A Highlander's Temptation

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  Darroc harrumphed. It was the best he could do.

  For sure, he’d never utter the curse again.

  Just the thought that it’d crossed his lips now—and in the past, saints scald him—felt like someone twice as large and three times his strength had punched him in the gut.

  Until Lady Arabella reached out and curled her fingers into his plaid, needing support.

  Then he felt like an arse.

  She tightened her grip and leaned into him. Her breasts rubbed against his chest and he could feel the thundering of her heart. And although she tried to hide it, he was sure her legs were trembling. He bit back another curse and slid his arms around her, holding her steady.

  She was shaking.

  “You haven’t answered me.” She proved she was also persistent.

  “First we’re getting you off your feet.” He, too, had a stubborn streak.

  Not giving her a chance to protest, he gathered her up into his arms and crossed the room. She’d already tossed back the coverlets, so he eased her onto the bed, taking care that his borrowed plaid didn’t slip down her shoulders. Then he drew the covers up to her chin.

  Perhaps not as gently as he should have, but Arabella of Kintail naked but for a swath of plaid and her streaming curtain of glossy raven tresses was more allure than any red-blooded male could bear.

  Especially one who’d already had a very good look at her most intimate charms!

  Thinking about them now—those tightly furled dark nipples and the hot, wet sleekness between her thighs—set his face to flaming. How he wished he hadn’t helped Mad Moraig undress her after her rescue. But the old woman couldn’t have managed alone. Not with Arabella a dead weight on the bed and her clothes a tangled, sodden mess.

  So he had helped.

  And he’d seen…

  Darroc’s loins tightened, remembering. He stepped back from the bed and set his hands on his hips, hoping she’d think he was just angry. Most of all, he hoped the fall of his plaid hid what was truly on his mind.

  There could be nothing between them.

  Not even a heated glance.

  “I’m waiting.” She fixed those maddeningly blue eyes on him.

  Then she smiled sweetly. “And I’m no longer on my feet.”

  Devil’s toenails! He muttered another favorite curse—this time under his breath.

  “Why did you kiss me?” Her gaze didn’t waver.

  “Because—” Darroc stopped before he bellowed the truth. That he’d been consumed with the urge to taste her lips.

  That he was no better than his rutting ancestor, Rhun. Builder of Castle Bane and despoiler of thousands, or so family legend claimed.

  His mood worsened at the thought of his lusting for MacKenzie lips.

  He shoved a hand through his hair, grasping for another explanation. “It was the Thunder Rod,” he decided, half certain it was. “Such is the relic’s power. Its proximity—”

  “Made you… er, umm…” She flushed, unable to finish.

  “Nae!” Heat shot up the back of his neck. “It wasn’t what you’re thinking. I—”

  He was making a mess of it. “The rod has other powers. Influences, some might say.”

  “Influences?” Her lips twitched.

  “Aye, just.”

  “I see.” She clasped her hands on her lap. But not before he saw the spark of humor in her eyes.

  She was laughing at him.

  Darroc pretended he hadn’t noticed.

  “I’ve already told you that the Thunder Rod’s age is beyond reckoning.” He started pacing, determined to make her understand the danger. “No one knows the relic’s true origins. The man who gave it to my ancestor, Rhun the Insatiable, claimed that—”

  “The Insatiable?”

  “So he was called, aye.”

  He now had her full attention. “The tales about him are as damning as his name. But I will tell you of him anon. First you must know that Gunnar the Strong, the rod’s previous owner, believed it to hold great magic.”

  Darroc glanced at her as he passed the hearth. She still held her hands clasped primly in her lap, but her sooty lashes were flickering.

  She was amused!

  He tried not to scowl. “Gunnar the Strong was a Norse noble. Late of an e’en on dark winter nights when the winds howled and men huddled before the fire, he enjoyed boasting that one of his forebears had wrested the rod from the prow of Thor’s own dragonship.”

  “Thor the Norse thunder god?”

  “Aye, that one.”

  He knew she didn’t believe a word.

