Seduction Of A Highland Warrior

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  Good riddance, in his view.

  He didn’t like how Marjory Mackintosh made a liar of him.

  There wasn’t anything sweet about how she wore the MacDonald ambers.

  Provocative is how they looked on her.

  Almost as if the gleaming gemstones, so rich and golden, wished to taunt him, drawing his attention to the lush swell of her full, round breasts. Worse, he could so easily imagine their pert rosy crests. That he’d yet to see, touch, and taste them struck him as a terrible injustice. That a Viking husband might soon do so made him murderous.

  He should’ve kissed her in the bower.

  She’d expected a kiss, even wanted one. He’d seen the desire in her eyes. Clearly availing her womanly wiles, she’d leaned her supple body into him, even lifting up on her toes and moistening her lips. Never had he burned more to seize a woman to him.

  Only her name restrained him.

  And now that a good length of miles stretched between them, and his blood still blazed with wanting her, he knew one thing only…

  If she ever again tempted him so brazenly, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions.

  Had he not given her good-day when he had, she’d be in his arms now. Like as not, beneath him, her long shapely legs wrapped soundly around his hips. Little under the sun could’ve stopped him from taking her.

  And there’d be hell to pay if he did.

  Too many good men of the glen, from all three clans, spilled their life’s blood to satisfy the King’s demands at the trial by combat. The freedom of every man, woman, and child in the glen, their right to remain on land they’d held for centuries, perhaps even their lives, depended on that fateful day, their willingness to abide by the King’s truce.

  Peace had come, but at a price.

  Still, his feud with Kendrew went deeper, having roots that reached further back than the battle that had soaked the glen red two years before. Even the scar Kendrew carved into Alasdair’s arm that wretched day was but a drop in the sea to their enmity.

  Yet the bastard’s sister…

  Alasdair set his jaw, not wanting to think of her. But he saw Marjory so clearly before him. She invaded his mind, bewitching him. Everything about her made him crazy. Her shining waist-length hair swinging about her hips in ways that weren’t good for a man. She carried more curves since he’d last seen her and they stood her well, making him itch to explore them. Even her eyes sparkled more than he remembered, their blue depths as clear as water and beckoning, almost suggestively.

  Nae, indeed that.

  She’d become a seductress.

  Alasdair drew a tight breath, his mood worsening. Fury beat through him, his loins still painfully roused. Upon reaching Blackshore, he might forego a warm bath and take a bare-arsed dip in the loch.

  And he’d thought his attraction to her had waned.

  “Ho, Alasdair!” Wattie, one of his older clansmen, reined close. “Guid kens,” he boomed, “the Mackintosh is a besotted fool, eh? Did you see him all moony-eyed each time his lady wife even looked at him?”

  A low, rumbling chuckle rolled through the ranks of Alasdair’s men, their mirth supporting Wattie’s observation.

  Alasdair resisted the urge to glare at them.

  Instead, he shot Wattie the most expressionless look he could muster.

  “Cannae say I noticed.” He had, but Kendrew was the last man he wished to discuss.

  He also didn’t believe his worst enemy capable of any true feelings for a woman.

  Save lust, of course.

  “You missed a right fine show.” Wattie hooted. “I’m thinking his bonnie lassie need only flick her skirts and he’ll come running.”

  Alasdair snorted. “Aye, that I’ll believe.”

  “Nae, nae.” Wattie shook his head. “It’s love that’s addled him. Lady Isobel is more to him than a bedmate. Anyone can see—”

  “He’s daft, aye, but no’ how you mean.” Alasdair drew his horse to a halt and twisted round, facing Wattie full on. “You were along when his men ambushed us at Nought two years ago.” The memory made the back of Alasdair’s neck heat. “My sister, Catriona, rode with us. Yet he set his pack of ax-swinging wild men on us with no caring that a lady could’ve been harmed, much less killed. I’ll ne’er forgive him for that.” Alasdair leaned over, fixing Wattie with a long, hard look. “Dinnae tell me that bastard loves any woman, for I’ll no’ believe it. He cares only for holding on to his land. He’ll sacrifice anyone and anything to do so.”

