Seduction Of A Highland Warrior

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  Sir Walter shifted, swallowing again. “I fear it is worse than that, sir.”

  Alasdair just looked at him, waiting.

  “One of the men took a while to die,” Sir Walter explained. “Apparently his imminent end loosened his tongue, making him fear God more than the man he served. He told us they’d heard the pilgrims carried a precious saint’s relic and when they found no such treasure on the men, they were angered and so slew them, innocents though they were.

  “He also spoke of you, claiming his lord had often sent troops of broken men here, to your Glen of Many Legends, to cause havoc. His lord, the King’s bastard, hoped to stir enough malcontent and woe here, always putting the blame on you and the other glen chiefs, so that the King would grow fed up with the lot of you and make good his threat to banish your clans from the glen.”

  “And then this man would step in and claim our lands as his own?” Alasdair felt his temper rising. “Tell me that isn’t so.”

  Sir Walter just looked at him.

  “Is there more?” Something told Alasdair there was.

  Sir Walter nodded. “Isn’t there a maid you favor? Can she be Lady Marjory? Kendrew Mackintosh’s sister?”

  “What of her?” Alasdair’s vision hazed red. He grabbed Sir Walter by the arms, lifting him off the floor. “What has she to do with this?”

  “Nothing, sir, nothing at all.” Sir Walter wriggled in Alasdair’s grip. “It is only”—he gasped, nearly dropped to his knees when Alasdair released him—“the brigand we questioned claimed payment was made to a Norseman so that he would offer for her hand. The plan was that such a union would outrage you and you’d fight her brother, giving the King’s bastard enough reason to urge his father to banish you once and for all time.”

  “By all the saints!” Alasdair roared. He could feel his blood boiling, his face heating. He threw back his head and clenched his fists, everything around him blurring, his pulse pounding in his ears.

  When he looked again at Sir Walter, he almost felt sorry for the man.

  He’d blanched. And—Alasdair could scarce believe it—he appeared to be trembling.

  Still, Alasdair bellowed again. “I have ne’er heard such perfidy!” He whirled about, pacing a few steps before he stopped and ran a hand through his hair. “Even Mackintosh wouldn’t stoop so low. Is there more?” He strode back over to Sir Walter, disbelief and fury sluicing him.

  Somewhere his men were arguing, he could hear their raised voices. And the castle dogs had gone wild, barking a storm, the din almost deafening.

  Alasdair ignored the chaos, his gaze only on the Lowlander. “Well, is there?”

  “If there is, I cannot say. The man died before we could question him further. I can promise”—Sir Walter drew a deep breath, again looking discomfited—“that I will report the entire matter to my King. He will be informed of your continued honor and loyalty. And he is sure to punish the young man responsible.” He straightened then, seeming to regain his dignity now that he’d said all that he must. “I am close enough to the crown to give you my word that you and the other glen chiefs will never again be harassed. Like as not, you will also receive recompense for such troubles in the past.”

  “I do not care about recompense.” Alasdair began pacing again. “I care about Marjory Mackintosh. She is to be my wife, see you?” He spoke loudly and clear, lifting his voice so that every man in the hall could hear him. “I meant to ride to Nought for her this very e’en and would’ve been on my way had you not appeared.”

  “I am sorry, sir.” Sir Walter did sound regretful.

  “Viking ships have been seen hereabout of late.” Alasdair glanced at Ewan and Malcolm, at Angus and Farlan, so many of his other men, all gathered round.

  Not a one of them looked shocked or outraged.

  Far from it, they were grumbling among themselves about Norn, praising her and fretting about her safety, vowing to tear apart anyone who’d dare harm her.

  Only Malcolm wasn’t speaking.

  The old man had turned aside, was dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve.

  “Damnation,” Alasdair snarled, his own eyes heating.

  It appeared he wouldn’t have to leave Blackshore at all.

  Although, after all that had transpired, if something happened to Marjory, he doubted he could bear to stay on here without her.

  He turned back to Sir Walter, his anger rising again. “If any harm comes to my lady, even your King will not be safe from my wrath.”

