Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  “His news?” James looked between them, puzzling.

  “So I said, just.” Beathag gripped the boy’s chin, lifting his face. “Tell the chief what you saw, Tam.” The softening of her tone saved her a later reprimand from James. “Tell him just as you did me, in the kitchens.”

  “He’ll be mad, he will.” Tam wriggled free of her grasp. Looking down again, he shuffled his feet in the floor rushes. “I wasn’t supposed to be up on the moors. And now I wish—”

  “Speak, Tam.” James dropped to one knee before the boy, set a hand on his shoulder. “What’s this about?”

  “There’s bad men about, there is.” Tam lowered his voice, glancing over his shoulder as if he feared someone would leap at him from the shadows. “I saw them up on the moor when I was—when I went to see if I could find the Makers of Dreams. I know no one ought to be pestering them, but I wanted to see Rannoch, the white stag everyone talks about.

  “But then”—he turned back to James, rushing the words—“I got lost and that’s when I saw the men. They were MacNabs and they—”

  “MacNabs?” James angled his head, frowning. “They hardly leave their own glen, lad. They have nothing to seek hereabouts and”—he paused as Hector shuffled between them to lean against Tam, as if the old dog knew the boy was frightened and needed a friend—“that whole clan knows better than to cause trouble here or anywhere.

  “Their laird is an old, feeble man.” That was true enough, James knew. “His sons are no threat, some ailing. They aren’t fighters. Most of them wouldn’t know a sword from a candlestick. They’ve raided us in years past, aye, taking a stray cattle beast or snatching fish from the MacDonalds’ loch.

  “But now…” James made sure his tone was reassuring. “They aye run from danger these days. They ne’er bring it, I promise you.”

  “They’re still bad men.” Tam curled a hand in Hector’s fur, adamant. “I know what I saw.”

  “And what was that?” James tried to be patient.

  “They were big men, sir.”

  “Most Highland men are. Someday you will be, too.” James gave the boy’s shoulder a gentle clap. “A few years and you’ll be taller than me.”

  But Tam only shook his head, clearly frightened. “They weren’t just big, sir. They were laughing and drinking as they crossed the moor. And—and”—he took a great, shuddering breath—“their plaids were bloodied. It was shiny, fresh blood that was all o’er them.”

  “Ah.” James stood, understanding at last.

  “Then they might well have been MacNabs, aye.” He was suddenly sure of it. “Like as not, their larders are empty and they came here to poach. Our glen is richer in game than the rocky hills of their own Duncreag.”

  “They weren’t here to hunt, sir.” Tam shook his head. “They were doing bad things.”

  Something about the fear in the boy’s eyes finally reached James as well.

  His heart began a slow, wary thumping and the fine hairs on his nape lifted. “What makes you say that, Tam? Tell me true, for I need to know.”

  Tam swallowed, looking miserable.

  Then he took a deep breath and spoke. “They were carrying heads, sir.”

  “Heads?” James stared at the boy, horror sluicing him.

  “That’s what I saw, sir.” He nodded briskly. “One of the men had three men’s heads. And he was carrying them by the beards.”

  James felt the floor tilt beneath his feet, one truth hitting him like a steel-shod fist in the gut: Men of the vilest order were in the glen.

  And his sister wasn’t in the safety of Castle Haven’s walls.

  But she was with Kendrew Mackintosh.

  For the first time in his life, James thanked the saints that Kendrew was such a fierce, ax-swinging bastard. He wouldn’t let any harm come to Isobel.

  But what in God’s name had happened to the peace in the glen?

  Something needed to be done, and swiftly.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I do not send you away lightly, my lady.” Kendrew’s tone was terse, his words sending little ripples of shock through Isobel.

  “Then don’t.” She glanced at him as they rode across the rough terrain just beginning to narrow into the high-walled vale of the dreagans.

  “You know I must.” He edged his horse closer to hers, the regret in his eyes making her heart quake. She couldn’t tell if his troubled gaze held remorse that he was ending their relationship or guilt that he’d allowed it to even begin. Either way, the look on his face boded ill.