  “He said he didnae know Catriona was with us.” Wattie tread dangerous ground. “There was so much mist blowing, have you forgotten? I dinnae think his men saw—”

  “My sister could’ve been killed.” Alasdair snarled the words, the blaze at his nape sweeping through him, igniting his temper. “Kendrew carries that shame.”

  “I didnae say I like him.” Wattie looked embarrassed.

  Alasdair felt like an arse.

  Wattie was a good man, one of Alasdair’s best. A fierce and fiery fighter in younger years, he still wielded a blade with terrifying skill. Now a widower, he deserved amusement where he found it.

  “That I know, Wat.” Alasdair reached over to clap his shoulder. “There isn’t a redeemable bone in Mackintosh’s body, so how could you like him?”

  “I wouldn’t mind breaking a few o’ his bones.” Wattie grinned, pumped a balled fist in the air.

  The other warriors laughed. Not feeling so jovial himself, Alasdair looked down the line of men, glad for their levity. Two years of peace hadn’t been easy on them. Hard and eager fighters, a wrong look or word could set them off. And once they’d drawn their steel, the first blood scented, there’d be no stopping them.

  Alasdair eyed their swords now, knowing they’d serve him at a single nod.

  Except…

  One man’s blade was missing.

  And it wasn’t just any sword. It was the one pried from the hand of the last MacDonald clansman to die at the trial by combat. A sword aptly named Honor that was now held in great reverence by the clan. Every time a party of warriors left Blackshore, one of them carried Honor rather than his usual brand.

  And just now that warrior’s sheath was empty.

  When the man blanched beneath Alasdair’s stare, clearly guilty of losing the precious sword, a snarling growl rose in Alasdair’s throat. Anger almost choked him as he spurred down the line of men.

  “Rory!” He jerked his horse to halt beside the warrior. “Where’s Honor? Dinnae tell me you don’t know.”

  “I-I…” Rory shifted in his saddle, his gabble answer enough.

  Honor was gone.

  Marjory’s bravura waned the deeper she moved into the woods edging the market grounds. Although the sun still shone brightly over the harvest fair, it could’ve been after nightfall among the thick pines and moss-covered rocks of Clan Cameron’s forest. The trees’ green-black needle canopies hid the light, and the scent of resin, rich loamy earth, and wild orchids made clear that she’d left the crowded fair behind her, entering a dark and secret place.

  Not that the forest frightened her.

  A Mackintosh feared nothing, after all.

  But she was also a lady.

  And trees weren’t the only things in the wood this particular day.

  Pinpricks of yellow light flickered ahead, revealing the semicircle of garishly painted, flower-bedecked tents known as the other ladies’ bowers. If she had any doubt, female laughter, a few telltale cries and moans, and snatches of bawdy song drifted on the air, leaving no mistake she’d almost reached her destination.

  The place where men came to attend their manly cravings.

  Marjory’s breath hitched as she remembered how a certain part of her had warmed and tingled when Alasdair pulled her into the bower’s shade, using his powerful arms to cage her against the flowered wall. She’d been so sure he’d kiss her, claim her lips in a bold slaking of passion. The possibility made her shiver with desire. When he didn’t kiss her
, she’d quivered with annoyance.

  The tingles remained, taunting her.

  But as she drew closer to the joy women’s encampment, catching hints of ale and the ladies’ heavy musk perfume, she also knew there had to be more to such pleasures than the furious couplings sure to be going on within the colorful, flower-draped tents.

  When a naked woman burst from one of the bowers, dragging an equally bare-bottomed man behind her, then shrieking with laughter as she thrust him into the arms of another just as bare, she was sure of it.

  She’d never share Alasdair with another female.

  And she wouldn’t have the opportunity to fret about such matters unless she retrieved Kendrew’s letter from Groat the Viking.

  So she nipped behind a tree, smoothed her hair, and brushed down her skirts. Then, straightening her back and shoulders, she stepped round beside the tree, allowing herself a good view of the clearing between the half-circle of tents.

  Groat the Viking had to be there.

  With luck, he’d emerge from one of the bowers any moment.

  If need be, she’d call at the tents, asking for him.

