Seduction Of A Highland Warrior

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  Seona straightened, standing as tall and proudly as she could, all things considered. She took a deep breath of the chill salt air and smoothed her shimmering silver-blue gown. She also adjusted the fall of her dove-gray cloak. Little things to occupy her, taking her mind off her memories.

  It pained her to remember, but the truth was that he had abandoned her.

  He’d cast her from him so that, at the end, there was no one but the seals to watch her breathe her last.

  They alone had seen the waves swirl higher and higher around her. And the seals were there when the white tumbling surf finally claimed her, welcoming her into their cold, watery realm. Drangar the Strong hadn’t come for her as she’d secretly hoped he would.

  It was foolish to even consider such a possibility.

  But she’d been so in love with him.

  What a shame she still was.

  Chapter Ten

  High atop the rock-bound promontory known as the Dreagan’s Claw, Alasdair watched as Kendrew’s best friend and companion-in-arms strolled toward him. A low grumble of menace rose from his men, but Alasdair gave Grim a brief nod. His expression could say the rest.

  If that failed, other tactics could be employed.

  One false move and the Mackintosh warrior would have to cut his way through a wall of MacDonalds if he wished to return to Nought Castle.

  The King’s writ be damned.

  Certain his men agreed, Alasdair flashed a glance at Ewan. “That’s Grim. He’s Kendrew’s captain of the guard. And”—he turned back to watch the man’s approach—“it appears he’s no’ over at Duncreag, helping Archie MacNab rebuild his slaughtered garrison.”

  Somewhere behind Alasdair, a scrape of steel revealed that one of his men had pulled his sword. Others quickly followed suit, the whisper of blades, chill and deadly in the cold, thin air.

  “Ho, Grim!” Alasdair lifted his voice as the warrior drew near.

  “MacDonald.” Grim didn’t break stride, crossing the broken ground as easily as if it were a smooth, well-swept floor. “Looks like Nought bounds aren’t good for you,” he returned, his gaze flicking to the lump at Alasdair’s temple. “Or have your men grown so unruly they’ve taken to knocking their chief about the head?”

  Alasdair ignored the slurs. He did touch the hilt of Mist-Chaser, knowing Grim would notice. “Word is you bide o’er in the next glen these days. That you’re now Archie MacNab’s man. What brings you—”

  “I am aye Kendrew’s man.” Grim stopped where he was, placing one foot on a large rock, proprietarily. “Why are you here? You, a MacDonald, so far from your own waterlogged Blackshore?”

  “We had business with your chief.” Alasdair kept his hand on his sword. “A matter that makes me wonder at finding you here of all places.”

  “Och, aye?” Grim cocked a brow, looking skeptical.

  “So I said.” Alasdair straightened, damning the wind for whipping his hair into his eyes.

  He itched to unleash his sword, the urge almost tugging his lips into a smile. Instead, he kept his face stony, his gaze hard.

  A clash with Kendrew’s captain wasn’t wise.

  Alasdair and his warriors outnumbered the Mackintosh champion. The outcome would be sealed before steel struck steel. Mackintoshes weren’t the only fighters in the Glen of Many Legends. And a MacDonald riled, his temper ignited, was a force no man would wish to face. But Grim’s reputation as a champion was well-known. And as chieftain, Alasdair wasn’t of a mind to lose three good men, perhaps more, just to quench his simmering anger.

  Fury that, he knew, had as much to do with Marjory as her brother.

  So he drew a tight breath before her face could rise before him again, spurring him to rashness. Why just the thought of her sent his wits flying and caused him to lose all control, was a mystery he didn’t care to examine too closely. Leastways, not at the moment. He did square his shoulders and step forward, placing himself before his men. If Grim had any sense, he wouldn’t push him.

  Grim folded his arms, eyeing Alasdair coldly. His silence spoke louder than words. He clearly wanted Alasdair and his men gone, off Nought lands.

  “There can be no business to bring you here. I’m thinking you followed the length of your nose.” Grim’s words proved his enmity. “This is Mackintosh territory.”

  “So it is. And that’s all the more reason for my interest, see you?” Alasdair flicked a look at the stumps of smooth, age-darkened wood that littered the ground. He then aimed a pointed glance at the twist of fossilized root in Grim’s hand. “Gathering stone roots, are you?”

