A Highlander's Temptation

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have mentioned the birlinn at all?” Was that her voice?

  Arabella cringed. Faith, but she’d sounded shrewish.

  Even Frang and Mina turned recriminatory stares on her. She could feel their displeasure from across the room where they reposed on the bed, their two sets of canine eyes steady and unblinking.

  She ignored them and inhaled deeply.

  Then she did what she had to do. “I’m sorry, Conall. I shouldn’t—”

  “No apologies needed. The tale does sound like a tall one, eh?” He turned to her, ever the gallant. But his face glowed brighter than ever. “Truth is”—he rushed the words—“boats made from Nairn wood never sink and no man has ever been lost from one.”

  “And why is that?” Arabella hoped he didn’t hear the disbelief in her voice.

  “Because the wood is charmed.”

  “By the fairies?”

  “Nae, by a mermaid.” Conall didn’t bat an eye.

  Arabella laughed outright.

  “Oh, dear. A mer—” She pressed a hand to her breast, cutting off the next wave of laughter by clamping her mouth tightly shut.

  “Darroc and I didn’t believe it, either.” Conall’s gaze flickered to the door, as if he expected his cousin to appear there. “But we made enquiries and learned the tales are true. See you—” he pushed away from the window and started pacing—“the Nairn shipwright is said to have a distant forebear who once rescued a mermaid he found trapped above the tideline. She couldn’t get back to the sea on her own and when he carried her into the surf, returning her to her watery home, she granted him a wish.”

  Arabella leaned back against the wall and folded her arms.

  Her leg was beginning to pain her.

  Conall stopped pacing to search her eyes. “You don’t believe me.”

  “I want to.” It was the most tactful answer she could give him.

  Seeming satisfied, he resumed his circuit of the room. “The shipwright’s ancestor, also being a builder of boats, asked the mermaid for the ability to build ships that would never be lost and cost no man his life.”

  “And the mermaid granted his wish.” Arabella knew better than to make the statement a question.

  Conall clearly believed every word.

  His flashing smile proved it. “Aye, she did. She promised that as long as his ships were built of trees felled on that stretch of shore, the ships would always be sound and no hands lost from them.”

  “So Darroc wanted an unsinkable birlinn.” Arabella lowered herself onto a nearby stool.

  “No’ for himself.” Conall shook his head, vigorously. “He wanted it for his men. The graybeards and others who”—he blew out a breath, looking uncomfortable—“aren’t so good in strength as they once were.

  “That, my lady, is why he emptied our coffers to purchase Nairn timber.”

  “I see.” Arabella wished the floor would open up and swallow her. It didn’t matter if she didn’t believe in mermaids and wishes.

  She did believe in kindness and looking out for one’s own.

  And if she’d been half-convincing herself she was falling in love with Darroc, she knew it now.

  There could be no other like him.

  And her eyes were hot and stinging, her vision crazily blurred. She glanced down at the voluminous plaid she was using as her skirts, horrified when a tear plopped onto the hands she’d clasped on her lap.

  To her relief, Conall was looking elsewhere.

  “Darroc is like that, my lady.” He turned back to her, the admiration in his eyes almost blinding. “And he’d cut out my tongue if he knew I told you. Our men, the others, know nothing about Nairn and its charmed wood. They only know the birlinn was dear and that they feel like young, fierce warriors when they’re out in her.”

  “They will not hear otherwise from me.” Arabella spared him the embarrassment of asking her not to say anything.

  But the thickness of her voice embarrassed her.

  She was sure he’d noticed.

  He was watching her strangely. “You’re fond of him, aren’t you?”

  “Who?” She tried to pretend she’d misunderstood.

  Conall laughed. “Why, himself, of course!”

  “Well….” Heat bloomed in her chest. The sensation spread until she was certain every inch of her stood aflame. She tried not to let it show. “He is caring.”

  “Aye!” Conall slapped his thigh. “And it would serve him well if he’d come around to admitting just who he’s set his eye on!”

  Arabella knew he meant her.

  The truth of it made the heat inside her blaze even hotter.