  Most of the joy women would be Rannoch Moor ladies, welcome at Nought’s Beltane and Midsummer Eve festivals. They wouldn’t gossip about her, even if they guessed her reason for coming here. There were times when all women held together and this was one of them.

  She hoped, anyway.

  She also folded her arms, already feeling frightfully conspicuous.

  She was just about to start tapping her foot on the needle-strewn ground when she heard, “A wench with such fine breasts shouldn’t cross her arms unless she wants a man plumping and weighing them. Her teats, I mean.”

  Whirling about, she saw Groat sauntering toward her, a lecherous sneer on his blond-bearded face. He was also buckling on his sword belt, having just stepped out from one of the bowers.

  Ignoring his jeers, Marjory held out her hand when he reached her, her tone as icy as she could make it. “I’ll have the scroll you owe me.”

  “Perhaps I’ll have something else in exchange for it?” His gaze dipped to her breasts, his one good eye glittering. “Thon wench”—he jerked his head at the tent he’d just left—“wasn’t near as fetching as you.”

  “Touch me and I’ll dirk you where it hurts most.” Marjory whipped her lady’s dagger from a fold in her skirts, aiming its tip at the bulge beneath his low-slung sword belt. “I’ve already considered doing the like, so you’d best not tempt me.”

  “Oh-ho!” He grinned but held up his hands and stepped back, away from the pointy end of her knife. “A shame you’ll not be wedding my overlord. He likes his women with fire in their veins.”

  “I don’t care what he likes.” Marjory didn’t lower her blade. “I will have my brother’s letter.”

  “O-o-oh, Lord Thorkill would fancy you, he would.” Groat pulled on his gold earring, eyeing her up and down. “So would many of us.”

  A big man, he had a shaggy mane of straw-colored hair and wore a sleeveless calfskin jerkin over a soiled tunic and loose trousers. His boots were old and muddied, and in addition to his sword, a Viking war ax hung from a belt slung over his shoulders. If he wished, he could knock the dagger from her hand with a puff of breath.

  As if he guessed her thoughts, he stretched his arms over his head and cracked his knuckles.

  “See here, Lady Marjory, I’m not looking for trouble.” The smile left his face and he shook his head sadly. “Time was, I’d toss you over my shoulder and have you, your ring, and the coin you’ve already given me. As is”—he shrugged—“without both eyes, I’m only good for rowing oars and carrying messages. That’s no work for a fighting man. So I pad my wages in other ways. Soon, I’ll have enough land and wealth to settle down and keep my peace.”

  Marjory arched a brow. “Thanks to my monies and my sapphire ring.”

  He didn’t turn a hair. “Yours, and such payment from others like you.”

  “Surely you know I have little choice.”

  “We all have choices. I’m not condemning you for yours, so don’t rumple your nose at mine.” An amused grin spread over his face. “Some would say your actions are as crooked as mine. You’re tricking your brother, are you not? He desires a good marriage for you.”

  Marjory glared at him. “I see it otherwise.”

  He shrugged. “That’s not my concern. Your ring is. You did bring it?”

  “You’ll have it after you give me my brother’s letter.” Marjory thrust her dagger back into its sheath and held out her hand again.

  Groat sighed heavily. “Mayhap Thorkill wouldn’t have been so pleased with you. You’re too prickly to make a good wife.”

  “The scroll.” Marjory wriggled her fingers.

  The Viking fished inside his jerkin, producing a scrunched parchment. The red glob of wax that had been Kendrew’s seal was broken. Marjory took the scroll and unrolled it, relief flooding her as she recognized her brother’s boldly inked script.

  Groat nodded as she re-rolled the missive. “See you, I keep my word.”

  “If that were so, we wouldn’t be standing here. You were to give my brother’s letter to Lady Isobel when you left Nought with my payment in coin. Instead, you demanded my ring.” Marjory narrowed her eyes at him. “I’d say your word is only as good as your greed.”

  He had the audacity to grin. “A sharp tongue, too, eh?” His gaze turned shrewd, dipping to the small leather purse at her belt. “The sooner you hand over the ring, the sooner I’m away. I’ll see that Thorkill believes what you penned. That his offer arrived too late and you’re already wed to another.”

