Seduction Of A Highland Warrior

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  Not a Norse dragonship, but a small coracle.

  The kind of lightweight, skin-sided craft carried by larger ships so their crews could go ashore in inhospitable waters, places like the tight, rock-strewn inlet known as the Dreagan’s Claw.

  And in this instance, the coracle appeared to have carried a coat of pitch on its stretched-hide hull. If such a cockleshell had been employed, and Alasdair believed that was so.

  Sure of it, he leaped to his feet. “Dinnae come after me,” he called to his men. “I’ve spotted something on the rocks.”

  Then he nipped around the outcrop and over the cliff edge, taking the barely discernible path down to the strand before anyone could follow.

  He went faster than was wise. But if he slowed his feet, he’d think too hard on the recklessness of chasing down such a steep, slippery track.

  Sometimes a man had to act first and think later.

  This was such a time.

  His instincts proved right when, upon reaching the strand, the smear of black along the tideline looked even more like pitch than from above.

  Certain it was, he headed for the largest smear, leaping from rock to rock to get there. His suspicions were confirmed as soon as he dropped to one knee beside a tide pool and trailed his hand along the dark-stained shingle. His fingers came away black.

  “Damnation.” He stood, surveying the narrow strand. Nothing stirred here now. All was still save the slapping of the sea on rock, the freshening wind. For sure, no ghost haunted this bleak inlet. He’d mistaken the tarry smears for the warlord’s black cloak.

  He hadn’t seen Drangar.

  Besides, even if his much-sung ancestor existed, he had no reason to visit Nought’s Dreagan’s Claw.

  Living men who wished to remain hidden, their business unknown, were another matter.

  There could be no doubt that at least two pitch-coated coracles had been dragged ashore here. And that knowledge churned in Alasdair’s gut. A gnawing ill ease that made him go cold inside.

  Again, his mind wandered to Marjory, so he lifted a hand to his brow, turning his gaze on the open sea beyond the cove’s rock-strewn opening. Long lines of rollers, huge and white-crested, stretched as far as he could see. Nowhere did he glimpse a sail. There wasn’t even a fishing boat anywhere near Nought’s bleak and jagged bit of coast.

  And no wonder.

  The seas here were hostile, the currents strong and deadly.

  Still…

  He shook his head, lips pressed together. He narrowed his eyes, staring at the horizon as if by sheer will alone he could peer beyond its edge.

  See the evil he was sure lurked there.

  Black-hearted men who’d tread this rocky skirt of beach, up to no good, he was certain.

  Wishing he knew who they were, he turned away, eager to scramble back up the cliff path. Once at Blackshore, he and his men would decide what to do. Starting forward, he cast one last look at the tarry stains on the rocks. They were nearly washed away now.

  Perhaps he was mistaken…

  He knew he wasn’t.

  As if to prove it, the wind changed, swinging round to carry a trace of smoke past his nose.

  Old smoke, stale and faint, but notable enough to stop him in his tracks.

  It was then he remembered the low mound of rocks where the bogle-he-hadn’t-really-seen had jammed his spear butt against the ground. There, where the pitch stain was the largest, letting him imagine that the smears were Drangar the Strong’s billowing black cloak.

  Except Drangar didn’t exist, and neither did his long, dark mantle.

  But there was a slight heap of stones.

  And the rise appeared manmade, put together by someone’s hand and not nature.

  “Damnation,” Alasdair muttered again, retracing his steps to reach the mound.

  Once there, he knelt on the cold, wet shingle and tossed aside the rocks. They’d covered a doused campfire, the charred wood and ash still damp. Frowning, he thrust his fingers into the sticky mess, not surprised when fresh, inky soot clung to them.

  Standing, he crossed to a tidal pool to wash the smeary ash from his hand. As he did, a whirl of images flew across his mind. Clear as day, he saw Marjory claimed by a savage Viking lord, the man’s bearded mouth plundering hers, his hands ripping the gown from her, his ship carrying her away to his distant northern lands.

