Seduction Of A Highland Warrior

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  Forgetting the dreams he’d shattered.

  Until then, she’d return his cold silence and not think of anything else.

  About the same time, but far out to sea, a Viking dragonship rode the night at anchor. The glow of an oil lamp illuminated the ship’s tall, serpent-headed prow and the large square sail was furled. A heavy iron-and-stone anchor secured the twenty-oared warship against the tide.

  Here, so distant from the far peaks of Nought, the night was still. Nothing stirred except the water along the hull and the creaking timbers. What wind there’d been had died hours ago and the sea shone like polished black glass. Darkness hid the moon, though now and then its wan light slipped through the clouds to silver the coastline where, even on such a windless night, waves broke white against the rocks.

  Some might say the Glen of Many Legends was showing its teeth.

  A Viking would laugh and smash those teeth, proving that bold men with swords and axes wouldn’t be stopped by Highland bravura.

  Plenty of Norse fighting men crowded the dragonship Storm-Rider. Fearless men with good, strong faces that folk of weaker blood might liken to the devil’s own spawn.

  The shipmaster, Ivar Ironstorm, had handpicked each oarsman. He’d chosen them for their brute strength and daring. Their willingness to swear him allegiance was also of great importance. Almost as crucial as the number of coins in the two heavy leather sacks at his feet just now. Wealth he’d been counting until Troll, his one-eyed oarsman, ruined his concentration by belching.

  A fastidious man, Ivar was offended by crudeness.

  Even if their night’s meal of old bread, cheese, and ale wasn’t the sumptuous fare Ivar preferred, he expected his men to eat like the lords he’d make them once his aging overlord succumbed to his ailments and Ivar reaped the riches he so rightly deserved.

  Troll might not live to receive his share.

  His mood souring, Ivar stood and left the sheltered steering platform where he’d been enjoying the cold weight of silver in his palms.

  “Troll!” He strode down the aisle between the rowing benches, his hand unfastening his leather clout from his sword belt.

  “You belched.” He struck Troll hard in the face with the switch. The blow would have the lout biting his tongue before he’d emit another such peace-stealing noise into an otherwise quiet night.

  “I didn’t.” Troll’s good eye glittered with rebellion and he leaped to his feet, thrusting a thick arm toward the darkened coast. “I said, look there, I did. There was a glow on the cliffs by Drangar Point. A bright flare, it was, as if from a balefire.

  “Could be the MacDonalds have spotted us and are lighting fires in warning.” Troll glanced round at the other oarsmen as if hoping they’d concur.

  Snores or blank stares answered him.

  Ivar tapped the clout slowly against his thigh. “Blackshore’s coast is dark. There’s not a glimmer of light there. You’re lying.” His voice took on a dangerous softness. “Aren’t you?”

  “I saw the light, too.” Bors, who sprawled near a pile of oilcloth-covered weapons, pushed up on his elbow to defend his friend. “It grew and spread along the cliff top. I saw it plain as day. Could be there was even a man on the cliffs.” Bors touched the hammer amulet at his neck, shuddering visibly. “A tall man in a dark cloak, he was. I saw his shadow lit by the glow, even from this distance.” He curled his fingers around his talisman, gripping tightly. “He was looking out to sea, staring right at me.”

  “You were asleep.” Ivar turned a stern eye on him. He took a step closer, aware that the light from the ship’s lantern would glint off his arm rings and give his pale, unbound hair a godlike sheen. Many said he had the looks of Thor and he enjoyed using the likeness to keep his men respectful. “If you don’t wish to sleep forever, think hard before you lie to me.”

  All down the ship, men swiveled their heads, watching the exchange.

  Ivar folded his arms, pleased by their interest. “Well?”

  Bors slid a regretful look at Troll.

  He said no more.

  Ivar nodded. He also made a silent note to lose both Troll and Bors in the sea before they sailed back home to his beloved Trondelag in Norway. A fine place of wild, rolling seas and cold winds where mountains and rivers of ice were kissed by snow that fell from clean, white skies. The Trondelag was also where he’d soon rule supreme, the most alluring temptress in the land at his side by day and in his bed at night.

  Lady Sarina.

  His overlord’s wife. And Ivar’s lover.

