“Stay as you are, my friend.” Daire ducked under the ledge, dropping to his knees beside the creature. “I am most tired this night. And I am weary of the downpour.” He rested a gentling hand on Drago’s shoulder. “I’ll bide a while with you, if I may.”
Drago gave a grateful sigh and sagged back into his crouch, a few bluish curls of stony-sweet smoke escaping from his nostrils.
Pleased by the beast’s trust, Daire released a sigh of his own, glad indeed to be out of the racing wind and wild, wet weather.
“You’ve wandered far this day.” Daire chose his words with care, making sure to lace his tone with admiration. “I’m aware you make such journeys often, even traversing the whole of our glen.”
A low rumble rose from deep in the dreagan’s chest, letting Daire know that Drago appreciated the recognition of his ramblings.
“I traipse about as well.” Daire’s own pride kept him from saying he drifted.
Once, he had traipsed.
And strode, marched, stormed, ran, and—when the mood took him—ambled, enjoying the day and the wonder that was the Glen of Many Legends.
To his mind, such experience was good enough to allow him to claim he traipsed even now.
He also just liked the sound of the word.
But he wasn’t here to ponder poetic musings. He had a most serious purpose.
He needed to find his friend.
Slag was also excellent at sniffing enemies. Together, they could track the jackals roaming the glen. Daire knew they were hard, brutal men. The kind who lived to raid and burn, leaving a bloodred trail behind them, then raping and stealing women when they left.
Such folk weren’t welcome in the Glen of Many Legends.
And if only Daire could find his old companion-in-guarding-the-glen, they might be able to help Kendrew banish the sorrow-bringers before they could leave their bloody mark on the glen and its people.
So Daire turned to meet Drago’s steady red gaze and tried to keep the desperation from his voice. “You were fond of Slag.” He spoke true words, his heart swelling to form his friend’s name on his tongue.
He also didn’t mention the brigands, not wanting to frighten this dreagan who was more proud than brave. “I have heard you were the last to see Slag before—”
Rodan and his men unleashed hell upon the dreagan vale?
Daire heard Drago’s gravelly answer in his head, the words as clear as his own.
It is true. Another thread of smoke curled from Drago’s nose. I was the last to see Slag.
“I seek my old friend, Drago.” Daire hoped the dreagan would recall how much he loved Slag. “We were separated on the day. I know Slag doesn’t sleep in his old lair as most dreagans do. I would feel his heartbeat beneath the stones if he did. The cairn is empty. Nor have I been able to track him in the glen.” Daire put words to the sorrow that consumed him. “I fear”—he did—“that Rodan visited an especial horror on Slag, knowing he was my companion.
“If that is so, I would hear the truth, whatever it is.” Daire looked deep into Drago’s eyes, willing the dreagan to understand his need. “Most of all, I would know where Slag is—if you can tell me.”
Slag escaped Rodan. Drago shifted, sending another scatter of pebbles down the hillside. A shame he left when he did—he missed seeing Rodan’s mercenaries turn on him when no gold was found beneath our nests.
A look of reminisce glimmered in Drago’s eyes. It was a grand sight. He turned his head, fixing Daire with his glittering eyes, clearly pleased to recall Rodan’s downfall. He went wild, Rodan did. Storming about, ordering his men to tear apart every cairn, throwing our stones hither and thither, digging deep holes into sacred earth.
Then, when the last stone rolled and the final shovelful of earth was dug, the fiends’ efforts left them empty-handed. Rodan’s face ran even more red and he cursed them, accusing them of stealing the treasure when he wasn’t looking. He swore not to pay them.
It was then—Drago closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deep—that they threw aside their picks and shovels and drew their swords.
In the face of such an angry horde, Rodan turned into a woman.
Daire’s lips twitched, nodding. He’d always suspected his archrival of cowardice.
Shameful it was—Drago shuddered, his stony scales rippling at the memory—seeing him shriek and run, fearing for his life. The mercenaries took it, too, cutting him down where his stone now stands.
