“You haven’t said why you’re here. But that’s easy enough to guess.” She smiled sweetly.
“Dinnae rile me, lass.” He took a step closer, his tone low. “If there’s aught here I’d want, it isn’t in thon ladies’ bowers.”
Marjory swallowed, her heart starting to beat faster.
Alasdair rested a hand on the hilt of the sword he’d plunged into the ground. His own blade, Mist-Chaser, was sheathed at his side. And he was gripping the second sword so hard that his knuckles shown white.
“This”—he glanced at the sword—“is Honor, my lady. A brand that holds much meaning to my clan, as she belonged to the last MacDonald to fall at the trial by combat. Honor’s value to us is immeasurable. Whenever we ride out, one of us carries her in respect of our fallen clansman and the others we lost that day. On this foray, the warrior carrying Honor forgot her when he visited one of the ladies here at the bowers.” He paused, glancing at the tents. “I came to fetch the sword, wanting to give her the honor of being retrieved by her chief. Nor did I trust my kinsman to no’ dally if he returned. He’s a man who cannae resist temptation.”
“And you can?” She could see him enjoying a dalliance, as he called such matters.
It shouldn’t bother her if he had, but unreasonably, it did.
“I’m a man, Norn.” His voice took on a disturbingly smooth, smoky quality. “No man can withstand all temptation all the time. No’ if red blood courses in his veins.”
He touched her hair, his fingers skimming the side of her face as he did so. “Sometimes the will to resist isn’t as strong as the need. Did you no’ ken that? You could tempt a man that way, making him forget reason.”
Marjory lifted a brow. “How?”
“You only have to breathe.” A muscle jerked in his jaw and his eyes went dark, smoldering like a deep-blue sea caught fire. She thought she heard him swear—she wasn’t sure—but his entire mien changed, the transformation doing strange things to her insides.
“Och, lass…” He shook his head slowly, his gaze not leaving hers.
He lifted her braid, ran his knuckles down the side of her neck. Her skin prickled, deliciously. Sensation raced through her, her breasts tightening. She felt light-headed, breathless. His big, powerfully muscled body blocked the tents and even the nearby pines from view, casting them in their own seductive world.
She wanted to reach for him, touch his face, his hair. But her hand wouldn’t move, her arm remaining motionless.
She could only stare at him, awareness beating inside her.
He looked fierce, intense in a way that made her body heat and her blood race. Her senses reeled, her earlier anger swept away by need. His caress, the portent behind his words, scorched the air around them.
“Alasdair…” His name was all she could say. She began to tingle again, there where she always did when she thought about him kissing her.
She should be shamed by such wayward yearnings.
She felt excited.
“Please…” She wasn’t sure what she wanted, perhaps for his hand to stay on her neck. His touch gave her such pleasurable shivers.
He looked anything but pleased. Heat still simmered in his eyes. But it was different and darker now, infinitely more dangerous.
Behind him, someone must’ve lit torches in the clearing. The flickering light edged his outline, emphasizing his strong, broad shoulders. How the wind lifted his hair, making her ache to touch the rich auburn strands. She loved his hair, knew it was his pride…
She wished he’d smile.
Above all, she wanted him to bend his head and kiss her. Yearnings stirred inside her, making her bold. And frustrated because his face had gone so stony, so cold.
“I should be away…” She didn’t want to go anywhere. Not now, not ever.
This was her chance.
Perhaps her only opportunity to seduce him.
She took a deep breath, began relacing her bodice again. Slowly this time. Isobel and Catriona had told her men go wild when a woman touches her breasts. So she willed him to be tempted, to fall for her seduction now, so long as her courage held.
“Norn…” He took a step closer, so near she could almost hear the hard beating of his heart. Warmth streamed off him, heady and enticing. But he still looked so angry, more annoyed than desirous.
“Let me help you, lass. You’ll ne’er be done that way.” He gripped her wrists, lowering her arms and refastening her gown with a speed and skill that proved how well he understood the workings of ladies’ bodices.
