Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  She curled her hands into fists, wishing in that moment that she, too, could swing a huge war ax.

  Whoever killed the three guardsmen had willfully stained a sacred place as well.

  Men capable of such callousness deserved no mercy.

  “I have an idea.” She bit her lip, glancing back at Niall’s broken rib cage, the proud blue cloak spreading beneath him. “I agree greed-driven cravens, looking for treasure, could’ve attacked the men. I’d take it further.” She waved off his objection. “Men seeking to scare folk from Nought by making the attack look as if dreagans had wakened and done this. Or”—she tapped her cheek, thinking—“we have men hoping to put blame on Berserkers—”

  “What are you saying?” Kendrew frowned, first reaching to stop her and then striding after her when she went to stand beside Niall’s bloodied cloak.

  “Look here.” She waited until he joined her, then nudged the edge of the mantel with her foot. “I think if you lift away his cloak, you’ll find the blood-eagle.”

  She didn’t know how she knew, but she did.

  “The blood-eagle?” Kendrew stared at her. His brows lowered fiercely. “No man today carves one. Only a true Berserker would do such a thing.”

  “Indeed.” Isobel glanced again at Niall’s ribs, needing all her strength not to shudder. “And doesn’t everyone in the Highlands know you’re always claiming proud descent from those half-mythic beings?”

  “Humph.” Kendrew’s frown deepened. “You think someone wishes to besmirch my family name?”

  Isobel flicked a speck of lint off her sleeve. “I’d say it is possible.”

  She shivered again, for the wind was quickening, the air turning colder.

  Her ambers were icy now, each stone feeling frozen to her skin.

  And the chillier they grew, the more clear her memory of an old clan tale: a Viking yarn of how the Norsemen sometimes dressed their slain, cutting the dead man’s ribs from his spine and then lifting out his lungs to spread them like wings across the back.

  The blood-eagle.

  It was a surefire means of striking terror into the hearts of enemies.

  Or, in this instance, an excellent way to make their nefarious deeds look as if men from Clan Mackintosh—warriors who prided themselves on their Berserker ancestry—were responsible.

  “I dinnae believe it.” Kendrew’s frown turned blacker. But he leaned down and whipped away the cloak, dropping it as quickly when Isobel’s guess proved true.

  Niall’s remains did wear the blood-eagle.

  Kendrew straightened at once, blanching. “How did you know that?”

  “I didn’t—I guessed.” Isobel tossed back her hair, grateful that Kendrew’s broad back spared her the view. “An old clan bard told a terrifying tale of the blood-eagle whenever his stories mentioned my ancestor, Ottar the Fire-worshipper, and another forebear, Lady Scandia, whose mother was a Norsewoman. They lived in Viking days.”

  “It makes no sense.” Kendrew rubbed his neck. “Why go to the trouble to carve the blood-eagle on Niall’s back and then also gouge a hole in Slag’s Mound?”

  Isobel shrugged. “Perhaps they hoped to scare off as many good folk as possible? Those who believe in the like will accept that a dreagan escaped and is wreaking havoc in the glen. And”—she reached to straighten Kendrew’s plaid—“those who fear the great name Mackintosh, men of Berserker origin, will run from here. They’ll be fleeing your fury.”

  “A threat they underscored with the blood-eagle.” Kendrew nodded, grimly. Then he began to pace. “Those were good men, lady.” He wheeled to face her. “They patrolled only. They were not looking to fight anyone. Their sole task was to keep peace and”—he shoved a hand through his hair—“to watch for stray cattle beasts and guide them back to the herd at the summer grazing.

  “Who could do this to such men?” Kendrew rubbed his eyes.

  “I don’t know.” Isobel didn’t.

  But she did go over to him, gripping his arm when he made no move to stop pacing. “Tonight at Nought we can think about it and then—”

  “There will be no ‘tonight at Nought.’ ” He looked at her, incredulous. “Not with you, there won’t be. I’ll think on this myself.”

  “Then we must think now.” Isobel stepped back and tightened her cloak against the rising wind. Even more dark clouds were gathering in the west. If she delayed him long enough, a storm would break, giving her time.

