A rogue was a rogue, whatever his station.
And Alasdair was the worst of such blackguards.
“Come, you must be hungry.” Hella’s softly accented voice startled her.
Marjory blinked, shamed to see that the older woman stood before her with a tray of freshly baked oatcakes and cheese. She was also waiting for Marjory to take the chair she’d drawn closer to the fire.
Isobel was already seated on one of the benches, sipping a cup of ale. Hella’s tri-colored cat had jumped up beside her, purring for attention.
“I made the oatcakes just a while ago.” Hella glanced to where another batch baked on a griddle above the fire. A bubbling kettle of savory stew hung there as well, the tempting aroma filling the air.
Hella offered the oatcakes again. “I know you have a good appetite. And”—she beamed—“the MacDonald even praised them. Wasn’t he kind?”
Marjory nearly choked.
But she took one of the oatcakes as she settled herself on the chair. She didn’t want to offend her friend. Hella’s oatcakes truly were the best in the land.
Unfortunately, eating was the last thing on her mind.
Rich auburn hair and piercing blue eyes invaded her thoughts, as did Alasdair’s powerfully muscled shoulders and his strong arms that could pull her so tightly against him. The subtle but heady scent of the sea that clung to him, dashed with the briskness of cold clean air. His hands holding her face as he kissed her, long, deep, and intoxicating.
Marjory shifted on the chair, aware of her skin flushing, the heat sluicing her veins. She felt breathless, her chest tightening with a painful, burning ache that was beyond maddening.
So she reached for another oatcake, carefully avoiding Isobel’s knowing stare and Hella’s searching one. Unseen eyes watched her, too. A haughty black gaze that pinned her from the realm of dreams as the Saracen beauty rose in her mind, her cold face blotting all else.
“You’re shivering.” Hella swept behind a plaid curtain where Marjory knew she slept upon a down-stuffed pallet. Returning as quickly, she slid a soft woolen shawl around Marjory’s shoulders. “Now, my lady, tell me why you’re really here,” she urged, taking the chair across the fire from Marjory’s.
“She had a dream.” Isobel leaned forward, speaking earnestly. “We think you can help her find answers to what she saw.”
“What kind of dream?” Hella turned to Marjory.
“I saw a Viking fire burial.” Marjory smoothed her skirt, refusing to acknowledge the bile rising in her throat.
Instead, she sat straighter on the rough-hewn chair, her gaze steady on the Norsewoman as she described the dream. The words flowed, coming as if from true memory, as she recalled the hard-featured Viking woman who’d taunted her and tried to tip a bitter-tasting brew past her lips. She also spoke of the other women, how they’d appeared as a group to crowd and jostle her, jeering the while. She shivered when remembering Lady Sarina, the cold-eyed Saracen.
She left out no detail, however small. She told of the huge, bearded spearmen who’d advanced on her so menacingly, beating their spear shafts against their shields as the bright, leaping flames of burning burial ships colored the sky behind them.
So slowly, they’d come for her, each man’s harsh, grim-set face revealing his deadly intent.
Vaguely, Marjory noted that one of Hella’s cats was weaving in and out of her chair’s legs, brushing against her, purring.
She reached down to stroke his back, taking comfort in his silken warmth as she shared the dream’s final scenes. How the spearmen formed a double ceremonial line so the women could poke and prod her past them, leading her to a Viking lord’s funerary pyre.
A great dragonship, dressed with scaffolding to hide the bonfires beneath its hull.
Death fires that would be lit as soon as she’d joined the dead Norse warlord she was meant to accompany into the Otherworld.
Somehow she’d finished the small cup of heather ale Hella had poured for her. And with the grace that Marjory so admired, the older woman had moved quietly to her side and now took the cup from her hands, setting it on the little oaken table beside her.
“I must know”—Hella smoothed Marjory’s hair back from her brow and rested a hand on her shoulder—“did you enter the flaming dragonship?”
“Nae, praise be.” Marjory couldn’t keep the relief from her voice. “A Highland warrior appeared on the strand, arriving out of nowhere. He looked so fierce, battle ready in all his war finery, fury rolling off him. He drew his sword and rammed the blade into the sand. Then he stared round, glaring at my tormentors.”
