Seduction Of A Highland Warrior

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  Alasdair just looked at him, feeling chastised even though he couldn’t figure out why he should.

  He did see to the well-doing of every man, woman, and child in the clan. Even now, his mind raced, making plans to ensure their weal when he was gone.

  He was a good chieftain.

  And Malcolm knew it.

  “You’re up to something.” Alasdair was sure of it.

  “You asked if I didn’t have aught better to do.” Malcolm reached for a new chunk of wood, turning it this way and that as if to decide what animal it wished to become. “I answered you, no more.”

  “Nae, you’re leading into a lecture.” Alasdair pushed away from the wall and strode over to Malcolm’s stool, dropping to one knee to be on eye level with him. “I’d hear what it is. I know you’ll tell me anyway.”

  Malcolm’s lips twitched, but he caught himself quickly, assuming a swift air of innocence. “I’m simply carving toys, lad. You ken I like children.”

  Alasdair stood, ran a hand through his hair. He couldn’t argue with Malcolm.

  The graybeard did love children. He spent much of his time with the clan bairns, as Alasdair well knew. But there was one thing he didn’t know.

  Alasdair studied his great uncle, his gray head once more bent over the new piece of wood. “Why didn’t you ever have sons of your own?”

  Malcolm looked up at once. “I ne’er married now, did I?”

  “Why didn’t you?” Alasdair knew his mistake as soon as the question left his tongue.

  “The same reason you’ll no’ be wedding, I’m thinking.” Malcolm began carving the wood as he spoke. “I fell in love with the wrong lass. She was a MacKenzie, daughter to a cousin of Duncan MacKenzie, the Black Stag of Kintail. A more beautiful maid ne’er walked the hills, I say you. She had hair black as a raven’s wing, eyes like sapphires. And she had spirit, a fiery temper, and so much passion a man could singe himself just looking at her.” Malcolm paused, turning aside to knuckle his eyes. “Yet it was me she wanted, no other.”

  Alasdair bit his tongue, stunned to see a tear spill down Malcolm’s cheek.

  Then his eyes cleared and he fisted his hands so tightly on his thighs that his knuckles gleamed white. “She begged me to marry her,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “She insisted our love mattered more than the troubles between our clans. My grandfather told me she was right.” A little smile touched Malcolm’s lips, but it was sad, reminiscent. “He spoke of the old days when even in times of feuding, a man’s worst transgression would be forgiven if he’d acted out of love for a lady.”

  “He suggested you offer for her?” Alasdair was surprised.

  “Nothing the like.” Malcolm laughed and slapped his knee. “He told me to ride to Eilean Creag and snatch her out from under the Black Stag’s nose, is what he said.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Nae, I didn’t. My honor and loyalty to our clan stayed me. Even though she wished to be taken, I knew that stealing her away would fan fires of enmity that already blazed too bright.”

  “And now you regret it.”

  “More than anything else in my life.” Malcolm closed his eyes, took a long, deep breath. “I’d give the rest of my days for one moment to go back and undo my thickheaded posturing. My refusal to risk everything I loved most for the one woman I loved even more.”

  Alasdair rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “What happened to her? Do you know?”

  “Och, aye.” Malcolm’s lips twisted. “As the fates willed it, a MacLeod snatched her away while she was out berry picking one fine summer day. The MacLeods, as you ken, are much more hostile to the MacKenzies of Kintail than we ever were. Yet”—Malcolm leaned forward, his gaze on Alasdair—“the great Black Stag eventually forgave the man, even welcoming him into his hall.

  “It was a fruitful union, producing eight strapping sons and one bonnie daughter, last I heard. “And”—Malcolm reached again for the new chunk of wood and his whittling knife—“the heather didn’t vanish from the hills and the mist didn’t slip away to hide just because she wed a man from a warring clan. Truth is I doubt her children, or Duncan MacKenzie, even cared how the pair came to be wed. They made a good match and raised a fine family, to the weal and benefit of both their clans.”

  “And those nine children should’ve been yours.” Alasdair spoke what his great uncle left unsaid.

