Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  The three women could then prepare their defenses, readying for the next battle.

  Until then…

  Isobel slid her arms around Kendrew’s neck and lifted up on her toes to kiss him deeply. When she pulled back, she glanced at the huge cairn behind them. “This place feels blessed now, at peace.”

  “So it is, my lady.” Kendrew scooped her up in his arms and started walking down the side of Slag’s Mound, following the same path into the shadows as he’d taken the night of the revels. “Nought has a fine new mistress who loves every lichened stone and each blast of cold, racing wind.”

  “Perhaps Slag and his master are at rest now?” Isobel reached to trail her fingers along the cairn’s stones. “I’m sure it was them we saw that night from Duncreag’s battlements. They were on a ledge in the storm. Do you remember?”

  Kendrew glanced at her. “I remember you pointing at rain and mist.”

  “You’re just being stubborn.” Isobel knew that was true.

  “And you dinnae ken the first law of a good legend.” His voice held a teasing note. “If you spoil the riddle, the tale is a legend no more.”

  “That’s not an answer,” Isobel protested.

  “It wasn’t meant to be.” He pressed a kiss to her brow.

  Before she could argue, he carried her around a red-berried rowan tree and then set her down. They’d entered a dense thicket, shielded by a jutting outcrop. Two plaids, Mackintosh and Cameron, covered the ground. And a wicker creel of feasting goods rested near a clutch of heather. A wine jug peeked out of the grass beside the plaids, while several tasseled cushions indicated why Kendrew had brought her here.

  “This day we make our own legends.” He was already throwing off his bearskin cloak, his flashing smile encouraging her to reach for her bodice laces.

  He slanted a glance at the plaids, tossed his cloak onto the heather. “A meet celebration, what?”

  “Oh, yes.” Isobel stepped out of her gown, the cold wind chilling her skin. Her heart began to pound, her pulse racing.

  “I started loving you here, Isobel.” He pulled her hard against him, tangling his fingers in her hair as he looked down at her. “You stole my heart the night of the revels. Now I’ll never let you go. You are mine forever. Woe be the man who even dares to glance at you.”

  His words thrilled her.

  “And you didn’t want a lady.” She couldn’t help but tease him.

  “I didn’t, it is true.” He gripped her face with both hands and kissed her soundly.

  When he released her, Isobel saw so much love in his eyes that her heart almost burst with happiness. “I’m so glad I persuaded you—”

  “You tempted me, lass.” He kissed her again. “I couldn’t resist you.”

  Isobel refrained from telling him that it was she who hadn’t been able to resist him.

  Men didn’t need to know everything.

  So she melted into him and gloried in his kisses as he lowered her to the bed of plaids. Then, as their guests drank mead and made merry, and clean, cold wind swept the dreagan vale, Kendrew kept his word…

  New legends were born that day, in a wondrous place that already held so many.

  And somewhere in a distant world beyond man’s hearing, the dreagans rumbled approval.

  “The Devil” of the Highlands knows no weakness—until a flame-haired beauty tempts him to abandon his loyalties.

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  Sins of a Highland Devil

  The first book in the Highland Warriors trilogy

  The Legacy of the Glen

  Deep in the Scottish Highlands, three clans share the Glen of Many Legends. None of them do so gladly. Each clan believes they have sole claim to the fair and fertile vale. Their possessiveness is understandable, because the glen truly is a place like no other. Bards throughout the land will confirm that the Glen of Many Legends is just that: an enchanted place older than time and steeped with more tales and myth than most men can recall.

  Kissed by sea and wind, the vale is long and narrow, its shores wild and serrated. Deeply wooded hills edge the glen’s heart, while softly blowing mists cloak the lofty peaks that crowd together at its end. Oddly-shaped stones dot the lush grass, but the strangeness of the ancient rocks is countered by the heather and whin that bloom so profusely from every patch of black, peaty earth.

  No one would deny the glen’s beauty.