  Sure her face burned as well, she looked at her plaid-skirted lap again, her gaze falling on the large silver brooch at her waist. Plain, though brightly polished, the brooch belonged to Moraig.

  The old woman had lent it to her as a clasp for Darroc’s borrowed plaid.

  “Moraig is caring, too.” Arabella jumped at the chance to change the subject. But the shadow that crossed Conall’s face made her regret it.

  He looked pained.

  “You don’t think so?” She couldn’t believe it.

  “Och, I ken well how caring Mad Moraig is.” His voice sounded distant, strained. “She’s a great-hearted old woman. The best I know. Always looking out for others, she is—to her own cost.”

  “Do you mean me?” Arabella looked at him.

  Alarm twisted her belly. He couldn’t possibly have meant her.

  But he’d moved away and gone over to the hearth fire. He’d turned his back to her and appeared to be looking down at the smoldering peats. Something about the way he stood there made her shiver.

  “Have I upset Moraig?” She dearly hoped not.

  “You?” He swung around. “She’s walking on air since you’ve been here. Och, nae”—his usual good humor lit his face again—“I didn’t mean you.”

  “Then who did you mean?” Arabella’s curiosity bit hard again.

  And once more she wished she’d held her tongue. Or could kick herself. She deserved no better for as soon she’d spoken, shadows returned to cloud Conall’s eyes.

  “Mad Moraig wasn’t always the broken reed she is now.” He went to the table and poured himself a measure of ale, downing the entire cup before he spoke again. “That was in the day when we were keepers of a small castle in Argyll. Life was good and although we weren’t of such fame as your clan, we were well respected.”

  “You weren’t always here?” Arabella felt something cold and wet nudge her and looked down to see Frang pushing his nose against her arm.

  The shaggy beast leaned into her, heavily. Mina thrust her silky head beneath the edge of Arabella’s makeshift skirt and began licking her foot. She was glad for their company.

  Something told her she wasn’t going to like Conall’s tale.

  “Nae….” The hesitation in his voice proved it. “Clan elders will tell you we’ve held MacConachers’ Isle since the morning of time, but the isle stood empty for centuries. We only returned when we lost our Argyll lands and had nowhere else to go.”

  He paused to refill his ale cup. “It was Darroc who—years later—brought us here. Before that, we’d sheltered with allies who opened their doors to us. When Darroc came of age, he vowed it was time we left Argyll and the hearths of others. He made Castle Bane our home.”

  Arabella combed her fingers through Frang’s rough gray coat, understanding. Mina turned three times in a circle and settled onto the rushes at her feet. “So Moraig couldn’t bear to leave your earlier lands?”

  It would certainly break her to see her family lose Kintail.

  But Conall shook his head. “Ach, we loved Argyll. But our lands were no longer ours. We supported John Balliol as king, see you? A lost cause and, looking back, a decision that brought our doom. After…”

  He tossed down another healthy swig of ale. “After things went badly for Balliol, and us, Robert Bruce dispersed us. Our keep w
as slighted and our lands were seized and divided among his favorites. So”—he looked at her, almost as if he expected some reaction other than the pity squeezing her heart—“after all we’d been through, we were well pleased to come here and start anew.”

  Arabella arched a brow. “Everyone except Moraig?”

  “Mad Moraig, she…” He paused to run a hand through his hair.

  Arabella guessed what he had trouble saying.

  “Moraig tries to ease her distress by helping people.” It was so obvious. “Doing so helps her forget how much she misses your old lands.”

  He blinked at her. “Once, at a tavern in Glasgow, a traveling friar spoke of your family. He said that your lady mother is a taibhsear. A great seeress, according to his tales of her. Do you have the sight as well?”

  “Nae.” Arabella smiled. “I guessed.”

  “Ach, well.” He seemed astounded. “You were close to the truth. But it isn’t so much that Mad Moraig misses the land. She feels bad about the kin she couldn’t help. That’s why she has a need to help people. So many of us were lost and—”

  He broke off, looking stricken.

  A bright pink tinge spread up his neck to blossom on his cheeks.