The monolith tilts because we—the dreagans that were slain that day, at his command—gathered our remaining strength and tried to push it down.
Drago looked at Daire, pride on his beautiful dreagan face. We couldn’t knock the stone to the ground, but perhaps it is more fitting that it leans, showing how he ran.
“Indeed.” Daire agreed wholeheartedly.
But much as it pleased him to finally learn Rodan’s true fate, he needed to find Slag.
“You said Slag escaped Rodan, that he’d left the dreagan vale. Do you know what happened to him?” Daire’s heart lifted, hope welling in his chest because Drago surely must have some knowledge.
I do not. Drago glanced aside, avoiding Daire’s eyes.
Daire bit back his disappointment. “But you were the last to see him.”
I saw him run away, Drago answered reluctantly.
Cowardice was a failing second only to disloyalty amongst dreagans.
“He ran?” Daire couldn’t believe it. “There must be a mistake. Slag would’ve fire-blasted Rodan and a whole army of hell-fiends. Never would he run—”
He didn’t run from Rodan. Drago’s eyes filled with pity. There was a storm blowing that night, the worst to sweep the glen in all the ages. It was the storm that sent Slag galloping from the dreagan vale.
Daire listened, stunned.
Shamed, too, because he hadn’t been there to calm his friend when he’d needed him.
Slag’s fear of thunder had been their secret.
Now…
A hard, cold knot formed in Daire’s chest, guilt pressing down on him. “Did you see where he went?”
Drago shook his great head, regret in his eyes.
But he did slide his long tail out from under him, uncurling its length to point north, back toward Nought.
“He is at Nought?” Daire was doubtful. He hadn’t felt his friend’s presence in centuries.
Slag could be there. Drago swished his tail to point in each of the three other directions. He could be anywhere. In his fright, he ran in circles, his path ever widening until I saw him no more.
“I see.” Daire nodded, understanding at last.
His instinct hadn’t failed him these long years he’d searched for his friend.
Slag was no longer in the Glen of Many Legends.
He’d run from his greatest fear and likely didn’t stop until he was so far from home that the way back was forever lost to him.
And it was Daire’s fault for leaving him alone that day.
It scarce mattered that Rodan—his superior—had sent him on a false errand to the outermost reaches of Nought land. Rodan had insisted Daire go on his own, claiming he wished Slag at his side that afternoon, intending to use him to train younger dreagans.
Daire had even been proud to see Slag chosen for such an honor.
He’d never seen his friend again.
But his search wasn’t over. And he refused to give up hope.
The good thing about being a ghost was having all the time one needed.
Daire would take advantage.
Chapter Sixteen
Kendrew’s first thought on awakening in his annoyingly comfortable guest bed at Castle Haven was that his poor, aching head would split apart any moment. The Thor’s hammer that he always wore about his neck had somehow taken on a life of its own, growing in size and menace to pound viciously on his temples.
Even the inside of his head rang with the hammering.
And someone must’ve crept into his room in the nigh
t and poured sand into his eyes.
Then the devious buggers had set fire to the backs of his eyelids. Sure of it, he pressed both hands to the sides of his face and groaned loudly.
Never had he suffered such agony.
Lady Isobel was responsible.
If his wretched, besotted self hadn’t felt such a need to sit across from her at the high table, he’d never have obliged himself to spend the after-feasting hours sitting on a stool before the hall fire. He’d have been spared the misery of listening to Hugh-the-bard-who-was-anything-but spin his long-winded tales.
But honor-bound men do strange things.
So he’d dutifully perched on a wobbly, three-legged stool beside the hearth. And he’d schooled his features into an equally dutiful look of appreciation until Isobel’s clapper-tongued brother finally reached the end of his monotonous repertoire.
The wind-brewer’s tales had proved so boring that he’d been able to tolerate them only by repeatedly tossing down cups of Clan Cameron’s surprisingly good ale.