  “They could’ve been, aye.” Malcolm didn’t look up from his whittling. “If I’d accepted that sometimes what’s in a man’s heart matters more than what’s expected of him.”

  Alasdair frowned.

  His head was beginning to ache with a vengeance.

  Malcolm said nothing, his attention focused entirely on his wood carving.

  It was a show, Alasdair knew.

  So he went back to the window arch before Malcolm could see how much his words moved him. Even so, the Highlands were different now. Much had changed since Malcolm’s grandfather or even Malcolm might’ve stormed a stronghold and tossed their ladylove over their shoulder, riding off with her into the night. Such acts were barbaric.

  Men were civilized now.

  Alasdair rubbed the back of his neck, feeling anything but. He cursed beneath his breath, his gaze on the hills to the north. Not surprisingly, he couldn’t see them clearly. As so often in the Highlands, the weather had changed, turning dark and blustery. The loch was now iron gray and long swaths of mist drifted in from the sea to curl across the water. Thick clouds had chased the blue from the sky, the day’s gloom suiting his mood.

  In such weather, any man could feel a tail growing, horns to mark his bold intent and cloven feet to brand his daring before the eyes of all men who kept their honor.

  Soon, he’d break his word to the King.

  Yet what was honor if it kept a man from claiming the woman he held most dear?

  Alasdair flattened his hands against the cold stone of the window ledge. With the wind bringing the chill, the wet smell of rain, and the mist blurring the hills, it was easy to imagine a black-painted coracle slipping into the loch, gliding past Blackshore’s walls. Knowing such a craft had been at Nought’s Dreagan’s Claw made it even easier to believe such intruders had something to do with Marjory.

  Indeed, he was sure of it.

  He knew trouble when it danced beneath his nose.

  Truth was, he knew it from afar, too.

  His entire body tensing, he cleared his throat, his gaze on the loch and the whirling mist. “Malcolm,” he spoke with deliberate calm. “Are the men still going on about a sea serpent in the loch?”

  “Every night, aye.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I know I’ve ne’er seen a swimming beastie hereabouts, or anywhere.”

  Alasdair rubbed his brow. He’d hoped Malcolm would give him a different answer. But he wasn’t going to mention his suspicions. Not yet, anyway. He needed to think before alarming the clan. There were other, more serious matters weighing on him.

  Such as…

  He glanced at the table where Marjory’s blue ribbon gleamed in the light of a candle. Its blue shimmered, reminding him of how the ribbon had delighted her at Castle Haven’s Harvest Fair. How he’d purchased the ribbon for her and how much she’d loved wearing it in her hair. The way his heart had slammed against his ribs when he’d spotted the ribbon in the birchwood. How it now reminded him of her racing into the clearing to challenge him. Their ensuing journey across Nought and—his heart squeezed—everything that had then come to pass between them in the Thunder Caves.

  Malcolm was right.

  The ribbon was a grand prize.

  The graybeard was right about a few other things as well, but Alasdair wouldn’t swell his head by admitting anything the like.

  He did push away from the window, briskly brushing his plaid into place. Then he strolled across the room to where his sword, Mist-Chaser, rested on a bench beside the door. If Malcolm noticed that he picked up the ribbon as he
passed the table, so be it.

  He also didn’t care if he was observed raising the ribbon to his lips and then tying it around Mist-Chaser’s hilt.

  The deed done, he placed Mist-Chaser back on the bench and dusted his hands.

  Across the solar, Malcolm was still on his stool, whittling industriously, his head bent low over what was beginning to look like a lamb.

  But Alasdair didn’t miss the glint in the old warrior’s eyes. Malcolm had seen everything. And the brief nod he gave Alasdair was his approval.

  Alasdair stepped in front of him and placed his hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “I wish you’d have gone after your MacKenzie lass.”

  “So do I, lad, so do I.”

  This time it was Alasdair who nodded gruffly. He also made a promise to himself to never be an old man sitting on a stool, regretting what he hadn’t done.

  His lady wasn’t beyond reach.

  She was even waiting for him to come for her.

  And he’d be damned if he’d allow anyone to stop him from claiming her.