  Ivar’s loins tightened at the thought of her. He inhaled sharply and turned on his heel, striding back up the aisle to the steering platform before his men could see the bulge straining at his breeches.

  Even here, so many sea miles away, he could smell the exotic musk of her perfume. Her taste lingered on the back of his tongue, dark, heady, and intoxicating. His lust for her maddened him every waking moment he didn’t have her seductive little body pinned beneath him, writhing in ecstasy. When he slept, he felt her fingernails scoring his shoulders, could hear her cries of pleasure as she met his every thrust each time he drove into her hot, silky heat.

  “Thor’s steaming seed…” Ivar hissed the curse as he sat back down before the two sacks of silver coins. Closing his eyes, he took a long, ragged breath, willing away the images of his lascivious, dusky-skinned wanton.

  Much as he desired her, riches mattered more.

  Land, power, and men to serve him.

  So he plunged his hands into one of the coin sacks, letting the cold weight of the silver chase the painful pounding between his legs.

  When the agony lessened, he turned his attention to another sack.

  A bulky leather pouch crammed beneath a nearby rowing bench. The sack held deliberately dirtied travelers robes. Scruffy shoes with holes at the toes that would give the impression that the men who’d worn them had made a long and tedious journey. Filthy garb that two of his craftiest men had donned when they’d climbed the cliff path leading up from Clan Mackintoshes’ convenient Dreagan’s Claw inlet and paid a call to Kendrew of Nought who, he’d heard this very night, had been most pleased to greet them.

  Their news exceeded his expectations.

  Hoping to enjoy their tidings again, Ivar looked down Storm-Rider ’s aisle, searching for Dag or Skring. He spotted Skring first, pleased to see the man sitting against the hull, whetting his ax blade.

  “Skring.” Ivar jerked his head when the man looked his way, knowing the warrior would come to him at once.

  And Skring did, setting aside his ax and pushing to his feet to join Ivar on the steering platform.

  “You wish help counting the coin, lord?” Skring squatted beside him, his surprisingly guileless face splitting in a grin as he eyed the heavy pouches.

  Ivar returned his smile.

  He valued a man who could pass for a hapless mendicant friar or a pilgrim yet could delight in dancing in a foe’s spilled guts an hour later.

  Who would suspect that such a courier carried false messages?

  Ivar clapped a hand on Skring’s shoulder, hoping to show his appreciation. He rewarded such followers well and Skring would soon be a rich man.

  They all would, if everything went to plan.

  So Ivar took a silver flask and two small silver cups from a niche in the ship’s hull and poured two measures of fine birch wine.

  He gave a cup to Skring, proving his favoritism.

  Not many men were worthy of his private stock of birch wine.

  “I’d hear again your assessment of the Mackintosh chieftain’s reaction.” Ivar clinked his wine cup against Skring’s and then turned his gaze on the black line of coast that was the Glen of Many Legends. “You’re sure he’ll be satisfied with only one bag of coin?”

  It didn’t seem possible.

  All men thirsted for land, sinuous hot-blooded women, and coffers of gold.

  Silver, in this instance.

  “We can’t risk him de
clining my lord’s offer.” Ivar wouldn’t consider failure.

  Skring tossed back his birch wine, thrust out his cup for more. “Mackintosh has everything most men desire,” he reported as Ivar refilled his cup. “Land aplenty. And by all accounts, he loves his wife and lusts after no other.”

  “And wealth?” Ivar arched a brow.

  Skring shrugged. “His hall is grand and Dag and I were feasted like kings. I’d say he suffers no dearth of coin. He doesn’t need the second sack of silver. We didn’t even mention it.” He cocked a brow, following Ivar’s gaze to the coast. “We thought that would please you.”

  “It does.” Ivar could scarce believe his good fortune.

  No one would guess that Kendrew hadn’t received the full bride price for his sister.

  If any of his men dared say a word, they wouldn’t live to speak another.

  A fact they knew well.

  Still…

  “The Mackintosh.” Ivar rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. “He has pride, I’ve heard. And he’s rumored to care for his sister. Why would he accept so little for her hand?” He turned back to Skring, truly puzzled. “Surely he would bargain for more?”

  “Not Kendrew Mackintosh.” Skring drained his wine cup again, dragged his arm over his mouth. “He’s proud of his family’s ties to the northlands. He even claims descent from Berserkers.”