  Arabella stared at him, puzzled.

  He glanced at his feet. “Forgive me.” He spoke without meeting her eye. “I’ve said more than I should. Darroc will flay my hide if he finds out I’ve talked of this.”

  “Talked of what?”

  “The MacConacher Slau—”

  He coughed. It was a poorly executed body-bent-double kind of phony hacking designed to disguise what he’d been about to say.

  Arabella watched, foreboding rippling through her.

  But rather than heed the chill that was beginning to seep into her marrow, she pushed to her feet and went to the table where she filled a small cup with clear, restorative spring water.

  Then she crossed the room and handed the cup to Conall.

  When he drank and quickly pretended a recovery, she braced herself. The ill ease prickling her nape and drying her mouth told her his seizure and everything else had something to do with her.

  As did some vague memory flitting along the edge of her mind.

  “I would hear of the people Moraig couldn’t help.” She stood tall and straight. “Why was that? You said she wasn’t always as she is now, so—”

  “She did help, but there were too many.” Conall rubbed the back of his neck. “There was a raid, see you? It happened quickly. The warring party descended like a terrible racing wind. Men were cut down before they could draw swords. The raiders came on the Bruce’s orders, or so we were later told. It was his vengeance because we were for Balliol. No quarter was given, though some of us escaped into the hills. Moraig stayed behind, doing what she could for those maimed but still breathing.

  “By some wonder, none of the raiders slew her.” He glanced aside, a faraway look in his eyes. “Perhaps they knew she’d do herself more damage than they could ever inflict on her.”

  Looking back at her, he sighed. “Mad Moraig accuses herself of not doing enough for the injured. She’s forgotten how tirelessly she worked and refused to listen when we reminded her that no matter how valiantly she plied her healing skills, the numbers were against her. Finally, we spoke of it no more, knowing it grieves her.”

  “That’s horrible.” Arabella felt Moraig’s pain like an ice-edged darkness inside her. “Surely she knows she did what she could.”

  Conall’s face said she didn’t.

  “She saved as many as anyone could.” He spoke slowly, as if the words came from long ago. “Yet she blames herself for the missing or crippled limbs, the lost eyes, and above all, the dead.”

  He lifted a hand then to shove back his hair and the fire glow shone on his arm, making his burn scars look livid and alive.

  Arabella’s blood chilled. “Were you burned that day?”

  Conall glanced at his arm. He blinked, almost as if he’d forgotten the marks. “I…”

  When he hesitated, Arabella went to him, moving as quickly as her leg allowed. She took both his hands between her own, squeezing.

  The window arch loomed behind him and it didn’t surprise her to see that the stars had dimmed. A thin veil of cloud now hid their glitter.

  It seemed somehow fitting.

  Arabella took a deep breath, wishing she could undo everything she’d heard.

  “I’m so sorry.” She didn’t try to stop the tears misting her eyes. “I should not have pressed you to tell me. You needn’t—”

  “Ach!” Quick as winking, he had her hands clasped in his and lifted both for an air kiss to her knuckles. “Perhaps it is best you know—despite Darroc feeling otherwise! My mother e’er said the truth is bright enough to light the way out of any sorrow.”

  He released her hands, but didn’t move away. “I do not remember much of my mother, but I do recall that she was very wise. And”—his eyes glowed with pride—“she was very beautiful, too.”

  Arabella wiped the dampness from her face. That odd shimmer of foreboding still plagued her. “You lost her so young?”

  Conall nodded. “In the raid we were speaking of, aye. Darroc calls me his cousin and I am, but many times removed. My parents had a cot-house outside the castle walls. When we were wakened by the raiders, my mother tossed me out a window and told me to run. But…”

  He glanced aside, his throat working. “But,” he tried again, “like Moraig, I stayed. I hid in a patch of whin bushes and watched as men torched our roof thatch. When the fire caught and they rode away, I ran back and tried to pull my parents out of the burning cottage.”

  “But you couldn’t.”

  “Nae.” Conall swiped a hand across his cheek. “I might have done now, but I wasn’t up to the task at the wee age o’ seven.”

