He didn’t say that his guardsman swore he saw a long-necked humpbacked sea serpent, steam blowing from the creature’s nostrils.
Alasdair knew a black-painted coracle, a round cockleshell of a two-manned boat, could be mistaken for such a beast on a cold, dark-misted night. The steam would’ve been the luminescence of spume, stirred by the dipping of oars into the water.
In his mind, Alasdair saw his great-uncle, Malcolm, sitting ramrod straight on his stool in Alasdair’s painted solar. The truth, lad, varies depending on the direction of a man’s viewpoint, the aged warrior loved to say. Ne’er forget that and you’ll do well in life.
It was a lesson Alasdair had taken to heart.
Steam-spewing sea beasties weren’t swimming in Loch Moidart.
But his man had seen something.
Grim didn’t turn a hair. “Did you see the coracle?”
“My man’s word sufficed.”
“I’ll tell Kendrew.” Grim’s tone hinted at what he’d say.
He’d make Alasdair sound like a raving madman.
Alasdair nodded curtly. He didn’t care.
He did have another point. “It would be like him to send a paid crew to Blackshore, stirring trouble, hoping to goad me into a sea fight.”
Grim snorted. “We have better to do at Nought than pull such pranks.”
As if the heavens agreed, thunder cracked closer than before and a gust of wind shook the trees, bringing a flurry of cold, spitting rain.
“Come, ladies.” Grim took both women by their elbows and began steering them away. “We’ll wait out the storm at Skali. Hella will—”
“Nae, we must return or Kendrew will be furious.” Isobel dug in her heels, balking. “He thinks we’re in the ladies’ solar, working on new wall hangings for the great hall.”
“If we hurry, we can be back before he notices.” Marjory turned, already making for the trees.
Alasdair frowned as Grim and Isobel hastened after her. They disappeared into the wood, thick mist hiding them like an eager conspirator.
“Wait!” Alasdair strode forward, catching them in several swift strides. “I have horses. My men and I will take you back to Nought. We’ll have you there before the worst of the storm breaks.” He ignored Grim, looking only at the women. “Kendrew won’t know you’ve been away.”
Grim’s eyes took on a stubborn glint. “I think not—”
“An excellent idea.” Isobel took his side, gracefully disentangling herself from Grim’s hold on her arm. She started forward, smiling. “We shall be in your debt.”
“You don’t have extra horses.” Marjory didn’t move.
Alasdair smiled. “Grim can ride in the herring cart with Geordie. I’ve rigged an oiled sailcloth to cover the cart for Geordie. The brine smell might be a bit sharp, but they’ll be comfortable enough.”
Grim said nothing.
He was looking at Alasdair as if he’d grown two heads and a tail.
“You, Lady Isobel, can ride with my cousin Ewan.” Alasdair felt a stone fall from his heart when she beamed, her gaze lighting on Ewan as the lad swung down from his horse and made her a bow.
“I shall be pleased.” She hitched her skirts and went to join Ewan, no doubt hurrying before Grim or Marjory could argue with her.
“That leaves me.” Marjory turned a cool blue gaze upon him.
“She stays with me.” Grim stepped between them. “Or”—he lifted his hands, flexing his fingers—“are you thinking otherwise?”
“No’ at all.” Alasdair pushed past him and swept Marjory into his arms. “The matter’s settled. She rides with me.”
Grim roared and blocked his path. “I’ll no’ allow it.”
Alasdair stepped around him, carrying Marjory across the little clearing. His men were already riding forward, Ewan leading his horse. Lady Isobel was mounted behind him and Alasdair would’ve sworn she winked at him as they rode closer.
Behind him, Grim muttered curses.
But after tossing one last furious glance at Alasdair, he swung himself into the herring cart with Geordie, quickly pulling the oiled sailcloth into place as if to blot the view of Alasdair and his men.
It was then that Isobel slipped from Ewan’s horse, falling hard onto the mossy ground.