  He glanced at the sky and then back at her. “I’ll not be tricked, Isobel.” His words proved he’d guessed her plan. “Thon is a grave matter.” He jerked his head toward the damaged cairn and the torn bodies. “This is no place for a—”

  “I am not just any lady.” Isobel knew what he was about to say. “I stitched terrible wounds after the battle last autumn. And”—this was important—“I never looked away during the fight. It didn’t please me, none of it did. But I saw everything. I am not one to wilt when dark winds blow through this glen. Nor do I run and hide when blood flows.” She let all the pride of a Highland woman ring in her voice.

  “Humph.” Kendrew rubbed his chin and glanced aside, not meeting her gaze.

  But a muscle twitched in his jaw, encouraging her.

  She was reaching him.

  Putting a hand to her brow, she looked around, deliberately avoiding the carnage. “This place is surrounded by rocks, sky, and mountains. A natural fortress as strong as Nought’s own walls, wouldn’t you say?”

  He didn’t answer her.

  He did wrap his hands around his sword belt, knuckles white.

  “Sometimes”—Isobel picked up a small, round stone, rolling it in her palm—“even the mightiest defenses are breached. As far back in time as one looks, dark chapters can be found, staining history and blighting the land we love so dearly. Yet no matter how calamitous the tragedy, our glen lives on to bless us on the morrow.”

  “Do you aspire to be a poet, lady?” Kendrew tightened his lips, still not looking at her.

  “I speak words you need to hear.” Encouraged because he didn’t storm off, she stepped closer to him, slipping her hand through his arm.

  “After every storm, the clouds are swept away, giving us a sky of clear, deep blue.” She spoke easily, believing. “The waters of our shores and lochs sparkle anew, glittering like jewels. And the cliffs rising around us gleam like polished silver in the afternoon light.”

  She squeezed Kendrew’s arm, leaning into him. “The jewels we spoke of at Dreagan Falls are here, too. Even now, in such a dark moment. To pretend they aren’t is unfair to every soul who ever loved this land. And”—now she did glance over at the carnage—“to your guardsmen who fell trying to defend their home.”

  “You will still be returning to your home.” Kendrew finally looked at her.

  “I am home.” Isobel stood firm.

  “Aye, and you soon will be. You’ll be safe in your linen-dressed bed at Castle Haven, lying back against your finely embroidered cushions and nibbling cream pasties off a silver tray.” He shook free of her grasp, frowning. “That is your future, Isobel.

  “You don’t belong here.” He made his tone final.

  Isobel squared her shoulders. “I won’t let you bring me meadowsweet, Kendrew.”

  His brows shot upward. “Who told you of meadowsweet? Wait, I know who it was.” His gaze shot to Grim, who appeared to be examining tracks leading away from the cairn. “That long-nosed, meddlesome—”

  “He is your good and loyal friend.” Isobel defended Grim. “Not the kind who can be bought with a flash of coin or a jug of wine. It is good that he told me what he did.” She didn’t mention Lady Aileen, hoping there would be time later to address that sorrow.

  This moment was theirs.

  Yet Kendrew looked furious. “I will cut the tongue from that interfering bastard.”

  “And I promise you that I will always love Nought, and you.” Isobel refused to be intimidated. “Nothing will ever chase me away.” She set her hands
on his shoulders, lifting up on her toes to kiss him. “Not the cold and all the rock. Not hardship, strife, nor any vicissitudes that might befall us.”

  She paused, swallowing against the thickness in her throat. “Not even you, my lord.”

  “Isobel—” He reached for her, pulling her close. “You don’t know what you’re saying. Three well-armed, battle-hardened warriors have been torn apart. That proves this can be a benighted place, not safe for you. It doesn’t matter how much you love—”

  “I am not afraid—”

  The sound of approaching riders cut her off. They were coming fast, the thunder of their horses’ hooves loud on the stony ground. Even as Kendrew and Isobel broke apart and turned, a hard-riding party of warriors pounded up to them. Cameron guards, they called a quick greeting as they swung down from their saddles, hurrying over to Kendrew.

  Their faces were grim-set, their gazes swiftly taking in the carnage. They exchanged telling glances as they neared.