  Yet to some, the Glen of Many Legends is a place of ill fame to be avoided at all costs, especially by the dark of the moon. Strange things have been known to happen there, and wise men tread cautiously when they must pass that way.

  But the MacDonalds, Camerons, and Mackintoshes who dwell there appreciate the glen’s virtues above frightening tales that may or may not have credence. Good Highlanders all, the clans know that any storyteller of skill is adept at embroidering his yarns.

  Highlanders are also a proud and stubborn people. And they’re known for their fierce attachment to the land. These traits blaze hotly in the veins of the three clans of the Glen of Many Legends. Over time, their endless struggles to vanquish each other have drenched the glen with blood and sorrow.

  Peace in the glen is fragile and rare.

  Most times it doesn’t exist at all. Yet somehow the clans tolerate each other, however grudgingly.

  Now the precarious balance of order is about to be thrown into dispute by the death of a single woman.

  A MacDonald by birth, and hereditary heiress to the MacDonalds of the Glen of Many Legends, she was a twice-widowed woman who chose to live out her days in the serenity and solitude of a nunnery.

  Sadly, she neglected to set down her last wishes in a will. This oversight would not be so dire if not for the disturbing truths that her first husband had been a Cameron and her second, a Mackintosh.

  On her passing, each clan lays claim to the dead woman.

  Or, it can be more aptly said, they insist on being her rightful heirs.

  Soon land-greed and coveting will once again turn the glen’s sweet grass into a sea of running red and many good men will lose their lives. But even when the last clansman sinks to his knees, his sword sullied and the end near, the real battle is only just beginning.

  When it is done, the Glen of Many Legends will be forever changed.

  As will the hearts of those who dwell there.

  Chapter One

  BLACKSHORE CASTLE

  THE GLEN OF MANY LEGENDS

  AUTUMN 1396

  A battle to the death?”

  Alasdair MacDonald’s deep voice rose to the smoke-blackened rafters of his great hall. Across that crowded space, his sister, Lady Catriona, stood frozen on the threshold. Alasdair’s harsh tone held her there, but she did lift a hand to the amber necklace at her throat. A clan heirloom believed to protect and aid MacDonalds, the precious stones warmed beneath her fingers. She fancied they also hummed, though it was difficult to tell with her brother’s roar shaking the walls. Other kinsmen were also shouting, but it was Alasdair’s fury that echoed in her ears.

  His ranting hit her like a physical blow.

  Her brother was a man whose clear blue eyes always held a spark of humor. And his laughter, so rich and catching, could brighten the darkest winter night, warming the hearts and spirits of everyone around him.

  Just now he paced in the middle of his hall, his handsome face twisted in rage. His shoulder-length auburn hair—always his pride—was untidy, looking wildly mussed, as if he’d repeatedly thrust angry fingers through the finely burnished mane.

  “Sakes! This is no gesture of goodwill.” His voice hardened, thrumming with barely restrained aggression. “Whole clans cut down. Good men murdered and for naught, as I and my folk see it!”

  Everywhere, MacDonalds grumbled and scowled.

  Some shook fists in the air, others rattled swords. At least two spat on the rush-strewn floor, and a few had such fire in their eyes it was almost a wonder that the air didn’t catch flame.

>   Only one man stood unaffected.

  A stranger, Catriona saw him now because one of her cousins moved and torchlight caught and shone on the man’s heavily-bejeweled sword belt.

  She stared at the newcomer, not caring if her jaw slipped. She did step deeper into the hall’s arched entry, though her knees shook badly. She also forgot to shut the heavy oaken door she’d just opened wide. Cold, damp wind blew past her, whipping her hair and gutting candles on a nearby table. A few wall torches hissed and spat, spewing ashes at her, but she hardly noticed.

  What was a bit of soot on her skirts when the quiet peace of Blackshore had turned to chaos?

  When Alasdair spoke of war?

  As chief to their clan, he wasn’t a man to use such words lightly. And even if he were, the flush on his face and the fierce set of his jaw revealed that something dire had happened. The stranger—a Lowland noble by his finery—didn’t bode well either.

