Seduction Of A Highland Warrior

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  Even when Ewan spoke close to his ear. “I saw Lady Marjory trail her fingers down your chest.”

  Alasdair’s sword dipped a full inch. “You mistake.”

  The glint in Ewan’s eye warned that worse was to come. “She stood so close to you, I vow you must’ve felt the press of her bosom.”

  “Lady Marjory never came within several hand spans of me.” Alasdair’s body clenched on the lie, every inch of him recalling the warmth of her breasts, so soft and full. Her clean, heathery scent, and how she’d leaned into him so provocatively. “Your eyes are failing you.”

  “I think not.” Ewan laughed.

  “She’s Kendrew Mackintosh’s sister.” Alasdair returned his gaze to the horizon. Unfortunately, instead of the cold, gray of the sea, he saw Marjory’s large blue eyes. And for an unsettling moment, the crashing of waves sounded like the thundering of his heart.

  He suspected that it was.

  So he flashed a hard look at his cousin, his voice stern. “You’d be wise to remember who she is and curb your tongue.”

  “And you?” Ewan glanced at the darkening sky, his plaid snapping in the wind. “Is she the reason you wanted to spend the day out here with the Warriors, balancing on the cliff edge in the rain and gloom?”

  “You know my reasons.”

  “Aye, I do.” Ewan grinned. “The glen being quiet of late is only one of them.”

  “The glen is too quiet.” Alasdair didn’t share his cousin’s levity. “It’s an unnatural stillness and I dinnae like it. Did you e’er watch a cat before he pounces on a mouse? The cat freezes, no’ blinking or moving a muscle as he eyes his prey. Then, in a blink, he attacks. The mouse is doomed before he sees the cat coming.”

  “So we’re mice, eh?”

  “Nae, we’re MacDonalds. And we’ve held Blackshore for too many centuries to lose it because we allowed ourselves to be lulled into complacency.” Alasdair looked to where the sea seethed around a few black-glistening skerries. The water foamed and churned there, clouds of spray catching the light. “No’ all enemies come marching at you, clashing swords and spears against their shields and shouting war cries. Some foes slip up behind you on silent feet.” Alasdair knew that well. Others didn’t bother to hide, using harvest fairs or a courier’s duty to excuse their presence. Alasdair stiffened, recalling the Norseman he’d seen leaving the joy women’s clearing.

  That one, he knew, had been up to no good.

  Sure of it, he tossed another glance at Ewan. “Such foes bear watching lest the last thing you see is the flash of their sword as it ends your life.”

  “Or”—Ewan’s grin didn’t waver—“they see the glint of MacDonald steel, having done with them.”

  “True enough.” Alasdair quirked a smile.

  It was good when a man had faith in his kin.

  He certainly did.

  No greater race walked the Highlands than Clan Donald. Even their enemies knew it and respected them, with the sad exception of the Mackintoshes.

  “So-o-o…” Ewan cracked his knuckles. “What are you going to do about her?”

  Alasdair’s smile faded. There was no need to guess whom Ewan meant.

  He did adjust his grip on Mist-Chaser. He needed a distraction, tempted as he was to swing the tip to within inches of his cousin’s belly. Just to wipe the smirk off his handsome face.

  “Well?” Ewan goaded him even more.

  Alasdair returned his gaze to the skerries. The current was running faster now, the water swirling around the rocks and sending up great plumes of spray. “I dinnae have plans to do aught with Lady Marjory. I did warn her to keep an eye on the shadows up Nought way. Not that I’ve seen or heard anything troubling, least of all from those remote bounds. Still, if the quiet hereabouts bothers me”—and it did—“it’ll be deafening at Nought. She needs to be wary.” And he needed his tongue cut out for voicing his concerns in a way that upset her. It ripped the heart out of him that he’d offended her. He could still see her face freezing over, feel the chill of the stare she’d turned on him. She’d thought he’d wanted her to spy for him, as if he’d ever imperil her.

  Truth was, words didn’t come easy in her presence.

  She needed only to glance at him and the famed MacDonald charm left him faster than light vanished from a pinched candlewick.