Marjory ignored the look Isobel shot her, pinning her friend with a warning glance of her own.
She wasn’t about to tell Hella that Alasdair was the hero in her dream.
“This Highlander rescued you?” Hella slid a disturbingly knowing look at Isobel.
“He did.” Marjory brushed oatcake crumbs off her knees, pretending she hadn’t caught the women’s exchanged glances.
She had the most uncomfortable feeling that Hella knew the dream hero was Alasdair.
Marjory cleared her throat, rushing on before Hella could ask her. “One of the Norsemen challenged the Highlander and he grabbed the man’s spear, leveling it at them all. He warned them not to harm me. I don’t know how he came there.”
“He came from your heart, dear one.” Hella tucked a strand of hair behind Marjory’s ear. “A hero to brave wild seas and wind, even defy hard-fighting Norsemen to champion you. He will be the man destined for you.”
Marjory bit her tongue rather than say something she’d surely regret. All Alasdair would do to her heart, if she allowed, was stomp on it.
She hardened her jaw, pushing him from her mind.
Fortunately, Hella didn’t seem to notice her discomfort.
“We Norse have a saying and it is true.” Hella stepped back, looking down at her fondly. “Fate is inexorable, my dear.”
“I told her the same.” Isobel folded her hands in her lap, looking pleased. “Such a hero would tear apart a mountain to keep his lady safe.”
Marjory stiffened. “He wasn’t really there. It was a dream.”
Hella shook her head. “As a Nought Mackintosh, you have enough Nordic blood in your veins to know that dreams are where our souls wander paths that once were, or where we will someday find ourselves walking.”
Marjory inhaled deeply, wishing Hella hadn’t reminded her of what she knew so well.
What a shame the man she knew was her destiny was a greater scoundrel than her brother.
“Did the Highland warrior carry you away with him?” Hella returned to her seat, lifting the cat who had claimed it onto her lap. “He saved you?”
“He disappeared, vanishing as if he hadn’t been there at all.” Marjory wasn’t surprised by that part of the dream. “I fought the women holding me. I even tossed the brew they wanted me to drink into their faces. But there were so many of them. They fell upon me from all sides, dragging me to the burning ship, a great dragonship that the men had set alight with torches.
“I felt the flames, even choked on the whirling soot and ash. And then”—she tamped down a shudder, took a grateful sip of ale—“the banging of my window shutter wakened me. It was raining hard, a cold, wet wind gusting into my bedchamber. And yet…”
She glanced at Isobel, appreciative of her friend’s nod of encouragement. “When I went to close the shutters, my foot knocked a small metal cup like the one in my dream. The beaker of some foul-smelling brew that the first woman tried to force me to drink, but—”
“When she looked again”—Isobel leaned forward, finishing for her—“it was only one of Hercules’s wooden dog toys. That would’ve been the end of it, but Marjory’s room smelled faintly of smoke. And not from the smoored peats on her hearth but the acrid reek of burning wood and things best not mentioned in gentle company.”
“The dream and everything you experienced on waking was that vivid?” He
lla paused in taking a sip of her ale.
“So it was.” Marjory nodded.
Hella’s brow furrowed. “You are afraid this will come to pass?”
“I’m concerned, aye.” Marjory stood, began pacing the small, bench-lined room.
Terrified was a better description, but pride wouldn’t allow her to acknowledge the fear.
“I wish I hadn’t been away so much these last days.” Hella set down her ale cup, her gaze flicking to the clusters of herbs hanging above them. “Some of the glen women pay well for certain cures. It was Maili, the laundress at Blackshore, who sent the MacDonald here with herring for me. I’d given Maili a salve to soften her hands. And Beathag, the cook’s wife over at Castle Haven”—she flashed a look at Isobel when she mentioned her home—“sent word that she needed my special tincture for a toothache.”
Marjory heard only one word.
Blackshore.
She couldn’t allow Isobel to use Hella’s mention of Alasdair’s stronghold to bring up his name again.