  Men of his ilk never came to Blackshore.

  The man’s haughty stance showed that he wasn’t pleased to be here now. And unlike her brother, he’d turned and was looking right at her. His gaze flicked over her, and then he lifted one brow, almost imperceptibly.

  His opinion of her was palpable.

  The insolence in that slightly arched brow, a galling affront.

  Annoyance stopped the knocking of her knees, and she could feel her blood heating, the hot color sweeping up her neck to scald her cheeks.

  The man looked amused.

  Catriona was sure she’d seen his lips twitch.

  Bristling, she pulled off her mud-splattered cloak and tossed it on a trestle bench. She took some satisfaction in seeing the visitor’s eyes widen and then narrow critically when he saw that the lower half of her gown was as wet and soiled as her mantle. She had, after all, just run across the narrow stone causeway that connected her clan’s isle-girt castle with the loch shore.

  She’d raced to beat the tide. But even hurrying as she had, the swift-moving current was faster. She’d been forced to hitch up her skirts and splash through the swirling water, reaching the castle gates just before the causeway slipped beneath the rising sea loch.

  It was a mad dash that always exhilarated her. As she did every day, she’d burst into the hall, laughing and with her hair in a wild tangle from the wind. Now she might look a fright, but her elation was gone.

  “What’s happened?” She hurried forward to clutch Alasdair’s arm, dread churning in her belly. “What’s this about clans being cut down? A battle—”

  “Not a true battle.” Alasdair shot a glance at the Lowlander. “A trial by combat—”

  “I see no difference.” She raised her chin, not wanting the stranger to see her worry. It was clear he’d brought this madness. That showed in the curl of his lip, a half-sneer that revealed his disdain for Highlanders.

  Alasdair noticed, too. She hadn’t missed the muscle jerking in his jaw.

  She tightened her grip on him. “If men are to die, what matters the name you cast on their blood?”

  Behind her, someone closed the hall door. And somewhere in the smoke-hazed shadows, one of her kinsmen snarled a particularly vile curse. Catriona released her brother’s arm and reached again for her amber necklace. She twirled its length around her fingers, clutching the polished gems as if they might answer her. Her own special talisman, the ambers often comforted her.

  Now they didn’t.

  Worse, everyone was staring at her. The Lowlander eyed her as if she were the devil’s own spawn. He surely saw her fiery-red hair as the brand of a witch. Almost wishing she was—just so she could fire-blast him—she straightened her back and let her eyes blaze. MacDonald pride beat through her, giving her strength and courage.

  She turned to Alasdair. “You needn’t tell me this has to do with the Camerons or the Mackintoshes. I can smell their taint in the air.”

  A Scottish warrior chieftain faces the battle of his life when he falls for a Viking’s promised bride.

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  Seduction of a Highland Warrior

  The final book in the Highland Warriors trilogy

  The Honor of Clan Donald

  In the beginning of days, before Highland warriors walked heather-clad hills and gazed in awe across moors chased by cloud-shadows, old gods ruled the dark and misty realm that would one day be known as Scotland. Glens were silent then, empty but for the whistle of the wind and the curl of waves on sparkling sea-lochs.

  Yet if a man looked and listened with his heart rather than his eyes and ears, he might catch a glimpse of wonders beyond telling.

  For Manannan Mac Lir, mighty god of sea and wind, loved these rugged Scottish shores. Those who haven’t forgotten legend will swear that stormy days saw Manannan plying Highland waters in his magical galley, Wave Sweeper. And that on nights when the full moon shone bright, he favored riding the edge of the sea on his enchanted horse, Embarr of the Flowing Mane. All tales claimed that wherever he was, Manannan never lost sight of Scotland’s cliff-fretted coast. One stretch of shoreline was said to hold his especial attention: a place of such splendor even his jaded heart swelled to behold its wild and haunting beauty.

  That place was the Glen of Many Legends.