  The little man almost spluttered. “I am sure all will be well with her, sir. Word travels fast in these parts. Could be the King is already aware of the treachery and has taken due measures.”

  Alasdair scarce heard him.

  There was another commotion at his door. Sir Walter’s companions were huddled together staring round-eyed and aghast into the shadows of the hall’s arched entry. And Alasdair’s own men were laughing and shouting, running forward, whooping like fools.

  Sir Walter also looked about, blanching as he raised an arm to point at the door. “Holy saints, protect us! It’s a haint!”

  “A ghost?” Alasdair couldn’t stop a shiver, for one crazy moment wondering if Drangar had decided to visit his old stronghold.

  But then the men surging the entry parted, making way for the spirit to enter the hall.

  She was Norn.

  Black-haired, dark-skinned, and swathed head to toe in sooty linen, but her sparkling blue eyes gave her away.

  As did the smile she gave him as she came forward.

  And perhaps the cheeky little dog who pranced along beside her, barking at Alasdair’s hounds.

  “Norn!” He ran across the hall, sweeping her up into his arms and crushing her against him. “Praise God, you’re safe, my heart.”

  He set her on her feet and grabbed her face, holding her fast as he kissed her deeply, only vaguely noting the sudden cheering of his men. Their foot stomping and ale cup clanking, all the hoots and shouts of glee. Even Sir Walter and his companions were smiling, though none of them ventured too close to Marjory.

  She did look a fright.

  “Sweet lass, what have you done to yourself?” Alasdair dragged the back of his hand over his lips, noting that she tasted of peat. “And how did you get here? Surely you didn’t walk.”

  “I flew.” She smiled, glancing after Hercules who was now running circles about the hall, chasing Alasdair’s beasts as if he already held sway here.

  “Dinnae jest with me, sweet.” Alasdair picked her up again, started for the stair tower that led to his quarters. “I ken something dire has happened or you wouldn’t be here in such a state.”

  “I’m here as a night-walker.” She shifted in his arms to look at him. “You’ll know my clan uses such magic to move through the night unseen. It’s a skill of all Mackintoshes, not just the men. And”—she lifted a hand to touch his face, that simple contact filling him with such happiness he thought his heart might burst—“using such a guise was the best way for me to escape Nought. I had to—”

  “Dinnae tell me Kendrew threatened you.” They’d reached his door and he kicked it open, not caring if he split the wood. “I’ll tear him apart and—”

  “He didn’t hurt me, though…” She paused just long enough to make his blood boil. “In his attempts to be a good brother, he accepted a marriage offer for me that I had to avoid. And not just because of you. There were other reasons…” She slipped from his arms, began unwinding the lengths of black cloth she’d wrapped about herself. She told him everything as she did, finishing in the bath that several of his servants had brought to the room. They’d appeared unbidden, carrying in the tub and ewers of steaming water and bathing linens in a show of acceptance and loyalty that made Alasdair’s heart split.

  His people were welcoming her.

  He would never let her out of his sight again.

  “You’re ne’er leaving here again, Norn.” He told her so, just to make certain she understood. “I’ll still
speak with your brother. I’ll take you to visit Nought whene’er you wish to visit. But you’re mine now. We’ll wed as soon as possible and then—” His voice broke. “You do still wish to marry me?”

  He had to know.

  He couldn’t bear to lose her now, not after all they’d been through.

  “Why do you think I’m here?” She smiled, the love in her eyes answer enough.

  Alasdair crossed the room in swift strides and she stood and reached for him, naked and dripping. His heart slammed against his ribs and he lifted her from the bathing tub, pulling her into his arms.

  “Sweet Norn!” He held her tightly, running his hands up and down her wet back and then gripping her arms as he lowered his head to kiss her fiercely.