The determined glint in Isobel’s eyes said she was about to.
“Hella…” Marjory didn’t give her the chance. “I’ve been wondering about your northern homeland.”
Hella twisted around to look at her. “What do you want to know?”
Marjory stopped as far as possible from the string of MacDonald herrings. She took a deep breath. “Are there Saracen women in Norway?”
“Slaves?” Hella blinked. “To be sure, there are some. My people have always traveled far and wide, often taking strong children and young, beautiful girls as captives to be sold or traded. See here…” She lifted the plaid curtain to her sleeping corner again, disappearing to return with a length of shining silver coins. “This is a belt-chain made of dirhams, Arab coins from distant lands beyond the known horizon. My first husband, Lars, crafted the belt for me not long after we wed. He was a trader and often spoke of the mysteries of the strange places he visited.”
She set the belt on the table and the silver coins gleamed red in the firelight. “It’s very fine, isn’t it?” A soft smile curved Hella’s lips as she looked down at the gift. “Lars spoke of the beauty of the women in those lands. He said they smelled of exotic spices and their silky black hair shone like moonlight on a deep, dark sea. Their eyes”—she shrugged, lifting her hands—“he swore a man could sink into their depths, so rich and beguiling were they. Indeed, if I hadn’t known how much he loved me, I would’ve fretted each time he set sail.” Her face brightened then, her smile deepening. “If I’m honest, worry over those dusky-skinned lovelies was the reason I took to accompanying him on many of his journeys.”
“I wouldn’t want Kendrew around such females either.” Isobel gave a delicate shudder.
Marjory resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Her brother didn’t know any women except Isobel existed. A more besotted man didn’t walk the earth.
Alasdair…
Marjory drew a tight breath, an unpleasant rush of heat sweeping her. How could she have given her heart to a man who was drawn to women as easily as bees swarmed to a honey hive? Annoyance shot through her and she was sure her cheeks were glowing.
Blessedly, if Isobel or Hella noticed, they didn’t say anything.
“Any woman would have good reason to keep her man from Saracen females.” Hella was nodding at Isobel. “They are known seductresses. They’re said to move in ways that steal a man’s reason.”
Marjory cleared her throat. “Do great Norse lords ever marry such women?”
Hella shrugged. “Such men can do as they please. If a slave girl was exceptionally attractive…” She let the words trail off, reaching to pet the cat that chose that moment to lean against her ankle.
Marjory forced herself to speak calmly. “Have you ever heard of Lady Sarina, a Saracen beauty wed to an aging Viking warlord named Rorik the Generous?”
“Not that I recall. Although”—Hella began tapping her chin—“there was a popular young fighter named Rorik the Bold who was known for his love of dark-haired, dusky-skinned slave girls.”
Marjory’s mind raced. “Are you sure he wasn’t called ‘the Generous’?”
“Nae, I would have remembered.” Hella went to the door, opening it for one of her cats who’d been crying to go out. “He was Rorik the Bold. Many were the hearts he broke because he wouldn’t look at any of us.” She turned back to the room, lifting her flaxen braid. “He didn’t care for our sun-colored hair and blue eyes. Only dark beauties would do.” She let her braid fall, her smile wistful. “He sampled every slave girl who landed on our shores. Loving them as he did, he could well have made one his wife in later years.”
“Could his name have also changed in age?” Marjory had to know.
Hella considered. “If he did something truly remarkable, perhaps. A deed his men might wish to honor with a more appropriate by-name.”
Marjory nodded, not caring for the answer.
Something told her Rorik the Bold had become Rorik the Generous, the dead Viking warlord from her dream.
Lady Sarina remained a puzzle.
Until a short while later, when Marjory and Isobel left Skali Cottage to wait by the path for Grim’s return from chasing fairy dogs.
“By the gods, Isobel. I know why Hella hadn’t heard of Lady Sarina.” Marjory rushed the words before the tightness in her chest could rise to close her throat. “Hella has been here for years. She wouldn’t know if Rorik Whoever-He-Was took a Saracen bride.”
Isobel blanched. “That could be so.”
