I know no such thing.” Isobel picked up the ring, seizing the moment. “I believe a union between our two houses would be good for the glen.”

  Kendrew stared at her. “Good for—”

  “For us as well, Laird Mackintosh.” Isobel smiled as brilliantly as she could, with her heart hammering against her ribs.

  Then she slipped the warrior ring onto the third finger of her left hand, her gaze never leaving Kendrew’s stunned face. “I do accept your offer.”

  Kendrew’s eyes flew wide, filling with disbelief. “Now, see here, Lady Isobel—”

  Before he could finish his protest, a thunderous swell of applause rose in the hall, the tumult drowning any possible objections.

  The deed was done.

  And Isobel could see in Kendrew’s eyes that his honor wouldn’t allow him to naesay their match. To do so now would shame her.

  He was hers at last.

  Unfortunately, winning this battle didn’t mean the fighting was at an end. The hardest part of her journey stretched ahead of her.

  She had to make Kendrew love her.

  Unless…

  As she was half certain she’d seen in his eyes more than once, he already did.

  Much later, long after Kendrew had resigned himself to his plight and trudged wearily to his guest chamber at Castle Haven and—a floor above him—his soon-to-be lady wife had slipped quietly into her own bed, her mood decidedly higher, another soul was wide awake, braving the wind and rain still sweeping the glen.

  And although Daire didn’t wish to admit failure, he couldn’t deny that he’d lost Drago’s trail.

  The three-legged dreagan was nowhere to be seen.

  Daire should also leave.

  The cold, wet night didn’t bother him. But the gusting wind proved a trial. It was hard to float along when the world turned into such a fury. And while the thick pines surrounding Castle Haven provided a buffer of sorts, he’d stopped counting how often a strong gale had lifted him high in the air, turning him this way and that, before dashing him into a tree.

  Not that the impact hurt him.

  But as a once-mighty dreagan master, finding himself tangled in dripping, tossing pine branches was an affront to his dignity. So he disentangled himself from the clinging boughs once again, brushing at his rain-streaked mail shirt with hands too wispy to do much to improve his present appearance.

  Not that Drago would care how bedraggled Daire looked at the moment.

  The dre
agan would fare no better.

  “You fool!” Daire stopped where he was, doing his best to hover in place. He also fought the urge to slap his brow with his palm.

  Drago was the proudest of dreagans.

  Dignity mattered to the three-legged beastie who only roamed so often and so far, simply so everyone would see him and know that he could.

  Yet…

  Drago sometimes lost his balance when hard rains made the ground wet and slippery.

  And he didn’t like to be seen stumbling.

  Remembering, Daire felt hope for the first time since setting off to find the creature.

  He’d been looking in the wrong place, expecting to spot Drago lumbering through the thick, mist-hung pines. But the dreagan would be elsewhere, taking shelter in an empty, disused cave or beneath a stony overhang until the ground no longer resembled a slick, running morass that would send Drago crashing to his knees.

  So Daire let the wind carry him back the way he’d come: out of the wood, across the battling ground with its newly dedicated cairn, and up the side of the deep, narrow gorge cut into the hills behind Castle Haven.

  He found Drago crouched in relatively dry comfort beneath a jutting rock ledge at the top of the Haven falls.

  “Drago…” Daire spoke low, approaching the dreagan respectfully. There was no need for the beast to guess that Daire knew why he’d sought shelter.

  Dreagans, like men, deserved to keep their pride.

  Daire also went gently because Drago’s deep, stony snores revealed that he slept.

  But even Daire’s careful, feather-light passage across the broken stones and boulders that edged the falls caused a flurry of loose pebbles to skitter down the steep, rocky wall of the gorge.

  Drago’s eyes snapped opened. Looking at first disoriented, recognition dawned swiftly on his long, gray-green face. He struggled against a yawn. Then he stretched, seeking to push to his feet before Daire, whom he clearly recalled as a master of dreagans.