  Dark clouds might have swooped down from the heavens, shuttering his thoughts from her.

  Gone was the man who’d surveyed the glories of his lofty, windswept world and then pulled her into his arms on the ledge at Dreagan Falls, kissing her so deeply and with such fervent possession. Even his wildness had fled, leaving no hint of the bold warrior who boasted of his Berserker blood and was known to brag that one good fighting man was better than a hundred fine-spoken courtiers.

  What remained was a man turned to stone.

  His face was hard, as grim-set as the towering granite peaks already closing in on them, blotting the day’s sun.

  “This can be an ill-favored place, lady.” He glanced at the sky where, unlike the clear blue at Dreagan Falls, angry gray clouds were now blowing in from the west, bringing colder wind and the smell of rain. “I should’ve known it was folly to bring you here.

  “Nought is showing you its worst side.” His blue eyes glinted, challenging her to deny it.

  She did, gladly. “The attack on your men had nothing to do with Nought. Such an ambush, or whatever it was, could’ve happened anywhere.”

  “Anywhere does not concern me.” He guided his horse around the huge lichened boulders that formed the first crude dreagan cairn. “This is my land. And I’ll have no peace until my hands are stained red with the blood of the jackals who slew my guardsmen.”

  “You should want vengeance.” Isobel sought to reason with him. “Any Highlander would—”

  “And do you know what I’d do if you’d been hurt?” His jaw tightened, his voice turning hard. “Vengeance would be redefined, my lady. Once I found those responsible, I’d flood the ground with so much blood that all the Highlands would be a morass.”

  Isobel shivered, sure he spoke true.

  That meant he did care for her, and greatly.

  She might yet be able to persuade him not to send her back to Haven.

  “Stop trying to outwit me.” He kneed his horse even closer, and then reached to grasp her wrist. “I know what you’re thinking and it’ll serve no good purpose. As soon as your escort arrives from Nought, you’re away from this place.” He tightened his grip on her, his gaze locking on hers, bold and fierce. “I’ll tell your brother I’ll steal all his cattle and harry his territory for the rest of my days if he e’er allows you to set foot on Nought land again.”

  The threat made, he released her, his face as cold as a stranger’s. “We’re almost at the cairn. I’d warn you to brace yourself.

  “Better yet”—he narrowed his eyes at her—“dinnae look at all.”

  Isobel bristled. “I have seen dead men before.”

  Kendrew didn’t reply, the muscle jerking in his cheek answer enough.

  They’d arrived at what was left of the great cairn Isobel remembered from the revels. Only the horror before them was nothing like her memory of this place. What she saw now set her world to reeling.

  “Dear God.” Isobel clapped a hand to her mouth, her stomach roiling.

  She’d always believed a woman learned how strong she was only when put to the test.

  Slag’s Mound now proved hers.

  Drawing rein before the damaged cairn, she slipped down from the saddle, hoping that Kendrew couldn’t see how badly she quaked inside. She also didn’t avert her gaze from the grisly sight before her.

  Now more than ever, Kendrew needed to see her mettle.

  She hoped it wouldn’t fail her.


  Already she needed the iron-hard resolve of all her Viking forebears to keep from dropping to her knees before the torn and bloodied remains of Kendrew’s three guardsmen. The slaughter was terrible, much worse than Grim’s accounting. Even the carnage of last year’s trial by combat couldn’t compare to this sullied place.

  “Sons of Valkyries.” Kendrew had his ax in his hands, holding the huge-bladed weapon as if it weighed nothing. He started pacing, slapping the ax haft against his left palm as he moved about the destruction.

  His mouth was a hard, tight line. And a deep red flush now stained his face, fury rolling off him, his outrage almost crackling the air.

  Isobel understood.

  These men hadn’t just suffered cuts and slashes as if set upon by men wielding swords, spears, or axes. Battle wounds were common in the Highlands. They were much too common, to her way of thinking. There was nothing common about what had happened to these men. They’d suffered atrocities. They’d been squashed and ripped asunder.