“I fear it is.” Marjory took a deep breath, closing her eyes.
“That isn’t all you should worry about.” Isobel gripped her elbow, squeezing.
Marjory snapped open her eyes, seeing at once why Isobel sounded so concerned.
Deep in the wood ahead of them, the mist had thinned just enough to reveal a group of horsemen. Big, well-armed warriors in plaid and steel and leather, they thundered through the trees as if bent on murder.
Alasdair led them.
And Marjory had a good idea who’d incurred their wrath.
“They’re after Grim.” She grabbed Isobel’s hand and started running after the horses.
“Grim can take care of himself,” Isobel said, panting beside her. “It’s you I’m worried about.”
“Me?” Marjory flashed a look at her.
Isobel pressed a hand to her side as they dashed along the path. “No man wears a look that dark unless a woman put it there.”
“Indeed.” Marjory almost stumbled.
“Love does that to a person.” Isobel had the nerve to laugh. At least, she gave a gasp that could be taken for laughter.
Marjory just kept running.
If Alasdair was in a temper—and he’d looked to be in a fine one—his anger would have nothing to do with her, she was sure.
But her heart was hopeful.
If she could stir him to fury, she could also inflame his passion.
Seduce him. And she’d do so properly this time.
Such a gain was only half the battle, yet it’d bring her much closer to victory.
How sad she was no longer sure she wanted to win.
Chapter Thirteen
All Mackintoshes are mad men.”
Alasdair muttered the slur as he spurred his horse through the birchwood, his disbelieving gaze on Grim. He rode as fast as he dared, plunging through the thick-growing trees. His men followed close behind, a tightly packed group who surely thought his wits had left him.
Perhaps they were right.
Why else would he have reined round so abruptly to pound after Grim when they’d spied the big-bearded Mackintosh warrior striding along a burnside, bending low to peer into bushes and behind trees.
Grim’s follies were his own.
It was nothing to Alasdair if the man was feebleminded.
He should slew his horse about and lead his men back home to Blackshore before Grim noticed them barreling down upon him.
But he rode on.
A fury such as he’d seldom known raged inside him and he wouldn’t have any peace until he’d addressed the matter, and swiftly.
Norn and Lady Isobel were who-knew-where in the wood, unescorted. Dark clouds filled the sky and a light rain was beginning to fall. And it was cold, the mist thickening by the minute.
Yet Grim was poking about the burn as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
The man was addled. Not worthy of protecting a louse in his beard.
Alasdair might kill him.
Bending low to the ground as the bastard was, it wouldn’t take more than one swing of Mist-Chaser to lop off his irresponsible head.
A snarl rising in his throat, Alasdair whipped out his sword.
His horse shot forward in a burst of speed, the well-trained beast sensing Alasdair’s need for blood.
Grim straightened as Alasdair thundered up, reining close. “Still about, brine drinker?” Grim didn’t flinch, even thrust out his jaw, inviting a blow. “Did you no’ hear my lady tell you to be away from here?”
“I go where I please.” Alasdair leaped down from his horse before the big man could blink. Still holding his sword, he went toe to toe with Grim. “Where is she?”
“Nowhere that concerns you.” Grim narrowed his odd smoke-colored eyes and swelled his massive chest.
Alasdair saw red. “Tell me, you bastard.”
Grim just glowered at him.
“Curse you!” Alasdair rammed his sword into the ground and plowed his fist into Grim’s face, sending him reeling. Staggering, Grim wheeled his arms, catching himself before he tumbled backward into the burn.
Some of Alasdair’s men laughed.
Surprisingly, so did Grim.
Looking almost pleased, he rubbed his bearded jaw as he looked round at Alasdair and his mounted warriors.
“That was a fine blow.” Grim lowered his hand, shaking his head at the blood on his fingers. “It’s been a while since anyone dared.”
Alasdair didn’t return the lout’s low chuckle. “I could’ve taken your head off.” He glared at Grim, his hands on Mist-Chaser’s still-vibrating hilt. “Be glad I’ll no’ strike a man with his back to me.”
Seduction Of A Highland Warrior Page 21