  “There are other tales from which to choose.” He cleared his throat, refusing to let her make him feel silly. “Some are quite romantic. One tells of a Viking raider who loved his wife so fiercely that he couldn’t bear to leave her. Legend claims he carved the Thunder Rod for her to keep in his remembrance when he went warring at sea. Another story—”

  “How did the rod come into the hands of your ancestor?” Her voice was low, the teasing tone gone.

  She was intrigued by his mention of romance.

  Darroc stopped pacing.

  He’d be wise to nip such fancies before they got the better of her.

  So he put back his shoulders, taking advantage of his fullest height and formidability. He also took care to stand where the glow from the hearth fire would edge him in red, making him look even more daunting.

  “You mean Rhun the Insatiable?” He took some small pleasure in the way her eyes widened on the name.

  She nodded.

  Then pleased him further when a faint pink tinge washed across her cheeks.

  When he’d finished his tale, she’d want nothing to do with him or his family. She might even try to swim back to Kintail. Though, of course, he wouldn’t allow such nonsense. He’d return her himself when she was fit enough to travel. When the waters were safe enough to let her.

  For the now, it served if she’d just stop piercing him with those man-melting sapphire eyes.

  Looking forward to his peace, he resumed his circuit of the room. “Rhun lived in the years when the Norse ruled the Hebrides. As you can guess from his by-name, he was quite fond of women. Bold and bonny, or so say the bards, he drew them like bees to a hive. He was also a cunning chieftain, convivial and clever. Rather than fight Nordic possession of islands many Hebrideans saw as their own, he chose to make his fortune in trading with Viking merchants.”

  Darroc glanced at the bed, not surprised to see her hanging on his every word.

  “Is that how he met Gunnar the Strong?” Her voice was soft in the quiet room.

  “Aye, that was the way of it.” He spoke true. “Rhun paid a visit to Gunnar at his hall at Scalloway in Shetland. It was there that he attracted the eye of the Norseman’s favorite daughter, Asa Long-Legs.”

  “Asa Long-Legs.” Lady Arabella repeated the name in a dreamy voice. Her eyes went dewy. “They had a romance.”

  “Nae.” Darroc shook his head.

  He didn’t care for her tone. And he disliked the soppy look on her face even more.

  “What they had”—he spoke sternly—“was a tragedy.”

  “They fell in love but couldn’t be together.” She gave him the answer most innocents would.

  “To be sure, the maid Asa lost her heart to Rhun. She is said to have been vivacious and lively. She would have fallen hard.” Darroc started pacing again, wishing he hadn’t mentioned the long-dead blackguard. “Rhun loved only himself. The thrill of conquest. He certainly didn’t love his wife. I doubt Asa ever knew the poor woman existed. Leastways not until it was too late and the Thunder Rod—”

  “He ruined a young girl and betrayed his lady wife?” Lady Arabella’s brows drew together.

  “Aye, he—”

  “You cannot blame his villainies on a piece of wood!”

  “Not a piece of wood. We speak of the Thunder Rod.”

  “I say we are speaking of a scoundrel.” She tilted her head, her eyes taking
on a glint that could only be called dangerous.

  Darroc frowned.

  She was a Valkyrie.

  And this wasn’t going as he’d intended.

  Somewhere between “Saints, Maria, and Joseph” and Rhun the Insatiable, he’d lost control. Lady Arabella was seizing the reins and he didn’t like where she was taking him. He’d meant to frighten her into having done with any romantic fancies, not turn her into an avenging angel for women who’d breathed their last centuries ago.

  “I ne’er said he wasn’t a scoundrel.” Darroc went to stand at the window again, needing the chill night air on the back of his neck.

  It was afire again.

  And even worse than before.

  Lady Arabella would be the end of him. He was falling apart already. Sakes, a muscle even jerked in his jaw! Hoping she hadn’t seen, he leaned back against the window arch and crossed his arms.

  “Rhun the Insatiable was worse than a scoundrel.” He felt anger well in his chest. “Disregarding the honor he owed his host and forgetting his lady wife, he seduced young Asa behind her father’s back. Unaware of Rhun’s treachery, yet noting his appreciation of women, Gunnar presented him with a rare and special gift to seal their trade agreement.”