  “Ahhh…” Ivar rubbed his chin, his lips quirking. “So he wishes to strengthen blood ties to the old homeland?”

  Skring snorted. “That’s why he’s accepting the offer as we made it. You, lord”—he leaned forward and tapped his cup to Ivar’s again—“are the prize. We told him your overlord is dying and that his greatest wish is to see you, his most powerful warlord, settled and wed before he breathes his last, leaving all to you.”

  “Settled and wed to a Scotswoman of Nordic blood?” Ivar’s doubts were beginning to ease. “A Scotswoman who, upon Lord Rorik’s passing, will be the wife of the greatest noble in the land?”

  Skring nodded. “So it is, lord.”

  “Mackintosh wants his sister to marry into Norse nobility.” Ivar felt a slow smile curving his lips. “And”—he slapped his knee—“that she shall! A pity she’ll only enjoy my new status for such a brief time.” Ivar’s loins began to throb again. Skring and Dag had reported that Lady Marjory was fair, yet said to be quite attractive.

  Women with hair the color of moonbeams didn’t stir him. But he’d still relish a tumble or two with her.

  She was no doubt a virgin.

  Her sheath would be tight and slick, a reward for his trouble in fetching her.

  Best of all, it would drive Sarina to fits of jealousy if he rutted with the Scotswoman before they sent her to take Sarina’s place on Rorik’s funerary pyre.

  Sarina in a rage would be a rare delight.

  Ivar could almost spill himself now, just imagining taking her when she was in a temper.

  “You are a good man, Skring.” Ivar reached again for his prized birch wine.

  Skring grinned and held out his cup.

  And at the other end of Storm-Rider, Bors and Troll kept horror-filled gazes on the long dark coast that was the Glen of Many Legends.

  The pulsating glow on Drangar Point was back again.

  And this time there could be no mistaking that a tall, cloaked man stood in the middle of the strange, otherworldly light.

  Regrettably, no one else on the ship seemed to see him.

  Bors and Troll knew in their hearts that he was there.

  Yet when they exchanged worried glances and then looked to the coast again, the man and the eerie light around him were gone.

  But they knew what they’d seen.

  And with all the saga-telling of their homeland, they knew they were doomed.

  “By all that’s holy!” Alasdair slewed his horse around, reining sharply when a flooded burn loomed before them out of the rain and mist. The rock-strewn cataracts roared, the splashing torrent sending up fans of spray to rival the wind-driven fog. “Ne’er have I seen a more godforsaken place.” He twisted round to glare at Marjory. “Is there naught hereabouts but stone and water?”

  “This is the Thunder Vale, named for Thor.” Marjory spoke as coolly and calmly as she could, trying hard to ignore how the wind whipped her hair, tossing the wet strands across her face. “Some say it’s called so because of the noise of the rapids. They often overrun their banks.”

  “Indeed.” Leaping down, Alasdair reached for her, sweeping her off his horse before she could blink. “We’ll have to circle back.” He set her on her feet, his face darker than the stormy night. “I won’t send the horses through such raging water.”

  “That is wise.” Marjory lifted her chin, no longer trying to ignore her windblown hair, but how her skin tingled from where he’d grasped her waist. She glanced at the foaming burn, her emotions in equal turmoil. “I could’ve told you—”

  “Why didn’t you?” Alasdair’s face darkened even more, a muscle now jerking in his jaw. “I wouldn’t take a horse across such a devil’s cauldron in the best of weathers.”

  “We could try.” Ewan rode over to them, managing to look amused despite his rumpled plaid and wet, dripping hair. He glanced at Marjory, grinning boyishly. “First man to reach the other side wins a kiss from the lady!” He leaned down, punched Alasdair’s shoulder. “What say you?”

  “That your wits have flown,” Alasdair snarled, reaching for Marjory’s arm when she stepped away. He pulled her close to his side, glared at his young cousin. “Since when does a bit of wind and rain turn you into a buffoon?”

  “That wouldn’t be me.” Ewan’s grin flashed even brighter. The merriment in his eyes made the accusation he didn’t put in words.

  “You’ll not have a stramash over me.” Marjory straightened to her full height, standing tall even if she couldn’t break free of Alasdair’s iron grasp.