  “I thought I’d lost you!” He pulled back, looking at her, drinking her in as if he could never get enough of just having her near. “When Sir Walter mentioned a Viking lord receiving payment to offer for you, I thought the world ended. The black-painted ships that have been seen about—”

  “They are surely on their way back to Norway now.” She sounded so sure, her beautiful smile bright and confident. “I am safe here. I knew I would be—”

  A loud horn blast cut her off, the sound repeated again and again. Then the pounding of running feet approaching, someone hammering on the door…

  “Stay here.” Alasdair grabbed a spare plaid off a chair and swirled it around her nakedness. Then he ran to the door, flinging it wide.

  Ewan stood there, sword in hand.

  “The Vikings,” he blurted. “They’re coming in the loch, full-manned and armed for war.”

  “Then we’ll fight them on their terms—our best men and best galleys will make short work of them.” Alasdair hoped it was so.

  Ewan didn’t look so confident.

  And he avoided Marjory’s gaze, even flushing when she hurried over to them, clutching the plaid around her.

  “How many Viking ships?” She looked from Ewan to Alasdair. “I believe the MacDonald galleys are more.”

  “Aye, they are, my lady.” Ewan answered before Alasdair could speak. “The Viking ships are two. The black-painted dragonships we’ve seen hereabouts for a while.”

  “If they are only a pair, we’ll be done with them quickly.” Alasdair wrapped his arm around Marjory, drawing her close, hoping to chase her worry.

  Ewan’s gloom wasn’t helping her.

  Alasdair frowned at him. “Be gone, lad. Make haste and pass on my orders to man the ships. I’ll be in the hall right after you.”

  The lad didn’t move.

  “There is something else.” He looked again at Marjory, pity in his eyes.

  “Then out with it. Now!” Alasdair was getting angry.

  “The Vikings aren’t the only problem, Cousin.” Ewan tightened his lips for a moment, inhaled sharply. “Kendrew is here as well.”

  “Kendrew?” Alasdair stared at the younger man.

  Ewan nodded. “Aye, he is, and he’s brought all his fighting men with him. They’re no’ coming to the keep. They’re lining up on the cliffs, their purpose clear.”

  “Mother of God!” Alasdair shoved both hands through his hair, dread sluicing him.

  “Dear saints, what is it?” Marjory gripped his arm, her eyes round. “What purpose?”

  “I can’t tell her.” Ewan sounded miserable.

  Alasdair scowled. “They’ll be readying fire arrows, my sweet. We won’t have much chance of fighting Ivar Ironstorm because your brother and his men will set our ships aflame as soon as we sail out.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  This can’t be happening.”

  Marjory stood at the arched window of Alasdair’s painted solar not caring if no one heard her. Hercules, still for once, and Alasdair’s old dog, Geordie, sat beside her. They were listening to her, for sure. Both dogs, she knew, understood the dire portent of the scene unfolding outside the solar window.

  Alasdair was running along the narrow shoreline beneath Blackshore’s walls, cupping his hands to his mouth as he yelled orders to his men in the water or boarding the MacDonald galleys.

  All the men were busy.

  They were readying the ships to attack the two black-painted Viking dragonships beating back and forth just inside the loch’s entrance.

  Most terrifying of all were her brother’s warriors.

  Looking more savage than she’d seen them in a long while, they lined the cliffs along the loch, their broad shoulders draped in wolf-or bearskins. Mail glinted everywhere, as did the flash of steel.

  And in an unwelcome memory of the trial by combat, most of the warriors had already unsheathed their axes and swords and were beating the weapons on their shields.

  The knocking was terrible.

  It echoed everywhere. Across the loch and hills and inside Blackshore’s walls. The ghastly clanging even rang in her ears.

  The war music was a precursor of slaughter.

  It was a way to fire the blood of warriors, making them fearless, even bringing them to crave the fight.

  But it wasn’t the knocking that frightened her the most.

  That honor belonged to the fire arrows. The archers she knew were expert enough to send them zinging right where they were aimed.

  Alasdair would die this day.

  And she would perish with him because even if her body survived, a little bit more of her soul shriveled each time she saw another archer step between the shield beaters.

  “He’s locked me in here.” She pushed away from the window arch, started pacing, speaking to Hercules and Geordie who dutifully scrambled up to trail behind her. “Can you believe it?”