  Later that morning, but on the other side of the Glen of Many Legends, Marjory walked briskly, her head high as she approached Nought’s great hall. Hercules hurried beside her, his steps jaunty, as if he anticipated the mayhem about to erupt at the high table.

  Hercules loved chaos.

  Marjory preferred calm. So she’d spent much of the night preparing to accept Kendrew’s news with grace. She’d even thought of an enthusiastic response so that no one would guess how hurt she was by Alasdair’s unexpected betrothal.

  Only Isobel would know of her devastation.

  That her world had been ripped apart, her heart torn, and her dreams shattered on the night the stars had shone their brightest for her.

  How quickly their dazzle had faded.

  Now there was nothing else for her to do but save what she could, her pride.

  Unfortunately, as she neared the hall’s arched entry, she caught the low rumble of male voices, including her brother’s. She couldn’t make out all his words, but she heard Alasdair’s name. Her breath caught and her heart lurched. Images of their hours at the Thunder Caves whirled through her mind, as did everything she and Isobel suspected about Alasdair and Lady Coira Mackinnon. She forgot the rebuttal she’d been repeating so carefully in her mind.

  She’d been up since before sunrise, composing it. She’d practiced so that her voice wouldn’t waver, her tone unconvincing.

  Now she couldn’t remember a word.

  Equally distressing, her ambers were on fire again. The stones hummed from within, each one vibrating against her skin as if they’d sprung to life.

  They surely knew she was about to receive tidings that would end all her hopes of happiness.

  Quickening her pace, ready to hear the worst and be done with it, she vowed to have the necklace delivered to Alasdair as soon as she could make arrangements for someone to carry it to Blackshore.

  Now that her pact with Isobel and Catriona would not be fulfilled, she couldn’t keep the ambers.

  They belonged to Clan Donald.

  Alasdair could give them to his bride as a wedding gift.

  The thought made her feel sick and dizzy. It also sent heat rushing to her cheeks, so she stopped outside the hall door to take a deep, steadying breath. Then she lifted her chin, summoned her brightest smile, and sailed into the hall.

  As soon as she was spotted, the men went silent, the sudden quiet almost louder than the din. Her heart began to pound as men parted to clear her path to the dais end of the hall.

  It was then that she saw Kendrew.

  He wore the smile she loved best on him. It was a crooked, boyish smile that, before Isobel, drew women to him in droves. He was looking right at her, his eyes alight with brotherly affection. He’d clearly been waiting for her and the pleasure on his face dashed her last hope that she and Isobel might’ve erred about Alasdair’s nuptials.

  Little else would put Kendrew in such a good mood.

  So she did the only thing she could do and took her place at the high table.

  “Everyone is in fine fettle this morn.” She reached for a freshly baked bannock. She began buttering it with care, casting Kendrew a look from beneath her lashes. “You appear particularly pleased.”

  “So I am.” He beamed. “I have grand tidings. Great news that will—”

  “Let me tell her.” Beside him, Isobel gripped his arm. She looked even unhappier than the night before in Marjory’s bedchamber. Her face was pale and she had dark circles under her eyes, her expression tense.

  Marjory wished she could reassure her, but she couldn’t reveal they’d met in the night. “There’s no need for anyone to tell me. I already know.”

  “You cannae.” Kendrew flashed a suspicious look at his wife. “No’ unless—”

  “Don’t blame Isobel.” Marjory glanced at Hercules, standing with his front paws on her knee. She gave him a tiny piece of buttered bannock. When she returned her attention to Kendrew, she spoke calmly. “You were speaking of Alasdair last night. Voices carry at such late hours. I heard you from the tower stair. That’s how I know Alasdair is to—”

  “Hah!” Kendrew snorted at the mention of his arch-fiend. “I dinnae care what he’s up to, so long as he stays away from Nought. And your ears must be on backward. All I said about him was that I hope he chokes on a herring when he hears our news.”

  “Our news?” Marjory glanced at Isobel.

  She looked as though all the blood had drained from her face. “I’m so sorry, Norn.”

  Marjory’s chest tightened. She turned back to Kendrew. “What is this about?”