  To his surprise, the big man looked embarrassed. “Foul things clog this headland.” Grim cast aside the root as if it’d turned into a snake. “They can trip up a man or a horse.” He glanced at the MacDonald garrons. “The stone roots make it hard to patrol these cliffs. Even your hill ponies, surefooted as they are, could take a fall.” He shifted and the sun came from behind a cloud, catching his broad-bladed war ax. “I’d no’ see a beast hurt on Nought ground. No’ even one of yours.”

  “So you’re on watch, eh?” Angus strode over, his tone unfriendly. “Looking for anything in particular?”

  “If I was, it’d be naught to you.” Grim eyed Angus up and down. “I’ve no’ wish to cut down a man double my years. Be gone before I change my mind.”

  Angus spluttered, his face reddening. “I’m no’—”

  “You could be my father.” Grim stepped forward and set a hand on Angus’s shoulder, gripped once, and released him. “Be glad I have other cares on my mind this day.”

  “Humph.” Angus brushed at his plaid, looking nowise placated. Far from it, he fixed Grim with a rude, unblinking stare.

  “Have a care, graybeard.” Grim held his gaze, spoke easily. “Still, you command a good share of your Blackshore territory. I’ll no’ have it on my shoulders if you suddenly find yourself holding no more than the earth packed round your moldering bones.”

  A dangerous glint entered Angus’s eyes. “See here, you—”

  “Enough.” Alasdair stepped between them. He nodded at Angus and then glanced to where the land dropped down to the sea before turning to Grim. “Longships interest me, naught else. Black-painted war galleys. I’m thinking you’ll know of them.”

  Grim arched a brow. “How so?”

  “Mayhap you steered such a vessel?” Alasdair voiced his suspicion.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Could be that’s what I’m waiting to hear.”

  “Then you may well spread your plaid on the rocks for the night as you’ll be waiting long. No’ in all thon broad waters did I see such craft.” Grim swept an arm toward the sea. “If I did, mayhap I’d no’ tell you.”

  “That would be a mistake you’d rue.” Alasdair followed Grim’s gaze, his own narrowing on the horizon.

  The light was fading, but the coast’s splendor still took a man’s breath. Beyond the cliff’s edge, the air was filled with wheeling, screaming seabirds. But the eye was drawn farther, toward a vast, open vista of rolling sea and countless islands, rocky islets, and black-glistening skerries. Gleaming white sand ringed each island, some low and grassy, others boasting jagged, mist-topped peaks. Some marked themselves through sheer, beetling cliffs, black and forbidding. But even those soaring rock faces opened here and there, offering glimpses of welcoming coves where the last of the day’s sun sparkled like jewels on the water.

  Alasdair’s heart squeezed at the beauty. No Highlander could stand in such a place and not be moved, deeply so. If such land were his own, his pride would know no bounds. If the land belonged to another, his soul would weep. Alasdair set his jaw, not about to do so. He also understood why the land-greedy Norse returned so often, aye seeking to make the Sea of the Hebrides their own.

  He could even sympathize with Kendrew, wanting all the Glen of Many Legends.

  Whatever it cost him to bring his nefarious plan to fruition.

  At the thought, Alasdair leaned mena
cingly toward Grim. “My lookouts saw such ships off Blackshore’s coast. Hull and sails, black as pitch.”

  “Perhaps your men saw seabirds?” Grim didn’t blink. He’d stepped closer to Alasdair, his pride evident as he again surveyed the great, watery expanse before them. “In certain light, any bird can look black. Or”—his tone held a trace of humor—“mayhap your men were in their cups? I’m just off those seas and have seen no such ships.” He clamped his lips then, apparently regretting his admission.

  “You were sailing?” Alasdair glanced at his men, suspicion racing through his veins.

  One of his warriors spat on the rocks. Others peeled their eyes on Grim, their stances aggressive, faces hard.

  “Speak, man.” Alasdair held up a hand when his men started to move forward. “I believe your chief sent the ships to provoke a fight, a sea battle. It would serve him well to see me break the King’s peace.”

  “Bah! If Kendrew wanted to challenge you, he’d come overland, no’ by water.” Grim shook his head, making his silver warrior rings jangle.

