But her heart was beating so rapidly she feared she’d die any moment. If, she worried, it was possible to perish from a man’s mere proximity.
If so, Alasdair would be the end of her. She could think of nothing except how disastrous it was to desire him so much, to love and want him as she did. How ghastly it was that, for the remainder of her life, she’d have to content herself with one toe-curling, bone-melting encounter with him.
Kisses and caresses he would’ve given any ready female, by his own damning admission.
She had every reason to be wroth.
And she’d no choice but to hasten him on his way.
To speak to him coolly, ensuring he understood she didn’t wish his attentions. Even if he’d made it plain he’d come to Nought territory to see someone other than her. Her chest tightened on the thought.
She closed her eyes, half certain death was imminent.
Then she heard horses moving through the wood and realized Alasdair and his men were leaving. She opened her eyes at once, hoping to glare at him one more time before he was gone.
But he already was.
The mist billowed around him and his men, hiding them from view. Even their horses’ hoofbeats were fast fading into the distance.
She should be glad.
She felt bereft.
Isobel appeared at her side, a reproachful look on her face. “That could’ve been your last chance to speak with him. He may never come back now. You should’ve found out what he was doing here.”
“He told us.” Marjory’s mind spun. She couldn’t think straight. “It involved a woman, so I’m sure I don’t want to know.”
“Yes, you do.” Isobel signaled to Grim who came grudgingly closer. “Tell Norn what you told me while she was speaking with Alasdair.”
The big man pulled his beard braids, looking uncomfortable. He said nothing.
“If you don’t tell her, I shall.” Isobel gave him her most persuasive smile. “What did he say he was doing here?”
Grim furrowed his brow. “Carting fish o’er the hills. Herring for Hella. From his loch, caught fresh, was the excuse he gave.”
Marjory blinked. “Are you sure?”
“So he said.” Grim kicked a pebble on the path. “I’d have whetted my ax blade on his bones otherwise.”
Marjory’s heart started pounding again. “Did you see the herring?”
“No need.” Grim’s nose wrinkled. “One of his horses had a cart with barrels. The smell could only be brine.”
“Why would he take herring to Hella?” Marjory glanced at Isobel, but she looked equally puzzled.
Grim shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, my lady. He saw you and strode off before I could ask. He and his men were riding south, so he must’ve been to Skali and was already heading back to Blackshore when I challenged him.”
“I see.” Marjory glanced at the wood where Alasdair had disappeared.
Taking herring to Hella.
She’d been so unsettled to see him that she’d forgotten the widow.
The moment he’d mentioned a lady, she’d felt the earth tilt beneath her feet. The most unpleasant wave of dizziness had swept her. Jealousy—it could’ve been nothing else—had overwhelmed her, chasing reason.
Now he was gone.
And that was surely best because whatever had taken him to Hella’s couldn’t undo what happened between them in the old guard room.
She was better off never seeing him again.
What a shame that truth didn’t make it any more bearable.
Chapter Twelve
Are you sure that’s Skali?” Isobel’s brow furrowed as she peered through the trees. The wood was darker now, almost ominous. A deep, high-banked burn ran beside the path, its rushing water loud in the stillness. “I don’t remember a burn near Hella’s cottage.”
“It’s nearly gloaming.” Marjory knew that said everything. “This wood changes after dark.”
Isobel tsked. “Burns can’t alter their courses.”
“This is Nought. And we’re in its heart.” Marjory glanced about, studying the wood’s gloom and shadows. “Anything can happen here.”
“Something almost did. Or would have if you’d let it.” Isobel made it sound so simple. “Didn’t you see Alasdair’s face when he walked up to you? His eyes blazed and the passion rolled off him, almost scorching the air. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d seized you to him, ravishing you whole.”
Marjory flicked at her sleeve. “Alasdair MacDonald would pounce on any female who chanced to cross his path.” She spoke sharply, regretting the words as soon as they left her tongue. She was especially sorry when sympathy flickered across Isobel’s face.
Pity was the last thing she wanted.