  Just as ominous, if not as personal, he caught a flash of Kendrew pouring silver coins into the outstretched hands of a greed-driven shipmaster, the lout’s equally scrupulous men crowding round, their eyes alight as they silently counted their newfound riches.

  “No’ so long as I breathe,” Alasdair snarled, looking about the strand once more. A muscle jumped in his jaw, hot anger beating inside him. He put his hand on Mist-Chaser’s hilt, the day now edged in red.

  His suspicions were confirmed.

  He just hoped that his concern for Marjory proved less valid. If such a fate awaited her, whatever he did would result in disaster.

  For do something he would.

  There’d be hell to pay if harm came to her.

  This day, he and his men hadn’t required the long spears they’d brought along to the Dreagan’s Claw. But in his mind’s eye, he could see those killing shafts in his men’s hands, the steel-tipped heads dripping blood.

  The image was as real as the cold mist damping his face, the rhythmic wash of the sea against the stony ground beneath his feet.

  He could almost smell death in the air.

  He knew such a day was coming.

  Soon, the blow would fall. A tide of men bearing swords, spears, and axes would flood his beloved glen. The hot, red glow of raid fires would stain the sky, while thick, acrid smoke choked the life from those who didn’t perish beneath the bite of steel.

  Alasdair rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, the thought unbearable.

  Most damning of all, if events unfolded as he suspected, he’d be responsible.

  As if the fates agreed, the voices of strangers came from the mist curling round Alasdair’s home on its rocky islet in the southernmost corner of the glen. Low and guarded, the grumbles would’ve been the men’s death knells if Alasdair had heard them. Truth be told, fury would’ve boiled the blood of any warrior of the glen.

  But the speakers apparently didn’t know the dark sea winds of Blackshore drifted far. Or that even mist sometimes had ears. They only knew their greed. And the burning lust that some men can’t control…

  “I could’ve done with some fine, womanly heat,” Troll, a huge, one-eyed Norseman groused as he pulled the oars of a small, black-sided coracle. His war-scarred face darkened as he cast a look over his shoulder to where the waters of Loch Moidart broke on the curving strand at the far end of Blackshore Castle’s causeway.

  The woman he’d spotted at the loch’s edge had slipped into the shadows.

  He frowned, annoyed that his companion, Bors, hadn’t been willing to beach the coracle. “We could’ve had her and been away before she could even scream.”

  Bors didn’t answer him.

  Troll didn’t care. He did peer across the loch again, trying to see where the woman had gone.

  It’d been too long since he’d aired the skirts of such a beauty.

  Even through the mist, he’d recognized her worth.

  She’d practically glowed.

  Wanting her badly, he turned back to the other man in the coracle. Bors puzzled him. Big, brutish, and just as hot-blooded as he was, Bors wasn’t a man to pass on the chance of a good tumble.

  Yet he had, arguing that Troll’s goings-on about the woman would be heard by the guardsmen on Blackshore’s battlements. He didn’t want to alert them of their presence. Troll tamped down a bark of laughter.

  As if the MacDonald guards had such sharp ears.

  Morelike, Bors was worried about angering their leader, Ivar Ironstorm.

  Ivar frowned on dallying unless he’d given his men leave to enjoy such pleasures. Most times he
concerned himself only with gaining land and gold. Slaves he could trade or sell. Women, when they brought an advantage.

  “We could’ve taken her, there on the shore. I can see her with her skirts high, her legs spread wide. She’d thrash and writhe…” He gripped the oars tighter, his arm muscles bulging. “I’m still hard for her.”

  Bors snorted. “All that ails you is that your good eye is going as blind as the missing one.” Leaning forward, he fixed Troll with a narrow-eyed stare. “There was no woman on that strand.”

  “I say there was. And she was a beauty.” He dropped the oars for a moment, sketching a shapely form in the air. “Long black hair and fine features, smooth creamy skin, white as fallen snow. Her gown clung to her, a slip of silvery-blue. And she wore a fine gray cloak I wouldn’t have minded taking back to Norway for my mother. She was a lady, no doubt.” Troll licked his lips, his grip on the oars now white-knuckled. “Just think how sweet her—”

  “I’m thinking Ironstorm will thrash you to bits when he hears you were ogling mist and calling it a woman. Our task was to learn the strength of Blackshore’s walls.” Bors snarled the words, rowing with all might now, as they swept round the headland known as Drangar Point and entered deeper, rough-tided water.