  Isobel recognized one of her brother’s best guardsmen. Named Sorley, he was an older man, incredibly loyal. He came forward with long strides, carrying a bulky, red-stained leather pouch.

  “Ill tidings, Mackintosh!” Sorley set the pouch on a large, flat-topped rock. “Like as not to do with this! Three brigands were seen on the high moor above Castle Haven and”—he glanced at the sack—“they carried a grisly package.”

  Isobel’s stomach dropped. She knew what the bloodied sack held.

  “I know what’s in that pouch.” Kendrew gripped Sorley’s arm, his gaze flashing to the sack, then back to the guardsman. “Were the bastards killed? Did you get their names? Why they did this?”

  The other Cameron guards exchanged glances. One of the two looked again at the slaughter field. Only Sorley met Kendrew’s eye.

  “Nae, we didn’t catch them.” Sorley appeared uncomfortable. “We tried, scouring the hills for hours. I’m not sure we even saw them. It was the strangest thing.” He ran a hand through his hair, glanced at Isobel. “Tam, our tallow lad at Haven, saw them and told our chief. But by the time we ran out to look for them, they were gone.”

  “Yet you have three heads in thon bag.” Kendrew released Sorley’s arm and looked to his own men who’d pressed near. “Where did you get them?”

  “That’s what’s so odd.” Sorley shifted, but didn’t look away from Kendrew’s fierce gaze. “We saw a mailed warrior up by the castle falls, the cataracts in the gorge behind Haven. We all saw him—a big, hard-faced man carrying a spear. But his mail shone like the sun and he wore a great plumed helm such as men haven’t used in ages.

  “He stepped to the edge of an overhang up on the gorge and beckoned to us.” Sorley shook his head, as if disbelieving his own words. “We saw then that he couldn’t have been one of the blood-drenched brigands Tam described. The man’s armor didn’t bear a speck of blood.”

  “And the heads?” Kendrew prodded.

  “We found them in a pool up beside the falls, just about where the mailed warrior beckoned to us.” Sorley rubbed the back of his neck. “Thing is, the man was nowhere to be seen when we reached the overhang. He’d vanished as if he hadn’t been there at all.”

  “Humph.” Kendrew folded his arms. “Men dinnae disappear into the thin air.”

  “Some do.” Isobel spoke softly, recalling the big, hard-faced warrior she’d seen at the Rodan Stone, the night of the revels.

  He, too, had vanished like the mist.

  And he matched Sorley’s description.

  “So the cravens who did this escaped?” Kendrew started pacing, his fury palpable. “No one even saw them close enough to guess who they were?”

  Again Sorley glanced at the other Cameron guards. “Wee Tam thought they were MacNabs.”

  Kendrew snorted. “They’re a pack o’ poets and women.”

  “We have other cause to suspect them.” A frown appeared between Sorley’s brows. “Some of us went up onto the high moors after we found the heads. It was there, on the outermost fringes of our land, that we again saw the mailed warrior. A storm was blowing in and mist swirled around him, but we were sure it was him.”

  “He raised his spear at us.” One of the other Cameron guards stepped forward, his frown even deeper than Sorley’s. “Then”—he crossed himself—“when we started toward him, he swung the spear around, pointing it to the east, in the direction of Duncreag.”

  “And did you catch up with him this time?” Kendrew’s gaze was piercing.

  “We couldn’t, lord.” The guard looked to Sorley.

  “He disappeared again.” Sorley shrugged, spreading his hands. “He could have run off into the mist, it was thick enough, the rain just beginning to hammer down on us. Who can say? We saw him, that’s certain.

  “And”—Sorley’s voice held no doubt—“we believe he was telling us MacNabs killed those men.”

  “I cannae believe it.” Kendrew threw a glance at Grim.

  His friend came to stand beside him. “MacNabs have aye been unfriendly.”

  “They’re hermits, not murderers.” Kendrew pulled a hand down over his chin. “Nor can I see Archie MacNab harboring such men beneath his roof.”

  “James thought the same, sir.” Sorley was respectful. “He’s sending a party to Duncreag to—”

  “I will take men there.” Kendrew’s tone was harsh, final. “Good men who can climb up to Duncreag without using their fool goat track and”—his chest swelled a bit—“men who won’t be seen until they’re inside the bailey, swords and axes drawn if need be.