“Owwww!” She rolled onto her side, clutching one ankle. She made no attempt to stand, her dark eyes round and full of pain. “I’ve hurt my foot,” she cried, not looking at Alasdair or Marjory.
Alasdair did glance at Marjory, not surprised to see her frowning.
Isobel wasn’t injured, he was certain.
But something was amiss.
Before he could figure out what, Grim leaped from the cart and ran over to Isobel.
“My lady—dinnae move!” The big man knelt beside her, sliding an arm beneath her shoulders. She turned toward him, pressing her face against his neck, moaning pitiably. “Be still,” Grim advised again, this time reaching for her hem. “Let me see your ankle.”
“No-o-o!” She grabbed his hand, shoving it aside. “Don’t touch it, please!”
“Lady, you can ride in the cart. But first you must let us see—” Alasdair started forward only to stop when he caught a glimpse of Isobel’s face.
She was smiling.
There could be no mistaking.
“I don’t think I could stand the jarring.” Isobel’s voice lifted, the words muffled because she spoke against Grim’s shoulder. “I’d rather stay a while at Hella’s.” That was much clearer. “Grim can carry me there.”
“I will, my lady,” Grim quickly agreed.
But he threw a look at Marjory, his bearded face suspicious. “You should return with us to Skali, lady. You cannot ride on with MacDonald—”
“Oh, but she must.” Isobel spoke without lifting her head. “If she reaches Nought swiftly enough, she can join Kendrew in the hall at supper, telling him I’m feeling poorly and have retired early. He aye comes abovestairs late, after making his rounds of the castle. By then”—she paused and Alasdair would’ve sworn she was struggling against laughter—“Grim and I can be back at Nought and—”
“No one will be the wiser,” Marjory finished for her.
“It’s for the best.” Isobel threw them a glance, not looking at all pained.
Alasdair was mightily so.
He now knew what exactly had bothered him when Isobel’s fall put a frown rather than worry on Marjory’s face.
Lady Isobel hadn’t slipped from Ewan’s horse at all. She’d staged the fall. And there could be only one reason she’d done so.
She wanted to give Marjory time alone with him.
And—his lips twitched, his mind racing—he intended to take full advantage.
Far be it from him to disappoint a lady.
Hours later, another proud MacDonald stood tall and straight at the edge of Blackshore’s most rugged headland, the sheer cliffs known as Drangar Point. It was because the promontory bore his name that Drangar gave his best efforts to hover erect and not let the wind make a mockery of his once-intimidating posture.
It helped that the night had turned so still.
Fine silver light spilled down across the sea each time the moon slid from behind the clouds. And hardly a ripple broke the water’s black, glassy surface. A tenuous mist hid the horizon and thicker fog curled around the Warrior Stones, the twin monoliths that speared heavenward only a few paces from where he hovered.
Drangar glanced at the stones, so still and cold. Even the altar stone, toppled onto the grass these long centuries, appeared to be holding its breath, waiting. Runes and lichens covered the stones, aged markings as silent as the mist-shrouded night.
Once, in the distant past when he’d carved the runes, he’d believed their magic would guard Blackshore and Clan Donald for all his days and beyond.
Now, he suspected his vanity might’ve angered the Old Ones.
The stones were sacred before he’d touched them, after all.
His runes probabl
y weren’t needed.
Yet the gods had given him a gift that required safekeeping. At the time, it never crossed his mind that he’d already possessed something so precious that its worth was immeasurable. He’d simply accepted the gods’ benefice.
Then, as he should have known, he’d paid the price.
Drangar stood straighter, adjusted the fall of his fine black cloak.
How pathetic that just touching the soft woolen folds hurt him more than if someone thrust a dagger into his heart.
Yet he wore the cloak always.
A reminder of all he’d lost.
How over the years, he’d learned what truly mattered in life. Such as taking pleasure in the small joys and accomplishments, and that it wasn’t victory that made a man great but the courage to step upon the road that would take him there.
He frowned, wishing one road was still open to him.