  Bors grimaced when a large fan of sea spray blew across the little boat, drenching them. “Your good eye should’ve been searching for weak spots in the walling, nothing else. If all goes as planned, we’ll add to our gains by filling our holds with Blackshore amber. Slaves to sell in Dublin…” He dragged a quick arm across his brow, dashing the sea water from his eyes. “Mist wenches won’t bring a coin.”

  “She was there, sure as you’re an ugly bastard. Even Ironstorm would’ve wanted her. He likes breaking ladies.” Leaning forward, Troll’s tone went conspiratorial. “Word is MacDonald women are fiery. And”—he licked his lips—“the taste of them headier than mead.”

  Bors scowled at him. “Ivar has only one female on his mind these days and she isn’t a MacDonald.”

  “The Mackintosh maid isn’t his yet.” Troll pulled hard on the oars, straining.

  “She will be.” Bors grunted as they fought the drag of the current.

  “And then we’ll all enjoy her.” Troll increased his own oar-work, the two of them turning the tiny craft toward the fierce-prowed dragonship they could just make out through the mist. Half-hidden behind a craggy islet a good way offshore, only someone who knew where to look would’ve seen the craft’s black-painted hull and high, single mast, its large, square-shaped sail as dark as night. “We’ll treat her to the honor of our prowess before—”

  “You’ll not be a part of the ceremony if Ivar cuts off your balls.” Bors said that with satisfaction. “When I tell him how your cry about a mist woman echoed round the loch, risking the attention of the Blackshore guards, he’ll—”

  “Say a word and you’ll find your throat slit as you sleep.” Troll gave an equally smug smile, knowing he’d won.

  His face might not be pretty, but he was silent on his feet, his dagger hand swift and deadly. More than one man who’d vexed him breathed no more. And—Troll dug his oars into sea, victory sweet—those sorry fools had ended their lives in their beds, no sword or ax in their hand, guaranteeing a welcome at Valhalla.

  Thor’s mead hall was closed to warriors who died in their sleep.

  And the soured look on Bors’s face said he knew he was in danger of meeting such a fate.

  “Something else, friend…” Troll rowed happily as they neared the anchored dragonship. “When the day comes, I take my turn at the Mackintosh maid before you.”

  Bors grunted, the tightening of his lips agreement enough.

  “Don’t look so grieved,” Troll taunted as the coracle bumped aside the ship’s black-painted hull. “You won’t know the difference anyway. All cats are the same in the dark, even fine Highland ladies.”

  Still, Troll just might enjoy Marjory Mackintosh twice, if possible.

  He’d be doing her a service, after all.

  Women sent to Viking funerary pyres burned more contently if well-sated beforehand.

  Chapter Eleven

  Three days later, Marjory and Isobel made their way through a birchwood near Nought’s most formidable peaks. Wind funneled down from the highest passes to whistle through the trees and send fallen leaves skittering along the path. The women walked briskly, their cloaks drawn against the cold afternoon. Marjory just wished her mantle would also shield her from certain mind wanderings.

  “You’re not fooling me.” Isobel hitched her skirts to step over a patch of mud-slicked ground. “You’re thinking of him, aren’t you?”

  “Who?” Marjory pretended not to know.

  “Blackshore, of course.” Isobel glanced at her, her gaze so perceptive Marjory’s face heated. “You’re yearning for him. Especially now, after he’s practically made love to you. Any woman would—”

  “You’re mad.” Marjory shot her a look of annoyance. “Angry, is what I am. I’m certainly not dwelling on what happened in the old guard room. Or better said, what didn’t. Truth be told, I’m glad nothing came of it.” She spoke the lie as boldly as she could. “I only regret I was so naïve to follow him, expecting…”

  She couldn’t finish, irritation making her throat hurt.