She also had other concerns than a roguish chieftain who only needed to look at her sideways to set her pulse to leaping. When he touched her, she felt dazed and giddy, excited. His kisses…
Marjory frowned, annoyed that he held such power over her.
She should revile him.
She should—
She froze, raising a hand to warn Isobel as a magnificent white stag stepped onto the path before them. Huge and with the dignity of great age, he stood perfectly still, watching them with his peaty-brown eyes, his gaze unblinking. Mist swirled and sparkled around him, the strange luminosity leaving no doubt that he was no ordinary creature.
“Laoigh Feigh Ban. The white stag.” Isobel gripped Marjory’s arm, her voice low and reverent. “He’s enchanted, the pet of Grizel and Gorm, my clan’s Makers of Dreams. His name is Rannoch.”
“I know.” Marjory spoke as softly as Isobel. Her heart thundered, blood roaring in her ears. This was the third time she’d seen the fabled stag in recent days and the first time he’d come so close. “Everyone in the Glen of Many Legends knows of Rannoch.”
Isobel edged closer. “He rarely leaves Grizel and Gorm’s high moors. He’ll have a reason—”
Isobel tightened her fingers on Marjory’s arm. “Dear saints!” The stag’s eyes were changing color, turning from deep brown to rich, glowing gold. “Do you see—”
“I’ve seen him do this several times of late, never so close.” Marjory couldn’t look away from the stag’s steady golden stare. Her skin tingled, the fine hairs on her nape lifting. “Until now, I thought I’d imagined him, especially the changing of his eyes.”
“I wonder—” Isobel broke off as the whirling mist brightened and closed in on Rannoch, spinning ever faster around him and then vanishing, taking the enchanted stag back whence he’d come.
The path before them stood empty.
Rannoch was gone.
Marjory could hardly breathe. She turned to face her friend, hoping Isobel’s thoughts weren’t her own. “Gorm’s prophecy, do you remember it?” She saw in Isobel’s eyes that she did. “Your brother James went to the Makers of Dreams just before the trial by combat, hoping they would tell him the outcome of the battle. Gorm gave him a prophecy instead, telling him that—”
“ ‘Peace will be had when innocents pay the price of blood and gold covers the glen,’ ” Isobel finished for her, proving that she, too, knew the ancient’s words by heart. “I haven’t forgotten. I doubt anyone has. Though”—she gave Marjory a smile of encouragement—“many believe the prophecy was fulfilled after the battle. Innocents did die that day. And”—she glanced to where the stag had vanished—“the trial by combat took place in autumn, gold covering the glen.”
“I believed that, too. I no longer do.” Marjory rubbed the back of her neck. Her pulse still raced. “Not since I’ve been seeing Rannoch in the wood. I think the changing of his eye color is a warning. That perhaps the gold in Gorm’s prophecy wasn’t the autumn coloring of the glen, but that he meant”—she could hardly voice her suspicion—“the Vikings who will swarm the glen to seize me if my dream comes to pass.”
Isobel blinked. “Vikings?”
Marjory nodded. “Norsemen are known for their golden hair. Look at
me…” She patted her own hair, well aware of its sunlike brightness. “The dream was so real, Isobel.” She lowered her hand, hoped her friend wouldn’t notice she was trembling. “Then Rannoch’s strange appearances, how he’s fixed me with his odd golden stare. Now you know why I must speak with Hella.” She hoped her voice sounded firmer than it did to her. “I haven’t just been traipsing about in the wood hoping to catch glimpses of Alasdair.”
She had hoped to see him.
But she’d sooner eat a plate of bog moss seasoned with stone dust before she’d admit it.
“Come, it’s growing late,” she declared before Isobel could question her further.
Isobel had a suggestion every time she mentioned Alasdair’s name and, at the moment, she didn’t want to speak of him.
She wished she’d never met him.
Annoyed, she hitched her skirts and started down the path. Her braid had come undone, the wind tangling her hair. She was sure she looked a fright and didn’t much care. All that mattered was reaching Hella’s cottage. A flash of crimson through the trees and a smudge of blue peat smoke against the sky revealed that Skali was close.
