A Highlander's Temptation

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  A muscle jumped in his jaw, always a sure sign.

  “Geordie Dhu or one of the others must’ve borrowed it and forgot to return it to the thinking room.” He went to stand by the hearth, one arm braced against the mantel-piece. “I was just taking it belowstairs.”

  Moraig clucked her tongue. “Fie, you were!”

  Her gaze sharpened, then snapped to Arabella before she hobbled across the room and once again jabbed him with a finger. “I’ll be keeping my eye on you, laddie,” she tsked, shaking her gray head.

  “There is no need.” The words were surprisingly cold.

  His tone was chillier and much more harsh than he would have wished, especially when he’d directed the terse reply to poor old Moraig.

  She stood before him now, wringing her hands and shuffling her black-booted feet. Her sporting show of bravura vanished like a snuffed candlewick; her downcast eyes made his innards churn with shame and regret.

  Arabella of Kintail brought out the worst in him.

  She was turning him into an ogre.

  He thrust his hands through his hair and looked her way, wondering if she knew the turmoil she was causing in his household.

  But she merely met his stare, her expression cool as spring rain.

  Three of Mad Moraig’s special wine caudle cups also stared back at him. Large, wooden, and clearly empty, they bespoke how busy the old woman had been.

  It took time to make her secret strengthening concoction.

  A blend of wine and beaten egg yolks, laced with costly sugar and spices, then thickened with the hen wife’s own mix of breadcrumbs and the saints knew what else. Served warm, one cup of the caudle was enough to put iron back in the blood of the most battle-wearied warrior.

  Some claimed it caused chest hair to grow on men’s backs.

  Others swore it could rouse the dead.

  Darroc stared at the cups. A sense of foreboding welled in his chest. What three servings of the caudle would do to the virago in his bed didn’t bear consideration.

  “It’s true enough—my caudles have mended her!” Mad Moraig followed his gaze. “She’s slept well and her leg stitches be healing finely.”

  Darroc nodded.

  He was too concerned about the sprouting of unwanted chest hair to do aught else.

  Mad Moraig took no heed.

  Tottering past him, she crossed the room and—shooing Frang and Mina from the bed—whipped back the covers to reveal her handiwork.

  “Tell me,” she twittered, “be this not my best work?”

  “Aye, well…” Darroc stepped closer, bracing himself. But when he looked down, he saw there was no need.

  Beneath the herbal-and-sphagnum moss compress Moraig gently lifted, it was startlingly clear that Arabella of Kintail had indeed plied her own needle to the wound.

  Although darkly bruised, the sleek flesh of her upper thigh was no longer swollen and red. Gone, too, was the crooked line of Moraig’s stitching. Lady Arabella’s sure hand had also smoothed the bunched and gathered folds of skin that would have marred her for life.

  Darroc cleared his throat. “For truth, you’ve done yourself proud, Moraig.”

  It wasn’t a lie.

  He just didn’t say what it was that he was praising.

  “She has cared for me well.” Lady Arabella’s voice was strong, the look she gave him almost challenging.

  As if she expected him to stomp on Moraig’s glory and meant to warn him before he said something to wipe the glow off the old woman’s face.

  “When I am healed, there will hardly be a scar.” That pert MacKenzie chin lifted.

  The sapphire eyes flashed.

  Darroc made sure his own remained neutral. “God be praised, it is so.”

  It stunned him that he spoke true.

  But the mastery of the maid’s healing craft couldn’t be denied. Nor his own relief in knowing her smooth, white skin would be spared harm by Moraig’s disastrous if well-meant ministrations.

  Truth be told, if it weren’t for the neat seam running from just above her knee to where Moraig clutched the bedclothes, he’d almost doubt her leg had been so badly injured.

  The stitches were nearly invisible.

  The barely there smile curving Lady Arabella’s lips said she knew it. “I am grateful for your healer’s skill. There are many leech-women in the hills around my home who could learn much from her.”

  She spoke the words without an eye blink.

  Mad Moraig drank them in, her thin chest swelling.

  She preened. “I was taught by my mother and she by her mother before her.” She slid a look at Darroc, eyes bright with pride. “There be some who say MacConacher women were always so gifted.”