  “Och, lady, we’re aye fighting o’er you.” Ewan turned his full charm on her, his blue eyes twinkling. “My cousin willnae say it is so, but you’ve only to ask the men and—”

  “Have a care, lad.” Alasdair’s face hardened. “You dinnae want to rile me.”

  “I don’t have to.” Ewan laughed, unconcerned. Swinging down from his saddle, he stood before them. “You’ve been in a black mood since we left the clearing. I say we all know why.” Ewan tossed back his wet hair, threw a glance at the other men, the fast-flowing rapids behind them. “Mayhap a good dousing in thon burn would chase the meanness from you? Then you’d admit—”

  “I admit I should’ve ordered you to stay at Blackshore and clean the cesspit.” Alasdair’s arm was rock-hard against Marjory’s back, his hand flexing against her hip. “You’re a gangling, ill-mannered—”

  “I’m ill-mannered?” Ewan staggered backward, clutching his heart, his eyes wide with mock astonishment.

  Marjory bit her tongue, not wanting to laugh.

  She liked Ewan.

  How she wished Alasdair had a bit of the younger man’s levity. Instead, his face had gone stonier than ever. And his arm about her waist now felt like a tight, steel band. The heat of his powerfully muscled body warmed her through the wool of his rain-splattered plaid. She also felt his surging anger, each agitated breath he inhaled and exhaled. Shocks of awareness shot through her each time his chest expanded, bringing their bodies even closer together.

  She shivered, deliciously.

  He released her at once, striding away as if she’d bitten him. “Lady Marjory is cold.” He went to the herring cart, lifted the oiled sheepskin rigged to keep out rain. His dog, Geordie, appeared at the rail, rheumy eyes eager, as if looking for a treat. “Ewan, the rest of you”—he dug in a leather pouch at his belt, fished out a twist of dried meat for the dog—“take off your plaids and pile them in the cart,” he finished, already unclasping the heavy Celtic pin that held his own plaid at his shoulder. “Once we’ve made the lady comfortable and warm, we’ll head back the way we came. Then—”


  “This is the most direct way to Nought.” Marjory felt a spurt of confidence, pride in her home’s savage fierceness. It was also time to play her final option.

  The reason she’d held her tongue when Alasdair and his men turned into the Thunder Vale.

  Her womanly wiles had failed her so far.

  Seduction wasn’t her best talent.

  But Nought was magnificent, triumphant in all ways, never letting her down.

  She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and sent a silent prayer to the ancient gods of stone, wind, and wild weather.

  Then she cleared her throat, looked straight into Alasdair’s eyes, and pointed to the great granite peaks guarding the rock-bound vale.

  “We can shelter up there, in the Thunder Caves,” she said, taking some pleasure in Alasdair’s startled expression. “There’s no need to disturb your dog. Or”—she smiled at his men—“for anyone to give up his plaid. Everything we need is in the caves.”

  “The Thunder Caves?” Alasdair stared at her.

  “So we call them.” Marjory smiled, pride in her voice. “Like the vale, the name hails from Thor. It’s also appropriate because of the storms known to rage here, the thunder of the rapids, and the rumbling of stone when a rockslide hits now and again. Our men use the caves as lookout hideaways.” She felt a blush coming on, didn’t care. “That’s how Kendrew knew you were riding to Nought the day we met. His scouts spotted your party from the Thunder Caves.”

  Alasdair frowned. “I ne’er heard of them.”

  Marjory shrugged. “Nought has many secrets, my lord.”

  Ewan slapped his thigh, laughing. “Ho! Leave it to the Mackintoshes to pull one o’er on us.”

  The other men joined him, chuckling as they refastened brooch pins and adjusted the near-waterproof folds of their heavy woolen plaids.

  Only Alasdair crossed his arms, standing as still as stone in the spitting rain. His gaze was on the cliffs, his expression unreadable.

  “I see no caves up there.” He lifted a hand to his brow, narrowed his eyes. “Nor can I make out a path up to them, if they’re there.”

  “Oh, they’re there.” Marjory went over to him, her heart beating hard at her daring. “You can’t see them because they’re so well hidden. Look there…” She pointed to an odd-shaped cluster of rocks at the base of the nearest cliff. “Do you see the rowan growing from the side of that outcrop? The tree marks the start of the path to the caves.”