  Marjory flushed, her deceit, however necessary, embarrassing her.

  Setting her lips in a hard, tight line that would’ve made her brother proud, she untied her purse strings and thrust Kendrew’s letter inside. She’d burn it as soon as opportunity arose. That decided, she retrieved her sapphire ring and placed it in Groat’s outstretched hand.

  He stashed it away with lightning speed. “A pleasure doing business with you, my lady. If ever you need my services again—”

  “I need you gone.” Marjory bristled.

  He laughed and bowed low. “As you wish.”

  When he straightened, he sauntered into the trees without a backward glance. Marjory stared after him until he disappeared into the gloom. She shuddered as the shadows claimed him, wishing she could scrub his taint from her skin.

  Her meeting with him left a nasty taste in her mouth.

  But as far as she knew, his overlord had been the last Norse nobleman on her brother’s list of possible husbands for her. Ridding herself of Thorkill’s acceptance of her as a bride was worth sacrificing her ring and coming to the other ladies’ bowers to meet Groat.

  Still…

  Her heart was racing, her palms were damp, and her mouth had gone annoyingly dry. She could still hear Groat’s mocking tone ringing in her ears, see the amusement on his bold, battle-scarred face.

  Praise be, he was gone.

  She’d be away herself as soon as she regained her composure.

  Hoping no one at the tents had seen her, she cast a glance that way, her heart plummeting to her toes when she spied Alasdair ducking out of the tent flap of the largest, most gaudily decorated bower.

  A half-naked woman stood in the tent’s shadows, beaming after him.

  Eyes rounding, Marjory gasped.

  She took a fast step backward and lost her balance, slipping on the pine needles as she tried to nip behind the sheltering trees. She didn’t fall, but she did bump against low-hanging branches, dislodging a large, fat spider that dropped onto her shoulder.

  “Agh!” She jumped, brushing at the spider.

  It darted into her bodice.

  She flung her shawl to the ground and tore at her gown’s laces. The spider sped across her bosom, beneath the top edge of her gown.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Alasdair striding across the clearing, coming ri
ght at her. He carried a huge sword and looked furious.

  She didn’t care.

  She did brush more frantically at her clothes, her efforts rewarded when the spider leaped to the ground, scurrying under the pine needles.

  “Saints a’ mercy!” She pressed a hand to her breast and heaved a great, shuddering sigh.

  Her knees felt wobbly and she almost staggered. Her breath came ragged and her hair was mussed, her bodice loosened, the ties dangling.

  Alasdair was almost upon her.

  She turned away, fumbling at her gown, trying to right the laces. Before she could, Alasdair reached her. He stepped round to stand over her, tall and dangerously close. Even in the shadows, she could see his anger, the tight set of his jaw and the blaze in his eyes.

  “Lady Norn.” He spoke her name as if it pained him. Then, not taking his gaze off hers, he rammed the sword he carried so hard into the earth that its blade quivered. He looked her up and down, his expression hardening as he noted her dishevelment. “What’s happened to you?”

  Marjory bristled, not liking the suspicion in his voice. “A spider fell on me and—”

  “That’s why your hair is mussed and your gown opened?” He didn’t believe her, doubt all over him. “I wouldn’t have thought you so afraid of a wee spider—”

  “It was huge.”

  “Och, aye, he will have been to undo your bodice.”

  “I did that myself.” Marjory began retying the laces. “And my gown isn’t undone, only a bit loose.”

  Alasdair leaned in, giving her a hard stare. “I can see your nipples.”

  “I don’t believe you.” She knew it was true. Heat swept up her neck, bursting onto her cheeks as she worked faster to close her bodice.

  “Damn and blast, Norn, I saw a man leaving here.” Alasdair spoke through clenched jaws. “He came from this direction and he looked most pleased.”

  “I saw no one.” Marjory held his gaze, unblinking.

  He gripped her arm, his hold like iron. “What were you doing here?”

  “I told you.” She jerked free, her own temper rising. “I was searching for someone.”

  She shot a glance at the colorful bowers, looking back at Alasdair when a peal of feminine laughter drifted from one of the tents.