He didn’t quite remember, but he suspected some pernicious fiend had also plied him with a generous supply of uisge beatha, the Highland water of life, spirits so strong and fiery a thimble-sized draught could fell an ox.
From the pounding in his head, he must’ve downed barrels.
He was going to kill Isobel.
Grim would be treated to agonies worse than death.
But first he’d have done with the dimwitted arse hammering on his guest room door. The window shutters were still tightly shut, but it was plain to see that the sun hadn’t even tinged the horizon.
It was well before cockcrow, making the door-banger the worst sort of moron.
The persistent knocking also intensified the drumming at his temples.
Such a disturbance—and to a guest’s chamber—was beyond bearing.
It was fiendish—and, he suspected, deliberate.
Furious, Kendrew pushed up on his elbows and cracked his eyes just enough to peer into the gray, murk-filled room. He didn’t recall where he’d thrown his clothes before he’d more or less fallen into bed. But he did see the glint of Blood Drinker’s long-bearded ax head winking at him from the far corner.
Easing his legs off the high mattress—every muscle in his body railed against the motion—he pushed shakily to his feet, trying not to notice the room swaying around him as he clutched the bedpost.
He was half tempted to seize his ax and throw open the door, naked and threatening.
But he doubted he had the strength.
He did manage to lift the ewer on the bedside table and tip the jug’s icy water over his aching head.
The effect was startling.
“Grrrr.” He grabbed a linen towel someone had thoughtfully left folded beside the ewer’s basin and scrubbed his face, slowly coming back to life.
Unfortunately, the door knocking didn’t cease.
“Odin’s swinging knackers!” Scowling, he thrust the linen before his groin—just in case the pest was Isobel—and stomped across the room.
He yanked open the door. “Can a man not sleep in this foul place?”
Emptiness answered him.
The shadow-filled passage was deserted.
But the knocking rang even louder here. Hollow and hellishly annoying, it echoed in the corridor, filling his ears and maddening him.
“A good morrow, sir,” a small lad’s voice came from the dimness to his left.
Whipping that way, Kendrew saw a thin-shouldered boy on the landing. Barely eight summers, perhaps younger, the lad clutched a wicker creel of tallow candles and was clearly a kitchen helper.
He couldn’t possibly be responsible for the din.
“Thon knocking”—Kendrew eyed the lad, trying hard not to scowl—“is that something done here every morning, what? Mayhap your chief’s way of getting his men up and stirring from their beds?”
“Oh, no, sir.” The boy shook his head. “ ’Tis the new memorial cairn, it is.”
“The cairn?” Kendrew blinked, wondering if he was still dreaming.
But the lad nodded. “Aye, sir. It be the cairn, right enough.”
Shifting the candle-creel against his hip, the boy swelled his chest. Apparently it wasn’t often he had the chance to be a tidings-giver.
“The storm last night blew the top right off the cairn. Stones were spread everywhere this morn, they were.” He came closer, lowering his voice. “There be some folk in the kitchens who say one of your dreagans did it.”
“Pah.” Kendrew made a dismissive gesture, realizing too late that he’d used the hand that held the toweling before him. Jamming the linen back in place, he gave the lad his best reassuring smile. “The only beasties hereabouts are your master, James Cameron, and his web-toed, brine-drinking friend, Alasdair MacDonald.
“That I promise you.” He winked at the lad.
“I dunno…” The boy didn’t look convinced.
“Well, I do.” Kendrew spoke with authority. “There were Nought stones in the top layer of the cairn.” Leaning down, he chose words he hoped would ease the lad’s fears. “No dreagan would dare to touch them once they were put in place.”
The boy looked much relieved. “You think so, sir?”
“I know so.” Kendrew reached out with his towel-free hand and tousled the lad’s hair. “Dinnae fash yourself about dreagans. ’Tis right fond o’ wee laddies they are. And in a good way, ne’er you worry.”
He winked again, remembering when he, too, was so young and trusted in dreagans. “They’d like you fine, they would.”