But just as in their earthly lives, ghosts made their own paths. And the woman he’d loved then, and still loved now, had barred the way to her heart.
He couldn’t reach her.
Even as he’d failed to save her when they’d lived. He tried, pounding across the strand and plunging into the cold, tossing sea, swimming out to the tidal rocks that had stolen the life from his love.
All his power and might availed nothing.
And in the end, only they remained.
He’d been colder, his earth life more empty than these long years beyond the grave.
So he took a deep breath—or did as if—and stood as tall and proudly as he could, grateful for the things he had achieved.
He also thanked the gods for causing the wind to drop.
Maintaining his dignity proved easier when he wasn’t buffeted about as if he possessed less substance than a wisp of bog cotton.
How sad that the description fit.
Yet he had every right to keep his head lifted. Despite his limitations, he’d managed to attract the young chief’s attention at the Dreagan’s Claw. He might not have the solidness he’d once kept so hard-muscled and battle-ready, but his wits hadn’t deserted him. Some things stayed with a man, even in the Otherworld.
Love didn’t leave a man either, as well he knew.
Or the sorrows that could still weigh down on a man’s shoulders, making his heart ache with a fierceness to rival any living man’s tragedies.
If young Alasdair was wiser than he’d been, he’d be spared such heartache.
Drangar hoped it would be so.
Perhaps he should even pay a call to Blackshore and do what he could to talk sense into the lad. To be sure, he wouldn’t be able to sit him down in his painted solar and lecture him as he’d like to do.
But he still had ways.
Unfortunately, just as he made to wish himself into Alasdair’s presence, his ever-sharp eyes caught a glimmer on the water that wasn’t moonglow.
His warrior instincts snapping alert, Drangar peered out across the sea to where a faint reddish glow in the sky revealed the night lanterns of a moored ship. A high dragon-headed prow rose black against the darkness, revealing the ship’s Nordic origin.
Whoever the Vikings were, they felt safe enough to light a fire.
Men so bold meant trouble.
Drangar frowned, forgetting his own cares. Almost, he wished himself out across the open water so that he could see the men for himself. Take his measure of their strengths and weaknesses, make a battle plan.
Only one thing held him back…
His fine black mantle.
Even after so many years, he hadn’t mastered how to whoosh across great distances without his cloak slipping from his shoulders. Its fine Celtic clasp, so secure in life, was now just as insubstantial as he was.
Once, while attempting to whisk across a patch of marshland, the cloak had fallen into a bog.
It’d taken him forever to retrieve it, and twice as long to clean the hand-spun wool.
Had anyone other than his beloved Seona crafted the cloak for him, he’d risk crossing the waves to reach the moored dragonship.
But if he lost his mantle to the sea…
It was all he had left of her.
The wife he’d hurt so badly.
And who’d refused to believe that he regretted his one-time dalliance with a Selkie maid. And that all the comeliest seal women of the seas could have swam ashore and he’d have walked past them all, seeing, desiring—and loving—only his precious wife, Seona.
Instead, she’d reviled him, despising him so fiercely that she’d taken her life.
The truth of it was he’d killed her.
It was a sorrow he’d borne for eternity.
A regret he could never undo.
And so he did what he could and stood guard on the cliffs, leaving the Vikings to Alasdair. Sometimes a man’s greatest moments came when he was pressed against a wall.
That, too, Drangar had learned.
If he’d failed at his own hour of reckoning, when he’d realized where Seona was and what she intended, he knew Alasdair would triumph.
He wouldn’t arrive too late, unable to prevent tragedy.
Love was strength.
And even if the lad didn’t yet know it, the Mackintosh lass loved him enough to see him through greater battles than any Vikings could pitch.
What a shame his own lady hadn’t loved him with equal fervor.
How he wished she had.
Chapter Fourteen
With the cold wind buffeting them, Alasdair and his men thundered across Nought’s most bleak and empty bounds. Marjory shared Alasdair’s horse, her arms wrapped tightly around him, her face pressed to his plaid-draped shoulder. He spurred his horse to great speed, his riding style bold and aggressive. As if he owned these wild, windblown lands and not her family, as they’d done for centuries.