The cottage’s red-painted door was unmistakable.
“Not a word to Hella about Rannoch or Alasdair.” Marjory brushed back what was left of her braid, irritated that she’d lost its ribbon. “I don’t want anything distracting her from my questions about her homeland.”
Isobel glanced at her. “Rannoch isn’t a problem. But if I don’t mention Alasdair, Grim will.”
“I think not.” Marjory felt a twinge of guilt. “He’ll be away in the wood for longer than we’ll need to speak with Hella.”
“Oh?” Isobel arched a brow. “What did you do?”
“Nothing. I didn’t have to.” Marjory glanced at her. “Grim loves animals. All creatures great and small, even mythical ones that might not even be there.”
“You think he’ll see Rannoch?”
“I doubt it.” Marjory shivered. “Laoigh Feigh Ban’s message is for me, I’m certain.”
“Then… ahhh.” Comprehension lit Isobel’s eyes. “That’s why you told Grim you thought you saw an an cu glas drinking at the burn.”
Marjory flicked a twig off her sleeve. “When he reaches the burn and the fairy dog isn’t there, he’ll search for the creature. If I know Grim, he’ll keep looking for a while.”
“He did believe you.” Isobel glanced to where the big man had slipped into the birches.
“No harm done.” Marjory turned back to the path to Skali’s door. “This evening, he’ll weave a fine tale of almost tracking down a fairy dog. The men in the hall will hang on his every word, applauding his daring in chasing after such a dangerous beast. Grim will be a hero.” Marjory wouldn’t have sent him on such a goose chase otherwise.
She loved Grim dearly.
But she didn’t need his hulking presence at Skali.
“Come, I believe Hella is home.” Marjory was certain, for a glimmer of candlelight shone through the cottage’s two small windows.
A rowan grew at one side of Skali, lending protection to the cottage. At their approach, one of Hella’s cats leaped off a bench beside the door. Moving fast, the cat streaked past them into the wood.
Hurrying as well, they followed the last bit of path to the cottage. With its rough stone walls and heather thatch, Skali could’ve belonged to another time. Long-ago years when the ancient magic was strong. Many believed such powers lingered in the Glen of Many Legends.
Somewhere in the mist, another of Hella’s cats gave a loud, high-pitched wail.
Hella’s pets were the reason Marjory hadn’t brought along Hercules. He didn’t care for cats and was especially suspicious of the Norsewoman’s. Just now, when another glowing-eyed cat appeared out of the mist to fix them with a long, unblinking stare, she almost understood her dog’s objections to the creatures.
Hella’s cats were a bit uncanny.
“Do you believe the tales that claim Hella has certain powers?” Isobel leaned in, whispering in Marjory’s ear. “The cats—”
“Hella’s cats are her companions, not her familiars. They’re spoiled, not wicked.”
“Her familiars?” Concern pleated Isobel’s brow. “So she does have powers?”
“Pah!” Marjory dismissed the notion. “No more than any woman who bathes her face with Beltane dew and hopes to gain youthful skin all her days. Or”—she eased her arm from Isobel’s grip—“the girls who hide yarrow beneath their pillow, believing they’ll see the face of their future husband in a dream.”
“I’ve done both.” Isobel sounded embarrassed.
Marjory smiled. “There you have it. Hella is no different than any of us, save that she’s borne two great tragedies and earned wisdom from her sorrow. It cannot be easy to be twice widowed.”
“Men do speak of her—”
“To be sure, they do,” Marjory kept her voice low. “Age hasn’t diminished her beauty and her rejection of their suits leaves them no choice but to look for other reasons than the truth.”
“That she still loves her two late husbands too much to desire another?”
“So I believe.”
Isobel sighed. “No man could replace Kendrew either. He—” She broke off when Hella appeared in the doorway.
“Ladies…” Smiling, she came forward with her arms outstretched in welcome. A tall, strongly made woman, her face carried only a few faint lines around her eyes. Her flaxen hair hung in a thick braid to her waist, the strands still bright and silken. She wore a light-gray gown and a silver clasp held a deep-blue shawl about her shoulders. The colors, combined with the fairness of her hair and skin, were reminiscent of a clean Nordic wind blowing across the cold, deep waters of her distant homeland.