  “You”—he spoke directly to Sorley—“ride back to Haven and tell Cameron to scour his own lands and send word to Alasdair MacDonald if he hasn’t yet done so. My men and I will see Lady Isobel to Nought.” He flashed a look at her, his face unreadable. “She can stay there until all danger has passed. Nought is closer or I’d send her away with you. Now begone and make haste.”

  Turning to Isobel, he gripped her arm, pulling her toward their horses before Sorley and his men had mounted their own and ridden off.

  “Now you’ll see why Mackintoshes are night-walkers, my lady.” He swept her up into his arms—not to kiss her as she’d hoped he’d do, but to swing her onto her saddle and thrust the reins into her hands. “I dinnae believe for a heartbeat that old Archie MacNab had anything to do with this. But I do think something’s amiss at Duncreag.

  “Charging up to their castle gate as your brother would’ve done will serve naught if my suspicions are well founded.” He mounted his own horse, signaling his men to ride. “You’ll be safe at Nought. When I return—”

  “You’ll see me back to Haven.” Isobel saw it on his face.

  “So I will, aye.” His tone brooked no argument.

  “And I say you won’t,” Isobel disagreed anyway.

  Not that her defiance mattered.

  Kendrew was already spurring ahead of her, his men dutifully circling their mounts around hers, shielding her from any trouble they might encounter as they rode after Kendrew, making for Nought.

  The stronghold she’d so hoped would be her new home.

  It would be, too, if she was ever able to talk sense into Kendrew.

  What a shame she no longer believed such a day would come.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hours later, in a dark and remote glen that ran parallel to the Glen of Many Legends, and that Kendrew secretly believed was truly benighted, he learned the reason he’d been plagued by neck-prickles for long. The answer to the riddle peered up at him from a quaking, mud-filled pit beneath the rocky crag that held Duncreag Castle, ancient seat of Clan MacNab.

  Except…

  This cold, mist-drenched night it appeared as if the MacNabs had a new home.

  Their naked, butchered bodies filled the reeking muck pit that had once been a moat. Hundreds of years before, until some long-ago MacNab chieftain decided their lofty stronghold’s unassailable position made the trouble of maintaining a moat unnecessary.

  “Sons
of Thor.” Grim stood at the pit’s edge, looking down at the mangled remains. The stench was sharp, bearable only because the light rain washed the air. “There are women and children down there, I’m sure of it. And old men, feeble and bent…”

  Kendrew agreed, choosing not to look again.

  The first time he had, he’d imagined Isobel down there, knowing that any fiends capable of such atrocities would take especial pleasure in getting their hands on such a prize as a gently born lady.

  So he kept his back to the horror and looked over his men, making sure they, like him, were prepared to become night-walkers.

  “Talon”—he narrowed his eyes at a burly, square-faced warrior—“take off your Thor’s hammer and rub more peat and soot onto that ugly face of yours.”

  “I forgot I had it on.” Talon nodded, complying at once, removing his amulet and slipping it into a pouch tied to his peat-blackened sword belt. As quickly, he dipped his fingers into a second pouch, dabbing soot onto his nose and forehead.

  “Are all blades smeared?” Kendrew walked down the line of his men, examining their sword and ax blades, making sure that, like his own weapons, they’d been well-coated with peat juice so that nary a glint of silver would reveal their presence as they slipped round behind Duncreag’s massive bluff and quietly scaled its heights.

  It’d been long since he’d truly night-walked.

  And he felt more than naked without his Thor’s hammer and arm rings. He’d need days to clean the caked muck from the links of his mail shirt. And he’d have to polish Blood Drinker’s huge, long-bearded head for hours if he wished to assuage the mighty war ax’s pride.

  Even the wolf pelts that he and his men had thrown around their shoulders—his bearskin was too heavy and cumbersome for such a climb as stood before them—had been well blackened and now reeked of goop and bog water. But the pelts would help shield them from view, and nothing else mattered. A wise warrior bent on ambush led a careful approach and then attacked in a rush, taking his foe by surprise.