  She did set her jaw, not wanting to acknowledge that even now she felt the powerful force of him. Pure sensual heat poured through her, prickling her skin and stirring memories of his touch, his kisses. Need and desire as strong as if he stood before her still. She inhaled sharply, resenting the damning pull, undiminished by her aggravation.

  “Such folly.” She swiped her hair behind her ear. “How could I have—”

  Isobel tsked. “Seducing the man you love is never folly, dear heart. Some men need a bit of prodding.” Her lips curved in a reminiscent smile, her eyes softening. “I know that well, trust me.”

  “Alasdair is not Kendrew.”

  “To be sure.” Isobel stepped over a fallen log. “Yet they are more alike than either would care to admit. Both are proud men, leaders of their people, and with a long history of clan feuding and personal grievances between them. They are fierce warriors. And”—she smiled again, this time knowingly—“the kind of men who make the best of husbands once they settle down. The finest of lovers—”

  “Isobel!” Marjory flushed so hotly she could hear the blood roar in her ears. “You know we didn’t—”

  “A mere trifle.” Isobel’s smile didn’t falter. “As for seduction, I’ll own you only had to stand before him to send all thoughts from his mind save wanting to ravish you there and then.”

  Marjory just looked at her, her pulse thundering.

  She was sure the truth stood on her face. That had been the way of it.

  “See? I knew it.” Isobel sounded so pleased. “You only fueled the fires already burning. You weren’t just anyone there in the shadows with him. You were the woman he desires above all others.”

  “He wanted a woman. Any half-fetching female in a low-cut gown and with fluttering eyelashes would’ve served.” The words tasted bitter on Marjory’s tongue. “He said as much. Did you not hear him?”

  “I heard him say words that damned him and saved your honor.”

  “Pah!” Marjory didn’t believe it.

  Much as she’d been wrestling with just such a possibility for days.

  “You think so, too. I see it all over you.”

  “I don’t know what I think.”

  “And so you’ve been slipping away every morn, telling Kendrew you’re off to visit Hella when what you truly hoped was to catch Alasdair on one of his patrols through our territory.” Isobel made it sound so logical. “You need to look in his eyes, search for answers—”

  “I need to put him from my mind.” Marjory didn’t deny that she had hoped to encounter Alasdair.

  Not that she knew what she’d do if she did.

  For truth, she’d almost swear he’d used some kind of w
itchy magic on her.

  How else could he invade her every thought?

  Even now, she could see him. His clear blue gaze steady on hers, and how in certain light, his eyes gleamed with the most delightful golden flecks. How wide of shoulder he was, or how proudly he wore his MacDonald plaid over his broad, hard-muscled chest.

  She stiffened, not wanting to recall how her hope had crumbled on his stinging rejection, her joy slipping away like sand spilling between her fingers.

  It’d been days, yet the hurt sat deep.

  She glanced up at the racing clouds, wishing they’d swoop down to chase him from her heart. Undo how she couldn’t forget that his lightest touch could make her skin warm, even sending fiery heat whipping through her so that she tingled clear to her toes.

  Trickery he surely used on every female who crossed his path.

  That damnable knowledge put such a scowl on her face that she glanced aside so Isobel wouldn’t see. With any luck, her friend would think it was the shadowy birchwood that made her frown.

  “I have been searching for Hella.” She lifted her voice as a sharp wind whistled through the trees, tossing branches and rattling leaves, lending to the wood’s eeriness. Deep and almost impenetrable, the thickly growing birches crowded a fast-running burn halfway between Castle Nought and the clan’s famed vale of the dreagans.

  “Aye, and just where we know Alasdair often sends his patrols.” Isobel glanced at her. “Men he often accompanies, if our own scouts are to be believed.”

  “You know I have good reason to speak with Hella.” Marjory refused to allow Isobel to maneuver her into further discussion of Alasdair.

  She did pull her cloak even tighter as the wood drew in around them.

  This part of Nought was a bit unholy.

  Little visited because of the thick mist that often hid the wood from view—fog many Mackintoshes held for enchanted—the birchwood was a place where the veil that separated the living from the dead had worn thin, allowing easy passage between the worlds.

  Or so clan bards claimed.