  Lady Arabella was sitting ramrod straight now. “The gift was the thunder rod.”

  “Indeed.” Darroc watched her as he spoke. “As you will see, the rod does influence. Because Gunnar trusted in his daughter’s virtue he sent her to retrieve the gift and present it to their guest. He surely believed her beauty would enhance the grand moment.”

  Darroc left out that the maid must’ve handled the rod in an unseemly manner in order to unleash its unholy power over women. Lady Arabella needn’t know he suspected that, having tasted passion in Rhun’s arms, Asa hadn’t been able to resist running her fingers up and down the rod’s smooth, manlike length when she’d gone to fetch it.

  Sadly, caressing the rod so sinuously doomed her.

  Lady Arabella glanced across the room, her gaze resting on Frang’s pallet. The shaggy beast had returned. As had the wee she-dog Mina, who once again curled atop Frang’s pile of tatty old plaids.

  Frang sat watching them, his eyes unblinking.

  Darroc lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his neck. For two pins, he’d swear the dog knew exactly what they were talking about.

  “What happened then?” Lady Arabella was looking at him again, a line marring her brow. “Did Rhun”—she left off the by-name—“accept the rod?”

  “You know he did.” Darroc wished he could undo what came next. “But the damage was done, regardless. The Thunder Rod worked its evil on them both. Asa was so consumed by desire for Rhun that she vowed she couldn’t live without him and determined to steal away on his ship when he sailed for his home.”

  “Which she did.” The line creasing Lady Arabella’s brow deepened.

  “Aye.” Darroc nodded. “She hid herself on Rhun’s galley and didn’t come out until Shetland had fallen well below the horizon. Rhun took full advantage. Asa Long-Legs, you see, was said to have been a great and alluring beauty. Few men would have been able to withstand her charms.

  “Many heated nights were spent on that southbound journey. Then—”

  “Rhun remembered his wife.” Lady Arabella was frowning in earnest now.

  Darroc made a note to never underestimate her.

  She had to be the sharpest maid he’d ever met.

  “You are deep-seeing, Arabella of Kintail.” He gave honor where it was due. “Rhun did indeed recall his domestic duty. His earliest wealth, after all, had come with the dowry of his wife. Tradition says he remembered her—and how watchful she was—as soon as the Western Highlands loomed into view. So he took the precaution of leaving Asa with Hebridean friends, claiming he would build her a castle of her own and return for her when it was completed.”

  “That castle was this one, right?” Lady Arabella pulled a cushion onto her lap. She dug her elegant fingers into its plumpness. “Castle Bane.”

  “So it was, aye.” There was no need to lie.

  She didn’t even blink.

  “Rhun looked far and wide, finally deeming this isle remote and lonely enough for his purposes.” Darroc glanced over his shoulder at the sea. The moon had risen and its silvery light gilded the night-blackened waters. “Rhun called the isle his own and as soon as Castle Bane stood, he retrieved Asa, telling his friends he was returning her to Shetland. Instead, he settled her in their own private love lair.”

  “He was evil.” That sapphire gaze still pinned him. “A true—”

  “He was worse.” Darroc held up a hand to silence her. “And he soon learned that the Thunder Rod held more power than simply making a man irresistible to women. Perhaps the darkness of his own soul unleashed the relic’s blacker influences. Either way, the couple only enjoyed their haven for a short time.”

  “He tired of Asa?”

  “Och, nae.” Darroc looked down at the sea again, frowning. “He died. As arrogantly brazen in war as he was with women, he’d become embroiled in a friend’s clan feuding and lost his life to a festered battle wound. He breathed his last far from Asa’s embrace, dying beneath the cold stare of his wronged lady wife. A great tragedy for the young Norsewoman, because the need for secrecy saw the doom of the men Rhun had employed to build his hideaway keep.”

  Lady Arabella stared at him in horror. “What are you saying?”

  “You can’t guess?”

  She shook her head, one hand pressed to her lips.