Marjory stiffened, her seduction plans evaporating. “You shouldn’t—”
“Och, that I ken, sweet.” He reached for her, pulling her roughly against him. “A shame I cannae help myself.”
He slanted his mouth over hers, almost crushing her lips. He thrust his hands into her hair, bracketing her face, gripping hard as if he’d never let her go. She leaned into him, sliding her arms up and around his shoulders, clinging to him as he kissed her deeply.
It was like no kiss she’d imagined.
Tantalizing sensations rushed through her, especially when he urged her lips apart and swept his tongue into her mouth, exploring her in a bold, sinuous melding of heat and breath that left her trembling. She twined her fingers in his hair, her knees weakening.
Little more than his plaid and her gown separated them. He kissed her with a fierceness that unleashed all her desires, fanning a delicious heat low in her belly. From somewhere, she heard a ragged gasp and hoped it wasn’t from her. She feared that it was.
“Alasdair…” She gripped his shoulders, his plaid warm and rough beneath her fingers. Her skin tingled, awareness rippling along her nerves, exciting her, making her forget everything except being in his arms, his mouth ravishing her, their tongues tangling so deliciously.
It was almost more than she could bear.
She began to tremble, her senses and emotions alive, giddy with pleasure.
“Lass…” He deepened the kiss, pulling her tighter against him so she had no doubt how much he wanted her. She could feel the hard press of him, hot and rigid, straining against her. “See what you do to me.”
Close by a twig snapped. A loud clearing of someone’s throat followed almost immediately.
Breathing heavily, Alasdair tore his mouth from hers, looking round to glare at a tall, big-bearded man who stood less than a pace away.
“Rory!” Alasdair turned to him, stepping before Marjory to shield her from view. “You were to stay with our men.”
Rory shuffled his feet, looking embarrassed. “I couldn’t wait.” His gaze flashed to the sword Alasdair had thrust into the earth. “I had to know you’d found Honor.”
Alasdair nodded once, curtly. “Aye, so I did and no harm has come to her.” He reached behind him, gripping Marjory’s arm, holding her still. “Nor do I wish any hurt to come of what you just witnessed, lest you hope to find yourself missing the tongue that rattled.”
“I saw nothing.” Rory held up both hands. “But…”
Alasdair took a step forward, his head angling as if he didn’t trust what he’d heard. “Aye?”
“There be a party o’ Mackintoshes in the wood, heading this way.” Rory rushed the words, glanced into the gloom of the pines.
Following his gaze, Marjory saw nothing, but she didn’t doubt him.
She did reach for Alasdair, tugging his plaid. “Kendrew will be looking for me.”
“Aye, and so he should be.” Alasdair turned, his face stony again, the passion gone. “And I should ne’er have touched you. I’ll stay with you until your brother is in sight. This”—he jerked his head toward the bowers behind them—“is no place for a lady alone.”
Marjory lifted her chin. “You seemed pleased enough to find me here.”
“So I was, aye.” His frown said otherwise. “More pleased than I should’ve been. So I’ll give you warning.” He stepped closer, taking her face between his hands. “Dinnae e’er think to tempt me again
. Because if you do, there’ll be no restraining me.
“A kiss”—he released her and stepped back—“will be only the beginning.”
“I shall remember that.” Marjory held his glare, her heart beating wildly.
He’d never know it, but his threat only encouraged her. She’d make sure they did kiss again.
And she’d welcome the consequences.
Chapter Three
A kiss will be only the beginning. Alasdair’s warning to Marjory echoed in his head, images of her accompanying the words each time they returned to plague him. Even here at the farthest edge of his own Blackshore territory, they dogged his every footstep, haunting him. Nae, she did. A sennight had passed since their encounter in the wood. Seven full days and nights, yet he could still see her opened bodice slipping off her shoulders, revealing the creamy smoothness of her skin, the lush swells of her breasts.
More irksome, he retained an excellent memory of her rosy nipples, pert, tight, and more tempting than he could bear. Even now, he ached to touch them, taste their sweetness. He also remembered how her braid came undone, her hair tumbling to her waist, her disarray making him crazy.
So roused, he’d forgotten himself.