  Alasdair pressed him. “If you came here by sea, where is your ship? The crew? Have you birds’ wings strapped to your back to cross water? Or”—his voice hardened—“did Kendrew lie when he swore Mackintoshes dinnae have galleys?”

  “Kendrew spoke true,” Grim defended his master.

  “Then it’s you telling a tall one.” Ewan sauntered over to them.

  Alasdair shot him a look. But Grim offered Ewan a crooked smile, for a beat, transforming his rough-hewn face. He looked almost congenial.

  “I like a man who speaks his mind.” Grim glanced back at the sea, drew his hand down over his chin. “No Mackintosh tells tales. Save the ones we enjoy before our fire of a long, dark winter night. Truth is, an Irish galley set me ashore no’ far from the mouth of the Dreagan’s Claw. I climbed up the cliff path and hadn’t been here long before you arrived.” He looked at Alasdair, his eyes narrowing. “If aught was amiss hereabouts, I’d have noticed. To my mind, it’s you out of place here.”

  Grim hooked his thumbs in his sword belt, his face unfriendly again.

  Alasdair didn’t blink, not moved by the unspoken threat.

  “You were on an Irish ship?” Alasdair wasn’t sure he believed him. “Is Kendrew now seeking to wed Lady Marjory to an Irish kinglet?” The words sprang from his tongue before he could stop them.

  “Nothing the like.” Grim looked at him for a long moment, his gray eyes sharp. “Archie MacNab’s business took me to Ireland. I’ll be returning to Duncreag after I’ve spent a few days at Nought.”

  “I see.” Alasdair still didn’t trust him.

  Angus, Ewan, and the rest of Alasdair’s men exchanged glances, looking equally doubtful.

  It was Ewan who spoke. “You saw no sign of an encampment below the cliffs?”

  Grim shook his head. “If I had, I’d no’ be here. I’d have made haste to Nought to warn my chief of trespassers. When you arrived”—he spread his hands—“I was enjoying the view, see you?” His words didn’t ring quite true. “It’s no’ oft that we of Nought can gaze upon the sea. You’d do best to savor it as well.” He stepped back, adjusted the wolf pelt slung about his shoulders. “Your own Blackshore cannae offer such magnificence.”

  The taunt spoken, he turned and strode away, not looking left or right at the gathered MacDonalds. In a blink, he was gone, disappearing down the same goat track Alasdair and his men had climbed to reach the promontory.

  “Thon’s a great hairy bastard.” Angus stared after him, glaring.

  Ewan shrugged. “He saved us from having to creep over to the cliff edge.”

  “No’ so fast.” Alasdair thrust out an arm, catching Ewan by the elbow when he made to hurry back to their horses. “I’ll still be having a look.”

  “You’re mad.” Ewan jerked free, tossed a glance at the jumbled rocks everywhere, the dark-shadowed crevices and the tangle of stony tree roots. “Only a fool would go any closer to thon edge.”

  Secretly, Alasdair agreed.

  But the tight bands of ill ease clamped so fiercely about his chest had little to do with the risk of tumbling off a cliff. They did concern his suspicion that Kendrew was using the Dreagan’s Claw cove to hide hired longships and their crews. The alternative…

  That the Norse ships brought a new suitor for Marjory was even more troubling.

  Worse, the nagging sense she was in danger.

  Alasdair frowned, rubbed the back of his neck. He could feel menace in the air, strong as the long, cold wind blowing in from the sea.

  “One look”—he reached for Ewan, gripping his elbows—“and we’ll be away.”

  “I dinnae like it.”

  “Nor do I, but—”

  “Smoke! Look there.” One of the men ran over to them, pointing at the cliff edge. “Threads of smoke, as if from a guttered fire.”

  Alasdair and Ewan turned, following the man’s outstretched arm.

  Alasdair saw nothing.

  Ewan’s shrug said he didn’t either.

  “That’s sea mist, Farlan.” Alasdair was sure his kinsman had seen a coil of the ever-drifting mist that hung about this coast. Or perhaps a large breaker had crashed against the rocks, sending up a plume of spray.

  The like happened. Blackshore’s cliffs were aye fanned by sea foam.