  She stopped, planting her hands on her hips as she looked at the dogs.

  “I ran away from Nought because my brother threatened to lock me in my bedchamber and now”—she blew out a breath, started pacing again—“after coming here, Alasdair has imprisoned me in his solar.

  “He’s running about without a sword!” She went back to the window arch, leaning out as far as she could. Sadly, she wasn’t mistaken.

  Of all the men on the little shore and in the galleys, only Alasdair wore no weapons.

  “He’s lost his wits.” She tried to call to him, but her voice was already hoarse from doing so.

  Nor was he looking her way.

  He kept glaring across the loch to where her brother—and Grim, the traitor—had joined the archers and shield beaters on the cliffs.

  Then, just when she was sure she’d lose her mind as well, a loud splintering crack shook the walls.

  Marjory cringed, placing her hands over her ears. She knew the sound from storytellers. It was the shattering of ship wood, vessels pierced by an iron ramming spear. Or”—she leaned even farther out the window, craning her neck to see—the sound of oars breaking off when another ship plowed through them at speed, the attack most times making quick work of the men aboard along with the broken oars.

  “I can’t stand it.” She dropped to her knees, wrapping an arm around each dog, pulling them close. “Any moment, Kendrew will send the fire arrows and then…”

  She couldn’t finish the thought.

  The yelling and noise of fighting was worsening, the sounds coming from everywhere, echoing loud in the little room. The shield knocking, especially, seemed louder. More like banging now, the crashing terrifying her.

  Somewhere, amid the sound of thrashing and churning water, men screamed. Their shrill, ear-piercing yells left no doubt that they were dying.

  Marjory shuddered, trying not to hear.

  “Are you brave enough to go out on the shore with me, lass?” A deep voice startled her and she leaped to her feet, whirling around to see Alasdair’s great-uncle, Malcolm, standing in the open doorway.

  His face was grim, his eyes full of worry.

  Marjory’s heart broke. “Alasdair?” Again, she couldn’t put her fear into words. “Is he?”

  “He’s fine, though I doubt his wits!” Malcolm frowned, shaking his
head.

  “We’re losing, aren’t we?” She hoped the old warrior would know she meant MacDonalds.

  “No’ yet, my lady.” He nodded respectfully, his words and gesture giving her an unexpected rush of happiness.

  And hope.

  “But I fear we’ll lose Alasdair if no one can talk sense into him.” His words dashed her budding confidence. “That’s why I’d like you to step out onto the shore with me. He’s wanting to swim across the loch to confront your brother man to man. He’ll never make it halfway. One of the fire archers will take him down as soon as he dives into the water.”

  “Dear saints!” Marjory’s heart stopped. “That’s why he isn’t wearing his sword!”

  She started running, bursting past Malcolm and then through the empty hall. The great doors stood open and she dashed outside, racing past the gatehouse and over a jumble of rock to the island’s narrow shore.

  Malcolm and Hercules and Geordie chased behind her. She could hear them coming, especially Hercules, who was barking louder than she’d ever heard him.

  Panting, a sharp pain stabbing her chest, she pounded onto the shingled shore, not stopping until she reached the water’s edge. Alasdair’s weapons were there, braced against a rock. A blue silk ribbon was tied to the hilt of his sword, the sight, and its significance, making her heart clutch. The ribbon was hers and its ends trailed in a tide pool, floating dulled and lifeless on the water’s gleaming surface. She prayed to all the gods that she wasn’t seeing a portent. Panic constricting her chest, she looked up and down the narrow strand, searching for Alasdair.

  Malcolm and the dogs arrived a moment later.

  They were all too late.

  Alasdair was already in the water, swimming furiously toward the opposite shore. He was well past the halfway point, beyond hearing them if they cried out to him. Any moment he’d reach the strand. And if Kendrew’s fire archers didn’t get him before he did, they’d surely hit him when he left the water and started climbing the cliff.

  “O-o-oh, no!” Marjory fell to her knees in the surf, pressed her fisted hands to her cheeks.

  Hercules and Geordie began to howl.