  Storytellers agree that when the day came that Manannan observed a proud and noble MacDonald warrior stride into this fair land of heather, rock, and silvery seas, he was most pleased.

  Those were distant times, but even then the men of Clan Donald were gaining a reputation as men of fierce loyalty and unbending honor.

  They were the best of all Highlanders.

  Even the gods stood in awe of them.

  So Manannan’s pleasure grew when this MacDonald warrior, an early chieftain known as Drangar the Strong, chose this blessed spot to build a fine isle-girt fortress. Here, Drangar the Strong would guard the coast with his trustworthy and fearless garrison. And—the talespinners again agreed—the great god of sea and wind surely believed Clan Donald would blossom and thrive, gifting the Glen of Many Legends with generations of braw Highland warriors and beautiful, spirited women.

  The world was good.

  Until the ill-fated day when Drangar the Strong took a moonlit walk along the night-silvered shore of his sea-loch and happened across a lovely Selkie maid who no red-blooded man could’ve resisted.

  Her dark hair gleamed like moonlight on water and her eyes shone like the stars. Her lips were seductively curved and ripe for kissing. And her shapely form beckoned, all smooth, creamy skin and tempting shadows.

  MacDonalds, it must now be said, are as well lusted as their hearts are loyal and true.

  Drangar fell hard, succumbing to the seal woman’s charms there and then.

  But such passion flared hotly only for a beat, at least for the woman-of-the-sea, who soon suffered unbearable longing to return to her watery home.

  Nor is any Highlander unaware of the tragedies that so often befall these enchanting creatures and the mortal men who lose their hearts to them. Such tales abound along Scotland’s coasts and throughout the Western Isles, with every clan bard able to sing of the heartbreak and danger, the ills that can break good men.

  Or, perhaps worst of all, the tears of children born to such unions.

  Drangar could not allow such sorrow to visit his people.

  Nor did he wish to see his seductress in sorrow, for he did indeed love her.

  So he did as all good MacDonalds would do and followed his honor.

  Rather than carry her into his castle and make her his bride, he took her shining sealskin from the rock where she’d discarded it, and returning the skin to her, he’d stood by as she vanished into the sea.

  Then—the bards pause here for effect—before the waves settled, Manannan himself rose from the spume-crested depths and made Drangar a great gift of thanks for his farsightedness and his honor.

  The gift was an iron-bound treasure chest heavy with priceless amber.

  These were enchanted
gemstones that, according to legend, would bring Clan Donald fortune and blessings, aiding them always in times of trouble.

  But life in the Highlands was never easy.

  And even magical stones can’t always allay feuds, strife, and the perfidy of men.

  Years passed and then centuries. Times were good and then also bad. Bards embroidered Manannan’s fame and nearly forgot the role of the seal woman in explaining Clan Donald’s chest of ambers. Soon other tales were added, until no man knew what was real or storied.

  Then the day came when even Drangar the Strong slipped into the murk of legend.

  Worse fates followed, and the MacDonalds’ once-mighty fortress was torn from their grasp.

  But the clan never lost its honor.

  Centuries later they even regained their home.

  Now a new Clan Donald chieftain rules there. Alasdair MacDonald is his name, and he’s a man of such valor and integrity that Drangar’s heart would’ve burst with pride if he could have known him.

  To Alasdair, honor is everything.

  Yet he lives in troublesome times. And although his beloved glen is quiet, the truce that keeps it so is fragile. Two other clans now share the Glen of Many Legends, and while one can be called an ally, the other remains hostile. Many would credit Alasdair’s patience and authority that, so far, disaster hasn’t struck.

  Those less generous would say the strength of his sword arm is responsible.

  Whatever one believes, he is a man well respected.

  Unfortunately, ill winds are blowing ever closer to the fair glen, once so loved by Manannan and Drangar.

  Alasdair’s passion for the glen is equally great.

  But soon his love for a woman will challenge him to abandon everything he holds dear.

  When he does, he will lose more than his honor.