  “Your betrothal, that’s what.” Kendrew beamed again, pride ringing in his words. “I’ve finally found a husband worthy of you. A Viking warlord of considerable note. By all counts, he’s a handsome devil. Tall and blond, with looks to rival Thor. Word is he wears more arm rings than I do.”

  He grinned at her, as if expecting her to swoon.

  Marjory feared she’d be ill.

  “A true Viking, Norn. A warlord.”

  “I don’t care if he’s Thor and Odin in one.” Marjory stared at him, the weight of his words crushing her as surely as if the ceiling had crashed on top of her. “How did you find him? There weren’t any other Norse lords on your list.”

  “So there weren’t.” Kendrew took a long drink of ale. “But we’re fortunate. Word spreads as quickly in Norway as in the Highlands. I didn’t have to seek another suitor. He came to you. And he wants you badly enough to offer a hefty sack of silver as your bride price.”

  Hercules barked and darted beneath the table, no doubt planning to bite Kendrew’s ankle.

  “Hercules.” Isobel scooped the little dog onto her lap, stroking him. “That’s a good lad.”

  Marjory scarce noticed, her gaze on her brother. “You’d sell me for a bag of coin?”

  “Sakes, Norn! You speak nonsense. I wouldn’t sell you for all the world’s gold.” Kendrew leaned forward, gripping the table edge. “I will see you made a shining light of the north. Our old homeland, Norn, think of it. You’ll be married to a man about to become a great noble. All Norway will know your name, respect you.” He sat back, looking pleased. “The silver means naught. I’ll save it as a birthing gift to your first child. It’ll be our secret. Your husband need ne’er know. He’s a warlord of untold fame.” He looked round at the others lining the table, his chest swelling. “Men in the north sing ballads of him. He’s a legend there and he wants you as his bride.”

  “Indeed.” Marjory didn’t know how she managed that one word.

  “He holds vast lands in the Trondelag on Norway’s rich western coast, directly on the Trondheimsfjord. Soon he will lord it over even more territory.” Kendrew was enthusiastic, unaware that the floor had split open beneath his high table. That his sister was sliding into a deep, dark abyss, scrabbling desperately at the edge to keep from falling any farther.

  “All the most powerful N
orse lords hail from the Trondelag.” He made it sound as if that truth sealed everything. “It is a fine match. You could do no better.”

  “That is not so and you know it.” Isobel spoke up, her voice strained.

  “I know she won’t waste herself as a brine drinker’s wife.” Kendrew’s tone hardened. “She’ll be a fine lady—”

  “She already is.” Isobel met her husband’s gaze, her own challenging.

  Marjory stared at them both, hoping she didn’t look as aghast as she felt. “Who is this man?” She had to know. “He surely has a name.”

  “And a fine one, it is.” Kendrew’s enthusiasm returned. “He is Ivar Ironstorm and he’s already on his way to claim you.”

  Marjory’s relief that he wasn’t Rorik the Generous vanished upon hearing the man would soon arrive at Nought.

  “How do you know this?” Her stomach clenched painfully. Yet there was still a chance Kendrew erred. That he’d read too much into the ramblings of wayfarers. So she took a moment to school her features and then asked the question that would determine her fate.

  “I know you heard this from the travelers who stopped here yestere’en. Did they bring a missive with them? Something more substantial than gossip gathered on the road?”

  “I take no stranger’s word without proof.” Kendrew’s answer sent her heart plummeting. “They brought a letter,” he announced, retrieving a scrunched parchment from beneath his plaid.

  He held up the proclamation and she saw the inked lines, the imprint of a seal in the broken glob of wax that had kept the scroll closed.

  “Ivar Ironstorm’s overlord wishes him wed so that he can settle greater lands and riches on him.” Kendrew tucked the scroll beneath his plaid again. “In Norway as here, high-ranking nobles need heirs. And”—he patted the place where the parchment rested—“they are far-seeing enough to ken that a highborn daughter of a good Scottish house will make a worthy bride.”

  “Then I hope they find one for Lord Ironstorm.” Marjory took another bite of her bannock, chewing delicately. “I appreciate your efforts to see me well wed, but I shall not be journeying to the Trondelag. I will not marry a Viking warlord.”