He’d burned to seize her to him, never letting her go; he’d burned more to turn on his heel and stride from the clearing, putting her from his heart and mind. The desire that, he knew, was so much more than the sharp pull at his loins each time he saw her.
Alasdair scowled, shoved a hand through his hair.
Damnation.
What in the bloody hell had made him warn her not to tempt him?
Every man with any sense knew better than to challenge a woman.
A lass with Mackintosh blood in her veins was worse than most. The clan’s Berserker ancestry made the men fearless fighters and gave the women a bold, sensual heat that was nigh irresistible. They also had the skill and cunning to put such talent to use.
Norn was a born seductress.
He must’ve lost his mind completely to have gone anywhere near her.
Above all, he should never have allowed her to slide her hands inside his plaid, her fingers splaying across his chest so that she’d surely felt the hard beating of his heart. Aye sharp-witted, she’ll have known the portent of such furious hammering. That his need for her went beyond the carnal, that he wanted to claim not just her body but her heart and soul.
It was a truth that could damn them both.
Yet she was unlike any woman he’d ever known. And now that he’d seen her again after a year, the feelings he’d hoped had lessened returned with a vengeance. Kissing her hadn’t slaked his desire. Far from it, he now ached for her with a fierceness that could madden him.
Still frowning, he drew a tight, angry breath. He fought back the curse rising in his throat, but he couldn’t stop fisting his hands in sheer, terrible fury. If she were to appear before him again now, he’d not hesitate to possess her. Even though he knew the disaster that such folly would unleash on the glen.
He wanted her that badly.
He was doing his damndest to push her from his thoughts when he heard, “What was it like to kiss Lady Marjory?”
Ewan MacDonald, his cousin and general nuisance, strode up to him, wearing a cocky grin. “Was she good enough to put such a scowl on your face?”
“Have a care with your tongue, laddie.” Alasdair narrowed his eyes at the younger man, his mood only worsening when Ewan’s grin broadened.
“Aye, well…” Ewan hooked his thumbs in his sword belt, his mirth not diminishing. “To be sure, my tongue hasn’t been having the fun yours has of late.”
“God’s eyes!” Alasdair snarled the curse he’d been stifling.
He’d do more when he confronted Rory. The lackwit should never have gabbled that he’d seen Alasdair kissing Norn at the joy women’s bowers. Alasdair might even invite him to a round of swordplay, using the sharp edge of his brand to teach him to keep his lips sealed.
“I see she was better than good.” Ewan employed his best efforts into ruining Alasdair’s day.
It’d been a fine one until now. Ewan had clearly forgotten the reason they’d come up here. The training he’d sworn he was eager to participate in. He’d tagged along to make a nuisance of himself. And he’d chosen a damned irritating place to do so. Here atop one of the grandest cliffs in MacDonald possession, the sea breaking white beneath them and a polished silver sky stretching above.
Drangar Point was sacred to Clan Donald.
Alasdair’s heart should be swelled with pride.
Instead, his pulse raced with annoyance and he could feel the heat spreading up his neck, a muscle jerking in his jaw. He bit hard on his tongue, not about to confirm his cousin’s assessment of Norn.
A shame she was better than good.
The greater tragedy was that, now that he’d kissed her, he wanted her as he’d never wanted another woman. Even here at Drangar Point and in the midst of a training ordeal that should blur his mind to all but his purpose, his desire for her raged like fire.
Furious, he drew another long, tight breath. He focused on the sword hilt in his hand, the roar of the sea. Cold wind blew around him and the tang of brine filled his lungs. He was home on this high rocky crag, the world blue and gray, seabirds wheeling on the air currents, and long waves rolling in from the horizon.
He loved this place.
On such a day, there should be little that could diminish his pleasure in being here.
Sadly, Ewan enjoyed such power.
He stepped closer, joining Alasdair at the cliff edge. “Come, cousin. We all saw you drag Lady Marjory into the Lughnasadh bower. Why bother to steal a kiss if you willnae tell how sweet she is?”