  Darroc did his best not to let his jaw slip.

  He’d never heard the like.

  Nor had he ever met a woman with so smooth a tongue as Lady Arabella.

  Or—and this he was loath to admit—one who was kinder to those less blessed.

  Above all, her bravery humbled him. He knew men—fierce and true warriors, not his stalwart graybeards—who would’ve fainted dead away at the prospect of unstitching and then re-sewing their own wound.

  Arabella of Kintail inspired awe.

  Clearly, she also knew something about winning hearts. There could be no doubt that Mad Moraig had heard her name. The kitchens would be rife with such tidings. Geordie Dhu wasn’t one to hold his tongue.

  The hen wife had to know.

  Yet she gave no indication of being repelled.

  Far from it, she clucked, fretted, and crooned, patting her compresses into place again and then gently drawing down the coverlet.

  Darroc eyed her narrowly.

  Mad Moraig wasn’t concerned. “I’ll be away to the kitchens now.” She stepped back from the bed, dusting her hands. “Geordie Dhu promised he’d be making one of his fine meaty pottages for the lass.”

  “Geordie Dhu?” Darroc couldn’t believe it.

  More like he’d use granite slivers to make his pottage rather than tender morsels of stewed beef.

  But Mad Moraig was bobbing her head.

  “So I said, aye. Geordie Dhu and no other.” Her voice rang with triumph. “He’s baking his best wheaten bread to make sops for the pottage.”

  This time Darroc’s jaw did drop.

  Geordie Dhu hoarded his finest flour as if it were gold dust. Heavy bran loaves and oatcakes were the daily fare at Castle Bane. Only on the greatest of feast days could the bearded warrior-turned-cook be persuaded to dip into his prized stores.

  Until now, it would seem.

  Sensing doom, Darroc narrowed his eyes at Mad Moraig who—he shouldn’t have been surprised—went scooting out the door. Black skirts crisply rustling, with the Thunder Rod clasped tightly in one hand, she moved at a pace that would have put many young girls to shame.

  Darroc’s brows snapped together.

  His world was crashing down around him.

  Frowning blackly, he flashed a glance at Lady Arabella. “Stay there!” He blurted the ridiculous command before he could stop himself. Well-stitched leg or no, she wasn’t going anywhere for a while.

  He doubted she could even stand.

  Feeling foolish, he jerked a nod at her. “I’ll be back anon.”

  Then he whirled and sprinted for the door, catching Mad Moraig just as she hitched up her skirts to descend the tower stairs.

  A dark stairwell that—his nose twitched in recognition—held the distinct aroma of freshly baked bread.

  Darroc’s head began to ache.

  But he did manage to thrust out a hand and latch onto Mad Moraig’s elbow, gripping gently but firmly.

  “Eh?” She turned to peer up at him, the image of innocence.

  Darroc glared down at her, not missing how she’d whipped the Thunder Rod behind her back. “Do what you will with the rod.” He released her elbow and folded his arms. “I didn’t come after you to fetch the wretched thing.”

  Mad Moraig’s e
xpression turned mulish. “Then why make such a stir?”

  Darroc drew a steadying breath. Behind Mad Moraig, angry storm clouds raced past an arrow slit in the turnpike stair and—at the moment—he wouldn’t have been surprised if the black roiling masses poured their teeming rain right down onto his head.

  “You’ll be keeping the lass from her healing with your dark looks and bluster.” Mad Moraig’s bristly chin jutted. “Dinna think she doesn’t see how you glare and fume at her. She—”

  “She is a MacKenzie.” The ache in Darroc’s head became a fierce pounding. “MacKenzie, I said. Though”—he unfolded his arms and jammed his hands on his hips—“I’m certain you’ve already heard.”

  Mad Moraig compressed her lips.

  Her silence spoke volumes.

  “You do not care?” Darroc hands clenched. He couldn’t help it. “Her father is the Black Stag of Kintail. He—”

  “I ken well enough who he be.” Moraig’s voice sharpened with disapproval. “But”—her face softened—“the lassie now, she be her own self.”