  “Nae, it was smoke.” Farlan shook his head, vigorously. “I saw it plain as day. The MacDonald hasn’t been born who can’t tell the difference between smoke rising from a doused fire and sea haar. As for sea spray…” Farlan spat, showing his disdain for the suggestion that he wouldn’t recognize such a commonplace sight.

  Alasdair gripped his chin, knowing that was true.

  When he started to say so, Farlan shouted again. “There it is!” He leaped up on one of the boulders, pointing. “It’s bigger now. A great swirl from a smoking campfire, I say you.”

  Alasdair and Ewan looked, both men searching the long rocky rim of the drop-off.

  Nothing stirred there except screaming seabirds.

  Even the mist had been blown away by the strong, gusting wind.

  “There’s naught there, Farlan.” Alasdair regretted the look his denial put on his kinsman’s face.

  “I ken what I saw.” Farlan swelled his chest, thrust out his jaw. “There be a fire down there. Leastways, there was one. Taking a Mackintosh’s word o’er mine won’t change what is. I have good eyes, I do.”

  “That I know.” Alasdair did.

  Farlan could spy a ship on the horizon before the sail crested the earth’s rim.

  Nor was he given to falsehoods.

  Alasdair lifted a hand to his brow, looking more closely. He still saw only seabirds. He turned to Ewan, also known for his keen eyesight.

  “And you?” Alasdair challenged his cousin.

  Ewan hesitated and then sent an apologetic look at Farlan. “I saw naught that reminded me of smoke.”

  “Then you both have your eyes turned backward.” Farlan wheeled about and stalked to the horses, muttering as he went.

  Alasdair again glanced at the maze of rock, stony tree roots, and crevices that stretched between where he stood and the promontory’s drop-off. Swirling mist suddenly blew in from nowhere, making it difficult to choose a safe path to the cliff’s edge.

  The chill that swept his spine told him it was an uncanny mist.

  Not that he wanted to accept the possibility.

  He did regret announcing he’d peer down into the Dreagan’s Claw. Doing so now might mean his end and he’d much prefer to finish his life on someone’s sword blade. Falling off a cliff was as shameful as dying in one’s bed.

  Yet Grim had scaled the rock face and strode about the promontory’s uneven ground without batting an eye.

  That he’d done so left Alasdair no choice but to do the same.

  He couldn’t return to the comforts of his hearth fire at Blackshore only to have his men complain that their chief refused to go where a Mackintosh had tr
od with such ease.

  So he straightened and threw back his plaid. “I’ll have a look o’er the edge, Farlan,” he called to his sullen-faced kinsman.

  Farlan nodded once, some of the annoyance slipping from his face.

  “I’ll go with you.” Ewan started forward, but Alasdair waved him back.

  “Nae, all of you wait here.” Alasdair was already striding purposely through the whirling mist, taking a path right over a tangled growth of fossilized roots. Carefully picking his way, as would’ve been more prudent, was out of the question. “I’ll return anon.”

  But when he reached the cliff edge and lowered himself to his knees, peering down into the narrow inlet, the first thing he saw was a great black-cloaked warrior staring up at him. Tall, and with a dark piercing gaze that held his own, the man wore polished mail and had a neatly trimmed black beard, showing he wasn’t a Viking.

  He didn’t look friendly.

  He clasped a long spear, its end resting against a low mound of rocks. A sword hung at his side, while his plumed helm marked him as a lord.

  Alasdair’s blood chilled as he looked down at the man whose great black cloak billowed in the wind. Most astonishing, the warrior glowed. He shone like a ray of sun against the gloom of the cliffs.

  His stance proved him a proud man. The kind of fighter worth a hundred men in battle.

  Alasdair felt his eyes rounding, his jaw slip.

  By all the fireside tales he’d heard, the warrior fit the description of Drangar the Strong.

  Yet Drangar didn’t exist.

  And neither did the warlord on the inlet’s tiny strand. Alasdair blinked and the man was gone, a swirl of sea mist in his place.

  That, and a faint smear of black across the rocks nearest the water.

  Edging closer to the drop-off, Alasdair held fast to the sturdiest rock of the same outcrop where Grim had knelt. He leaned forward, peering at the inky stain.

  The tide was out, revealing wet-glistening shingle and a dark ribbon of seaweed that marked the waterline. Traces of black remained, looking suspiciously like a trail left by a boat that had been dragged ashore.