Relief swept Alasdair, Ewan’s babble revealing Rory hadn’t betrayed him.
Ewan meant Alasdair’s meeting with Norn at the harvest fair’s cloth stall. The few moments they’d had in the bower before Kendrew’s arrival.
Still…
“I didnae steal a kiss from her.” Alasdair spoke through gritted teeth, not about to say there’d been no need for thievery. She’d welcomed his attentions, even encouraging him, damn her.
“We had words, no more.” He’d dare anyone to say otherwise.
Ewan snorted. “You were ne’er a good liar.”
Alasdair clamped his jaw, not bothering to answer. He also kept his gaze on the sea, refusing to reward his cousin’s badgering with a glance.
Suffering his blether was bad enough.
Indeed, it was becoming a worse agony than holding Mist-Chaser at arm’s length, the sword’s blade kept level above the sea several hundred feet below. His arm had lost all feeling hours ago. The rigorous training ritual, a trial he hadn’t endured in years.
Making amends, he planned to stand there throughout the long, windy night. The drizzle just beginning to fall only strengthened his resolve. Each droplet that sneaked beneath his plaid to roll down his back only made him more determined to persevere.
If Ewan would leave, he’d achieve his goal.
But the bastard seemed unperturbed by the afternoon’s chill wetness. Alasdair’s foul mood wasn’t serving to banish him either. Far from it, Ewan rocked back on his heels, seeming more ready than ever to keep peppering Alasdair with irksome observations.
It was a skill Ewan had honed to perfection.
Proving it, he leaned round to peer into Alasdair’s face. “Many men say such fair-haired, cool-eyed maids as Lady Marjory make the best lovers. When a cold wind blows, the fires burn the hottest.” He winked, and then straightened. “I’ll wager her kiss alone—”
“Have done, you arse.” Alasdair shot him a dark look and then once more fixed his gaze on his sword, determined not to let Ewan vex him.
He was already annoyed enough for believing the long-nosed bugger’s reason for accompanying him to Drangar Point, the highest headland along the MacDonald shoreline, was to join Alasdair in a sword vigil. The age-old clan ritual strengthened a
warrior’s prowess on the battlefield until no enemy could defeat him.
The vigil was a physically demanding rite and hard to do with someone blethering in his ear. When the babble also recalled images best forgotten, such a feat proved nigh impossible.
Not wanting to be thwarted, Alasdair threw a glance at the nearby Warrior Stones. Proud and ancient, they were two tall, upright rocks that stood close together near the cliff’s sheerest drop. Once part of a stone circle now largely toppled, the stones speared heavenward, their wet surfaces shimmering in the afternoon’s gray light. A hallowed site to the Old Ones, the Warrior Stones’ rune-and-lichen-covered boulders still held an air of mystery.
The stones carried a touch of tragedy for the women of the clan, who called them the Sighing Stones. They insisted the wind that always wailed around the stone circle was the crying of a Selkie maid returned to the sea by Drangar, a half-mythical MacDonald forebear.
The clan women claimed Drangar broke the seal woman’s heart. In her grief, she was said to have cast a spell of resentment, turning Drangar and his warriors to stone so that they would be forever doomed to stand at the cliff’s edge, looking out upon the sea where Drangar banished the unhappy Selkie to an eternity of loneliness.
Alasdair tamped down a flare of irritation. The tales were nothing but romantic fancy.
If any strange sounds were heard at the Warrior Stones on dark, moonless nights, it wasn’t the pitiful sobs of a despondent Selkie. It was the running footsteps of MacDonald fighting men as they raced past the stone circle on their way to defend kith and kin, protecting the home glen that meant so much to them.
That, Alasdair could believe.
Seal women…
Scowling more fiercely now, he shifted his feet in the rain-slicked grass and tried to ignore the unpleasant tingling in his sword arm. His shoulder burned and his fingers were beginning to cramp around Mist-Chaser’s leather-wrapped hilt. Soon they’d go as numb as his arm.
Still, he wouldn’t lower his sword.
MacDonalds didn’t acknowledge defeat.
Seduction Of A Highland Warrior Page 5