  “She’s bespelled you.” Darroc looked at her. “Is that no’ the way of it? She—”

  “She calls me Moraig. Only Moraig, just!” The old woman met his stare, her eyes defiant. “I am no’ so daft-headed that I’m no’ aware o’ what the others whisper behind my back, calling me mad and worse.”

  She wagged a finger. “If I do think too much on darker days, there be naught wrong with my ears.”

  Darroc nodded. “I see.”

  And he did.

  He was doomed.

  Geordie Dhu. Mad Moraig. Soon his entire clan would be enchanted. To a man, they’d fall prey to Lady Arabella’s charms. They’d make mooney eyes at her like Frang and eat out of her slender, aristocratic hands.

  Hands he’d love to feel sliding around his neck or perhaps sweeping down his naked back only to then dip lower and glide around to grasp…

  He frowned.

  Somewhere in the shadows of the landing he again thought he heard a woman’s silvery laugh. But when he glanced back at the open bedchamber door, it loomed quiet. Though he did imagine he caught a fleeting glimpse of a tall, voluptuous woman in a clinging white gown.

  He blinked.

  Outside the tower, thunder cracked and boomed. Then—praise God—a bright flash of lightning explained his folly. He shoved a hand through his hair, more frustrated than ever. Floating maidens in white, indeed! Soon he’d be as befuddled as Mad Moraig.

  He cleared his throat. “Lady Arabella does not need you to champion her.”

  That, at least, was true.

  He’d never seen a stronger maid.

  Mad Moraig tilted her head. “You will treat her kindly?”

  “I would hear how she bewitched Geordie Dhu.” He posed his own question, refusing to answer hers.

  “Well?” He waited.

  Mad Moraig once again assumed her look of studied innocence. “Could be”—she couldn’t quite keep the smugness out of her voice—“that someone told Geordie Dhu the lassie saw him in the hall when you carried her in.”

  “Geordie Dhu was in his kitchens at the time.”

  “Be that as it may—”

  “What did you tell him?” Darroc’s frown returned.

  The hen wife’s eyes danced with mischief. “Only what would please him most.”

  “And what was that?” Darroc was sure he didn’t want to know.

  Mad Moraig chuckled. “Could be I told him the lady admired his beard, claiming there wasn’t a man in all Kintail able to grow one so fine.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Darroc eyed her suspiciously.

  “’Tis true as I’m standing here.” Mad Moraig hitched up her skirts again, turning back to the downward-winding stairs. “Geordie Dhu struts about like a crowing cock, always boasting there isn’t a woman living who can resist his beard. He forgot all about the lassie’s name when he heard she was soft on him.”

  “Pah!” Darroc waved a hand. “Geordie Dhu might be fond of his beard, but he hates MacKenzies. He’d have the lass chained in the pit below his kitchens before he’d serve up delicacies for her.”

  “Say you.” Mad Moraig winked, looking mightily pleased. “Could be someone also told him I’d no’ be making any more healing ointment for his toenail what’s growing wrongly lest he treat the maid goodly.”

  “So that was the way of it.” Darroc looked at the old woman, surprised by her wit.

  “Could be….” She started down the stairs, stepping sprightly. “Now I’ll just be for seeing if the black-bearded cockerel has made his meaty pottage to go with the fine wheaten bread I be smelling!”

  Darroc watched her go, certain of two things.

  Men must be wary of women, regardless of age.

  And Mad Moraig wasn’t mad.

  Though he might well be for returning to the bedchamber when he could have fled. The penetrating sapphire gaze his foe’s daughter pinned on him the instant he crossed the threshold made him feel mad indeed.

  “Why was Moraig so fashed to see your thunder rod?” She sat up, the movement causing the plaid to dip dangerously. “What did she mean by saying its story is not for gentle ears?”

  “The relic’s past is tragic.” Darroc crossed the room and poured himself a measure of uisge beatha, downing the fiery spirits in one quick gulp. “Moraig spoke true. You are too refined to know of such things.”

  Arabella bristled. “You have seen that I am not faint of heart.” She rested a deliberate hand on her injured leg. “Do you think ladies know naught of sadness and hardship?”

  “I would that ladies were spared the like.” His eyes darkened on the words.

  Arabella squelched the urge to squirm.