“Please, slow down! This is no place to ride like a demon.” Marjory lifted her head, raising her voice above the wind so he’d hear her.
If he did, he gave no sign.
He did send his horse sailing over a rushing burn.
“You’re crazed.” Marjory hissed the words between her teeth.
“Aye, that I am!” he called over his shoulder, proving he had heard her.
But he said no more.
And rather than slow his beast, he gave the animal his head, letting him careen with them across ground many at Nought swore had been hewn by the devil’s own hand. Marjory curled her own hands tightly around Alasdair’s sword belt. Her fingers brushed the rock-hard muscles of his abdomen, an intimacy that sent warmth spooling through her belly. But instead of sighing with pleasure, as well she could, she tried to ignore the melting deliciousness. The tingles rippling so sweetly across her most intimate places.
She’d seen Alasdair’s face when he’d glanced back at her.
His expression was hard and fierce. Never had she seen him look so angry.
He clearly couldn’t wait to reach Nought, to be rid of her.
Why else would he ride at such breakneck speed?
Marjory blinked, her eyes stinging from the cold wind. Her hair streamed out behind her, a skein of tangles, she was sure. And still they barreled on. Sheer stone walls, Nought’s fiercest peaks, edged the narrow vale they were racing through, the granite heights seeming to glower down at them. Jumbles of rocks were everywhere, the broken ground treacherous, while the air was thick with the wet smell of imminent rain. More threatening was the rigidness of Alasdair’s back, the stark displeasure pouring off him.
Whatever had sizzled and burned between them in the clearing was gone.
He’d withdrawn from her, his stony silence chilling her more than the rain beginning to spit down at them from the dark and angry sky.
Stung and confused, Marjory clung to him, refusing to allow pride to make her loosen her grip on his belt. Unlike Isobel, she wasn’t an expert horsewoman. And she had no wish to fall to the rocky ground.
She wanted to live for another day.
If only to
look Alasdair in the eye, keep her chin lifted, and show him he couldn’t hurt her.
How sad that just a short while ago she’d believed everything would be right with them.
She’d felt so close to triumph.
Even though she’d not dared to show it, hope had bloomed, her heart soaring. She’d seduce him properly this time, if not with skill then with all the passion burning inside her. And he’d succumb, falling in love with her at last, never again desiring the other women who so easily caught his eye. He’d be hers alone.
And she’d be his.
Her pact with Catriona and Isobel would be fulfilled, her heart even more joyous.
Truth was she’d want Alasdair even if he was a sheepherder and dwelled in a humble cottage like Skali.
Nothing would matter except their love, which would burn brighter than all the stars in the night sky, their passion dimming the sun.
She’d been so certain. At the clearing, she’d felt the truth so strongly. Her heart had swelled, her spirits lifting. Fortune was hers, Isobel’s trick fall paving the way for her. The rain would do the rest, demanding a halt.
Now…
She tightened her grip on Alasdair’s belt, bit her lip against the hot pain in her throat. Angry, she swallowed against the thickness rising there.
Mackintoshes didn’t cry.
But what a fool she’d been!
Riding away with Alasdair had shown her the real truth. He’d gone more distant with each heather mile they crossed. Her hopes crumbled, her budding excitement disappearing like a snuffed candle. Frustration bit deep, her hard-won confidence fleeing.
Not about to let him know, she forced herself to sit as stiffly as he did. To pretend her arms weren’t wrapped snug about the man she loved so dearly, and wanted so badly. She ached for him with primal need, the woman in her not caring about pride. She’d have given him her virtue. She’d have done so gladly, if this ill-starred race across Nought hadn’t revealed his indifference.
But all wasn’t lost.
Soon they’d reach her home. She could walk away in dignity, not looking back.
Seduction Of A Highland Warrior Page 23