  Later, in the wood…

  Allowing him to see her bared breasts, nipples wind-chilled and thrusting at him, had given him the rest, robbing him of his wits. Shattering his restraint until he’d lost his head, reaching for her…

  Heat swept him. Not anger this time but raw unbridled need.

  Hoping Ewan wouldn’t notice, he turned his gaze once more on the horizon. Heavy clouds gathered there and a light mist was beginning to curl across the water. “See here, lad.” He didn’t look at his cousin. “If you dinnae wish to train, I’d sooner be alone.”

  “Och, I’ll keep vigil with you.” The scrape of steel against Ewan’s sword sheath proved his vow. Stepping closer to the cliff edge, he raised the blade, aiming it like Alasdair’s, toward the open sea.

  “But I’m no’ for staying the night on these cliffs.” Ewan looked about, his levity gone. “No’ anywhere near the Warrior Stones.”

  Alasdair laughed. “Dinnae tell me you’re afraid old Drangar will appear.”

  “I saw him once, as well you know.”

  “You were all of eight summers. What you saw was sea mist drifting through the stone circle. Drangar, if e’er he existed, will have better to do in the Otherworld than float about these cliffs.”

  Ewan didn’t answer.

  A glance his way showed he could set his jaw as fiercely as Alasdair.

  “We’ll head back when the light fades.” Alasdair knew some clansmen did believe in Drangar’s bogle. And even though Ewan could annoy him more than a pebble in his shoe, Alasdair loved him too much to force him to suffer a dent to his pride when true fear was on him.

  “There’s no need to hold the vigil more than a few hours.” Alasdair gave the concession gladly.

  The tightness left Ewan’s face at once. “I wouldn’t mind being in the hall when Cook serves our supper.” He glanced at Alasdair, his good humor restored. “Did you catch the smell of roasting pork when we passed the kitchens this morn? My mouth has been watering ever since.”

  “I noticed, aye.” Alasdair returned the younger man’s smile.

  He just wished he could shake his certainty that the glen peace was about to be ripped apart. And in a way that meant a harder fight than ever before. His inability to sleep well in recent times and the increasing sensation that someone, somewhere was watching him only underscored his distrust of the ongoing calm.

  Any man who lived near the sea knew that still waters often preceded the worst storms.

  Men in coastal Scotland also knew one Viking never came alone. And the man who’d left the joy women’s encampment so rapidly had been a Norseman. Alasdair could smell the bastards at a hundred paces.

  A Highland woman in the clutches of such marauders would be doomed to a living death.

  Worse, once they tired of her.

  There were many fetching lasses at Blackshore. Also plenty of strong, older women and healthy children who would make good slaves. Clan Cameron had no less to offer. And at Nought…

  Marjory’s face flashed before him again, only now desire was the last thing on his mind.

  He shifted his feet on the wet grass, squared his shoulders as if readying for battle.

  Truth was, he hadn’t just made this visit to the Warrior Stones because the age-old sword vigil was believed to give men strength, courage, and—when all else failed—a proud and noble death.

  He’d wanted to take advantage of Drangar Point’s wide-sweeping vistas. The high, fissured cliffs along this stretch of coastline offered excellent hiding for men planning raids into the Glen of Many Legends.

  His gut told him such men were about.

  And he always trusted his instinct.


  Doing so made the difference between a simple fighting man and a good leader of men.

  Alasdair took pride in being the latter.

  For that reason, he’d make sure his men did more that night than enjoy Cook’s savory roasted pork. As soon as they’d filled their bellies and quenched their thirst, he’d give them a warrior’s task. Every MacDonald old enough to hold a sword would spend the night sharpening his weapons.

  He just hoped such a precaution would prove for naught.

  Sadly, he didn’t think so.

  Hours later, long after Alasdair and Ewan left Drangar Point and returned to Blackshore Castle where they were surely enjoying a meal of roasted pork and fine heather ale, another MacDonald warrior stood in the thin mist that blew across the high, windswept promontory.