  More than that, the ominous note in his tone made her all the more determined to find out the mystery behind his thunder rod.

  So she sat up straighter against the pillows and eyed him with her best daughter-of-a-thousand-chieftains stare. It was a look she’d learned from her father though she was sure he called it by another name. Perhaps his I-am-the-mightiest-chieftain-in-the-Highlands stare. Heed me or regret it.

  Either way, the look didn’t seem to work well on Darroc MacConacher.

  Far from telling her what she wanted, he came forward and reached to frame her face with two hands. “Calamity, heartache, and other unpleasantness should no’ touch innocents,” he said, his voice tight, almost bitter.

  But some of the hardness left his face and he smoothed back her hair, his stroking fingers sending strings of golden warmth spooling through her. Then almost as quickly as the beautiful sensations began, he stepped back as if touching her had scorched him. Turning away, he went to an open window and stared out at the rain-swept night.

  “See you, Arabella of Kintail, as leader of my people I am all too aware that ladies know tragedy.” He glanced at her as if the statement should mean something to her. “MacConacher women have borne more than their share of sorrows. Moraig more than most.”

  The words hung between them, almost a burden.

  Arabella’s brow knitted. She didn’t know how he did it, but she felt somehow chastened.

  What she wanted to feel was him touching her again.

  Even now—and despite the return of his stony-faced expression—her skin tingled where he’d caressed her. She could still feel his fingers sliding through her hair, the delicious intimacy of his touch. A strange and wondrous excitement pulsed inside her, making everything else seem unimportant.

  Except the twinge of pity that nipped her when he spoke of Moraig.

  Her gaze darted to the empty doorway. “You say the thunder rod is dangerous. I do not believe a piece of wood, however beautiful, can be… anything. But I know others who hold to such tales.”

  The MacConacher stiffened. “Then you are surely wise enough to stay away from the relic.”

  Arabella watched him closely, not liking how his hands fisted on the stone of the window splay. Nor did she think she wa
s particularly wise.

  She was nosy.

  “Is Moraig afraid of the rod?” She needed to know. “Does she fear it will harm her?”

  Darroc almost choked.

  “The Thunder Rod doesn’t harm anyone. What it does”—he whirled around, the back of his neck flaming—“is…”

  He let the words tail off and started pacing. How could he tell her of the rod’s powers?

  He couldn’t and wouldn’t.

  But then one of Moraig’s wooden caudle cups sailed off the table and thumped across the rushes, rolling to a stop near Frang’s chiefly pallet. Mina yipped and leapt to her feet, tearing for the door. Frang rose with more dignity, but even he couldn’t keep his hackles from rising.

  Nor was he above loping out of the bedchamber in Mina’s wake.

  Darroc stared after them. Then he bent to retrieve the caudle cup. If the strong burst of wind that blew the cup off the table frightened the dogs, the gust proved a blessing for him.

  He now knew what he could tell Arabella about the Thunder Rod.

  Crossing the room, he closed the shutters and—before he realized he’d done so—sat on the edge of the bed. Perilously near to her.

  So close, in fact, that he could feel the heat of her warming him.

  He shifted, highly uncomfortable. She merely peered at him, her lovely face serene and the slow rise and fall of her breasts tantalizing him.

  He was a greater fool than Geordie Dhu, swayed by beard praise and the ache of a sore toe.

  “Moraig surely told you that her special wine caudle is a strengthening concoction.” He blurted the words, his fingers tight on the wooden cup. “That—”

  “What does her caudle have to do with your thunder rod?” She blinked innocently.

  He felt a burning urge to shock her.

  “The Thunder Rod”—he watched her closely—“is much like Moraig’s caudle. Those who trust in its powers say it strengthens men.”

  “Strengthens men?” Her eyes rounded but not a tinge of pink stained her cheeks.

  Darroc’s own flushed hotly.

  Surely she knew what he meant.

  “You mean for battle?” Her words proved she didn’t.

  “Some might put it that way, aye.”

  He set the caudle cup on the bedside table and placed both hands on her shoulders. Something drove him to touch her, to twine his fingers in the silken strands of her hair, and—saints help him—but he simply wasn’t able to resist her.