  “Turn your back, Isobel.” Kendrew was striding back to her, stepping before her to block her view.

  His eyes blazed, though she knew his fury wasn’t directed at her. “I told you no’ to look.”

  “How can I not?” She held his gaze, not flinching.

  His tone put her back up. Even more cold and distant than on the ride here, the chill in his voice put an invisible barrier between them. It also scared her, unsettling her more than any sword-swinging marauder could.

  He’d clearly dismissed her, already shutting her out of his life.

  As if he knew she was about to rebel, he took a step toward her. He reached for her and then swore beneath his breath when she sidestepped him. “See here, Lady—”

  “You must be speaking to a lady I do not see.” She lifted her chin, glaring at him. “I never turn my back.”

  She wasn’t about to now.

  I don’t run away either. She let her eyes flash those words, not wanting to push him too far.

  His gaze narrowed dangerously. “In this, you will do as I say.” He was on her in two strides, turning her swiftly to face the horses. “Stay here and dinnae give me reason to come back and argue with you.”

  “I am not yet your wife.” Isobel turned right back around.

  “You are as good as such.” He scowled at her, his gaze flicking to the silver warrior ring on her finger. Then he wheeled about and strode over to his men. They stood in a small knot, speaking in low voices, near the edge of the wide-scattered rubble.

  Only then, when he could no longer see her, did she take a long, steadying breath.

  His glance at her ring gave her hope. He still thought of her as his betrothed.

  But the horror here was great. And so severe that he wished her gone. In truth, she didn’t know any man who would act otherwise, given the circumstances. Yet she knew with a woman’s instinct that if she allowed him to send her away, he’d never let her return to him.

  The honor he tried so hard to hide would keep him from letting her come to a place where he believed she might be threatened.

  He’d rather tear them apart.

  Hoping she slept—that she was trapped in a terrible dream—she closed her eyes tightly and then reopened them.

  Regrettably, nothing had changed.

  She still stood in the heart of the dreagan vale, before Slag’s Mound. But unlike its look on the night of the Midsummer Eve revels, the massive cairn now bore an ugly gouge at its middle. The dreagan nest’s carefully laid stones spilled from the cairn’s center, scattered like a skirt of rock across the broken, red-stained ground.

  Split as if opened from within, Slag’s Mound could be easily repaired. The tumbled stones washed, perhaps blessed, and reset in their original positions, making the ancient dreagan lair whole again.

  The three men who’d died here…

  No stonemason’s skill, or even the world’s strongest magic, could fix them.

  Again, Isobel pressed a hand to her lips and tried not to gag. She truly did understand Kendrew’s concern. Why he didn’t want her to look upon the carnage.

  The men’s heads were missing.

  Their limbs and innards…

  A shudder ran through her, hot bile rising in her throat. Her heart raced, blood roaring in her ears. She felt light-headed, more hollowed the longer she stared at the terrible scene before her.

  Niall, Kendrew’s second captain of the guards, was easily recognizable by the rich cloak still draped across his shattered ribs. The exceptional quality of the heavy war shield, now cracked in two and lying near his leather-gloved hand, also hinted at his higher status. Even less remained of his two companions.

  Blood was everywhere.

  And worse things that she didn’t wish to peer at too closely.

  Yet…

  She had to look, because something bothered her. And whatever it was went deeper than the horror of the scene. A long-ago memory nagged at her, clawing up from the oldest, darkest corner of her soul.

  “Kendrew…” She started toward him, ignoring the shakiness of her knees. He stiffened, aware of her approach, but not looking at her. “Something isn’t right here. I know it, but I can’t say—”

  “To be sure, something isn’t right.” He whipped around to face her, his expression fierce. “You should be at Haven now. No’ here where hell has wakened to stalk my land and slaughter good men who—”

  “There’s a message here, in these deaths.” Isobel’s chin went up. “This was not a chance attack. I can’t say how I know, but I do.”

  “Men lose their wits when the battle joy comes over them, my lady. Spears or axes in the hands of such men wreak great destruction.” His tone allowed no compromise. “The blood lust is what you’re seeing here.”