A silver Thor’s hammer amulet rested against her breasts, her only adornment.
“You do me honor.” She glanced at Isobel and then looked back to Marjory. “What brings you to Skali on such a chill, misty day?”
Marjory smiled. “Who at Nought doesn’t relish a walk in such weather?”
“True enough.” Hella ushered them through her doorway, into the cozy warmth of her cottage. “Yet something tells me there’s another reason?”
“You are perceptive as always.” Marjory spoke true. “But it is aye a pleasure to visit you at Skali.”
And it was.
In keeping with her home’s name, Hella had arranged cushioned benches around the cottage’s main room. Peats glowed on the central hearth and the stone-flagged floor was well-swept and spotless. Hella’s sturdy oaken table proved equally clean, its surface scrubbed and gleaming. Two small chairs and a low, three-legged stool offered further seating, while the quiet smoldering of the peat fire and the wind through the thatch lent to the coziness.
Bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling rafters. And a string of plump, golden herring stretched across one wall, the fish drying in the earthy-sweet haze of peat smoke that filled the little room.
Marjory jerked her gaze from the herring, her heart giving a sharp lurch at the proof that Alasdair had been there.
Isobel moved to the fire to warm her hands. “M’mmm…” She sighed appreciatively. “Such lovely herring, Hella. Wherever did you fetch them?”
Marjory drew a tight breath, felt heat sweep her nape.
For two pins, she’d look murder at Isobel.
Instead, she kept her gaze on one of Hella’s cats, a small gray tabby, sleeping on a window ledge. Two other cats, one entirely black and the other tri-colored, played with a heather sprig in a corner.
They were a welcome distraction.
Even so, Hella’s enthusiastic response reached her. “The herring are fine, aren’t they? The MacDonald chieftain brought them by a while ago, a gift from one of his clanswomen for an herbal concoction I made for her.”
“How was the MacDonald?” Isobel wriggled her fingers in the fragrant smoke rising from the peats. “Is he well?”
“Better than I’
ve ever seen him.” The admiration in Hella’s voice made Marjory grit her teeth. “He’s a bonnie man. And he’s a good one to come all this way to bring provender to my humble door.”
Marjory tightened her fists against her skirts.
Any more praise for the lout and she wouldn’t be able to breathe.
“I’ve heard he declined Laird MacKinnon’s bid for his daughter’s hand in marriage.” Hella tsked, wonderingly. “Lady Coira is said to be a beauty. Her dowry would’ve been immense. I was surprised he rejected the offer.”
“Perhaps he desires someone else?” Isobel’s dark gaze slid to Marjory.
“I’ve wondered.” Hella lifted a hand, tapping her chin with a finger. “I’ve seen the fairest maids vie for his attention, yet he pays them scarce heed. I suspect his heart is given. Perhaps to someone he met when he was away so long?”
Marjory stiffened, pretending not to hear.
She did feel a pang, standing in the Norsewoman’s cottage, listening to her speak of Alasdair.
More than once, she’d wished she could live as Hella did at Skali.
Her day’s work would have been harder. She’d have faced constant toil that left a woman with reddened, calloused hands and an aching back.
But life would’ve been so much easier.
Her heart, and her hand in marriage, hers alone to give as she chose. Of course, even then she’d find happiness only if Alasdair happened to be a shepherd and not chieftain of an enemy clan.
No one would have objected to their union.
They could have lived in peace, caring for the land, raising strong, strapping sons and bonnie daughters, and enjoying evening songs by their hearth fire. And when the embers died, they’d turn into each other’s arms and spend the long dark hours of the night loving.
Although…
Even some shepherds were known to be notorious charmers.
Bold, laughing-eyed men who kissed any woman who happened across their path, simply because they could.
The image struck her like a slap in the face, sending the homey idyll she’d envisioned spinning away.
Seduction Of A Highland Warrior Page 20