  He looked at his arms again, holding them out as if for inspection. “As it was, I swatted at the flames with my hands and now”—he lowered his arms—“I have these scars to remind me.”

  “Of the tragedy?” Arabella could hardly speak.

  “Nae.” He spoke with the voice of a much older man. One who’d seen and knew much. “To make sure I never forget that nothing is more important than those we love. And that we should never let anything stand between us.

  “Nothing at all, no matter how daunting, because”—he looked at her, his gaze going deep—“the regret will kill you if you do.”

  Arabella’s heart clenched on his words.

  Unfortunately, other words came to her, too. Words long forgotten and still just a low, indistinguishable mumble somewhere deep in her mind.

  “You are tired and it is late.” Conall glanced at the window. A thin drizzle was falling now, almost as if the heavens were weeping.

  Turning back to her, he took her elbow and guided her to a chair beside the fire. “I’ll leave you to your night’s rest. Just…”

  The familiar pink tinge stained his face again. “Don’t tell—”

  “Darroc will never know you told me anything.” Arabella saw relief sweep him. “But I can’t promise I will not speak to him of this.”

  She couldn’t lie.

  Before he could answer, a gust of damp air swept into the room, swirling his plaid around him. Again, he reminded her of some young Celtic god, broad of shoulder and blue of eye, his red-gold hair gilded by the fire glow.

  As if he thought so, too, he grinned. “My lady,” he said, making her a jaunty bow.

  Then he was gone, his footsteps thumping down the tower stair.

  But when the echoes faded and the room’s quiet surrounded her, other noises rose in her memory. She recognized the sounds as the din of a crowded hall, bursting with the clamor of shouting, jesting men, barking dogs, and general mayhem. The ruckus played across the farthest reaches of her mind, vague at first and impossible to hear clearly, like the soft rumbling voice she’d heard earlier.

  The voice was back again now, teasing her.

  She leane
d back in her chair and sighed.

  The voice was so familiar.

  A man’s voice, deep, richly Highland, and musical. It was a voice she knew, though she hadn’t heard it in many, many years. And now that she remembered, pure molten horror slid through her, damning her soul.

  It was the voice of Osbald the Sombre. Long ago bard at Eilean Creag, he was so named because he frowned on singing romantic French lays and other frivolous tales. He wouldn’t even recount her clan’s long and illustrious string of impressive ancestors.

  Osbald the Sombre only sang of battles and warring.

  And his favorite tale had been one she’d heard retold this night.

  Arabella began to tremble.

  She even feared she might lose her supper.

  Her blood roared in her ears and she dug her fingers into the nubby wool of the borrowed plaid that warmed her even now. She knew better than to try and stand, well aware her legs wouldn’t support her.

  And that she might splinter into a thousand pieces if she fell.

  Truth was she already felt that way.

  Because now she knew what dread word Conall had almost blurted before he caught himself and erupted into a fit of bogus coughing.

  It was the MacConacher Slaughter.

  And her own grandfather had led the raiding party.

  “That one will not be leading his men anywhere!”

  Well pleased that it was so, Devorgilla of Doon allowed herself a moment to roll her shawl-draped shoulders and wriggle her knotty, magic-spending fingers. She also considered enjoying a wee dollop of uisge beatha, the fiery Highland spirits she usually saved for esteemed visitors.

  She much preferred her own specially brewed heather ale, so rich, frothy, and tasting of fine purple moors on a late summer’s day.

  But the little silver spirits flagon beckoned.

  Indeed, she was sure she’d treat herself.

  It wasn’t every day, after all, that she cast her spells over someone as puissant as Duncan MacKenzie, the great Black Stag of Kintail. Conjuring a bit of ague to lay low his men was bairn’s play. Thwarting the chief himself was something else entirely.

  That she’d done so with such success was a grand reason to celebrate.

  “Eh, Mab?” She glanced at the tri-colored cat sitting in a patch of sunlight slanting in through one of the thick-walled cottage’s two windows. “Little does he know why the waves in his beloved Loch Duich have become as steep as in the cold, dark seas.”