  Near the hearth, Frang slumped down onto the rushes with a groan. Almost as if he knew what was coming.

  Darroc wished he didn’t. “It is said that Rhun threw the castle builders over the cliffs. The men had sworn to keep silent, but Rhun preferred certainty.”

  “And Asa?” The words were a shocked whisper.

  “Asa…” Darroc hated this part. “No one knew of her existence.”

  “You mean…”

  “She spent her remaining days trapped here.” Darroc’s heart squeezed at the thought. “The saints only know what it must’ve been like. I’ve always tried not to imagine. If she cried out to any passing galleys, trying to summon help, the men onboard might have mistaken her for a ghost. They would have feared taking a closer look.”

  Lady Arabella sighed. “And then she was a ghost.”

  “Perhaps.” Darroc steeled himself against the tell-tale glistening in her eyes. “Clan elders claim it was her mournful wailing that assured no MacConacher would ever dwell in these sorrow-drenched walls.”

  Lady Arabella gasped.

  Then she shivered and drew his plaid more tightly around her shoulders. Even worse, she shook her head sadly, releasing one of the tears clinging to her eyelashes. It spilled down her cheek and dripped onto Darroc’s plaid.

  Watching, he clenched his fists and turned back around to face the window. If he kept looking at her—seeing her sympathy—he might blurt out just why MacConachers had returned to Castle Bane.

  And that was a tale he did not want to share with her.

  It involved, after all, her own grandfather.

  And his.

  Chapter Ten

  Half certain he could feel the glowers of both men—MacConacher and MacKenzie—Darroc remained at the window and glared down at the sea-washed rocks beneath the tower. White with spume, they still managed to look black as death. His jaw set grimly on the thought. It was, after all, more than appropriate.

  There were few men who’d brought about the ends of so many lives.

  Darroc blew out a breath. Rock-glaring wasn’t making him feel better. Far from it; his hands clenched and he almost wished he’d had a different grandsire. It would certainly be a boon if Arabella of Kintail did. But all the regretful musings in the world wouldn’t change her blood.

  Or his.

  He stepped closer to the window arch, needing to put more distance between himself and her powerfully alluring presence in his bed.
>
  As if she knew, she kept silent behind him. But he felt her stare pinning him. Not that he was about to wheel around and catch her at it. From her rustlings, she was no doubt dabbing at her eyes, still grieved over Asa Long-Legs’s tragic plight.

  Frowning, Darroc hunched his shoulders against the night’s cold. But he straightened as quickly, too proud to show any sign of weakness.

  Not before a MacKenzie.

  And with surety not in front of a female of that ilk.

  He did keep his gaze on the rocks, unable to look away as sea foam repeatedly wreathed the jagged crests. Again and again the glistening spume appeared and disappeared, almost seeming to mock him.

  His grandfather and Lady Arabella’s were long gone, but the skerries and their ever-present spray were still there and always would be. Such permanency could fill a romantic soul with yearning. Offering promises of something so tempting and so impossible to achieve, yet—just now—seeming close enough to touch.

  If he was of a mind to reach for it.

  Not it, but her.

  Darroc’s brows snapped together in a fierce scowl.

  Had such a notion truly crossed his mind?

  It had, and the truth of his attraction to the lass galled him to the bone. His stomach even knotted and despite the night’s cold, brittle air, he could feel tiny beads of damp forming on his brow.

  She slept now, he was sure. He could hear her soft, steady breaths. And—devil curse him—in his mind’s eye he saw her standing beside him, her face turned to the wind and her midnight hair swirling about her hips. Moon glow would gild her smooth, creamy skin and her scent, fresh, light, and wholly her own, would enchant him. Her magnificent breasts…

  “Damnation!” Pushing her from his thoughts, he stared fixedly at the rocks and willed himself to think again of Asa Long-Legs.

  Doing so would keep his mind off things he had no business glomming about. Better to dwell on a tragedy no one could undo than risk unleashing a new one. He had no doubt that Arabella MacKenzie could plunge his clan into a disaster worse than any they’d yet seen.

  If he heeded his damnable desires.