  The rain had stopped, but Drangar Point was colder now. Not that the warrior minded. A fierce-looking man, he was the sort who’d stare a winter gale in the eye, daring the wind to chill him.

  Exceptionally tall, he had dark, piercing eyes and a black beard, carefully trimmed. He wore a coat of mail that gleamed brightly, a plumed helmet, and a long black cloak of finest wool that he valued as one of his most prized possessions. Humble despite the greatness he could claim, he was rather proud to know that his enemies quaked when he but touched the sword hanging at his side.

  At least, that had once been so.

  This night, as on so many others, he had greater cares than instilling dread in his foes.

  He’d leave such pleasures to Alasdair.

  He also shared the young chief’s opinion that the glen was too quiet.

  And that no Viking ever sailed alone.

  Frowning, he stopped his pacing to stand with his feet apart, his hands braced on his hips as he surveyed the night before him. Moonlight silvered a broad path across the sea and cast shadows over the Warrior Stones. The two spearing heavenward shone wetly, the runic symbols carved into them, almost humming with life. The altar stone glowed white, retaining its dignity even though centuries of wind, rain, and lichen had rendered its runes almost indecipherable.

  Not that it mattered now.

  The runes belonged to a distant age.

  Rolling his shoulders, the warrior sympathized. He felt his own years keenly.

  He was also aware of a distant sound coming from the sea. A familiar noise that, though still faint, had nothing to do with the strong currents and huge tides brought on by the fullness of the moon.

  It was the rhythmic pulling of oars and the hiss of water racing down the sides of a fast-moving galley.

  Two galleys, if he wasn’t mistaken.

  And they were coming from different directions.

  Intrigued, and eager to welcome action, if the truth were told, the warrior left the shelter of the standing stones and went to the bluff’s far edge.

  He saw the ships at once, recognizing them as Norse longships. Serpent heads topped their prows and the oar blades flashed, rising and falling at speed as they shot across the moon-washed sea. Even at a distance, mail glinted at the chests of the rowers, showing that they were prepared for battle. Or perhaps they simply wished to defend a precious cargo if another ship challenged them.

  Still, in the cold wind on his craggy bluff, the MacDonald warrior frowned.

  The Viking ships were gaining on each other fast, their long strakes sending up fans of white-glistening spray. And as always when he spied such mastery, the MacDonald’s heart pounded, his pulse quickening. He missed the company of warriors. And even if the Norsemen had been his foes, he’d always admired their seamanship.

  Yet something was different about these longships.

  It was a peculiarity that chilled his blood.

  If such a thing were possible, that was.

  Still, he trusted his warrior’s instinct now as ever. Though it pained him to know he’d have to unsettle the other MacDonald lookouts Alasdair kept posted on the cliffs. Those two men would have their eyes trained in a different direction than the racing longships. And something told the warrior it was important for them to see the ships’ oddities.

  Sadly, there was only one way to drive the men along the cliffs to where they’d spot the longships before they sped from view.

  The warrior frowned, regretting what he must do.

  Then he turned and made his way along the edge of the cliffs, his path taking him past the Warrior Stones. Only rather than skirt them as he usually did, in his haste he strode right through them.

  The passage made his proud warrior’s body shimmer. He had a deep connection to the stones, after all. The Old Ones might’ve placed them on the headland ions before his time, but he’d known the stone circle in days before most of the monoliths had toppled to the grass. He’d looked on them in wonder before the first lichen had dared mar their surface.

  He’d carved their runes with his own hand.

  He was Drangar the Strong, a warrior whose fame had once reached to every corner of the Highlands and beyond.

  Even if some of his descendants, including the present chieftain, Alasdair, doubted he’d ever existed, he certainly had.

  In truth, he still did.

  He was as real as he’d ever been, excepting certain annoying limitations.

  Dismissing them, for he had no time for weaknesses, Drangar hurried on. With the exceptional senses of the deceased, he could already hear the low voices of the two MacDonald lookouts he planned to frighten into leaving their posts and hurrying farther along the cliffs.

  He wished there was another way.