  “I say fury, too.” Grim joined them, his gray eyes solemn. “Anger born of thwarted greed. Niall and the other two men must’ve been passing by when brigands broke into the stones.” He lifted a hand, rubbed the back of his neck. “They’d surely heard the old tales about hoards of silver and gold buried beneath the cairns. There can be no other explanation. Not for the likes of this.”

  “Hell waking.” Kendrew hooked his thumbs beneath his sword belt. “That’s what they stirred when they ripped open Nought’s sacred earth only to find peat and pebbles. Truth is”—he glanced at Grim, then the other guardsmen—“I’ve suspected for long that such cravens have been tracking through the glen. I’ve caught glimpses of them.

  “Yet I could ne’er be sure.” His mouth was a hard line again. “Each time I saw them, they were gone in a wink. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me or that I was seeing bog mist.

  “Even so”—he looked again at Isobel—“when I thought I spotted mailed spearmen up at the cataracts behind Castle Haven, I told your brother. The fool didn’t believe me, claiming his lookouts would’ve seen them.”

  Isobel started to defend James, but just then her ambers turned icy cold.

  They’d been on fire, humming, ever since Grim appeared on the ledge at Dreagan Falls.

  Now…

  She glanced to where the other guardsmen walked about the tumbled stones. They’d removed their plaids, using them to collect the mangled remains of their friends.

  When she turned back to Kendrew, Grim had moved away to join the other men in their grisly task. Kendrew looked after him, his entire body tensing when she stepped closer and put a hand on his arm.

  Isobel took a breath, knowing so much depended on her words. “Nought isn’t hell waking. Hell has been here. There is a difference.”

  “Either way”—Kendrew set his hands on her shoulders—“it changes nothing. I’d know you back to Haven, into the care of your brother. I’ll not have you here now.”

  “Men did this.” Isobel spoke as firmly as she could, given how fast her heart was beating, and with the bitter heat of bile so thick in her throat. “Men are everywhere, good and bad. I feel safest with you.”

  She couldn’t allow
Kendrew to send her away.

  If he did, she’d never reach him again.

  So she kept her chin high, her gaze level on his. “Answer me this: Could a Berserker wreak such devastation? Legends tell of their raging. They are said to possess unnatural strength when fury besets them.”

  Kendrew stared at her, his expression darkening. “You think my own men did this?”

  “Not your men, no.” Isobel shook her head. Ideas—old memories—began to whirl across her mind, taking shape at last. “But perhaps men who wished to make it look as if Nought men did this. Or a dreagan—”

  “The only dreagans hereabouts are moldering bones.” Kendrew shot a glance at Grim and the other men. “The cairns are empty and have been so long as I can remember.”

  He took Isobel’s arm, leading her away from the others, toward one of the nearby outcrops. “Stories of Slag fascinated me as a lad because he was said to be the most terrible of all the dreagans.

  “Legend tells that he feared nothing and could turn a man to stone with a single glance.” He paused, pulled a hand down over his chin. “I wanted to see him. One day when my father was away and I still young enough to believe in suchlike, I came here and climbed onto Slag’s Mound. I shifted some of the stones and lowered a torch into the cairn, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sleeping beast.”

  “And you saw nothing?”

  “Only old stones and dirt. A large empty space, filled with darkness and nothing else.” He sounded disappointed. “I never told anyone, not wanting to spoil Slag’s fame.” He glanced again at his warriors. “Men stop believing in dreagans about the time they grow beards. But…”

  He turned back to her, shaking his head. “They then develop a taste for gold. They crave gold, silver, women, and drinking. Many also live for a good, hard fight, raiding, and any other form of bloodletting.”

  “And you think such men did this.” Isobel rubbed her arms, feeling chilled.

  “I am sure of it.” There was a flash of distaste in Kendrew’s eyes.

  “I still think there is more.” Isobel looked up at the bare pinnacles rising above them. Nought could be the edge of the world with its soaring cliffs and rock-edged ravines. It was a place to be cherished and prized, not dishonored with spilt blood and snuffed lives.