The boy’s eyes lit. “Then I should like to see one someday.”
“And so you might.” Kendrew kept his smile in place.
But it was hard with his head splitting and his eyes still on fire.
“Tell me, though”—he gripped the boy’s arm when the child started to move away—“what is the knocking?”
“Oh! I thought I said.” The boy’s cheeks turned a bit pink. “My laird sent some men to rebuild the memorial. They’ve been at it for an hour or so, gathering the fallen stones and setting ’em back on the top of the cairn. That’s making the knocking, sir.”
“I see.” Kendrew nodded, and then patted the boy’s shoulder before the lad hurried off down the passage.
It wasn’t until the boy rounded a corner at the end of the corridor that Kendrew went back inside his room, closing the door behind him.
When he did, he sank down on the edge of the bed and wished he had more cold water to dump over his head.
He needed his wits about him.
He knew what had happened to the fool memorial cairn.
And it wasn’t wind or dreagans.
It was the gods.
More specifically, it was Thor, Odin, and every other Nordic deity feasting and drinking in Asgard. Unlike dreagans, gods could do anything.
Norse gods were stronger than most.
And they knew he’d brought sacred Nought stones to Haven. They knew that he’d lost his heart to Isobel Cameron. Most damning of all, they’d also seen that thanks to Grim’s meddling, the lady now wore a fine silver battle ring on her betrothal finger.
And they were mightily displeased.
Damaging the cairn was a warning.
If such foolery continued, there was no accounting for the trouble that would visit the glen. Strange things had already been happening. He was still not wholly convinced he’d seen only mist-wraiths drifting about behind the cookfires at the Midsummer Eve revels.
And if something was afoot, he didn’t need the gods angry at him.
He’d have to put an end to any furor before something worse happened.
So he dressed as quickly as he could—given his weakened, aching state—and went in search of James. He had a plan that he believed Isobel’s brother would heartily endorse: He would take Isobel to Nought, showing her his land’s most fearsome attributes.
Once she’d seen them, she’d realize her folly.
/> She’d beg him to return her to Haven.
Their betrothal would end before it began.
The only difficulty was that as Kendrew finally made his way down the tower stairs to seek out James, he found his feet stepping slower and slower. And when he reached the landing just before the great hall, he felt an inexplicable urge to lean against the wall, stare out the nearest arrow slit, and heave a great sigh.
He did want to take Isobel to Nought.
That wasn’t his problem.
The trouble was that he knew she’d love every terrible inch of his land that he could show her. She’d ooh and ahh, and his heart would swell to see the wonder in her eyes. Isobel Cameron was a woman who loved wild places. Cold wind was an elixir to her. The scent of stone more dear to her than the costliest perfume.
And if he threw his bearskin around his shoulders and drank mead from a rune-carved horn, she wouldn’t call him a fool for longing for the old ways. Her eyes would shine and she’d reach for his mead horn, begging a sip.
She’d raise her children to be no different.
All that Kendrew knew.
And Odin help him, the knowledge filled him with a greater joy than he’d ever felt.
Taking Isobel to Nought wouldn’t end their betrothal.
It would bind them forever.
“Have you ever breathed air so fresh and clean?”
Isobel stood on the narrow stone ledge of the most formidable bluff in all of Nought and pressed both hands to her breast, inhaling deeply. Her face glowed and her eyes shone with rapture. Her words hung in the cold, brisk air she’d praised several times now, while the awe in her tone curdled Kendrew’s gizzard.
He had not brought her to Dreagan Falls hoping to hear accolades.
His reasons were just the opposite, and the lady was dashing each one of them. He’d known she’d react this way, yet there’d been a slight chance he might be mistaken. She was a lady. And excepting his sister, he hadn’t met one yet who could face Nought full on and not run for her life. He owed it to Isobel to take the risk.
If she quailed, he’d be rid of her.
Her life would be her own. She would forget him swiftly, turning her passion to a man better suited for a gentlewoman of a place as tame as Haven.
Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel Page 24