  But at least he’d be making himself useful. Even if Alasdair scoffed at his existence, the lad had been right in one thing.

  Drangar did have better to do in the Otherworld than float about like a curl of mist.

  He was about to prove it.

  Chapter Four

  Much later and far from Blackshore’s Drangar Point, Marjory stood alone on the strand of a narrow, deep-sided inlet. Sheer, wave-beaten cliffs edged the bay and mist curled across the cold, gray water. A bitter wind came out of the north, stirring her hair and cloak. Mist swirled everywhere, trapping her between the plunging headland and the angry, white-capped sea. She was a prisoner to the darkness. A bleak, malevolent place where low clouds hid the horizon and even the cries of seabirds rang with malice.

  “You should be honored to sail into the Otherworld.”

  Marjory started, hearing the older woman’s words as clearly as if they’d been spoken in her ear. Both near and distant, the voice was strong and lightly accented. It also held a hollowed edge. Each word echoed in the chill air, at one with the darkness.

  Yet she was alone.

  Sure of it, she looked around, listened for a presence she might’ve missed. Winter-born and raised on legends, she couldn’t discount the passage of a ghost. Such beings would favor a place so forbidding.

  She’d heard something.

  Yet no stern matron leaned near speaking of the Otherworld. She blinked then, her breath catching as a strange luminance spread over the rock walls of the jutting headland. Waves battered the strand, and the air felt thin, so chilled that each breath burned her lungs.

  Gooseflesh rose on her arms. Her nape also prickled. Almost as if cold, unseen fingers had slid down her neck.

  Firm, strong fingers, as would belong to a sharp-voiced older woman.

  She frowned, refusing to acknowledge that the touch also reminded her of the cold, bony hand of a harbinger of death. Such creatures were known to possess inhuman strength.

  “You should rejoice for the privilege.” The voice came again, stronger now and seemingly closer. “ ’Tis an honor without parallel.”

  Marjory’s pulse quickened.

  Something dreadful was near, however unseen.

  She felt it and that was enough.

  Her amber necklace was on fire.

  Searing heat flashed around her neck and pierced deep inside her. A sharp, insistent pulsing that spread through her entire body like ten
drils of flame. Oddly, the sensation wasn’t unpleasant.

  The heat didn’t burn, only made itself known.

  A rustle of movement came from somewhere. In that moment, the ambers’ humming ceased. The stones cooled, stilling as if they’d done all they could and now held their breath, waiting.

  Marjory peered into the gloom. Her eyes widened as a stout, hard-featured woman stepped out of the shadows to loom before her.

  The look she gave Marjory was as icy as the wind.

  “An honor, I said.” The woman came closer, her voice as stern as before. “Your time of glory, do you not understand?” She gave Marjory the flicker of a smile. But it was the kind that didn’t reach the eyes. “It will happen whether the act pleases you or not. To go unwillingly”—she paused, the smile gone—“will shame your name.”

  A band of women joined her. Younger, but each one looked as unfriendly as their leader. Big boned and sturdy, they stayed together, moving forward as one. Still more came out of the fog that rolled off the sea to drift along the strand. A few arrived from knife-edged paths cut into the cliff face, their steps as measured as the other women’s.

  They kept their gazes leveled on Marjory as they approached.

  Soon, they’d surround her. Their intent stood clear on their faces.

  They meant her ill.

  Marjory met their stares. She kept her chin raised, refusing to run.

  The women—and some girls—were tall and fair, with high cheekbones and startling blue eyes. Their hair hung in thick, looped braids. And their gowns were brightly colored, with flashes of blue and red showing beneath long woolen cloaks fastened by large, oval brooches. The brooches were worked with interlocking designs Marjory knew.

  The women were Viking.

  And although handsome in a fierce, stark manner, no smiles lit their faces. And not a trace of warmth or welcome shone in their eyes.

  They walked forward slowly, taking their places alongside the matron.

  Marjory met their stares, challenging them. “What do you want?”

  “You will meet the gods for our lady.” The older woman turned her head to look down the strand. “You’ll take her place at our lord’s side in the Otherworld.”